Diane Mott Davidson - Goldy 4 - The Last SuppersWedding Reception MenuSmoked Trout with CreamCheese, Vegetable Terrines, Water CrackersSpinach Phyllo TrianglesBacon-Wrapped Artichoke HeartsPortobello Mushrooms Stuffed with Grilled Chicken, Pest, and Sun-Dried TomatoesSalad of Field Greens with Balsamic VinaigretteFusilli in Parmesan Cream SauceSliced Roast TenderloinFruit Cup of Fresh Strawberries, Black Grapes, and KiwiHeated Sourdough and Parkerhouse RollsDark Chocolate Wedding Cake with White Peppermint Frosting1Never cater your own wedding reception. It's bad luck, sort of like the groom seeing the bride before the service. Death or destruction could result. Not to mention ruined cake.Thirty minutes before I was due to get married for the - second and last I'd sworn - last time, I was trying to check on stuffed mushrooms as I listened to directions from Lucille Boatwright, head of the Altar Guild, about how to walk. Sixtyish, with an aristocratically wide, high cheek-boned face framed by silver hair curled into neat rows. Lucille made the decisions about how the weddings were run at St. Luke's Episcopal Church, no matter what you read in the prayer book. Sway and pause, sway and pause.Goldy are you paying question to me?At that moment, I would have given anything to see Tom Schulz, bad luck or no. But the groom-to-be was not around. Perhaps he'd had a call on his beeper. The Sheriff's Department ofFurman County, Colorado, put great stock in Tom; he was their top homicide investigator. Still, it was hard to believe the Sheriff's Department would call on him on this of all days. While Lucille yammered on, I longed for a comforting Schulz embrace before the ceremony. Suddenly our parish's newly hired organist sounded the opening notes of the first piece of prelude music:Jeremiah Clarke's Trumpet Voluntary. Lucille Boatwright stopped swaying and pausing, whisked the platter of mushrooms out of my hands, and bustled me out of the church kitchen.In the hall, Lucille crisply ordered a group of whispering women back to work in the kitchen.Then she scurried to retrieve my garment bag from the church nursery. The Sunday School rooms had no privacy, she informed me briskly, and the bride traditionally dressed in the church office building, even if that antiquated edifice was undergoing a horrid renovation. And speaking of horrid: l asked if anyone had been able to get into Hymnal House, another church-owned building, where Tom's and my wedding reception was supposed to be held. Unfortunately, the old house across the street was locked up tight. Lucille's stalwart body bristled inside her scarlet suit. She shook the perfect rows of silver hair and announced that Father Olson was supposed to have opened Hymnal House this morning. She herself had had to open the priest's office building when she'd arrived. Imperiously, she pointed to the empty, unlocked office building, ten yards from the side door of St. Luke's. Goldy! Pay attention! Twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes.Great. No groom, no historic Hymnal House dining room, no food being set up. And no caterer; I was trying to be the bride. Clutching my garment bag, l hopped gingerly across the walkway. Gray flagstones and buckled wooden steps led to the St. Luke's office, a squat century- old building that originally had served as a stagecoach way station between Denver, forty miles to the east, and points west. Small squares of thick-glass windows peeked out from the thick angling of vertical unpeeled pine logs. Now the office building formed part of a national historic district along with the buildings from the once-famous Aspen Meadow Episcopal Conference Center across the street: rustic, log-built Hymnal House and cavernous Brio Barn. I glanced at the higgledy-piggledy boarding-up job that was it the only indication of the pipes that had exploded in the office during a hard freeze this February. At the old conference center, Brio Barn was also falling apart, but the office emergency and its renovation had taken priority. Our parish priest, Father Olson, had told me historic districts ate money way catering clients gobbled hors d'oeuvre.Once I'd pushed through the door to the office, I couldn't see or hear a soul, much less catch the strains of prelude music, all of which had undergone the required approval of Father "Please-call-me-Ted" Olson. The only noise reaching my ears as I hastily wriggled into my beige silk suit was from a family of raccoons scratching in the attic over the office.I concentrated on a dozen tiny pearl buttons that made me wonder if I should be serving smoked oysters instead of smoked trout. From a purple satin bag looped around the suit's hanger, I carefully removed and then snapped on a double-strand pearl choker on loan from an upcoming EpiscopalChurch Women's fund-raiser. Marla Korman, my best friend and matron of honor, had somehow convinced the churchwomen that letting me wear the two-thousand-dollar bauble would be great advertising for their upcoming jewelry raffle. When she'd proffered the necklace, Marla had waved a plump, bejeweled hand and boasted to me about the unique advantages of her fund-raiser than a bake sale, and a thousand times more profitable.I looked around for a mirror. Where was Marla, anyway? I sighed; there wasn't time to worry about what was out of my control. My mind raced over post-wedding details 'that would have to be altered if no one could find the keys to Hymnal House. lf we had the receiving line and photographs at the church, that would still give my helpers enough time to set up the food in the Hymnal House dining room. - once they forced their way in.Poking a pearl-topped pin to secure a brimmed hat to my unruly blond hair, I imagined parishioners' comments on my bridal appearance: Shirley Temple dressing up as Princess Di. I shuddered and visualized the reception food. All the lovely platters and heavy chafing dishes had been hastily left in the church kitchen when the helpers couldn't get into Hymnal House. Whether the hotel pans would survive the transport across the bumpy ice and gravel of the church parking lot, across the bridge over Cottonwood Creek and Main Street, and up the walkway to the conference center was questionable. One unexpected bump on the gravel, and the smoked trout with cream cheese could spew everywhere. An inept move could send a layer of the carefully constructed cake on a slide into the frigid creek. And if Father Olson droned on about the loveliness of marriage - about which he knew nothing - the Portobello mushrooms would be history.The low door into the slope-ceilinged office building bumped open."As usual, Father Olson is late," Lucille Boatwright declared, her ice-blue eyes ablaze. "We can't keep you over here any longer. If Olson wants to give you the premarital blessing, he'll have to do it in the sacristy. She looked me up and down. "Father Pinckney never would have been late.Never in fifteen years was Father Pinckney late for one wedding." Blandly conservative FatherPinckney, now retired and living in his native South Carolina, had attained hero status among the older generation in our parish. Despite the fact that the charismatic Father Olson had become our new rector three years ago, Lucille and her cohorts had, for the most part, managed to ignore him.She lifted her chin. It was wide and dauntingly sharp, and boasted a shuddering dimple."The bridal bouquets I have arrived.'' She narrowed her eyes at the pearl choker. "Did Olson say he was picking up the groom? It looks as if they are both late."Oh, for heaven's sake. I bit my lip, then stopped when l realized I was wearing lipstick not my custom. "I don't know their transportation arrangements, sorry. I haven't seen either since last night. We had a small supper after the rehearsal here at the church....'' I did not mention to Lucille that after that supper, Tom Schulz and I had undergone our last premarital counseling session withFather Olson. The session had not gone well, which I put down to nerves. But telling anyone in our church a tidbit of personal information was tantamount to publishing it in the local newspaper. This was especially true if you prefaced your comments with, This is confidential.Lucille groaned at my lack of information and told me to put on my beige wedding shoes. I did; they were even more uncomfortable than I remembered. Then, dutifully, I followed Lucille's dumpling-shaped body as it swiftly marched back across the ice- and mud-crusted walkway between the old office and the contemporary-style St. Luke's building. The air was cold; thin sheets of cloud filmed the sky overhead. Rising haze from melting snow formed a pale curtain between the soaring A-shape of the roof and the ridge of distant mountains. I dodged across the flagstones to avoid the mud. Flickers fitted between the lodgepole pines and the construction trenches of the incomplete St. Luke's columbarium near the parking lot. Farther down, chickadees twittered and dove between bare-branched aspens and the banks of icy swollen Cottonwood Creek.The high, dramatic strains of the trumpet voluntary reached my ears. This is it; everything's going to be okay. At that moment, in spite of the awful shoes, the locked Hymnal House, and the too-typical lateness of both priest and groom, excitement zinged up my spine. I'm getting married.Our wedding was going to happen despite the threat of April snow here at eight thousand feet above sea level. Despite the fact that it was a Saturday in Lent, when Father Olson said weddings were not traditionally performed. On that subject, Olson had laughingly informed me, the Altar Guild was having a fit about the luxuriant flower arrangements I'd ordered for the altar during this traditionally penitential season. Unfortunately for church procedure, the last Saturday in Lent was the only timeTom and I could fit getting married into our zany work schedules. We both had to be back in AspenMeadow by Tuesday so Tom could testify in court and I could cater a three-day meeting of the diocesan Board of Theological Examiners, a church committee to which I'd recently been.appointed. Our three-day honeymoon at the Beaver Creek Lodge would be short, sweet and unencumbered by telephones and food processors.I hopped gracelessly across the last mud puddle and onto the sidewalk. Actually, the most astonishing fact was that I was getting married at all. In spite of everything. For seven years I had been the wife of an abusive doctor. I'd left the disastrous marriage with a wonderful son, Arch, now twelve; the ability to cook and an emotional scar the size off Pike's Peak. I had thrown myself into developing a catering business and sworn off marriage forever and ever. But then investigator TomSchulz had appeared and refused to leave. Tom had convinced me of his kindness and durability, even if we had argued last night. About the afterlife, of all things. Facing marriage for a lifetime, I'd asked at our last premarital counseling session, who cared about Pie in the Sky By-and-By? At the mention of the hereafter, Father Olson had rolled his eyes and murmured, "Ah, eschatology," as if it were a truffle. My stint as a third-grade Sunday School teacher hadn't covered it " `til death do us part'.' Father Olson had said we would have a very long time to discuss it."Hurry along now,'' chided Lucille as she pulled open the side door to St. Luke's. From inside the church, the high peals of organ music mingled with the buzz and shuffling of arriving guests. She shooed me into the sacristy, the tiny room adjoining the sanctuary where the priest and acolytes put on their vestments before each service. On the counter next to the parish register lay two bouquets of the same type as the disputed altar flowers: luscious spills of creamy white stock and fragrant freesia, tiny pink carnations and white and pink sweetheart roses. There wad one for me and one for Marla, who in addition to best friend and matron of honor, was the other ex-wife of my first husband. Lucille informed me Marla was out in the narthex, "giggling wildly with that jewelry raffle committee, but what else would you expect?" She would send her back. Lucille's tone signaled her opinion of both the raffle committee and Marla, its chairwoman. Giving me another of her razor-edged glances, she commanded me to stay put.Arch craned his neck around the door to the sacristy. He pushed his glasses up his freckled nose and said, "I know. You're nervous, right?""Remember your just day of seventh grade?""I'd rather not.'' He scooted through the door closed it softly behind him. "Hate to tell you,Mom, but your hat's on crooked".I smiled. Thin-shouldered and narrow-chested, Arch had clearly taken great pains with his own scrubbed and buttoned-up appearance. But the kid-size tuxedo only emphasized the growing up he'd had to do in the last five years. First he had escaped into fantasy role-playing games. Then he'd endured harassment at a new school. Only in the last few months had Arch found a sense of family support from two people - Julian Teller, our nineteen-year-old live-in boarder, and of course,Tom Schulz. For the first time my son seemed genuinely, if precariously, happy.I turned to look at the crooked headgear in the long mirror behind the sacristy door. As I feared, the glass reflected a short, thirty-one-year-old female with blond corkscrews of hair protruding from a cockeyed hat that looked too sophisticated for her slightly rounded, slightly freckled face. I removed the odious beige silk thing, reseated it, and stabbed ferociously with the hat pin. I loathe hats. Even when catering the most elegant dinners, I never wear a chef's cap. ButFather Olson had suggested my wearing a hat would appease the Altar Guild, whose many rules I was shattering by getting married in Lent, for the second time, with lots of flowers. Arch, on tiptoe behind me, frowned as he adjusted his black-and-silver-striped cravat. The tuxedo was a little big.Nevertheless he looked absolutely dashing. I turned and gave him an impulsive hug."You know, Mom, it's not as if you haven't done this before." He