confession if a person?s life was in danger. After years of casseroles and Jell-O, and without waiting to hear my opinions on confession, the Board immediately proclaimed their faith in me.
Before the meeting, Father Olson had said there were ?a few rumblings? over the appointment of a laywoman who was a caterer to this powerful board that had the final say on whether persons were ordained. ?Better tell them about your theological training,? Olson had warned me. ?so they, too, will value your mind as well as your mousse.? So at my introduction, I?d dutifully told of the sixteen-week course for Sunday School teachers I?d taken two years before from Canon Montgomery, a member of their board, at the Aspen Meadow Episcopal Conference Center. Canon Montgomery, now soon to be our emergency pastor at St. Luke?s, looked like a ruddy toad. He?d beamed and lapped up my flattery along with his piece of cake. I didn?t mention his aggravating tendency to pat his white hair along its middle part as he put spiritual experience into rhymed couplets.
Now the clock said almost four a.m. Soon it would be dawn. No time to start reading theology, that was for sure. I lifted the towel to check on the rolls, and fatigue struck with such ferocity that my knees buckled. I grabbed the side of Tom?s convection oven for balance. I turned away from the unread papers, left the rolls to rise at room temperature, and flopped back on the living room couch.
The wind had died down, as it often did near sunrise. Still, the house felt cold. l burrowed into the hard cushions and regretted giving back my victim-assistance quilt.
Tom. Be all right.
Holding that thought, I tried to relax. Frightful nightmares of falling into mud accompanied fitful sleep. I awoke abruptly, feeling stiff and chilled, and realizing unhappily that the canceled wedding, the murder of Father Olson, and the unexplained disappearance of Tom Schulz had not been bad dreams, but odiously real.
I opened one eye to see what time it was. Something was wrong. Above Tom?s boxes, my mantelpiece clock was just visible: half past six. Had a noise startled me out of sleep? Now, as I listened for Arch and Julian, the house was silent. What was wrong? What had awakened me with that sensation of something odd, out of place/ I inhaled deeply and blearily scanned the room.
It was the light. The living room was suffused with a tangerine-colored glow. A red sky in the morning promised snow. Big deal. My neck screamed with pain; I stretched carefully. My body insisted I would regret attempting the usual yoga routine. I felt confused. Even with a red sunrise, the light in the living room was too orange. It was not the sunlight that was colored; something was coloring the sunlight.
With effort, I extracted myself from the cushions. I tiptoed to the window and looked through the knots of the lace curtains. I stared at, but could no compr3ehend, what I saw. Hanging from the roof of my front porch was a hand-made knitted blanket. It was bright orange, and had a red heart at the center.
8
When you?ve slept in your clothes, forty degree feels frigid. Ignoring the cold, I hopped gracelessly onto the porch swing and wobbled perilously there for a comment. Sunlight was brightening thin smears of cloud that shone like mother-of-pearl. Very gently, I pulled the orange blanket into the light and tried not to slip on the frosted swing seat while examining the tiny stitches. The coverlet was not knitted, as I had thought, but double-crocheted with a small hook and thin, expensive wool yarn. A chill wind blew through my sweatsuit and threatened my precarious balance. I snatched down the afghan, then looked around to see if any of my neighbors were about. But the cold weather, especially on a Sunday morning, meant people were still snuggling deep under their coverlets and blankets. Not to mention afghans that didn?t come from a source unknown.
I scanned the crocheted rectangle for a note of some kind and saw none. From victim assistance? A thoughtful neighbor? The previous night?s fierce wind might have blown off any attached notes. I bunched the afghan over my shoulder and jumped down from the porch swing. While my joints reminded me I was no longer a limber teenager, I noticed a foil-covered oblong dish sitting primly to the left of the front door. Casserole, courtesy of the Altar Guild. And this time there was a note in a firmly lettered hand on top of that: Please take care of yourself. Our women?s group is praying for you. Zelda. With my free hand, I picked up the icy glass dish and scuttled into the house.
