overtalkative Father Doug Ramsey. What the vestry had grudgingly admitted was that unlike Father Pinckney, who only visited his favorite parishioners, Father Olson was diligent when it came to visit shut-ins, even when they lived in the most remote locations. And when those shut-ins died, the treasurer meekly noted, they often left money to the church in direct proportion to how much the priest had come to call. The parishioners whom Father Pinckney had visited had, apparently, not been so generous. In the three years since Olson had arrived, only five shut-ins had died. Nevertheless, parish giving was way up.
Not only that, Marla told me darkly, but Father Olson had hinted during the heated negotiations for his Mercedes that there was interest in him from another parish seeking a new rector. Forty thousand for a Benz was a lot cheaper than the hundred thou it would cost the parish to search for a new priest, especially since they had just gone through all that when they were looking for a replacement for Pinckney. A hundred thousand dollars? I had asked Marla incredulously. Absolutely, she?d replied, what with putting together a parish questionnaire, crunching and publishing the resulting data, making long-distance calls and flying candidates and committee members hither and yon for interviews, looking for a new rector was absolutely a far more expensive undertaking than buying a German luxury car. And besides, Marla said with a laugh, with the latest bequest, the parish could afford any vehicle or assistant Olson wanted.
As we passed the first of what I judged to be a dozen police cars, I hit the button to bring down the window, then greedily inhaled icy air. What had happened to the parish with the interest in Olson? With Olson dead, our own church would eventually have to begin a rector search; unlike the Vice President, Doug Ramsey didn?t automatically step into the leader?s shoes. But we were a long way from all that, and the hiring of a new priest was the least of my worries.
The Sheriff?s Department had to find Tom. I squeezed my eyelids shut as we passed the coroner?s van. Either that, or I would try to find him, I thought absurdly. I would not consider any other outcome. I summoned up Tom?s wide, handsome face, his laconic manner and affectionate smile. I clung to these images. What were Helen?s words? You need to take care of yourself.
Our vehicle drew up to Ted Olson?s garage. The dusty silver Mercedes sat, hood lifted, amid an array of boxes and lawn clutter that included a badminton net and croquet mallets and wickets. Welcome to the Rockies, I thought, and recalled Tom?s dry comment on easterners who attempted to play croquet on their sloped properties: Te guy uphill has the advantage.
Parked behind the Mercedes was Tom?s dark blue Chrysler. Granite formed in my heart.
We piled out of the squad car and threaded through lodgepole pines to the front of Olson?s place, a rambling single-story structure with dark horizontal wood paneling and a slightly buckled green shingle roof. Typical Aspen Meadow architecture from the late sixties, it was not too different from the rectory, a parish-owned house, that Father Pinckney had inhabited in Aspen Meadow before he retired. The rectory had been sold when Ted Olson arrived. He?d insisted he wanted to buy his own place outside of town.
The snow ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A yellow police tape was strung across the walkway to the front door. I glanced up at the covered entranceway and saw a cloisonne pair of intertwined serpents. One of Father Olson?s memorabilia from a pilgrimage to England, no doubt. A mosaic of the serpents was on the floor of some English cathedral. Which one? I couldn?t remember. If the snakes were supposed to bring good luck, I thought uncharitably, they hadn?t worked.
Another policeman directed us around the side of the house. Here the property sloped down to Cottonwood Creek. I pulled the donated quilt around my shoulders, and with Helen Keene, Boyd, and Armstrong, skirted the perimeter of taut yellow tape. The four of us made our way down the hill littered with fallen logs and underbrush that sloped to the creek. My wedding shoes skidded over slippery pine needles. I knew there was a short path down to the water out the back of Olson?s home. Because the weather had been unusually warm the night of the dinner meeting last month, the vestry had made the descent to and from the creek while I steamed pork dumplings in the kitchen before the stir-fry. From the noise to our left, it was clear that path was still being scoured for some indication of what had happened.
As I plodded and slipped on the way down, my heart seemed to be taking a thrashing. It was like being caught in the undertow on the Jersey shore where I?d spent childhood summers. Within moments we slid into a narrow strip of meadow. Snow clung thick as dandruff to tufts of withered grass. Bare-branched cottonwoods edged the creek?s path. When I tried to walk toward the water, dark mud sucked on the soles of my shoes. Law- enforcement types trudged along the creek bank: One group was doing a video of the crime scene, another took photographs, a third painstakingly measured distances. A cluster of people took or crouched around a covered bundle on the snow. A white-haired policewoman from one group noted our presence. She motioned us toward them.
?We?re reconstructing how Schulz was taken,? she said to me without preamble. ?Come on over and take a look.? T. Calloway, her nametag said. On the way to the creek bank, she thanked me for coming out and brusquely explained that they would not be ready to move any of the evidence until I identified it. This, she explained, was standard police procedure. ?Which was why we needed you right away.?
?So how could Tom Schulz have been kidnapped??
Investigator Calloway shook her head, then stopped abruptly at the six-foot drop-off to the water. She pointed to the other side. ?The vehicle was over there. A four-wheel-drive of some kind. Somebody appeared to be prodding Schulz to move forward.?
But my eyes were drawn to the creek bed itself, where the mud, sand, and rocks had been churned with activity. I saw footprints and ridges. I saw … ah, Lord.
?I?m sorry,? said Investigator Calloway. ?Tell me what you see. I need to know.?
I pointed toward the water. At first my voice refused to engage, but I forced it out. ?That?s Tom?s wallet … .That?s his key ring.?
?Look out of the water itself. By that large rock.?
Shallow water rushed around a boulder in the middle of the stream. I squinted. A sandy spit of land almost touched the boulder. On the sand was a small box, which I knew from its size and shape was covered with dark green velvet. The name embossed in gold on the top would be Aspen Meadow Jewelers.
My headache cut like razor blades. Investigator Calloway?s distant voice said, ?The box has a ? ?
?Yes,? I interrupted. ?He would have had that box with him.? I did not need to be reminded of the box?s contents, the thin gold band Tom and I had picked out. His ring was still in Father Olson?s office at the church. I said, ?He was so big, strong… I still don?t understand how someone could have, that is, could have been more than one person ? ?
Calloway held up one finger. She shook her head. ?Besides Schulz?s, there?s only one set of footprints.?
There was a fresh rustle of activity from the group by the creek bank. Investigator Calloway motioned us back toward the voices.
?Yeah, it?s his.?
?I think so.?
?It doesn?t make sense to me … ?
Calloway lifted one bushy white eyebrow. ?Looks like we might have one more thing for you, Miss Bear.?
Together we walked to a group of police officers by the thick stand of cottonwoods. My eyes were drawn to the corpse-sized lump covered with dark material. It was hard to believe I would never see Father Olson again. The crowd fell silent, then parted abruptly in front of us.
?Schulz might have tossed it over here. Have her take a look at it.? The speaker was an angular man with shaggy red hair and a gravelly voice. He pointed to a small soggy spiral notebook under the cottonwoods. Someone threw a poncho on the wet grass and mud in front of the notebook. Awkwardly, I knelt as directed, feeling all eyes on me. Investigator Calloway crouched beside me and spoke gently.
?Don?t touch it. Again, you?re more familiar with him, you can tell us if it?s Schulz?s.?
The top page of the notebook was wet. The writing on it was slightly smeared. I barely noticed Boyd as he squatted beside Calloway and me. Slashing strokes written with a blue ballpoint indicated the notes had been hurriedly taken, undoubtedly scribbled in an awkward position. Timidly, I read aloud:
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