"Man, Goldy, I can't believe, you went inside when you saw the place was trashed." Julian slapped one of his schoolbooks open on the table and glared at me. "Don't you think that was, you know, dangerous?" I mean, you really ought to think about taking care of yourself, don't you think?And no offense, but you look terrible." Upstairs, water gushed into Arch's bathtub. I looked around the spotlessly clean kitchen. In his usual methodical way, Julian had finished the dishes, set Arch on his evening routine, and now sat leaning back in one of the kitchen chairs. Even though it wasSaturday night, he'd brought out some work to do. Julian despised inactivity - for himself, anyway."I think you should stay home," he advised. "You know, just wait for the cops to call." He shifted the chair to balance at a precarious angle and crossed his arms impatiently. "So. Did you get the ring or what?""Yes, I got the ring. And I don't normally think of the church office building in the early evening being a dangerous spot," I replied stiffly. But in light of the day's event, Julian was right. I was about to show him the ring box when something under the shelf of Tom's cookbooks caught my eye. In the spot where Julian usually upended drying pots and pans, he had cleared the counter and spread one of his bandanas. On to of the bandana was Tom's recipe box; on to of the box was a small pile of what looked like potting soil."Julian? Is that dirt on my counter?"His face turned sheepish. Well, yeah. Kinda.""Are we into voodoo here or what?""I figure you need to cover all the bases.""Julian? What base is this? The one under home plate?"He slammed the chair down onto the floor, sprang over to where I stood, and pointed at the mound. "This is dirt from Chimay¢," he announced, as if that would explain everything.I know Chimay¢ is in New Mexico," I said. MY patience was wearing thin. "And I know it's famous for its chili powder. But you're going to have to enlighten me on the dirt."Julian rubbed two fingers across his sparse hedgerow of bleached hair. "It's, you know... like magic. People make pilgrimages to the sanctuary at Chimay¢ because the dirt has this.... special healing power. The Indians thought so, and they were in that spot first, you know. Then theSpanish Christians said it was miraculous too, so they built this sanctuary place. So when the swim team went to Santa Fe for a meet, I went over with some of the guys. You just scoop the dirt out of this big hole. I figured if the Indians and the Christians thought it was powerful stuff, then I should get some too, in case I ever needed it. So now I want to use it." Avoiding my eyes, he reached out to press his fingers lightly into the earth. "For Tom."I was touched. Before I could think of something appropriately grateful to say, Arch joined us. He was wearing an enormous white terrycloth bathrobe Tom had given him. His wet brown hair stuck out like pine needles. He said, "Was the ring at the church?""Yes, hon. But somebody had broken into the church office. It was a mess.""Oh, gosh." Arch stood beside me, bleakly silent. "Mom?" he said finally, his voice serious."I've been thinking. The next time you go out investigating, I'm coming with you." I exhaled thoughtfully; it was nice to know I had both a twelve-year-old and a nineteen-year-old intent on mothering me. "What in the world is that?" He was looking at the pile of dirt."Something of Julian's. He can tell you all about it."Julian began, "It's from Chimay¢ - ""Oh, yes," said Arch knowledgeably, "I know all about Chimay¢ from Stories of the Weird.But Mom? If the Health Inspector pays a surprise visit and sees that? You are going to get into so much trouble."Before I could protest, the front doorbell rang. We all bolted for it. It was Boyd. Behind him stood Helen Keene, carrying another overstuffed Hefty bag. Their bleak faces said they had not found Tom. I ushered them into my living room, where Boyd handed me a photocopy of Tom's note and a plastic bag containing his wallet and the other wedding ring box, sodden from being in the creek. With soft-spoken composure, Helen asked if she could meet with Arch and Julian one-on- one, to see if the needed someone to talk to. She'd brought them quilts, too. Julian replied by asking her if she was hungry. Without waiting for a reply, he led her out to the kitchen. Arch muttered that he didn't want a quilt if it looked as if it belonged to a girl, and traipsed along behind.Boyd declined food, although he looked longingly in the direction of the kitchen. I told him about the mess at the church office and that I'd called the Sheriff's Department."Damn it to hell," he said angrily as he sat on the living room couch. He had changed into a bright green down parka that did not go with his uniform pants. From his uniform shirt pocket that had at least four ballpoints hooked on it, he drew out a pen and his battered spiral notebook. It was similar to the one Tom Schulz had tossed into the bushes. With his free hand, Boyd surreptitiously slid a wooden match into the side of his mouth. "You want to tell me what was in the church office?I mean, do you know anything someone would want to rip off? Or conceal, maybe?'I told him that the tickets and chokers were supposed to be at Olson's house, not in the church office. Boyd had already heard plenty, he said, about the necklaces from both Marla ("that big, bunny woman") and Lucille Boatwright ("hysterical battle-ax"). I showed him the wedding ring I had retrieved. The church office contained an appointment book, notes, and files, too, I added, butOlson was such a packrat, only someone who knew exactly where to look for something would be able to find it. And that was before someone broke in and trashed the place.Boyd stopped scribbling in his notebook and picked up the ring box. "I wanted to come to your wedding," he said with a remote sadness. He handed me back the box. "But I pulled weekend duty."With the other crises hanging over us, neither Boyd nor I wanted to talk about the possibility of rescheduling. Instead, assuming a crisp tone, he rant through the names of Olson's neighbors. None had seen anything this morning but nondescript cars coming down UpperCottonwood Creek Road. Hard to believe that this was all the same day, that it was only this morning that Olson had been killed. Yes, Boyd was saying, the neighbors had heard two shots, but in rural Colorado, you heard shots all the time.Boyd's tired brown eyes gave me a level, detached gaze beneath black eyebrows that stood up like magnetic filings. "I'm telling you this, Goldy, because it's our policy to keep the next- of-kin informed of every detail when there's a kidnapping. And something I tell you might jog your memory or make you remember some detail that could help. Try to concentrate, and then let me know."I rubbed my temples and wondered how many times in his career Boyd had asked distracted and grieving folks to concentrate. The neighbors had heard shots. The common experience of hearing gunfire was true even in my own neighborhood off Aspen Meadow's MainStreet. Coloradans waste no time blowing away anything bothersome, from garden snakes to woodpeckers to bears; ecologists be damned.Helen reappeared with her customary silence and sat down next to the cold fireplace. Boyd snapped his ballpoint open and closed several times, then asked if he could run a few things by me.I murmured that I wanted to be helpful.He flipped through several crumpled pages of his notebook. "There doesn't seem to be anything missing from Olson's place. At least, nothing that we can tell, like a stereo ripped out of the wall, or pearls gone from a jewelry box. But you're right, the guy was a packrat. Looks as if he kept every piece of mail since the time he moved there. But the audio equipment, computer, church supplies - plates and goblets and stuff made out of gold, silver, brass - all look untouched. We're not sure what the guy had in the first place. But I'll tell you this," he said as he chewed furiously on the match, "I don't want a bunch of churchwomen traipsing around in there looking for jewelry while we're conducting an investigation."I thought of Olson's living room with its shelves of thick books, its ornate sacramental vessels - called paten and chalices, not plates and goblets - and his mantelpiece with its beautifully carved crŠche from Santa Fe. I wondered if Olson ever made a pilgrimage to Chimay¢.Boyd shifted his bulk, tapped his notebook, and said thoughtfully, "Anyway, especially after this church break-in, we can't completely rule out burglary as a motive. Or somebody trying to destroy something. Here's one thing that's puzzling us: Olson's Mercedes started right up. He didn't have car trouble. So why d'you think he'd call Schulz to pick him up?"Involuntarily, I thought back to the silly disagreement Tom and I had in last night's counseling session with Olson. Did any other couples argue about whether marriage lasted into the afterlife? Did they argue about it the night before their wedding? Probably not."Maybe," I said, then hesitated, imagining Olson's desire to deal with conflict. He tried to bring about reconciliation no matter what. That was his way. Had been. "Maybe Olson wanted to talk to Tom before the wedding," I ventured, "To reassure him that everything was going to be all right." I sighed. "I blew a gasket in front of both of them after our supper last night. Maybe Olson felt the only way Tom would accept some pasturing before the wedding was by pretending to have car trouble." I knew better than Boyd how reluctant Tom Schulz had been to see Father Ted Olson for counseling. Shrinks, he'd muttered, they can drive you crazy in court. I'd told him Father Olson wasn't a shrink, he was a priest. A religious shrink, Tom had grumbled. But in the course of our sessions together, Father Olson had insinuated himself into Tom's affections. Olson had genuinely admired Tom's powers of observation; he even professed envy of Tom's ability to bring about justice.All he ever go tot do, Olson complained, was forgive people.Boyd interrupted my thoughts. "Blew a gasket about what?""Oh... just some dumb thing about marriage vows lasting forever. I was stressed out."Boyd puckered his lips and shrugged. "Olson could have just talked to him at the wedding.""No, there wouldn't have been time. Do you think Tom's disappearance has anything to do with needing to be in court next week? Someone involved in the case who needed him to conveniently disappear?"Boyd shook his head. "Nah, it's a forger. The guy's still in jail, I checked. And no known accomplices. About your theory of the reverend wanting to talk to Schulz before the wedding MaybeOlson was afraid of something. Didn't want to tell Schulz his fear over the phone. So he got Schulz out there with a fairy tale about car trouble. Maybe he wanted Schulz for protection from somebody.Was Father Olson having problems?"":What kind of problems?""Woman problems. Money problems. Church problems. You tell me."My fingers brushed over the moist crushed velvet of the box that held my wedding band. I felt my heart compress, the way that air become more dense when the temperature suddenly drops.Boyd scowled. "Goldy. He was your priest, he'd been at your parish for three years You must have known how he was doing."I held the velvet ring box tightly. "There are a number of different groups within our church.One is the Old Guard. That would include priests like our former rector, Father Pinckney, and people like Lucille Boatwright, head of the Altar Guild and Art and Architecture Committee, andZelda Preston, who was our organist. Emphasis on the was. Olson had just fired Zelda, and knowing how much he hated conflict, that must have been painful.""Oh yeah? Zelda Preston?" Boyd wrote in his notebook. "What'd he ax her for?""They fought continually over the music. He would pick the hymns and she would change them without telling him." I stopped, uncertain of how to elaborate. "Father Olson was a charismatic, which means he wanted people to have a personal relationship with the lord. The kind of music he favored was sort of, `Jesus Loves Me' set to folk music. The Old Guard, on the other hand, prefers, say, `A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.' "Boyd stopped writing and raised his eyebrows. The match drooped from the side of his mouth. "That's it? Changed hymns? The Old Guard guards the hymns?""Well... not exactly. When it comes to Zelda, I mean."There was a silence in which Boyd drummed his knee with his free hand."Okay, look," I went on. "I know what I know about Zelda because we were in a Lenten discussion group together when we were both going through some difficult times." Privacy was a precious thing, and little of it survived exposure, especially at church meetings. In a small town, gossip was the weapon of choice in destroying your enemies. And Zelda had been my friend.Boyd grunted. "I'm trying to find Schulz, not write an article for the local paper.""Don't even mention that local paper to me.""Goldy!" interjected Helen Keene. They were her first words since she'd rejoined us from the kitchen. "For heaven's sake!"All right, all right." I pause. "It was five years ago. We were discussing something very innocuous, a book called In the Wilderness, and Father Pinckney was the leader. I went because I was depressed about the awful state of my marriage, and had to get out of the house. I figured a daytime church discussion group would be kind of nice." I held out my hands in a helpless gesture."one day Zelda very unexpectedly broke down. You see, she had two sons. One is Bob Preston, who is a parishioner at the church. His wife's name is Agatha.""Yeah, I want to talk to you about her," Boyd said. "But go ahead.""Zelda's other son, Mark, had leukemia. Mark was the swimming coach at Elk Park Prep, and he was married to Sarah Preston, who lives in Elk Park with their son Ian, who was twelve at the time." I looked out my front window. But instead of seeing the cold night, I pictured Zelda's gray braid wobbling on top of her head as her body shook with sobs. "On Ash Wednesday of that year,Mark, who was in his mid-twenties and had had the leukemia for about six months, went into a coma in a hospital in Denver. What kept him alive while he was comatose were the daily blood transfusions Sarah had to okay. After a couple of weeks of this, I guess Sarah just decided she'd had enough. So she refused the daily transfusion."I fell silent. Boyd and Helen were staring at me."Mark Preston died within hours." I brushed unseen lint off my sweatsuit, feeling my eyes fill with tears. "Zelda wasn't at the hospital. No one consulted her about stopping the transfusions. She didn't get to say