?Yes, I got the ring. And I don?t normally think of the church office building in the early evening being a dangerous spot,? I replied stiffly. But in light of the day?s event, Julian was right. I was about to show him the ring box when something under the shelf of Tom?s cookbooks caught my eye. In the spot where Julian usually upended drying pots and pans, he had cleared the counter and spread one of his bandanas. On to of the bandana was Tom?s recipe box; on to of the box was a small pile of what looked like potting soil.
?Julian? Is that dirt on my counter??
His face turned sheepish. Well, yeah. Kinda.?
?Are we into voodoo here or what??
?I figure you need to cover all the bases.?
?Julian? What base is this? The one under home plate??
He slammed the chair down onto the floor, sprang over to where I stood, and pointed at the mound. ?This is dirt from Chimayo,? he announced, as if that would explain everything.
I know Chimayo is in New Mexico,? I said. MY patience was wearing thin. ?And I know it?s famous for its chili powder. But you?re going to have to enlighten me on the dirt.?
Julian rubbed two fingers across his sparse hedgerow of bleached hair. ?It?s, you know … like magic. People make pilgrimages to the sanctuary at Chimayo because the dirt has this … . special healing power. The Indians thought so, and they were in that spot first, you know. Then the Spanish Christians said it was miraculous too, so they built this sanctuary place. So when the swim team went to Santa Fe for a meet, I went over with some of the guys. You just scoop the dirt out of this big hole. I figured if the Indians and the Christians thought it was powerful stuff, then I should get some too, in case I ever needed it. So now I want to use it.? Avoiding my eyes, he reached out to press his fingers lightly into the earth. ?For Tom.?
I was touched. Before I could think of something appropriately grateful to say, Arch joined us. He was wearing an enormous white terrycloth bathrobe Tom had given him. His wet brown hair stuck out like pine needles. He said, ?Was the ring at the church??
?Yes, hon. But somebody had broken into the church office. It was a mess.?
?Oh, gosh.? Arch stood beside me, bleakly silent. ?Mom?? he said finally, his voice serious. ?I?ve been thinking. The next time you go out investigating, I?m coming with you.? I exhaled thoughtfully; it was nice to know I had both a twelve-year-old and a nineteen-year-old intent on mothering me. ?What in the world is that?? He was looking at the pile of dirt.
?Something of Julian?s. He can tell you all about it.?
Julian began, ?It?s from Chimayo ? ?
?Oh, yes,? said Arch knowledgeably, ?I know all about Chimayo from Stories of the Weird. But Mom? If the Health Inspector pays a surprise visit and sees that? You are going to get into so much trouble.?
Before I could protest, the front doorbell rang. We all bolted for it. It was Boyd. Behind him stood Helen Keene, carrying another overstuffed Hefty bag. Their bleak faces said they had not found Tom. I ushered them into my living room, where Boyd handed me a photocopy of Tom?s note and a plastic bag containing his wallet and the other wedding ring box, sodden from being in the creek. With soft-spoken composure, Helen asked if she could meet with Arch and Julian one-on- one, to see if the needed someone to talk to. She?d brought them quilts, too. Julian replied by asking her if she was hungry. Without waiting for a reply, he led her out to the kitchen. Arch muttered that he didn?t want a quilt if it looked as if it belonged to a girl, and traipsed along behind.
Boyd declined food, although he looked longingly in the direction of the kitchen. I told him about the mess at the church office and that I?d called the Sheriff?s Department.
?Damn it to hell,? he said angrily as he sat on the living room couch. He had changed into a bright green down parka that did not go with his uniform pants. From his uniform shirt pocket that had at least four ballpoints hooked on it, he drew out a pen and his battered spiral notebook. It was similar to the one Tom Schulz had tossed into the bushes. With his free hand, Boyd surreptitiously slid a wooden match into the side of his mouth. ?You want to tell me what was in the church office? I mean, do you know anything someone would want to rip off? Or conceal, maybe??
I told him that the tickets and chokers were supposed to be at Olson?s house, not in the church office. Boyd had already heard plenty, he said, about the necklaces from both Marla (?that big, bunny woman?) and Lucille Boatwright (?hysterical battle-ax?). I showed him the wedding ring I had retrieved. The church office contained an appointment book, notes, and files, too, I added, but Olson was such a packrat, only someone who knew exactly where to look for something would be able to find it. And that was before someone broke in and trashed the place.
