van.?
Disheartened, Arch packed flashlights into the back of the van while I tried to start the engine.
?Arch, you realize the noises we heard probably came from Mrs. Boatwright opening the file cabinets, don?t you??
?Yeah, yeah.? He paused. ?You never did tell me what all this stuff was back here,? he said with a sulk in his voice. There was the sound of rustling papers. ?Gosh, Mom, don?t these files belong to Father Olson or the church or something? Y?ever heard of ?Thou shalt not steal?? ?
?Chill out, buster.? The engine refused to turn over. I turned the key again and pumped the gas. ?Officer Boyd told me to look through anything that would help figure out that note, and this is all I have. You want to find Tom, don?t you??
He tsked over the reluctant whine of the engine. After a moment, he said, ?Father Olson always said, ?Y?have to wrap your faith around you, like a blanket.? I think he said somebody famous said that.?
The engine almost caught and then died. I sat back, infinitely frustrated, and ran Arch?s remark through my brain. I said, ?Sounds like Linus. And I don?t need a blanket, I need my van to start.?
?Yeah, I didn?t need a blanket either. So I asked him, if I had faith that the mean kids at school would stop picking on me, would that be like having a blanket? And he said the only behavior you could control is your own.?
I twisted the key and the engine turned over. Maybe the only power you could control was your own; those built by the auto industry belonged to fate. Anyway, Olson certainly had been capable of giving the right answers about behavior. At least for others. ?Sounds as If Father Olson made you think about faith, anyway.?
Arch snorted. ?Hate to tell you, Mom, but I think about Jolt cola, and that doesn?t mean I have any.?
?Arch!?
?Just kidding.?
I gave up. The van skidded loudly over the wet gravel by the outside bench where Lucille Boatwright was sitting primly with her files and her purse. I put my head on the steering wheel and murmured to Arch, ?Just cover up the stuff back there and help Mrs. Boatwright into the van, will you??
Arch muttered, ?Did you ever hear of Watergate?? But before I could reply he had rustled around and then gingerly jumped out. We drove Lucille to her silver car, which was the pristine, sleek Park Avenue in the church parking lot. She insisted she could drive, even with a sprained left ankle. Because I was anxious to know why she felt she had to ferret through church files on a Sunday afternoon, and why she had parked at the church lot instead of Brio Barn, I acquiesced to her insistence that we come over for a bit. My van chugged and popped behind the Buick to Lucille?s Tudor-style home in the Aspen Meadow country club area. Refusing help, she limped ahead of us into the marble entryway, past polished cherry buffets, tables, and a magnificent etagcre featuring animal figurines made of ivory. Arch made appropriate cooing noises until Lucille took him by the elbow and led him to the bathroom to get cleaned up. She disappeared herself for a few moments, then reappeared with the green outfit sponged clean of its dust.
?I settled Arch in front of the television with a soft drink,? Lucille said with that characteristic lift of her dictatorial chin. ?I didn?t want him to hear how disorganized that church is.? She led me into her kitchen, a vaulted- ceiling, ultraclean space with tall cabinets of glowing light-blue laminate and a brick-colored tile floor. I had a sudden, blinding realization: that Lucille wanted, as I had with Frances Markasian, to protect Arch from hearing what the church was really like.
I waited while Lucille ladled Droste cocoa and sugar into her gilt-edged Royal Crown Derby china teapot, then mixed the two together with cream. Whisking with her free hand, she expertly poured steaming milk into the pot and set it aside. I wondered what she?d done with the files. In her usual highly ordered fashion, she slowly brought to her cherry kitchen table two cups, saucers, and spoons, sugar cubes in a Waterford bowl, cream in a matching pitcher, and finally a small plate with butter shortbread. As she poured the hot chocolate, another, more painful thought assailed me: I realized how much Schulz would have enjoyed chatting with Lucille about English bone china, ivory figurines, Queen Anne cherrywood, and the merits of Scottish shortbread.
