The Last Suppers gbcm-4

The Last Suppers gbcm-4 Page 25

by Diane Mott Davidson

  On the deck railing was a mayonnaise jar filled with coffee. Or at least it looked like coffee.

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. “Please, Agatha, come in.”

  She tossed her braids over her shoulders, reverently picked up the jar, and tiptoes inside my house. She was wearing a pink-and-white warm-up suit with matching pink boots. Pocahontas s a candy cane.

  “Ooh, please don’t get mad at me, Godly. I told you I don’t have a job, so I just crochet all the time, and I had these on hand, so I thought maybe … “

  “Thanks, Agatha, I should have known they were from you. I saw one at Olson’s house.” She blushed the color of her suit. I wondered what color she was going to turn when I told her about the letters I’d found. I said, “What’s in the jar?”

  ”Oh. Well you know, Ted really had the Power.” Her eyes brightened. “Miraculous powers. And so I heard on television that if you dig up the dirt where the blood – “

  “Don’t’ go on, I know all about it. My son saw the same program. Come on out to the kitchen.”

  “But … I already poured some of this water around over at the church, because we have so much unhealing there – “ She moved hesitantly into the kitchen, put her jar on the table, and sat down.

  “At the columbarium site? I saw you – “

  “ – and I just thought,” she turned to me breathlessly, “that since you’d had so many things going wrong in your life, you really needed healing, a supernatural kind that was sure to work – “

  “Please. That is not miracle, Agatha. That is superstition.”

  She looked at me, her mouth open. “What’s the difference? Did you pray for things? Don’t you think we need a childlike faith?” She stood and sidled over to Julian’s mound of dirt. “what’s this? Is it from Chimayó?”

  “It belongs to somebody who works for me.”

  “Oh.” She regarded me earnestly. “Didn’t you ever in your life pray for something specific?”

  “Of course.” Agatha was, as I’d told Arch, part of the church family. I wanted to relate to her, I just didn’t know how. I searched my memory for the kind of kindred experience she meant. “Let’s see,” I faltered. “Oh, yes. My parents sent me to a Roman Catholic school for first grade. I loved it because we made butter in the classroom.”

  “That’s what you were praying fro?” asked Agatha, confused. “Butter?’

  “No, no. My mother had an unusually bad case of appendicitis. She was in the hospital for weeks. So I … “ Suddenly I felt terribly foolish, but Agatha was leaning forward, expectantly. “So I wrote, ‘Please make my Mommy well’ on a piece of paper, rolled it up, and placed it between the stone fingers of a statue of the Virgin Mary in the school courtyard.” I let out a tiny laugh of embarrassment.

  “Wow. And was your mother healed?”

  “Well … yes, but,” I aid, groping for words, “I think you have to test what you would call the Weird against church doctrine and tradition, maybe.” My own words gave me pause. I sounded like a member of the Old Guard! I ought to believe in the Weird anyway. I certainly had experienced enough of it lately.

  She pouted. “Your attitude is a cop-out. Ted had the Power.”

  She colored brilliantly. “I … I … was getting the dirt from the place where he fell. Is that a crime? What paper?”

  “I’m sorry, Agatha,” I blurted out. “I found the letters you sent to Ted Olson, I gave them to the police.”

  The color drained from her face. “Oh, God,” she said softly. “Oh, God … Well, at least Bob doesn’t have them.” She stared straight ahead, no longer wishing to discuss miracles, apparently.

  And then I had an absolutely wonderful idea. It filled me with more lightness and excitement than I felt since Tom’s disappearance. “Agatha. Do you know how Ted accessed his voice mail?”

  “Yeah, I think, I mean I don’t know the code, but he had one. You see, first he had to call this number at U.S. West, and then he’d dial in the church number – “

  Hallelujah. “Is there anybody at the church now, do you know?”

  She looked at the kitchen clock, puzzled by my question. 12:30 a.m. “Now? I think they’re having some kind of vigil until the funeral. The people at the ten o’clock Sunday service set it up.”

  Great. If Agatha accompanied me, then Boyd couldn’t possible get upset with me for wandering out. If there were people at the church, then it wasn’t as if we were going into an empty place at night.

  I could hear my heart beating. I whispered, “Do you know where Ted kept the number for U.S. West accessing?”