Boyd stopped scribbling in his notebook and picked up the ring box. ?I wanted to come to your wedding,? he said with a remote sadness. He handed me back the box. ?But I pulled weekend duty.?
With the other crises hanging over us, neither Boyd nor I wanted to talk about the possibility of rescheduling. Instead, assuming a crisp tone, he rant through the names of Olson?s neighbors. None had seen anything this morning but nondescript cars coming down Upper Cottonwood Creek Road. Hard to believe that this was all the same day, that it was only this morning that Olson had been killed. Yes, Boyd was saying, the neighbors had heard two shots, but in rural Colorado, you heard shots all the time.
Boyd?s tired brown eyes gave me a level, detached gaze beneath black eyebrows that stood up like magnetic filings. ?I?m telling you this, Goldy, because it?s our policy to keep the next-of-kin informed of every detail when there?s a kidnapping. And something I tell you might jog your memory or make you remember some detail that could help. Try to concentrate, and then let me know.?
I rubbed my temples and wondered how many times in his career Boyd had asked distracted and grieving folks to concentrate. The neighbors had heard shots. The common experience of hearing gunfire was true even in my own neighborhood off Aspen Meadow?s Main Street. Coloradans waste no time blowing away anything bothersome, from garden snakes to woodpeckers to bears; ecologists be damned.
Helen reappeared with her customary silence and sat down next to the cold fireplace. Boyd snapped his ballpoint open and closed several times, then asked if he could run a few things by me. I murmured that I wanted to be helpful.
He flipped through several crumpled pages of his notebook. ?There doesn?t seem to be anything missing from Olson?s place. At least, nothing that we can tell, like a stereo ripped out of the wall, or pearls gone from a jewelry box. But you?re right, the guy was a packrat. Looks as if he kept every piece of mail since the time he moved there. But the audio equipment, computer, church supplies ? plates and goblets and stuff made out of gold, silver, brass ? all look untouched. We?re not sure what the guy had in the first place. But I?ll tell you this,? he said as he chewed furiously on the match, ?I don?t want a bunch of churchwomen traipsing around in there looking for jewelry while we?re conducting an investigation.?
I thought of Olson?s living room with its shelves of thick books, its ornate sacramental vessels ? called paten and chalices, not plates and goblets ? and his mantelpiece with its beautifully carved crcche from Santa Fe. I wondered if Olson ever made a pilgrimage to Chimayo. Boyd shifted his bulk, tapped his notebook, and said thoughtfully, ?Anyway, especially after this church breakin, we can?t completely rule out burglary as a motive. Or somebody trying to destroy something. Here?s one thing that?s puzzling us: Olson?s Mercedes started right up. He didn?t have car trouble. So why d?you think he?d call Schulz to pick him up??
Involuntarily, I thought back to the silly disagreement Tom and I had in last night?s counseling session with Olson. Did any other couples argue about whether marriage lasted into the afterlife? Did they argue about it the night before their wedding? Probably not.
?Maybe,? I said, then hesitated, imagining Olson?s desire to deal with conflict. He tried to bring about reconciliation no matter what. That was his way. Had been. ?Maybe Olson wanted to talk to Tom before the wedding,? I ventured, ?To reassure him that everything was going to be all right.? I sighed. ?I blew a gasket in front of both of them after our supper last night. Maybe Olson felt the only way Tom would accept some pasturing before the wedding was by pretending to have car trouble.? I knew better than Boyd how reluctant Tom Schulz had been to see Father Ted Olson for counseling. Shrinks, he?d muttered, they can drive you crazy in court. I?d told him Father Olson wasn?t a shrink, he was a priest. A religious shrink, Tom had grumbled. But in the course of our sessions together, Father Olson had insinuated himself into Tom?s affections. Olson had genuinely admired Tom?s powers of observation; he even professed envy of Tom?s ability to bring about justice. All he ever go tot do, Olson complained, was forgive people.
Boyd interrupted my thoughts. ?Blew a gasket about what??