pulled away from me and reddened to the roots of his straw-brown hair. "I mean, not just when you married Dad. But all those wedding receptions you've catered. They came out okay, even when things went wrong.""I know, I know," I glanced at the empty ring finger of my left hand. Fifteen minutes. "Arch.You don't know if they got into Hymnal House, do you?"He grinned gleefully, "Julian broke a window.""Oh, Please.""It doesn't look that bad! Julian and the helpers swept up the glass. Now they're setting up the tables and chafing dishes and everything. He said to tell you.""They haven't started transporting the vegetable terrines, have they?" I asked desperately."Did Julian drive over the with cake or is he going to try to wheel it across the parking lot? He'll have to avoid the construction.and did the oven in Hymnal House work?" Under my barrage of questions, Arch shrugged and fiddled with matches for the candle lighters. "Arch," I pleaded, "could you go ask Marla to come back? I'm sorry, I'm just nervous about getting started." I strained to hear. "How're the musicians holding up?""Handle's Water Music is next," he announced. "I have the whole program memorized. I like the Jeremiah Clarke, because they play it before that TV show, Stories of the Weird." When I sighed, he touched his cravat and added hastily, `You know that lady who dresses like an Indian?Agatha Preston? Anyway, she got out the terrines. The other women haven't moved them yet. I don't know about the cake or the construction or the oven. I'll get Marla, but then one of the church ladies or Father Olson is supposed to tell me when to bring Grandma down the aisle." He opened the door of the sacristy and peered out. "Man, it looks like a priest convention out there. Did you invite that whole committee you're on?""Honey, I had to. And all the parishioners, too. I've been in this church since before you were born. I had to invite everybody or risk offending someone. But I can't look, it's bad luck. Is he here yet?"Arch torqued his head back. "Who?""Tom Schulz, silly. Please come back in here." I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. My hat was undeniably still crooked."All I can se is some guys Tom introduced me to from the SWAT team," Arch answered."And back in the open area where you first come into the church? What did you say that was, the columbarium? I think it's going to be on my confirmation test.""Arch, please. A columbarium is a place where they put the ashes of cremated dead people. We're building one next to St. Luke's now. The open area in the back of the church is called the narthex. Confuse them and you will have a mess on your hand, not to mention probably flunk the confirmation test."Yeah, okay, well, back in the narthex, Marla and her friends are yakking away. And there are thousands of guests, it looks like. Uh-oh, here comes that mean lady from that committee that takes care of the altar linens and money and bread and wine and stuff.""The Altar Guild? Who is it?"He quickly slunk out the door without answering. I wanted tot ell him that someone should load the cake in the van and drive it over to Hymnal House. Filled with resolve to check on doings in the kitchen, I reseated the hat, stalked after Arch, and promptly collided with Lucille Boatwright.She glared up at me, "Goldy! Where do you think you're going? Your hat isn't even on straight. And your hair is a disaster.""I'm going to check on the cake and - ""You are doing nothing of the sort - " The pealing of the church phone cut short her scolding. "Oh, why hasn't someone turned on that fool answering machine? Contraption! FatherPinckney never even would have allowed... " Lucille stormed off, muttering.I nipped down the hall, past the Sunday School rooms and the oil portrait of the greatly missed former rector, and finally slipped into the kitchen. Any haven in a storm. Besides, if the churchwomen dropped the hotel pans of pasta or scorched the beef, they'd have to wait until theApocalypse before I catered another of their luncheon meetings.Happily, the volunteer servers were doing a superb job. Two women pushed carefully out the kitchen's side door carrying bacon-wrapped, brown sugar-crusted artichoke hearts. Another team picked up the pans of creamy Parmesan-sauced fusilli and flaky phyllo-wrapped spinach turnovers.Crystal bowls brimming with jewellike slices of kiwi, fat strawberries, and thick bunches of black grapes would be next. The smooth, layered terrines, all six of them, were snuggled into coolers and set on wheeled tables next to the juicy tenderloin and sherry-soaked Portobello mushrooms.Come to think of it, I was kind of hungry. No time for breakfast, so much to do, and... where was the cake? It was supposed to be set up on a special wheeled table already..."What are you doing here?" gasped a shocked voice. Arch was right: Agatha Preston did look like an Episcopal Pocahontas. Her beaded, sheath-style salmon-colored dress boasted a foot of knotted fringe at the hem, and she wore a needlepointed blue-and-coral headband horizontally across her forehead. Her long braided hair had been dyed into unattractive streaks. At the moment,Agatha's pretty face had the hidden, sour look of someone who had been passed over for a prize.Perhaps she didn't enjoy being one of Lucille's henchwomen. The volunteers whisked platters around us out the kitchen door and gave our little confrontation sidelong glances. Stuttering, I backed up into the refrigerator."Checking on the cake," I said lamely, then whirled to open the refrigerator door beforeAgatha could question me further. And there it was - the shimmering four-layer creation of ultra- cool, ultra-talented Julian Teller. Julian, in addition to boarding with us and helping with Arch, was an apprentice caterer and ace pastry chef, despite the fact that he was still a senior in high school.When I had told him the traditional wedding cake was white on white, but confessed I was partial to chocolate with mint, he'd run his hands through his bleached, rooster-style haircut and said, "Hey man, it's your wedding," then proceeded to concoct a dark fudge cake with white peppermint frosting. When I'd vetoed the traditional topping of bride and groom plastic statuettes - my first wedding cake had had them, and what good had they done me? - Julian had smilingly flourished his frosting gun and created row upon row of abstract curlicues, swaying rosettes, stiff leaves, and curling swags. The flower-mobbed cake resembled a frenzied rock concert."Excuse me, Goldy," said Agatha, less timid this time.I turned. Agatha's dress barely concealed a scarecrow figure. She dispelled her unhappy look with a faint smile, and I remembered the last time we'd talked, at a barbecue I'd catered for her husband's hunting buddies. She'd been wearing a beaded sundress of the same fish-flesh hue, and given me the identical wan smile. Now she made an uncertain shake of the streaked braids."Goldy, if you don't go back to the sacristy, Lucille is going to be extremely upset.""Yes, but the cake should be out by now - ""Please. Hymnal House is almost set up. It's all going to be fine. You don't know Lucille when she gets upset."Lucky me. I started back down the hall. Unfortunately, that narrow space was filling up with people depositing their it's-April0in-Colorado-and-might-snow coats in the Sunday School rooms.When they spotted me, Old Home Week officially began. The first to leap in my direction wasFather Doug Ramsey, Olson's tall, gangly new assistant, who was also a member of the diocesanBoard of Theological Examiners."The star of the show!" he cried, causing heads to turn. Doug Ramsey had a delicate, triangular face and long, loopy ringlets of black hair that made his look closer to eighteen than twenty-eight. His compensation for looking too young was talking too much. "The whole committee's here," he gushed," which is quite a compliment to you. Of course, I don't suppose the candidates are here, but then again, they're probably studying for the tests we mean old examiners are dreaming up for them next week... You know, I'll don a stern expression and ask about theArchbishops of Canterbury, and then canon Montgomery will ask about the history of theEucharist." He stopped talking briefly to flutter his knobby fingers dramatically on his chest. "And no matter what the question is, that awful Mitchell Harley will probably flunk again - "I said desperately, "Doug, please. Have you seen father Olson? He seems to have forgotten today's the day. In a pinch, could you do a wedding?"Father Doug Ramsey's face turned floury-white above his spotless clerical collar. A long, greased comma of black hair quivered over his forehead. Arrested in midspeech, his mouth remained open.I felt a pang of regret. "I'm kidding, Doug. I just don't want to be delayed.""Oh, no," he said tersely, then added with characteristic self-absorption, "then you'd never be back in time to do the candidates' examinations. But... a wedding... I don't' know what I'd preach on. Love, I suppose, or maybe the trinity... "This uneasy speculation was interrupted by a series of unearthly groans. I peered through the crowd in the hall and saw Lucille Boatwright sagging against one of the priests. She was moaning loudly. Remembering Agatha's warning, I guessed I was seeing Lucille Boatwright very upset."I'm coming!' I cried. "Just wait a sec!"I shouldered my way through the folks in the hall, all of whom wanted to touch me or ask questions. Where's Schulz? asked one of the policemen, whose face I vaguely recognized. Where'sArch? asked a Sunday School teacher. I was in traction and haven't seen him since I was healed..A long-ago church friend's voice: Goldy, what a stunning suit! So much better than that froufrou gown you wore last time, dear. As politely as possible, I brushed the well-intentioned questions and fingers aside. Now my hair, my suit, everything was going to be a mess, I thought uncharitably.Why weren't these people out in the pews listening to the organist make approved music? Reaching the end of the hall, I saw a priest and a female parishioner ministering to Lucille Boatwright, who had slumped to the floor. Clearly she took the customary procedures more seriously than I ever imagined.I said, "I was only in the kitchen - ""We're going to have to call an ambulance," said the woman. "I think she's having a heart attack.""But I just stepped down the hall for a moment - "The cleric looked up at me. His face was very flushed. "I think your fianc‚ is on the phone," he said. "There's some kind of problem - "I rushed past them into the choir room. The white telephone wire lay coiled on the floor.Bewildered and slightly panicked, I snatched up the receiver."Yes?""Oh, God, I'm sorry," said Tom Schulz. His voice sounded flat, infinitely dejected. In the background I could hear a faint tinkling like windchimes."Sorry about what? Where are you?""Just a sec." The phone clacked down on something hard. He came back to the line after a moment. "Miss G." He sighed deeply. "Tell everybody to go home.""What?" This wasn't happening. "Why? Tom, what's wrong?""I'm out at Olson's house. He called with car trouble, asked me to come get him. And I found him.""You -?"My fianc‚'s voice cracked. "Goldy, he's dead."2"Tom. I don't understand. Please. Tell me this isn't real.""He just died a few minutes ago. When I got here, he'd been shot. Shot in the chest," TomSchulz added in the distant, flat tone he used when discussing his work. "I've called in a team.Look, I have to go. You know the drill, I need to go stay by the body.""But, how... ?Are we going to get married? I mean, today?""Oh, Goldy." Despair thickened his voice. "Probably not. The team will be here for hours."He paused. "Want to try to do a civil ceremony tonight?""Do I - " I did not. Not a hurry-up ritual. Like it or not, I was an Episcopalian, what they call a cradle Episcopalian, the Anglican equivalent of the American Kennel Club. If I was going to get married again, then it was going to be in front of God, the church, and everybody, and the wedding was going to be performed by an Episcopal priest.Oh, Lord. My hands were suddenly clammy. Father Olson.I ripped the hat off my head. A knot formed in my chest. This was a mistake. This phone call was some awful nightmare. Any moment I was going to wake up.I stammered, "Tom, what happened to Father Olson?""I don't know. That's what we have to find out. Do you want to go back to your place and wait for me?""Just come to the church. Please. I'll wait." I cursed the tremble I my voice. "Take care."I hung up. The air in the choir room suddenly felt thin. Father Olson's absence loomed. I tried to erase images of a gun being raised menacingly in his direction. Of shots. Beside me, the silver bar holding the burgundy choir robes glimmered too brightly from the neon light overhead. In the hallway, shouts, squawks, and cries of disbelief rose to a din that rivaled the hammering in my ears. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe."Goldy, what the - "Slowly, I turned. Marla Korman's large presence filled the door to the choir room. The noise from the hallway roared louder."Goldy, you look like hell! Hey! Why'd you toss your hat? I went to four stores to find that thing." Marla closed the door behind her. "What's all the commotion out there about? And look at your suit. Have you been sitting on the floor? For crying out loud!"She click-clacked over in her Italian leather heels and put her small hands with their polished red nails on my shoulders. An incongruously conservative navy suit hugged her wide body, which was usually far more outrageously clad. The tight French twist taming her thick, normally frizzed brown hair seemed somehow absurd. She had worn the suit and pinned up her hair for my wedding My wedding that now, suddenly, was not to be. I wondered how long it would take for the noisy news-sharing of the hallway to reach the people out in the pews."Hoohoo, Goldy!" she said brightly. "I know you're in there. You want tot ell me what's going on?"I tried to reply twice before I could say, "Olson's dead. Tom... "She grasped my shoulders more tightly. "Dead? Dead?" Her voice shrilled in my ear."Yes." I made a feeble gesture toward the hall. "That's probably the cause of all the racket. I don't know. Has anyone out there said anything about the wedding?""They can't - " Marla released me and pivoted on her heels. Her pumps gritted against the vinyl floor as she tiptoed back to peek down the hall. Again the noise roared in. After a few moments of observation, she quietly closed the door and turned back to me. "Looks like LucilleBoatwright passed out, but she's conscious now. What happened to Father Olson? What do you mean, he's dead"? Did he have a heart attack, or what?"Tom's advice: Give away nothing. Abruptly I remembered his green eyes and handsome face turning grimly serious one night as he wiped his floral-patterned Limoges dessert plates and spoke to me about his work. If I confide in you, Goldy, tell no details to anyone, not even to those you trust, because you don't know where those details are going to end up. One did not divulge facts such as shot in the chest to Marla. I knew too well her large body and large spirit did not prevent her from being an even larger gossip, best friend or no.Marla's small hands moved frantically along the pearl choker at her neck, another one from the upcoming raffle. "I mean," she was saying, "did he have some kind of medical problem we didn't know about? Aneurysm? Stroke? I mean, him of all people. With all that talk about healing, you know. Oh, listen to me. I even went out with.. . "I told her the minimal story as I knew it would soon become available: that Tom Schulz had gone to Father Olson's place to pick him up. That an intruder, or someone had mortally woundedOlson before Tom arrived."Oh, my God, he was killed?" Marla's plump cheeks went slack with disbelief. There was a knock at the choir door. Marla opened it, dispensed with the intruder, then turned back to me. Her voice turned fierce. "Oh, why did Olson insist on living way out Upper Cottonwood Creek?" She tensed up her plump hands, crablike, and gestured widely. "He thought all he'd need was a fancy four-wheel-drive vehicle. Didn't he realize not having neighbors close by could hurt him? I just can't believe it. He was only, what thirty-five?"My mind reeled again, trying to compute. "I guess. But I do know that the... ceremony is off." The deep breath I attempted to take didn't alleviate a cold wave of shivers. "All the food... "Marla tilted her head to consider. "Want me to get one of the folks tending Lucille in here for you? I heard someone say they were calling Mountain Rescue.""No, no. Thanks""I still don't understand how Olson was killed.""Well, I guess that's what the police team will find out." I was suddenly deeply embarrassed by the thought that my parents, son, friends, and acquaintances were all sitting in the church pews, waiting for my wedding procession to begin. "Does everyone out there know what happened?""I haven't the foggiest." She hesitated, then minced tentatively back out the door. The din in the hall had shifted to a more pronounced tumult of raised voices and stamping feet out in the congregation. The pain in my chest made an unexpected twist. I was still having trouble breathing.Within minutes Marla returned to report. "Apparently, when Tom called, he wanted to talk to you butLucille wouldn't let him. They argued. You can imagine Lucille insisting the bride couldn't be disturbed. Even if it was the groom calling. And the groom was a cop. So Schulz finally told her about Olson. He said to send someone for you immediately."Marla began to pull the pins out of the French twist. No ceremony, no fancy hair."So then Lucille collapsed," she went on grimly. "There was a priest nearby who tried to tend to her, and she told him that your fianc‚ wanted you on the phone. Eventually she gasped out the news that Olson was dead. Father Doug Ramsey just made an announcement that your wedding would be postponed. And why. Good old Doug is trying to start a silent prayer service. Of course, silence is the last thing the poor guy's going to get. It's pretty crazy out there. Looks as if the cops who were here, Schulz's friends, are scrambling outside for their car radios." She shook out her mass of crimped hair, stowed the hairpins in her suit pocket, and with sudden resolve took my arm. "We have to get you out of here. People are going to be coming in to use the phone. And you're the bride, you don't' need to have everyone asking you questions. Let them read it in the paper. Where were you before Lucille put you in the sacristy to wait?"Olson's office.""Anybody else there?"I shook my head."Let's go."She steered me out of the choir room. Lucille Boatwright was now sitting, slumped, in a kid-size chair hastily provided form one of the Sunday School rooms She was moaning again, so I assumed she was not in imminent danger. Marla and I made a quick left out the side door beside the sacristy, the same door I had come through with so much hope only fifteen minutes before. All the attention focused on Lucille meant the exit of the would-be bride and her matron of honor went unnoticed. Thank God for small favors, my father would say.The chilly air outdoors was a pleasant shock after the too-warm, too-close air in the church.When my beige shoes slipped on the ice, I begged Marla to sit with me on the bench by the side door for a moment. I needed to clear me head of the image of a bloodstained Father Olson. She reluctantly took a place beside me and muttered that someone could find us here. But she took my right hand anyway, and firmly held it in hers.At length she said, "Look, Goldy. Don't think about Olson.""I can't help it.""Then let's go into the office.""I can't."I shivered and glanced at the columbarium that Lucille and the parish Art and Architecture committee were having built in honor of old Father Pinckney, Lucille hadn't obtained Father Olson's permission, much less a building permit, but excavation was moving ahead anyway, despite the fact that St. Luke's, and the columbarium, were in the county floodplain. The idea of Father Olson's ashes being the first interred there made me avert my eyes and look up the steep hill across the street, where the old Aspen meadow Episcopal Conference Center's Hymnal House and Brio Barn overlooked our church and Cottonwood Creek. I could see Lucille's henchwomen still moving through the doors of Hymnal House with platters of food. So much for our wedding reception in the historic district."let's go," I said. "This is depressing me."Once we'd entered the church office building, Marla sat me down and asked if I needed anything."Just Arch. And nobody else, please. Maybe Julian," I added. "I don't want to go home, andTom promised he'd be along as soon as he could get away.""Gotcha." Marla shut the heavy wooden door behind her.The air in the office building seemed stuffier than the church. Some of the remnants of the ongoing renovation were piled by the desk in the secretary's outer office: torn-out drywall, pipes, an old faucet. My street clothes and garment bag hung forlornly on a door hook beside a faded reproduction of Leonardo Da Vinci's Last Supper. I gazed at the painting, in which a sunlit Jesus and eleven followers talk and gesticulate while Judas reaches for food, his face in shadow. My eyes were drawn to the ph9otographs above the desk: Father Olson, somber with Sportsmen AgainstHunger and the carcass of an elk, smiling with the Aspen Meadow Habitat for Humanity Committee, standing proudly with the committee I was on with him, the diocesan Board of TheologicalExaminers. Had been on with him. Someone would have to call the diocesan office. A photograph over the desk made my ears ring: dark-bearded Olson, holding a tiny white-robed infant and bending over the baptismal font. Someone would have to arrange the funeral. The first rites to the last.I tried to open one of the old windows, but it was painted shut. I turned away and willed myself not to think of Ted Olson dying. Dead. What ran through my head were images of him alive.Olson laughing and arguing at our Theological Examiners' meeting; Olson rolling his eyes as I shook out an enormous molded grapefruit salad for the Women's Prayer Group; Olson preaching on his favorite topic - renewal.And then in my recollection his face was suddenly, vividly, up close, in one of our early premarital counseling sessions. I had never really known Ted Olson until we began that very personal journey into discussing Tom's and my relationship. I recalled the skin at the sides of his eyes crinkling deeply when he laughed, his slender fingers absently stroking his dark beard when he listened. For the sessions, he had worn jeans topped with dark turtlenecks instead of his customary black clerical shirt and white collar. Sitting in his tweed-covered swivel chair, he had lifted one dark eyebrow and eyed me skeptically."And why exactly do you want to get married again?""Second time's the charm."A mischievous smile curled his mouth. "Do you always hide behind the flip answer?'"It helps."Sometimes it helped. And now Olson was gone. I tried again to breathe deeply and told myself to stop thinking about him. But I couldn't."Mom?"Arch stood uneasily between the secretary's desk and a stack of contorted water pipes. He bit the inside of his cheek and tugged on the hem of the tux."Do you want me to leave? Marla said I should come over.""No, no, I'm glad you came." I asked him to sit down so I could explain that Father Olson, who had been due to present Arch for confirmation this month, wasn't going to show up. And why."Yeah, I heard," he said haltingly when I'd told him the news. He raised his chin and pushed his glasses up his freckled nose. In Aspen Meadow, a mountain town that was more like a village than a suburb, Arch had had much experience of death. Here, the two of us knew a larger group of people than I ever had in the towns I'd lived in before moving to Colorado. For Arch, to experience townspeople killed in skiing and car accidents, n avalanches, by cancer or of heart attacks, was unfortunately commonplace.He asked in a low voice, "Do they know hot it happened yet?""Tom will."Beneath his freckles, Arch's face had turned translucently white. The skin under his eyes was dark as pitch. "Where is Tom? Will he be here soon?"When I nodded, he said, "Julian wants to know what you want to do with the food.""Oh, Lord. I don't know."Arch waited for me to elaborate. Then he went on. "Something else. Mrs. Boatwright, you know?' When I nodded, he said, "Well, they're waiting to take her when the Mountain Rescue Team gets here. But..." He stopped."What is it, Arch? Things couldn't get much worse.""She was sitting out there in the hall, you know, after she passed out. Then she saw me and like, signaled me over. She told me in this loud whisper to ask you to donate the food to AspenMeadow Outreach. `Obviously your mother won't be able to use it today,' " Arch whispered in an uncannily throaty imitation, " ` and I've seen this kind of thing before.' ""Seen a priest die before a wedding?""No." Arch drew his lips into a thoughtful pucker, then continued. "Mrs. Boatwright said she'd seen a groom change his mind." He singsonged, " `Sometimes they just can't go through with it.' " He'd always had a talent for imitation, but I'd never been devastated by the results before."What did you tell her?""I said I'd have to ask you. About the food. I didn't say anything about Tom. I mean, is that rude or what?""Very. The nerve. Listen, Arch," I said defiantly, "Tom called here and asked for me, for heaven's sake. He didn't change his mind. Father Olson is dead. And Tome asked if I wanted to get married tonight, just not in the church.""Yeah, well, you're not, are you?" my son asked. When I groaned, he added, "So what should we do with the food platters?"I rubbed my temples. I was developing a blinding headache. "I'll figure something out when I get home. I can't fret about it now. Would you please ask Julian to pack everything into the van?""Okay, but there's one more thing... ""Arch!""Mom! Sorry! Julian wants to know what he should do with your parents.""Give them to Aspen Meadow Outreach.""Mom! And I hate to tell you, but Grandma and Grandpa asked me if the groom had changed his mind, too.""Great." I reflected for a moment. I couldn't just abandon my parents at the church. They'd been reluctant to venture from the Jersey shore to the high altitude of the Rockies in the first place.They felt uncomfortable in my modest house, with my modest life. I mean, I'd married a doctor, which they'd deemed good, gotten a divorce, which they saw as unfortunate, and gone into food service, which they found lamentable. Now I was marrying a cop. My parents did not view this as a move in the right direction, and unspoken behind their cautionary words about hasty marriages was the sense that they hadn't done very well on their investment in their only daughter. "Invite them back to the house," I told Arch. "Their plane goes out late this afternoon anyway, wedding or no wedding. Tell them I'll be along as soon as Tom gets here. Then we can make a few plans. AndArch - thanks. I'm really sorry about all this."He hesitated. "So there isn't going to be a wedding, then."I gave him a brief hug. "No, hon. Not today.""I'm really sorry, Mom." He pulled away and concentrated his gaze on the bookshelves."You don't' think Tom Schulz would just not show up, do you?"My ears started to ring. "With the priest dead? No. It's just, you know, with this - " I did not finish the thought. "Don't' worry," I said finally. "Tom and I are going to get married. Here at the church, too. Just not his very minute."When he raised his head, Arch's young face was taut with disappointment. Wordlessly, he clomped out of the office door.An oppressive silence again descended on the old building. I sat pleating the beige silk between my fingers. Within moments there was the sudden overhead scraping from the family of raccoons. When they were undisturbed by the presence of people, they noisily reclaimed their territory. Their scratching made my flesh