If Arch doesn?t like what?s on TV, he?ll come to see what we?re doing,? I warned. ?I?m sorry you were hurt, Lucille, but isn?t it dangerous for you to be down in that file room in Brio Barn? I mean, it?s so decrepit!?
She shook her rows of silver curls and gestured for me to drink my hot chocolate. While it?s hot, she seemed to be saying. ?I was looking in the file storage area because that man Olson was such a pig. I mean, Father Pinckney would never ? ? I made a tiny, impatient throat-clearing noise. Lucille plunged ahead. ?You just don?t understand, Goldy. Olson was ruining our church. He was taking it in a direction, I mean, with those charismatics ? ?
?Whoa, Lucille!? I set down my cup. ?We were talking about files, and then you made the leap to ruining the church. Please explain how you got from one to the other.?
Lucille reached up to smooth the base of her neck, and with a sudden jerking motion of her wide, age-spotted hand, realized her necklace was not there. She sipped her hot chocolate and seemed to be struggling with where to begin her story.
?We used to be a family. Our congregation, you know. Maybe there were things that didn?t work, like the annual giving, but we all got along. It was tragic that Father Pinckney had to retire. He loved everybody, you know that?s true.?
Actually, I knew it had not been true. Pinckney had pastured his little clique; the genuine pastor-to-all had been Ted Olson. But disagreeing on points of view wasn?t going to get Lucille?s motive for shuffling through the file storage on a Sunday afternoon.
Her voice rose. ?Now it?s like we?re two separate churches,? she shrilled. ?The charismatics pushing against the old traditions, destroying everything with their guitar music and their huggy-kissy, trying to take over everything, even the Altar Guild. You know what we called Olson?? When I shook my head, she said triumphantly, ?Father Touchy-Feely. And of course he only cared about them, you know that.?
Again, I did not. But lucky for me I?d majored in psychology and could pull out the Carl Rogers routine on command. I said, ?You felt the didn?t care about you.?
She sipped the cocoa, shook her head, and looked at my cup. ?Now, drink that while it?s hot, Goldy. You know it?s not going to stay warm forever.?
Lucille was incapable of getting more than two sentences out without giving a command. But I obliged anyway. The chocolate was marvelously hot and creamy. And it smelled wonderful. I set my cup down delicately and commented, ?You didn?t feel appreciated.?
?Why, of course not! With all I did for that church, do you think he appreciated even one thing? Oh! I could tell you about the weddings I?ve raised … and all that man Olson ever did was disagree with me. Disagree with me and make it difficult to deal with these frantic families who were trying to get their children married. Not to speak ill of the dead, but you know. We had terrific argument about the office procedures, then more conflicts about the fund- raising ? ?
?So you got the files, Why??
?Well no, just wait. Let me tell you. Where should I start?? She pressed her lips together. ?All right, listen. Zelda Preston has been the organist at St. Luke?s for many years. You know she trained at Northwestern, just had years and years of training. Not that Olson ever appreciated her. And she has been extremely loyal to St. Luke?s. I know personally that she?s given thousands of dollars over the years, thousands, much more than that riffraff that Father Olson has brought into our parish could ever appreciate.?
I could see where the locus of disagreement over office procedures would have occurred between Olson and Lucille. All the pledges and treasury information were supposed to be completely confidential. But if the police had been able to find out about the money flowing in, then it was not too much of a stretch to think that Lucille Boatwright had known about it long before. I was willing to bet that thrift-shop Zelda didn?t share that much of her money.
?So when Olson fired Zelda,? Lucille fumed, ?after all her loyal years of service, picking hymns and practicing with the choir and Lord only knows what all, why, I thought back to that petition. The bishop was supposed to write to us about the guitar music. They promised us from the diocesan office, I don?t know how many times, that we would get a reply, that a reply was on the way. We wanted it banned, don?t you see? And since Olson ? so disorganized! ? hadn?t told us about the response, whatever he?d received, I thought I?d go look for it ? ? She stopped and took a sip of chocolate, gesturing with her free hand for me to draw the obvious conclusion. Which was not so obvious. I knew she was lying.
