?No, thanks. I have to stay by the phone. Until they find him,? I said uncertainly.
?They?ll find him,? Marla said firmly. She inched her chair over and put her hand on my arm. ?Goldy, you cannot stay here alone.?
?You?re great, but honest. I?m not alone ? Arch and Julian are with me. Talk to me about the church. Tell me how this could happen.?
?I swear, I don?t know. Olson was just ? ? She gestured extravagantly, like an Italian looking for a word. ? ? a cute charismatic who had a good grounding in theology? I don?t know. Does that sound prejudiced? I mean, when I told him we cleared twenty thousand on the gold chains last year, he didn?t say ?Praise the Lord.? ?
?That doesn?t help.? Twenty thousand dollars on gold chains? I felt hysteria rising in my throat and pushed it down. ?With these jewelry raffles ? you sell some and raffle some, right?? She nodded. ?Who ordered the pearls for the fund-raiser? Do you know how many people knew they were out at Olson?s house? And what do the churchwomen use all that money for, anyway??
?Hey whoa, Goldy, slow down.? She pressed her lips together. ?Bob Preston ordered the pearls this year. You remember, the oil guy, husband of Agatha, son of Zelda. I guess I should say, former oil guy. He got some kind of deal from a friend of his in the Far East. As to what the churchwomen use the money for, there?s usually a big argument. Lucille and the Art and Architecture Committee want to build the columbarium before they redo the kitchen. I?m running the raffle, and I want to give the money to Aspen Meadow Outreach. So Lucille Boatwright and I ware at odds, which, believe me, is nothing new. Speaking of the crotchety angel, are you up to hearing about what happened after she collapsed t the church? Or do you want me to fix you some tea first??
I really couldn?t focus on Lucille Boatwright and her autocratic ways. But decision making was beyond me. When I said nothing. Marla rummaged through cupboards, extracted a teapot and cups, opened a box of Scottish shortbread she had brought, and put a pan of water on to boil. The gestures reminded me of Tom. He loved tea. Loves. Stop it.
?Anyway, Lucille Boatwright,? Marla persisted. ?The Old Guard is still guarding. Old Lucy?s fine; she informed the doctors not to let Mitchell Hartley and the rest of the charismatics touch her precious columbarium construction in her absence. She had some arrhythmia, and Zelda Preston is down at the hospital with her.?
?Well, Zelda?s back, because she just called me from the church. Trying to plan Holy Week and Ted Olson?s funeral and wondering what to do with Tom?s and my wedding flowers.? Marla sipped her tea and rolled her eyes. ?I told her to give the altar arrangements to the Roman Catholics.?
Marla choked. ?Treading a bit close to the edge, aren?t we? I?m surprised Zelda?s involved. You know, she was just so irate about the music, spent all last month screaming about going to see the bishop. OH, wait. Speaking of the bishop. Guess who he?s appointed to pastor the church through this crisis??
?Marla. I really don?t care. All I can think about is Tom. A priest appointed to get us through this crisis? Could the bishop really move that fast??
?He has to. I mean, a murdered priest, a halted wedding, not to mention a funeral/ Our flock needs emergency pasturing.? ?Doug Ramsey, I guess.?
?Wrong. He?s too junior.? She dunked a shortbread cookie into her tea and carefully bit into it. ?The bishop is sending in the poet.?
?The … oh, no. Not George Montgomery. He?s the canon theologian. He?s on the Board of Theological Examiners with me and always asks about the history of the eucharist.?
?Montgomery may examine about the sacrament of holy communion,? Marla said, ?but he?s going to versify about everything else.? She finished her shortbread cookie and reached for another. ?Be prepared for sermons that ask, ?Where were you, God/when I laid sod/and found it crass/to ask for grass?? ? She chuckled sourly.
I stared at Tom?s oven. The phone rang. I jumped for it.
?Yes!?
?Hello, is this Goldy?? A female voice, hesitant, raw from crying.
?Who is this??
?Agatha,? gulped the voice, ?Agatha … :?
