“I was looking for those doggone pearls that were going to be used for the women’s jewelry bazaar. You said he hid things in strange places, so I just thought—”
“Oh, excuse me, I said he hid things in strange places? So this is my fault? You think the motive was robbery. That’s the theory you risked getting killed for? If stealing was the motive and it failed, don’t you think the police would have found the pearls when they first went out there, when Olson died?”
I didn’t answer. We pulled up by the curb in front of my house.
“What’s that supposed to be?” demanded Marla.
I followed her pointing finger. Yet another crocheted afghan swung gently from a rafter on my front porch. This one was green and had a white cross at the center. “Oh, Lord, why—”
But my exclamation was interrupted. Julian and Arch vaulted out the front door. Their faces, full of curiosity and worry, pinched my heart. These last few days had been so hard on them.
“I still don’t see why you went out to Olson’s before the sun was even up,” Marla said with an exasperated laugh. “I have plenty of pearls if you need to borrow some.”
“I keep telling you not to start, but you just keep doing it.”
Julian and Arch insisted on knowing everything that had happened. I gave a few brief details and concluded with the fact that I had not found Tom Schulz. Also, I’d been slightly hurt in the process. Marla settled me in a chair—I refused to go to bed—with an electric heating pad wedged against my back and a fresh mug of cappuccino. She took down the newly donated afghan while I dutifully took a pain pill with a glass of water. It was a mild muscle relaxant that I knew would still allow me to function, especially after the double dose of caffeine Marla had just given me.
She said, “I’m taking Julian back out to get the Rover so the guys can go to school. Can I trust you?” Her eyes challenged me to protest. I wasn’t sure I had the strength.
“I’ll stay with her,” Arch piped up. “I learned CPR in Scouts.” He gave me one of his goggle-eyed looks and a full, beneficent grin. Marla laughed while Julian, mute and anxious, stared at me as if I were an apparition. He could not seem to believe I was alive. I knew better than to try to explain my motivations to him in his present emotional condition.
“What’s the deal with that knitted thing on the porch?” he demanded. “I think it’s pretty weird that someone keeps leaving stuff for you, and you don’t even know who it is.”
“Someone at the church,” I said casually. I brightened. “I probably won’t get up when you get back. Hope your classes go well today.” And then I remembered again the importance of this week to Julian. Would the college admissions or rejections come this day? I’d become so preoccupied with my own crises that I hadn’t been very sympathetic. “Good luck,” I added lamely.
“Don’t worry about me,” he ordered impatiently, then hustled off with Marla. “We’ll be back for you in forty minutes,” he warned over his shoulder to Arch.
Arch did not move from the kitchen table. “You just got one call this morning,” he announced to me, as if anticipating my first question. “They want you to set up at the church around eleven-thirty. Should I phone and say you can’t come?”
“No, I have to go. Maybe you could put some water on to boil the pasta. Then if you don’t mind, you can scoop out the cookies. I made two kinds. They are recipes of Tom’s.”
He gave me a solicitous look, then retrieved my pasta pot. “So, out at Father Olson’s,” he said conversationally, “was it really scary? I wish I knew who clobbered you. That is so gross.”
“It went too fast for me to be scared. But I was wondering if you’d hand me that pile of exams over there, please.” I readjusted the heating pad and felt the medication kick in. My head felt light, and the sharp pains in my back ebbed to a dull ache as I started flipping through the pages the diocesan office had sent me to read.
“Did the robber-guy take much?” Arch asked as water gushed into the pan. He heaved it over to the stove with a minimum of sloshing.
“Hold on.” I ripped open the envelope containing the candidates’ names coded to their exam numbers. As I suspected, candidate 92-492 was identified on the master sheet as Mitchell Hartley. I put in a call to Boyd’s voice mail; after the fiascos at Brio Barn and Zelda’s, the last thing I was going to do was have the cops go scoop Hartley up. Besides, the police already had checked the conference center, where Hartley was staying, for Tom. When I got off the phone, Arch was looking at me quizzically.