good-bye to Mark.""My Lord," murmured Helen."That wasn't the end of it," I said softly "At our book discussion group, Zelda blurted out thatSarah had killed her son. She would never forgive her for that. She said she wanted Sarah out of her life forever."Boyd and Helen Keene were silent. "And the grandson?" Helen finally asked. "Ian?""Zelda wrote off the grandson, too. She was just so angry.l.. " I sighed. "Anyway, Sarah eventually remarried. I heard her new husband is a Catholic, and the three of them go to the catholic church. From all the accounts around town, Zelda hasn't seen or spoke to Sarah or Ian in, well, five years."Boyd tapped his notebook. "So how does this relate to Olson?""I'm getting to that. At the discussion group," I sand reluctantly, "no one knew how to react o Zelda's outburst. Father Pinckney just shriveled up. I mean, the old fellow looked as if he could have crawled under a rock. And of course, the rest of the women were aghast. You have to understand, members of the Old Episcopal Guard never, ever, ever spill their guts in front of a group.""But you were there," Helen prompted."Yes. I was there." Indeed. "I almost didn't go to the meeting that day. My head was throbbing from the whack John Richard - my ex-husband - had given me after he broke my thumb in three places the previous week. My hand was in a cast. When Zelda told her story and began to weep, I felt so bad, I cried with her. Despite the stupid cast, I put my arms around her and held her."I took a deep breath and thought back. "I guess everyone else was embarrassed. They left. No one even said a word. Hours later, it was just Zelda and me, sitting next to each other in our folding chairs, sniffling. When it was almost time for Arch to come home on the schoolbus, I insisted she drink a cup of instant coffee that I fixed in the church kitchen. After Zelda took a few sips, LucilleBoatwright suddenly appeared to drive her back home."Boyd asked, "So did you and Zelda become friends?""Zelda spent the next two weeks sending me casseroles and discount swim coupons forArch. But she and I never talked about what had happened again.""Not meaning to be rude, Goldy," Boyd continued patiently, "but I'm still wondering what this has to do with Olson, since this happened during the time of the other priest.""Zelda was the organist. After Mark died, playing the music, and doting on her other son,Bob, and his wife, Agatha, became Zelda's whole life, even though Bob and Agatha are charismatics and supported having Olson as the new rector after Pinckney retired. Anyway, inFather Pinckney's time, Zelda picked the hymns. She also ran the choir and every aspect of the church's music. Then Olson came. He appealed to a whole different group in the church. He wanted the music changed, and technically, according to the church law, he was the one in charge of the services. So he and Zelda fought. And fought and fought and fought." I shook my head, remembering some of the acrimonious exchanges."Did they talk about this.... problem with the son who died?" Boyd asked."Oh, yes," I replied. "Remember, Olson hated conflict. He said he wanted everybody to have a personal relationship with Jesus and be reconciled to each other. According to Marla, who hears everything, Zelda and Olson weren't having any reconciliation in their weekly shouting matches.Supposedly it was over the hymns. Bu the rumor was that their conflict went much deeper, that he wanted to force her to make up with her widowed daughter-in-law. Zelda told him to mind his own beeswax. She had the Old Guard on her side though," I added, "when it came to the music.""Why's that?""Look. The Old Guard just doesn't want anything changed from the way the Episcopal church was when they were little. As long a there are fund-raising luncheons, gold courses, and the1928 prayer book, they're happy."Boyd chewed on his match and wrote some notes. The inviting smell of popcorn wafted out of the kitchen. "Besides Zelda Preston, did these Old Guard people dislike Olson?""They did. Lucille is building a columbarium she intends to dedicate to Father Pinckney. I think she believes when it's done, he'll come out of retirement and be our rector again."Boyd muttered sarcastically, "I don't know if I'd want to return to a church with an ash cemetery dedicated to me. What a place. I thought this was where everybody loved each other. You know, sing songs and give money to the poor?"I said quietly, "You haven't been to church for a while.""Yeah, maybe I'll go, and you can take me. All right, just a couple more questions. DidOlson get along with his assistant, this Doug Ramsey?'Julian appeared with huge bowls heaped with hot buttered popcorn. The fragrance filled the living room, and I gestured to Helen and Boyd to help themselves."I guess they got along," I said after I thanked Julian and he disappeared. "Doug's on theBoard of Theological Examiners." I cast around to remember in what other contexts I had seenDoug Ramsey work. He was involved in diocesan work and was Olson's liaison with the AspenMeadow Habitat for Humanity. I told this to Boyd."Yeah, we know that. We also heard Ramsey was the bishop's spy."`What?" I was nonplussed. Father Insensitive, with his overtalkative, exaggerating way and his lists of things to do, a spy? Spying on what? Or whom?Somehow, Boyd had rid himself of the match. He took a handful of popcorn, ate quickly, and said, "We heard that the bishop thought Olson was out in left field and moving toward the wall.As in going, going, gone, bye-bye Episcopal Church, hello new denomination." He scooped up more popcorn, ate it, and reflected. "So tell me. Is moving out of your sedate church's ballpark the kind of thing people would kill for? I know, you say, you have to look at the different groups." There was still and edge of sarcasm in his voice."Look," I said with more ferocity than I intended, "let me give you an example of the kind of thing that can happen in our oh-so-sedate church. On the national level, we had a prolonged and very public fight over the ordination of women to the priesthood. After that was approved, there was an incident at an Episcopal church. A man came up to the altar and tried to strangle a female priest administering communion. He didn't protest, he didn't go to another church, he tried to strangle a woman he did not know. He screamed, `You bitch, I hate you, what do you think you're trying to do?' "Unmoved, Boyd said, "But Olson wasn't a woman. This is different. Or is it? Which group did the strangler belong to?"My face was hot after my outburst. I grasped the ring box and tried to summon up TomSchulz's calm. "I don't know whether it's different, that's the whole problem. I'd say the would-be strangler was part of the Old Guard. Did Doug Ramsey tell you he was a spy?"Boyd grinned. "Of course not. You know anything about the financial status of your parish?'I said that as far as I knew, the parish had typical financial problems. Typical in what way,Boyd wanted to know. Different church groups wanted money for their projects; there was never enough to go around. There was some squabbling over funds. But Marla had said giving was up.Boyd's eyes narrowed. `Year before last, your parish had a gross income of a hundred thousand. Last year it was a hundred-twenty thou, pretty good growth rate in a recession, but a couple of invalids left money to the parish when they died. Year to date - we're talking a little over four months - the church's income was three hundred thousand dollars. This isn't Olson's dough, mind you, it belongs to the parish. Could that be something the bishop would be interested in?"A dry laugh crackled in my throat. "If the parish was doing that well, and the diocesan office knew about it, I'm surprised they didn't send up a dozen priests to spy."Boyd said, "one of the women told me that all the money was coming in because there was some magical healing stuff going on here. That Olson was the founder or perpetrator, and people were paying to get a piece of that magic.""Miraculous claims aren't typical of our church." Unlike Chimay¢, I wanted to add, but didn't. "Then again, neither are today's events.""So you don't know anything about the money coming from some miracle agenda?' When I shrugged, Boyd continued. "Okay, two more questions. I need to know what you know about this" - he flipped a page in his notebook and scanned it - "candidate for holy order." He said the unfamiliar words slowly. "Named Mitchell Hartley. Guy wants to be a priest," he summarized. "Flunked the oral exam for the priesthood last year. We hear Olson was behind the flunking."I told them what I knew of Harley, whose chief distinction as one of the charismatic parishioners was his vehement opposition to Lucille's columbarium project. Idolatry, Hartley had fumed at the parish meeting, his face flushed, his mass of red hair quivering. Do you think the Lord would have wanted a columbarium? I knew Father Olson had urged the Board of TheologicalExaminers to flunk Hartley last year. I did not know why. "Mitchell Hartley goes to the second service at our church," I said. "I don't really know him very well."Boyd pulled in his stomach with a noisy breath. "Well, we're looking into that. Lots of money, miraculous healings, a candidate who was flunked. Now about this Agatha Preston - "But before he could elaborate, his beeper went off, and he asked to use the kitchen phone.When he trundled back into the living room two minutes later, he had put his notebook and pen away. "We'll have to talk more about this tomorrow, Goldy. The team is done over at the church, and they want to go out to Schulz's place tonight, to see if he left any notes by his phone, or anything else that could help us out. We still have his keys from the creek."Trancelike, I mumbled an okay. Boyd and Helen Keene moved awkwardly toward my front door. Helen dropped down on one knee and retrieved the victim-assistance quilt I'd once again inadvertently dropped on the floor. It was splotched with mud. Helen asked if I wanted her to wash it.I thanked her and said please give it to someone else; I had plenty of blankets. She folded the quilt, draped it over her arm, and gave me an affectionate, unexpectedly lovely smile. They would both be in touch, she assured me, and I should call if I needed anything. The front door closed quietly behind them.I sat there in my silent living room and thought back to the cold March afternoon I'd spent with Zelda Preston and her pain. Lucille Boatwright had led Zelda slowly through the church doors, her arm around her slumped shoulders. I'd taken Zelda's untouched cup of coffee back to the parish kitchen. The powdered creamer was still lumpy and floated on top. Because of my cast, I hadn't been able to stir it in.7Still gripping the jewelry box, I moved over to a chair next to unopened boxes transported fromTom's place along with his oven. I put my hand on the cardboard and stared at the cold ashes in the fireplace. Remember, o man, that dust thou art, and to dust shalt thou return, Olson had solemnly proclaimed over each of us at the Ash Wednesday service, just as he dipped his finger into ashes and made the sign of the cross on our foreheads. He'd been more than Marla's assessment: a cute charismatic. He had been knowledgeable and kind; his faith was heartfelt. Olson had even charmed his way into Tom Schulz's heart. And now Father Ted Olson was dead. My chest ached.I forced myself to get up and stow the two ring boxes and Tom's wallet in my china buffet. I allowed myself only a moment of what-could-have-been: In my mind's eye, I saw Olson smiling over us asTom slid the ring on my finger. This was supposed to have been our wedding night. A terrible emptiness descended on me.Julian and Arch, their torsos wrapped in blue diamond-patterned victim-assistance quilts, were finishing up a bowl of popcorn in the kitchen. Giving me a guilty look, Julian untangled himself and used the business line to make his overdue call to Beaver Creek, canceling Tom's and my hotel reservations. Arch asked politely to see the page of Tom's notes. I quickly penned a copy for myself, then gave the photocopied sheet to him.The moon had risen, the boys had gone to bed, and it was past midnight by the time I had worked my way through all of Tom Schulz's boxes looking for letters, files or journals - anything with abbreviations, Feeling a pang of guilt for invading his privacy, I checked Tom's wallet, which had my business card and Julian's and Arch's school photos in it. In the boxes, I was rewarded only with bank statements, tax returns, and old bills. Maybe the police would find something out atTom's cabin or in the trashed church office that offered a clue, for I surely hadn't.Outside, the air was still fiercely cold and windy. Wearily, I backtracked to the kitchen, where Scout the cat meowed insistently to be fed. In all the confusion, I had forgotten the poor feline, whom I now moved carefully from the food prep area. While Scout tilted his head appraisingly, I ripped open a packet of cat food and dumped it into his dish. But it was not enough.After a few dainty mouthfuls, Scout sought affection by throwing himself on his furry spine on the kitchen floor. I rubbed his stomach and told him that we both should get some sleep. My eyes burned and my head throbbed. Waiting had never been my long suit.I longed to get out my electric blanket, turn it to high, and sleep. But sleeping in a warm bed? I couldn't do it, it would be betraying Tom, who probably was neither warm nor comfortable. I thought of his handsome face with its penetrating green eyes, of his body with its warm folds of flesh that I had come to love. When I tried to rest on the living room couch, the wind whistled down the chimney flue and through the moulding around the picture window. Propelling myself off the cushions at three o'clock. I returned to the kitchen to do the one thing that had ever helped me cope with anxiety: cook.I was glad I'd dumped out all of Tom's recipes before Julian made a dirt-covered shrine out of the box that had held them. The directions for Monster Cinnamon Rolls beckoned. Try for ,. Tom written. Scout, happy to see me again, and ever hopeful for a snack, twined between my legs as I melted butter in milk, proofed yeast, and beat eggs. The recipe made a large batch, which would do for the first church service, that was now only a few hours away. Would the person who kidnappedTom come to church? Could it really be someone from the church? I hoped not. So much for ThouShalt Not Kill.I kneaded the sweet dough vigorously. Because of Boyd's questions about St. Luke's, I found my mind wandering back to the Episcopal parishes of my childhood. My father's business