I put my hand over the receiver and mouthed to Marla, ?Agatha Preston.?
Marla stage-whispered, ?I saw her in the church kitchen. She looked like a WASP auditioning for Song of Hiawatha.?
?Agatha,? I said into the receiver, ?what is it? Do you have some news? What?s wrong??
Marla?s eyes bulged. I shook my head firmly when she mouthed, ?What? What??
?I can?t, I can?t take it … ? Agatha gagged, coughed, and let out a single sob. With great effort, she said, ?Did you … I need to know if you … saw him.? She burst into a fit of crying.?
?Saw him?? I was bewildered.
?What happened?? she sobbed. ?Oh, God, I?m not going to make it. Oh, where is he?? She cried harder, and then her voice became distant when the phone thudded against a hard surface.
?Hello, who?s this?? A male voice.
?This is Goldy the caterer. I was trying to talk to somebody.?
?This is Bob Preston. My wife coordinates the prayer list. As you can see, she is extremely upset. She?ll have to call you later.?
?But, Agatha asked me if I saw somebody. Who was she talking about??
Bob Preston said: ?I certainly don?t know. My wife?s beside herself. It would be in the best interest of the church if you cold just let her call you back.?
My frayed nerves snapped. I yelled, ?Look, dammit ? ?
But unlike most Episcopalians, Bob Preston had hung up.
5
?What a creep!? I screeched. ?Get out the phone book,? I raged at Marla. ?I need to call back the Prestons. Agatha said she wasn?t going to make it, and had I seen him, and then Bob just more or less told me to forget it, she?d have to call me back! Where is my stupid phone book??
Marla?s eyebrows climbed toward the stratosphere. Telling Marla to forget something was her idea of denial of civil liberties. I scrounged wildly for, and then through, the thin Aspen Meadow phone book. No Preston. What about the church directory? I looked for it, but then remembered I had cleared that shelf to make way for Tom?s cookbooks, which now lay in a disorganized pile above the counter. I had no clue to the directory?s whereabouts.
Marla clattered out teacups into the sink and turned on the faucet. I gave up looking for the Prestons? number and announced I was out of physical and emotional fuel. I had Tom Schulz to worry about. Had he ever mentioned Agatha Preston to me?
?What is Bob doing now?? I demanded of Marla. I summoned up a mental image of Bob Preston, oilman extraordinaire: With his puffed-out chest and thinning red hair, Preston always reminded me of an aging rooster, although he probably wasn?t much past thirty. Over six feet, maybe six-feet-four, he had prominent cheekbones, a receding chin, and narrow lips. I said, ?What happened to his oil business??
She began rinsing Tom?s cups with their tiny stylized roses. ?:Bob was riding high until the price of oil crashed in the mid-eighties. The price of natural gas hasn?t gone anywhere either, so it was too expensive to explore. His company went belly-up year before last. They haven?t called for you to cater lately, have they??
I put my hand on Tom?s stove. ?Caterers are always vulnerable to the vagaries of wider economic movements.? MY voice sounded so morose it was clear that financial vulnerability was not the problem.
?Come on, I?m going to cheer you up,? said Marla decisively. ?You have to get your mind off these things. I?ll tell you all the gossip about Bob and the Bob-projects. Not only do they include Habitat for Humanity right here in your neighborhood, he?s also heading this Sportsmen Against Hunger group. They go out into the woods with six-packs and rifles with scopes and shoot elk, then donate the ? shall we call them ?proceeds?? ? to Aspen Meadow Outreach. Now if you were a poor, hungry person, how would you feel about eating an elkburger? Do you have a recipe for such a thing? How about venison chili??
I shuddered. ?I know about that group and the Habitat project. Just tell me who Agatha wanted to see.?
She gave me a look of determination. ?Agatha is involved in everything down at the church. I don?t know who she was referring to.? She turned the last teacup over to drain on a towel and ran her fingers through her frizzled hair. ?But you can bet I?m going to find out.?