crawl."Enough!" I shouted as I heaved my hymnal at the ceiling. It slammed against the rafters with a satisfying thwack.That shut them up. I picked the hymnal off the floor and threw it against the wall. The shock reverberated through a bookshelf. A pile of theology books thudded to the floor; notes popped off a bulletin board; my streetclothes fell from the hook. I walked across the office, lowered myself into the tweed swivel chair, then quickly jumped out. The chair was Ted Olson's.Disconsolately, I threaded my way through the debris of torn pipes and broken drywall to the secretary's office. Through the thick windows I saw the Mountain Rescue ambulance arrive and then swiftly depart, presumably with Lucille Boatwright. Guests streamed out of the church, heads bowed, as if it were the end of the Good Friday liturgy instead of an aborted wedding ceremony. So much for the silent prayer service.Gripping bowls and then the cake, Julian Teller did his loyal-assistant routine and made several laborious trips out to my van. I yearned to help him. But I couldn't bear the thought of clearing the parish kitchen of food that was supposed to be served after my own wedding. FinallyJulian escorted my bewildered parents, with Arch, to the parking lot. The van revved and took off.What seemed like an eternity later, a cream-and-black Sheriff's Department vehicle pulled up in the lot. First one, then a second and third official car skidded on patches of ice. Their tires spun and spewed small saves of gravel before coming to a rest on the other side of the columbarium construction. Uniformed officers emerged My breath fogged the window as I waited anxiously forTom Schulz to appear. I folded my chilled hands and debated about rushing out. I should have toldTom I would be in the office.I tapped on the glass when two grim-faced policemen I knew, partners named Boyd andArmstrong, climbed out of their cars and strode to the church entrance. After a few moments, both officers emerged form the church's side door. They walked up the muddy flagstones to the office building. I knew they were on duty that day as they had been unable to come to our wedding.Pacing behind them somewhat stiffly was a woman with long brown hair. She carried a bulgingHefty bag. She was familiar looking. A policewoman, perhaps.Boyd and Armstrong pushed into the office first. Like most policemen, they had a brusque, businesslike air about them. Boyd, short and barrel-shaped, stopped abruptly at the sight of me. He stood, feet apart, and rubbed one hand over black hair that had been shorn close in a Marine-style crewcut. Underneath his unzipped Sheriff's Department leather jacket, his shirt was too snug around his bulky mid-section, a pot belly that had increased in size since he'd stopped smoking several months ago. He was gnawing one of the wooden matches he had taken to chewing to keep from overeating. Behind him, tall, acne-scarred Armstrong, whose few wisps of light-brown hair had strayed off the bald spot they were supposed to conceal, surveyed the room bitterly. The woman, whom I judged to be about fifty, unbuttoned her oversized black coat. That task concluded, she held back, clutching her bag to her chest, mutely watching me."Where's Tom?" I demanded.Body and Armstrong exchanged a glance. Boyd bit down hard on the match. The woman gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, sending her lanky hair swinging.Body said, "Sit down, Miss Bear.""Why?" I remained standing. "Don't patronize me, please. And you know my name is Goldy, OfficerBoyd. Where's Tom? He called me about Father Olson. Does Tom know I'm still here?'Boyd stopped chewing the match. His eyes flicked away from me before he said, "Bad news, I'm afraid.""What?" Panic creaked in my voice. What else could go wrong on this day that was supposed to be so wondrous? "Is Tom all right? Where is he?"Armstrong held up one hand. He looked seriously down his pockmarked nose at me before replying. "Somebody must have been out there. Still there," he announced with agonizing logic. "We think. Out at the priest's place. Schulz called us, then you. Looks like he went back out to be by the body. Maybe he wanted to look around.""Where is Tom?" I repeated. "Why are you all here?" I demanded, too loudly.Boyd stopped rubbing his head and looked me squarely in the eyes. He gestured at the woman. "Helen Keene here is our victim advocate."I said, "Victim advocate? But Olson wasn't married, he lived alone. Who's the vic - ""I'm sorry, Goldy." Body shifted the match from one side of his mouth to the other, inhaled raggedly, and looked at a small notebook he'd pulled out of his pocket. "We got to Olson's at 11:46.Didn't see Schulz, but his vehicle was there. Signs of a struggle near Olson's body, which was near the bank of Cottonwood Creek." He studied a grimy page of his notebook, then added, "Looks likeSchulz might have fallen or been pushed down the bank. He dropped some articles, then dragged himself up the creek bank.""Where is he? IBoyd took another deep breath. "It appears somebody go the drop on Schulz." He glanced at Armstrong, avoiding my eyes. "Looks like the perp was still there. Something happened, there was a struggle - ""Tell me.""Schulz is missing," Boyd said tonelessly.3"No." My legs felt as if they were disintegrating. "No, no." The walls seemed to sway. Get a grip, I ordered myself. Boyd's face was a study in misery I could not bear to contemplate. Armstrong shrugged and looked away. Helen Keene eased between the two men. She grasped my elbow firmly, then guided me toward the small striped couch in the secretary's office.I could not assimilate Boyd's words. Got the drop on him. Fell.. pushed down the creek bank. Schulz missing.It was simply not believable."I don't understand. Where did this happen?" My voice came out like a croak.Wordlessly, Helen Keene, victim advocate, advocate for me, I realized dully, drew a quilt out of the Hefty bag she was carrying. Gently she pulled it around my shoulders. I was shivering uncontrollably. There was a painful buzzing in my ears. Hold it together, girl, I commanded my inner self. Hold it together now. For Tom.Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a look. Boyd's carrot-like fingers caressed his worn notebook. "Sorry. You weren't even a cop's wife yet. They get used to this kind of crisis. Or at least used to the idea of this kind of crisis. Well. We're not sure about the actual events. We believe that's what happened." His face was fierce; he held his rotund body in a tight, aggressive stance. "It looks as if Schulz was hurt. But we're going to find him. We'll work around the clock." This was not the matter-of-fact Officer Boyd I had met the previous spring, the Boyd who had proudly announced n January that he'd given up smoking. This wasn't business-as-usual. This suddenly ferocious Boyd took Tom Schulz's disappearance as a personal affront."What do you mean about his being hurt?" I demanded. Helen Keene put a hand on the quilt that covered my shoulders She sighed softly, regretfully. I refused to look at her."Just from falling down into the creek, we think." Armstrong tsked."Okay, look," said Boyd, scratching his close-cropped head furiously and chewing the match, "we'll tell you what we know. Schulz told Dispatch he was going to call you, because of the wedding. Did he?" I nodded. My heart was racing. "We need to talk to you about your conversation with him. But first we need you to go out there, to Olson's place, to have you look at some stuff.""What stuff? Stuff at Father Olson's house?" Sick with confusion, I looked around the church office. Wouldn't there be something here that would help? I tried and failed to summonTom's logical voice, his explanations of the inevitable steps in an investigation.Boyd interjected, "Don't worry, we're going to come back here. Eventually."I said, "I just don't understand."Armstrong's tall shape loomed too close to me. "It goes like this: A cop gets surprised.He's going to try to distract the perp, especially if the perp has a weapon. So say the guy wants to kidnap the policeman. Our guy's going to drop stuff at the scene, make clues, anything for us to follow - "I pressed my lips together and Armstrong abruptly fell silent. His words fogged my brain.Too much information, too disorganized, was coming too fast. Helen Keene patted my back. I longed to leave this room. Tom Schulz had disappeared. I wondered where Arch was, then remembered he had gone with Julian and my parents."Miss Bear," said Boyd. "Goldy. We really need your attention. Time's important here.""I'm sorry. I'm coming with you. I want to go right now." I did not add this instant, although that was what went through my mind.Helen Keene helped me to my feet. Armstrong yanked on the office door. As we walked, my eyes caught the high mounds of dirt where Lucille and her committee intended for ashes to be interred. The columbarium was just an ice-filled ditch at this point, like a fresh wound in the earth.The fuss over the memorial project seemed so stupid now.Boyd flipped a page in his notebook as we crossed the snow-pocked parking lot. "Schulz was supposed to get married at noon. Call comes in, 11:14. Dispatch takes it, Schulz says he's got a body, gives us the location of," he squinted at the page, "the Reverend Theodore Olson. Out upper Cottonwood Creek, fire number 29648. Dispatch tells him it's going to take us thirty minutes to get a team up there. He, Schulz, says Olson was the priest. Olson's been shot and he just bought it - er, died. Looks like two gunshot wounds in the chest. Schulz tells Dispatch he has to call you. No wedding." Boyd tapped the notebook. "he didn't think there was anybody around, obviously. He didn't mention another vehicle. Olson was dead. We're analyzing the Dispatch tape now, trying to pick up background noise - "I stopped walking. "Do you think Tom chased the killer? Isn't there a trail or something?Please. Tell me. I have to know."Helen Keene picked up the q quilt which had fallen from my shoulders. Shifting from one foot to the other, Armstrong hovered over us. My questions made him uncomfortable. Finally he said, "The trail ends at a vehicle. Two sets of footprints: Schulz and somebody. We just don't know what happened. But finding an officer is our top priority. Always."I whirled to face Armstrong. My voice was shrill. "If you'd killed a priest, wouldn't you just leave? Why would someone hurt Tom?"Armstrong made another helpless gesture. "Maybe the perp heard Schulz. Or Schulz spotted him. Recognized him. So the perp panics, hides, and then just loses it. Figures he'll be caught if he doesn't take Schulz with him. Or maybe Olson wasn't dead when Schulz got there, told him something and the shooter went nuts... or maybe Schulz followed him and... " He didn't finish that thought."For what it's worth," Boyd interjected, "we figure this is some kind of amateur. Not that you're likely to get a professional hit on a priest," he added uncomfortably."You said there was some stuff Tom dropped. May I see it? Now?""We couldn't bring it to you." These were the first words Helen Keene had spoken since her arrival. Her voice was surprisingly young and musical. "We have to leave it at the scene for photo and video. But we need you to come out and take a look. You may be able to help us identify it."Armstrong's and Boyd's faces said, Let's go. Silently, Helen Keene put her arm around me again. We walked quickly, heads down, to the waiting squad car.Father Theodore Olson's house was located northwest of Aspen Meadow proper, in the area the locals call Upper Cottonwood Creek. Driving out of town under a darkening sky, we followed the meandering path of the creek, past ancient shuttered summer dwellings, past the entryway toArch and Julian's school, Elk Park Prep. After the school, there was a spate of immense custom homes built in the latest real estate boom - this one fueled by people fleeing the high cost of living in California. Farther up, the landscape turned pastoral. WE passed the few ranches that remained from Aspen Meadow's proud cowboy past. The ranches boasted wide, lush meadows that sprawled along the creek bed. Then Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve loomed suddenly into view, it speaks still covered with winter snow.While the police car sped along the winding road, Boyd and Armstrong asked me to repeat my brief conversation with Tom. I reconstructed every line of dialogue as best I could. Were there other voices, background noise, cars starting, any sounds like that? I said no. When I faltered, exhausted, Helen Keene began to talk. Her voice was warm and soothing. Quietly, she asked if there was anything I wanted or needed - coffee or water from their Thermoses? Were there family members who needed to be notified of my whereabouts? I glanced at the dashboard clock and remembered my parents' flight from Stapleton Airport in Denver. Helen used the cellular phone to call our house. She asked Julian to drive them to their flight for me. I'd be home as soon as I could, she promised him.Outside, frozen pellets of snow began to drop, making a staccato noise on the windshield.So we would have had a snowy wedding. I could imagine the snow falling in soft waves past the diamond-shaped window above the St. Luke's altar, my parents with tears in their eyes. Marla weeping unabashedly, Julian giving Tom and me the V-sign.Arch beaming.Stop.Helen Keene's voice murmured into the receiver about my delay and helping the authorities.Helen did not mention that Tom Schulz was missing. I was grateful for her help; my voice would give me away, I knew.After Helen carefully clicked the cellular phone back in its holder, she turned back to me.She had wide-set brown eyes, thick dark eyebrows, and her long brown hair contained much gray.From the thing folds of dry skin on her square face, I judged her to be older than fifty, possibly even in her early sixties. I wondered if she had ever been an advocate for a bride before.She said, "My background is in crisis counseling. My training is in psychology. Schulz told me that was your training, too.""College