A Truth for a Truth (11 page)

I made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, the most comforting meal I know. Hildy was appropriately grateful, but she shredded more sandwich than she ate and probably never realized it.

I tried to make useless conversation. I told her about funny things I’d learned researching church history. I told her about the plans for a new storage room, and my hopes that volunteers could be cajoled to scan important documents that were fast deteriorating. I didn’t explain that I needed volunteers because my grasp of technology extends as far as the click-and-close ballpoint pen, and anything more advanced will forever remain a mystery. Every time I mention this out loud, our home computer laughs maniacally, but no one else seems to hear it.

She responded when spoken to, and even started a story that drifted into silence without her seeming to be aware of it. I made coffee and served some of the brownies, and she took both, but I swear she didn’t taste a thing.

“Maybe we ought to go see Ed now,” I told her, when lunch was obviously over. I had called him as soon as we’d gotten home, and he’d told me to bring Hildy as soon as she was done eating. He promised he’d drive her back home when they had finished and make sure all was well at the house before leaving her. I figured if the police were still on the premises, Ed might have a better chance of getting information.

Hildy took her dishes to the sink, but she didn’t even try to wash them. Instead she gazed out the window.

“I used to like this view,” she said. “I could see just enough of the church to know it was there. I felt like I was right in the center of things.”

I subscribed to the other school of thought. I insisted the shrubs be allowed to grow between the parsonage and the church proper, so that I wasn’t constantly reminded of Ed’s job.

“I bet our kitchen still feels like home,” I said in another conversational foray. “It’s hardly been touched in the past decades.”

She faced me. “You’ve asked for renovations?”

I wasn’t sure whether I was being criticized, but Hildy went on. “You should ask, you know. Congregations can forget so easily. You have the right to a comfortable, attractive house.”

I figured my grilled cheese had done her some good after all. She must feel better if she was advising me again. “The board promised a new kitchen floor, but that was a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, these old asphalt tiles may have asbestos in them, which makes them harder to replace. So the board says they’ll get to it eventually. In the meantime I mop and wax a lot.”

Her gaze drifted floorward to the big black and white tiles. “I always liked this floor. Too bad it’s beyond saving.”

I had never liked the floor, which reminded me of a 1950s soda parlor, but I didn’t quibble. “I’m hoping they’ll install laminate right over it. Someday.”

“I guess I need to talk to Ed.”

“I’ll walk you over.”

She looked as if she knew she ought to protest, but I shooed that away. “Besides, I could use the exercise after that brownie.”

She smiled back. If she knew I was just coming up with an excuse to walk with her, she didn’t call my bluff.

Although the sun was shining now, an early-morning rain had gifted the parsonage with a muddy path from our side door. I steered Hildy to the front porch, and didn’t bother to lock up, since I’d be home soon. Outside along our sidewalk, grape hyacinths bloomed and daffodils prepared to launch. Spring was in the air, and as we started down the steps, the sun warmed my hair and shoulders. I stretched a little, and hoped the weather was a sign that better times were ahead.

Hope lasted about three seconds, until I realized that Marie Grandower was walking toward a dark Mercedes parked just down from our house. The last thing we needed was a catfight in front of the parsonage.

Sometimes the last thing you need is the first thing you get.

Marie saw Hildy before Hildy saw her. Of course, it was too late to haul Hildy back inside the house. Even if she’d wanted to go—unlikely—she would not have sacrificed her pride. She continued down the steps, but I heard her draw a breath. Like a bull before he charges the cape.

I grabbed her arm. “You know what? Let’s cut across here.”

Hildy shook off my hand. “I have no reason to avoid anyone.”

By now Marie had stopped, as if she, too, was preparing. All we needed was a crowd of onlookers shouting “Olé!”

I grew up with sisters, and a mother who dislikes conflict. Junie—the only thing I’ve ever called my mother—was adept at heading off trouble before it began. But even though Junie’s on speed dial on my cell phone, that wouldn’t help a lot right now. She was teaching at a quilt show on the West Coast, and unlikely to answer.

