Читать книгу The Ladies Killing Circle Anthology 4-Book Bundle - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 22

PAT WILSON AND KRIS WOOD

I settled my stole firmly around my shoulders and turned to see how he was doing. As usual, he’d gotten his stole wound up in his cincture. “Father Donald,” I said, “let me do that.”

I knew it would be easier to disentangle the snarled fringes and knots myself, rather than watch Father Donald fumble ineffectually with the mess. You’d think after twenty years in the ministry, he would have figured out how to put the stuff on right the first time. I remembered to duck as his right arm shot out from the shoulder, stiffened, held and then snapped back to his sides.

The first time, I’d gotten a black eye, but after six weeks of his exercise regime, I’d learned to be wary. At any moment, he was likely to squat, stretch, twist or flex without warning. Father Donald was a large man, and woe betide any poor, unsuspecting lay reader who got in his way. Frankly, I wished that Molly Thubron had never given him the book. It went with him everywhere, and even now lay open on the vestry table, Flex-er-Cise: Twenty Weeks to a New Physique. I sighed. Six down, fourteen to go. It was going to be a long summer.

“Oh, shoot. I got it tangled again, didn’t I? I don’t know what I’d do without you, not that I couldn’t do anything, but it’s easier, well not easier, but takes less time, although on the other hand, time isn’t really an issue, although some people get annoyed when the service doesn’t start on time, not everyone though, some come in late themselves, though they probably have a good reason, although my sister Dorothy always says there’s no good reason for being late for church…”

I tuned Father Donald out with the ease of long practice. Five years as his lay reader and I knew that, at the most, only one of every forty words was worth taking note of. His other arm suddenly shot out, held and snapped back. I took the opportunity to slip the green chasuble over his head and roll the collar down smoothly.

“There,” I said. “You’re ready to go.”

“Okey-dokey.” He squatted down. “Uh…could you give me a hand?” I heaved him back up. Maybe he wasn’t getting fit with his new regime, but the weight training sure was paying off on my biceps.

“Where’s my trusty server?” It was a question he asked every week with just the same note of anxiety.

Little Mindy Horton, prudently positioned behind the door well out of the way of Father Donald’s gyrations, waved the processional cross and said: “Right here. You want me to start out now?”

“Just a minute, Mindy.” Another small trick I’d learned. “Father Donald. Here is your hymn book, prayer book, announcements sheet, sermon papers, Gospel folder.” I knew better than to give them to him any sooner than this moment. “All right, Mindy. We’re ready to roll.”

I opened the vestry door, and Mindy started out. I followed, Father Donald close on my heels. The notes of the opening hymn, “Onward Christian Soldiers”, trickled reedily from the electric organ, under the quavering fingers of Edith, our fill-in organist. I’ll be glad when Boris is back, I thought. His annual holiday in Portugal always meant we had to endure three weeks of Edith’s fumblings. She wasn’t a bad pianist, if only we had a piano in the church. As it was, she was terrified of the electronic Hammond organ and never played above a whisper.

Mindy and I settled into our accustomed places, and I waited for the service to unfold as it always did, although with Father Donald in charge, it tended to be a little more fluid than perhaps the church fathers had intended. I watched him tuck in a couple of knee-bends as he stood behind the lectern. I wondered how it looked to the congregation as his head appeared and disappeared several times over the top edge. I opened my prayer book and turned to page 185.

However, our beloved rector had something else in mind. “Before we begin, well we’ve really begun, but before we get into the service, although on the other hand, I’ve already started, I have a really important announcement to make, well maybe not that important, but fairly important, at least it will be to some people, in fact, probably to all of you, and certainly to me…” His voice dropped to a low, serious note we seldom heard. I saw his sister Dorothy, ensconced in her usual seat, last pew, right hand side, sit up and cast a gimlet eye on him. Uh-oh, I thought. She doesn’t know anything about this.

Father Donald turned his head sideways, held it, then rotated to the other side. He snapped back and continued: “An extremely serious matter has surfaced. I don’t want to go into right now, although I probably should, but then, we really don’t have time, not if we’re going to get out of here by twelve, and I know how you feel, although not all of you, but most of you have homes to go to, not that everyone doesn’t have a home…” He executed a full neck roll. As his head returned to the frontal position, his eyes locked on Dorothy’s.

