Beware False Profits Part 7

As the only clergy on site, Ed stayed to comfort Brownie, and I stayed with him. Ed didn't tell Brownie to keep his chin up or not to lose hope. Because it was clear to us at that point that there was no hope for Hazel. Hazel Kefauver was gone, and all the hope in the world wasn't going to bring her back.

6.

So this is how I got elected to sc.r.a.pe chocolate out of every crevice of the Women's Society punch bowl.

After Hazel met her maker in the VIP tent, Sally Berrigan was a wreck. Sally, who was one of the first to discover a body on the parsonage porch back in the fall, has yet to develop a tolerance for death. May that continue.

By the time the ambulance carried Hazel away and something approaching order was restored, Sally had to leave for the conference in Washington. Ed and I had taken turns comforting Brownie and Sally, switching partners regularly. Sally had to be convinced that the mishap with the fountain-for which she unwisely blamed herself-hadn't contributed to a heart attack or stroke and killed poor Hazel. And let's be honest. By the time she calmed enough to see reason, she was in no shape to be handling an antique punch bowl worth more than the average annual pledge to our church.

There's a history that goes along with the punch bowl. My mother procured it to replace our previous casualty, and afterwards she enumerated its fine points to me. American Brilliant Cut gla.s.s, made between the years 1886 and 1914, is highly collectible, and even in its time, a luxury item. Each piece was created by a team of craftsmen, and there is nothing comparable on the market today. Our bowl looks like a series of interlaced fans with a sawtooth rim. It has aged well, with only the faintest wear on some of the teeth. Junie endeared herself forever to the Women's Society by replacing their ordinary pressed gla.s.s bowl with this one.

With all that history, despite being upset myself, I was the chump elected to take the punch bowl back to the church to be sure it was sparkling clean and stored away before anybody missed it. Sally claimed no one else had nearly as much invested in doing the job right.

Of course no one else had been at least partially responsible for the demise of the other two. I may not be required to confess regularly, but I do understand the concept of penance.

Since the kitchen of the Consolidated Community Church has a sink large enough to accommodate the punch bowl, early Monday morning I borrowed Ed's keys from our kitchen key basket, carefully boxed and toted the bowl to the back door of the church, and let myself in. Ed was home with Junie and the girls making breakfast, and I would have preferred to be at our kitchen table working on a second cup of coffee. But even though Monday is normally a quiet day at church and Ed's day off, I knew that later in the morning the building wouldn't be quiet at all. Our annual rummage sale is scheduled to take place at the end of the week, with bag day after the service on Sunday. Today marked the beginning of the sorting season.

Last year's sale was an education. Apparently the rummage sale is a litmus test of sorts. If you still feel friendly toward your fellow congregants when the sale ends, then you have evolved into a higher state and may be called on to give sermons instead of simply listening to them.

My kindest instincts tell me that almost every person who volunteers is normally friendly and patient. I don't know why sorting and sizing old tennis sneakers and grandma's support hose turns docile lambs into hungry wolves. But I know, having been in charge of the toy room last year, that by the end of the sale, I was ready to shake every parent or child who tried to get a bargain on a leaking kaleidoscope or hotel-deficient Monopoly game.

I guess the sale means too much work, too many people with too many ideas about how things should be done, and too many items that should have gone in the trash in the first place.

Of course since rummage pays some part of my husband's salary, I don't make these sentiments known.

The most stalwart of the rummage sale strike force are members of our Women's Society who have been running Tri-C's sale for years. While they complain enthusiastically that our new members don't help, they criticize them when they try, drastically cutting the field of new volunteers.

So the ladies of the Society are still the ones who arrive first and depart last, and this morning I was afraid if I arrived too late they were going to walk in the kitchen and find me chipping hardened chocolate off their punch bowl. Never mind that Sally Berrigan was responsible, and Sally is president of the group. With Sally safely out of reach I couldn't point my finger. The obvious solution was to finish the job before anyone could see.

Our parish house kitchen is informally expansive, a mish-mash of donated utensils, pots and pans, and ancient dish towels. China cabinets line the walls, filled with serviceable crockery used most often for monthly potluck suppers. I let myself in and carefully set the box with the punch bowl on the island behind the sink. Once I found the detergent, I filled the largest sink with warm water.

