The Last Suppers (4 page)

And then in my recollection his face was suddenly, vividly, up close, in one of our early premarital counseling sessions. I had never really known Ted Olson until we began that very personal journey into discussing Tom’s and my relationship. I recalled the skin at the sides of his eyes crinkling deeply when he laughed, his slender fingers absently stroking his dark beard when he listened. For the sessions, he had worn jeans topped with dark turtlenecks instead of his customary black clerical shirt and white collar. Sitting in his tweed-covered swivel chair, he had lifted one dark eyebrow and eyed me skeptically.

“And why exactly do you want to get married again?”

“Second time’s the charm.”

A mischievous smile curled his mouth. “Do you always hide behind the flip answer?”

“It helps.”

Sometimes it helped. And now Olson was gone. I tried again to breathe deeply and told myself to stop thinking about him. But I couldn’t.

“Mom?”

Arch stood uneasily between the secretary’s desk and a stack of contorted water pipes. He bit the inside of his cheek and tugged on the hem of the tux.

“Do you want me to leave? Marla said I should come over.”

“No, no, I’m glad you came.” I asked him to sit down so I could explain that Father Olson, who had been due to present Arch for confirmation this month, wasn’t going to show up. And why.

“Yeah, I heard,” he said haltingly when I’d told him the news. He raised his chin and pushed his glasses up his freckled nose. In Aspen Meadow, a mountain town that was more like a village than a suburb, Arch had had much experience of death. Here, the two of us knew a larger group of people than I ever had in the towns I’d lived in
before moving to Colorado. For Arch, to experience townspeople killed in skiing and car accidents, in avalanches, by cancer or of heart attacks, was unfortunately commonplace.

He asked in a low voice, “Do they know how it happened yet?”

“Tom will.”

Beneath his freckles, Arch’s face had turned translucently white. The skin under his eyes was dark as pitch. “Where is Tom? Will he be here soon?”

When I nodded, he said, “Julian wants to know what you want to do with the food.”

“Oh, Lord. I don’t know.”

Arch waited for me to elaborate. Then he went on. “Something else. Mrs. Boatwright, you know?” When I nodded, he said, “Well, they’re waiting to take her when the Mountain Rescue Team gets here. But …” He stopped.

“What is it, Arch? Things couldn’t get much worse.”

“She was sitting out there in the hall, you know, after she passed out. Then she saw me and like, signaled me over. She told me in this loud whisper to ask you to donate the food to Aspen Meadow Outreach. ‘Obviously your mother won’t be able to use it today,’” Arch whispered in an uncannily throaty imitation, “‘and I’ve seen this kind of thing before.’”

“Seen a priest die before a wedding?”

“No.” Arch drew his lips into a thoughtful pucker, then continued. “Mrs. Boatwright said she’d seen a groom change his mind.” He singsonged, “‘Sometimes they just
can’t
go through with it.’” He’d always had a talent for imitation, but I’d never been devastated by the results before.

“What did you tell her?”

“I said I’d have to ask you. About the food. I didn’t say anything about Tom. I mean, is that rude or what?”

“Very. The nerve. Listen, Arch,” I said defiantly, “Tom called here and asked for me, for heaven’s sake. He didn’t
change his mind. Father Olson is
dead.
And Tom asked if I wanted to get married tonight, just not in the church.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not, are you?” my son asked. When I groaned, he added, “So what should we do with the food platters?”

I rubbed my temples. I was developing a blinding headache. “I’ll figure something out when I get home. I can’t fret about it now. Would you please ask Julian to pack everything into the van?”

“Okay, but there’s one more thing …”

“Arch!”

“Mom! Sorry! Julian wants to know what he should do with your parents.”

“Give them to Aspen Meadow Outreach.”

“Mom! And I hate to tell you, but Grandma and Grandpa asked me if the groom had changed his mind, too.”

“Great.” I reflected for a moment. I couldn’t just abandon my parents at the church. They’d been reluctant to venture from the Jersey shore to the high altitude of the Rockies in the first place. They felt uncomfortable in my modest house, with my modest life. I mean, I’d married a doctor, which they’d deemed good, gotten a divorce, which they saw as unfortunate, and gone into food service, which they found lamentable. Now I was marrying a cop. My parents did not view this as a move in the right direction, and unspoken behind their cautionary words about hasty marriages was the sense that they hadn’t done very well on their investment in their only daughter. “Invite them back to the house,” I told Arch. “Their plane goes out late this afternoon anyway, wedding or no wedding. Tell them I’ll be along as soon as Tom gets here. Then we can make a few plans. And Arch—thanks. I’m really sorry about all this.”