major. I cook for a living."She smiled, showing large teeth streaked with yellow. "And you're a mother. So am I, although my children are grown now."I pulled the quilt over my shaking knees. I'd never talked with one of the Sheriff'sDepartment victim advocates, although their existence was well-publicized in the county. The advocates, both men and women, brought teddy bears and homemade quilts to the victims of accidents and crimes. Tom had told me that after a recent landslide, the advocates had spent the day in a hospital emergency room, giving out over forty quilts. They did a lot of good work, he'd said, with people who were hurt, with people who had lost loved ones...Helens's smile held through my silence. Tom would have said, Tell me how you see her.What he meant was describe her. Suddenly I could imagine Helen Keene bringing an oversize container of Kool-Air into her children's elementary school classes on Field Day. When theShriners' circus came to town, I saw her shuffling onto a schoolbus to help chaperone the boisterous class on its bumpy trip. Now her gentle smile faded to seriousness. "Goldy, we need to talk. You're going to have to decide what people you're going to tell to about this. Among your friends, I mean. If you're going to keep it together and help us, you need to take care of yourself.""Decide who I'm going to tell about the canceled wedding, Tom disappearing, what? I want to help find him," I said, without adding a doubtful comment on how effective I was afraid the Sheriff'sDepartment could be without Tom Schulz.Again Helen put her hand on my arm. Her short nails were spotted with chipped orange nail polish. Outside, the snow shower thickened; Boyd turned on the windshield wipers. "It's like any kind of assault," Helen told me. "It's a personal violation. Your fianc‚ has disappeared. So maybe you feel stranded. High feelings, emotional vulnerability." In the front seat, I heard Boyd snap his match between his teeth. I flinched. Helen went on, "But people won't think of you as being in need of care. They're going to think of you as a switchboard operator, full of information. They'll feel they have to call you to find out the latest developments. Or maybe they'll just be nosy to see how you're holding up." She continued firmly, "You need to decide. Who're you going to tell how things are going? Who are you going to talk to about how you feel?""All right," I murmured, I did not know what I would say and to whom. I just wanted Tom back."Something else." Her voice was still matter-of-fact. "People are going to talk. They're going to joke. They're going to say Schulz staged this disappearance to escape getting married to you."She chewed her bottom lip and looked at me expectantly.My face became hot. A spasm of pain swept over me. I said, "They already have. Or at least one woman at the church has. And of course my parents think he's skipped," I said with an absurd squeak of laughter.Helen shook her long hair. The police car turned right by a row of mailboxes where a sheriff's Department car was stationed. Its lights flashed blue and yellow in the snowy gloom. We started up a rutted, muddy road. "Look, Goldy, part of my job as victim advocate is working on how people are going to respond to unexpected cruelties. One of the hardest things I have to deal with is when a child is kidnapped, and the neighbors insist he ran away." She said firmly, "I know Schulz loved you very much.""Helen - please. Loves.'""Sorry."Our car skidded through an ice-covered puddle before stopping by the broken-down split-rail fence that led to Father Olson's house. With my nerves put on edge by Tom Schulz's disappearance, I needed to find significance or clues in every detail. Had the fence been broken when I catered a vestry dinner here last month? I could not remember. A lanky policeman standing by another Sheriff's Department vehicle motioned Boyd through.Boyd gunned the engine up the precipitously steep driveway. My mind snagged on a memory. The inclined driveway had been one of the reasons Father Olson had insisted to the vestry, that group of twelve lay people elected to run the temporal affairs of the church, that he needed a four-wheel-drive vehicle. And not just any four-wheel-drive, vestry member Marla had laughingly told me, but a Mercedes 300E 4Matic. The vestry, charged with raising and managing the church finances, had balked. But eventually, according to Marla, the group had acquiesced.This year, they'd even agreed there was sufficient money to hire a curate. Olson had hired the fidgety, over-talkative 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 inOlson? With Olson dead, our own church would eventually have to begin a rector search; unlike theVice 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 cloisonn‚ 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'sTom'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 AspenMeadow 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: w Nissan van1049 v alv gswx2chst d dB. - Read - Judas? vm p.r.a.y.1133 vddMy head throbbed. I reread the scribbles."Well?" demanded Inspector Calloway.I said nothing.Boyd grunted.Frustrated, Investigator Calloway asked, "Is there anything you can tell us?"I pulled back and looked into Calloway's shred hazel eyes. Her look and her questions were urgent. I knew she needed my help to find Tom and solve this horrific murder. Pain squeezed my voice. I told her, "The handwriting is Tom Schulz's. I don't know what he was trying to say."4Boyd pressed his thin lips together, scowling down at the sodden spiral notebook. "Schulz and his notes. Memory enhancer, he called it." He flung his match into the snow and craned his stubby neck to reread the scribbles. "GSW times two. Two gunshot wounds, we knew that. DD. Looks like he might have gotten a dying declaration."Investigator Calloway sighed. "Now, if we cold just figure out what the victim said. And we'll need to read up about Judas." She concentrated her gaze on me. "Know anybody with a white van?People with names, initials VM or B?"I felt dizzy. His handwriting. I could hear my teeth chattering. A vision of a shotgun welled up. Where was the gun now? How much ammunition did it have?"Please, Miss Bear. A van. A white Nissan van. Sound familiar?""Ah, I have a white van. It says... " I roped for words. "Goldilocks' Catering, WhereEverything Is Just Right! On the side. But it's a Volkswagen, not a Nissan.""is your van missing? Where was it this morning?"With difficulty, I though back. My van had spent the morning being filled with platters of food for our wedding reception. I told her so. Investigator Calloway nodded. She assured me her investigative team would check with Olsons' neighbors as well as with people who lived along UpperCottonwood Creek Road, to see if anybody else saw a van.I stared at the wilted notebook that Tom had, presumably, somehow managed to toss into the bushes. The paper in front of me must hold some clue to what had happened out here.Impenetrable hieroglyphics stared back."Don't you cops use some kind of standard shorthand? That's what it looks like to me."Boyd pulled out his pad and began writing on it. "Nothing standard," he said gruffly. "GSW and DD I already told you. Gunshot wounds. Dying Declaration. The victim was alive. The victim was dead. Somebody drove a van. A reference to praying and the Bible. We'll get you a copy of this. If you can puzzle over it some more, that would sure help.""Wait, though," said Calloway. "Wait. Look at it again, Miss Bear. VM P.R.A.Y? Could all those periods in there have some significance for Schulz? Or something from your church, maybe?Is P.R.AY. an acronym for some church organization? Schulz use V for victim on the first line, so could VM refer to that? We'll check through his files, see what we can come up with. Maybe you have something else he's written, some notes to you, something with abbreviations?"I said no and did not mention that Tom Schulz had written me few notes in the time we'd known each other. Our courtship had emerged from crisis. When the attempted poisoning of my ex- father-in-law had led to the temporary closing of my catering business, I had responded reluctantly to Tom's interest in me. As our relationship developed over the last eighteen months, we'd had phone conversations, barbecues, outings in the mountains or in Denver. These outings invariably concluded with meals I fixed in my professional cooking area or dinners Tom prepared in the fabulously equipped kitchen of his cabin. And only very recently, when we were alone, those meals were followed by lovemaking.We had not written.Calloway persisted. "But you must have something of his, a notebook, journal, calendar, anything that might contain some of these abbreviations. If you did, or if such written material existed, would it be at your house? Or his?"I knew she was doing her job. Trying to find their premier homicide investigator, the police would ruthlessly unearth every scrap of information. But I wasn't up to discussing our complex domestic arrangements, especially when it involved so much stuff in boxes that had just been moved to my house from Tom's cabin. In fact, I wasn't up to discussing much of anything. I said,"I'm not sure. But I'll look, I promise.""Who has keys to his place?" she wanted to know. "And his car? I mean, besides that set in the creek."My eyes were burning, my hands were numb with cold. I muttered that I had a set of keys to his home but not with me. Anyway, I added, his place was empty. At that moment, another officer summoned Calloway. She promised that Boyd or Armstrong would stay in touch, and directed that I keep the phone line to my house open. I asked Boyd when I could have the articlesTom Schulz dropped at the crime scene. He clomped off, then reported back that when the lab was done with them, someone would come by my place with Tom's things."Was there any blood?" I asked Boyd. I cleared my throat. "Tom's blood? You said he was hurt."Boyd winced sympathetically. One of his rough hands reached out impulsively for mine.Quietly, he answered, his ankle or broke a leg bone coming down the bank. I'm not going to lie to you: He could be hurt bad." I couldn't listen, couldn't look at Boyd, couldn't bear to have him touching me. I turned my gaze to the snowy ground and pulled my hands away. Boyd went on."That's the only way the perp could have overpowered him, we think. If that's what happened. You know, Schulz is muscular, he's a touch guy. Street smart and regular smart. We're going to bring you a copy of the note," he added, changing the subject, "for you to study."A cold, wet breeze swept the frigid meadow. The end of the snow and advent of watery afternoon sunshine had not materialized into anything warm and springlike. I clasped my upper arms but couldn't stop trembling. Helen Keene shambled over to me and again threw the victim- advocate quilt around my shoulders. Slowly we walked down the muddy driveway to Boyd's squad car. She asked me for directions and then drove us home. We passed the ranches, the custom homes, the preparatory school entrance. The time spent in Olson's meadow had been hard on my wedding suit; cold, wet silk clung to my legs. In my mind's eye, I kept seeing Boyd, Armstrong, andHelen Keen walking across the flagstones to the St. Luke's office with their terrible news. I couldn't control a guttural groan. I needed to get home, to be with Arch and Julian."Please keep your phone line open," Helen said after I'd turned down her offer to come into my house and stay for a while. She handed me her card. "And keep the quilt," she added softly. "A group of women from your church donates them to the Sheriff's Department and to Aspen MeadowOutreach just for situations like yours." The questions bubbled up in my brain: Situations like mine?What exactly was my situation? But Helen held me in her steady gaze. "Goldy - please call me if you need me."I thanked her and extricated myself from the police car. On the sidewalk across from my house, a trio of neighbors watched, apparently oblivious to the cold. How bad news traveled so quickly in this town I did not know. Stumbling dizzily toward my front door, it was all I could do to keep the quilt awkwardly clutched around my muddied wedding suit.Once I had come through our security system, I called for Arch, then Julian. The silent house felt deserted without the customary rich smell of cooking. My suitcase, packed for our honeymoon, sat forlornly in the front hall. I turned away from it."Oh, Mom, you're here!" cried Arch as he galloped down the stairs. He had changed from the tux to a gray sweatsuit. "Julian took Grandma and Grandpa to the airport. He's taking our tuxes back, too. I was just about to start putting the food in the walk-in, the way Julian told me. Where'sTom? How come your clothes are so messy? Where'd you get that blanket thing?""Oh, hon. It's a long story." I begged off immediate explanations by announcing I would take a shower while he put the platters away. Wearily, I climbed the stairs. Every muscle in my body ached. In the bedroom that Tom had begun only recently to share with me, I stood in front of the mirror and gazed at the ruined beige silk outfit. A middle-aged Miss Haversham, my reflection mocked back. A flood of anger sent my fingers ripping at the tiny pearl buttons. Two flew off and pinged on the wooden floor. A half-formed sob squawked out of my throat. I carefully removed the churchwomen's necklace. I don't deserve this, I reflected bitterly. Selfish to worry about what I didn't deserve, but I didn't care. Tears leaked out of my eyes as I groped around on my knees until I found the buttons. I have suffered enough already. Hey, God? Did you hear me? If you're really there. After placing the buttons on my bureau, I reached for Tom's pillow on the bed, then buried my face in it. I sobbed and gasped, then inhaled deeply. Even though he'd spent the last few nights at his cabin, the pillowcase had the wonderful smell of him.In the shower the spray went to scalding as I rocked back and forth, back and forth.Eventually I wrapped myself