“Now, Donald,” demanded Dorothy in her no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners voice. “What’s this about an emergency meeting tomorrow night?”
Father Donald froze in mid knee-bend. He shot her a glance like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming Mack sixteen-wheeler. “Don’t get excited, Dottie. You know what the doctor said. Perhaps you’d better take one of your pills,” he suggested hopefully. He’d privately told me that the pills were a godsend—one of them and she was gentle as a lamb, two and she was out like a light.
“No.” Even I cringed at her tone and tried to edge surreptitiously away. “I expect Charles would like to know, too. Wouldn’t you, Charles?” The Mack truck had changed course and was bearing down on me.
“Umm, sure, I guess.”
“Well, I wanted to tell you. I would have told you, although I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure, well not sure, but at least pretty sure, although there was no reason not to be sure. Anyway, it’s hush-hush, well not really, I just can’t say anything right now. Although, I could say something, but it wouldn’t be any use because I can’t tell you everything, not that I know everything, although I think I probably know more than most do about it, well, not more, because as I said to the Bishop… Oh! Shoot! Never mind what I said, not that I said anything, but you’re just going to have to wait until tomorrow night, well not night, evening really, although the meeting is pretty late. I’m sworn to secrecy and that’s all there is to it.” He took a large gulp of his coffee and smiled smugly.
Dorothy and I looked at each other blankly. I wondered if she’d made any sense of it all. I tried to sort out the “facts”. Earlier, he’d mentioned an important discovery to do with money and now, a confidential discussion with the Bishop. That could cover anything from the Guild Ladies Luncheon to grand larceny. I decided we were never going to get anything out of Father Donald today, so I left him to the tender ministrations of his now seething sister and headed out to find Morley Leet.
Bessie Leet answered my knock. “He’s upstairs, lying down,” she said. “He came in from church, looking terrible. Couldn’t eat a bite of lunch. Said he didn’t feel well.” She shot a worried glance up at the ceiling. “I hope he’s all right. He’s been real edgy these past few weeks. I think he’s worrying about that new boat of his. I wisht he never got it. How we’re going to pay for it, I’ll never know. Him with just his pension. I told him to take one of them nerve pills the doctor gave him. That usually settles him down.”
I handed her the envelope. “Perhaps he shouldn’t bother with the meeting tomorrow night,” I said. “I’m sure Father Donald will understand if he can’t make it.”
“Well, I think this treasuring stuff is all too much for him. His nerves can’t take it. Going to resign at the end of this term, so he says. He only done it because his family’s always been the treasurers at St. Grimbald’s.” She opened a kitchen drawer already stuffed full of receipts, envelopes and various ledgers. I could see several bankbooks on top. “I’ll just put this into his treasurer’s drawer. He’ll see to it when he’s up later.” She crammed the envelope in and pushed the drawer shut. I headed home for lunch and a much-needed cup of my own Special Blend coffee, black with no sugar.
Early Monday afternoon, while I was in the midst of a particularly difficult chapter that just wouldn’t write itself, I got a frantic phone call from Father Donald. It took me several minutes to make out what he was saying. He was even less coherent than usual, if that were possible.
“My dear Charles. It’s just awful, well more than awful, a tragedy. Poor Edith, what a loss, although Boris will be back for next Sunday, but a loss in the broadest possible sense, perhaps ‘broad’ isn’t a good choice of words, Edith is such a lady, I mean was such a lady, oh dear, I can hardly believe she’s left us.”
I wondered if she’d finally got the message and resigned. Organ one; Edith nothing.
“Left us?’ I managed to insert.
“Yes, gone, passed, asleep, away, finished, ended, kaput, no more… dead!”
“Edith’s dead?”
“It’s just awful. An overdose, although they’re not saying that, not that they’re saying anything, at least, not to me, but I can read between the lines, well, not read, but listen…uh, where was I?”
“You mean she committed suicide?”
“No, no!” His voice was horrified. “She wouldn’t do that, I mean, her playing wasn’t that bad, at least, nobody complained, not to me, anyway. You didn’t hear anything, did you? People upset perhaps?”
I saw a quagmire of non-sequitors opening before us and quickly reined in Father Donald’s thoughts. “You said an overdose?”
“Yes… that’s what they told Benjamin. And he told them she never took anything stronger than echinacea, although I suppose you could overdose on echinacea, at least I’m sure if you took enough of them, although I’ve never heard of it happening, but people keep taking these plants and herbs and things when there are perfectly good drugs on the market, well, not drugs, but you know, medicine, real medicine, and anyway, Benjamin said she was perfectly fine when she left for church…”
I jumped in as he paused for breath. “When did she die?”
“Probably yesterday afternoon, although it might have been later, she was having an afternoon nap though, so I suppose technically that would make it in the afternoon, although I often nap much later myself, especially if I have an afternoon service. Benjamin said she was terribly sleepy when she got in from church, went to lie down and never got up again. He let her sleep and didn’t realize she was dead until this morning. I’m so upset. I’m going to need your help with the meeting this evening. Could you come over?”
I was on my way in minutes, not so much to help Father Donald but to get some coherent information from Dorothy.
If they say that a clean office is the sign of a sick mind, then Father Donald’s mind was in outstandingly good health. I cleared a pile of old bulletins off the nearest chair, pushed aside a litter of used Lenten folders on the desk and put down the cup of tea that Dorothy had handed me as I came through. She looked grimmer than usual and indicated with a shake of her head that she didn’t want to talk about it. Not that I blamed her. It would only set him off again.
Father Donald was standing in front of the filing cabinets, doing deep knee bends as he pulled and pushed the two top drawers rhythmically in and out. I wondered if the author of Flex-er-Cise had anything like this in mind when he penned his little volume. I doubted it.
Before we could begin our work, the doorbell rang and Dorothy appeared with Sergeant Bernie Bickerton of the local RCMP detachment. “The sergeant wants a word with you, Donald.” I started to get up.
“No, no,” said Father Donald. “Stay, Charles. This won’t take a minute. Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you, not that I can do anything, of course, but I suppose I must be able to do something, or you wouldn’t be here.”
I saw the familiar dazed look in Sergeant Bickerton’s eyes. “Er, umm. Yes, well, the thing is, we want to corroborate that Mrs. Edith Francis was at the service yesterday morning at St. Grimbald’s?”
“Why yes, and a lovely job she did, too, especially her rendition of ‘Sweet Hour of Prayer’, most unusual, but quite touching.” Father Donald pulled up his shoulders to his ears and dropped them rapidly three times. Then he rotated them clockwise and anti-clockwise.
Sergeant Bickerton stared, fascinated. “Got a crick in your neck, Father?” he asked.
“No, no. It’s my flex-er-cises. You should try them.” Father Donald shifted to his neck rolls.
Sergeant Bickerton nodded. “Yes, well, very interesting. Now, was Mrs. Francis also at the coffee hour