Read Online The Last Suppers by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
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hospital he’s in, and of course it would be difficult to track down the church secretary, since she took her Easter vacation early.” She paused again. “And it’s
you
I want to have happy, my dear.”
“Victor Mancuso?” I said, incredulous. VM. I demanded, “Who’s Victor Mancuso?”
“No one really, he’s the secretary’s uncle. She just put him on the prayer list before she left. Nobody else knows anything about him, I already asked.”
On the prayer list, on the prayer list.
P.R.A.Y.
I struggled to think: The prayer list contained names of all those for whom the parish offered intercessory requests. Or, as Arch maintained, it was the list of people and things we wanted God to fix. The charismatic segment of the congregation, those parishioners who put ultra-enthusiastic emphasis on spiritual gifts and a personal relationship with Jesus, offered intercessions on a much more regular and serious basis than most of the rest of us. There was also a small noncharismatic women’s prayer group that met weekly. Zelda, I remembered, was a member of this group. Maybe she could help decipher the acronymns in Tom’s note.
I asked sharply, “Is there an ecumenical or parish organization with the initials P.R.A.Y.? Maybe something like, Protestant-Roman Catholic Association of Youth?”
Zelda drew in her breath, confused. “Goldy? What in the
world
are you talking about? Are they the ones you want to donate the flowers to? Because I can’t be calling all around—”
“Zelda, is there such an organization? P.R.A.Y.? I’m sure I’ve heard of it somewhere.”
“Well, I’m sure I haven’t, and I’ve been in this parish for twenty years, ever since Father Pinckney—”
“Okay, thanks, Zelda. Please. Use the flowers in any way you wish. I’m sorry, I
have
to go.” We both stuttered good-byes and gently hung up.
Arch glanced at me, frowned, and left the room to look for some colored pencils. I stared at my catering calendar. The days were blank. Of course, I had cleared it in anticipation of our three-day honeymoon. Now there was not even work I could do to take my mind off this spiral of events.
Worry for Tom exploded in my chest. Should I have asked Helen Keene to stay with me? When would Julian beback from the airport? What could Tom’s cryptic notes mean? I lay down on my kitchen floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and felt tears slide down my cheeks unchecked. I’m
losing it
The doorbell rang; again, my heart jumped. Leaping to my feet, I raced down the hall, then stared disbelievingly through the peekhole. Marla. She made a face at me and held up plastic bags of food. Just what we needed: more to eat. Arch, who had trotted down the hall behind me at the sound of the bell, moaned in disappointment and muttered that he was going to watch television.
“What are you doing here alone?” Marla demanded as soon as she had heaved herself and her bags into the kitchen. “I swear.” Still wearing her dark matron of honor suit, she took in my sweatsuit and my face, then shook her head. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t want me to take you out to dinner tonight.”
“I’m not alone; Arch is here.” To my horror, it all spilled out. “Marla—Father Olson’s killer took Tom. I had to go out to Olson’s place, and it was awful …”
She pulled me in for a long hug. “I know,” she murmured in my ear. “I was down at the church looking for you. Father Doug told me. Do you need to cry?”
I thought about the weeping I’d already done, solitary and helpless on the floor. “Thanks, but no. Not at the moment, anyway.”
“Need to talk?”
I pulled away from her, picked up a bag, and set it on the counter. “How did Doug Ramsey know Tom was missing?”
“From the cops.” Marla heaved the other bag onto one of the kitchen counters. “Some of them are still at the church. They wanted to see if Schulz’s phone call to the church office might have been taped.”
“Oh, Lord.” I stumbled
you
I want to have happy, my dear.”
“Victor Mancuso?” I said, incredulous. VM. I demanded, “Who’s Victor Mancuso?”
“No one really, he’s the secretary’s uncle. She just put him on the prayer list before she left. Nobody else knows anything about him, I already asked.”
On the prayer list, on the prayer list.
P.R.A.Y.
I struggled to think: The prayer list contained names of all those for whom the parish offered intercessory requests. Or, as Arch maintained, it was the list of people and things we wanted God to fix. The charismatic segment of the congregation, those parishioners who put ultra-enthusiastic emphasis on spiritual gifts and a personal relationship with Jesus, offered intercessions on a much more regular and serious basis than most of the rest of us. There was also a small noncharismatic women’s prayer group that met weekly. Zelda, I remembered, was a member of this group. Maybe she could help decipher the acronymns in Tom’s note.
I asked sharply, “Is there an ecumenical or parish organization with the initials P.R.A.Y.? Maybe something like, Protestant-Roman Catholic Association of Youth?”
Zelda drew in her breath, confused. “Goldy? What in the
world
are you talking about? Are they the ones you want to donate the flowers to? Because I can’t be calling all around—”
“Zelda, is there such an organization? P.R.A.Y.? I’m sure I’ve heard of it somewhere.”
“Well, I’m sure I haven’t, and I’ve been in this parish for twenty years, ever since Father Pinckney—”
“Okay, thanks, Zelda. Please. Use the flowers in any way you wish. I’m sorry, I
have
to go.” We both stuttered good-byes and gently hung up.
Arch glanced at me, frowned, and left the room to look for some colored pencils. I stared at my catering calendar. The days were blank. Of course, I had cleared it in anticipation of our three-day honeymoon. Now there was not even work I could do to take my mind off this spiral of events.
Worry for Tom exploded in my chest. Should I have asked Helen Keene to stay with me? When would Julian beback from the airport? What could Tom’s cryptic notes mean? I lay down on my kitchen floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and felt tears slide down my cheeks unchecked. I’m
losing it
The doorbell rang; again, my heart jumped. Leaping to my feet, I raced down the hall, then stared disbelievingly through the peekhole. Marla. She made a face at me and held up plastic bags of food. Just what we needed: more to eat. Arch, who had trotted down the hall behind me at the sound of the bell, moaned in disappointment and muttered that he was going to watch television.
“What are you doing here alone?” Marla demanded as soon as she had heaved herself and her bags into the kitchen. “I swear.” Still wearing her dark matron of honor suit, she took in my sweatsuit and my face, then shook her head. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t want me to take you out to dinner tonight.”
“I’m not alone; Arch is here.” To my horror, it all spilled out. “Marla—Father Olson’s killer took Tom. I had to go out to Olson’s place, and it was awful …”
She pulled me in for a long hug. “I know,” she murmured in my ear. “I was down at the church looking for you. Father Doug told me. Do you need to cry?”
I thought about the weeping I’d already done, solitary and helpless on the floor. “Thanks, but no. Not at the moment, anyway.”
“Need to talk?”
I pulled away from her, picked up a bag, and set it on the counter. “How did Doug Ramsey know Tom was missing?”
“From the cops.” Marla heaved the other bag onto one of the kitchen counters. “Some of them are still at the church. They wanted to see if Schulz’s phone call to the church office might have been taped.”
“Oh, Lord.” I stumbled
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