ventures brought us to town after town with the same sign, The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.No matter where our family lived, there was the same church built of stone, with the same stony people inside. The priest had always been a faraway man with his back to a congregation that recited the same prayers and sang the same hymns no matter where you went. Those priests were a far cry from the smiling, disheveled, folk music-loving and sympathetic-to-everybody FatherTheodore Olson. In the old days, Sunday School walls boasted pictures of a Jesus who looked more like a blond fellow in a nightgown than a rabble-rousing first-century Palestinian. In those days, the women's church groups held fund-raising events; the men's groups went on retreats' the youth groups caroled upper-class neighborhoods at Christmas.You never had a murder.I pounded out the air bubbles from the risen dough, rolled it into a long, thin rectangle, then slathered on softened butter mixed with brown sugar and cinnamon. The wind whistled around the back doorjamb; I recalled a particular windy moving day from my childhood, when I'd tearfully said good-bye to neighborhood and Sunday School friends before our family settled in New Jersey. I often suspected the reason I'd fallen in love at twenty with John Richard Korman was that he had the baby-faced features, blond-brown hair, and affecting smile of a Sunday School friend whose name I had forgotten.I quickly rolled the dough into a fat log and measured where to slice. After my life fell apart and I[`d pretty much managed to put it back together, Tom Schulz had appeared, with his large, handsome, self-confident body and spirit.Monster Cinnamon RollsDough:_ cup ( 1 « sticks) unsalted butter1 cup milk_ cup plus teaspoon sugar1 ¬ teaspoons salt3 ¬ - ounce envelopes (7 « teaspoons) active dry yeast« cup warm water5 large eggs8 « to 9 « cups all-purpose flourFilling:5 cups firmly packed brown sugar1 ¬ cups (2 « sticks) unsalted butter3 tablespoons ground cinnamonFrosting:« pound cream cheese, softened¬ cup whipping cream, approximately1 teaspoon vanilla extract3 to 4 cups confectioners' sugar, siftedFor the dough, heat the butter with the milk, _ cup of the sugar, and the salt in a small saucepan until the butter is melted. Set aside to cool. In a large mixing bowl, sprinkle the yeast over the warm water, add the remaining teaspoon sugar, stir, and set aside for 10 minutes, until the mixture is bubbly. Add the lukewarm milk mixture and the eggs and beat until well combined. Add the flour a cup at a time, stirring and using enough flour to form a stiff dough. Turn out on a floured board and knead until smooth and satiny, approximately 10 minutes. (Or place in the bowl of an electric mixer and knead with a dough hook until the dough cleans the sides of the bowl, approximately 5 minutes.) Place the dough in a very large buttered bowl, turn to butter the top, and allow to rise, covered loosely with a kitchen towel, in a warm place until doubled in bulk, approximately1 hour.Punch the dough down and roll out to a large rectangle, 24 inches by 36 inches.Butter two 9- by 13 - inch glass baking dishes. For the filling, beat together the brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon until well combined. Spread evenly over the surface of the dough. Roll up lengthwise and cut at 2-inch intervals to make 12 rolls. Place 6 rolls in each buttered dish. Cover loosely with a kitchen towel and allow to rise until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.Preheat the oven to 350. Bake the rolls for about 20 to 30 minutes or until puffed and browned. Cool to room temperature on racks.For the frosting, beat the cream cheese, cream, and vanilla until well combined. Add the confectioners' sugar and beat until smooth and soft, not stiff. Frost the rolls and serve immediately.Makes 12 large rolls.Tom Schulz, who loved Arch and Julian and me with a frightening intensity, who had awakened vulnerability and affection that I had presumed dead, who was willing to do anything to keep us happy. Who had said to Father Olson last night that he and I would not be parted by death, no matter what the wedding vows claimed. And now he was held captive by God-knew-whom for God- knew-what reason. If he was still alive.I cut the dough carefully at the evenly spaced intervals and placed the thick sugary spirals in a buttered pan. I needed to sleep; I needed to pull myself together and find out as much as I could about Father Olson, for surely the murderer's path led through our parish, or through a committee, or through the diocese....My eye fell on the pile of exams from the candidates I was to help examine in three days.Olson had told me that in the third and final year of their seminary training, candidates for the priesthood took the General Ordination Exams that now graced my counter. The battery of tests covered the seven canonical areas: Church History, Liturgics, Pastoral Theology, Ethics, Theology,Issues of Contemporary Society, and Scripture. The tests were graded by the General Board ofExamining Chaplains on the national level, which then sent the exams on to the dioceses. In the diocese of Colorado, the Board of Theological Examiners read them, determined areas of weakness, and then gave oral exams to the candidates. A candidate had to show oral proficiency in all seven areas before he or she could be ordained That sounded like a lot, I'd said to Father Olson.Maybe I wasn't really up to it Just read the exams and ask yourself whether you'd want to have this person as your priest, he's solemnly replied.Mitchell Hartley's exam was in my pile, although I didn't know which was his. Numbers at the top of each candidate's test sheets kept the examiners from knowing who was who, to eliminate prejudice. I had my list identifying candidates by number somewhere. Unfortunately, there had been a mix-up at the diocesan office, and I had not received my photocopied set of papers to read until yesterday, when I was deep into p te doughs, bridal bouquets, and Portobello mushrooms. I hadn't read any of the exams, and the last thing I wanted to do was get academic on what was supposed to have been my wedding night.Still. When I looked at the sheaf of papers, I could see the indulgent grin on Father Olson's face when he'd appointed me to the twelve-person committee, saying that not only did he treasure my culinary abilities, he also valued what I had to offer the Board intellectually. Sure, the way people read Playboy for the interviews. But the diocese had paid the discounted rate I'd given them to bringGorgonzola quiche, asparagus rolls, cauliflower salad, and chocolate cake to my first Board meeting, when the discussion centered on the ethics of breaking the seal of confession if a person's life was in danger. After years of casseroles and Jell-O, and without waiting to hear my opinions on confession, the Board immediately proclaimed their faith in me.Before the meeting, Father Olson had said there were "a few rumblings" over the appointment of a laywoman who was a caterer to this powerful board that had the final say on whether persons were ordained. "Better tell them about your theological training," Olson had warned me. "so they, too, will value your mind as well as your mousse." So at my introduction, I'd dutifully told of the sixteen-week course for Sunday School teachers I'd taken two years before from CanonMontgomery, a member of their board, at the Aspen Meadow Episcopal Conference Center. CanonMontgomery, now soon to be our emergency pastor at St. Luke's, looked like a ruddy toad. He'd beamed and lapped up my flattery along with his piece of cake. I didn't mention his aggravating tendency to pat his white hair along its middle part as he put spiritual experience into rhymed couplets.Now the clock said almost four a.m. Soon it would be dawn. No time to start reading theology, that was for sure. I lifted the towel to check on the rolls, and fatigue struck with such ferocity that my knees buckled. I grabbed the side of Tom's convection oven for balance. I turned away from the unread papers, left the rolls to rise at room temperature, and flopped back on the living room couch.The wind had died down, as it often did near sunrise. Still, the house felt cold. l burrowed into the hard cushions and regretted giving back my victim-assistance quilt.Tom. Be all right.Holding that thought, I tried to relax. Frightful nightmares of falling into mud accompanied fitful sleep. I awoke abruptly, feeling stiff and chilled, and realizing unhappily that the canceled wedding, the murder of Father Olson, and the unexplained disappearance of Tom Schulz had not been bad dreams, but odiously real.I opened one eye to see what time it was. Something was wrong. Above Tom's boxes, my mantelpiece clock was just visible: half past six. Had a noise startled me out of sleep? Now, as I listened for Arch and Julian, the house was silent. What was wrong? What had awakened me with that sensation of something odd, out of place/ I inhaled deeply and blearily scanned the room.It was the light. The living room was suffused with a tangerine-colored glow. A red sky in the morning promised snow. Big deal. My neck screamed with pain; I stretched carefully. My body insisted I would regret attempting the usual yoga routine. I felt confused. Even with a red sunrise, the light in the living room was too orange. It was not the sunlight that was colored; something was coloring the sunlight.With effort, I extracted myself from the cushions. I tiptoed to the window and looked through the knots of the lace curtains. I stared at, but could no compr3ehend, what I saw. Hanging from the roof of my front porch was a hand-made knitted blanket. It was bright orange, and had a red heart at the center.8When you've slept in your clothes, forty degree feels frigid. Ignoring the cold, I hopped gracelessly onto the porch swing and wobbled perilously there for a comment. Sunlight was brightening thin smears of cloud that shone like mother-of-pearl. Very gently, I pulled the orange blanket into the light and tried not to slip on the frosted swing seat while examining the tiny stitches. The coverlet was not knitted, as I had thought, but double-crocheted with a small hook and thin, expensive wool yarn. A chill wind blew through my sweatsuit and threatened my precarious balance. I snatched down the afghan, then looked around to see if any of my neighbors were about. But the cold weather, especially on a Sunday morning, meant people were still snuggling deep under their coverlets and blankets. Not to mention afghans that didn't come from a source unknown.I scanned the crocheted rectangle for a note of some kind and saw none. From victim assistance? A thoughtful neighbor? The previous night's fierce wind might have blown off any attached notes. I bunched the afghan over my shoulder and jumped down from the porch swing.While my joints reminded me I was no longer a limber teenager, I noticed a foil-covered oblong dish sitting primly to the left of the front door. Casserole, courtesy of the Altar Guild. And this time there was a note in a firmly lettered hand on top of that: Please take care of yourself. Our women's group is praying for you. Zelda. With my free hand, I picked up the icy glass dish and scuttled into the house.Her note hadn't mentioned the afghan. Imagining wiry Zelda Preston, or even stolid victim advocate Helen Keene, scaling the wall of my porch to make a dramatic visual statement by hanging a Valentine-type afghan made me smile. I made espresso and watched it spurt merrily into a cobalt-trimmed cup. It was Hutschenreuther, a gift from Tom Schulz. Pain seared through me. The phone rang and I grabbed it.It was my mother calling from New Jersey, so concerned that she and my father hadn't been able to say good-bye, and was I all right? Remembering Helen's advice, I did not mention ToSchulz's disappearance. They would only worry and call me incessantly. Yes, I assured my mother, we were fine. The two of them had just come back from the early church service, she said, and when was the wedding going to be? I stalled. Ah, well, we were working on rescheduling. Did they find out what happened to your priest.? No. But will you get married when things are back in order at the parish? Of course, I promised. When we have a new priest.And a groom, I thought grimly after replacing the receiver. Dread, worry, and stinging guilt made a simultaneous assault. If only I hadn't insisted Tom and I get married in the church. TomSchulz never would have known Ted Olson. He never would have gone out there yesterday morning.He would be sitting here right now having coffee with me, instead of being in peril. Or worse. Or worse...Stop this.My espresso had turned cold. I slugged it down anyway, stared at Julian's pile of Chimay¢ dirt, and waited for my brain to click into gear. Not much happened; there's only so much caffeine can do on two hours of sleep. I slammed the risen cinnamon rolls into Tom's oven. With great reluctance, I showered and dressed in a dark blue suit, then put in a call to the Sheriff'sDepartment. Without Tom there to tell me what was going on, the center for county law enforcement felt like a foreign outpost. Boyd was not at his desk. I left a message asking for an update, and gave the number to my personal line.In a great rush, I repunched buttons on my business phone and got Tom's own voice mail.The sound of his rich, deep, vocal recording was nectar. I listened to it while Scout rubbed against my leg to remind me it was feeding time. I listened to it while writing a note to Julian and Arch and inhaling the deep, rich, mouth-watering smell of the just-baked cinnamon rolls. I listened to it again while assembling ingredients for the poppy seed muffins that I would make between the services in the church kitchen, since the cinnamon rolls would just be enough for the first service. At last, the clock said 7:30. As I was slathering cream cheese frosting on the warm cinnamon rolls, my business line rang. I snagged it.Oddly, this is Frances Markasian of the Mountain Journal - ""Don't." I could just imagine stringy-haired Frances Markasian perched aggressively at her desk, smoking a cigarette with a great length of ash and swigging Diet Pepsi spiked with Vivarin.The woman never slept."Goldy, please, I'm sorry about this - ""The heck you are." I cursed myself for not taking Helen Keene's advice. I should have disconnected as soon as I heard Frances's voice."We know about Olson and we know about Schulz," Frances continued as if I had not spoken. "We know Mitchell Hartley's a suspect. But I saw some big heart thing hanging on your porch when I drove by this morning, and I took a picture - "In spite of my upbringing, I hung up. The doorbell rang; it was Boyd. His black crewcut glistened in the morning sun; a battered leather flight jacket did not quite cover his pear-shaped belly. He was chewing vigorously on his match, and he didn't look happy."We don't have him," he said abruptly when I opened the door, without waiting for me to ask. The uniform shirt he wore underneath the flight jacket was so wrinkled I was certain he'd been up all night. "But you and I need to talk.""I was just about to go to church - ""I'm coming with you. Think I look okay?""You look fine. But go to church with me? You've got to be joking. Why?" I looked at him sympathetically. "You look exhausted.""I'm okay. And I don't joke."Boyd wanted to take my van so we could talk on the way. I asked him to hold the rolls in his lap. He obliged and we took off."Go the long way," he ordered, "whatever that is. I need to know a few things before we get there. What do you know about Olson being the prot‚g‚ of a priest named Canon GeorgeMontgomery?"I obligingly swung the van right instead of left on Main Street. Our trip to church would take ten minutes instead of five. "Montgomery is the canon theologian and one of the staunchest conservatives in the diocese. He's not the kind of fellow who would fall on his sword over the old hymns. I mean, this fellow's dream is to go to sleep wrapped in the Shroud of Turin. He used to be the rector of a big church in Pine Creek, but now he's semiretired. Montgomery's on the Board - ""Yeah," said Boyd, "Theological Examiners, we know. Served with Olson at the cathedral some years back, when Montgomery was dean. They were real thick until they had a big spiritual disagreement, sort of like the ones you're telling me about in your parish. They get along on the committee?"I remembered Montgomery complaining bitterly in one of our meetings about a candidate's explanation of prayer. "Well, the only disagreement I can recall was when Montgomery insisted that prayer was about relationship and not about making coconuts grow. He really worked himself up into a dither. The next meeting, Olson brought in a giant coconut. Montgomery didn't think it was funny That's the only conflict I can remember they had.""Late last night," Boyd drawled, "Mitchell Hartley told us Canon Montgomery and FatherOlson had another argument. This one was last week in some other meeting. About whether miracles were happening at your church. Sounds as if there was a lot of yelling. Harley said they could hear it through the doors of the meeting room at the diocesan center.""I don't know anything about that," I said. I didn't add, But nothing would surprise me, arguments are the church's way of life. I'd made that pretty clear to Boyd yesterday. "Are you thinking their animosity was really bad? Bad enough to kill for? Because if you are, Father DougRamsey mentioned Montgomery was at St. Luke's yesterday waiting for our wedding to start.""Ramsey. The guy with the windy explanation for everything. He said Montgomery was at the church?"I nodded and swerved around a corner. Maybe I was driving too fast. I eased my foot off the pedal. "I invited all the parishioners, as well as the board. Twenty minutes before our wedding was supposed to begin, Ramsey said, `The whole committee's here.' Nobody in the church could have gotten out to Olson's and back in that amount of time.""Well, that's really not what we're thinking about. This guy Hartley says - ""Hartley was at the diocesan center when he heard this argument between Father Olson and Montgomery? Doing what?""He says he works in the office of Congregational Services there, and he hear things. Was there resentment or anger over this miracles thing? From anybody in the church? Maybe somebody wanted to get healed and didn't?"I shook my head. "Sorry, I haven't heard anything about that. But my friend Marla might.She's a lot more involved with the various groups than I am. And by the way, a reporter called me this morning and said Hartley was a suspect. Is that true?""Everybody's a suspect at this point, Goldy. That's just our policy until we know differently."Boyd shifted the rolls around in his lap and seemed to be formulating a new question. PoorBoyd, I thought. This wasn't the greatest way to introduce somebody to church life. I slowed down behind an exhaust-spewing truck."All right. You've told me about some of the people. What you didn't tell me was why theOld Guard hated Olson. I mean, besides the fact that they had different tastes in music."I pulled the van onto a muddy shoulder one block away from the church. I cut the engine and looked over at Boyd. "It's what he represents. Represented. A lot of things have changed in our church over the last two decades. The Old Guard hates the liturgical innovations of the last twenty years, especially the passing of the peace, a point in the service when people embrace each other."Boyd chuckled. "People in their sixties and seventies not liking body contact with strangers? Not surprising. Now give me the two-minute drill on what they hate about the music.""Zelda and the traditionalists dislike the new hymnal. Intensely." I explained to Boyd that when the Episcopal hymnal had been revised in 1982, we'd lost "The Son of God Goes Forth toWar" because it was deemed too militaristic, "Once to Every Man and Nation" because it supposedly undermined traditional theology, and "We Thank You, Lord of Heaven" because one of the things the hymn was thankful for was "dogs with smiling faces." This last never did bother me.Why not also be thankful for "cats with inscrutable faces"?Body glanced at his watch. "Get to the point, Goldy. The service starts in fifteen minutes.""Well, what the older crowd is most allergic to is the folk music booklets that Father Olson had tucked in every pew. The Old Guard wanted no part of the new songs. The way they settled the issue at St. Luke's was to have the earlier service traditional, the later service the one for the charismatics. To the traditionalists, the guitar-and-tambourine tunes are a flood of disrespectful noise that sounds an awful lot like `Jesus, the Magic Dragon.' ""Huh," muttered Boy. "I can see we're getting into some important issues here." He fingered something in his breast pocket that looked suspiciously like a pack of cigarettes. Then he cast a longing look at the plump cinnamon rolls in his lap. Wordlessly, I reached into my supply bag for a knife, paper plate, and napkin."Please have one," I urged as I sliced through the thickened brown sugar syrup that clung to the rolls' sides. I lifted out a dark, dripping spiral, maneuvered it onto the plate, and handed it to him. He groaned with delight."Go on about the music.""Okay. Even though the first service the Old Guard attends has traditional music, and the second service has the renewal music, they didn't want it at St. Luke's at all," I explained as I pulled the van back on the road. "To them it was like creeping communism, remember that?Anyway. The Old Guard had finally gotten a petition going. They called it Halt the Hootenanny and they had a bunch of signatures. Lucille Boatwright had just begun her rotation onto the chairmanship of the Altar Guild, and she was going to present the petition to Olson. They thought that might force him to drop the new music. That was the last I heard." I pulled into the church parking lot.Boyd chewed thoughtfully. Finally he said, "I still need to talk to you about the Prestons.""If you want to be at the service from the beginning, we need to go in now. Or if you want to talk - ?" Boyd shook his head, folded the empty paper plate, and started to open his door. I took his plate to put in my van trash bag and said, "Wait. Don't come in with me. Don't sit with me or act like you know me. Please.""You care to tell me why not?"I took the rolls from him and carefully rearranged the plastic over them. "Two reasons. If people see you and your Sheriff's Department uniform, they won't tell me a thing. On the other hand, they might tell you something they wouldn't share with me.""Yeah? What's reason number two?""People will talk," I said simply. I gave him a steady look. "They'll say Tom Schulz left me because I was having an affair with you. And I don't even know your first name.""It's Horace. And now you know why I prefer Boyd. And there's not even a shred of truth - ""So what? Horace. Boyd. Please. I'll go in first, you lock my van and follow."He grunted. "I thought this was gonna be a place where people would be happy to see me.""Welcome to the church, Horace."When I came through the heavy wooden door into the narthex, I immediately realized it wasPalm Sunday, a liturgical fact that had slipped my mind with all the disasters of the past twenty-four hours. My wedding flowers had disappeared. They had been replaced with the elaborate fans and sprays of the palms that symbolized Jesus' entry into Jerusalem, and in the church, the beginning of Holy Week. We were only seven days away from Easter, the most sacred festival of the church year, despite all the hype about gunnies and baskets. Whether Boyd knew all this or even cared I did not know.In any event, Palm Sunday always brought out more folks than was customary during Lent.The activity in the church kitchen was at a fever pitch. I intended merely to leave my pan of cinnamon rolls for someone to dole out after the service along with the other baked goods. However, when I appeared by the oven, all activity ceased. Six women, including a remarkably stalwart LucilleBoatwright, eyed me with a combination of surprise, pity, and unnervingly intense silence."For after the service," I said lamely. I put down the pans.A chorus of "We're so sorry" and "Isn't this just so awful" and "My poor dear, you shouldn't have gone to the trouble" sent me reeling back into the narthex. There I was greeted by a franticFather Ramsey."Doug," I interrupted matter-of-factly before he could rattle on, "we need to talk. It's aboutFather Olson. And the bishop." Out of the corner of my eye I could see Boyd, looking extremely uncomfortable, leafing through the pamphlets at the back of the narthex.Doug Ramsey raised startled dark eyes. "Oh, Goldy, how are you? I've been so worried, but with everything going on, a funeral to plan, the meetings... honestly! Are you managing all right?Did the food arrive?" His black clerical suit was wrinkled and covered with dandruff, as if he too had slept in his clothes. I wondered why he wasn't wearing his vestments. His eyes darted past me to see who was coming through the parish door. "Sorry, I can't talk now," he said. "We've had the most extraordinary mix-up. Have you decided to do the food for the board meeting?" When I did not immediately respond, he again assumed a sympathetic expression and made his voice low an serious. "Have you heard anything about the....you... ?" I shook my head. Doug Ramsey strained his neck inside his white clerical collar and shook his head of floppy dark curls. "Well, ah, I must go tend to some last-minute problems. The money the churchwomen are raising selling raffle tickets for pearl chokers? I thought they had their spending plans all set. Now it turns out that a third of them want to give it to African famine relief, a third want to use it for the columbarium stones, and another third want to invest in more pearls for next year. They want me to arbitrate, which means two-thirds of them are going to hate me....Then Zelda came back in this morning wanting her old job back, and Canon Montgomery was trying to be pastoral, so he said yes - ""Montgomery? Here already? I thought you were going to fill in for a while, at least.""Yes, well so did I." Ramsey cleared his throat noisily and rant the fingers of one hand through his hair, disarranging his curls. "Anyway, ah, then Zelda said she always picked the PalmSunday hymns, and Montgomery had already chosen the music, and then the new organist showed up! And all this plus what happened to Olson... Oh, dear. So the new organist stomped out of the sacristy, and one of the churchwomen though he was the fellow coming to give an estimate on the columbarium stones, and that he'd been driven away by the invest-in-pearls faction. Then, if you can imagine - "I couldn't. And I thought catering was bad." - just as I am straightening out the organist fiasco, Mitchell Hartley shows up and starts asking about the oral exams for the candidates for ordination! The exams don't even begin untilTuesday! Now Canon Montgomery needs me to find a King James version of the Bible while he deals with the, er, music. Not to mention that of course, some time in the next five, I have to vest.""Doug, please. I need to talk to you about my fianc‚. It would help me if I could ask you a few questions.""Well, can't it wait until the coffee hour? Please?" He torqued around and went flying after the new organist, who had banged open the rear door of the church to make a dramatic exit. I turned in desperation to look for Boyd and saw the short, fully robed body and ruddy face of GeorgeMontgomery as he entered the narthex. Lucille Boatwright marched up behind him and snagged him by the robe. Canon Montgomery tripped and barely prevented himself from falling over."Father Montgomery, I must talk to you about the drainage from our columbarium project after the service!" Lucille rasped. Montgomery, recovering, did not immediately reply. He got Lucille' acid test: "Canon Montgomery, did you know Father Tyler Pinckney?" When Montgomery was mumbling that he had not known Father Pinckney very well, I sidled up and gave him a welcoming smile. Lucille briskly turned on her spectator pump hells and stalked away."Thank you, oh, thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Montgomery. His voice caught, as if he had been crying. His mottled face had aged much in the two years since mySunday School course. His hair seemed whiter and thinner than I remembered, and his eyes were bloodshot."Are you all right?" I asked impulsively.He tilted his head and raised his bushy white eyebrows. "I've had a hard time. Olson was my right-hand man at the cathedral. He was very dear to me. I talk to grieving people all the time, but here I am - " His voice faltered."Yes. I... I'm sorry." I did not know what to say. You did not hug the canon theologian, even if you were on the same committee. Montgomery's duty was to articulate the theology of, for, and by the diocese, which in our case was all the Episcopal churched in Colorado. It was not his duty to be affectionate. Embarrassed to be staring at his sagging face, I looked at his robes.Montgomery was wearing an elaborately needlepointed red stole."That's Father Olson's... you're wearing his... ""I know." Montgomery's haggard