the bishop.? Out of the corner of my eye I could see Boyd, looking extremely uncomfortable, leafing through the pamphlets at the back of the narthex.
Doug Ramsey raised startled dark eyes. ?Oh, Goldy, how are you? I?ve been so worried, but with everything going on, a funeral to plan, the meetings … honestly! Are you managing all right? Did the food arrive?? His black clerical suit was wrinkled and covered with dandruff, as if he too had slept in his clothes. I wondered why he wasn?t wearing his vestments. His eyes darted past me to see who was coming through the parish door. ?Sorry, I can?t talk now,? he said. ?We?ve had the most extraordinary mix-up. Have you decided to do the food for the board meeting?? When I did not immediately respond, he again assumed a sympathetic expression and made his voice low an serious. ?Have you heard anything about the … .you … ?? I shook my head. Doug Ramsey strained his neck inside his white clerical collar and shook his head of floppy dark curls. ?Well, ah, I must go tend to some last-minute problems. The money the churchwomen are raising selling raffle tickets for pearl chokers? I thought they had their spending plans all set. Now it turns out that a third of them want to give it to African famine relief, a third want to use it for the columbarium stones, and another third want to invest in more pearls for next year. They want me to arbitrate, which means two-thirds of them are going to hate me … .Then Zelda came back in this morning wanting her old job back, and Canon Montgomery was trying to be pastoral, so he said yes ? ?
?Montgomery? Here already? I thought you were going to fill in for a while, at least.?
?Yes, well so did I.? Ramsey cleared his throat noisily and rant the fingers of one hand through his hair, disarranging his curls. ?Anyway, ah, then Zelda said she always picked the Palm Sunday hymns, and Montgomery had already chosen the music, and then the new organist showed up! And all this plus what happened to Olson … Oh, dear. So the new organist stomped out of the sacristy, and one of the churchwomen though he was the fellow coming to give an estimate on the columbarium stones, and that he?d been driven away by the investin-pearls faction. Then, if you can imagine ? ?
I couldn?t. And I thought catering was bad.
? ? just as I am straightening out the organist fiasco, Mitchell Hartley shows up and starts asking about the oral exams for the candidates for ordination! The exams don?t even begin until Tuesday! Now Canon Montgomery needs me to find a King James version of the Bible while he deals with the, er, music. Not to mention that of course, some time in the next five, I have to vest.?
?Doug, please. I need to talk to you about my fiance. It would help me if I could ask you a few questions.?
?Well, can?t it wait until the coffee hour? Please?? He torqued around and went flying after the new organist, who had banged open the rear door of the church to make a dramatic exit. I turned in desperation to look for Boyd and saw the short, fully robed body and ruddy face of George Montgomery as he entered the narthex. Lucille Boatwright marched up behind him and snagged him by the robe. Canon Montgomery tripped and barely prevented himself from falling over.
?Father Montgomery, I must talk to you about the drainage from our columbarium project after the service!? Lucille rasped. Montgomery, recovering, did not immediately reply. He got Lucille? acid test: ?Canon Montgomery, did you know Father Tyler Pinckney?? When Montgomery was mumbling that he had not known Father Pinckney very well, I sidled up and gave him a welcoming smile. Lucille briskly turned on her spectator pump hells and stalked away.
?Thank you, oh, thank you from the bottom of my heart,? said Montgomery. His voice caught, as if he had been crying. His mottled face had aged much in the two years since my Sunday School course. His hair seemed whiter and thinner than I remembered, and his eyes were bloodshot.
?Are you all right?? I asked impulsively.
He tilted his head and raised his bushy white eyebrows. ?I?ve had a hard time. Olson was my right-hand man at the cathedral. He was very dear to me. I talk to grieving people all the time, but here I am ? ? His voice faltered.
?Yes. I … I?m sorry.? I did not know what to say. You did not hug the canon theologian, even if you were on the same committee. Montgomery?s duty was to articulate the theology of, for, and by the diocese, which in our case was all the Episcopal churched in Colorado. It was not his duty to be affectionate. Embarrassed to be staring at his sagging face, I looked at his robes. Montgomery was wearing an elaborately needlepointed red stole.