Even from my seat at the back of the choir stalls, I could smell the brimstone. Get on with it, man, I silently urged him, before she explodes. I’d seen Dorothy in action before. She ran a tight ship, whether it was the A.C.W., the Altar Guild or Father Donald. Even his current exercise craze was her idea. “It’s time he pulled himself together,” she’d told me, “took off some of that flab, toned up, showed a little discipline.” This from a woman who easily weighed 250 pounds.

“So, in light of what I’ve found out, discovered really, although I wasn’t looking for anything, I’m calling a special Parish Council meeting for Monday night at seven in the rectory.” Dorothy’s glare could have felled an ox at a hundred yards. Father Donald backpedalled rapidly, “Er, that is, not the rectory, but the church basement. Yes, that would be a better place, wouldn’t it? Although, on the other hand, not that you aren’t all welcome at the rectory, you understand, but with Dorothy’s spring-cleaning and all…” I saw her massive bulk lift slightly from her pew. So did Father Donald. He hurried on. “It’s to do with our monies, and you know how important that is, especially to our treasurer although, not as important as some things perhaps, as our Lord tells us ‘where a man’s heart is, there also is his treasure’,” and I saw it coming. One of his awful jokes. “And we all know where our treasurer’s heart is. It’s in that brand, spanking new boat of his, right, Morley?” Everyone laughed and nodded in agreement, but I saw Morley Leet turn deathly pale. Oblivious to everything, Father Donald launched into the service. “Page 185 in your prayer books,” he announced.

The service rolled on without incident except for a slight hitch when Edith hit the Samba button on the organ by mistake, and the second hymn, “Sweet Hour of Prayer”, was underlaid with a distinct “oom cha cha, oom cha cha”. Father Donald took the opportunity to twist and roll from the waist in time to the music, seemingly unaware of the inappropriate beat.

We all settled into the service groove, but when the time came for Morley Leet to pick up the offering plate, he had disappeared. Finally, Dorothy leaned forward and tapped George Anderson on the head with her hymn book. He got the hint and stumbled forward.

As Father Donald collected the full plate from George’s hands, I saw Morley Leet come in and stand at the back of the church. I wondered if he wasn’t feeling well again, since he’d looked so pale earlier. We all knew that Morley Leet suffered from “the nerves”, the same malady as Father Donald’s sister had. I could understand Dorothy’s malady, living with her brother as she did, but what Morley had to be nervous about, I couldn’t imagine.

Father Donald beamed broadly at George and said, “Well, looks like we got a new money man. Everyone wants to be treasurer, eh? Must be a pretty well-paid job.” He laughed at his own small joke, lifted the collection plate up and down several times as if he were bench-pressing a hundred pounds, mumbled the prayer and dropped it carelessly on the side table. I lunged for the plate and steadied it just as it was about to slip off the edge. I did this every week.

I took a deep breath and settled back. It was time for the sermon. I had a little game I always played with myself. It helped pass the time. I counted every instance when Father Donald said “although”, then qualified his previous statement. So far, the record stood at twenty-one, but I had hopes for something I could call Guinness about.

The past few weeks, I’d been off my count. Watching Father Donald under cover of the larger pulpit doing various flex-er-cises was distracting to say the least. From my vantage point, every bend and curl was easily seen.

“My text for today’s meditation,” he began, using his best sermon voice, deep and resonant and slightly British, “is Matthew, Chapter 21, Verse 13, ‘my house shall be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a hideout for thieves’.” I saw Morley Leet duck back out. He must be sick, I decided. Or smart.

There were only eleven “althoughs” today—not a record, but satisfying, nevertheless, and I might have missed a couple when he began to jerk and swing his hips from side to side, not seen by the congregation, but all too clear to me.

At the end of the service, a smattering of “amens” followed us down the aisle. As Father Donald passed Dorothy, she leaned out of her pew and smacked him sharply on the leg with her purse. “Coffee,” she hissed.