  “Sure, somewhere on the bulletin board of his office. But why?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way to church,” I promised her.

  21

  There were only two automobiles in the parking lot, not exactly a crowd for a vigil. I did not recognize either car, but then again, I didn’t usually go to the later Sunday-morning service, and was unfamiliar with the charismatics and their vehicles. “Does Bob have any idea where you are?” I asked when we disembarked from my van. “He thinks I’m here. At the vigil.” “Ah. Do you know how to get into the office?” Around us, snowflakes continued to fall.

  “The keys are on top of one of those log panels beside the office door,” she replied promptly. “Lucille always teaches all of us how to get into the priest’s office.”

  “Who’s ‘all of us’ ?”

  “It’s supposed to be just the Altar Guild, who are supposed to keep it confidential, but – “

  “Never mind.”

  The lights were dim in the parish itself. Flickering light from the vigil candles played against the windows. I couldn’t remember if it was liturgically advisable to have vigil, much less a funeral, before Good Friday during Holy Week. But the charismatics in our parish loved vigils more than they cared about liturgical appropriateness. And people couldn’t time their dying.

  We stepped carefully over the yellow police ribbon. At the office entrance, Agatha reached up and snatched the key, then fumbled momentarily with it before unlocking the door. She pushed it open and reached in for the light, then wove her way over the illuminated mess. When we came into Olson’s office, she pointed to the bulletin board on the floor, with its disheveled array of notes. Slowly, we pulled out thumbtacks and gathered up the notes with numbers that had landed on the floor. Diocesan Center. Altar Guild. Organist.

  “Here’s one,” said Agatha. “Roger Bampton.”

  “I wonder why Ted would need to call him.”

  “Oh, you know, Roger was having copies of his blood tests framed for Ted. Roger called it ‘his first miracle.’ Ted was pretty excited about it. He told everybody. I don’t know what happened to them, though. I know they were calling back and forth – “

  “Eureka!” I read, “Alexander Graham, 555-6363.”

  Agatha wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound like anyone in our parish.”

  I said, “You don’t have a son who loves codes. That’s for Alexander Graham Bell, honey.” I thought for a moment. Go to a pay phone, or try to plug in the phones here? Out at Olson’s house, the vandal hadn’t realized that just whacking a phone and pulling it out of the wall was not enough to destroy it. “Would you go see if you can plug in the secretary’s extension? Then if you’ll take notes on his messages, I’d appreciate it. I might miss something.”

  “But it’s supposed to be confident – “

  “Too late for now.”

  Agatha clamped her mouth shut and minced into the outer office. She fussed with the secretary’s extension while I plugged in Olson’s smashed phone and got a dial tone. I sat down at the desk, whacked my foot on a pile of plumbing pipe, and cursed. I dialed first the 555 number, which was indeed the right US West messaging service, then dialed the church number, then pressed the buttons for P,R, A, and Y.

  The first message came on. It was Agatha.

  “Hi, it’s me calling Thursday night. Sorry you have that society meeting tomorrow during the day. I’ll miss you! Let’s talk after the wedding on Saturday, plan something else. Love you.”

  In the outer room, I heard Agatha stifle a sob. I could
n’t stop the electronic message and didn’t want to. The voice mail beeped with another message.

  “This is the diocesan office. Please pick up your photocopies of the General Ordination Examinations by Friday afternoon so that your committee can begin its work next week. Call if there’s a problem.”

  Another beep. Lucille Boatwright said, “I just think it’s terrible what you’ve done to Zelda. This never would have happened in Father Pinckney’s time. In Father Pinckney’s time, I never would have had to speak into one of these infernal machines, either!”

  There was a long beep, as if Lucille had somehow messed up even while disconnecting from the infernal machine. The next voice was Bob Preston’s.

  “I know what you’re doing.” In the outer office, Agatha gasped. Her husband’s voice was low and threatening. “I’m gong to spill the beans on you to the bishop. You think they want to face another lawsuit in this diocese? You’re dead in the Episcopal church, Olson. You’re finished.”