?That?s Father Olson?s … you?re wearing his … ?
?I know.? Montgomery?s haggard features crumpled. He lifted the thick, perfectly stitched edges of the stole. ?I was called in somewhat late, and all my stoles are packed away. Actually, I?m still in shock ? ? He gave me the benefit of his close-set, kindly brown eyes, his warm, tentative smile that slanted sideways. He patted his white hair, parted exactly in the middle. ?Father Ramsey told me you, too, have been suffering.?
The formal address of Ramsey did not surprise me. ?Yes, well, as Doug … Father Ramsey knows, the police are scouring the county. They?re keeping me informed.?
Montgomery nodded and reached out to brush my arm with his fingers, then drew back hastily as Doug Ramsey himself approached with a freckle-faced, red-haired young man taking long, aggressive steps beside him.
?Do you know Mitchell Hartley?? Montgomery said to me under his breath.
?Not very well,? I replied, equally conspiratorial.
?The reality is much worse than anything you could have heard,? Montgomery told me in a pleasant tone. He turned to Hartley and added stiffly, ?I didn?t know you were a parishioner.?
?I?m not surprised you forgot,? growled Mitchell Hartley, who was probably in his late twenties and had a head of thick orange-red hair that he combed up in an exaggerated pompadour. Holy Elvis. He had eyes the vivid color of blueberries and a wide jaw that jutted out defiantly. Doug Ramsey mumbled something about vesting and scuttled away. Hartley and his red tidal wave of hair leaned in toward me. He assumed a condescending, pastoral tone. ?I am sorry to hear your sad news, Goldy. I am praying for you.?
?Ah,? I said, embarrassed. ?Thank you.?
Canon Montgomery pulled in his chine and leaned away from Mitchell Hartley, as if he had suddenly come upon some especially noxious form of poison plant. Mitchell Hartley quirked one orange-red eyebrow at me.
?I know you know,? I said uncomfortably. ?But I don?t believe we?ve met. You see, I usually go to this service rather than … ?
?Yes,? he said impatiently. ?I know that.?
?Well,? I faltered, ?how nice. I guess I?ll be off then ? ?
?You?re the woman, the caterer,? Mitchell Hartley said with a bitter smile, ?that Theodore Olson appointed to the board. And you?ve just had this tragic loss … ?
?Ah, well, yes.?
Canon Montgomery cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. ?Miss Bear is a very highly respected member of this parish. She represents, shall we say, the Woman in the Pew. I trained her in one of my Sunday School seminars. But she probably won?t be attending our meetings next week, as she?s in the middle of another crisis.?
Mitchell Hartley snorted, lifted his wide jaw, and narrowed his bright blue eyes at me. ?That?s too bad. We don?t usually get such a good-looking examiner.?
Since we were in church, I avoided making a scurrilous remark. I began to see why Father Olson would have flunked Mitchell Hartley last year. A dawning realization told me being an examiner might not be that much fun.
While we were talking, parishioners had been streaming through the doors and looking around expectantly. When their glances caught on a robed priest engaged in conversation, they seemed to be reassured and wended into the pews. Doug Ramsey made a flustered, but vested, appearance while the teenaged crucifer twirled around the poled Victorian cross. As if on cue, the first few notes of organ music pealed out ? the familiar strains of ?Once to Every Man and Nation.?
?What happened to the prelude?? squeaked Doug Ramsey.
?What happened to ?All Glory, Laud, and Honor??? asked Canon Montgomery His white eyebrows furrowed in sudden anger. ?What seems to be the problem with St. Luke?s??
?Guess you two don?t have much control of this parish,? muttered Mitchell Hartley. His eyes glittered.
I slithered away.
Once in a pew, I looked around for Boyd. He was sitting in the back, eyes fixed on the altar. Canon Montgomery assumed the celebrant?s role in a dignified manner, although his distress over his lack of control appeared to quiver below his passive exterior. Whenever he wanted music, he nodded sternly in the direction of
