so much on my mind. So I wrote to him … about all that I was going through and feeling …every day. And I cashed in a whole-life policy that my father had given me, and stashed the money. Father … Ted was the only one who knew about my financial arrangements. I was so happy to have somebody to write to about how I was going to use my money. Now I?m just so afraid that Ted could have left those letters somewhere that Bob could get hold of them… and use them against me.? Her eyes brimmed with tears.
?Were you in love with Ted??
?What difference does it make?? she hissed. She dashed at her eyes shook her braids, and sniffed. ?Did he say something about the letters or not?? We both looked at Bob, who was pointing to his poached-egg plate and once again giving the waitress elaborate instructions.
?Agatha just tell me,? I urged, ?about Ted. And if your husband knew.?
She stepped to one side of a cuckoo clock and Swiss flag display. Her face was ashen. ?Why? Why do you want to know? Ted is gone.?
?Because it?ll help me,? I said desperately, ?in case the man I?m supposed to marry is still alive. Can?t you just tell me what was going on, and if your husband was jealous??
?Ted loved me,? she protested. ?I?m sure of it. I know he would have waited for me.?
?Waited for you for what??
?Waited until I could get some more money together and dump Bob.?
?Agatha, did you tell the police this??
Her face crumpled. ?Of course not! I?m the married head of the Episcopal Church Women. Our rector was single. What am I supposed to say: ?I was in love with our priest, and I?ve been squirreling away cash for the last five years? Please don?t tell my husband?? ?
?Where is the money??
?I?m not going to tell you. It?s no one?s business but mine.? Fury bubbled through her voice.
?You were at Olson?s house when your motherin-law, Zelda, came out that day about the music, weren?t you??
She choked and smoothed the skirt of her apricot suit. ?Help me,? she pleaded. ?Help me find my letters, and I?ll tell you.?
Her plight touched me. ?I?ll do what I can.?
She whispered, ?When Zelda came out, I was hiding in the bathroom.? Abruptly, she turned and scampered back to the table where her husband sat abusing the waitress.
I zipped the van two blocks down Main Street, turned left at my street, and gunned the engine up the hill. I whizzed past the lot where the skeleton of the Habitat for Humanity house stood abandoned for the weekend. I was sorely tempted to drive the extra five minutes it would take to go directly to the Aspen Meadow Conference Center, but I decided I needed some tools, just in case. As soon as I was in the house I called for Arch, who came bounding down the staircase.
?Gosh, Mom, what took you so long?? He was still wearing the sweatsuit he?d put on yesterday after my wedding-that-wasn?t. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked behind me in the direction of the front door. No Tom Schulz. ?What?s going on? Was that Investigator Boyd at the door this morning? I saw the police car out my window, but figured you would have told me if they?d found him.? His young face was tight with anxiety. ?I thought for sure they?d have figured out some clues by now.?
I gave him a hug. ?They did find something, Arch. What they found was the car they think took Tom away from Father Olson?s house.?
?But they didn?t? ? ?
?No. Not yet. Where?s Julian? Did you eat breakfast??
?He?s at the grocery store. He says someone actually did send over tuna noodle casserole, so he?s out buying ingredients for a Mexican pizza he?s going to make tonight. And yes, I had one of the cinnamon rolls you left.?
?Great. Listen hon, I?m going over to the conference center ? ?
?But … what if Investigator Boyd calls?? His sherry-colored eyes were large with worry behind his glasses. ?Why are you going over there? Are you just going to leave me here to take messages? Why are you going to the conference center??
Kids. From as early as I could remember, Arch had been inquisitive. Not just on philosophical questions such as, What happens after you die? Arch wanted answers to everything. What do they do with your tonsils after they take them out? Why do you have to sell the cookies you make? At Todd?s house they get to keep the oatmeal cookies his mother makes. And, most troublesome of all, Why does God let people suffer? Of course I had figured being a good mom meant you had to explain everything, or try to. They throw the tonsils away. We have to sell cookies to live. God is with us in our pain.
?I?m going to check on the broken window,? I lied.
?You hate broken glass. You won?t let me touch it.?
?I?m just going because I?m going, that?s why!?
He squinched up his face into an accusatory expression and pointed a finger at me. ?It has something to do with the church, doesn?t it? And Father Olson. You?re going to that old conference place because …? He stopped talking to appraise me. ?Because you think somebody?s hiding Schulz over there. That?s it, isn?t it? You?re going to try to find him all by yourself. I?m going with you.?
?The heck you are, buster.?
?If you don?t take me with you, I?ll ride over there on my bike. Then maybe the killer can get you and me together.?
?Oh, for heaven?s sake, then, let me call the police.?
I put in a call to Boyd and identified myself to the person who answered. I asked that the Sheriff?s Department send a car over to the Aspen Meadow Conference Center, that I had a good idea Tom Schulz might be there.
?They were already there,? the policeman said. ?But if you have another idea about Schulz, they?ll go back. Twenty-five minutes, tops,? he said and then hung up.
?Okay, Arch, the police are on their way.?
He gave me a baleful look. ?I miss Tom, too, you know.?
?All right, all right, we?ll go over and meet the police there. But I have to go find some tools and my Mace, just in case … ? I didn?t finish the thought. ?Get your coat, hon. It?s cold.?
He raced up the stairs and announced sonorously over his shoulder, ?Mom ? we?re going to need at least two flashlights.?
13
Within minutes my van was whining up Meadow Drive toward Hymnal House. The air was unusually chilly for an early Colorado afternoon in April, and a bleak sky threatened snow. No law-enforcement types had arrived by the time the van crunched over the gravel of the long conference driveway. Silently I castigated myself for agreeing to bring Arch into a potentially dangerous situation. I wavered about going back. I saw a jogger in my rearview mirror, backed up, and rolled down my window. Yes, the police had been here, he informed me, panting. It was a while ago, maybe half an hour. I would not go into any of the building until they got back, I vowed. I would not put Arch in danger.
I pulled the van up to the split-rail fence by Brio Barn. We jumped out onto ice-slickened grass at the edge of the cliff overlooking Main Street, Cottonwood Creek, and St. Luke?s. Across the creek, the church lot held two cars. But it was empty of people. No signs of activity animated the conference center, either. The two ninety-year-old conference buildings were distinguished by dark cedar shake shingle siding. Stone entryways, red roofs, and an air of benign neglect. Red paint curled off the window frames and dead pine needles lay in a haphazard pattern across the window-sills. The place looked like a Victorian summer camp shuttered for the off-season.
Up the hill from us, next to Hymnal House, stood the old garage. It was a one-story edifice originally built to accommodate three horse-drawn carriages. Now its doors yawned widely. Arch and I walked up slowly. The notion of To being hidden somewhere in the center was an idea I found alternately brilliant and inane. I glanced around the empty conference garage with its ancient hedge clippers and rusted engines, its workbench cluttered with tools and leaning towers of snow tires. Had Tom been in here? The dusty surfaces revealed no signs of human presence.
