The Last Suppers

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Outside, the gears of the van ground as the tires crunched up the driveway. Julian had returned.

  “Marla, I can’t stand being out of it. I can’t stand to just sit here by the telephone waiting for the police to call. I’ve got to do something.”

  She sat down and squeezed my fingers, which were finally beginning to get warm. “Goldy, what you need to do is rest. Let Arch and Julian pamper you, if you’re not going to come to my place.”

  Julian, dressed in a secondhand wool overcoat that was much too big for his compact, muscled body, clomped inside and threw himself into a kitchen chair. Marla, who is happiest when people are eating, asked him if he wanted some tea and shortbread.

  “No, thanks.” The corners of his mouth quivered downward. His bleached mohawk haircut was wildly askew, and the five o’clock shadow on his jaw made him look older than nineteen. He’d exchanged the rented tux for patched jeans and an oversized T-shirt distributed by a local roofing company that had gone out of business. The logo shrieked: The roof is the hairdo on a house! Think about it.

  Julian snorted. “I went by the church to see if there was anything else I needed to pick up.” He gestured with his thumb. “The wedding cake’s in the van. I gotta freeze it. The people at the church told me what happened to Schulz. I can’t believe it, man. Schulz is so fast, so smart, I’m like, you’re kidding. Have you heard anything?”

  I said no and tried to appear pulled-together. Julian had suffered his own share of upheavals, starting when the boarding department at Elk Park Preparatory School, where he was a scholarship student, closed. We had both been live-in employees for a few ill-fated months at a wealthy couple’s mansion, and when things fell apart there, Julian came to live with Arch and me. Less than two months away from graduating from Elk Park Prep, he was an excellent student, star swimmer, and ferociously good cook. He was desperate to get into Cornell so he could study food science. Eventually, he wanted to become the first vegetarian caterer from Bluff, Utah, to be written up in Gourmet. I thought he had a good chance to get into Cornell, although I had my doubts about his aspirations for Gourmet. That, however, could wait, as it was the coming week that would bring the college acceptance and rejection news. Adding this to the wedding preparations had put Julian’s anxiety into high gear. Still, Arch and I loved having him around, high anxiety or no. But now, with Tom gone, the teenager would be impossible. I knew from sad experience that the emotionally volatile Julian became volcanic in the face of danger to those he loved.

  “So what are the police doing about Schulz?” he demanded when I didn’t answer immediately. He glowered at me as if this were somehow my fault. “I mean, do they, like, know who snatched him, or what?”

  I patiently explained that a concentration of law-enforcement types were prowling about at Olson’s house the way they were searching the church, that they had found some things of Tom’s and a note containing abbreviations nobody could decipher. Julian chewed on his knuckles when I said Tom’s note seemed to be his catalogue of events up to the moment he was abducted by somebody whose identity we did not yet know.

  My personal phone line rang; I snatched it. “What?”

  “Uh, Goldy? This is Father Doug Ramsey, and I need to talk to you about … some church matters. First, of course, I am concerned about you. How are you doing?”

  “Terribly, Doug. Sorry, I can’t talk now. I’m trying to keep my phone lines open for the police.”

  “Well. This will just take a minute. It’s about the meeting next week, and the food—”

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece and hissed at Marla, “Get rid of Father Doug for me, will you? Quickly?”

  Marla puckered her lips, then took the receiver. “This is Goldilocks’ Catering and we can’t talk now.” But instead of hanging up—she was, after all, a cradle Episcopalian—she listened to Doug Ramsey launch into one of his long strings of words: explanations, queries, thoughts. I whispered a prayer that the police would do an operator interrupt if there was news.

  “What do you mean, abbreviations? What kind of notes are you talking about?” Julian asked me in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Just his notes on what was happening when he arrived out at Olson’s place. They think it was to help him remember.” I looked questioningly at Marla, who still held the phone to her ear.