  Good God. There was another beep. “Sorry about the blowup at the meeting, old friend, especially after you’d brought that coconut last time, which was such fun. You are part of the communion, I didn’t mean what I said, guess I just got carried away, you know how I do. Listen, you forgot to pick up your exams. I’ll bring them out to your house to read Saturday morning before the wedding you’re doing for that Goldy woman on the committee. Tomorrow then, nine o’clock?” Canon Montgomery disconnected.

  In the outer office, Agatha shrieked. Then there was a dull thud.

  “Agatha?” I said. There was no response. In my hand, the phone beeped again and another message, this one from Doug Ramsey, began playing back. I pressed the dial-tone button desperately. “Agatha?” I called. There was still silence from the outer office. I jiggled the button and prayed for a dial tone so I could call 911. Still the message for Ramsey droned on.

  “Help!” I called. My voice sounded feeble.

  “No one will hear you,” said Canon Montgomery as he stepped into Olson’s office. His white hair was askew. His face was scarlet. In his hand he was holding a collapsible baton, the kind available at police-supply stores. Only this one, I was fairly sure, was the one that had whacked me in the back by Olson’s house, when I had discovered the one thing Olson’s killer had left out there: a photocopied paper that was his excuse for being there in the first place. The one who would Bring the tests to Read was the Judas.

  “They’ll catch you,” I said angrily. “You will never – “

  “Shut up.” He was dressed all in black, except for his snowy-white clerical collar, which didn’t go with his flushed toadlike face and his hand gripping the weapon. “Where are the blood tests? You must know. I know he told someone – “

  “What?”

  “I know Olson was lying,” he growled. “I – “

  “Where’s Tom Schulz, you son of a bitch?” I screeched. “Olson called Tom before the wedding because he was afraid of you. And well he should have been.”

  He laughed. It was a horrible gritty laugh that made my stomach turn. I glanced quickly around the ransacked office. From grimy windows to the shelves of books to the floor, where the tangle of pipes from the renovation lay in an unattractive heap, there was no way out.

  “Where is Tom Schulz?” I demanded again.

  Canon Montgomery shook his head. “You know, I could have destroyed Olson. I mean, fix it so he’d be defrocked. He had money business with that woman out there, he had questionable money transactions with the pearls and all this sudden giving. Driving a Mercedes. Pah!”

  “But you killed him.” Stall, I thought frantically. Do anything to keep him talking. So that someone will have a chance to see you or hear you. “And Mitchell Hartley, too. He must have found out something.”

  “No great loss, Hartley. He didn’t even want to turn me in1 He just wanted to tell me he knew I’d picked up Olson’s exams, and that they’d found one page out at Olson’s house. Hartley wanted to pass the exams in exchange for his information. We had a meeting last Friday. Olson and I fought over his idiotic miracle claims. He stomped out, and unfortunately I was seen by Mitchell Hartley picking up Olson’s set of exams and the diocesan vehicle keys. Saturday, when I was out at Olson’s, your cop friend was listening to Olson spill his guts. I know he told him where the blood tests are. Too bad.”

  He was insane. There was no doubt about it. I said, “You just couldn’t stand him having that kind of power, could you? After he’d been your protégé?”

  “People were worshiping him,” Montgomery snapped fiercely. “I was trying to protect the church. And how fortunate he didn’t give my name in that note. Then when the police find the bodies of you and that other woman, they’ll suspect me even less. It’ll just look like another burglary – “

  I eased my hand under the desk, where one broken pipe was resting against the side of the file cabinet. “You’ll never disprove the miracle, you know.” I told him with as much aggression as I could muster.

  “Oh?” He lifted his peaked white eyebrows and smiled sourly, as if we were discussing disputed theological points. “Why is that?”

  “Because the blood tests are in the computer, you beast. Down at the pathology lab. Even if you destroy one set, there will be endless documentation. It’s like the message you left. You can’t get rid of it by axing the phone machine. The information is stores.” I had a sudden vision of Lucille Boatwright complaining about the phone machine. “You couldn’t operate the fax machine, and you couldn’t destroy messages by breaking an answering machine. You and your generation just don’t understand technology!”

  With that I jumped up, pipe in hand, and slammed it into the window next to Olson’s desk. Panes broke, but the frame held.

  “Help!” I shrieked. “Help!”

  Montgomery turned quickly and sprinted for the front door of the office.

  “Hey!” I yelled after him. “Where’s Tom Schulz?”

