Crunch Time

more questions, such as What happened to your hand? But it seemed both women had dismissed me. I dashed across the gym to help with the cleanup.

Yolanda was already hard at work, washing the metal serving dishes. We’d used paper plates and cups, as the school didn’t want even the possibility of broken china or glass on their expertly sprung gym floor. The washing-up operation took less than an hour. A few stragglers were still in the gym, one doctor, three kids, and assorted parents. Sean Breckenridge had left. Brie Quarles was still there, and once again she was hanging on to Tony Ramos. What in the hell was going on with them? I wondered. Maybe Brie wanted her son to make the basketball team. Well, Marla would know.

Otto Newgate and his grandmother were among the last to leave. Charlene had expertly wrapped a scarf around her head. She lifted that chin of hers and pulled her fur around her, Tallulah Bankhead bidding me a grand farewell. Otto held on to his wide stomach. He looked absolutely miserable.

Outside, the rain had completely turned to snow. An astonishing six inches had already accumulated on the school’s football field. The pavement, which had been slightly warmer, only had about four inches of white stuff, but the snow was falling even harder than it had been when we came down from Aspen Meadow.

“We’d better hurry,” Yolanda said as she heaved one of our boxes into the van. “I’m worried about Ferdinanda.”

Ferdinanda! “Oh, dear,” I said as I pushed in my last box. “I promised her I’d go to an ethnic grocery store and get her some guava marmalade, or preserves, I can’t remember which. Do you know?”

Yolanda said, “I sure do. Want to let me drive?”

With a check from the school stuffed into my pocket, I relaxed, finally, in the passenger seat. Yolanda revved the van engine and got in line to exit the school parking lot. I was stunned by the amount of snow we were getting, but knew there was nothing we could do about it. It was while I was looking out the window that I saw something else that astonished me. Charlene and her grandson were getting into a car, hers, apparently, because she was easing herself into the driver’s seat. The bumper sticker read, SECRETARIES DO IT BEHIND THE DESK.

It was a 7-series BMW. That was some boyfriend.

It took longer than either Yolanda or I would have imagined to get to the Capitol Hill area of Denver and the ethnic grocery store. Even though Denverites are used to driving in snow, the first snowfall of the season, whether it comes in September, October, or even November, invariably paralyzes the city. Plus, since it was technically still summer, I doubted most folks had given a thought to snow tires, which slowed them down even more. Still, we eventually arrived at the store, which was called merely Ethnic Foods. Their parking lot was almost full. This told me that people had convinced themselves that they absolutely had to have their picante sauce and caviar if they were going to be snowed in, whether it was for a day or a week.

“Was it near here that Ferdinanda was hit?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Yes. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Yolanda pointed me in the direction of the jams and said Ferdinanda liked guava marmalade. She said she needed sour pickles and would meet me at the front. I snagged a basket, found guava marmalade, and put it in my basket. Mission accomplished, I headed toward the row of cash registers, eager to get home before rush hour.

And we would have made it, maybe, if a huge crash, shattering, and tinkling of breaking glass, plus a lot of screaming, had not emerged from one aisle over.

“Get away from me!” Yolanda screamed. “Who sent you? Why did you bump into me? To scare me? Did Kris send you to hurt me?” There were more explosions and splinterings of glass. I rushed toward the ruckus.

“Stop it!” a male voice pleaded. Wait, that was a voice I knew, didn’t I? “You’re not acting logically,” the man said, his voice raised. “Stop hitting me! I don’t want to hurt you!”

“I’m calling the police!” Yolanda shrieked.

I raced toward the source of the racket. It was hard to see what was going on, because light reflected off a field of glass shards. The acrid scent of brine made me pull back. What looked like at least twenty broken jars of pickles and olives were strewn everywhere. Yolanda, stricken, was holding herself flat against the pickle shelves. And on the floor, disheveled, drenched in pickle juice and olive brine, his face red with mortification, was the man who loved to cook with genuine kalamata olives, our very large, very Greek, Saint Luke’s parish priest, Father Pete.

“Yolanda, it’s all right,” I said soothingly. “This is our priest. Our rector. It’s okay.” I realized I was still gripping my basket, which I put on the floor.

“He pushed me. He bumped into me hard, on purpose,” she said. She pressed her lips together, perhaps realizing that a priest would not intentionally hurt her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you,” said Father Pete. “I was reading a label, and I thought I barely touched you. Okay, look, I’m sorry I bumped into you. I’m absentminded. Mea culpa.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Yolanda, her voice still trembling.

“I can vouch for this man,” I said to Yolanda as soothingly as possible. I turned to our poor rector, who was, indeed, absentminded, and renowned for trying to do two things at once, like backing up and reading a label. Usually, like this time, he failed at both undertakings. “Father Pete, are you all right?” I swallowed. “Can I help you get up?”

Father Pete grunted. “I’m fine. I can get up on my own.” He brushed his dark, curly hair away from his face and groaned as he heaved himself to his feet. He then tried to step around the olives and pickles littering the aisle. A clerk appeared, a cell phone in one hand and a mop in the other. She looked from one person in our little trio to the other, waiting for direction.

“It’s all right,” I told her, trying to sound authoritative. “We had a little mix-up here. Sorry about the mess.”

“If everyone would just leave the aisle,” she said miserably, “I can clean up.”

So we did, and Father Pete, who looked much worse than Yolanda, wanted to know if we were all right. Father Pete seemed particularly concerned about Yolanda, whom he tried to help away from the pickles, where she remained flattened. She bristled at his touch.

“I’ve known Father Pete myself for several years,” I murmured to her. “He’s a good man. Please come out of the aisle, so the grocery lady can clean up.”

Yolanda moved away, finally, after picking up her brine-soaked purse and taking two jars of pickles, which she clutched in each hand like weapons. I nabbed my basket and headed toward the cash registers. Father Pete abandoned his cart.

While Yolanda paid for her merchandise, Father Pete whispered to me, “I promise, Goldy, I didn’t hurt her.”

“I know, Father Pete,” I replied. “She’s a little touchy these days.” While Yolanda talked to the cashier, I lowered my voice even further, thinking I would try to explain the situation to Father Pete. “Do you happen to know Kris Nielsen?” I asked. Oops, I thought. I had not received Yolanda’s permission to talk about her problems with Father Pete.

“Oh, Kris is wonderful.” Father Pete’s tone was suddenly warm, and he gave me the benefit of his benevolent brown eyes. “He’s been very generous to the parish, and he’s always trying to help those in need. Why?”

“He’s a member?” I had never once seen Kris Nielsen at Saint Luke’s. I looked up at Yolanda, who was watching me talk to Father Pete. I signaled that I’d be there in a moment, and she went back to talking to the cashier.

“He’s not officially a member,” Father Pete replied. “He travels a lot with his work, so he can’t come on Sundays.”

What work? I wondered. Kris didn’t work. Maybe he wanted to sleep in on Sundays. I said, “And what do you mean, Kris is always trying to help those in need?”

“Oh, my! He outfitted our Sunday school rooms with all new furniture. He bought a lovely rug for the parish meeting room—”

“You said he helped those in need,” I reminded him. “Like, people.”

Father Pete straightened. “Yes, yes. A couple of months ago, he called because he was looking into