A Truth for a Truth (24 page)

The smoke was thickening, but I kept going back. Back and back and back again. I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, but I kept going. I ignored everything else in the room, costumes from plays our religious education department had staged years ago, Christmas decorations for the sanctuary, and kept heaving boxes.

“You’ve got to get out, ma’am,” a man in a firefighter’s uniform said. I hadn’t even heard him enter the room.

I had two small files and three more boxes. I told him so.

“Out!” he said.

“Help me with these, then!”

I’m sure he was violating all kinds of firefighter edicts, but he’d probably dealt with intractable women before. He grabbed one of the files and sent it out into the hallway, where my knight in shining armor grabbed it and sent it tumbling down the steps. In a moment the other had followed its path and I emerged with the last box. More firefighters were running up the steps, cursing the road-block of boxes and files. I got to the landing and found a bucket brigade of committee members, handing boxes and the scattered contents down the steps.

By the time I got to the bottom with the last rescued box, most of what we’d removed was piled high in the downstairs hallway. Two men were bringing the small file boxes, and once I’d really caught my breath, I saw that the stairs were emptying of everyone but firefighters who were shouting at us to get out of the building. Everything that had been removed from the storage room was at my feet.

Unless the parish house burned to the ground because I had caused a delay, the archives were safe.

I started the process of moving all the boxes and files into my husband’s study once the all clear was sounded. It was only when I was carefully setting loose papers on a bookshelf to be settled in their proper home when I had the time to reorganize, that I realized the file in my hand entitled Christmas Readings held more than a collection of poetry and scripture. In the middle of the file was a neatly bound packet of sermons, and the top one was titled “On the Night before Christmas,” by Reverend Godwin Dorchester.

I stayed around long enough to oversee moving all the boxes and files into Ed’s office. With John Hammond in our pulpit tomorrow, Ed might be home from Columbus late. I tried to call his cell phone but got voice mail, so I left a message telling him what had happened and not to worry. One of the firefighters had told me that by the time they pulled down the ceiling, the fire had only just ignited and was quickly contained. As I had suspected, it looked as if old wiring was the culprit, although it was hard to tell much, since the wiring had shriveled and melted.

He’d also said that if I hadn’t been there and discovered it, the entire parish house would have been at risk. He said it must have been my lucky night.

I didn’t add that to my message.

I shuddered to think of the mess we would have to clean up this week, not to mention all the filing and reorganization that would be left to me. Also at issue was how we would cope without lights and power in some of the building tomorrow, but I shuddered more when I considered what might have been.

Back home, after a shower I made cocoa as a treat and a sedative. Every joint and muscle ached, and it was still too early for bed and my hot date with Win’s sermons, which had been misfiled for more than a decade. I wandered into Ed’s study and noticed the computer was still on. I made myself comfortable and typed in the address for Right in the Middle, to see if anything new had been added about Stephen Collins. Here I was, spending my evening with men I had serious questions about. I wished Ed was home instead.

The computer did not explode. No strange messages flashed across the screen. The website came up without fuss. This really
was
my lucky night.

I was surprised at how much had been added since I’d looked at the site yesterday. There seemed to be dozens more comments about teachers, and Stephen Collins had garnered a couple new raves. There was an updated blog entry, too, about summer jobs. Deena would be looking for one this summer. With a few state regulations in mind, she and her classmates were old enough, and I knew she was looking forward to earning money we had nothing to do with.

I almost skipped over it, but the first few sentences snagged me and I finished the post.

“Wow.” I read it again. According to the students who were publishing this blog, there were only a few good places for middle school graduates to work this summer. A couple of fast-food chains on the outskirts of town, a landscaper who hired kids to mow lawns and paid them fairly, and about half a dozen other possibilities, including one of the chain drugstores, where kids were treated well, but paid a bare minimum.

The list of places
not
to look for a job was lengthier, and uncomfortably familiar. A dry cleaner where I usually took our winter coats. A pet-sitting service that had cared for Moonpie when we were off on vacation. Our most upscale retirement home, where dishwashers and busboys were treated like slaves and many of our older church members resided.

“Ouch.”

Of course, the information was based on the experiences of last year’s crop of eighth graders, but a lot of thought and research had gone into it. The lists were presented in a factual, unemotional manner. Each example was followed by quotes, although sources weren’t named. Whoever had written the blog had been careful to point out the lists were based on opinion, and that, of course, opinions can be exaggerated and situations can change over time. But still, I figured there were going to be some unhappy business owners in Emerald Springs when this blog entry made the rounds.

Maybe even some unhappy enough to change their ways.

I just hoped this new post didn’t vault the authorities at the middle school into containment mode.

I exited, and feeling courageous and competent, I turned off the computer. When nothing frightening happened, I considered dressing to hit the grocery store for a lottery ticket. Instead I went upstairs and got into bed with Win Dorchester.

First I zipped through the board minutes I had brought home. Nothing astonishing there. The same names kept appearing, many of them names of people who had been at Win’s final hurrah. Geoff Adler had been our treasurer. Samuel Booth our president. Nothing new there. I saw that Yvonne had been in charge of flowers, and I wondered why she never did them now. Esther, our organist, had actually chaired the religious education committee. I even spotted reclusive Marie Grandower in two positions, our endowment committee—possibly the most boring committee in the church—and building and grounds. I could just imagine Marie down on her hands and knees weeding flowerbeds. What had all that dirt done to her manicure?

