I looked at my kitchen clock. Almost midnight. I called the Sheriff?s Department and left a message for Boyd: Please call me A.S.A.P. He was probably getting tired of the messages.
I put the phone down. There was no way I could go to bed now. Besides, Tom Schulz, if he was still alive, probably wasn?t asleep. I needed to concentrate. I covered the potato pancakes and put them in the walk-in, then scanned my kitchen.
By my own phone I had a list of numbers: Tom Schulz, Julian?s and Arch?s school, Marla, Alicia?s supply company, Arch?s friend Todd, the library. What had Olson had by his phone? The bulletin board in his office had all kinds of phone numbers on it; I remembered that from my time in there before the wedding was cancelled, and afterward, when I?d thrown the hymnal and notes had popped off the bulletin board.
And the answering machine at Olson?s house had been destroyed. Could that have been the motivation for the mayhem out there: to destroy evidence, rather than steal anything? But why hit me and take the solitary exam paper from my hand? And what did B. ? Read ? Judas mean? I did not know. But I had no doubt that the phone messaging was key, and that was where I had to concentrate. Perhaps whoever had done the vandalism out at Olson?s had not realized just how voice mail was stored. Maybe someone from a generation that did not like or understand developments in communications technology.
I looked out my kitchen window: A powdery, soft snow had begun to fall. I wanted to rush to the trashed church office, study the remains of Olson?s bulletin board, and come up with an accessing phone number that would provide the answers to so many questions. As if in protest, my back contracted with pain ? not enough for a pill. I told myself. I needed to stay sharp. On the other hand, I dared not go back to the church alone. Boyd would never forgive me. I hugged myself, angry with my own indecision.
Snow tends to muffle noise. That was why I waited to hear the faint stomping noise again. When it came, the fur on the back of Scout?s neck ruffled. Someone was on my front porch.
I moved stealthily through the dining room and into the darkened living room. I heard more shuffling and stepping, even a small grunt. By the light from a street lamp, I could see yet another afghan hanging from my porch-swing hooks. The figure that hopped off the swing was Agatha Preston.
?Don?t leave!? I shouted as I flung open my front door.
?Agh!? Agatha screamed as she reeled backward. ?This was supposed to be a surprise! I?ve been so worried … and I just wanted you to have something … !?
On the deck railing was a mayonnaise jar filled with coffee. Or at least it looked like coffee.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. ?Please, Agatha, come in.?
She tossed her braids over her shoulders, reverently picked up the jar, and tiptoes inside my house. She was wearing a pink-and-white warm-up suit with matching pink boots. Pocahontas s a candy cane.
?Ooh, please don?t get mad at me, Godly. I told you I don?t have a job, so I just crochet all the time, and I had these on hand, so I thought maybe … ?
?Thanks, Agatha, I should have known they were from you. I saw one at Olson?s house.? She blushed the color of her suit. I wondered what color she was going to turn when I told her about the letters I?d found. I said, ?What?s in the jar??
?Oh. Well you know, Ted really had the Power.? Her eyes brightened. ?Miraculous powers. And so I heard on television that if you dig up the dirt where the blood ? ?
?Don?t? go on, I know all about it. My son saw the same program. Come on out to the kitchen.?
?But … I already poured some of this water around over at the church, because we have so much unhealing there ? ? She moved hesitantly into the kitchen, put her jar on the table, and sat down.
?At the columbarium site? I saw you ? ?
? ? and I just thought,? she turned to me breathlessly, ?that since you?d had so many things going wrong in your life, you really needed healing, a supernatural kind that was sure to work ? ?
?Please. That is not miracle, Agatha. That is superstition.?
She looked at me, her mouth open. ?What?s the difference? Did you pray for things? Don?t you think we need a childlike faith?? She stood and sidled over to Julian?s mound of dirt. ?what?s this? Is it from Chimayo??
?It belongs to somebody who works for me.?
