Free The Last Suppers by Diane Mott Davidson

were out at Olson’s house? And what do the churchwomen use all that money for, anyway?”
    “Hey whoa, Goldy, slow down.” She pressed her lips together. “Bob Preston ordered the pearls this year. You remember, the oil guy, husband of Agatha, son of Zelda. I guess I should say, former oil guy. He got some kind of deal from a friend of his in the Far East. As to what the church-women use the money for, there’s usually a
big
argument.Lucille and the Art and Architecture Committee want to build the columbarium before they redo the kitchen. I’m running the raffle, and I want to give the money to Aspen Meadow Outreach. So Lucille Boatwright and I are at odds, which, believe me, is nothing new. Speaking of the crotchety angel, are you up to hearing about what happened after she collapsed at the church? Or do you want me to fix you some tea first?”
    I really couldn’t focus on Lucille Boatwright and her autocratic ways. But decision making was beyond me. When I said nothing, Marla rummaged through cupboards, extracted a teapot and cups, opened a box of Scottish shortbread she had brought, and put a pan of water on to boil. The gestures reminded me of Tom. He loved tea. Loves.
Stop it.
    “Anyway, Lucille Boatwright,” Marla persisted. “The Old Guard is still guarding. Old Lucy’s fine; she informed the doctors not to let Mitchell Hartley and the rest of the charismatics touch her precious columbarium construction in her absence. She had some arrhythmia, and Zelda Preston is down at the hospital with her.”
    “Well, Zelda’s back, because she just called me from the church. Trying to plan Holy Week and Ted Olson’s funeral and wondering what to do with Tom’s and my wedding flowers.” Marla sipped her tea and rolled her eyes. “I told her to give the altar arrangements to the Roman Catholics.”
    Marla choked. “Treading a bit close to the edge, aren’t we? I’m surprised Zelda’s involved. You know, she was just so irate about the music, spent all last month screaming about going to see the bishop. Oh, wait. Speaking of the bishop. Guess who he’s appointed to pastor the church through this crisis?”
    “Marla. I really don’t care. All I can think about is Tom. A priest appointed to get us through this crisis? Could the bishop really move that fast?”
    “He has to. I mean, a murdered priest, a halted wedding, not to mention a funeral? Our flock needs emergency pastoring.”
    “Doug Ramsey, I guess.”
    “Wrong. He’s too junior.” She dunked a shortbread cookie into her tea and carefully bit into it. “The bishop is sending in the poet.”
    “The … oh, no. Not George Montgomery. He’s the canon theologian. He’s on the Board of Theological Examiners with me and always asks about the history of the eucharist.”
    “Montgomery may
examine
about the sacrament of holy communion,” Marla said, “but he’s going to
versify
about everything else.” She finished her shortbread cookie and reached for another. “Be prepared for sermons that ask, ‘Where were you, God/when I laid sod/and found it crass/to ask for grass?’” She chuckled sourly.
    I stared at Tom’s oven. The phone rang. I jumped for it.
    “Yes!”
    “Hello, is this Goldy?” A female voice, hesitant, raw from crying.
    “Who is this?”
    “Agatha,” gulped the voice, “Agatha …”
    I put my hand over the receiver and mouthed to Marla, “Agatha Preston.”
    Marla stage-whispered, “I saw her in the church kitchen. She looked like a WASP auditioning for
Song of Hiawatha.”
    “Agatha,” I said into the receiver, “what is it? Do you have some news? What’s wrong?”
    Marla’s eyes bulged. I shook my head firmly when she mouthed, “What? What?”
    “I can’t, I can’t take it …” Agatha gagged, coughed, and let out a single sob. With great effort, she said, “Did you … I need to know if you … saw him.” She burst into a fit of crying.
    “Saw him?” I was bewildered.
    “What happened?” she sobbed.