“Whaaa?” Father Donald halted suddenly. I glanced back. We’d lost him again. The procession straggled to a halt.

“Coffee Sunday!” she whispered urgently. “You forgot to mention it!”

“Oh! Oh! Shoot! Wait, just a minute. Hold the phone! I forgot. It’s coffee Sunday. Come on downstairs—coffee’s on. Although, not just coffee. There’s tea, too, although if you don’t like coffee or tea, I don’t know what you’ll do. You could have water, although on the other hand, we know our water’s not that good. Well, good enough, I guess. For coffee, anyway.” Dorothy smacked him again. He pulled himself together and joined us at the door.

Later in the vestry as I disrobed, I noticed that the collection plate which Mindy had brought in was still on the table.

“Where’s Morley Leet?” I asked her. “He hasn’t picked up the offerings.”

“I think I saw him going downstairs. Shall I go and get him?”

“Never mind. I’ll take it down to him.” I scooped the money into an old envelope and shoved it in my pocket. “Let’s go and take our lives into our hands with a cup of St. Grimbald’s coffee.” Only the fact that it had been perking for the last two hours made it drinkable at all. Father Donald wasn’t kidding about our water.

Mindy and I left the vestry, marched through the now-deserted pews and gathered up Father Donald, who was still at the back of the church. Together we descended the steep stairs into the dank, dark nether regions under the church which the wardens and the A.C.W. had ineffectually tried to render habitable. The usual miasma of mildew and old hymn books was mercifully overpowered by the sharp, heady tang of coffee.

We used Father Donald as a battering ram to take us through the throng to the counter. It wasn’t difficult, since he’d already caught sight of Carol Morgan’s butter tarts and was moving in on them like a elephant who’d spotted a bag of peanuts. Unfortunately, Dorothy was on an intercept course, and at the last moment, she scooped up the plate of tarts, shot him a triumphant glance and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Shoot!” Father Donald visibly sagged under the disappointment.

“Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” Someone handed him a cup of coffee. Before he could take a sip, the cup was snatched from under his nose.

“I’ve got your coffee here. Sweetener and just a little skim milk.” Dorothy took the offending cup and handed it to Edith, who was waiting in line next to the coffee urn. “Here,” she said, “you can have this one.”

“Shoot!” Father Donald sipped glumly, bending gently at the knees as he did so.

I remembered the offering envelope in my pocket and looked around for Morley Leet. “Have you seen Morley?” I asked Dorothy. “I’ve got the offering to give to him.”

“He was here a minute ago. Probably stepped outside for a cigarette. Filthy habit.” Dorothy sniffed.

“I’ll drop it off on my way home. I go right by his house.” I grimaced as I sipped my own coffee. Even three spoonfuls of sugar couldn’t disguise the bitter undertaste.

“Now, Donald,” demanded Dorothy in her no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners voice. “What’s this about an emergency meeting tomorrow night?”

Father Donald froze in mid knee-bend. He shot her a glance like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming Mack sixteen-wheeler. “Don’t get excited, Dottie. You know what the doctor said. Perhaps you’d better take one of your pills,” he suggested hopefully. He’d privately told me that the pills were a godsend—one of them and she was gentle as a lamb, two and she was out like a light.

“No.” Even I cringed at her tone and tried to edge surreptitiously away. “I expect Charles would like to know, too. Wouldn’t you, Charles?” The Mack truck had changed course and was bearing down on me.

“Umm, sure, I guess.”

“Well, I wanted to tell you. I would have told you, although I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure, well not sure, but at least pretty sure, although there was no reason not to be sure. Anyway, it’s hush-hush, well not really, I just can’t say anything right now. Although, I could say something, but it wouldn’t be any use because I can’t tell you everything, not that I know everything, although I think I probably know more than most do about it, well, not more, because as I said to the Bishop… Oh! Shoot! Never mind what I said, not that I said anything, but you’re just going to have to wait until tomorrow night, well not night, evening really, although the meeting is pretty late. I’m sworn to secrecy and that’s all there is to it.” He took a large gulp of his coffee and smiled smugly.