in a thick terrycloth towel and sat on the bed, dizzy and exhausted. I rose and pulled on a sweatsuit. Again I caught a glimpse of my wan reflection. What to say toArch? To Julian? I didn't even know what I was going to say to myself.In the kitchen the counters were empty except for a tray of marzipan-covered petit fours and chocolate truffles that had been meant to be take-home presents for our wedding guests. I askedArch if anybody had called. He said no and went back to methodically pulling off the wrapping and then eating truffles one small bite at a time. I hugged myself and began to rock again. Arch stopped in midbite his eyes narrowed behind his glasses."What's going on, Mom?""Oh, Arch... I'm afraid I have some bad news.""Father Olson, I heard.""No. This is about Tom." Arch was one of the people who had to know. I braced myself, then flatly recounted the bare outlines of the story: Tom finding the mortally injured priest and then apparently being hurt and forcefully taken.As I spoke, My son's freckled face went numb with shock. When I'd finished, he sat motionless for a longtime, then carefully, he put the half-eaten truffle back on the paper napkin embossed with Tom and Goldy, April 11. He pushed his glasses up his nose and clasped his hands under his armpits."Tom Schulz was kidnapped?""They think so.""They're going to find him, aren't they?"There was no point in equivocating. I hope so, or The police are working on it would only lead to a tangle of unanswerable questions and a flood of worries. There was no reason to voice the unwanted fears that chilled my spirit the way winter winds howl down the mountains. I saw myself picking out a plain coffin for Tom Schulz. In a few short years, Arch would go off to college. I would live out my days alone."Yes," I told my son firmly, with more conviction than I felt. "They will find him."Arch started to sweep the kitchen floor, an order-restoring chore he often undertook when his outer life was in chaos. My stomach said I should eat, but one glance inside the walk-in refrigerator at the platters of beautifully decorated reception food made me turn away. Would whoever abducted Tom feed him? I paced around the kitchen, felt the gnawing in my stomach develop into spasms, willed the pains away. Arch finished the floor, took out his drawing materials, and sat at the kitchen table. He knew I would want him within sight.My business line rang. The sudden noise made me cry out as if I'd been struck. I dived for it."What?" I shouted. If it was a client, I thought belatedly, I could kiss this booking good-bye."Goldy?" came the tentative, frightened voice of Zelda Preston. "Are you all right? I mean, I know you aren't all right... you can't be after what's happened... "Zelda Preston, mother-in-law to scarecrow Agatha in the church kitchen, was a currentAltar Guild member and, until very recently, the organist at St. Luke's. Zelda and Lucille Boatwright had both been widowed about a decade ago. The two women were almost constantly in each other's company now, except when Zelda met with the master swimmers and did her weekly three miles' worth of laps. With her attenuated face that always reminded me of a camel's, her wiry muscles, and her long braid of gray hair wound on top of her head, Zelda Preston seemed the tall, rod-thin counterpart to Lucille's stodgy, solid self.I said, "Are you calling about Lucille?""Oh, my dear Goldy. No. I'm calling about you. I want to do something for you, poor dear... " Her voice faltered.Zelda carried a painful past, but we'd never had any sisterly soul-baring talks. An older female Episcopalian would rather die impoverished than discuss psychic wounds, a conversation she would put in the same category as comparing bra sizes. Nevertheless, Zelda's attempt to offer sympathy touched me, and awakened guilt. I hadn't called her this past month, when the many disagreements she and Father Olson had had about ecclesiastical music had ended up with his firing her. Still, what would I have said? You want to have lunch and talk about how getting fired is like getting divorced? I didn't think so."Zelda. You are thoughtful to call. I don't need anything, thanks." I cleared my throat, keenly aware that I needed to keep both phone lines clear in case the police needed to reach me. I didn't know which number they had. Since I had no call-waiting, I couldn't risk giving the police a busy signal. But explaining all this, plus Tom's disappearance, were more than I cold handle at the moment. "I need to go.""Oh, all right. But Goldy," she went on meekly, "I am so terribly sorry to bother you about this, but I'm just trying to see what you want done with your wedding flowers. Lucille isn't available, as you probably know, so I need to step in for her to help plan the Holy Week services and the funeral for Father Olson." She paused. "Have you heard anything? I mean, about what happened to him?""Not yet.""Well... If you wish, we could try to use these flowers for Father Olson... I know it sounds petty, but someone must start to make the decisions, and Doug Ramsey is impossible...If you donated the flowers, it would certainly save the parish money, goodness knows. However, I do not know what our new priest will want. Not our new priest," she corrected herself, "whoever those people down at the diocese send to us." Zelda's voice dropped on the word diocese in a way that left no doubt as to her opinion of that ecclesiastical body."Tell you what," I said placatingly, desperate to clear the phone line. "Why don't you donate them to the Catholic church? Their parish is bigger; they're sure to have a wedding coming up soon.""The Catholics!" Having a wedding during Holy Week? For heaven's sake, the least you could do is donate them to someone from our parish who is ill. Honestly, Goldy. The Catholics.""Fine, Zelda. Really. Who's in the hospital at the moment/ Whatever will make you happy."This whole conversation was absurd. But however much we might disagree or be upset,Episcopalians did not hang up on each other.She trilled, "Roger Bampton is home from the hospital although..." She broke off and announced, "Victor Mancuso has shingles, but I don't know which hospital he's in, and of course it would be difficult to track down the church secretary, since she took her Easter vacation early." She paused again. "And its you I want to have happy, my dear.""Victor Mancuso?" I said, incredulous. VM. I demanded, "Who's Victor Mancuso?""No one really, he's the secretary's uncle. She just put him on the prayer list before she left. Nobody else knows anything about him, I already asked."On the prayer list, on the prayer list. P.R.A.Y. I struggled to think: The prayer list contained names of all those for whom the parish offered intercessory requests. Or, as Arch maintained, it was the list of people and things we wanted God to fix. The charismatic segment of the congregation, those parishioners who put ultra-enthusiastic emphasis on spiritual gifts and a personal relationship with Jesus, offered intercessions on a much more regular and serious basis than most of the rest of us. There was also a small noncharismatic women's prayer group that met weekly. Zelda, I remembered, was a member of this group. Maybe she could help decipher the acronyms in Tom's note.I asked sharply, "is there an ecumenical or parish organization with the initials P.R.A.Y.?Maybe something like, Protestant-Roman Catholic Association of Youth?"Zelda drew in her breath, confused. "Goldy? What in the world are you talking about? Are they the ones you want to donate the flowers to? Because I can't be calling all around - ""Zelda, is there such an organization? P.R.A.Y.? I'm sure I've heard of it somewhere.""Well, I'm sure I haven't, and I've been in this parish for twenty years, ever since FatherPinckney - ""Okay, thanks, Zelda. Please. Use the flowers in any way you wish. I'm sorry, I have to go."We both stuttered good-byes and gently hung up.Arch glanced at me, frowned, and left the room to look for some colored pencils. I stared at my catering calendar. The days were blank. Of course, I had cleared it in anticipation of our three- day honeymoon. Now there was not even work I could do to take my mind off this spiral of events.Worry for Tom exploded in my chest. Should I have asked Helen Keene to stay with me?When would Julian be back from the airport? What could Tom's cryptic notes mean? I lay down on my kitchen floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and felt tears slide down my cheeks unchecked. I'm losing it.The doorbell rang; again, my heart jumped. Leaping to my feet, I raced down the hall, then stared disbelievingly through the peekhole. Marla. She made a face at me and held up plastic bags of food. Just what we needed: more to eat. Arch, who had trotted down the hall behind me at the sound of the bell, moaned in disappointment and muttered that he was going to watch television."What are you doing here alone?" Marla demanded as soon as she had heaved herself and her bags into the kitchen. "I swear." Still wearing her dark matron of honor suit, she took in my sweatsuit and my face, then shook her head. "Somehow I knew you wouldn't want me to take you out to dinner tonight.""I'm not alone; Arch is here." To my horror, it all spilled out. "Marla - Father Olson's killer took Tom. I had to go out to Olson's place, and it was awful... "She pulled me in for a long hug. "I know," she murmured in my ear. "I was down at the church looking for you. Father Doug told me. Do you need to cry?"I thought about the weeping I'd already done, solitary and helpless on the floor. "Thanks, but no. Not at the moment, anyway.""Need to talk?"I pulled away from her, picked up a bag, and set it on the counter. "How did Doug Ramsey know Tom was missing?""From the cops." Marla heaved the other bag onto one of the kitchen counters. "Some of them are still at the church. They wanted to see if Schulz's phone call to the church office might have been taped.""Oh, Lord." I stumbled morosely into a kitchen chair.Marla eased down beside me. She put a hand over mine. I stared unhappily at the black front of Tom's range, unable to rid myself of the vision of him flipping pieces of chicken on the grill.He'd had friends from the Sheriff's Department haul the Jenn-Air grill-with-convection-oven over from his cabin and install the ventilation pipe a week ago. He had said he couldn't live without his oven.With a wink, he'd added, "Sort of like you, Goldy."After a few moments, Marla rose and began to unload her stash. Individually wrapped BeefWellington. Frozen Scampi. We'd often joked that our ex-husband had found two women who loved food more than they loved him. My passion was working in the kitchen, and Marla was the queen of packaged gourmet.She looked at me. "Where's your choker?""Upstairs. Why? It's a miracle I didn't lose it out at Olson's place, tramping around in the mud.""Goldy, don't say it's a miracle to me." She flopped back down next to me. "We've got a problem. Actually, more than one.""What? With the pearls?""Before your wedding was supposed to begin, I was out in the narthex with the jewelry raffle committee. I told them both of us were wearing the chokers that were going to be sold, and they ooh'd and aah'ed."Oh boy, I thought here we go. Some left-wing group had threatened a pearl boycott."I'll get to the pearl problem in a minute." She sighed. "Apparently," Marla continued glumly,"some of the goings-on in our parish have started rumors floating around in the diocese."I sniffed. "Goings-on in our parish? Rumors? Wait until they hear our priest has been murdered. " I shook my head, seeing the flash of Father Theodore Olson's warm smile behind his dark beard when he appointed me to the Board of Theological Examiners.Marla nodded. "Right. `Show me a parish in the diocese without some wild stories,' I say.And so they say, `Hoho, word's out Roger Bampton claims his healing was miraculous.' As in feeding-of-the-five-thousand miraculous.""Oh, please," I said, in no mood to discuss disease. "Roger's sick. I heard he was a little better Miraculous? That's what our ex-husband is going to say when he hears Tom Schulz didn't show up for the wedding." I felt a sudden chill, thought about making tea, then dismissed it. Too much effort. "Anyway," I added, "Roger has leukemia.""He's out of the hospital." Marla grimaced. "Get this. He's not just a little better, he had a normal blood test. To me, it was a miracle old Scotch-swilling Rog didn't die of liver disease before they diagnosed him with leukemia. And they're saying there've been other miracles, too.""Come on, Marla. I've heard some of those stories, the bad knees healed and all that. Who listens? They're like the stock market. You have a wave of good luck and then a wave of bad. How is this a problem?""Goldy, we've been busy with other stuff, we haven't been tuned into all the latest. I mean, you've been getting ready for the wedding, and I've been planning a jewelry raffle and sale with dozens of orders for tickets and chokers. But Agatha Preston enlightened me. Three weeks ago, sick-to-death Roger was suddenly pronounced well. Last week, a Sunday School teacher swore she'd been cured of chronic back pain. An infant born blind got his sight somehow. So I told these folks that I need to lose twenty pounds where do I sign up?"I said, "I need Tom Schulz back.""Just thought you'd like to know.""Father Olson wouldn't have approved.""Listen," she protested, "Agatha and these women swear Olson was the one whose actions got the rumors started in the first place. It's Father Pinckney who wouldn't have approved." Getting up abruptly, Marla hauled out three bags of Chinese-style vegetables and two frozen Sara Lee cakes. I wondered briefly what had happened to the wedding cake. Marla emerged from my walk-in refrigerator and put her hands on her ample hips "But remember I said I had more than one problem? Here's the other: Father Olson kept the rest of the pearls Out at his place. Twenty chokers, two thousand dollars each. The cops didn't find them at his house.""They've already search the whole place?" I