  Marla shook her head and told Doug Ramsey to hold on. To me she said, “He’s saying Bob Preston called him after Agatha phoned here. He wants to know if you want Schulz put on the prayer list.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Please tell him I have to leave this line open for the cops, so don’t let him go on and on with exaggerated descriptions and hyperbolic worries.” Which was precisely Father Doug Ramsey’s style, unfortunately.

  Marla returned to the phone. After a minute, she said, “No, no, no, I’m sure she won’t…. She’s under too much stress, that’s why.” Again she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Did this guy flunk pastoral theology or what?” she whispered. Doug’s voice still droned through the receiver; Marla smiled widely. “Doug,” she told him loudly, “you can find another caterer.” More muffled protests were followed by, “All right, I’ll ask.” She turned to me. “Father Insensitive wants to know if you’re still going to cater the Board of Theological Examiners’ meetings starting Tuesday night. And attend, too, since you’re a member, that’s what he says he’s upset about, can’t get another qualified laywoman on such short notice, and especially with Olson gone, they just won’t have enough people to do the examining. Or so he claims. He says it’ll help you get your mind off your other crises. Although I think he’s more worried about food, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Goldy, you can’t,” Julian began fervently, “not when you’re going through this other mess. Tell them I’ll do it.”

  “I agree,” said Marla, her hand still clasped over the mouthpiece. “The police will want to talk to you—”

  “Tell him I don’t know yet,” I interrupted firmly. “The meeting’s in three days—he can wait until tomorrow for a decision.” Besides, I added mentally, Father Olson had been head of the Board of Theological Examiners. I owed doing this catering to him, and perhaps cooking for the board would keep me from obsessing about Schulz.

  Resigned, Marla spoke quietly into the phone, then hung up. When Julian asked if I wanted him to fix dinner, Marla replied with a snicker that Father Doug had said the Altar Guild was sending in meals. Starting tonight.

  “Oh, wow,” Julian muttered as he raked his mown blond hair with his short fingers. “Tuna fish and cream of mushroom soup.”

  “Don’t be ungrateful,” Marla chided. “I’ve brought you frozen zucchini quiche, your own mini-wheel of Camembert, and spinach tortellini. And there’s Beef Wellington for the carnivores. Not to mention that you still have plenty of wedding goodies tucked away in your refrigerator. You can munch on those for as long as—”

  Wedding goodies. I put my head into my hands. I know he loved you. Loves. Julian and Marla simultaneously lunged forward to hug me, which only made matters worse.

  “I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t.” Marla’s voice choked with guilt near my ear. “At least let me take you out tonight, Goldy. There’s no point staying around here.”

  “I need to be near the phones,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “But thanks, Marla. Please. Julian, if it’ll make you feel better to cook, go ahead.”

  With a wild and angry energy, Julian began to bang around the kitchen. Arch appeared from the TV room and asked for an update. When we told him there was none, he assessed the two glum adults and one manic teenager, then announced he was going back to finish watching his show. After a while, Marla said she would go home and make some calls for me, to let people know what was going on so that they wouldn’t tie up my lines with their dumb questions. But she would stay if we needed her, she offered hopefully. I assured her we would be fine. When she left, I went to find Arch.

  In the spare bedroom that we
used as a recreation space, Arch had the television on but was lying face-up on the tartan plaid couch. When he turned to me, I knew he was assessing my mood, the way he had as a child. He seemed to be wondering: How should I react to this crisis? If Mom is upset, I should be upset.

  “I’m going to be all right,” I said to his unspoken question. “Are you?”

  He groaned. His gray sweatsuit was pleated in a rumpled mass that he didn’t bother to straighten. He avoided my eyes. “Mom, how soon do you think the police will call?”

  I turned the television off and sat in the matching plaid chair. “Very soon. They’re going to bring me a copy of the note, and some things of Tom’s.”

  Arch paused, mulling something over. Finally he heaved himself up.

  “What is it, Arch?”

