Diane Davidson - The Last Suppers

“What did you tell her?”

“I said I’d have to ask you. About the food. I didn’t say anything about Tom. I mean, is that rude or what?”

“Very. The nerve. Listen, Arch,” I said defiantly, “Tom called here and asked for me, for heaven’s sake. He didn’t change his mind. Father Olson is dead. And Tome asked if I wanted to get married tonight, just not in the church.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not, are you?” my son asked. When I groaned, he added, “So what should we do with the food platters?”

I rubbed my temples. I was developing a blinding headache. “I’ll figure something out when I get home. I can’t fret about it now. Would you please ask Julian to pack everything into the van?”

“Okay, but there’s one more thing … “

“Arch!”

“Mom! Sorry! Julian wants to know what he should do with your parents.”

“Give them to Aspen Meadow Outreach.”

“Mom! And I hate to tell you, but Grandma and Grandpa asked me if the groom had changed his mind, too.”

“Great.” I reflected for a moment. I couldn’t just abandon my parents at the church. They’d been reluctant to venture from the Jersey shore to the high altitude of the Rockies in the first place. They felt uncomfortable in my modest house, with my modest life. I mean, I’d married a doctor, which they’d deemed good, gotten a divorce, which they saw as unfortunate, and gone into food service, which they found lamentable. Now I was marrying a cop. My parents did not view this as a move in the right direction, and unspoken behind their cautionary words about hasty marriages was the sense that they hadn’t done very well on their investment in their only daughter. “Invite them back to the house,” I told Arch. “Their plane goes out late this afternoon anyway, wedding or no wedding. Tell them I’ll be along as soon as Tom gets here. Then we can make a few plans. And Arch – thanks. I’m really sorry about all this.”

He hesitated. “So there isn’t going to be a wedding, then.”

I gave him a brief hug. “No, hon. Not today.”

“I’m really sorry, Mom.” He pulled away and concentrated his gaze on the bookshelves. “You don’t’ think Tom Schulz would just not show up, do you?”

My ears started to ring. “With the priest dead? No. It’s just, you know, with this – “ I did not finish the thought. “Don’t’ worry,” I said finally. “Tom and I are going to get married. Here at the church, too. Just not his very minute.”

When he raised his head, Arch’s young face was taut with disappointment. Wordlessly, he clomped out of the office door.

An oppressive silence again descended on the old building. I sat pleating the beige silk between my fingers. Within moments there was the sudden overhead scraping from the family of raccoons. When they were undisturbed by the presence of people, they noisily reclaimed their territory. Their scratching made my flesh crawl.

“Enough!” I shouted as I heaved my hymnal at the ceiling. It slammed against the rafters with a satisfying thwack.

That shut them up. I picked the hymnal off the floor and threw it against the wall. The shock reverberated through a bookshelf. A pile of theology books thudded to the floor; notes popped off a bulletin board; my streetclothes fell from the hook. I walked across the office, lowered myself into the tweed swivel chair, then quickly jumped out. The chair was Ted Olson’s.

Disconsolately, I threaded my way through the debris of torn pipes and broken drywall to the secretary’s office. Through the thick windows I saw the Mountain Rescue ambulance arrive and then swiftly depart, presumably with Lucille Boatwright. Guests streamed out of the church, heads bowed, as if it were the end of the Good Friday liturgy instead of an aborted wedding ceremony. So much for the silent prayer service.

Gripping bowls and then the cake, Julian Teller did his loyal-assistant routine and made several laborious trips out to my van. I yearned to help him. But I couldn’t bear the thought of clearing the parish kitchen of food that was supposed to be served after my own wedding. Finally Julian escorted my bewildered parents, with Arch, to the parking lot. The van revved and took off.

What seemed like an eternity later, a cream-and-black Sheriff’s Department vehicle pulled up in the lot. First one, then a second and third official car skidded on patches of ice. Their tires spun and spewed small saves of gravel before coming to a rest on the other side of the columbarium construction. Uniformed officers emerged My breath fogged the window as I waited anxiously for Tom Schulz to appear. I folded my chilled hands and debated about rushing out. I should have told Tom I would be in the office.

I tapped on the glass when two grim-faced policemen I knew, partners named Boyd and Armstrong, climbed out of their cars and strode to the church entrance. After a few moments, both officers emerged form the church’s side door. They walked up the muddy flagstones to the office building. I knew they were on duty that day as they had been unable to come to our wedding. Pacing behind them somewhat stiffly was a woman with long brown hair. She carried a bulging Hefty bag. She was familiar looking. A policewoman, perhaps.

Boyd and Armstrong pushed into the office first. Like most policemen, they had a brusque, businesslike air about them. Boyd, short and barrel-shaped, stopped abruptly at the sight of me. He stood, feet apart, and rubbed one hand over black hair that had been shorn close in a Marine-style crewcut. Underneath his unzipped Sheriff’s Department leather jacket, his shirt was too snug around his bulky mid-section, a pot belly that had increased in size since he’d stopped smoking several months ago. He was gnawing one of the wooden matches he had taken to chewing to keep from overeating. Behind him, tall, acne-scarred Armstrong, whose few wisps of light-brown hair had strayed off the bald spot they were supposed to conceal, surveyed the room bitterly. The woman, whom I judged to be about fifty, unbuttoned her oversized black coat. That task concluded, she held back, clutching her bag to her chest, mutely watching me.

“Where’s Tom?” I demanded.

Body and Armstrong exchanged a glance. Boyd bit down hard on the match. The woman gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, sending her lanky hair swinging.

Body said, ”Sit down, Miss Bear.” “Why?” I remained standing. “Don’t patronize me, please. And you know my name is Goldy, Officer Boyd. Where’s Tom? He called me about Father Olson. Does Tom know I’m still here?’

Boyd stopped chewing the match. His eyes flicked away from me before he said, “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

“What?” Panic creaked in my voice. What else could go wrong on this day that was supposed to be so wondrous? “Is Tom all right? Where is he?”

Armstrong held up one hand. He looked seriously down his pockmarked nose at me before replying. “Somebody must have been out there. Still there,” he announced with agonizing logic. “We think. Out at the priest’s place. Schulz called us, then you. Looks like he went back out to be by the body. Maybe he wanted to look around.”

“Where is Tom?” I repeated. “Why are you all here?” I demanded, too loudly.

Boyd stopped rubbing his head and looked me squarely in the eyes. He gestured at the woman. “Helen Keene here is our victim advocate.”

I said, “Victim advocate? But Olson wasn’t married, he lived alone. Who’s the vic – “

“I’m sorry, Goldy.” Body shifted the match from one side of his mouth to the other, inhaled raggedly, and looked at a small notebook he’d pulled out of his pocket. “We got to Olson’s at 11:46. Didn’t see Schulz, but his vehicle was there. Signs of a struggle near Olson’s body, which was near the bank of Cottonwood Creek.” He studied a grimy page of his notebook, then added, “Looks like Schulz might have fallen or been pushed down the bank. He dropped some articles, then dragged himself up the creek bank.”