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Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
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morosely into a kitchen chair.
Marla eased down beside me. She put a hand over mine. I stared unhappily at the black front of Tom’s range, unable to rid myself of the vision of him flipping pieces of chicken on the grill. He’d had friends from the Sheriff’sDepartment haul the Jenn-Air grill-with-convection-oven over from his cabin and install the ventilation pipe a week ago. He had said he couldn’t live without his oven. With a wink, he’d added, “Sort of like you, Goldy.”
After a few moments, Marla rose and began to unload her stash. Individually wrapped Beef Wellington. Frozen Scampi. We’d often joked that our ex-husband had found two women who loved food more than they loved him. My passion was working in the kitchen, and Marla was the queen of packaged gourmet.
She looked at me. “Where’s your choker?”
“Upstairs. Why? It’s a miracle I didn’t lose it out at Olson’s place, tramping around in the mud.”
“Goldy, don’t say
it’s a miracle
to me.” She flopped back down next to me. “We’ve got a problem. Actually, more than one.”
“What? With the pearls?”
“Before your wedding was supposed to begin, I was out in the narthex with the jewelry raffle committee. I told them both of us were wearing the chokers that were going to be sold, and they ooh’ed and aah’ed.”
Oh boy, I thought, here we go. Some left-wing group had threatened a pearl boycott.
“I’ll get to the pearl problem in a minute.” She sighed. “Apparently,” Marla continued glumly, “some of the goings-on in our parish have started rumors floating around in the diocese.”
I sniffed. “Goings-on in our parish? Rumors? Wait until they hear our priest has been murdered.” I shook my head, seeing the flash of Father Theodore Olson’s warm smile behind his dark beard when he appointed me to the Board of Theological Examiners.
Marla nodded. “Right. ‘Show me a parish in the diocese without some wild stories,’ I say. And so they say, ‘Hoho, word’s out Roger Bampton claims his healing was
miraculous.’
As in feeding-of-the-five-thousand miraculous.”
“Oh, please,” I said, in no mood to discuss disease. “Roger’s sick. I heard he was a little better. Miraculous?That’s what our ex-husband is going to say when he hears Tom Schulz didn’t show up for the wedding.” I felt a sudden chill, thought about making tea, then dismissed it. Too much effort. “Anyway,” I added, “Roger has leukemia.”
“He’s out of the hospital.” Marla grimaced. “Get this. He’s not just a little better, he had a
normal
blood test. To me, it was a miracle old Scotch-swilling Rog didn’t die of liver disease before they diagnosed him with leukemia. And they’re saying there’ve been other miracles, too.”
“Come on, Marla. I’ve heard some of those stories, the bad knee healed and all that. Who listens? They’re like the stock market. You have a wave of good luck and then a wave of bad. How is this a problem?”
“Goldy, we’ve been busy with other stuff, we haven’t been tuned into all the
latest.
I mean, you’ve been getting ready for the wedding, and I’ve been planning a jewelry raffle and sale with dozens of orders for tickets and chokers. But Agatha Preston enlightened me: Three weeks ago, sick-to-death Roger was suddenly pronounced well. Last week, a Sunday School teacher swore she’d been cured of chronic back pain. An infant born blind got his sight somehow. So I told these folks that I need to lose twenty pounds, where do I sign up?”
I said, “I need Tom Schulz back.”
“Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Father Olson wouldn’t have approved.”
“Listen,” she protested, “Agatha and these women swear Olson was the one whose actions got the rumors started in the first place. It’s Father Pinckney who wouldn’t have approved.” Getting up abruptly, Marla hauled out three bags of Chinese-style vegetables and two frozen Sara Lee cakes. I wondered briefly
Marla eased down beside me. She put a hand over mine. I stared unhappily at the black front of Tom’s range, unable to rid myself of the vision of him flipping pieces of chicken on the grill. He’d had friends from the Sheriff’sDepartment haul the Jenn-Air grill-with-convection-oven over from his cabin and install the ventilation pipe a week ago. He had said he couldn’t live without his oven. With a wink, he’d added, “Sort of like you, Goldy.”
After a few moments, Marla rose and began to unload her stash. Individually wrapped Beef Wellington. Frozen Scampi. We’d often joked that our ex-husband had found two women who loved food more than they loved him. My passion was working in the kitchen, and Marla was the queen of packaged gourmet.
She looked at me. “Where’s your choker?”
“Upstairs. Why? It’s a miracle I didn’t lose it out at Olson’s place, tramping around in the mud.”
“Goldy, don’t say
it’s a miracle
to me.” She flopped back down next to me. “We’ve got a problem. Actually, more than one.”
“What? With the pearls?”
“Before your wedding was supposed to begin, I was out in the narthex with the jewelry raffle committee. I told them both of us were wearing the chokers that were going to be sold, and they ooh’ed and aah’ed.”
Oh boy, I thought, here we go. Some left-wing group had threatened a pearl boycott.
“I’ll get to the pearl problem in a minute.” She sighed. “Apparently,” Marla continued glumly, “some of the goings-on in our parish have started rumors floating around in the diocese.”
I sniffed. “Goings-on in our parish? Rumors? Wait until they hear our priest has been murdered.” I shook my head, seeing the flash of Father Theodore Olson’s warm smile behind his dark beard when he appointed me to the Board of Theological Examiners.
Marla nodded. “Right. ‘Show me a parish in the diocese without some wild stories,’ I say. And so they say, ‘Hoho, word’s out Roger Bampton claims his healing was
miraculous.’
As in feeding-of-the-five-thousand miraculous.”
“Oh, please,” I said, in no mood to discuss disease. “Roger’s sick. I heard he was a little better. Miraculous?That’s what our ex-husband is going to say when he hears Tom Schulz didn’t show up for the wedding.” I felt a sudden chill, thought about making tea, then dismissed it. Too much effort. “Anyway,” I added, “Roger has leukemia.”
“He’s out of the hospital.” Marla grimaced. “Get this. He’s not just a little better, he had a
normal
blood test. To me, it was a miracle old Scotch-swilling Rog didn’t die of liver disease before they diagnosed him with leukemia. And they’re saying there’ve been other miracles, too.”
“Come on, Marla. I’ve heard some of those stories, the bad knee healed and all that. Who listens? They’re like the stock market. You have a wave of good luck and then a wave of bad. How is this a problem?”
“Goldy, we’ve been busy with other stuff, we haven’t been tuned into all the
latest.
I mean, you’ve been getting ready for the wedding, and I’ve been planning a jewelry raffle and sale with dozens of orders for tickets and chokers. But Agatha Preston enlightened me: Three weeks ago, sick-to-death Roger was suddenly pronounced well. Last week, a Sunday School teacher swore she’d been cured of chronic back pain. An infant born blind got his sight somehow. So I told these folks that I need to lose twenty pounds, where do I sign up?”
I said, “I need Tom Schulz back.”
“Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Father Olson wouldn’t have approved.”
“Listen,” she protested, “Agatha and these women swear Olson was the one whose actions got the rumors started in the first place. It’s Father Pinckney who wouldn’t have approved.” Getting up abruptly, Marla hauled out three bags of Chinese-style vegetables and two frozen Sara Lee cakes. I wondered briefly
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