  His thin chest and shoulders collapsed with a loud, disgusted sigh. Lying on the couch had flattened his hair straight up at the cowlick. “You really don’t think he could have decided to, like, run away, do you? Maybe he just didn’t want to … you know, I’m not saying it’s you, Mom … maybe he just was afraid of all of us being together. In a family. Maybe he just didn’t want to get married,” he concluded fiercely.

  I waited until Arch looked at me, then I took one of his cool hands. “This is what I believe: that they’ll find him. That he wants to be a family with us more than anything.”

  Arch’s eyes had gone from narrow to vacant; clearly, he was doubtful.

  “Please, hon, won’t you come eat? You haven’t had a regular meal all day.”

  Arch shook his head and pulled his hand away. “I don’t think I should eat until they find Tom Schulz.”

  “Please. Don’t do this. Julian’s working like crazy out there to make a nice meal for you. And you know Tom would want you to take care of yourself.” He didn’t move. “Please, Arch.”

  He got up. With bleary eyes, he pushed past me down the hall to the kitchen.

  Our dinner consisted of Julian’s idea of comfort food: a spicy frittata served with his own heated sourdough rolls, a fruit cup, and a complex salad of tomatoes, scallions, lettuce, crushed corn chips, and grated cheddar and jack cheeses, all coated with a thick, smooth avocado dressing. I recognized this guacamole concoction as a specialty of Tom’s. Julian had retrieved the recipe from the overstuffed square plastic file that I’d forgotten was on a shelf where Tom’s cookbooks were piled on top of mine. I wondered if the card file had any abbreviations in it. VM? B.—Read—Judas? P.R.A.Y.? Not likely.

  The boys exchanged a worried look when I stopped moving food around on my plate and brought Tom’s recipe box up to my nose, inhaled deeply, then dumped the whole mass of handprinted recipes out onto the table. The spattered, yellowed cards smelled faintly of Tom’s kitchen. It was an inviting, high-ceilinged room in the log home he had been about to vacate, after much discussion, to live in town with us. I reached for a card: Monster Cinnamon Rolls. His handwriting. And then a note in another, more recent pen: Try for G. I couldn’t bear it; I turned it over and left the cards in an untidy pile.

  The frittata and salad, unfortunately, merely assuaged hunger, which was by this time severe. Worse, I was unable to offer comfort in the area Arch and Julian most needed it: answers to their questions. First they wanted to be told—again—every detail of Tom’s disappearance. I hesitated discussing my time in the meadow by Olson’s house, with its memories of the shrouded corpse and the police tramping dutifully about, looking for clues. But Arch, who had eaten only a forkful of frittata, and Julian, who was digging into his third helping, would tolerate no avoidance on my part. They wanted to hear it all, as if such knowledge could give order to the sudden loss of the big-bodied, big-hearted police officer whom they had both come to love. I did not mention that it looked as if Tom had been injured on the stony bank of the creek. Julian pushed his plate away and looked at me quizzically.

  “What about before the church?” he persisted. “Didn’t Schulz, you know, call you this morning? And what about Father Olson? Is stuff missing from his house? I mean, if there is, why would some guy rob him, then shoot him down by the creek instead of just knocking him out and taking off?”

  “Tom Schulz did not call before we left for the church this morning,” I said, remembering the hassle of getting my garment bag, the ring, and all the food platters into the van. “And as to the why with Father Olson, I don’t know. That’s what the investigative team is supposed to be working on.” Some kind of resolve was forming. And what I’m going to find out, I added mentally.

  Arch put down his fork. I was not up to telling him to finish what was on his plate. He said, “I want to see the note from him. I have some books of codes. Maybe I could look the abbreviations up.”

  Exasperated, Julian got up and began to clear the table. “Arch,” he said as he clanked dishes into the sink, “if he’d known somebody was watching him, he would have pulled out his gun, not written a message to us in stupid code.” He threw open the door to the commercial dishwasher that had just cost me over a thousand dollars. The heavy door made a cracking sound as it bounced in place.