could not remember ever being so confused.Another wave of weariness swept over me. I ran a hand over the black enamel of Tom's stove."That's hard to believe. Why did you... why did Olson have the pearls in the first place?""He always kept the stuff for the jewelry raffle and sale." Marla sounded disgusted. "He kept the gold chains last year and the jade the year before that. He said a jewelry thief would never scope out Upper Cottonwood Creek. I told the police to keep looking for them, but they said his house wasn't burgled, so it's not as if they searched every nook and cranny. It's just that the motive doesn't look like robbery at this point. Of course Olson didn't have a safe. And they won't let me or anyone else go into his house to poke around. That Olson. He was such a squirrelly packrat, he probably hid them somewhere we'll never find." She groaned."Squirrelly packrat?""Sorry, I'm mixing my rodent metaphors. You going to eat these truffles?""Go ahead. Marla - is there a church organization with the acronym P.R.A.Y.?"She took a bite of chocolate and munched thoughtfully. "Pray? Not hat I know of, and you know if anyone would know about church organizations, it's me.""Well, when was the last time you read the story about Judas?"Marla finished her first truffle, looked over the tray, and chose a second, this one a plump dark mound dusted with cocoa. She popped it into her mouth, put a hand on her large chest, and frowned. "I certainly don't know. Why?""Tom wrote something down before Olson died," I murmured. "He mentioned this P.R.A.Y. and Judas, but nobody knows what he was talking about.""Judas? He wrote something about Judas? Why?" I shrugged. Marla licked her fingertips."Let's see, what's today? Still Lent. I always wait for somebody to read the story to me. You know, in church. The Last Supper, Maundy Thursday, then the betrayal by Judas. No, no, it's the other way around. Wait a minute. You're the Sunday School teacher, you tell me. Is that all he wrote?What was it, some kind of ransom note?""No." I'd probably already said too much. I gritted my teeth in preparation for further interrogation, but Marla pushed away the truffle tray and gazed in my direction, concerned. Clearly, she was more worried about me as a friend than she was about the details of the homicide/kidnapping investigation."Goldy, want to come and stay at my place? I can take care of you. Honestly, it's the leastI can do. Matron of honor and all that.""No, thanks. I have to stay by the phone. Until they find him," I said uncertainly."They'll find him," Marla said firmly. She inched her chair over and put her hand on my arm."Goldy, you cannot stay here alone.""You're great, but honest. I'm not alone - Arch and Julian are with me. Talk to me about the church. Tell me how this could happen.""I swear, I don't know. Olson was just - " She gestured extravagantly, like an Italian looking for a word. " - a cute charismatic who had a good grounding in theology? I don't know. Does that sound prejudiced? I mean, when I told him we cleared twenty thousand on the gold chains last year, he didn't say `Praise the Lord.' ""That doesn't help." Twenty thousand dollars on gold chains? I felt hysteria rising in my throat and pushed it down. "With these jewelry raffles - you sell some and raffle some, right?" She nodded. "Who ordered the pearls for the fund-raiser? Do you know how many people knew they were out at Olson's house? And what do the churchwomen use all that money for, anyway?""Hey whoa, Goldy, slow down." She pressed her lips together. "Bob Preston ordered the pearls this year. You remember, the oil guy, husband of Agatha, son of Zelda. I guess I should say, former oil guy. He got some kind of deal from a friend of his in the Far East. As to what the churchwomen use the money for, there's usually a big argument. Lucille and the Art andArchitecture Committee want to build the columbarium before they redo the kitchen. I'm running the raffle, and I want to give the money to Aspen Meadow Outreach. So Lucille Boatwright and I ware at odds, which, believe me, is nothing new. Speaking of the crotchety angel, are you up to hearing about what happened after she collapsed t the church? Or do you want me to fix you some tea first?"I really couldn't focus on Lucille Boatwright and her autocratic ways. But decision making was beyond me. When I said nothing. Marla rummaged through cupboards, extracted a teapot and cups, opened a box of Scottish shortbread she had brought, and put a pan of water on to boil. The gestures reminded me of Tom. He loved tea. Loves. Stop it."Anyway, Lucille Boatwright," Marla persisted. "The Old Guard is still guarding. Old Lucy's fine; she informed the doctors not to let Mitchell Hartley and the rest of the charismatics touch her precious columbarium construction in her absence. She had some arrhythmia, and Zelda Preston is down at the hospital with her.""Well, Zelda's back, because she just called me from the church. Trying to plan Holy Week and Ted Olson's funeral and wondering what to do with Tom's and my wedding flowers." Marla sipped her tea and rolled her eyes. "I told her to give the altar arrangements to the RomanCatholics."Marla choked. "Treading a bit close to the edge, aren't we? I'm surprised Zelda's involved.You know, she was just so irate about the music, spent all last month screaming about going to see the bishop. OH, wait. Speaking of the bishop. Guess who he's appointed to pastor the church through this crisis?""Marla. I really don't care. All I can think about is Tom. A priest appointed to get us through this crisis? Could the bishop really move that fast?""He has to. I mean, a murdered priest, a halted wedding, not to mention a funeral/ Our flock needs emergency pasturing.""Doug Ramsey, I guess.""Wrong. He's too junior." She dunked a shortbread cookie into her tea and carefully bit into it. "The bishop is sending in the poet.""The... oh, no. Not George Montgomery. He's the canon theologian. He's on the Board ofTheological Examiners with me and always asks about the history of the eucharist.""Montgomery may examine about the sacrament of holy communion," Marla said, "but he's going to versify about everything else." She finished her shortbread cookie and reached for another."Be prepared for sermons that ask, `Where were you, God/when I laid sod/and found it crass/to ask for grass?' " She chuckled sourly.I stared at Tom's oven. The phone rang. I jumped for it."Yes!""Hello, is this Goldy?" A female voice, hesitant, raw from crying."Who is this?""Agatha," gulped the voice, "Agatha... :"I put my hand over the receiver and mouthed to Marla, "Agatha Preston."Marla stage-whispered, "I saw her in the church kitchen. She looked like a WASP auditioning for Song of Hiawatha.""Agatha," I said into the receiver, "what is it? Do you have some news? What's wrong?'Marla's eyes bulged. I shook my head firmly when she mouthed, "What? What?""I can't, I can't take it... " Agatha gagged, coughed, and let out a single sob. With great effort, she said, "Did you... I need to know if you... saw him." She burst into a fit of crying.""Saw him?" I was bewildered."What happened?" she sobbed. "Oh, God, I'm not going to make it. Oh, where is he?" She cried harder, and then her voice became distant when the phone thudded against a hard surface."Hello, who's this?" A male voice."This is Goldy the caterer. I was trying to talk to somebody.""This is Bob Preston. My wife coordinates the prayer list. As you can see, she is extremely upset. She'll have to call you later.""But, Agatha asked me if I saw somebody. Who was she talking about?"Bob Preston said: "I certainly don't know. My wife's beside herself. It would be in the best interest of the church if you cold just let her call you back."My frayed nerves snapped. I yelled, "Look, dammit - "But unlike most Episcopalians, Bob Preston had hung up.5"What a creep!" I screeched. "Get out the phone book," I raged at Marla. "I need to call back thePrestons. Agatha said she wasn't going to make it, and had I seen him, and then Bob just more or less told me to forget it, she'd have to call me back! Where is my stupid phone book?"Marla's eyebrows climbed toward the stratosphere. Telling Marla to forget something was her idea of denial of civil liberties. I scrounged wildly for, and then through, the thin Aspen Meadow phone book. No Preston. What about the church directory? I looked for it, but then remembered I had cleared that shelf to make way for Tom's cookbooks, which now lay in a disorganized pile above the counter. I had no clue to the directory's whereabouts.Marla clattered out teacups into the sink and turned on the faucet. I gave up looking for thePrestons' number and announced I was out of physical and emotional fuel. I had Tom Schulz to worry about. Had he ever mentioned Agatha Preston to me?"What is Bob doing now?" I demanded of Marla. I summoned up a mental image of BobPreston, oilman extraordinaire: With his puffed-out chest and thinning red hair, Preston always reminded me of an aging rooster, although he probably wasn't much past thirty. Over six feet, maybe six-feet-four, he had prominent cheekbones, a receding chin, and narrow lips. I said, "What happened to his oil business?"She began rinsing Tom's cups with their tiny stylized roses. ":Bob was riding high until the price of oil crashed in the mid-eighties. The price of natural gas hasn't gone anywhere either, so it was too expensive to explore. His company went belly-up year before last. They haven't called for you to cater lately, have they?"I put my hand on Tom's stove. "Caterers are always vulnerable to the vagaries of wider economic movements." MY voice sounded so morose it was clear that financial vulnerability was not the problem."Come on, I'm going to cheer you up," said Marla decisively. "You have to get your mind off these things. I'll tell you all the gossip about Bob and the Bob-projects. Not only do they includeHabitat for Humanity right here in your neighborhood, he's also heading this Sportsmen AgainstHunger group. They go out into the woods with six-packs and rifles with scopes and shoot elk, then donate the - shall we call them `proceeds'? - to Aspen Meadow Outreach. Now if you were a poor, hungry person, how would you feel about eating an elkburger? Do you have a recipe for such a thing? How about venison chili?"I shuddered. "I know about that group and the Habitat project. Just tell me who Agatha wanted to see."She gave me a look of determination. "Agatha is involved in everything down at the church. I don't know who she was referring to." She turned the last teacup over to drain on a towel and ran her fingers through her frizzled hair. "But you can bet I'm going to find out."Outside, the gears of the van ground as the tires crunched up the driveway. Julian had returned."Marla, I can't stand being out of it. I can't stand to just sit here by the telephone waiting for the police to call. I've got to do something."She sat down and squeezed my fingers, which were finally beginning to get warm. "Goldy, what you need to do is rest. Let Arch and Julian pamper you, if you're not going to come to my place."Julian, dressed in a secondhand wool overcoat that was much too big for his compact, muscled body, clomped inside and threw himself into a kitchen chair. Marla, who is happiest when people are eating, asked him if he wanted some tea and shortbread."No, thanks." The corners of his mouth quivered downward. His bleached Mohawk haircut was wildly askew, and the five o'clock shadow on his jaw made him look older than nineteen. He'd exchanged the rented tux for patched jeans and an oversized T-shirt distributed by a local roofing company that had gone out of business. The logo shrieked: The roof is the hairdo on a house!Think about it.Julian snorted. "I went by the church to see if there was anything else. I needed to pick up."He gestured with his thumb. "The wedding cake's in the van. I gotta freeze it. The people at the church told me what happened to Schulz. I can't believe it, man. Schulz is so fast, so smart, I'm like, you're kidding. Have you heard anything?"I said no and tried to appear pulled-together. Julian had suffered his own share of upheavals, starting when the boarding department at Elk Par Preparatory School, where he was a scholarship student, closed. We had both been live-in employees for a few ill-fated months at a wealthy couple's mansion, and when things fell apart there, Julian came to live with Arch and me. Less than two months away from graduating from Elk Park Prep, he was an excellent student, star swimmer, and ferociously good cook. He was desperate to get into Cornell so he could study food science.Eventually, he wanted to become the first vegetarian caterer from Bluff, Utah, to be written up inGourmet. I thought he had a good chance to get into Cornell, although I had my doubts about his aspirations for Gourmet. That, however, could wait, as it was the coming week that would bring the college acceptance and rejection news. Adding this to the wedding preparations had put Julian's anxiety into high gear. Still, Arch and I loved having him around, high anxiety or no. But now, withTom gone, the teenager would be impossible. I knew from sad experience that the emotionally volatile Julian became volcanic in the face of danger to those he loved."So what are the police doing about Schulz?" he demanded when I didn't answer immediately. He glowered at me as if this were somehow my fault. "I mean, do they, like, know who snatched him, or what?"I patiently explained that a concentration of law-enforcement types were prowling about atOlson's house the way they were searching the church, that they had found some things of Tom's and a note containing abbreviations nobody could decipher. Julian chewed on his knuckles when I said Tom's note seemed to be his catalogue of events up to the moment he was abducted by somebody whose identity we did not yet know.My personal phone line rang; I snatched it. "What?""Uh, Goldy? This is Father Doug Ramsey, and I need to talk to you about... some church matters. First, of course, I am concerned