While I waited, I noticed that the cabinet where the gla.s.sware is kept was being emptied. Gla.s.ses lined the counter below it. The same was true of the cabinet where cups and saucers reside. I wondered if January, our s.e.xton, planned to scrub the shelves and put in new shelf paper. It was certainly needed.

While the sink filled, I opened cupboard doors, noticing other changes as well. Apparently some group or other had taken on the kitchen as a service project, and I was delighted to see it. Shelves had been organized. The pantry where the coffeemakers hang out together was clear of stems and baskets that hadn't fit any appliance in residence since 1952. I just hoped we weren't making room for more mismatched finds from rummage sale donations.

I lifted the punch bowl out of the box and was ready to set it in the water when I realized that as I'd wandered, two cars had parked in the small lot behind the church. Now as I watched, women got out of each. Fern Booth from one, Ida Bere and someone I didn't recognize from the other.

Had I made a list of people I didn't want to see, Fern and Ida would have topped it. Between them, the two women share the unofficial position of Consolidated Community Church Critic. Fern specializes in ragging on the minister and his family, and Ida specializes in herding everyone to whatever moral high ground she's chosen for the month. What a team.

Many people in the church would understand if I calmly explained that the punch bowl had been on a field trip to Mayday! when a gust of wind spattered it with chocolate-just about the time the mayor's wife fell dead on the ground a few yards away. They would believe I'd only been a prisoner of circ.u.mstances and was now doing my sacred duty by cleaning and putting it in the closet.

Fern and Ida were not two of those people. I pictured an interrogation room, a bright light shining in my weary eyes, pleas for water denied.

I pictured them sentencing me to another year in charge of the rummage sale toy room.

I'm ashamed to say I followed my instincts and took the easy way out. I slipped the punch bowl back in the box, folded the flaps so no one could see inside, and set the box under the sink behind a plastic wastebasket filled with sponges and dishcloths. Then I pulled the plug, dried my hands, and made my way to the front of the church. When I heard the back door open, I slipped outside.

Unless ants found the punch bowl and drew attention with squeaky sighs of ecstasy, the bowl was safely hidden for the moment. More important, I was safe from explanations and a week of hard labor matching dominoes and testing batteries.

I could have gone home, but since I was already out and dressed, I decided to tick off the next item on the day's to-do list. I circled back to the parsonage and gunned the motor on our minivan so Ed would know I was escaping. Then I backed onto Church Street and started toward the Village. I was on the way to Maura Wagner's house, where I would be plied with calories, caffeine, and enough sugary false cheer to make up for the chocolate I'd missed yesterday.

Although Hazel hadn't been far from my thoughts, pa.s.sing City Hall brought her death back to the forefront. Ed and I moved to Emerald Springs for a variety of reasons, but one of them was a desire for peace and tranquility. At heart Ed's a scholar, torn between a desire to practice ministry or to write weighty tomes about historical ministers and their contributions. Emerald Springs seemed the perfect compromise, a small, established church in small-town America, with a liberal arts college that possesses an excellent library, a healthy congregation with an endowment large enough to pay him an adequate salary, and a decent school system for our daughters.

Ed believed there would be time in his schedule for prayer, contemplation, research, and writing.

Ed is not always right.

Two murder investigations in the past year have provided snags in that scenario. That's two more than anyone expects in a lifetime, so theoretically, we're due for some peace. Unfortunately, the last few days had me worried about our future. Joe's disappearance? Disconcerting, but perhaps if all concerned are lucky, nothing more than a bad case of the flu or a temporary emotional meltdown.

Witnessing Hazel's collapse and death? That's harder to put a positive spin on. Seeing her on the ground brought back memories. I didn't really know Hazel, and what I knew about her wasn't particularly positive, but I feel truly sorry her life ended, and ended the way it did, smack-dab in the middle of affixing blame for the chocolate fountain mishap.

Junie is big on final moments. She believes they epitomize everything about a person's life. And as you might imagine, my mother thought Hazel's last moments were sadly significant. Last night she listened as I recounted the story, then she shook her head.

