didn?t want to … you know, I?m not saying it?s you, Mom … maybe he just was afraid of all of us being together. In a family. Maybe he just didn?t want to get married,? he concluded fiercely.
I waited until Arch looked at me, then I took one of his cool hands. ?This is what I believe: that they?ll find him. That he wants to be a family with us more than anything.?
Arch?s eyes had gone from narrow to vacant; clearly, he was doubtful.
?Please, hon, won?t you come eat? You haven?t had a regular meal all day.?
Arch shook his head and pulled his hand away. ?I don?t? think I should eat until they find Tom Schulz.?
?Please. Don?t do this. Julian?s working like crazy out there to make a nice meal for you. And you know Tom would want you to take care of yourself.? He didn?t move. ?Please, Arch.?
He got up. With bleary eyes, he pushed past me down the hall to the kitchen.
Our dinner consisted of Julian?s idea of comfort food: a spicy frittata served wit his own heated sourdough rolls, a fruit cup, and a complex salad of tomatoes, scallions, lettuce, crushed corn chips, and grated cheddar and Jack cheeses, all coated with a thick, smooth avocado dressing. I recognized this guacamole concoction as a specialty of Tom?s. Julian had retrieved the recipe from the overstuffed square plastic file that I?d forgotten was on a shelf where Tom?s cookbooks were piled on top of mine. I wondered if the card file had any abbreviations in it VM? B. ? Read ? Judas? P.R.A.Y.? Not likely.
The boys exchanged a worried look when I stopped moving food around on my plate and brought Tom?s recipe box up to my nose, inhaled deeply, then dumped the whole mass of handprinted recipes out onto the table. The spattered, yellowed cards smelled faintly of Tom?s kitchen. It was an inviting, high-ceilinged room in the log home he had been about to vacate, after much discussion, to live in town with us. I reached for a card: Monster Cinnamon Rolls. His handwriting. And then a note in another, more recent pen: Try for G. I couldn?t bear it; I turned it over and left the cards in an untidy pile.
The frittata and salad, unfortunately, merely assuaged hunger, which was by this time severe. Worse, I was unable to offer comfort in the area Arch and Julian most needed it: answers to their questions. First they wanted to be told ? again ? every detail of Tom?s disappearance. I hesitated discussing my time in the meadow by Olson?s house, with its memories of the shrouded corpse and the police tramping dutifully about, looking for clues. But Arch, who had eaten only a forkful o frittata, and Julian, who was digging into his third helping, would tolerate no avoidance on my part. They wanted to hear it all, as if such knowledge could give order to the sudden loss of the big-bodied, bog-hearted police officer whom they had both come to love. I did not mention that it looked as if Tom had been injured on the stony bank of the creek. Julian pushed his plate away and looked at me quizzically.
?What about before the church?? he persisted. ?Didn?t Schulz, you know, call you this morning? And what about Father Olson? Is stuff missing from his house? I mean, if there is, why would some guy rob him, then shoot him down by the creek instead of just knocking him out and taking off??
?Tom Schulz did not call before we left for the church this morning,? I said, remembering the hassle of getting my garment bag, the ring, and all the food platters into the van. ?And as to the why with Father Olson, I don?t know. That?s what the investigative team is supposed to be working on.? Some kind of resolve was forming. And what I?m going to find out, I added mentally.
Arch put down his fork. I was not up to telling him to finish what was on his plate. He said, ?I want to see the note from him. I have some books of codes. Maybe I could look the abbreviations up.?
Exasperated, Julian got up and began to clear the table. ?Arch,? he said as he clanked dishes into the sink, ?if he?d known somebody was watching him, he would have pulled out his gun, not written a message to us in stupid code.? He threw open the door to the commercial dishwasher that had just cost me over a thousand dollars. The heavy door made a cracking sound as it bounced in place.
?Oh, yeah?? hollered Arch. His face flushed with anger. ?Where d?you suppose he packed his piece? Inside his tuxedo with the ring he was going to give to Mom?? Arch glowered at Julian, who rudely ignored him as he dumped plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. ?If I want to look up codes, I will! I?m allowed!?
