Diane Davidson - The Last Suppers

Our vehicle drew up to Ted Olson’s garage. The dusty silver Mercedes sat, hood lifted, amid an array of boxes and lawn clutter that included a badminton net and croquet mallets and wickets. Welcome to the Rockies, I thought, and recalled Tom’s dry comment on easterners who attempted to play croquet on their sloped properties: Te guy uphill has the advantage.

Parked behind the Mercedes was Tom’s dark blue Chrysler. Granite formed in my heart.

We piled out of the squad car and threaded through lodgepole pines to the front of Olson’s place, a rambling single-story structure with dark horizontal wood paneling and a slightly buckled green shingle roof. Typical Aspen Meadow architecture from the late sixties, it was not too different from the rectory, a parish-owned house, that Father Pinckney had inhabited in Aspen Meadow before he retired. The rectory had been sold when Ted Olson arrived. He’d insisted he wanted to buy his own place outside of town.

The snow ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A yellow police tape was strung across the walkway to the front door. I glanced up at the covered entranceway and saw a cloisonné pair of intertwined serpents. One of Father Olson’s memorabilia from a pilgrimage to England, no doubt. A mosaic of the serpents was on the floor of some English cathedral. Which one? I couldn’t remember. If the snakes were supposed to bring good luck, I thought uncharitably, they hadn’t worked.

Another policeman directed us around the side of the house. Here the property sloped down to Cottonwood Creek. I pulled the donated quilt around my shoulders, and with Helen Keene, Boyd, and Armstrong, skirted the perimeter of taut yellow tape. The four of us made our way down the hill littered with fallen logs and underbrush that sloped to the creek. My wedding shoes skidded over slippery pine needles. I knew there was a short path down to the water out the back of Olson’s home. Because the weather had been unusually warm the night of the dinner meeting last month, the vestry had made the descent to and from the creek while I steamed pork dumplings in the kitchen before the stir-fry. From the noise to our left, it was clear that path was still being scoured for some indication of what had happened.

As I plodded and slipped on the way down, my heart seemed to be taking a thrashing. It was like being caught in the undertow on the Jersey shore where I’d spent childhood summers. Within moments we slid into a narrow strip of meadow. Snow clung thick as dandruff to tufts of withered grass. Bare-branched cottonwoods edged the creek’s path. When I tried to walk toward the water, dark mud sucked on the soles of my shoes. Law-enforcement types trudged along the creek bank: One group was doing a video of the crime scene, another took photographs, a third painstakingly measured distances. A cluster of people took or crouched around a covered bundle on the snow. A white-haired policewoman from one group noted our presence. She motioned us toward them.

“We’re reconstructing how Schulz was taken,” she said to me without preamble. “Come on over and take a look.” T. Calloway, her nametag said. On the way to the creek bank, she thanked me for coming out and brusquely explained that they would not be ready to move any of the evidence until I identified it. This, she explained, was standard police procedure. “Which was why we needed you right away.”

“So how could Tom Schulz have been kidnapped?”

Investigator Calloway shook her head, then stopped abruptly at the six-foot drop-off to the water. She pointed to the other side. “The vehicle was over there. A four-wheel-drive of some kind. Somebody appeared to be prodding Schulz to move forward.”

But my eyes were drawn to the creek bed itself, where the mud, sand, and rocks had been churned with activity. I saw footprints and ridges. I saw … ah, Lord.

“I’m sorry,” said Investigator Calloway. “Tell me what you see. I need to know.”

I pointed toward the water. At first my voice refused to engage, but I forced it out. “That’s Tom’s wallet … .That’s his key ring.”

“Look out of the water itself. By that large rock.”

Shallow water rushed around a boulder in the middle of the stream. I squinted. A sandy spit of land almost touched the boulder. On the sand was a small box, which I knew from its size and shape was covered with dark green velvet. The name embossed in gold on the top would be Aspen Meadow Jewelers.

My headache cut like razor blades. Investigator Calloway’s distant voice said, “The box has a – “

“Yes,” I interrupted. “He would have had that box with him.” I did not need to be reminded of the box’s contents, the thin gold band Tom and I had picked out. His ring was still in Father Olson’s office at the church. I said, ‘He was so big, strong… I still don’t understand how someone could have, that is, could have been more than one person – “

Calloway held up one finger. She shook her head. “Besides Schulz’s, there’s only one set of footprints.”

There was a fresh rustle of activity from the group by the creek bank. Investigator Calloway motioned us back toward the voices.

“Yeah, it’s his.”

“I think so.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me … “

Calloway lifted one bushy white eyebrow. “Looks like we might have one more thing for you, Miss Bear.”

Together we walked to a group of police officers by the thick stand of cottonwoods. My eyes were drawn to the corpse-sized lump covered with dark material. It was hard to believe I would never see Father Olson again. The crowd fell silent, then parted abruptly in front of us.

“Schulz might have tossed it over here. Have her take a look at it.” The speaker was an angular man with shaggy red hair and a gravelly voice. He pointed to a small soggy spiral notebook under the cottonwoods. Someone threw a poncho on the wet grass and mud in front of the notebook. Awkwardly, I knelt as directed, feeling all eyes on me. Investigator Calloway crouched beside me and spoke gently.

“Don’t touch it. Again, you’re more familiar with him, you can tell us if it’s Schulz’s.”

The top page of the notebook was wet. The writing on it was slightly smeared. I barely noticed Boyd as he squatted beside Calloway and me. Slashing strokes written with a blue ballpoint indicated the notes had been hurriedly taken, undoubtedly scribbled in an awkward position. Timidly, I read aloud:

w Nissan van

1049 v alv gswx2chst

d d

B. – Read – Judas?

vm p.r.a.y.

1133 vdd

My head throbbed. I reread the scribbles.

“Well?” demanded Inspector Calloway.

I said nothing.

Boyd grunted.

Frustrated, Investigator Calloway asked, “Is there anything you can tell us?”

I pulled back and looked into Calloway’s shred hazel eyes. Her look and her questions were urgent. I knew she needed my help to find Tom and solve this horrific murder. Pain squeezed my voice. I told her, “The handwriting is Tom Schulz’s. I don’t know what he was trying to say.”

4

Boyd pressed his thin lips together, scowling down at the sodden spiral notebook. “Schulz and his notes. Memory enhancer, he called it.” He flung his match into the snow and craned his stubby neck to reread the scribbles. “GSW times two. Two gunshot wounds, we knew that. DD. Looks like he might have gotten a dying declaration.”

Investigator Calloway sighed. “Now, if we cold just figure out what the victim said. And we’ll need to read up about Judas.” She concentrated her gaze on me. “Know anybody with a white van? People with names, initials VM or B?”

I felt dizzy. His handwriting. I could hear my teeth chattering. A vision of a shotgun welled up. Where was the gun now? How much ammunition did it have?

“Please, Miss Bear. A van. A white Nissan van. Sound familiar?”