The Island of Heavenly Daze (30 page)

Though he felt good about his relationship with the men, one question continued to nag at him—was Rex Hartwell still coming to church next week? No one on Cleta's committee had mentioned it to him, so there was always a possibility that they had decided to call off their search for a new pastor.

But he had to be certain. And since he wasn't supposed to know anything, the only way to be sure was to snoop around town and see what information he could pick up.

Winslow's lips puckered with annoyance as he crossed the kitchen to the coffeepot. You'd think they'd have the decency to confront him if they'd been unhappy with his work. After all, confrontation was the scriptural thing to do. If they were unhappy with his preaching or any aspect of his ministry, they should have come to him. When people aren't honest about their feelings, misunderstandings run rampant and people always get hurt.

He poured a cup of coffee, then inhaled the deep, rich scent. A doughnut would be good with this . . . and Birdie's Bakery had the only doughnuts in town. And while he was there, he could pick up a couple of extra crullers for Tallulah, since he needed to pay another visit to Olympia de Cuvier. Of all the people in church yesterday, he had a sure and certain feeling that Olympia was the most offended. A peace offering for Tallulah might be just the thing he needed.

Winslow took a sip of the coffee, then tiptoed upstairs for a quick shower . . . and his Hair.

An hour later, Winslow crouched outside the open window of Birdie's Bakery, hidden from any passersby on Main Street by a stand of wild blueberry bushes. Birdie had been pleasant when she waited on him, and even the strait-laced Beatrice had cracked a smile when he complimented her on her spirited hymn playing of the day before.

After buying two glazed doughnuts for himself and a box of day-old crullers for Tallulah, Winslow lingered at a table, eating one doughnut and sipping on a second cup of coffee while he waited. Sure enough, as regular as sunrise, Cleta Lansdown entered the bakery at precisely nine.

“Halloo, Birdie,” she called, turning her back to Winslow as she hung her coat on the hook by the door. “And to think I was almost late for—'' She turned, spied Winslow at the table, and clapped her mouth shut.

Winslow cleared his throat rather than release the chuckle that rose from within him. Cleta and Birdie's Monday morning gossip sessions were famous all over the island, and the leading topic of most Mondays was Sunday morning church.

“Morning, Cleta,” Winslow had said, tossing his empty foam cup into the trash. He gathered his second doughnut and the bag of crullers. “Don't let me stop you two ladies from visiting. I was just on my way out.”

Which he was. And now, safe in the knowledge that two of the town's foremost gossips had been primed and readied for release, he crouched outside Birdie's open window and nibbled on his doughnut, listening for those familiar voices.

He didn't have to wait long.

“My, oh my,” Birdie said, her words accented by the scrape of a chair across the floor. “Did you ever see anything like what happened in church yesterday?”

“Upon my life, never,” Cleta answered. “I nearly fell through the floor, really. First I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but one look at Edith Wickam convinced me I was seeing right. That poor woman looked like she was about to wizzle up and disappear.”

“I thought I was gonna bust a gut, I was trying so hard not to laugh. The look on her face—”

“And on his!”

A chorus of giggles followed these comments, and Winslow frowned for the duration. After the laugh-fest passed through stages of spasmodic squeaks, table thumping, and crowing whoops, the women finally found their voices.

“Which reminds me,” Birdie said, her voice still carrying the echo of a giggle, “did you have any trouble finding Parker Thomas?”

“It wasn't easy, but I found him.” Cleta's voice sobered. “He's willing to come and do the filling-in. I told him he'd have to do it on the Q.T., as we don't want Pastor to know.”

“Is the timing right? I know we want him here the same time as Rex Hartwell—”

“It'll work out if I have to take the ferry over and bring him back myself. We were lucky to get him, bein' that he's in such demand, but he's agreed to come. I just reminded him about Rex Hartwell and all the business we could throw his way if this goes well.”

Leaning against the house, Winslow felt as though he had swallowed a brick with his doughnut. A weight pressed uncomfortably against his breastbone, slowing his heart and his thoughts.

Who was Parker Thomas, and why did Cleta want to bring him to Heavenly Daze? The name rang a bell in Winslow's memory, so Thomas was probably a preacher in the Maine ministerial fellowship. Obviously, if he was coming to fill in, he had to be an itinerant preacher, one of those who filled the pulpit when a regular minister was sick or out of town.

Winslow felt a coldness in his belly, as if his coffee had contained big chunks of ice. He wasn't sick, and he wasn't planning to go out of town. So the peace he'd been enjoying was false, because the church committee had obviously made plans. They were going to ask him to leave without a church vote, and this Parker Thomas would fill in until Rex Hartwell decided whether or not to take the position.

Disappointment struck like a blow to his stomach. The doughnut in Winslow's hand seemed suddenly tasteless, so he tossed it away. From out of nowhere, a gull swooped down and landed on the grass, then bit off a hunk of the pastry and flew off.

Winslow watched, uncaring, as another gull descended, then another. The air suddenly filled with wheeling, squawking, gulping gulls, and he realized that the location of his hiding place was about to be broadcast . . .

“Did you hear something, Birdie?”