about you. How are you doing?""Terribly, Doug. Sorry, I can't talk now. I'm trying to keep my phone lines open for the police.""Well. This will just take a minute. It's about the meeting next week, and the food - "I put my hand over the mouthpiece and hissed at Marla, "Get rid of Father Doug for me, will you? Quickly?"Marla puckered her lips, then took the receiver. "This is Goldilocks' Catering and we can't talk now." But instead of hanging up - she was, after all, a cradle Episcopalian - she listened toDoug Ramsey launch into one of his long strings of words: explanations, queries, thoughts. I whispered a prayer that the police would do an operator interrupt if there was news."What do you mean, abbreviations? What kind of notes are you talking about?" Julian asked me in a conspiratorial tone."Just his notes on what was happening when he arrived out at Olson's place. They think it was to help him remember." I looked questioningly at Marla, who still held the phone to her ear.Marla shook her head and told Doug Ramsey to hold on. To me she said, "He's saying BobPreston called him after Agatha phoned here. He wants to know if you want Schulz put on the prayer list.""Of course," I said. "Please tell him I have to leave this line open for the cops, so don't let him go on and on with exaggerated descriptions and hyperbolic worries." Which was preciselyFather Doug Ramsey's style, unfortunately.Marla returned to the phone. After a minute, she said, "no, no, no, I'm sure she won't...She's under too much stress, that's why." Again she put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Did this guy flunk pastoral theology or what?" she whispered. Doug's voice still droned through the receiver;Marla smiled widely. "Doug," she told him loudly, "you can find another caterer." More muffled protests were followed by "All right, I'll ask." She turned to me. "Father Insensitive wants to know if you're still going to cater the Board of Theological Examiners' meetings starting Tuesday night. And attend, too, since you're a member, that's what he says he's upset about, can't get another qualified laywoman on such short notice, and especially with Olson gone, they just won't have enough people to do the examining. Or so he claims. He says it'll help you get your mind off your other crises. Although I think he's more worried about food, if you want to know the truth.""Goldy, you can't," Julian began fervently, "not when you're going through this other mess.Tell them I'll do it."`I agree," said Marla, her hand still clasped over the mouthpiece. "The police will want to talk to you - ""Tell him I don't know yet," I interrupted firmly. "The meeting's in three days - he can wait until tomorrow for a decision." Besides, I added mentally, Father Olson had been head of the Board of Theological Examiners I owed doing this catering to him, and perhaps cooking for the board would keep me from obsessing about Schulz.Resigned, Marla spoke quietly into the phone, then hung up. When Julian asked if I wanted him to fix dinner, Marla replied with a snicker that Father Doug had said the Altar Guild was sending in meals. Starting tonight."Oh, wow," Julian muttered as he raked his mown blond hair with his short fingers. "Tuna fish and cream of mushroom soup.""Don't be ungrateful," Marla chided. "I've brought you frozen zucchini quiche, your own mini- wheel of Camembert, and spinach tortellini. And there's Beef Wellington for the carnivores. Not to mention that you still have plenty of wedding goodies tucked away in your refrigerator. You can munch on those for as long as - "Wedding goodies. I put my head into my hands. I know he loved you Loves. Julian andMarla simultaneously lunged forward to hug me, which only made matters worse."I didn't mean to, I really didn't." Marla's voice choked with guilt near my ear. "At least let me take you out tonight, Goldy. There's no point staying around here.""I need to be near the phones," I said for what felt like the hundredth time. "But thanks,Marla. Please. Julian, if it'll make you feel better to cook, go ahead."With a wild and angry energy, Julian began to bang around the kitchen. Arch appeared from the TV room and asked for an update. When we told him there was none, he assessed the two glum adults and one manic teenager, then announced he was going back to finish watching his show. After a while, Marla said she would go home and make some calls for me, to let people know what was going on so that they wouldn't tie up my line with their dumb questions. But she would stay if we needed her, she offered hopefully. I assured her we would be fine. When she left, I went to find Arch.In the spare bedroom that we used as a recreation space, Arch had the television on but was lying face-up on the tartan plaid couch. When he turned to me, I knew he was assessing my mood, the way he had as a child. He seemed to be wondering: How should I react to this crisis? IfMom is upset, I should be upset."I'm going to be all right," I said to his unspoken question. "Are you?"He groaned. His gray sweatsuit was pleated in a rumpled mass that he didn't bother to straighten. He avoided my eyes. "Mom, how soon do you think the police will call?"I turned the television off and sat in the matching plaid chair. "Very soon. They're going to bring me a copy of the note, and some things of Tom's."Arch paused, mulling something over. Finally he heaved himself up."What is it, Arch?"His thin chest and shoulders collapsed with a loud, disgusted sigh. Lying on the couch had flattened his hair straight up at the cowlick. "You really don't think he could have decided to, like, run away, do you? Maybe he just didn't want to... you know, I'm not saying it's you, Mom... maybe he just was afraid of all of us being together. In a family. Maybe he just didn't want to get married," he concluded fiercely.I waited until Arch looked at me, then I took one of his cool hands. "This is what I believe: that they'll find him. That he wants to be a family with us more than anything."Arch's eyes had gone from narrow to vacant; clearly, he was doubtful."Please, hon, won't you come eat? You haven't had a regular meal all day."Arch shook his head and pulled his hand away. "I don't' think I should eat until they findTom Schulz.""Please. Don't do this. Julian's working like crazy out there to make a nice meal for you.And you know Tom would want you to take care of yourself." He didn't move. "Please, Arch."He got up. With bleary eyes, he pushed past me down the hall to the kitchen.Our dinner consisted of Julian's idea of comfort food: a spicy frittata served wit his own heated sourdough rolls, a fruit cup, and a complex salad of tomatoes, scallions, lettuce, crushed corn chips, and grated cheddar and Jack cheeses, all coated with a thick, smooth avocado dressing. I recognized this guacamole concoction as a specialty of Tom's. Julian had retrieved the recipe from the overstuffed square plastic file that I'd forgotten was on a shelf where Tom's cookbooks were piled on top of mine. I wondered if the card file had any abbreviations in it VM? B. -Read - Judas? P.R.A.Y.? Not likely.The boys exchanged a worried look when I stopped moving food around on my plate and brought Tom's recipe box up to my nose, inhaled deeply, then dumped the whole mass of handprinted recipes out onto the table. The spattered, yellowed cards smelled faintly of Tom's kitchen. It was an inviting, high-ceilinged room in the log home he had been about to vacate, after much discussion, to live in town with us. I reached for a card: Monster Cinnamon Rolls. His handwriting. And then a note in another, more recent pen: Try for G. I couldn't bear it; I turned it over and left the cards in an untidy pile.The frittata and salad, unfortunately, merely assuaged hunger, which was by this time severe. Worse, I was unable to offer comfort in the area Arch and Julian most needed it: answers to their questions. First they wanted to be told - again - every detail of Tom's disappearance. I hesitated discussing my time in the meadow by Olson's house, with its memories of the shrouded corpse and the police tramping dutifully about, looking for clues. But Arch, who had eaten only a forkful o frittata, and Julian, who was digging into his third helping, would tolerate no avoidance on my part. They wanted to hear it all, as if such knowledge could give order to the sudden loss of the big-bodied, bog-hearted police officer whom they had both come to love. I did not mention that it looked as if Tom had been injured on the stony bank of the creek. Julian pushed his plate away and looked at me quizzically."What about before the church?" he persisted. "Didn't Schulz, you know, call you this morning? And what about Father Olson? Is stuff missing from his house? I mean, if there is, why would some guy rob him, then shoot him down by the creek instead of just knocking him out and taking off?""Tom Schulz did not call before we left for the church this morning," I said, remembering the hassle of getting my garment bag, the ring, and all the food platters into the van. "And as to the why with Father Olson, I don't know. That's what the investigative team is supposed to be working on."Some kind of resolve was forming. And what I'm going to find out, I added mentally.Arch put down his fork. I was not up to telling him to finish what was on his plate. He said,"I want to see the note from him. I have some books of codes. Maybe I could look the abbreviations up."Exasperated, Julian got up and began to clear the table. "Arch," he said as he clanked dishes into the sink, "if he'd known somebody was watching him, he would have pulled out his gun, not written a message to us in stupid code." He threw open the door to the commercial dishwasher that had just cost me over a thousand dollars. The heavy door made a cracking sound as it bounced in place."Oh, yeah?" hollered Arch. His face flushed with anger. "Where d'you suppose he packed his piece? Inside his tuxedo with the ring he was going to give to Mom?" Arch glowered at Julian, who rudely ignored him as he dumped plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. "If I want to look up codes, I will! I'm allowed!""Guys," I begged, "please. Not now." I made a sudden decision. Pushing my chair out from the table, I snatched the van keys. "I'm going back to the church." To the two pairs of suddenly fearful eyes, I said, "Don't sweat it. I'm just going to pick up his wedding ring."It was bitterly cold outside. The wind had picked up and was whirling snow off the ground like fanned smoke. The van growled in protest when I gunned it toward Main Street. The church parking lot was empty, which is what you'd expect at 6:30 on a Saturday evening. I hopped out of the van, walked carefully across the slippery frozen gravel, and pulled on one of the two main doors to St. Luke's. It was unlocked - so much for ecclesiastical security. On the shadowed altar, the pallid petal of my bridal flowers glimmered like leftover funeral arrangements. Gritting my teeth, I allowed the door to swing shut and trotted around the long way, up past the columbarium construction. I was panting by the time I arrived at the church office building.That office door wasn't just unlocked: it was partially open. Tom, be with me, I prayed silently as I tried to catch my breath. I whacked the door open with my foot."Hello?" I called as I stepped boldly over the threshold. "What the hell - ?"At first, I was so shocked I could not register what I saw. Within seconds, however, dismay replaced surprise. The office had been vandalized.The sawhorses leading to the renovation area lay in pieces on the desk. On the floor, papers from the secretary's files had been dumped every which way. Her phone had been pulled from the wall and smashed. Hymnals and prayer books were spewed on top of the disorder of pipes, and the couch on which I had sat with Helen Keene that afternoon had been slashed. Gouts of foam rubber lay everywhere."I can't believe this," I muttered. The old floor creaked as I tiptoed through the devastation toTed Olson's office. If whoever had done this had stolen Tom's wedding ring... My skin prickled with rage. I knew I was a little crazed. But no one was going to take that away from me, too.Olson's office was - if possible - even more of a mess. Not only had the phone been broken to smithereens, but the contents of upended file drawers had been spilled over the floor. So much for the police searching through them for the meaning of VM, B., and P.R.A.Y. The bookshelves were empty - all the volumes were on the floor. The vandal had spared the Leonardo reproduction, although it now hung at a grotesque tilt. The bulletin board had crashed to the floor.The ring, I thought. What did you do with the ring, you bastard?There was a sudden shuffling. I screamed and grabbed a heavy book. Something - a trash can lid? - banged. Out the office window, I could dimly see a raccoon shambling away from the building. I collapsed onto a chair, certain I was about to have a heart attack."Dammit! Where is the ring?" I said aloud.And then I remembered that I had brought it in the pocket of my streetclothes. They had fallen from their hook when I'd heaved a hymnal at the wall. I stepped over the debris until I came to the plain brown cotton dress that still lay in a rumpled heap. Kneeling, I fumbled in the pocket and experienced a cold wave of relief when my fingers closed around the velvet-covered box from AspenMeadow Jewelers.I pulled it out and opened it. The thick gold band that was to have been Tom's glistened in the fading light. I popped the box shut, stood, and stepped quickly over the chaos. Clutching the precious ring box, I ran back to my van.6The van wheezed against the cold as I raced home. Back in my kitchen, I ignored Julian's vociferous inquiries and called the Sheriff's Department. Yes, I insisted to Dispatch's toneless question, it was an emergency. Dispatch put me through to Calloway; I told her about the ransacked church office. She thanked me, said Boyd was on his way up to my house anyway, and that she'd send a team over to the church. I hung up.