  The office door banged closed. I leapt up and charged out to the secretary’s office. My back shrieked with pain. Agatha was slumped over the desk, moaning. At least she was alive. I had to go after Montgomery.

  By the time my eyes adjusted to the darkness and the swirling snow, Montgomery was on the flagstones. He was running toward the columbarium site. The parking lot and the road were just beyond it.

  “Don’t!” I yelled. Then I ran, faster than I had ever run before, damn my back. I was desperate to catch Montgomery. He could not get away. He could not disappear without telling me where Tom was.

  Montgomery halted at the edge of the columbarium ditch. He couldn’t seem to decide whether to go around the site or through it.

  “Stop, stop, please stop,” I howled, breathless from pain and exertion. I was twenty feet away from him.

  He dropped to his knees and peered into the pit. I thought he was trying to figure out how deep the excavation was.

  I gasped for breath and called out, “No matter what happens to the blood tests, some people are going to believe.” I was at the bottom of the excavation. Montgomery jumped back up; his white hair looked eerily fluorescent. I yelled, “You can’t stop people from wanting to think God was … working through Olson. Please. Please stop.”

  “You want a miracle?” he shrieked. “You’re going to need one to find Schulz.”

  “Please don’t, please wait,” I pleaded as I started to scramble up the side of the hillock of dirt. Montgomery, watching me, backed away. “Wait!” I yelled. He spun around and looked again into the ditch, as if trying to judge if he could jump across. “This is an unstable spot,” I begged. “Please don’t … “ He whirled back and stared at me, or at least in my direction. Snow fell softly all around him. His thin white hair and his clerical collar glinted in the light form passing cars.

  “I’ll never, I’ll never … “ his voice boomed before he fell backward, into the deep, ark pit.

  “No!” I screamed. My feet sank into mud as I clambered to the top of the embankment. Below, I could see a blur of clothing, Montgomery jerking, off-balance in the frigid water of the ditch.

  “Wait for me to help you
,” I yelled, already feeling helpless. I slid down the side of the bank. Damn Lucille Boatwright and her damn unapproved, uninspected columbarium project. I took a deep breath and waded into the water. It was like ice. I felt my legs for an instant, and then they were numb. I tugged at Montgomery’s clothing, at his heavy body. He had gone limp. How was that possible? Above us, on the other side of the bank, a car stopped. Someone had come in from the road. People who had seen us fall from the top of the embankment were yelling down at us.

  I rolled Montgomery over and cried at the sight of his face, which had gone from red to an ominous white. “Where’s Schulz? Where is he?”

  His eyes bulged, but there was no response. I shook him and tried to drag the water-logged body over to the side of the ditch, but he was too heavy. His hands gripped his chest. They were locked there. Damn it. I knew he’d had a heart attack. He needed CPR, and fast.

  “Hey, lady, get out of that water. You’re gonna die of hypothermia!” A fat man in a plaid wool jacket grabbed my shoulder and pulled me up. His friend tugged on Montgomery.

  “Aaugh,” I cried. I was so cold. Montgomery wasn’t going to make it. And no clue as to where Tom Schulz was. My love, my Tom, would die, wherever he was. The police would never find him. I would never see him again.

  “Gotta get you into some dry clothes, gotta get you a blanket!” the man who had rescued me insisted. “Hey, girl! What possessed you? I hate to tell you, but I think that religious guy is dead. At least he went fast.”

  When we came through the church doors, only Doug Ramsey and Roger Bampton were praying in the back pew. I hadn’t seen Roger since the whole brouhaha over him had erupted. Now three people died – Olson, Hartley, and Montgomery, because no one could accept what appeared to be unexplained.

  “My heavens, what in the world, did you fall into the creek?” cried Doug Ramsey as he scrambled out of the pew. “On your way to the vigil? Did you get lost?”

  “Just get her some dry clothes from the Outreach box,” ordered Roger Bampton, taking charge of me. He was a short bald man, with a wrinkled face and age spots on his hands. He seemed awfully ordinary looking to be the center of so much controversy. “Take those clothes off right away,” he ordered, then handed me one of Agatha’s afghans from the library couch. As he walked out of the library, he said, “They’ll chill you to the bone.”

 

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