Her note hadn?t mentioned the afghan. Imagining wiry Zelda Preston, or even stolid victim advocate Helen Keene, scaling the wall of my porch to make a dramatic visual statement by hanging a Valentine-type afghan made me smile. I made espresso and watched it spurt merrily into a cobalt-trimmed cup. It was Hutschenreuther, a gift from Tom Schulz. Pain seared through me. The phone rang and I grabbed it.
It was my mother calling from New Jersey, so concerned that she and my father hadn?t been able to say good-bye, and was I all right? Remembering Helen?s advice, I did not mention To Schulz?s disappearance. They would only worry and call me incessantly. Yes, I assured my mother, we were fine. The two of them had just come back from the early church service, she said, and when was the wedding going to be? I stalled. Ah, well, we were working on rescheduling. Did they find out what happened to your priest.? No. But will you get married when things are back in order at the parish? Of course, I promised. When we have a new priest.
And a groom, I thought grimly after replacing the receiver. Dread, worry, and stinging guilt made a simultaneous assault. If only I hadn?t insisted Tom and I get married in the church. Tom Schulz never would have known Ted Olson. He never would have gone out there yesterday morning. He would be sitting here right now having coffee with me, instead of being in peril. Or worse. Or worse …
Stop this.
My espresso had turned cold. I slugged it down anyway, stared at Julian?s pile of Chimayo dirt, and waited for my brain to click into gear. Not much happened; there?s only so much caffeine can do on two hours of sleep. I slammed the risen cinnamon rolls into Tom?s oven. With great reluctance, I showered and dressed in a dark blue suit, then put in a call to the Sheriff?s Department. Without Tom there to tell me what was going on, the center for county law enforcement felt like a foreign outpost. Boyd was not at his desk. I left a message asking for an update, and gave the number to my personal line.
In a great rush, I repunched buttons on my business phone and got Tom?s own voice mail. The sound of his rich, deep, vocal recording was nectar. I listened to it while Scout rubbed against my leg to remind me it was feeding time. I listened to it while writing a note to Julian and Arch and inhaling the deep, rich, mouth-watering smell of the just-baked cinnamon rolls. I listened to it again while assembling ingredients for the poppy seed muffins that I would make between the services in the church kitchen, since the cinnamon rolls would just be enough for the first service. At last, the clock said 7:30. As I was slathering cream cheese frosting on the warm cinnamon rolls, my business line rang. I snagged it.
Oddly, this is Frances Markasian of the Mountain Journal ? ?
?Don?t.? I could just imagine stringy-haired Frances Markasian perched aggressively at her desk, smoking a cigarette with a great length of ash and swigging Diet Pepsi spiked with Vivarin. The woman never slept.
?Goldy, please, I?m sorry about this ? ?
?The heck you are.? I cursed myself for not taking Helen Keene?s advice. I should have disconnected as soon as I heard Frances?s voice.
?We know about Olson and we know about Schulz,? Frances continued as if I had not spoken. ?We know Mitchell Hartley?s a suspect. But I saw some big heart thing hanging on your porch when I drove by this morning, and I took a picture ? ?
In spite of my upbringing, I hung up. The doorbell rang; it was Boyd. His black crewcut glistened in the morning sun; a battered leather flight jacket did not quite cover his pear-shaped belly. He was chewing vigorously on his match, and he didn?t look happy.
?We don?t have him,? he said abruptly when I opened the door, without waiting for me to ask. The uniform shirt he wore underneath the flight jacket was so wrinkled I was certain he?d been up all night. ?But you and I need to talk.?
?I was just about to go to church ? ?
?I?m coming with you. Think I look okay??
?You look fine. But go to church with me? You?ve got to be joking. Why?? I looked at him sympathetically. ?You look exhausted.?
?I?m okay. And I don?t joke.?
Boyd wanted to take my van so we could talk on the way. I asked him to hold the rolls in his lap. He obliged and we took off.
?Go the long way,? he ordered, ?whatever that is. I need to know a few things before we get there. What do you