Dorothy and I looked at each other blankly. I wondered if she’d made any sense of it all. I tried to sort out the “facts”. Earlier, he’d mentioned an important discovery to do with money and now, a confidential discussion with the Bishop. That could cover anything from the Guild Ladies Luncheon to grand larceny. I decided we were never going to get anything out of Father Donald today, so I left him to the tender ministrations of his now seething sister and headed out to find Morley Leet.

Bessie Leet answered my knock. “He’s upstairs, lying down,” she said. “He came in from church, looking terrible. Couldn’t eat a bite of lunch. Said he didn’t feel well.” She shot a worried glance up at the ceiling. “I hope he’s all right. He’s been real edgy these past few weeks. I think he’s worrying about that new boat of his. I wisht he never got it. How we’re going to pay for it, I’ll never know. Him with just his pension. I told him to take one of them nerve pills the doctor gave him. That usually settles him down.”

I handed her the envelope. “Perhaps he shouldn’t bother with the meeting tomorrow night,” I said. “I’m sure Father Donald will understand if he can’t make it.”

“Well, I think this treasuring stuff is all too much for him. His nerves can’t take it. Going to resign at the end of this term, so he says. He only done it because his family’s always been the treasurers at St. Grimbald’s.” She opened a kitchen drawer already stuffed full of receipts, envelopes and various ledgers. I could see several bankbooks on top. “I’ll just put this into his treasurer’s drawer. He’ll see to it when he’s up later.” She crammed the envelope in and pushed the drawer shut. I headed home for lunch and a much-needed cup of my own Special Blend coffee, black with no sugar.

Early Monday afternoon, while I was in the midst of a particularly difficult chapter that just wouldn’t write itself, I got a frantic phone call from Father Donald. It took me several minutes to make out what he was saying. He was even less coherent than usual, if that were possible.

“My dear Charles. It’s just awful, well more than awful, a tragedy. Poor Edith, what a loss, although Boris will be back for next Sunday, but a loss in the broadest possible sense, perhaps ‘broad’ isn’t a good choice of words, Edith is such a lady, I mean was such a lady, oh dear, I can hardly believe she’s left us.”

I wondered if she’d finally got the message and resigned. Organ one; Edith nothing.

“Left us?’ I managed to insert.

“Yes, gone, passed, asleep, away, finished, ended, kaput, no more… dead!”

“Edith’s dead?”

“It’s just awful. An overdose, although they’re not saying that, not that they’re saying anything, at least, not to me, but I can read between the lines, well, not read, but listen…uh, where was I?”

“You mean she committed suicide?”

“No, no!” His voice was horrified. “She wouldn’t do that, I mean, her playing wasn’t that bad, at least, nobody complained, not to me, anyway. You didn’t hear anything, did you? People upset perhaps?”

I saw a quagmire of non-sequitors opening before us and quickly reined in Father Donald’s thoughts. “You said an overdose?”

“Yes… that’s what they told Benjamin. And he told them she never took anything stronger than echinacea, although I suppose you could overdose on echinacea, at least I’m sure if you took enough of them, although I’ve never heard of it happening, but people keep taking these plants and herbs and things when there are perfectly good drugs on the market, well, not drugs, but you know, medicine, real medicine, and anyway, Benjamin said she was perfectly fine when she left for church…”

I jumped in as he paused for breath. “When did she die?”

“Probably yesterday afternoon, although it might have been later, she was having an afternoon nap though, so I suppose technically that would make it in the afternoon, although I often nap much later myself, especially if I have an afternoon service. Benjamin said she was terribly sleepy when she got in from church, went to lie down and never got up again. He let her sleep and didn’t realize she was dead until this morning. I’m so upset. I’m going to need your help with the meeting this evening. Could you come over?”

I was on my way in minutes, not so much to help Father Donald but to get some coherent information from Dorothy.

If they say that a clean office is the sign of a sick mind, then Father Donald’s mind was in outstandingly good health. I cleared a pile of old bulletins off the nearest chair, pushed aside a litter of used Lenten folders on the desk and put down the cup of tea that Dorothy had handed me as I came through. She looked grimmer than usual and indicated with a shake of her head that she didn’t want to talk about it. Not that I blamed her. It would only set him off again.