“What was your question, Arch? Oh. What did the robber steal. Some church vessels. But not a whole lot more that I could tell. For a reason I can’t figure out, the robber or somebody dug up the area around where Olson’s body had been, and put a cross there.”
“Really? Wow. I’ve heard about that kind of thing on Stories of the Weird.”
“What kind of thing?” Normally, the fact that Arch had a fascination with the Weird meant that he knew statistics on UFOs, extraterrestrial explanations of Stonehenge, and metaphysical theories on Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance that were nothing the FBI would investigate. And of course, Chimayó. I said, “You heard about robbers digging up dirt?”
“Oh, no,” he replied in his you-are-so-unsophisticated tone. “Okay, look. If the blood of a martyr falls to the ground in a certain place, people believe you have to dig up the bloody dirt … sorry, Mom,” he added when he saw my expression. He gestured broadly. “Then they pour holy water, or just plain water maybe, over the dirt, and the dirty, bloody water that comes out has magical healing properties.”
“Oh, please—”
“I’m just telling you.”
“Thanks. The cookie batters are in two covered bowls in the walk-in. Next to the shrimp.”
He frowned at my incredulity and emerged from the walk-in refrigerator balancing the butcher paper-wrapped shrimp on top of one of the bowls. I bargained with myself: I would stay seated and try to work. If the back pain became unbearable, I’d send the food over to the church and go to bed.
With infinite care, I leaned over to preheat Tom’s oven. An arrow of pain shot up my spine: I decided I could live with it. Arch took out measuring spoons and the two of us scooped mounds of luscious-looking dough onto the buttered cookie sheets. Working with Arch in this way reminded me of the last time we’d cooked together, when Tom, Julian, Arch, and I had laughingly patted out silky discs of focaccia with garlic and pine nuts. Don’t think about it, I ordered myself.
Arch placed the sheets in Tom’s oven and drained the pasta wheels. Soon the kitchen was wrapped in a scent as rich and sweet as any country inn. I breathed the heavenly aroma in deeply: it was another gift from Tom, his memory, his recipe. Tom’s cookies emerged as golden, moist rounds delicately fringed with brown; Arch and I each took one. As before, buttery lemon flavor melted over the crunch of almonds. They were out of this world.
“Those churchwomen are so lucky,” Arch said with undisguised envy. Outside, the whine of Marla’s and Julian’s vehicles announced their return.
“Try a Canterbury Jumble.”
He palmed one and patted me on the shoulder, then picked up his bookbag and trundled out. I glanced at the clock: 8:50. The boys wouldn’t be too late for school. When I was going through the divorce from The Jerk, a therapist had told me that during a time of crisis, staying on schedule with a child’s normal events was essential. Missing school, delaying mealtimes, getting to bed too late, would all say to Arch that his world was falling apart. The last thing I wanted was for my son to feel that chaos was taking over. Even if it seemed that way to me.
Marla traipsed in, took one look at my anguished expression, and popped a warm cookie in her mouth. I did the same, and tasted the warm chocolate oozing around the rich crunch of macadamia nuts and sweet, chewy raisins and coconut. Marla raised one eyebrow at the assembled ingredients on the counter. “Tell me how to fix this shrimp,” she said dejectedly, trying without success to conceal her distaste for
cooking. It wasn’t the first time I had been reminded what a good friend she was, but tears smarted in my eyes as I set about instructing her in boiling the prawns.
