?Eight,? was her laconic greeting. Well, at least she didn?t ignore me. I guess I was forgiven. On the other hand, maybe she was embarrassed that I knew she?d interviewed for the organist?s position with the Catholics, the same Catholics she?d deemed unworthy of receiving my unused wedding flowers.
Unused wedding flowers. I looked up at the altar and the diamond-shaped window. I had imagined the ceremony so many times that just being in the church again with food and women bustling around made the welt on my back throb. The pain pill was wearing off. When I finished setting the table with Zelda, I walked out to the kitchen and downed another one. Might as well pretend I was an angel and float through the prayer meeting.
By 11:35, eight women had assembled in the tiny church library that doubled as a meeting room for small groups. Marla announced it would make her nervous if I watched her fill the chafing dish with boiling water. That made two of us. I plugged in the electric heating pad I?d brought with me beside one of the library bookshelves, settled into a high-backed chair, and prepared to pray.
?Oh, my dear,? said one of the women, all of whom were older than me by at least three decades, ?What happened to you??
?I hurt my back.?
?We?ll add it to the list,? Lucille Boatwright declared solicitously as she settled onto the library couch like a hen adjusting to her nest. ?Poor Goldy. Any word yet?? When I shook my head, she added, ?Perhaps we should start with a prayer for Father Olson.?
Beginning with Lucille, the women took turns delivering halting words of supplication. This was very different from the higher-decibel, gut-spilling type of prayer I?d heard at the late Sunday service. A silence followed. I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of Father Olson. On the screen of my brain, he appeared and said urgently, ?Call me.?
?What?? I said out loud.
?What/? chorused four women, their perplexed eyes suddenly open Lucille Boatwright rolled her lips against her gums and gave me a stern look that demanded: Are you on drugs?
Prescribed pain pills, thank you very much. Still, I kept my mouth firmly shut as the women began a short prayer that God would lead the police to the murderer, and that Tom Schulz?s note would be deciphered and Tom found. I had intended to ask these women questions about the parish during this meeting. But the pill I had taken was making logical thought impossible. During their prayerful silence, I allowed my eyes to slip shut. This time I?d conjure up Tom Schulz. Instead, Father Olson?s face loomed again, his mouth open in supplication.
?Ca-a-a-ll me-e-e.?
No doubt about it, I was losing it. I heard serving utensils clatter loudly to the floor out in the narthex. That was all I needed ? I made a slow, clumsy retreat out to where the catering action was taking place. Unfortunately, the very person I was not in the mood to chat with was Canon Montgomery. His toadlike presence filled the narthex. Or maybe it was the poetry that invaded my mind when I saw him smile approvingly at the pan of pasta: Only a wimp/eats shrimp.
?Ah, Goldy,? he said with a large, synthetic smile. He moved toward me. ?Just the person I?ve been looking for.?
Marla gave me a helpless look as the Mountain Journal ? in the person of Frances Markasian ? breezed through the church doors. When Frances spotted me talking with Montgomery, she grabbed the wooden door behind her and eased it closed so that it would make no noise. I felt an equal amount of discouragement and unease.
Ignorant of either woman?s presence, Montgomery confided, ?Godly, I?m so very, very sorry that I was hard on you during the service yesterday.? He made a gesture of apology with his meaty hands. ?I feel terrible that my grief expressed itself in an ugly outburst against you. I called and left a message with your son. But I wanted to tell you so myself.?
I muttered, ?Okay.? In her duct-taped sneakers, Frances Markasian tiptoed up behind Montgomery so she could eavesdrop on our conversation. The Stealth Reporter. I said nothing. In fact, I rather enjoyed the prospect of the canon theologian getting a painful does of our local journalism.