Father Donald was standing in front of the filing cabinets, doing deep knee bends as he pulled and pushed the two top drawers rhythmically in and out. I wondered if the author of Flex-er-Cise had anything like this in mind when he penned his little volume. I doubted it.

Before we could begin our work, the doorbell rang and Dorothy appeared with Sergeant Bernie Bickerton of the local RCMP detachment. “The sergeant wants a word with you, Donald.” I started to get up.

“No, no,” said Father Donald. “Stay, Charles. This won’t take a minute. Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you, not that I can do anything, of course, but I suppose I must be able to do something, or you wouldn’t be here.”

I saw the familiar dazed look in Sergeant Bickerton’s eyes. “Er, umm. Yes, well, the thing is, we want to corroborate that Mrs. Edith Francis was at the service yesterday morning at St. Grimbald’s?”

“Why yes, and a lovely job she did, too, especially her rendition of ‘Sweet Hour of Prayer’, most unusual, but quite touching.” Father Donald pulled up his shoulders to his ears and dropped them rapidly three times. Then he rotated them clockwise and anti-clockwise.

Sergeant Bickerton stared, fascinated. “Got a crick in your neck, Father?” he asked.

“No, no. It’s my flex-er-cises. You should try them.” Father Donald shifted to his neck rolls.

Sergeant Bickerton nodded. “Yes, well, very interesting. Now, was Mrs. Francis also at the coffee hour following the service?”

“Indeed she was. Never missed it, well almost never, although she did forgo once or twice when Mr. Francis arrived early to pick her up, but otherwise, always there. She will be sadly missed.”

Sergeant Bickerton gamely plowed on. I could see why he was a sergeant. “And did you happen to notice what she ate or drank?”

“Well, there were some of Carol Morgan’s butter tarts. I’m sure she would have had some of those, except, now that I think of it, I don’t think they were there when she came down, not that they’d all been eaten up, although they often are, right off the bat, everyone wants one, the most delicious butter tarts anywhere, well, perhaps not anywhere, but certainly at St. Grimbald’s, in fact, I often tell Carol she should start a butter tart business, although not a business, more of a home kitchen thing…” He trailed off, unconsciously licking his lips in remembrance of butter tarts past. “Although,” he rallied, “they were gone because Dorothy had taken them back to the kitchen.”

“She didn’t offer them to Mrs. Francis?”

“Good grief, no! Dorothy wouldn’t give Edith anything! They were mortal enemies, well not mortal any more, more like immortal I guess, what with Edith being gone and all. But they never got on, never since Dorothy discovered that it was Edith who told the regional president of the A.C.W. that Dorothy…Oh! Shoot! It’s a secret. Dorothy said she’d have my…well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be pleasant, if I told anyone. Can’t say a thing, not a thing, silence of the confessional and all that, not that she confessed, at least not to me, but then she wouldn’t, would she, confess that is. ‘Vengeance is mine’ is Dorothy’s personal motto. No, no, I can’t say another word.” With this, he made the motion of locking his mouth shut, turning the key and throwing it away.

“So they didn’t get on?” Sergeant Bickerton leaned forward intently. “Was Ms. Peasgood in the kitchen then?”

“Who? Ms. Peasgood? Oh my sister, of course, I always think of her as just ‘Dottie’. Yes. She was in the kitchen.” He sat on the edge of the desk and lifted both legs up, held them rigid and slowly lowered them back down. His face mottled a bright purple. Steady, I thought, or we’ll be having two funerals at St. Grimbald’s this week.

“And did you see Mrs. Edith Francis drink anything?”

Father Donald looked off into space. I could almost see when the light bulb went on. “Why yes! I did! She drank the cup of coffee Dorothy gave her.”

Sergeant Bickerton was instantly alert. “So, you’re saying that Ms. Peasgood did give Mrs. Francis something, after all?” he asked in a voice of steel. “I think I should have a little talk with Ms. Peasgood myself.”