features crumpled. He lifted the thick, perfectly stitched edges of the stole. "I was called in somewhat late, and all my stoles are packed away. Actually, I'm still in shock - " He gave me the benefit of his close-set, kindly brown eyes, his warm, tentative smile that slanted sideways. He patted his white hair, parted exactly in the middle. "Father Ramsey told me you, too, have been suffering."The formal address of Ramsey did not surprise me. "Yes, well, as Doug... FatherRamsey knows, the police are scouring the county. They're keeping me informed."Montgomery nodded and reached out to brush my arm with his fingers, then drew back hastily as Doug Ramsey himself approached with a freckle-faced, red-haired young man taking long, aggressive steps beside him."Do you know Mitchell Hartley?" Montgomery said to me under his breath."Not very well," I replied, equally conspiratorial."The reality is much worse than anything you could have heard," Montgomery told me in a pleasant tone. He turned to Hartley and added stiffly, "I didn't know you were a parishioner.""I'm not surprised you forgot," growled Mitchell Hartley, who was probably in his late twenties and had a head of thick orange-red hair that he combed up in an exaggerated pompadour.Holy Elvis. He had eyes the vivid color of blueberries and a wide jaw that jutted out defiantly. DougRamsey mumbled something about vesting and scuttled away. Hartley and his red tidal wave of hair leaned in toward me. He assumed a condescending, pastoral tone. "I am sorry to hear your sad news, Goldy. I am praying for you.""Ah," I said, embarrassed. "Thank you."Canon Montgomery pulled in his chine and leaned away from Mitchell Hartley, as if he had suddenly come upon some especially noxious form of poison plant. Mitchell Hartley quirked one orange-red eyebrow at me."I know you know," I said uncomfortably. "But I don't believe we've met. You see, I usually go to this service rather than... ""Yes," he said impatiently. "I know that.""Well," I faltered, "how nice. I guess I'll be off then - ""You're the woman, the caterer," Mitchell Hartley said with a bitter smile, "that TheodoreOlson appointed to the board. And you've just had this tragic loss... ""Ah, well, yes."Canon Montgomery cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. "Miss Bear is a very highly respected member of this parish. She represents, shall we say, the Woman in the Pew. I trained her in one of my Sunday School seminars. But she probably won't be attending our meetings next week, as she's in the middle of another crisis."Mitchell Hartley snorted, lifted his wide jaw, and narrowed his bright blue eyes at me."That's too bad. We don't usually get such a good-looking examiner."Since we were in church, I avoided making a scurrilous remark. I began to see why FatherOlson would have flunked Mitchell Hartley last year. A dawning realization told me being an examiner might not be that much fun.While we were talking, parishioners had been streaming through the doors and looking around expectantly. When their glances caught on a robed priest engaged in conversation, they seemed to be reassured and wended into the pews. Doug Ramsey made a flustered, but vested, appearance while the teenaged crucifer twirled around the poled Victorian cross. As if on cue, the first few notes of organ music pealed out - the familiar strains of "Once to Every Man and Nation.""What happened to the prelude?" squeaked Doug Ramsey."What happened to `All Glory, Laud, and Honor'?" asked Canon Montgomery His white eyebrows furrowed in sudden anger. "What seems to be the problem with St. Luke's?""Guess you two don't have much control of this parish," muttered Mitchell Hartley. His eyes glittered.I slithered away.Once in a pew, I looked around for Boyd. He was sitting in the back, eyes fixed on the altar. Canon Montgomery assumed the celebrant's role in a dignified manner, although his distress over his lack of control appeared to quiver below his passive exterior. Whenever he wanted music, he nodded sternly in the direction of Zelda at the organ. Clearly, he didn't' want to risk announcing what could be a disputed hymn. The newly hired organist never made a reappearance.As the service continued, I fought rising worries about Tom. I imagined him in pain; I saw him in his coffin. I shook my head, cleared my throat, and tried to sing. That proved impossible. I flipped aimlessly through the hymnal. People turned to frown at the slapping noise of the pages. I reached forward quickly to put the hymnal back in its rack. It fell on the stone floor with a decisive bang, which brought me more disapproving glances, including a glowering look from Montgomery.Montgomery retrieved my attention with a short, theatrical silence before the sermon. "I know some of you have come to enjoy the... lines that I occasionally compose, so I will take the liberty to share some with you now." He cleared his throat patted on his middle-parted hair, and puffed up his chest again. I pressed my lips together."Ah, Lord!" Montgomery intoned. "How we wax lyrical/when speaking your work in miracle!"He paused, then raised his voice to a shout. "But truly! What is most divine/is seeing you in bread and wine!/And what we seek from you the most/is Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!"It must have been the stress. An irrepressible gurgle of laughter came out of me.Montgomery charged down the nave, his shoulders stiff with rage."Are you always so disrespectful?" he roared. His mottled face was now an unhealthy crimson as it shuddered close to mine. His breath smelled like a very old person's.I said in a low voice, "No. Sorry."Montgomery's face withdrew slowly from mine. I was irresistibly reminded of a large, angry turtle who had abruptly decided to go back to the dignified encasement of its shell. The shell at that moment was the canon's - actually Father Olson's - imposingly voluminous red robe. Montgomery pivoted, and seemed to will control of himself. In the long, ensuing silence, he walked majestically, crimson robe flowing and shoulders stiff, back to the pulpit. Hey! I wanted to yell after him. I thought you liked me!I wondered what Boyd was thinking about his introduction to the Episcopal Church. The graying heads in the congregation turned to each other, confused by the lack of direction. A few shot me sidelong glances. I ignored them Canon Montgomery stood stolidly facing the altar, his back to us. Doug Ramsey cleared his throat desperately, looked to Montgomery for direction, got none, and reluctantly started on the prayers of intercession. My mind was elsewhere. I had never been yelled at by a priest, only by my abusive ex-husband.And we most humbly beseech thee, of thy goodness, O Lord, to comfort and succor all those who, in this transitory life, are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity.Tom Schulz had made me a lovely chocolate-raspberry cake the first night we had made love."Tom!" I said with a low groan, then blushed as more disapproving eyes studied me. Again I regretted coming to this service.For servants departed this life in thy faith and fear, especially our beloved priest, TheodoreOlson. Parishioners sniffed and coughed. George Montgomery slowly crossed himself. LucilleBoatwright knelt, stiff and stony-faced.Then the intercessions were complete and the acolytes bustled with the offertory plates.Zelda Preston peeked out from behind the wall next to the organ and announced the anthem. Finally jolted back to reality, Montgomery declared the offertory sentences at the same time that Zelda took off on her organ solo and Marla slid in next to me in the next-to-last pew. A waft of rose- scented perfume enveloped her."Good God! Did the canon go off or what?" she hissed under her breath. "Anyway, I think what Episcopalians seek the most/is tea and marmalade and toast. Agree?""Please don't." I felt dizzy. "I thought you came to the later service.""ordinarily I do, not because I'm a charismatic and believe in the gifts of the spirit and all that. Actually, what I believe in is the gift of sleep. But I woke up early and called your house to see if there were any developments. Arch said you were here at church, and I was worried about you soI came. And I should have been worried about you. I came I when Canon From Hell was shooting his mouth off in your face. I was dying for that cop back there to pull his gun, or something, but I just heard his beeper go off, and now he's left - "Before she could finish, I was squeezing past her out of the pew and running down the nave. I sprinted past the Sunday School rooms to the choir room. The door was just closing; I lunged to hold it open.Boyd was already talking into the receiver. He held up on finger when I opened my mouth to ask him what was going on. Then he shook his head."Okay," he said. "Bob Preston, go it. How quick can you get a car to me at this church?Great."Boyd replaced the receiver. My heart was pounding."Now don't get your hopes up," he told me, seeing my face. My heart sank to new depths."We think Schulz is still alive. We found the car he was transported in, abandoned in a ditch nearDeer Creek Canyon.""Oh, God - "Boyd sighed heavily and scratched the to of his dark crewcut. "It's a Nissan four-wheel drive, not a van. The van in the note must have been for vanity plates. The said EPSCMP, forEpiscopal camps. The vehicle belongs to the Episcopal diocese of Colorado."9I grabbed the bar holding the hangers for the choir robes. "The don't know where he is?""Not yet. No discernible footprints away from the car. The kidnapper must have had another vehicle already parked there."Pain stabbed my head and a rock-size lump formed in my throat. I couldn't accept the factsBoyd was relating with the flat tonality I should have become used to already. I said, "The vehicle belonged to the diocese of Colorado? Do they know who was driving it? Was the vehicle stolen?How do you know Tom was - "Boyd slid a matchstick into his mouth and leaned against the wall. He ticked points off on his fingers. "First we think Schulz was in the vehicle because, again, we found some of his stuff.""More? Like what this time?"Boyd shifted his weight and looked doubtful."Please," I begged, "tell me.""Well, we think we found his socks shoved under the front seat.""What?" Boyd did not, after all, joke."Look, Goldy, it's just the way it was by the creek bank. Schulz, fell, was pushed, got hurt, covered with mud. But at the same time, he was trying to drop stuff, give us clued, build a trail, that's what we're supposed to do in that kind of situation. So you figure, now he's in the Nissan.He's in the back seat, he's restrained." AT the thought of Tom bound and perhaps gagged, I felt a grown rising but suppressed it. "He can move his feet so he takes off his shoes, eases off his socks and wedges the under the front seat, then slips his shoes back on so's the person who took him won't notice.""How do you know they were his socks?"Boyd chewed on the matchstick and crossed his arms. "Because he also wedged his college ring down between the seats in the back. University of Colorado, with his initials and the date. Look, I gotta go.""But... he hardly ever wears that ring. And I thought you said he was hurt, limping, or something, how could he... ?""Looks like there was blood on one of the socks.. And I guess he was gonna wear the ring to the wedding." He shrugged.Too much. I stared out the choir-room window at the cold morning sky. The early-morning scattered clouds had ballooned and moved in. The sun had disappeared.He said, "I need to get outside and watch for the department car. They left me at your place and now they're saying they need to come get me.""Let's go, then," I said, and directed him out the same door Marla had taken me through the day before, when we were trying to escape the chaos of my nonwedding.When we were outside, he said, "Remember when I wanted to ask you about AgathaPreston?'"Yes, sorry, she called me yesterday, all hysterical. Wanted to know if I had seen him."Boyd ferreted his faithful notebook out of his pants pocket. "Keep talking," he ordered as we walked toward the snow-covered parking lot. "Seen him-who?""Watch out," I said as we approached the columbarium construction. "We're going to have to go around these ditches."WE ducked under the low eave of the church roof, then squeezed single file through the narrow passage between the sawhorses and the corner of the St. Luke's building. The ditches that would eventually hold ash receptacles had filled with ice-edged puddles; it looked as if the unauthorized construction had unexpectedly encountered the water table.Boyd asked tersely, "Agatha wanted to know if you'd seen... ""But that's what I don't know," I protested. "I didn't have a clue if she was referring to Tom orFather Olson, and then her husband took the phone away from her and hung up on me.""Her husband hung up on you? Bob Preston?" When I nodded, Boyd said, "He's the head of the diocesan Camps and Conferences Committee. He's the one who's supposed to be in charge of the keys to that Nissan. It was stored across the street - ""Wait." Of course I knew the car; I'd seen it many times parked in the garage next toHymnal House, when I'd catered for the musicians' conference during the summer. "Yesterday morning. The keys to the conference center were missing when we tried to set up for the wedding reception. It's a huge bunch. Maybe the car keys were on it."Boyd's voice became exasperated. "I thought the Altar Guild had those keys, and Preston the car keys.""Well, you'll have your chance to ask Bob Preston. Here he comes." I gestured at a shiny gold Audi now pulling up next to the creek. At that moment the doors to the church banged open.Lucille Boatwright came out, intent on her prey. Unfortunately, her prey this time was Officer Boyd.The heavy wooden door flapped shut as Lucille sailed over to him and used her hand like a caliper to grasp the sleeve of his leather jacket."Why did you leave the service early?" she demanded shrilly. Behind her, Mitchell Hartley pushed through the church door and walked swiftly over to Boyd and Lucille. Boyd released himself from Lucille's hold and stowed his notebook in his pocket. Lucille's voice rose, "What have you found out?"Boyd began, "the police are in charge - ""Oh, don't mind Lucille," Mitchell interjected, half-joking, half-snide. "She doesn't care who's supposed to be in charge of something, because eventually she's going to be running the show.Isn't that right?"Slowly, Lucille Boatwright turned toward Mitchell Hartley. I cold feel the lava rising. Since the service was over, other parishioners were coming outside. Some held lopsided paper plates, each one heavy with a cinnamon