  “Oh, yeah?” hollered Arch. His face flushed with anger. “Where d’you suppose he packed his piece? Inside his tuxedo with the ring he was going to give to Mom?” Arch glowered at Julian, who rudely ignored him as he dumped plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. “If I want to look up codes, I will! I’m allowed!”

  “Guys,” I begged, “please. Not now.” I made a sudden decision. Pushing my chair out from the table, I snatched the van keys. “I’m going back to the church.” To the two pairs of suddenly fearful eyes, I said, “Don’t sweat it. I’m just going to pick up his wedding ring.”

  It was bitterly cold outside. The wind had picked up and was whirling snow off the ground like fanned smoke. The van growled in protest when I gunned it toward Main Street. The church parking lot was empty, which is what you’d expect at 6:30 on a Saturday evening. I hopped out of the van, walked carefully across the slippery frozen gravel, and pulled on one of the two main doors to St. Luke’s. It was unlocked—so much for ecclesiastical security. On the shadowed altar, the pallid petals of my bridal flowers glimmered like leftover funeral arrangements. Gritting my teeth, I allowed the door to swing shut and trotted around the long way, up past the columbarium construction. I was panting by the time I arrived at the church office building.

  That office door wasn’t just unlocked: it was partially open. Tom, be with me, I prayed silently as I tried to catch my breath. I whacked the door open with my foot.

  “Hello?” I called as I stepped boldly over the threshold. “What the hell—?”

  At first, I was so shocked I could not register what I saw. Within seconds, however, dismay replaced surprise. The office had been vandalized.

  The sawhorses leading to the renovation area lay in pieces on the desk. On the floor, papers from the secretary’s files had been dumped every which way. Her phone had been pulled from the wall and smashed. Hymnals and prayer books were spewed on top of the disorder of pipes, and the couch on which I had sat with Helen Keene that afternoon had been slashed. Gouts of foam rubber lay everywhere.

  “I can’t believe this,” I muttered. The old floor creaked as I tiptoed through the devastation to Ted Olson’s office. If whoever had done this had stolen Tom’s wedding ring … My skin prickled with rage. I knew I was a little crazed. But no one was going to take that away from me, too.

  Olson’s office was—if possible—even more of a mess. Not only had the phone been broken to smithereens, but the contents of upended file drawers had been spilled over the floor. So much for the police searching through them for the meaning of VM, B., and P.R.A.Y. The bookshelves were empty—all the volumes were on the floor. The vandal had spared the Leonardo reproduction, although it now hung at a grotesque tilt. The bulletin board had crashed to the floor. The ring, I thought. What did you do with the ring, you bastard?

  There was a sudden shuffling. I screamed and grabbed a heavy book. Something
—a trash can lid?—banged. Out the office window, I could dimly see a raccoon shambling away from the building. I collapsed onto a chair, certain I was about to have a heart attack.

  “Dammit! Where is the ring?” I said aloud.

  And then I remembered that I had brought it in the pocket of my streetclothes. They had fallen from their hook when I’d heaved a hymnal at the wall. I stepped over the debris until I came to the plain brown cotton dress that still lay in a rumpled heap. Kneeling, I fumbled in the pocket and experienced a cold wave of relief when my fingers closed around the velvet-covered box from Aspen Meadow Jewelers.

  I pulled it out and opened it. The thick gold band that was to have been Tom’s glistened in the fading light. I popped the box shut, stood, and stepped quickly over the chaos. Clutching the precious ring box, I ran back to my van.

  6

  The van wheezed against the cold as I raced home. Back in my kitchen, I ignored Julian’s vociferous inquiries and called the Sheriff’s Department. Yes, I insisted to Dispatch’s toneless question, it was an emergency. Dispatch put me through to Calloway; I told her about the ransacked church office. She thanked me, said Boyd was on his way up to my house anyway, and that she’d send a team over to the church. I hung up.

  “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 was Saturday 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?”