An hour and a half later, and with periodic pauses in her clumsy culinary activity to massage my back, Marla had finished putting together the women’s luncheon food. The medley of succulent shrimp, sweet peas, and tender pasta lay under a blanket of wine-and-cheese sauce, awaiting only heating in one of my large chafing dishes, the kind used by caterers: a hotel pan. An inviting bowl of purple radicchio, dark green oak leaf lettuce, pale nests of chicory and baby romaine leaves glistened under plastic wrap next to a jar of freshly made balsamic vinaigrette. The cookies lay in alternating rows on a silver platter. To go with the main dish, Marla had thawed homemade Italian breadsticks taken from my freezer. When she had laboriously transported everything out to the van, she nipped over to her Jaguar and brought out a garment bag. Within ten minutes, she emerged from my bedroom, wearing a lovely wool dress the color my mother called dusty rose. With a monumental sigh, she collapsed on one of the kitchen chairs.
“Damn! Catering’s hard work!”
I said, “Let’s get going. I’m just fine.” I leaned over and gave her an awkward hug. “This luncheon wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for you.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me,” she said as she unplugged the heating pad. I shambled into the bathroom and changed into the front-buttoning black dress Marla had picked out. The pain in my back was noticeable but not unbearable. Standing hurt more than walking. When I arrived back in the kitchen, Marla was already wearing a Goldilocks’ Catering apron; she slipped one on me and tied it in the back.
“Seriously, Goldy, this work is too hard. I hope you’re putting some money away in a retirement fund. If not, I need to get you together with my investment guy.”
It hurt when I laughed. “To be perfectly honest, I haven’t thought about retirement lately. If you’re talking about a major life change, at this point, I’d rather get married.”
She had finished tying my apron and I turned around. Dear cheerful Marla, my best friend, who sashayed through difficulty with flippancy and aplomb, had a look of such sadness and disappointment on her face that I knew it could mean only one thing, a thing she would never say. She thought Tom Schulz was dead.
SHRIMP ON WHEELS
5 ounces pasta wagon wheels (ruote) salt to taste
1 quart water
1 tablespoon crab-and-shrimp seasoning (“crab boil”)
¼ lemon
¾ pound large deveined raw shrimp (“Easy-Peel”)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons minced shallot
2 tablespoons flour
1 tablespoon chicken bouillon granules, dissolved in ¼ cup boiling water
1 cup milk
½ cup dry white wine (preferably vermouth)
2 tablespoons best-quality mayonnaise (such as homemade)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 cup frozen baby peas
Preheat the oven to 350°. Butter a 2-quart casserole dish with a lid; set aside.
Cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water for 10 to 12 minutes or until al dente. Drain; set aside.
In a large frying pan, bring the quart of water to a boil and add the lemon and the crab-and-shrimp seasoning. Add the shrimp, cook until just pink (about one minute), and immediately transfer with a slotted spoon (leaving the seasonings behind) to a colander to drain. Do not overcook. Drain, peel, and set aside.
In another large frying pan, melt the butter over low heat and sauté the shallot in it for several minutes, until limp but not browned. Sprinkle the flour over the shallot and cook over low heat for 1 or 2 minutes, until the mixture bubbles. Stirring constantly, slowly add the chicken bouillon, milk, and wine, stirring until thickened.
Combine the mayonnaise and mustard in a small bowl. Add a small amount of the sauce to the mustard and mayonnaise and stir until smooth, then add that mixture to the sauce. Stir until heated through. Add the cheese, stirring until melted. Add the pasta, shrimp, and peas and stir until well combined. Transfer the mixture to the buttered dish and bake, covered, for about 15 to 25 minutes or until heated through.
Makes 4 servings
18
We drove to the church in silence. The air was still cold, and gray lamb’s tails of cloud wafted just above the rim of the mountains. Several older women had already arrived in the church parking lot. They watched Marla’s and my arrival with hungry interest. When I tried to help Marla unload the boxes, a razorlike pain screamed across my back. Marla saw my wince: she promptly ordered me into the church.
“Besides,” she announced, “here comes Bob Preston, and I just know he’s desperate to help me unload.”