"You watch, precious. That poor woman will come back as an exterminator or a telemarketer. She'll be forced to spend her next life listening to homeowners scream threats at her until she develops some humility."

Of course this heartfelt prophecy comes from the same woman who only an hour before Hazel's death had promised her a long, s.e.xy life. Since that prediction hadn't quite panned out, I was hoping Junie was going to be two for two on the subject of Hazel Kefauver. I couldn't picture our mayor's wife in a khaki shirt and cap, tank and sprayer in hand-although let's face it, there isn't a termite or rat that would stand a chance against her.

I pulled up in front of the Wagners' house, got out, and marched resolutely up the walkway. Today the rag dolls were dressed like Morris dancers, with brightly colored ribbons, hats, and vests. I was surprised Maura hadn't set up a maypole on the lawn to add to the ambience.

I saw Maura right after Hazel's collapse. Like everyone else she was shocked. Maura had experienced too many upsets this weekend, but judging by the dolls, she was soldiering on.

Maura answered before I could knock. Today she wore the lilac equivalent of yesterday's outfit, although to give her credit, this sweater did have tiny cables running up the front.

"Oh, Aggie, I didn't expect you." Her smile was PTA chairman perfect.

"I thought I'd stop by and see how you're doing."

She seemed almost puzzled, as if she couldn't imagine why that might be an issue. "I just got Tyler off to school. Would you like to come in for some coffee?"

"That would be nice. How's Tyler doing?" I now had a bigger stake in knowing, since he and my daughter seemed to be keeping company.

She let me in. We got all the way to the kitchen before she answered. She motioned me to a seat at the table while she bustled around the way she had yesterday. Today it looked as if our calories would be delivered in the form of freshly baked m.u.f.fins.

"Tyler's okay." Maura stacked plates on a tray and poured two cups of coffee from a full pot. I wondered if she set it to brew automatically whenever the doorbell chimed.

She turned with the tray in her hands. "I made sure he did his testing and shots. I'm not as much help as I should be, I guess. I hate needles. They scare me to death. I did natural childbirth just to avoid them."

We were trading confidences. Now it was my turn. "I did hypnosis when I had Deena. A woman in the church was taking cla.s.ses and wanted to practice on me. Ed claims I clucked and flapped my arms like a chicken whenever she told me to."

"Ed was there?"

"For both girls. Joe wasn't?"

"Oh, I didn't want him there. I wasn't at my best."

I've yet to meet the woman who is at her best when she's ten centimeters dilated. Hypnosis or not, had I felt strong enough during either delivery, I would have gotten off the table and wrung Ed's neck. Still, for most of it, having him there meant everything. To both of us.

"What did Joe do while he waited?" I asked, sliding into one of the reasons I'd come. "Without family to hold his hand? Or maybe there was somebody? A cousin, a great aunt?"

"n.o.body."

"That's going to make it harder..."

"What?"

I hadn't meant to say that out loud. I shrugged, but Maura was on to me.

She pa.s.sed me a cup, then set the tray with sugar cubes and cream in front of me. "You're going to look for him, aren't you? You're going to try to find Joseph."

How could I hide the truth? Maura was my best source of information. Even if she thought she knew very little, she must know something that would help.

"I'm going to do what I can. But I don't know how much help I can be."

She lowered herself to the seat across from me. "He needs to come back. This is where Joseph belongs. He's made a good life for us here."

Okay, I thought I'd settled this with myself yesterday. n.o.body knows how they'll react in a brand-new crisis. Still, I'm pretty sure that if Ed just up and disappeared, I would be worried sick. I would be bugging the police and calling every hospital in the state, sure something awful had happened to him.

Because why else would Ed be gone?

Maura was worried, too, but I wasn't sure she was worried about Joe. She seemed more worried that he might be choosing to stay away.

I reached across the table and stopped her in the middle of cutting m.u.f.fins into quarters and fanning them out like the petals of a daisy. I slid my hand over hers and squeezed.

"Were you and Joe having problems, Maura? Because I get the feeling you think he might just be holed up somewhere, refusing to come home."

She gave a small unconvincing shake of her head.