?Guys,? I begged, ?please. Not now.? I made a sudden decision. Pushing my chair out from the table, I snatched the van keys. ?I?m going back to the church.? To the two pairs of suddenly fearful eyes, I said, ?Don?t sweat it. I?m just going to pick up his wedding ring.?
It was bitterly cold outside. The wind had picked up and was whirling snow off the ground like fanned smoke. The van growled in protest when I gunned it toward Main Street. The church parking lot was empty, which is what you?d expect at 6:30 on a Saturday evening. I hopped out of the van, walked carefully across the slippery frozen gravel, and pulled on one of the two main doors to St. Luke?s. It was unlocked ? so much for ecclesiastical security. On the shadowed altar, the pallid petal of my bridal flowers glimmered like leftover funeral arrangements. Gritting my teeth, I allowed the door to swing shut and trotted around the long way, up past the columbarium construction. I was panting by the time I arrived at the church office building.
That office door wasn?t just unlocked: it was partially open. Tom, be with me, I prayed silently as I tried to catch my breath. I whacked the door open with my foot.
?Hello?? I called as I stepped boldly over the threshold. ?What the hell ? ??
At first, I was so shocked I could not register what I saw. Within seconds, however, dismay replaced surprise. The office had been vandalized.
The sawhorses leading to the renovation area lay in pieces on the desk. On the floor, papers from the secretary?s files had been dumped every which way. Her phone had been pulled from the wall and smashed. Hymnals and prayer books were spewed on top of the disorder of pipes, and the couch on which I had sat with Helen Keene that afternoon had been slashed. Gouts of foam rubber lay everywhere.
?I can?t believe this,? I muttered. The old floor creaked as I tiptoed through the devastation to Ted Olson?s office. If whoever had done this had stolen Tom?s wedding ring … My skin prickled with rage. I knew I was a little crazed. But no one was going to take that away from me, too.
Olson?s office was ? if possible ? even more of a mess. Not only had the phone been broken to smithereens, but the contents of upended file drawers had been spilled over the floor. So much for the police searching through them for the meaning of VM, B., and P.R.A.Y. The bookshelves were empty ? all the volumes were on the floor. The vandal had spared the Leonardo reproduction, although it now hung at a grotesque tilt. The bulletin board had crashed to the floor. The ring, I thought. What did you do with the ring, you bastard?
There was a sudden shuffling. I screamed and grabbed a heavy book. Something ? a trash can lid? ? banged. Out the office window, I could dimly see a raccoon shambling away from the building. I collapsed onto a chair, certain I was about to have a heart attack.
?Dammit! Where is the ring?? I said aloud.
And then I remembered that I had brought it in the pocket of my streetclothes. They had fallen from their hook when I?d heaved a hymnal at the wall. I stepped over the debris until I came to the plain brown cotton dress that still lay in a rumpled heap. Kneeling, I fumbled in the pocket and experienced a cold wave of relief when my fingers closed around the velvet-covered box from Aspen Meadow Jewelers.
I pulled it out and opened it. The thick gold band that was to have been Tom?s glistened in the fading light. I popped the box shut, stood, and stepped quickly over the chaos. Clutching the precious ring box, I ran back to my van.
6
The van wheezed against the cold as I raced home. Back in my kitchen, I ignored Julian?s vociferous inquiries and called the Sheriff?s Department. Yes, I insisted to Dispatch?s toneless question, it was an emergency. Dispatch put me through to Calloway; I told her about the ransacked church office. She thanked me, said Boyd was on his way up to my house anyway, and that she?d send a team over to the church. I hung up.
?Man, Goldy, I can?t believe, you went inside when you saw the place was trashed.? Julian slapped one of his schoolbooks open on the table and glared at me. ?Don?t you think that was, you know, dangerous?? I mean, you really ought to think about taking care of yourself, don?t you think? And no offense, but you look terrible.? Upstairs, water gushed into Arch?s bathtub. I looked around the spotlessly clean kitchen. In his usual methodical way, Julian had finished the dishes, set Arch on his evening routine, and now sat leaning back in one of the kitchen chairs. Even though it was Saturday night, he?d brought out some work to do. Julian despised inactivity ? for himself, anyway. ?I think you should stay home,? he advised. ?You know, just wait for the cops to call.? He shifted the chair to balance at a precarious angle and crossed his arms impatiently. ?So. Did you get the ring or what??