“Oh, my.” Winslow ripped open the bag of crullers and pulled one out, pinching off a piece and tossing it to a gull hovering over his head. “Here. Shoo. Take it and go.”

“It's just gulls, Cleta. Must have found something out there. Now, anyway, about Parker Thomas . . .”

Winslow strained to hear, but the shrill cry of the gulls drowned out the women's voices. Frantic with the fear he'd be discovered, Winslow tore the last of the cruller into crumbs, then tossed the sticky mess into the air.

“Is it snowing out there?” a man asked.

As the gulls dive-bombed the area in gluttonous avarice, Winslow pressed his back against the building. The male voice belonged to Abner Smith, Birdie's assistant, and he had to be standing right next to the window.

“Of course it's not snowing; it's just gulls,” Birdie called. “Did you get those gingerbread men out of the oven? They need to go in the display case.”

“I'll get on it.”

Winslow melted in relief as the man's footsteps died away, then another gull descended and hung in the air just above his head, chattering like a lunatic chimpanzee. Winslow glared at the creature and hugged the bag of crullers to his chest. “No,” he drawled, eyeing the gull with a steely gaze. “I need these for the dog, and there's no way you're getting them.”

Then, without a word of warning, the gull swooped forward, his sharp beak aimed directly for Winslow's head. Gasping in horror as scenes from Alfred Hitchcock's movie,
The Birds
, flashed through his brain, Winslow covered his face and ducked, only to feel a sharp tug on his scalp.

“My lands, would you look at that?” Birdie's voice floated from the bakery an instant later. “Look at that gull yonder! What's he carrying, a squirrel?”

“Never knew a gull to eat squirrels,” Cleta mused, her voice coming closer. “Never knew them to eat anything but fish and bread and such.”

Cowering beneath the window sill, Winslow peeked through his fingers and confirmed what his senses had told him—the gull had taken his toupee. Some of the cruller must have lodged in his hair, and the dumb bird couldn't tell a wig from a pastry.

“Look there,” Birdie said, her voice now coming from just on the other side of the window, “he's dropping that squirrel right back into that pine tree. Right thoughtful of him, isn't it?”

“Odd, that.” Bemusement filled Cleta's voice. “Never seen a squirrel that bushy.”

“Before yesterday I'd never seen a preacher's wife in a skimpy nightgown either, especially not in church!”

Sighing heavily, Winslow sank to the ground and crossed his arms, waiting for the women to finish their gabfest.

Chapter Twenty-one

S
ummoned by the ringing of the telephone, Edith dropped her lipstick into her cosmetics drawer and stepped out of the bathroom. Moving quickly to the bedroom, she picked up the extension. “Hello?”

“Edith, this is Vernie. How be you this morning?”

“I'm fine, Vernie.” Though she still had a house to clean and dinner to plan, Edith forced a smile into her voice. Vernie wouldn't have called without a reason.

“Um, Edith—I was calling about Pastor.”

“I'm not sure he'll have time to see you today, Vernie. I think he was planning on spending a few hours with Edmund de Cuvier—”

“I don't want to see him.” Vernie's voice went flat and dry. “I see him now, and that's why I'm calling.”

Biting her lip, Edith sank to the edge of the bed. “You see . . . Winslow?”

“I'm standing here in the Mercantile, looking out my western window. And yes, I see your husband squattin' by the bakery window with a bag in his hand. Oh—and he's bald again. Head's as bare as a bullfrog's belly.”

Edith closed her eyes and clutched the phone cord. “You don't say.”

“Do you want me to go over and help him up?”

“Is he hurt?”

“Don't seem to be. He's just sitting there. A minute ago there was a pack of gulls pestering him for his doughnut, but they've mostly left now.”

Edith pressed her hand to her forehead for a long minute, then opened her eyes. “Leave him be,” she said, lifting her gaze toward the ceiling. “If he's not hurt, he'll move on when he's ready.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. And thanks, Vernie, for calling. Let's keep this between us, okay?”

“You know best, hon.”

Edith murmured a soft good-bye, then hung up the phone and stared at the floor. What was Winslow doing? He had left the house in high spirits, and after their talk yesterday she had begun to think he had come to his senses. But if he was really sitting on the ground outside the bakery . . .

She could go get him . . . or she could trust him to work out his own problems. And trust the Lord to show him the way.

Without another moment's hesitation, Edith knelt beside her bed, propped her elbows on the mattress, and began to pray. “Lord, help my man. I don't know what he's thinking, but you do. Send the help he needs, Lord. Please.”

As the clock beside her bed tick-tocked the minutes away, her prayerful plea rose to heaven.

Winslow stood beneath the branches of the pine tree and stared up at the brown furry patch on a limb twenty feet overhead. The tall tree had no low branches to serve as handholds, but Vernie might have an extension ladder at the Mercantile he could borrow.

Of course, only last week he'd read about a man in Ogunquit who'd gone up a tree to rescue a cat. The kitten had only scrambled further away, and the man had fallen to his death, a victim of good intentions. So yes, climbing a tree was dangerous, but his toupee wasn't likely to scurry away as he approached . . .

A breath of wind moved in the top of the tree, but though the green boughs overhead swayed, the patch of hair on the lowest limb did not.

Winslow sighed. What had he done to deserve this disaster?