?Oh.? She regarded me earnestly. ?Didn?t you ever in your life pray for something specific??
?Of course.? Agatha was, as I?d told Arch, part of the church family. I wanted to relate to her, I just didn?t know how. I searched my memory for the kind of kindred experience she meant. ?Let?s see,? I faltered. ?Oh, yes. My parents sent me to a Roman Catholic school for first grade. I loved it because we made butter in the classroom.?
?That?s what you were praying fro?? asked Agatha, confused. ?Butter??
?No, no. My mother had an unusually bad case of appendicitis. She was in the hospital for weeks. So I … ? Suddenly I felt terribly foolish, but Agatha was leaning forward, expectantly. ?So I wrote, ?Please make my Mommy well? on a piece of paper, rolled it up, and placed it between the stone fingers of a statue of the Virgin Mary in the school courtyard.? I let out a tiny laugh of embarrassment.
?Wow. And was your mother healed??
?Well … yes, but,? I aid, groping for words, ?I think you have to test what you would call the Weird against church doctrine and tradition, maybe.? My own words gave me pause. I sounded like a member of the Old Guard! I ought to believe in the Weird anyway. I certainly had experienced enough of it lately.
She pouted. ?Your attitude is a cop-out. Ted had the Power.?
She colored brilliantly. ?I … I … was getting the dirt from the place where he fell. Is that a crime? What paper??
?I?m sorry, Agatha,? I blurted out. ?I found the letters you sent to Ted Olson, I gave them to the police.?
The color drained from her face. ?Oh, God,? she said softly. ?Oh, God … Well, at least Bob doesn?t have them.? She stared straight ahead, no longer wishing to discuss miracles, apparently.
And then I had an absolutely wonderful idea. It filled me with more lightness and excitement than I felt since Tom?s disappearance. ?Agatha. Do you know how Ted accessed his voice mail??
?Yeah, I think, I mean I don?t know the code, but he had one. You see, first he had to call this number at U.S. West, and then he?d dial in the church number ? ?
Hallelujah. ?Is there anybody at the church now, do you know??
She looked at the kitchen clock, puzzled by my question. 12:30 a.m. ?Now? I think they?re having some kind of vigil until the funeral. The people at the ten o?clock Sunday service set it up.?
Great. If Agatha accompanied me, then Boyd couldn?t possible get upset with me for wandering out. If there were people at the church, then it wasn?t as if we were going into an empty place at night.
I could hear my heart beating. I whispered, ?Do you know where Ted kept the number for U.S. West accessing??
?Sure, somewhere on the bulletin board of his office. But why??
?I?ll tell you on the way to church,? I promised her.
21
There were only two automobiles in the parking lot, not exactly a crowd for a vigil. I did not recognize either car, but then again, I didn?t usually go to the later Sunday-morning service, and was unfamiliar with the charismatics and their vehicles. ?Does Bob have any idea where you are?? I asked when we disembarked from my van. ?He thinks I?m here. At the vigil.? ?Ah. Do you know how to get into the office?? Around us, snowflakes continued to fall.
?The keys are on top of one of those log panels beside the office door,? she replied promptly. ?Lucille always teaches all of us how to get into the priest?s office.?
?Who?s ?all of us? ??
?It?s supposed to be just the Altar Guild, who are supposed to keep it confidential, but ? ?
?Never mind.?
The lights were dim in the parish itself. Flickering light from the vigil candles played against the windows. I couldn?t remember if it was liturgically advisable to have vigil, much less a funeral, before Good Friday during Holy Week. But the charismatics in our parish loved vigils more than they cared about liturgical appropriateness. And people couldn?t time their dying.
We stepped carefully over the yellow police ribbon. At the office entrance, Agatha reached up and snatched the key, then fumbled momentarily with it before unlocking the door. She pushed it open and reached in for the light, then wove her way over the illuminated mess. When we came into Olson?s office, she pointed to the bulletin
