I was a thousand miles away.
At the earliest break in conversation, I told her I had a doctor’s appointment. Nothing serious. A minor issue. I promised to stop by again, and I would. At the end of the day, she was an old lady living alone who only wanted someone to talk to, someone to listen to her. Once the layers were drawn back, it was strange how different everything looked.
Through Dad’s window I could see his TV on, him moving past every so often. He was okay for now, probably still upset about the day before. Not in the mood for company yet. Later.
I called Robert, Mary’s son, chatted a bit. Asked how he and the family were doing.
“Adjusting,” he told me. “Still so strange to go to call her and remember all of a sudden.” I thought of the thousand times I’d played Emma’s life out differently, picturing every happiness for her. How each time the realization she’d never get to live it was still a cold punch to the stomach.
We talked a little about his kids. He asked about Dad and Kel, thanked us for the card and gift of money we’d sent. Sure, of course, no problem.
Near the end of the conversation, when it sounded like he was ready to get off, I said, “You mentioned your mom had been scatterbrained the last few times you talked. Any idea why she was preoccupied?”
Long sigh from his end. “No; I mean, not really. She’d been filling in for Jill Abernathy over at the sister parish. Jill was on maternity leave early in the spring. I think Mom was just stressed with the increased workload.”
“She didn’t say anything to you out of the ordinary? Anything strange?”
“No, why?”
What could I say? Nothing. I had nothing. No evidence except a circumstantial account from an old lady.
Nothing but a heaviness in my center that wouldn’t go away.
I asked him if I could swing by his mom’s place and grab a couple photos from one of her albums. I wanted to make copies for Kel and Dad and me. Was that okay?
“Of course,” he said. “You know where the key is.”
All the color had been leached from the day. The burnished greens of foliage were dull, the mountains heaps of ash to the east. The air hung with a heaviness, and a light rain fell.
When I climbed out of the car at Mary’s ranch, I pulled my shirt collar up over my head and went around the back of the house. No barking dogs announced my arrival, no sounds of chickens in their pen. The spare key was underneath a loose brick in a little raised flower bed where Mary used to grow perennials.
Inside I brushed away moisture from my arms and face and made my way through the house. Mary’s ghost followed me. The smell of the place, the art on the walls, how some of the floorboards creaked.
A newish desktop computer sat at a compact workstation in her office. The surface of the desk was clear, a calendar beside the mouse listed appointments that would never be kept.
I went through the drawers first, avoiding eye contact with the painting of Jesus on the wall. Typical office supplies in the first one, a blank daily journal in the next along with some tax records. Pens, printer paper, nothing.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I punched the space bar. The screen lit up.
Only Mary’s avatar appeared. No password sign-in. I clicked.
The computer’s desktop appeared—the background a sunset picture Mary might’ve snapped herself at some point. Very few folders lined the digital fringes of the screen. One near the top was marked PARISH.
I clicked the mouse, and a warm breath brushed the back of my neck.
Even as my stomach curdled, I registered the quiet hum of the furnace in the basement, the heating vent directly behind me. Fun, fun.
Inside the folder were more folders, all arranged by date. Monthly amendments to the church schedule, expenditure reports, notes from board meetings, quarterly finance reports, Father Mathew’s travel schedule, special guest speaker events, etc.
I pored over everything.
Did I know what I was looking for? Not really. Something strange. A red flag. Another ping on the radar. As I searched, my thoughts flitted back to Mrs. Tross’s account of David and Mary’s meeting.
Mary had obviously been upset about something. Upset enough to ask David to meet her. David had tried consoling her, tried calming her down. A few days later she was dead. A couple of weeks later so was he.
I had a tolerance for coincidence, but I was also a crime writer. It only went so far.
So what was the connection? Could only be one thing.
Mary Shelby was the parish administrator. David was the chair of the church board.
Files upon files. My vision blurred. Outside, the wind picked up, drifting rain across the meadow and spitting against the window. Soon all I saw was Mary’s shorthand, her abbreviations. Spreadsheets, columns of numbers. Projections and schedules.