He hesitated. “So there isn’t going to be a wedding, then.”

I gave him a brief hug. “No, hon. Not today.”

“I’m really sorry, Mom.” He pulled away and concentrated his gaze on the bookshelves.
“You
don’t think Tom Schulz would just not show up, do you?”

My ears started to ring. “With the priest dead? No. It’s just, you know, with this—” I did not finish the thought. “Don’t worry,” I said finally. “Tom and I are going to get married. Here at the church, too. Just not this very minute.”

When he raised his head, Arch’s young face was taut with disappointment. Wordlessly, he clomped out of the office door.

An oppressive silence again descended on the old building. I sat pleating the beige silk between my fingers. Within moments there was the sudden overhead scraping from the family of raccoons. When they were undisturbed by the presence of people, they noisily reclaimed their territory. Their scratching made my flesh crawl.

“Enough!” I shouted as I heaved a hymnal at the ceiling. It slammed against the rafters with a satisfying
thwack.

That shut them up. I picked the hymnal off the floor and threw it against the wall. The shock reverberated through a bookshelf. A pile of theology books thudded to the floor; notes popped off a bulletin board; my street-clothes fell from the hook. I walked across the office, lowered myself into the tweed swivel chair, then quickly jumped out. The chair was Ted Olson’s.

Disconsolately, I threaded my way through the debris of torn pipes and broken drywall to the secretary’s office. Through the thick windows I saw the Mountain Rescue ambulance arrive and then swiftly depart, presumably with Lucille Boatwright. Guests streamed out of the church, heads bowed, as if it were the end of the Good Friday liturgy instead of an aborted wedding ceremony. So much for the silent prayer service.

Gripping bowls and then the cake, Julian Teller did his loyal-assistant routine and made several laborious trips out to my van. I yearned to help him. But I couldn’t bear the thought of clearing the parish kitchen of food that was supposed to be served after my own wedding. Finally Julian escorted my bewildered parents, with Arch, to the parking lot. The van revved and took off.

What seemed like an eternity later, a cream-and-black Sheriff’s Department vehicle pulled up in the lot. First one, then a second and third official car skidded on patches of ice. Their tires spun and spewed small waves of gravel before coming to a rest on the other side of the columbarium construction. Uniformed officers emerged. My breath fogged the window as I waited anxiously for Tom Schulz to appear. I folded my chilled hands and debated about rushing out. I should have told Tom I would be in the office.

I tapped on the glass when two grim-faced policemen I knew, partners named Boyd and Armstrong, climbed out of their cars and strode to the church entrance. After a few moments, both officers emerged from the church’s side door. They walked up the muddy flagstones to the office building. I knew they were on duty that day as they had been unable to come to our wedding. Pacing behind them somewhat stiffly was a woman with long brown hair. She carried a bulging Hefty bag. She was familiar looking. A policewoman, perhaps.

Boyd and Armstrong pushed into the office first. Like most policemen, they had a brusque, businesslike air about them. Boyd, short and barrel-shaped, stopped abruptly at the sight of me. He stood, feet apart, and rubbed one hand over black hair that had been shorn close in a Marine-style crewcut. Underneath his unzipped Sheriff’s Department leather jacket, his shirt was too snug around his bulky midsection, a pot belly that had increased in size since he’d stopped smoking several months ago. He was gnawing one of the wooden matches he had taken to chewing to keep from overeating. Behind him, tall, acne-scarred Armstrong, whose few wisps of light-brown hair had strayed off the bald spot they were supposed to conceal, surveyed the room bitterly. The woman, whom I judged to be about fifty, unbuttoned her oversized black coat. That task concluded, she held back, clutching her bag to her chest, mutely watching me.

“Where’s Tom?” I demanded.

Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a glance. Boyd bit
down hard on the match. The woman gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, sending her lanky hair swinging.

Boyd said, “Sit down, Miss Bear.”

“Why?” I remained standing. “Don’t patronize me, please. And you know my name is Goldy,
Officer
Boyd. Where’s Tom? He called me about Father Olson. Does Tom know I’m still here?”

