Dark Tort

stopped.

CHAPTER 18

The article, from February of this year, was entitled “The Gift That Gives Forever.” There was a picture of a wan and clearly weakened Charlie Baker, his brave smile a tiny line within his moon face. The article talked about the unusual aspects of Charlie Baker’s will. Since Mr. Baker, as the magazine deferentially referred to him, had been an orphan raised by the Christian Brothers, he was bequeathing half of his total estate to the Christian Brothers High School. The other half of Mr. Baker’s considerable fortune would be used to build and operate a retreat house for clergy, tentatively named the Mountain Pastoral Center. Buried at the end of the article was the following sentence, which Althea Mannheim had underlined: “Charlie Baker has named retired bishop Uriah Sutherland, formerly of the Diocese of Southern Utah, to be director of the center in perpetuity, with a salary to match his responsibilities.”

I had known that Uriah was helping set up the pastoral center and had continued the work after Charlie’s death, and I had speculated that Charlie might have left his good friend something in his will. But I’d had no clue that Charlie was granting the bishop a sinecure post as part of his estate. Besides Charlie’s lawyers, only Uriah and officials at the Diocese of Colorado would have been informed of the bequest. Since Charlie’s will was still going through probate, Uriah could not yet officially take up his duties as director of the center, but it wasn’t unusual for the diocese to issue a press release to record a gift that was coming. It makes the donor—the testamentary, if you want to get technical—happy to be celebrated for his munificence during his lifetime.

I didn’t read The Living Church—I didn’t have time—and apparently no one in Marla’s gossip network did either, as we’d picked up no word of Uriah’s windfall. Certainly, his position-to-be had not been publicized in Aspen Meadow. But in Utah, Althea Mannheim had seen the article about it, and had promptly traveled to Colorado and met with Charlie Baker. Which meant that she had indeed been talking about the bishop when she was dying in the Emergency Room. Suddenly the vague possibility of connections had become a live circuit.

So the question became, What specifically had Althea known about Uriah and imparted to Charlie? If Uriah had stolen something, as Althea seemed to claim, what was she accusing him of stealing? K.D. had thought Althea had muttered “a pattern.” Hmm.

As Grace had pointed out, I was an Episcopalian, too, and a long-time one, at that. Plus, I was married to a cop. So I had all kinds of knowledge about the church and its liturgies, and unfortunately, I knew all too well about the valuable ecclesiastical stuff that could be filched. One time, Tom had prosecuted thieves who’d stolen a gold cross from St. Luke’s. After that, Father Biesbrouck had been forced to lock up the church building at night. Another time, a shady husband of a member of the Altar Guild had purloined a jewel-encrusted chalice, and tried to pawn it.

But there was another item of potential value that someone could steal. I doubted that Bishop Uriah, aka Bitch Yoreye, had pocketed a pattern. I conjectured—and maybe it was a leap, but not that much of one—that he’d pilfered a paten, the dish that holds the Communion wafers at the Eucharist.

If the bishop had stolen a paten, and if this had successfully been kept secret, could the bishop have stolen paintings, too?

Although I was trying to wean myself off of cell-phone usage while I was driving, I did put in a call to Tom. If it was possible that Bishop Uriah stole something, and delivering the news had had deadly consequences for Althea Mannheim, then it was time to get law enforcement to bring in Frederica Tuller, ASAP. Perhaps she could be scared into breaking whatever confidentiality she’d felt bound to keep, by hearing about what it meant to be a material witness after the fact.

When I’d given Tom an abbreviated version of my visit with Grace Mannheim and the article in The Living Church, he said he would get right on the phone with law enforcement in Utah. Meanwhile, he said, he was fixing Mexican food for us for dinner. And oh yes, the events planner with the Diocese of Colorado had called, and could we please prepare a separate vegetarian entree for tomorrow night? Two of the attorneys did not eat meat.

“Not at meals, anyway,” I muttered, but Tom only laughed. I said we should be home in an hour.

“Finally!” Julian cried when he hopped in the car. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Whole Foods is having a special on organically raised chicken, and I thought you might want to pick some up for tomorrow night.”

“We could do that, but you’ll be delighted to know you were right. We do indeed need to come up with a vegetarian main dish for a couple of lawyers. And pick up some high-quality whipping cream, would you? We need a multilayered, show-stopping dessert. A dark torte.”

Like Tom, Julian laughed. But at Whole Foods, I gave him free rein to choose ingredients to make whatever main dish he thought would suit the dinner. Then he got serious. And he appeared flattered.

A little over an hour later, we were all back in our kitchen, bustling around with our various projects. Arch and Gus were spending the night over at the Vikarioses’ house. All weekend homework had been done, they’d assured Tom, and Gus’s grandparents would take them to school the next morning. I certainly hoped the two boys would not get tired of each other, but Tom assured me that they had quite a few years to catch up on being brothers, and they were going to be just fine.

Julian announced he was going to come up with an Artichoke and Brie Pie for the next night. Once he’d decided on that, he concentrated on slicing Brie and lightly steaming artichokes. He filled a deep pie dish with the egg-laced melange, placed it in the oven, then hunted around our cupboards for some dried fruits. Once he’d found some glace apricots, he began melting dark bittersweet chocolate and unsalted butter over the stove and said he would have some Chocolate Lovers’ Dipped Fruits ready to go with, as he disdainfully put it, “your showstopper.”

Yeesh!

For my part, I needed a dark torte, one that did not include chocolate, so the flavors from Julian’s dessert wouldn’t clash with my own. I found some eggs in the walk-in, then worked on pulverizing zwieback biscuits and pecans, locating the most deeply flavored cinnamon money could buy, as well as measuring out ground cloves that were so fragrant they made me want to swoon.

Tom was putting the finishing touches on a sauce made of fresh tomatoes, chilies, and onions that he intended to pour over a dish of fat cheese enchiladas that he had already made for us for dinner. About halfway through mixing up the torte, I had some trouble stirring all the ingredients into the batter I’d concocted. So I asked Tom for help.

“I’m making a dark torte, husband. Could you help?”

“A tort like a wrong, or a torte like a cake?”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Miss G., with you there’s no telling.”

Honestly, that man. The three of us were having so much fun working together in the kitchen, I began to ponder the age-old question posed by the same folks who came up with the chicken-and-egg conundrum: Which is more fun, cooking or eating?

Well. As soon as I sank my teeth into Tom’s juicy, fat, sizzling enchiladas, with their filling of three luscious melted cheeses spurting out beneath his savory topping of chilies, onions, and tomatoes from our own plants, I knew the answer to that one. And it wasn’t that cooking was more fun.

“You haven’t asked how I did with Utah law enforcement,” Tom said, when we’d all oohed and aahed over his enchiladas.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have heard back this quickly!” I exclaimed.

“Oho, Frederica Tuller sang like the proverbial Arizona cardinal.”

“She’s in Utah,” Julian reminded him.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t think of a good—”

“Tom!”

“Take it easy, Miss G. All right. To escape possible prosecution for obstruction of justice, Frederica Tuller told