I struggled to remember how she’d handled trouble, but I was still struggling when Marie strode up the sidewalk and stopped just inches from Hildy’s reddening face.

“You thought you could get away with it, didn’t you?” She pointed a finger at Hildy. “You thought you were so clever!”

“I’m not the one who carried on an affair with my minister behind his wife’s back.”

“Don’t blame that on me. I’d have been happy to tell you right after the affair began! Your husband was the one who stopped me. He said there were children to consider.”

“Really? My girls grew up years ago. And if I’m not mistaken, Win remained with
me
.”

“Well, he had his career to consider, too. He knew you’d try to ruin it if he left you!”

Hildy’s cheeks were the color of ripe tomatoes, but she still hadn’t raised her voice. “He was retired, remember? He stayed with me to the end.”

Marie made a noise of dismissal. “He felt sorry for you.”

“Really, now that I think about it, I don’t know why I didn’t just hand him over to you.”

“Maybe you should have, instead of murdering him!”

I had to step in. I moved closer, so I’d be harder to ignore. “I think enough’s been said here. I’d like you both to back off.”

This was like stepping into the middle of Pickett’s Charge and asking the North and the South to go back to their camps and avoid the Gettysburg slaughter. Neither woman budged.

Marie leaned toward Hildy, as if I hadn’t spoken, and she picked up speed. “I bet you’re wondering why the coroner asked for an autopsy. Do you want to know why? Because I called him myself! I told him Win didn’t die a natural death. I told him that the night Win died, you had just discovered us together and were furious enough to kill him. I told him Win died not more than an hour after my little revelation, although he’d been perfectly well that evening. The coroner was a friend of my husband’s. He knows me. He
knows
I don’t make accusations lightly!”

I remembered that Marie’s husband had been a surgeon, hence the house in Emerald Estates and the expensive jewelry beautifully accenting what looked like an Armani or maybe a Versace pantsuit.

“I did not kill my husband!” Hildy roared.

Now I inserted myself between the two women. Junie might be a lot heftier than I am, but I’d finally remembered that acting as a physical barrier had always worked for her when things got tough. And thanks to my father, I do a mean karate chop.

“Done,” I said, remembering that repetition was also good. “Done, done, and more done. No more, either of you. This isn’t going to help anybody or anything. And you will not come to blows in my front yard. Please don’t make me demonstrate how I know.”

Marie gasped and stepped back. “Of course you would side with her! You’re two of a kind.”

Now that hurt, but I didn’t let on. I was suddenly glad the Grandower pledge was so small. Call me practical, but when I recounted this scene to Ed, I didn’t want to do it with smelling salts at the ready.

“I think you need to leave, Marie.” I took Hildy’s arm. “And we need to get to the church, Hildy.”

“If you try to come to the graveside service,” Hildy told Marie, “I will tell the funeral director to eject you.”

Marie gave a nasty laugh. “I have my memories.”

“We are so leaving.” I tugged, and Hildy gave ground. In a moment we were moving over the damp grass toward the alley that separates the church and our house. I didn’t look back to see what Marie was doing, but I was fairly confident with Hildy gone, she wouldn’t stand there. She would head back to her lavish home and pull out her mental scrapbook, with its many empty pages. Despite what she’d said, Marie’s memories wouldn’t be much comfort.

“I didn’t murder Win,” Hildy said, when we were finally off the lawn and nearing the church. “I didn’t.”

“I believe you.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better. Nobody’s going to believe me!”

“I do believe you.” I took a moment to figure out why. We were nearly to the door before I stopped, and she did, too.

“You may have been mad enough to kill him,” I said, “but I know you didn’t. One, you would have confessed by now. Hildy, if you’d killed him, you’d be riddled with guilt. You couldn’t keep it to yourself. You’re the most open person I’ve ever met.” That was not particularly a compliment, but I didn’t elaborate. Instead I continued.