?It?s just,? Montgomery went on, casting his eyes heavenward and warming to his topic, ?that I?m still so terribly upset over losing Ted Olson. And this parish … I don?t know.? A cast of tragedy hung over every word. Frances Markasian was getting it all down. I couldn?t help it, I laughed. Again. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, the stress, the pill. Or maybe it was the way Montgomery took himself so seriously that brought out the hyena in me ?In any event,? he rushed on with a self-important sniff and pat of his middle-parted white hair, ?we?ve decided to move up the exams by one day, since Olson?s funeral is tomorrow and the whole committee?s already here. Will this be a problem? To have dinner for fifteen at the conference center at six? Tonight? Do you have a staff that can help you? Penitential season, better have fish.? Frances scribbled madly but noiselessly; I wondered wildly if I should set an extra place for her. My mouth hung open. Dinner for fifteen a problem? Montgomery had to be kidding. ?Afterwards,? he added in a rush, ?we can go through the first three answers to the coffee-hour questions. If I could just figure out the fax machine in the choir room, I think I could notify the last of the candidates. I do remember we were planning on having you do the food … ?
Tom Schulz?s voice in my head said, Who?s we, white man? At least it was Tom?s voice this time. Anything was better than having the dead rector insist that I phone him in the Hereafter. Maybe this was what schizophrenia felt like. I waited for Frances Markasian to introduce herself, but instead she just held her fingers up to her lips in a shushing motion. I wondered if this was legal. We were, after all, in church.
?Goldy?? Canon Montgomery raised his voice a shade. The last thing I needed was to have him holler at me again. Marla was shaking her head wildly and mouthing the words No food. But I knew I had to keep busy, even if the pain pills were playing tricks with my mind. The worst aspect of missing Schulz was the terrifying notion of having nothing to do, of being motionless at home waiting for the phone to ring. Not that I had done that much sitting around in the last forty-eight hours. But still …
?Yes, dinner will be fine. Will the place be open??
He lifted his peaked eyebrows. ?I?ve told Mitchell Hartley to leave the doors unlocked around the clock. That Bob Preston fellow protested ? a little late for the person responsible for security to be upset, wouldn?t you say? I?m having a broken window fixed right now. Can you imagine??
?Actually, I can. That?s our fault ? ?
He waved my protest away. ?I?m assigning you and Doug Ramsey to examine Mitchell Hartley tonight, just for an hour. Go ahead and open your letter matching numbers with candidates, and concentrate on his written work. We hope Hartley?ll do better this time … ?
There was that we again. How?s Father Doug doing??
?Oh, well,? said Montgomery with a sniff. ?You know he was upset with Olson over the miracle claims, and I do believe he was a trifle jealous, perhaps. Olson was so handsome and charismatic in every sense, a lady?s man, you know.? Frances Markasian wrote furiously.
?He was never a lady?s man with me,? I said, my voice as stiff as my aching back. I didn?t wish to see any undocumented insinuations about Father Olson in the Mountain Journal.
?I?m just saying,? Montgomery replied, testy and oblivious, ?that I?ve been working with the clergy in this deanery to change suspicious, jealous attitudes. There have already been some meaningful changes. However, I do admit to frustration over priests? feelings that the pie is only so big ? ?
?Pie!? cried Marla. ?I just knew there was something I needed to talk to Goldy about. Sorry that you?re feeling frustrated, Canon Montgomery. Actually, I?ve been meaning to tell you about this other canon I knew. His name was Canon Glasscock. I said, ?Glasscock? Is that your real name? Do you have crystal balls, too?? ? Montgomery gagged; I bit my lip; Frances Markasian wrote. But Marla was unyielding. ?You know what the clergy should do?? she said, wagging a bejeweled finger at him. ?Give you a jingle when they feel blue. Here tell the Mountain Journal all about it. Frances here can write, ?When you want/to feel all summery/you can call/Canon Montgomery!? ? With that she grabbed my arm, whirled us both around, and marched in the direction of the kitchen.
Behind us, I heard Frances say with potently false humility: ?Hi, I?m from the paper, and I?d like to talk to you about your relationship with the murder victim. Father Olson? Could you talk a little bit more about those jealous attitudes??
?Brr-auugh!? howled Canon Montgomery.
I didn?t dare look back to see how the canon theologian looked. I felt like a Filipino racing away from an erupting Mount Pinatubo. A Filipino with a bad back, no less.
Marla took the hotel pan from the church?s over. She set it in the chafer with a minimal amount of overflow
