For better or worse, I decided to tell him the truth. ?At Olson?s house. Were you out there??
At that moment, the outside bell gonged. Mitchell Hartley didn?t seem to hear it, however. He had a dreamy look on his face.
?You were, weren?t you?? I said to Mitchell. My voice was very quiet.
?I was not.?
?Cut the crap, Mitchell. You know something.?
?I do indeed,? he said secretively. ?Now.? The bell gonged again. ?You didn?t turn the search over to the Lord, and now the Lord has revealed something to me.?
?What? Please. It could be a matter of life or death.?
He stood and sauntered to the door. ?Everything,? he said ponderously, ?is a matter of life or death. Tonight?s exams are over, and I don?t want to talk to you anymore.?
The door closed behind him.
I looked at my watch. 9:30. Despite the darkness of the night, there was a clear view of the conference grounds and driveway from the parlor windows. From where I sat, I could barely hear the voices and traffic from the front side of the conference building. And it was just as well. Mitchell Hartley wasn?t being forthcoming, and I was in no mood to socialize with anyone else. I decided to wait right where I was and watch for Marla?s car to come down the driveway. I would be grateful to get home, to get away from the swirling antagonisms and petty jealousies of this group.
I thought about Tom Schulz. Was he cold? Was he in pain? Had he given his kidnapper the desired information?
Then I remembered Father Olson?s gentle compliment in our penultimate counseling session: ?It?s rare that I work with a couple so much in love.? And yet tomorrow we were going to bury Father Olson, and no one knew if Tom Schulz was alive or dead. I let my head rest on the vibrant pink cushion. I was so tired.
I was not aware I?d fallen asleep until something jolted me awake. I felt as if I had climbed out of an avalanche, that I had heard a howl for help either in my sleep, or within the avalanche, or somewhere out on the road. I rubbed my eyes and looked out the window: Marla?s Jag was there, its tailpipe sending clouds of steam up into the night sky. I lifted my cramped body off the couch and painfully made my way down the outside steps, which had dim lights every five feet. Shouts had awakened me. They came from the other side of Hymnal House, maybe from the deck, it was hard to tell. On the other hand, perhaps it was bikers partying down on Cottonwood Creek again.
Marla had the windows closed and the engine running; the Jag purred like a small airplane.
?Did you hear something?? I demanded when I opened the passenger side door and stuck my head inside.
?Nothing juicy, at least not in the last two hours.?
I slid into the passenger seat, closed the door, and sighed. ?Never mind.?
She put the car into reverse and sent gravel spewing on her way out the driveway. Marla could never learn to drive cautiously.
?Did the police call?? I could hear the plea in my voice.
?Boyd did. I asked him, ?Boyd, do you have a first name?? He said, ?You can just call me Boyd.? Where?d they get that guy, Dragnet??
?Marla.?
?Okay, Bob Preston hasn?t been at the Habitat house since Saturday, and he doesn?t have a clue about those keys. How about you? How?d the exams go??
We shot down the road that would lead us to Main Street and the front of the cliff by Hymnal House and Brio Barn.
?I agree with Ted Olson,? I said, ?in thinking Mitchell Hartley should fail. Montgomery said he?d probably pass this time, though ? ?
Without warning, when we were just below the conference center deck, the car screeched to a stop. Despite my seat belt, I went catapulting forward. When I had struggled upright, Marla cried, ?Oh, God. Oh, Lord.?
?What?? I said, but she didn?t reply. I followed her gaze out the front of the car, along the line of blazing light cast by the headlight beams.
Mitchell Hartley wasn?t going to fail his candidate?s exam, and Mitchell Hartley wasn?t going to pass. Mitchell Hartley was lying in the middle of Main Street.
He was dead.
20
Marla ran to pay phone. Someone from a nearby gas station set out flares on the road. Within minutes, Boyd and his team had arrived. I sat in the Jaguar in a state of shock. I couldn?t look out at the activity, although I occasionally glanced up at the conference center, perched as it was on that cliff overlooking both the road and the church. Then I gazed briefly at St. Luke?s, on the other side of Main Street. I couldn?t look at the sprawled corpse of Mitchell Hartley. Marla came back to the car. We sat silently in the front seat. After more police and the EMT had arrived, Boyd approached us. I slid down the window. ?Is he ? ?? I choked. Boyd didn?t need to reply. His expression said it all.
?You don?t think he?s the one who killed Olson, do you? Do you think he knew where Tom Schulz is?? I demanded. My voice sounded shrill, and I was shivering uncontrollably. ?Tell me. Do you think Hartley fell, committed suicide, what? Was he hit by a car??
Boyd regarded me. Dark disks of shadow underneath his eyes showed his exhaustion. The past two days had been hard on him, too. ?It doesn?t look as if Hartley was hit by a car. I don?t know about the rest. Need you to come and see something though.? I got out of the car and followed him to where a cluster of people surrounded the body. I recognized Officer Calloway and other Furman County investigators. ?Weren?t you looking for this?? said Boyd. He pointed to a broken pearl choker lying near the center line of the road. In the circus-hued flashes from the police lights, it looked a child?s bauble. But when I leaned close I could see the handwritten price tag: $2000.
?What in the … ??
?It must have been in his pocket, or maybe he was holding it. Where do you suppose he got it??
I repeated my theory that Olson had been keeping the chokers out at his house. There should be others, I added. Mitchell Hartley was poor, and he hated that, but he had never impressed me as a thief. Of course, I had not known him very well. Not very well at all.
?Okay,? Boyd said. He didn?t sound satisfied. ?I told somebody to call your house. Julian Teller?s waiting up for you, but he?s not waking your son. Better not to upset him. You should get back into Marla?s car. Are you cold??
I was still shaking, but not from the weather. Mitchell Hartley had been in the upstairs parlor with Doug Ramsey and me less than an hour ago. The Lord has revealed something to me. What that was, of course, I had no idea. Briefly, I told Boyd about my last conversation with Hartley. Boyd said nothing.
Marla restarted the engine.
?Just a sec, Goldy, are you listening to me?? Boyd?s face neared the open car window. I fastened my seat belt and tried to assume an attentive expression. ?Don?t go anywhere, okay? Don?t try to figure this out. Somewhere along the line, whoever is doing this is going to make a mistake.?
?So you don?t think he fell from the conference deck.?
Boyd pushed away from the car. He slipped a match into the side of his mouth. ?I?ll call you,? he said laconically, and turned back to the group around Mitchell Hartley?s body.
When we arrived home it was almost eleven. At my insistence, Marla left me off without coming inside and went home. All my supplies, cheesecake leftovers, platters, and bowls from the committee?s supper were still in the Hymnal House kitchen, so there was not even anything to put away. Julian fixed me a cup of hot chocolate.
?I froze the wedding cake,? he announced, apropos of nothing. ?I just couldn?t take it down to the church along with the other stuff.?
I nodded and ran my hand over the gleaming enamel surface of Tom?s stove. Tell me what to do, I mentally begged him. But there was no response. Whenever I was in a muddle, I cooked. But what did Tom Schulz do when he was faced with chaos, trying to sort things out? And then I remembered.
He took notes.
I poured out the hot chocolate and filled the espresso machine with water. Scout the cat made one of his