I sat back. "I can't help unless I know what's going on."

"Nothing's going on. It's just that..." She shook her head again. "Well, Joseph's been working long hours lately. And we fought about it. I felt...feel that he should be here with his family in the evening. I keep a lovely home, make delicious meals; he should be here to enjoy them. I finally told him. Do you think that's what drove him away?"

I wondered how anybody could be this naive, or this out of date. Maybe June Cleaver worried that Ward was so tired of the Beaver's antics he planned to divorce her, or Harriet Nelson was afraid Ozzie might leave the family to escape Ricky's singing, but I seriously doubted it. Some of those traditional fifties housewives are still alive and well in our Women's Society, and I can tell you they are sharp, gutsy women, not at all afraid to demand their rights. Maura was a mystery to me. I was growing more convinced it was now my job to help her get up on her feet and walking.

"That sounds like a perfectly normal argument," I said, feeling my way. "Not at all the kind of thing that drives people apart."

"I just keep imagining he's angry at me, and that's why he doesn't come back. If I could do it over, I wouldn't say a word to him."

"Why was he working such long hours?"

"I never asked."

Joe is such a personable guy, I couldn't imagine it would have taken more than a "So what happened at work today?" to get the whole story.

I tried a different tack. "Do you happen to know where in New Jersey he grew up?"

She offered the m.u.f.fin plate, and I took a quarter. Every piece was exactly the same size. If I'd had time to dissect them and count crumbs, I was sure I would find them equal.

"I don't think his childhood was happy," Maura said. "When I asked about it, he was vague. Joseph's always vague if he doesn't want to talk about something, and I learned not to pin him down. I think they moved a good bit. I got the feeling his father couldn't hold down a job. But that was just a guess."

I felt a touch of remorse. Maybe Joe was vague about work, as well. Maybe when Maura tried to find out how things were going, he clammed up. And didn't we have proof that this generous, open guy kept secrets?

I made a mental note to find out what had been going on at the food bank to keep him so occupied into the evenings. And I repeated yesterday's note to myself not to be so hard on Maura.

"If you think of anything he might have told you, will you let me know?" I asked.

"Of course. I appreciate your help, Aggie." She smiled, and this time the smile was genuine and warmed her face.

"Just two other things, then I have to go. Do you have copies of your credit card bills or recent receipts? I thought maybe I could track his movements in New York and make some calls."

"Joseph paid all the bills. I never even opened them."

"Do you know where he filed them afterwards?"

She bit her lip. This time she actually looked chagrined. "No. He may have paid them at work. I think he did a lot of family business on the computer there."

"So he did all the paperwork?"

"We each had our roles. I guess that's unusual these days, but it worked for us. I never paid a bill, he never cooked a meal.

"Will you look around and see if you can find any records? Of course if you do, you might want to be the one to make those calls."

"I'll look, but I'm sure there's no reason you shouldn't see them."

"Good." I got to my feet. "Oh, the last thing? Do you have any recent photos of Joe? Just in case?"

She looked relieved. "Finally, something I can help with."

On my way out we stopped in the living room, and Maura opened an alb.u.m on the table. I could see it was one of those cleverly done sc.r.a.pbooks, with stickers and pages that folded out, and little mementoes glued in place. She thumbed through to the end and lifted a photo from a silver paper frame that had held it in place.

She handed the photo to me. "I have a lot more. I'll get them together for you. But here's a start."

We both stared at the photograph. Joe was looking up at us, a big, hunky Italian guy with the world's greatest smile.

"The house feels empty without him." Maura looked up at me. "You'll try to find him, Aggie? Everybody says you're good at figuring things out."

I wasn't sure that anything I figured out was going to make her life happier, but I nodded.

Outside the ribbons of the Morris dancer dolls were fluttering in a light spring breeze, and the morning sun was smiling in the sky. I could almost feel the gaze of friendly neighbors peering through windows to be sure all was well on the street.

Here in the Village, with its charming houses and well-tended yards, it was hard to imagine that the rest of the world wasn't exactly the same. Husbands never disappeared. Chocolate fountains never splattered. Women, even angry women, never died at charitable events. Standing here I could see why Maura found the real world confusing.