“Oh, dear, must you? She gets upset so easily. It’s her nerves, you know—very delicate. Always have been, although not when she was younger of course, not that she’s all that old now, but still, the pills have made a great difference, although she’d rather not have anyone know that she takes them, in fact please don’t mention I told you, she’ll kill me, I’m sure. She’s capable of almost anything when she gets in a temper…”

After that, I watched it go steadily downhill. The upshot was that Dorothy was asked to go into the station with Sergeant Bickerton to give a statement, and Father Donald insisted on going along to give her moral support. Frankly, I feared he’d given her far too much support all ready. I, of course, was asked to take the Parish Council meeting in his absence.

I arrived several minutes late, but contrary to their usual practice, everyone was already there. Even Morley Leet made it, although I thought he still looked a bit shaky. It seemed appropriate that I break the news about Edith so that we could begin with a moment of silence for our dear departed substitute organist.

“I have some very sad and serious news,” I began. “Today, we have lost a vital part of St. Grimbald’s, someone who is near and dear to each and every one of us, someone whom we will all sorely miss, someone who unselfishly contributed so much towards the spiritual worship in our congregation. I know you all feel as saddened as I do by this tragic loss.” I paused dramatically, thinking I’d done pretty well by poor old Edith, and wondered if I’d be called upon for the funeral eulogy. Before I could continue, Morley Leet stood up.

“I’d like to say a few words,” he said. I was surprised, since I hadn’t realized he was especially fond of Edith.

“I’d like to have it put on the record that I have always admired the steadfast leadership and deep spiritual qualities that were brought to this parish by Father Donald. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that he was a good rector and an all-around good human being.” He wiped a tear from his eye, sat down and looked solemnly around him.

Before I could say anything, the door banged open and Father Donald bounded into the room. “I’m back! Well I wasn’t really away, just gone for awhile, but I was with you all in spirit. So how’s the meeting going, Charles—have you told them my good news?”

Morley Leet stood up. His chair fell with a crash backwards onto the cement floor. He thrust an arm towards Father Donald. “You! You’re, you’re…” and he fainted dead away.

Suddenly, I flashed back to yesterday’s coffee hour, and I could see the arm thrusting the cup of coffee into the Father Donald’s hands. I could hear the voice, “Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” It had been Morley Leet. The drugged coffee was not only deliberate, but it had been meant for Father Donald. And Edith was dead because of Dorothy’s vigilance, not vengeance.

“Shoot! I knew Morley Leet was going to love my news about the money, but I never expected him to be this excited, well maybe not excited, although he is pretty overcome.” Father Donald rushed to Morley’s side and slapped him, not too gently on the cheeks. Morley sat up and looked groggily at Father Donald.

“I guess ten thousand is a lot of money, Morley, enough to make any treasurer faint,” Father Donald told him.

“Ten thousand! I never took that much! Just enough to put a down payment on the boat!”

“No, no! You’ve got it all wrong. The Bishop has given us a grant of $10,000 for a new well and septic system. I don’t think we can help you with your boat, although, perhaps you could get some kind of grant from the government, they’re always handing out money for fishermen, although you don’t fish do you, or at least not professionally, although on the other hand…”

It was time for me to intervene. “Excuse me, Father Donald, but Morley Leet and I have some business with Sergeant Bickerton, don’t we, Morley? I’ll just leave you to carry on with the meeting.” I got a firm grip on Morley’s arm and hustled him into the kitchen, where I could lock the door while I made the phone call. Behind me, I could hear Father Donald’s voice.

“Shoot! What a shame! Charles has let the cat out of the bag, and I wanted to be the one to tell you the good news, well not really news now since you already know, and not really good since I suppose he told you about poor Edith, well, not poor in spirit, but poor in, well, not poor at all, especially where she’s gone. At least I presume that’s where she’s gone, although, on the other hand…”

PAT WILSON AND KRIS WOOD have been friends for over 30 years, although they’ve seldom lived near each other. Instead, they’ve run businesses, written stories and collaborated on many projects through e-mail, fax and phone. Pat is an international speaker. Kris is a gerontologist. Both are published authors. Now they are next-door neighbours living in Nova Scotia. The characters in this story will be appearing in a full-length mystery novel that the pair are currently preparing.