Boyd stopped chewing the match. His eyes flicked away from me before he said, “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

“What?”
Panic creaked in my voice. What else could go wrong on this day that was supposed to be so wondrous? “Is Tom all right? Where is he?”

Armstrong held up one hand. He looked seriously down his pockmarked nose at me before replying. “Somebody must have been out there. Still there,” he announced with agonizing logic. “We think. Out at the priest’s place. Schulz called us, then you. Looks like he went back out to be by the body. Maybe he wanted to look around.”

“Where is Tom?” I repeated. “Why are you all here?” I demanded, too loudly.

Boyd stopped rubbing his head and looked me squarely in the eyes. He gestured at the woman. “Helen Keene here is our victim advocate.”

I said, “Victim advocate? But Olson wasn’t married, he lived alone. Who’s the vic—”

“I’m sorry, Goldy.” Boyd shifted the match from one side of his mouth to the other, inhaled raggedly, and looked at a small notebook he’d pulled out of his pocket. “We got to Olson’s at 11:46. Didn’t see Schulz, but his vehicle was there. Signs of a struggle near Olson’s body, which was near the bank of Cottonwood Creek.” He studied a grimy page of his notebook, then added, “Looks like Schulz might have fallen or been pushed down the bank. He dropped some articles, then dragged himself up the creek bank.”

“Where is he?”

Boyd took another deep breath. “It appears somebody
got the drop on Schulz.” He glanced at Armstrong, avoiding my eyes. “Looks like the perp was still there. Something happened, there was a struggle—”

“Tell me.”

“Schulz is missing,” Boyd said tonelessly.

“N
o.” My legs felt as if they were disintegrating. “No, no.” The walls seemed to sway. Get a grip, I ordered myself. Boyd’s face was a study in misery I could not bear to contemplate. Armstrong shrugged and looked away. Helen Keene eased between the two men. She grasped my elbow firmly, then guided me toward the small striped couch in the secretary’s office.

I could not assimilate Boyd’s words.
Got the drop on him. Fell … pushed down the creek bank. Schulz missing.

It was simply not believable.

“I don’t understand. Where did this happen?” My voice came out like a croak.

Wordlessly, Helen Keene, victim advocate, advocate for
me,
I realized dully, drew a quilt out of the Hefty bag she was carrying. Gently she pulled it around my shoulders. I was shivering uncontrollably. There was a painful buzzing in my ears. Hold it together, girl, I commanded my inner self. Hold it together
now.
For Tom.

Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a look. Boyd’s carrot-like fingers caressed his worn notebook. “Sorry. You weren’t even a cop’s wife yet. They get used to this kind of crisis. Or at least used to the idea of this kind of crisis. Well. We’re not sure about the actual events. We believe that’s what happened.” His face was fierce; he held his rotund body in a tight, aggressive stance. “It looks as if Schulz was hurt. But we’re going to find him. We’ll work around the
clock.” This was not the matter-of-fact Officer Boyd I had met the previous spring, the Boyd who had proudly announced in January that he’d given up smoking. This wasn’t business-as-usual. This suddenly ferocious Boyd took Tom Schulz’s disappearance as a personal affront.

“What do you mean about his being hurt?” I demanded. Helen Keene put a hand on the quilt that covered my shoulders. She sighed softly, regretfully. I refused to look at her.

“Just from falling down into the creek, we think.” Armstrong
tsked.

“Okay, look,” said Boyd, scratching his close-cropped head furiously and chewing the match, “we’ll tell you what we know. Schulz told Dispatch he was going to call you, because of the wedding. Did he?” I nodded. My heart was racing. “We need to talk to you about your conversation with him. But first we need you to go out there, to Olson’s place, to have you look at some stuff.”

“What stuff? Stuff at Father Olson’s house?” Sick with confusion, I looked around the church office. Wouldn’t there be something here that would help? I tried and failed to summon Tom’s logical voice, his explanations of the inevitable steps in an investigation.

Boyd interjected, “Don’t worry, we’re going to come back here. Eventually.”

I said, “I just don’t understand.”

Armstrong’s tall shape loomed too close to me. “It goes like this: A cop gets surprised. He’s going to try to distract the perp, especially if the perp has a weapon. So say the guy wants to kidnap the policeman. Our guy’s going to drop stuff at the scene, make clues, anything for us to follow—”