roll I had brought. The crowd eyed Boyd, Lucille, Mitchell, and me while pretending to pick at the rolls with tiny plastic forks. Canon Montgomery, last out the church doors, strode importantly toward us."You may wonder, Mitchell Hartley," Lucille began in a tone so icy I felt sweat prickle my arms, "why you have failed to become a priest, but your failure is precisely because of the way you are acting at this moment. Who would want you for their priest? Certainly not me."Mitchell Hartley leaned over Lucille. His face was bone-white and his vivid eyes shone ominously. Loudly, he said, "You wouldn't want Jesus for your priest."Lucille Boatwright's mouth fell open. In a commanding tone, Canon Montgomery inquired:"Mitchell, don't you have some studying to do?"It was then that I noticed Officer Boyd ripping cellophane off a new pack of cigarettes. WhileLucille Boatwright, Canon Montgomery, and Mitchell Hartley glared fiercely at one another, Boyd lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Beside him, a newly arrived Bob Preston coughed lightly. In typicalAspen Meadow fashion, tall, roosterlike Bob wore a fringed leather jacket, plaid flannel shirt withNavajo bolo tie, jeans, and hand-stitched custom-made cowboy boots. Wearing a long black coat,Agatha stood mutely beside him.Mitchell Hartley spat his words at Lucille. "Jesus is in charge of this parish, Lucille, not a new pack of cigarettes. While Lucille Boatwright, Canon Montgomery, and Mitchell Hartley glared fiercely at one another, Boyd lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Beside him, a newly arrived BobPreston coughed lightly. In typical Aspen Meadow fashion, tall, roosterlike Bob wore a fringed leather jacket, plaid flannel shirt with Navajo bolo tie, jeans, and hand-stitched custom-made cowboy boots. Wearing a long black coat, Agatha stood mutely beside him.Mitchell Hartley spat his words at Lucille. "Jesus is in charge of this parish, Lucille, not you." To Canon Montgomery, Mitchell snarled, "The Lord is going to get one through these exams,George.""Father Montgomery to you, young man, if you don't mind." Montgomery's skin had an unhealthy flush."Oops," said Marla from my side, where she had suddenly appeared. "Are we having a bit of a confrontation in the Episcopal church parking lot? The Frozen Chosen at war, for all the world to see?""Why don't you go break it up?" I said desperately to her. The hostility level among Lucille,Montgomery, and Hartley had risen to nuclear fission level. "I need to talk to Boyd.""Are you kidding?" she cried in mock horror. "Lucille's already asked me to make five hundred cookies for Olson's funeral tomorrow. I said no, so now I'm on her shit list.""Marla!""I forgot. We're at church."A Furman County Sheriff's Department car pulled up to the entrance of the parking lot behind the rows of other cars and sat idling. Boyd took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it at his feet."I'm going to need to talk to you," he said to Bob Preston, "as soon as I finish some other work. Don't leave the church."Bob Preston, uncomprehending, opened his eyes wide as Boyd walked quickly toward the car. I scrambled after him."Please," I begged when I caught up to him, "tell me more about where they found Tom. Did it look as he'd been hurt badly? What are they thinking could have happened?"Boyd kept his eyes on the squad car as he hurried along. "They told me there was a small amount of blood in the car, some dents and tearing of the vinyl seats, maybe signs of a struggle.I'm going to look at it now. From the looks of things, we figure Schulz is still alive. We just don't know why.""Tell me what you mean," I pleaded.Boyd threaded through the first row of cars; I followed. He said, "Here's someone who's killed a priest. Before the priest died, he gave a dying declaration to a police officer. If the victim identifies his killer in a such a declaration, it'll hold up in court. Then Schulz is kidnapped by the killer. Why? Why wouldn't the killer just kill Schulz, too? He's the only living person who can identify him.""I don't have any idea," I said helplessly."My guess is Schulz knows something," Boyd said as he held in his stomach to squeeze past a parked Volvo. "Or has access to something. Something the killer wants. It could be just that notebook of his. It could be the whereabouts of those missing pearls. The ditch where we found the car is near a hidden turnout in Deer Creek Canyon. It looks as if whoever shot Olson planned it well.Except for Schulz showing up, of course. Maybe the killer used the church car because he was afraid hi sown car would be recognized. Because the car belongs to the diocese, we have to assume the person we're looking for is someone associated with the church. Okay. Given Schulz's unexpected appearance at Olson's yesterday, and given that the perp didn't want to kill him at the priest's place, why not kill Schulz and just dump him in the canyon? Why keep him alive?""Why?" I echoed as I brushed past a Mercedes and smeared mud on my suit."Well, whatever it is, you better pray Schulz knows how to keep the killer at bay. As soon as he gets what he wants, you, me, the department, Schulz - we're all gonna run out of time."We arrived at the police car. The engine was racing."I gotta go," Boyd said as he opened the door. He stopped and saluted me. "Be in touch."This half-promise, half-command hung in the chilly air after the squad car pulled away.Boyd was my one link to Tom Schulz, and I hated to see him go. I wanted the intense, pear-shaped investigator to be completely absorbed searching for Tom rather than being driven to smoke by neurotic parishioners and their idiotic squabbles.I faced the rows of cars. The last thing I wanted was to go back to the church entrance and face all those people with their probing eyes and nosy questions. I whirled and headed around the back of the church, toward the St. Luke's office. Within moments I was staring at the yellow ribbon the police had strung in front of the vandalized space. I ached to go into Olson's office and look around, but I knew Boyd would have a fit. Plus, it was illegal.Oh, well, let him have a fit. I sprinted up the steps, ducked under the yellow ribbon, and pushed hard on the rotting door to get in. I passed quickly into Olson's office. On the desk blotter was a skewed pile of correspondence and notes. I suppressed qualms of guilt and leafed through the bits of paper. Some bills and advertisements, some printed church circulars, a list of phone numbers, a couple of letters to Olson from friends. Would there be an appointment book here, something to tell who the priest was supposed to meet with on Saturday before the wedding? The I remembered what Tom Schulz had told me when he was working a homicide investigation, that the investigators would come to a victim's office to look around and gather evidence, primarily for the victim's appointment book. So if the book had been here, it wasn't here anymore. The police surely would have removed it.Wait. Had I heard something/ I stood still and held my breath. The raccoons? No. Was someone coming? The moments clicked by as my anxiety went into overdrive. I peered out one of the windows. I saw no one.With clammy hands, I began to riffle through the pile of files that had been dumped on the floor by the vandal. There was no tab marked P.R.A.Y. I lifted out the folder marked Diocese.The priest who saved everything hadn't felt the need to toss anything from his bulky, overstuffed files, this one included. It was chockfull of newsletters from the bishop dating back three years. There were notices of upcoming conferences and meetings, announcements of priests who had renounced their orders, and other ecclesiastical communications that were meaningless to me at a cursory glance. I couldn't tell if something had been removed, such as anything pertaining to the Halt the Hootenanny petition. And the cursory overview was all I could manage at the moment, since it wouldn't be too cool to be caught sifting through the vandalized files of our murdered rector.Again I listened - for doors opening, someone approaching - but this time was greeted only with oppressive silence.I put the notes from the top of the desk into the file and laid the copious diocesan folder aside. I flipped through pile after pile and finally found Board of Theological Examiners, which I lifted out. Father Packrat Olson had been head of the committee, and the folder was predictably heavy.There were old exams, announcements of meetings with agendas, lists of examinees from previous years. Olson's letter to the bishop telling about my appointment to the committee, and the last item, a brief notice from the diocese about the glitch in photocopying the exams last week. Olson would hear from the diocesan office, the note promised, as soon as the exams were ready.I slapped the file closed. Out the dusty window, I could see parishioners dispersing, reverently clutching pale green sheafs of palm. They'd finished with their coffee-hour treats and were heading toward their cars. The 8:00 service was over and I hadn't discovered a thing.Someone associated with the church.I slipped the Diocese and Board of Theological Examiners files into two of Olson's books: a thick Bible and an oversized tome on the church's feast days. Hoisting the heavy volumes, I noiselessly closed the door to the little building and went back the way I'd come, around the rear of the church, toward the parking lot. With any luck I'd be able to stow the books in my van, unnoticed. My fingers ran over the worn leather covers. I wondered if I looked suspicious. After all, you didn't usually see caterers walking around hefting overstuffed volumes on religion.Outside, the cool breeze and liquid rush of snow-swollen Cottonwood Creek blended with the hum of departing cars. Before I could reach my van, someone yelled from behind me, "Hoohoo!Goldy-y? The woman in the pew?" At that moment, a huge roar erupted from the road. I flailed wildly and dropped the book on holy feasts. Papers scattered. In a fast, clumsy pirouette, I managed to hold on to the Bible, superstitious that it was like the flag and shouldn't touch the ground. MitchellHartley leaped from where he'd been waiting and almost blocked my view of the approaching cavalcade of roaring motorcycles. I looked furiously at Hartley, whose pale face seemed to contrast and files lying everywhere in the mud at my feet. Damn Hartley. Furious, I knelt and awkwardly tried to pick them up."Don't help me," I said angrily, although he'd made no effort to do so. "This is all confidential stuff."I glanced up to make sure he wasn't memorizing the papers I'd stolen from Father Olson's office. But Mitchell Hartley was gazing at the loud parade on the road by the creek. The bikers were on their way to the Grizzly Saloon on Main Street. It was part of a spring ritual that shouldn't have taken me offguard. It's the migration of the Harley-Davidsons, Tom Schulz had noted enthusiastically. The weather grows warm, and Aspen Meadow becomes the gathering place for flocks of hefty folk in black leather, mirrored sunglasses, bandanas, ponytails, and single earrings.Makes so much noise you could shoot off firecrackers and nobody'd notice. The sole requirement for the motorcycles, unfortunately, seemed to be that all their mufflers were removed prior to setting out for Aspen Meadow."Wow! I'm always amazed when we get that kind of racket in a mountain town! It's like a jet runway!" shouted Mitchell Hartley from above me. I opened the feasts book and swiftly packed the last of the damp, dirty papers between loose dry ones, stuffed them in the book, and rose unsteadily. The sun emerged from behind the clouds. Mitchell Hartley's startling orange hair shone in the sudden bright light; his dark blue eyes scanned first the books in my hands and then my face. "Any news?" he asked, too cheerily for my taste.I raised my voice over the roar of the motorcycles. "Excuse me. Mitchell, why did you call to me to stop?"When he smiled, his crooked, wide-gapped teeth reminded me of something Tom had told me while explaining how he sized up suspects. People who grow up poor have bad teeth, teeth that are either crooked fro lack of orthodonture or worse, missing altogether from lack of proper care."I came over to the conference center early to study," Hartley replied, with more false cheer."I live next to a kennel, and it is noisy like you would not believe. I'm staying in Hymnal House." He waved vaguely upward in the direction of the Aspen Meadow Conference Center. "It's quiet now, before everyone gets there."His awkwardness in my presence translated alternately into arrogance or too-familiarity.The effort to be polite made him nervous. It was as if he were waiting for me to say that I liked him, that this time he was going to pass his exams because God was in charge, that everything was going to be okay. But his resentment of my purported power over his career seeped through every pore. I almost blurted out that I'd been appointed to theological, expertise. But there was something else.The bikers continued to roar past us. "Mitchell, how could you possibly have gotten intoHymnal House? The place was locked yesterday morning when we were trying to get in for the reception and - " The motorcycles drowned me out. I fell silent."The place was open," he cried back defensively. "What reception was that?'The last of the motorcycles growled past. I had invited Hartley to our wedding, as I had all the parishioners. But since he had responded that he wouldn't be able to come, I gave a brief overview of the previous day's postponement of the ceremony after Olson's murder. And about Tom missing. Ah, but he knew all about that. Hartley informed me that someone had put the news aboutSchulz on both the parish and the diocesan prayer chain.He furrowed his brow; the red pompadour shook ominously. In a quickly assumed pastoral tone, he said, "Goldy have you turned the search for your fianc‚ over to the Lord?"I replied evenly, "I've turned the search over to the Furman County Sheriff's Department."His flinch almost made me laugh. "Mitchell. Who made the arrangements for you to get into HymnalHouse? Was it before or after you heard about Father Olson? It just seems so weird," I added pensively, with an equally pastoral brow.Mitchell Hartley backtracked to give his story of how he'd come to know about Olson's murder. Last night, his calls to Olson to ask when the exams would start had gone unanswered.Frustrated, Hartley had then phone Montgomery, the next most senior person on the Board ofTheological Examiners. Montgomery had tearfully told him the news he' heard from the bishop, thatOlson had been shot