Preston, who had clearly driven up in his just-waxed gold Audi only to leave Agatha off, submitted to Marla’s orders after she rapped loudly on his car window with her ringed fingers and hollered at him through the glass. Sheepishly, he untangled himself from the gleaming car and picked up two boxes from the back of the van. I prayed that he would not have a hernia while carrying in a box and sue Goldilocks’ Catering. But for Bob, a macho display was more desirable than being embarrassed in front of a gaggle of churchwomen.
Inside the church, Zelda Preston was already at work. Her wiry body and intent face were bent over a long table covered with a floral-print tablecloth. Her strong hands expertly set each place with the church’s beautiful matched silverplate, Inlaid Rose. When I arrest the wrong guy, Schulz had told me once cheerfully, I do my best to he real nice to him the next time I see him. I hobbled over to Zelda, knew better than to give her a hug, so merely picked up forks and started putting them around the table.
“Eight,” was her laconic greeting. Well, at least she didn’t ignore me. I guess I was forgiven. On the other hand, maybe she was embarrassed that I knew she’d interviewed for the organist’s position with the Catholics, the same Catholics she’d deemed unworthy of receiving my unused wedding flowers.
Unused wedding flowers. I looked up at the altar and the diamond-shaped window. I had imagined the ceremony so many times that just being in the church again with food and women bustling around made the welt on my back throb. The pain pill was wearing off. When I finished setting the table with Zelda, I walked out to the kitchen and downed another one. Might as well pretend I was an angel and float through the prayer meeting.
By 11:35, eight women had assembled in the tiny church library that doubled as a meeting room for small groups. Marla announced it would make her nervous if I watched her fill the chafing dish with boiling water. That made two of us. I plugged in the electric heating pad I’d brought with me beside one of the library bookshelves, settled into a high-backed chair, and prepared to pray.
“Oh, my dear,” said one of the women, all of whom were older than me by at least three decades, “what happened to you?”
“I hurt my back.”
“We’ll add it to the list,” Lucille Boatwright declared solicitously as she settled onto the library couch like a hen adjusting to her nest. “Poor Goldy. Any word yet?” When I shook my head, she added, “Perhaps we should start with a prayer for Father Olson.”
Beginning with Lucille, the women took turns delivering halting words of supplication. This was very different from the higher-decibel, gut-spilling type of prayer I’d heard at the late Sunday service. A silence followed. I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of Father Olson. On the screen of my brain, he appeared and said urgently, “Call me.”
“What?” I said out loud.
“What?” chorused four women, their perplexed eyes suddenly open. Lucille Boatwright rolled her lips against her gums and gave me a stern look that demanded: Are you on drugs?
Prescribed pain pills, thank you very much. Still, I kept my mouth firmly shut as the women began a short prayer that God would lead the police to the murderer, and that Tom Sch
ulz’s note would be deciphered and Tom found. I had intended to ask these women questions about the parish during this meeting. But the pill I had taken was making logical thought impossible. During their prayerful silence, I allowed my eyes to slip shut. This time I’d conjure up Tom Schulz. Instead, Father Olson’s face loomed again, his mouth open in supplication.
“Ca-a-a-ll me-e-e.”
No doubt about it, I was losing it. I heard serving utensils clatter loudly to the floor out in the narthex. That was all I needed—I made a slow, clumsy retreat out to where the catering action was taking place. Unfortunately, the very person I was not in the mood to chat with was Canon Montgomery. His toadlike presence filled the narthex. Or maybe it was the poetry that invaded my mind when I saw him smile approvingly at the pan of pasta: Only a wimp/ eats shrimp.
“Ah, Goldy,” he said with a large, synthetic smile. He moved toward me. “Just the person I’ve been looking for.”
Marla gave me a helpless look as the Mountain Journal—in the person of Frances Markasian—breezed through the church doors. When Frances spotted me talking with Montgomery, she grabbed the wooden door behind her and eased it closed so that it would make no noise. I felt an equal amount of discouragement and unease.
The Last Suppers Page 22