“And two? You value who you are and what you do too much to jeopardize either. Not only is it hard to be a minister’s wife when the minister is dead, it’s really hard to take the moral high ground when you’ve just murdered your husband.”

She sniffed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

I’d already hugged her more today than I ever, ever guessed I might. But I hugged her again, for good measure. “We’ll see you through this. Just take it a step at a time. Go talk to Ed. Get through the cemetery service. Let Jack handle everything else.”

“How can I be a good example with something like this hanging over my head?”

In her place, that certainly wasn’t the first question I would have asked, but I nodded as if I understood. “You have many friends here, Hildy. It’s going to be fine.”

She walked into the parish house through the kitchen, and I walked home. When I rounded the house, I was delighted to see Marie was nowhere in sight. I let myself in and stared down the front hallway. It was way too early for a glass of wine. I don’t take tranquilizers. I settled for another brownie, a glass of warm milk, and Bruce Springsteen at top volume on our stereo.

When The Boss is belting, it’s blessedly hard to think about anything else.

Because of the uproar centering around Hildy, I didn’t have a lot of time to think about my encounter with Stephen Collins until late afternoon. The more I considered our meeting, the less comfortable I felt. He had been evasive, even disingenuous. But something else nagged at me, and it wasn’t until I thought about the girls who had surrounded him when I stood in his doorway, and the way he had so easily slung an arm over the shoulders of one in an “almost” hug, that I realized what it was.

Stephen Collins and my daughter had spent a lot of time together before she quit the debate team. Exactly what had transpired in those hours of practice? Had she been alone with him often? Had he overstepped boundaries? And if so, would she talk about it with me?

From experience, I’ve learned that the best way to help Deena open up is to face her over a table. With that in mind, I picked her up from a friend’s house late in the afternoon, and since Teddy was at soccer practice, I drove Deena to our favorite deli. The standard American favorites here are fine, but the Middle Eastern food is divine.

We greeted the owner, Ahmed Bahram, a gentle, scholarly man who loves to discuss theology with my husband, and I bought the falafel that was my excuse for coming. Then I asked Deena if she would like to sit at one of the tables with a plate of Ahmed’s splendid hummus and freshly baked pita bread.

“I feel like I’ve been running all day,” I said. “It would be nice to sit before we head home and make dinner.”

She looked faintly suspicious, but the hummus was too great a lure. We added steaming peppermint tea to our order and took one of the tables in the back. The deli decor is uncluttered and functional, with an emphasis on plain, hard surfaces that are easy to clean. This strongly discourages lingering on the molded plastic chairs. We had the back to ourselves.

I told her about Hildy and the police search. She was as interested as any fourteen-year-old can be when her mother introduces a subject. I examined her covertly as I talked. In the doldrums of winter she had gone to a sleepover at a friend’s house and come back with poorly cut bangs. A quick visit to a better stylist had resulted in a new cut that angled away from her face and fell just above her shoulders. She looks older, and even though she’s not as graceful or sure of her developing body as she will be in a few years, she is still lovely enough that I’m glad our summer visits to my father have resulted in self-defense training.

“I thought you didn’t like Mrs. Dorchester,” Deena said after my recital.

“What made you think that?”

“She’s so . . . I don’t know. She’s so pushy, like she knows everything. Kind of like a mother.”

I smiled. “Yeah, kind of like that. But she’s good-hearted. She genuinely wants to be helpful. It’s hard to dislike her.”

“That’s not the same as liking her, though. It’s like in between.”

I considered a moment, because this was an interesting observation. “It’s just hard to feel close to somebody who’s trying to tell you how to live your life.”

“Tell me about it.” Deena reached for a second piece of pita bread. Her first had disappeared under a mound of hummus.

“There is a difference between Mrs. Dorchester and me, and you and me.”

“She’s less annoying?”

“She’s not responsible for me. I
am
responsible for you.”

“That stops at some point, right? You aren’t going to be running my life when I’m married with kids of my own?”

“Sure I am, are you kidding? I plan to follow you everywhere.”