by an intruder. Of course, Hartley informed me, he was dreadfully concerned about Father Olson's tragic demise, although he was joyful that Olson was now with the Lord. But,Mitchell went on in a worried tone, as a candidate for Holy Orders, he was also frantic about whether the exams would still be held. So, as he'd planned - I could check with the diocesan office, if I wanted - Hartley had come to Hymnal House last night. Like my own experience with catering up there, he'd never given a thought to the building not being open, which it had been because someone had broken a window."I put a piece of cardboard over the broken pane and locked the place up when I went to bed," he said in hi sown defense. "But I left it unlocked toady, since I didn't have any keys." He shrugged."The police are on the way up," I said. I didn't mention the abandoned diocesan vehicle they had found. "Be sure to tell them about your arrangements." I had every intention of filling Boyd in myself about Mitchell Hartley's unorthodox residency across the street from the church. I'd also ask that the police check with the diocesan office on his reservation. When Hartley made no move to leave, I added, "Mitchell, I'm feeling really stressed out from all that's happened, and I need to go home and check on my son and finish some cooking - ""I've been in this diocese for ten years." He leaned toward me. His voice was suddenly raw with anger."Well, I guess the ordination process takes a long time... ""A long time? A long time?" The blue eyes blazed. "Some people get through in three years. That's what it is in other dioceses. But not Colorado. They seem to take a kind of... pleasure in making people wait. Making some people wait, anyway."I wanted desperately to put the books with the stolen files in my van, wanted even more desperately to be one of this conversation. I tried to look dour, the grieving bride.I said, "Guess I need to shove off." He didn't get the hint. I added, "I don't believe in making people wait."He lifted his chin and shot me a suspicious look. "You don't?"I edged backward toward my van. Mitchell Hartley, unrelenting, followed. I wanted to ask,Have you turned your waiting over to the Lord? But I didn't want to hear the answer. Instead I sped up my retreat. Ever eager to impress, Hartley kept remorseless pace right beside me. "I know waiting is supposed to make you grow stronger," I said noncommittally, "but that depends on who or what you're waiting for, doesn't it? How does that psalm go? `I waited patiently upon the Lord, he stooped to me and heard my cry.' Like that."Effortlessly keeping up with me, Hartley glanced down at the books in my hands. He shook his head almost imperceptibly: This woman doesn't interpret the psalms correctly, and she hasn't turned the search for her fianc‚ over to the Lord. In a sadly condescending tone, he said, "Of course, I know the psalm." We'd reached my van. He leaned against the door so that I couldn't open it.I took a deep breath. "I heard last year didn't go so well for you. At the exams, I mean.""Some of the questions were really off base," he replied impassively. "In fact, I was wondering what kind of questions I could expect from you. If you're coming, that is."Hmm. "How about," I said thoughtfully, "eschatology?" Maybe Hartley had a unique take on`til death do us part."What about it?""Anything about it.""Well, that's not very helpful." His eyes had turned icy."Mitchell, please. I really must go - ""Look, Goldy, I'm really sorry about your policeman. I just - I want to tell you something.But don't say you heard it from me, okay?"Of course, I was immediately interested. "Don't say what?""Ted Olson had, like, a double life. He... well, I saw him in a restaurant on Colfax, down inDenver near the Diocesan Center. He was with a woman. I knew it was him because of that fancyMercedes he always drove around. Then I heard he was having an affair, that the bishop was about to discipline him. They'd found some letters or something."This was Mitchell Hartley who had avidly told Boyd about a heated argument betweenFather Olson and Canon Montgomery? What was he trying to do here? I asked, "Who was Olson having an affair with? Did your source know that? What did the woman look like? Not that it's against the law to have lunch with someone. Even if she is a woman."He ignored my flippancy. "She had on a scarf and sunglasses. That's all I remember. I tried to talk to Ted about it once.""And what did he say?""He acted like I'd hit him.""You weren't trying to talk about what he was going to ask on the exams, were you? I mean, since he'd flunked you once already."Mitchell Hartley's blue eyes darkened; he scraped one large, scuffed shoe across the gravel and pivoted to walk away. Over his shoulder he said harshly: "I thought Ted Olson was someone I could rely on. But it was revealed to me that he was not."10I heaved the stolen books and files into my van. Boyd thought Schulz knew the whereabouts of something, something perhaps belonging to Father Olson, a something the killer needed. And now that model candidate for the priesthood, Mitchell Hartley, was making more accusations, this time about illicit affairs, some letters, and what God had spoken in his ear. I sat for a moment in my van and tried to think. What would Tom be asking? What would happen if you had a letter or some letters, say, or needed to know where something was? What good would having that something do?I had a sudden image of Tom being interrogated, and Boyd' suspicions about something else going on. That's why the killer is keeping him alive.When I went back into the church, Zelda Preston and Lucille Boatwright were engaged in a spirited conversation that ended abruptly with my appearance. Before I could figure out a reason to ask them about the Hymnal House keys, Marla sashayed up to my side. In the parking lot, I hadn't noticed that her hair had returned to its normal willful tumult, despite the fact that it was held here and there by barrettes covered with tiny flowers fashioned of green and pink silk. Outside of the pew, I now also had a chance to admire her fashionable floral-print chiffon dress, which clung in thin folds around her ample body. Tiny rows of appliqu‚d pink flowers adorned the neckline and hem.Marla always dressed according to the season. This was obviously the couture statement for spring."Well?" she demanded sotto voce. She pressed her fingers into my forearm. Her rings sparkled with pink diamonds and pale emeralds. "What did Boyd say? Have they found him? Did they figure out what that note meant?""No news. They did find the car that he was transported in." I didn't tell her the car belonged to the diocese. "Listen, Marla," I said earnestly, "you didn't tell anybody about that note Schulz left, did you? I don't think Boyd would approve of anyone else knowing about it."She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, Bob Preston strutted over and assessed us. With difficulty, he wriggled his hands into his double-stitched denim pockets and rocked back on his cowboy-boot heels. It was clear that the church was one of Bob's domains."I feel so bad about hanging up on you yesterday, Goldy! So to make it up to you, Agatha and I would like to take the town's prettiest caterer out to brunch. After the ten o'clock service.""Gosh, Bob," said Marla, "don't mind me."He didn't. I consulted my watch. Nine fifteen. I was becoming oddly popular. Bob Preston either didn't know or wasn't worried about the police coming back to Aspen Meadow to question him. Before I could respond, and just as Marla was saying a warning "Uh-oh," under her breath,Zelda Preston and Lucille Boatwright approached us."How are you, Goldy?" asked Zelda. Her voice was filled with concern. "Poor dear. Did you get the casserole?" Unlike Lucille, Zelda did not dress in understated, expensive outfits. Her faded turquoise knit dress, with its sloping shoulders and hemline from a decade past, screamed thrift shop. A single strand of not-exactly-antique glass beads decorated her throat. Her face was a wrinkled mass of worry. "You haven't mentioned it since you came to church.""I'm... hanging in," I told her, "thanks. And thanks for that lovely orange afghan, too. So thoughtful of you, when the weather's still so cold - "Her concern turned to puzzlement. "Afghan? I use electric blankets. Goodness! But at least my lasagna arrived safely." Her gaze drilled into the guitarists arriving for the second service. "I suppose I should be leaving.""Oh," I begged hastily, "please stay. I really want to talk to you about... " How to say, about whether you had the car and Hymnal House keys? About the guitar music petition you were battling over with our murdered priest? "About... lasagna. And the Halt the Hootenanny petition."Marla groaned.Lucille Boatwright narrowed one flinty blue eye at me. Because I was divorced, because I was commonly engaged in food service, and probably just because I existed, Lucille did not like me. She would be suspicious of me if Mother Teresa were giving me a kiss. Now she bristled inside her dark gray double-breasted wool suit with its armory of tiny, ornate gold buttons. I thought she was probably still assessing where Schulz had run off to, abandoning me at the altar. Tahiti.Borneo. But instead she announced, "We had fifty signatures, but Father Olson wasn't interested.So we took it to the bishop."Marla giggled. Incredulous, I choked. "You did what?" These two dutiful women in their sixties had bypassed their rector and taken their petition directly to the bishop? That kind of authority-flaunting behavior would have been unthinkable during old Father Pinckney's time. "What happened?" I demanded."That's what we don't know," Lucille replied defiantly, as if I were painfully dumb. "The bishop's office says they formally replied to our request to halt guitar music. But of course we never heard from Olson on the matter. You know that man would have misplaced his tax return. He probably never even filed, and not that he's dead, the IRS will come looking and the church will have to pay - ""Ah, Lucille," interjected Zelda sweetly, "you mustn't get yourself upset talking about the music again. - "Behind us, Bob Preston snorted."Well," I said desperately, "why don't you stay and we can talk more about it after the next service?" Then I remembered that I had agreed to join Bob and Agatha for brunch, because I wanted to milk them for information. "Zelda, I'd really love to hear you play the organ again - ""Ha!" cried Zelda. Her nostrils flared. She looked like a poodle refusing to eat what had been set before her. She gestured significantly at the musicians testing their tambourines. "There's no way I'm playing that blather they call music at the next service. I am a professional."Trying with a remarkable lack of success to suppress more laughter, Marla overdiligently smoothed down the pleats of the green-and-pink dress and announced, "I'll talk to you about lasagna, Goldy. When it comes to pasta, I am a professional. I just don't do cookies."I shot her an exasperated look and lightly touched Zelda's arm. "Please... wait. Was it someone from the Altar Guild who left the afghan for me?"Zelda stared at me, her miserly mouth drawn into pinched folds. "Oh, poor Goldy, how should I know?" She patted my hand and turned to Lucille. "People think I know everything about this parish, and I'm always the last to know anything. Come along now, Lucille, we must get you back home to rest."Lucille pointed her dimpled chin in my direction. "Do they know what happened to your fianc‚?" she demanded brusquely. Recalling her suspicious interrogation of first Arch and thenBoyd, I pressed my lips together and shook my head.I said, "We're all hoping for good news.""I see." Lucille raised one pencil-thin white eyebrow. "Did they figure out that message he left? We've put it on the prayer chain, you know, that the police will be able to decipher it. We're going to discuss it a prayer group tomorrow."I turned venomously toward Marla, who shrank back in mock horror. Her plump, bejeweled fingers sheltered her face. Bob Preston guffawed. "You might as well have put it in the Post."Trying to keep anger out of my voice, I asked Lucille what time the prayer group meeting was scheduled. This was one meeting I needed to attend, if for no other reason than to shut everyone up. But I hoped that I wouldn't need to, that they would find Tom before then."Now, Goldy," warned Lucille, "you know we take our praying seriously.""So do I. And, I was wondering, are we praying for anyone with the initials V.M.? Or does that stand for Virgin Mary or something? I mean, since you know what was in Tom's note, have you studied it?""Virgin Mary? What in the world - ""Initials, then. Praying for anyone named V.M.?"Lucille huffed, "Except for Victor Mancuso, I don't know. Perhaps it would be good if you did come, dear, you could remind us to ask." She touched a row of silver curls, then seemed to have an inspiration. "Would you like to bring some lunch? Just for about eight people. You're so good at that! And it'll help you get your mind off your other troubles. Fish for Lent, of course. Do you have any?""Fish?""No? Well," Lucille confided, "how about shrimp?"I said, "Oh, sure," in a sarcastic tone that was clearly lost on her before she breezed off with Zelda. Well, I'd certainly been busy. After the service I was going out for brunch with thePrestons; tomorrow, I was making lunch for the entire prayer group. Nothing like food to quell anxiety."Now don't be mad at me," Marla began defensively. She kept her voice low. Bob Preston had moved off but was nearby, button-holing a fellow Kiwanian. "You never said that note was a secret.""All right, all right," I conceded. "Listen, I know how you can make it up to me.""But I didn't do anything.""You'll like this, I promise. It's your kind of thing. I need to know more about whether FatherOlson was having an affair. Please, it's important."When Marla had finished registering astonishment and was muttering that she'd be delighted, I spotted Father Doug Ramsey out of the corner of my eye. Leaving Marla, I moved unobtrusively in the direction of our late rector's assistant, the purported ecclesiastical intelligence agent."Need to chat, Father D."Unfortunately, I startled him; his first tentative sip o hot coffee splashed down the front of his white alb and stole."Oh, dear, I'm sorry," I said.His delicate, triangular face was more rueful than his voice. "Don't worry about it," he said uncertainly. "I can sponge it out."I said I was mixing together some muffins between the services, and could we sponge out the stains in the kitchen and chat? There were some things I was wondering