There were no death threats mentioned against anybody, more’s the pity. I set the minutes aside as useless.

I moved on to the sermons. An hour later Ed wasn’t yet home and Win, at least the Win who had populated our pulpit, and I were old friends. Only I had discovered a sad truth. Win Dorchester was a man I would probably never have been friends with. He’d been something of an egotist, with a habit of playing down his accomplishments in such a way that they stood out even more clearly. He never confessed doubts about anything. He seemed certain he had the answers to all life’s questions, the absence of which is something our denomination is famous for. We embrace many possibilities, and although Win gave lip service to that ideal, I read a certainty, perhaps even a perceived superiority, into much of what he said.

Of course, I had been primed not to like him. I did realize that. This was the man who’d had at least one affair and possibly many, while his wife struggled to serve his congregation in her own way. And if Samuel Booth was telling the truth, this was the man who had used a confession to blackmail his board president.

I reminded myself that Win had been a faithful visitor at Russell House, he had helped Zoey Salvo to a new life, and there had probably been many lives he had changed for the better. Win Dorchester was a human being, both obtuse and insightful, cowardly and courageous. A man, not a god.

I didn’t want to read more. Instead I picked one at random, set it beside the bed, and put the others back in the box to return to the church once we had a new home for our records. I had a sermon. I had a new understanding of Win Dorchester.

What I didn’t have? A murder suspect.

I fell into a restless sleep and dreamed an angel was speaking to me. Unfortunately, I sat at her feet with my hands clapped firmly over my ears.

Ed came home about midnight, and I woke up just long enough to fill him in. Before I opened my eyes on Sunday morning, he was gone again. I knew he was at church making sure everything was set for John Hammond’s morning in our pulpit, or figuring out what to do about religious education classrooms with no electricity. Exhausted by last night’s events, I seriously considered staying home, but if I was going to repair my relationship with Hildy, I couldn’t skip the service and reception. I needed to be there, saying wonderful things about the work she had done, even if I felt the extravagance was unwise and unnecessary.

I dragged myself into the shower, then I looked for something to wear, settling on a lavender cotton sweater Junie had crocheted for me. By the time I was ready, I had only minutes to get to church. I found a seat in the back and listened as our board president reported details of last night’s near catastrophe. I was thoroughly embarrassed when he acknowledged my role in saving the archives and most likely, the entire building. Then he made me stand.

At least I was happy I hadn’t slept in, since everybody would have known I wasn’t there.

John Hammond turned out to be a terrific speaker, genuinely humble and thoughtful, with insights I would be mulling over for the rest of the week. For the second time, I was glad I had come.

I was less glad when the service ended, and it was time to go to the parish house and face Hildy. I hadn’t seen her in church, which was no surprise, since preparation for the reception had probably started at dawn. A couple of people had mentioned they were making food at home and bringing it in, but I hadn’t heard anyone say they were actually coming this morning to set up. Now I was sorry I hadn’t volunteered. That, too, might have earned points to get back into Hildy’s good graces, even if it would also have shored up her belief that the minister’s partner should have her hands in every single thing.

Right now I was willing to take a hit on that one, just to see her smile again.

By the time I exited, people were grouped outside, on the lawn, on the sidewalk, on the steps up to the parish house. I saw John surrounded by people, most likely thanking him for his sermon, but also keeping him from moving inside. This was unusual. Most of the time people are in a hurry to have their next cup of coffee. When food is served, as well, there’s usually a stampede.

Today nobody seemed in a hurry. In fact, they seemed oddly reluctant. I was sure everyone knew what was waiting inside. The reception had been announced in the service, and Hildy had been lauded for all her hard work.

As I passed I greeted people, and squirmed while more than a few congratulated me on my heroism. Little did they know that the same firefighter who had grudgingly congratulated me on spotting the smoke had also warned if I ever again failed to take orders, he would personally haul me off to jail. I’d had to bite my tongue not to tell him he should compare stories with a certain Detective Sergeant Roussos.

By the time I got into the social hall, there were, at most, a dozen members milling about. I hadn’t yet seen Ed and suspected he might be talking with visitors in his office. I glimpsed Hildy across the room looking flustered. She was behind the demon punch bowl, dressed in a sunny yellow skirt and blouse, and entirely alone at that table. As I wished Hildy had raided her closet for cocoa brown or even shipyard gray, signs she might still be mourning Win just a little, Yvonne McAllister came out from the kitchen carrying a plate of tea sandwiches, and several people headed in her direction.

“Don’t these look good,” one person said loudly enough for me to hear. “Did
you
make these, Yvonne?”

She nodded and suddenly a flock of inner vultures was released. In moments the sandwiches disappeared. Yvonne didn’t even get the plate to the table.

“Goodness, what a hungry bunch,” I said to a man whose name I couldn’t recall.

“For some things.”

He wandered off as I tried to figure out what he’d meant. Were people turned off by the sheer amount of food Hildy had prepared? Had there been a pancake breakfast at the local American Legion post before the service, and the whole congregation had stopped there first?

Hildy was looking straight at me, and there was nobody to duck behind. I strolled to the table, which she had beautifully draped with a pale green cloth in the center covered by a soft drift of lace and crowned by the punch bowl. The punch was a soft grapefruit pink, and the ice ring had clusters of pansies and violets frozen inside it. White and pink roses and sprays of baby’s breath flanked the bowl, and silver trays of sandwiches and assorted goodies anchored each end.