about, things the police had said to me about him and the bishop.Doug Ramsey did not immediately reply. His doleful brown eyes fearfully roamed the room.I followed his glance and saw Mitchell Hartley chatting reconcilably with Canon Montgomery whileBob Preston regaled some new-comers. Agatha gave her mother-in-law Zelda a tentative hug as she departed, then stood uncomfortably next to her husband. She had taken off the dour black coat and wore a light orange outfit the color of a Creamsicle. I knew the Prestons' orientation was of the charismatic sort, and that coming early for the second service meant Bob would have more of a chance to draft folks into Bob-projects. The narthex was nearly empty, and the service was not due to begin for thirty minutes. Still, Father Insensitive Ramsey seemed oddly nervous. Interesting.Where do you want to talk?" he said under his breath."In the kitchen," I whispered back. "No one will suspect. If we go outside, people will wonder what it is we're being secretive about.""Oh, Lord, that's not what I want," he said with a gulp. He ran his fingers through his black ringlets.I smiled at him. "If we go in the kitchen, people will think we're doing dishes. They'll avoid us like one of the plagues that struck Egypt."Without further ado, I strode purposefully into the church kitchen, which was empty. DougRamsey reluctantly followed. I silently offered a clean, wet sponge to him, and he dabbed at his alb.Then I got out the eggs, evaporated milk, oil, and premeasured flour I'd brought and said,"First of all, I'm wondering who has access to the set of keys to Hymnal House and the Episcopal camps vehicle."He scowled. "That's what the police want to know about the bishop? For heaven's sake!They keep that set of keys down at the diocesan office in the winter. For special events, someone from the parish goes to get them. Why on earth do you need - ?" He cast another anxious glance around. "Don't you think I should be doing something out here? So it won't look suspicious.""How are you at lining muffin tins?" I thrust a box of paper cupcake liners at him and gestured at the muffin pans."Uh - ""Okay," I continued briskly, "why do the police think you're the bishop's spy?""Ack!" His face turned bright pink. For once he wasn't able to think of some long set of words to justify and amplify his response. "Well, I - " he began finally as he opened the box and shook out a tower of pastel liners. He stopped and looked at them as if they were cockroaches."You know I was hired by Father Olson - ""Cut the crap, Doug. Why did the bishop recommend you for this post?"He held a pale blue liner between the very ends of his index finger and thumb. After a moment's hesitation, he dropped it in a cup, inspected it, did the same with a green one, then a pink. At this rate, the tins would be ready by sundown. He said, "How did you know the bishop recommended me?"Did this pompous dork think people in this parish didn't talk/ Rather than explain, I merely revved the electric mixer through the eggs, oil, milk, and sugar, and waited for an answer."You know, Goldy" - drop, drop - "er, some strange things have, or had, been going on in the congregation, and Father Olson," - drop, drop - "Ted, was never one to be terribly communicative with the bishop's office. I mean, he didn't even go to deanery meetings, and then when diocesan convention rolled around - "He stopped abruptly when Bob Preston vaulted into the kitchen. Preston, seeing we were engaged in domestic activities, beat a hasty retreat."Doug, why don't you go a little faster?" I suggested lightly. "Why did the bishop need you to spy?" I said brusquely when Preston was safely out of earshot. "The service is going to start in twenty minutes! Do you want to tell me, or do you want tot tell the police and four newspapers?`Priest held for questioning over secret role in parish' ought to look real good in the The DenverPost, not to mention The Rocky Mountain Episcopalian." I angrily dumped the flour, baking powder and salt into the batter and began to beat furiously. "Time is a problem here for the man I'm supposed to marry. But, since I don't' have too much to do now that he's been kidnapped, I'll certainly have time to phone each of the newspapers personally."Doug Ramsey gave me a helpless expression, then began to drop paper cups in the pan again. "Goldy, don't threaten me. You know I'm under the bishop's discipline - "I swirled in the vanilla and almond extracts, which turned the thick batter golden and fragrant, and then the poppy seeds, which gave it an inviting, speckled appearance. "Why does the bishop need a cleric to report back to him from St. Luke's in Aspen Meadow? What was he afraid of?""That people were worshiping Olson, that's what!""What?" I stopped the beater and gaped at him."You heard me." He shook with frustration. The muffin tins dropped out of his hands onto the counter just as the sun came out from behind a cloud and shone through the windows. Doug's alb turned brilliant white. His anger shimmered out in all directions."Worshiping him how?" I demanded.Almond Poppy Seed Muffins4 large eggs2 cups sugar1 _ cups (13-ounce) evaporated milk¬ cup milk2 cups vegetable oil4 cups flour1 teaspoon vanilla extract1 teaspoon almond extract« cup poppy seedsPreheat the oven to 325. Line 30 muffin cups with paper liners. In a large mixing bowl, beat together the eggs, sugar, evaporated milk, milk, and vegetable oil. Sift together the baking powder, salt, and flour. Gradually add the flour mixture to the egg mixture, beating until well combined. Add the extracts and poppy seeds, stirring only until well combined.Using a 1/3-cup measure, pour the batter into the muffin cups. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean.Makes 30 muffins.Doug glared at me. He said tersely, "Father Theodore Olson belonged to the Society ofChad, as do I, as do Wickham and Montgomery and twenty other clergy in this diocese." He inhaled mightily. "You probably think the Society of Chad has something to do with African famine relief."Lucky for me I'd taken that course from Canon Montgomery. I picked up the bowl and began to ladle batter into the few muffin cups Ramsey had set out. "Seventh-century English bishop, traveled around his diocese on foot. Died of the plague. What about him? And would you preheat that oven to three-twenty-five for me?""We are dedicated to preserving the apostolic tradition, just as Chad was, "Father Doug replied huffily, twirling the oven dial. "And this year as our chosen study we have been looking at miraculous healings. AS they validate the sacraments, of course.""You're losing me, Doug." I took up his abandoned task and started to put the paper liners into the rest of the muffin cups."Well, it's one thing to talk about Lourdes and Medugorge," he said fiercely. "On the other hand, quite a bit closer to home, a Sunday School teacher suddenly says she doesn't have any more back pain! Well, that could be because we replaced most of those antiquated chairs in theSunday School rooms. That infant a month ago that was supposedly born blink? There are conflicting reports on whether his reflexes had even been tested when this healing allegation came up!""Lourdes and Medugorge," I prompted him."Yes! Well. It's quite another thing to get some wild report that Olson lays hands on a terminally ill St. Luke's parishioner at Lutheran Hospital, and one hundred percent deadly mylocytic leukemia just disappears! I mean, please.""But nobody really knows what happened to Roger Bampton, isn't that true? This doesn't really sound like the Episcopal church, Doug." I scraped the last of the batter into a paper liner and set the pans into the oven. I looked at my watch: 9:45. I'd have to sneak back during the service to take the muffins out when they were done.Oh, tell me it doesn't sound like the Episcopal church. As you may or may not know,Goldy, there is no ecclesiastical... mechanism within our communion to verify miracles. And no one actually saw the parishioner's blood tests. Oh, those much-touted blood tests! As if I hadn't heard enough about them... But soon after the Bampton incident, another Sunday School teacher claimed she was cured of lupus after Father Olson laid hands on her. Someone else said somebody's shingles disappeared. The stories spread and out prayer list is suddenly the length of the phone book. The money isn't just pouring in, it's flooding in." Not to mention, I added mentally, the number of terminally ill folks who will want to be Sunday School teachers. "And who's containing this?" Doug fumed. "Who's testing it against church doctrine and experience? It's as if the Martians have landed! Come to Aspen Meadow and throw away your crutches for the entireAnglican communion to see! Talk about headlines! We've been expecting the National Enquirer here any minute! Now if Olson just would have come to one deanery meeting - ""Who's we? Who would have been threatened by this, b3esides the bishop? Someone likeMitchell Hartley?"Doug Ramsey made a raisin face of disgust. "Mitchell Hartley is one of the ringleaders of this sort of thinking! There's no foundation to it, I'm telling you! It's all Jesus-is-my-buddy and theHoly-Spirit-is-my-voodoo. These people are ruining the church. Of course, we all thought Olson was grounded in the orthodox faith - ""You keep saying `we.' ""Why, everyone in the hierarchy, of course. We're talking about the apostolic tradition here,Goldy - ""Doug! What about sexual misconduct?"He shrank away from me and colored deeply "Excuse me?"Several early arrivals for the second service, enticed by the delicious vanilla-mixed-with- almond aroma wafting out of the oven, poked their heads in to see what was cooking. Father DougRamsey and I bustled to start washing bowl and beaters. Disappointed, the curious churchgoers withdrew.Over, the sound of hot water filling the sink, I murmured, "I heard a rumor that Olson was romantically involved with someone. Having an affair. How's the Episcopal church's mechanism for dealing with that?"Doug squirted about five times as much liquid detergent into the sink as we would need."Goldy, he could have been involved with ten women, I mean, the man could have had a harem the way they fell all over him. They used to wait outside the door of our Society of Chad meeting! We began calling Olson the magician. Women and miracles, what more could you ask for?Montgomery asked for his resignation from the society, but of course he didn't get it. Then the bishop called me in and said, `Find out what Olson's doing. He's pulling in so much money, there must be something to it.' Lord!" He flourished the dish detergent. "So here I am having to act the sycophant in Aspen Meadow, and praying that some of this chicanery will be exposed!""Doug, that's enough soap." He pulled back the container and looked dejected. I turned off the water. "I'm sorry, I know you're terribly upset. Just tell me, what women were waiting outside the door of the committee meeting?'He slapped the detergent down and pulled his alb around him as if it were a blanket. His eyes blazed. "I don't remember. And you needn't waste your pity on me. I will continue to carry on, as I always have. I will go in as an examiner day after tomorrow, with a level head, good organization, and the belief - no the knowledge that the orthodox faith prevails - ""Doug, I meant it. I can tell how upset you are. Please, help me. I'm just trying to findInvestigator Tom Schulz. What I don't know is who resented Olson. Do you know who his worst enemies were?"Doug Ramsey released his alb and leaned in toward me. He hissed: "Olson's worst enemy was himself."11At the ten o'clock eucharist, the one favored by the charismatics and people who brought children (heartily loathed by the Old Guard, regardless of what Jesus had to say on the subject),Montgomery's sermon was the same. This time, however, he ignored me as carefully as I did him.First he'd been friendly, then he'd yelled at me, and now he was indifferent. Grief could make people strange.The second service was completely different from the first. If the 8:00 service was the liturgical equivalent of a golf game, the 10:00 was a soccer match. Perhaps it was the three women and one man enthusiastically strumming guitars, playing the drums, and banging tambourines near the altar. Or maybe it was the people themselves crowded into the pews, their hands raised in the air as they energetically sang the hymns. In addition to advocating a personal relationship with theLord, the charismatics put great emphasis on praise through song. Hearty song. And of course, the wildness could have been at least partly attributed to the great multitude of children, all either chattering, sobbing, dropping books, or scrambling over the wooden pews. By the time we got to the intercessory prayers, I was ready for someone to blow a whistle. Instead, Bob Preston got up with a prayer book and a pad of yellow paper. His few strands of hair glimmered in the light from the electric candelabra. The deep hollows of his cheeks made him look uncannily like Zelda. It was the first time I had noticed a resemblance between mother and son.I'm sure everyone knows by now that Father Olson was tragically killed yesterday." BobPreston paused to be certain everyone had heard him. His eyes swept the room. In the sudden hush, the only noise was the clicking silver ends of his bolo tie. "We put the news out on all the phone trees..." He tilted his head to one side and raise his voice. "The funeral will be Tuesday morning at ten." At the first service, this announcement had been accompanied by tiny, discreet sniffs. Now sniffles developed into a wave of lamentation that quickly rose to a crescendo. People clutched each other as they wept; they patted each others' backs and offered tissues. Father Olson had been, after all, one of them."We believe he did not die in vain." Bob Preston's voice soared over the sobs. "WE believe that he did not die in vain!""Amen! Yes, Lord!" accompanied this announcement.Father Doug Ramsey opened his eyes wide and tilted his head to catch CanonMontgomery's attention for an (-told-you-so glance. I wondered if Canon Montgomery thought all this was better or worse than people snickering at his poetry. I perused the congregation for MitchellHartley. He sat in the pew across the nave from me, his red pompadour bobbing as he appeared to agree with Bob Preston."Now you know," Preston bellowed, "Father Olson would have wanted us to continue with the prayer list. We need to pray for Victor Mancuso. Father Olson laid hands on him in the hospital, and we're waiting for the tests to come back. We need to keep praying for Roger Bampton, who continues to show no sign of illness!"