chapter four: Mrs. Hazelton goes with Officer Boyd to the church but they are unable to find Reverend Paulson.
Is the Reverend Dead?
Chapter Five
A few days later the phone rings.
“Case closed,” Officer Boyd declares.
I want to believe him. “Reverend Paulson is alive? Where is he?”
“Home sick.” I’m told.
“Did you speak with the Reverend?”
“A little but he sounded rather weak. So I spoke mostly with a...a...” I hear pages flipping and wait for Officer Boyd to thumb through his notebook. “Ms. Matthews.”
“You phoned Reverend Paulson and spoke with Ms. Matthews? What was she doing at the manse?”
“She wasn’t at a man’s. She was at Reverend Paulson’s. I didn’t ask her what she was doing there. Maybe she was cleaning his house.”
“How do you know it was him unless you saw—.”
Officer Boyd sighs. “Mrs. Hazelton, there is no doubt that it was Reverend Paulson. He’s alive. Now it’s time that you find another way to keep yourself busy. Knit me a scarf.”
“A scarf? But it’s spring moving onto summer.”
“Well, bake me a batch of cookies then. Or better yet make Reverend Paulson some chicken soup.”
That’s the first peck of sense Officer Boyd has uttered. I make the soup and drive to the manse.
Ms. Matthews is outside working in the garden. The minute she sees me, she hurries over and stands on the sidewalk blocking my way—like one of those guards with the tall fur hats outside the Queen’s castle in England. “Why, Mrs. Hazelton, it’s so nice to see you again.” Her words say one thing and her face says another. She waves at my cloth shopping bag. “And what do you have there?”
“It’s a gift for Reverend Paulson.”
"Well, you can just give it to me. I'll make sure he gets it." She offers me an artificial smile.
“I’ll give it to him myself.” I try to skirt around her, but she dekes like a skilled hockey player.
“The Reverend is under the weather. He needs his sleep.”
“I want to see him with my own eyes.”
“Mrs. Hazelton, be reasonable. You’re not going to disturb a sick man on a whim.”
A whim? That gets under my bonnet. “I’m worried about him.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hazelton, there’s no reason to be worried.”
“Surely, Ms. Matthews, after what we both witnessed at church, even you can understand why—.”
“He was, he is resting.”
“I’m not moving one inch until I see him.” I plant my feet.
“Fine. You can see him, but not now. He needs his sleep. I’ll call you when he’s awake. You can see him then.”
Witnessing Reverend Paulson’s amazing recovery will be like seeing Lazarus wake from the dead. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“Fine, Mrs. Hazelton, you do that.” She can’t wait to see the back of me and so I don’t disappoint her. I leave.
She’ll call me when he’s awake. So maybe he’s not dead. Maybe I did see things. Maybe…
She’ll call me. Sure, when pigs fly. I know what I saw. Reverend Paulson is dead and Ms. Matthews is trying to cover up the murder.
But true to her word, Ms. Matthews does call me a day later, about an hour before lunch. “Reverend Paulson is awake and ready to see you, now. And he wanted to tell you that he really enjoyed the soup. In fact, he’d like more. And some of your delicious blueberry scones.”
I’m floored, delighted, and eager to see him. Phone in hand, I hunt through the fridge, but I don’t find any scones. Arthur must have eaten all of them. “I don’t have any scones.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Reverend Paulson was so looking forward to them.”
“I’ll bake fresh.”
“If you’re sure it’s no trouble. I know Reverend Paulson will appreciate it.”
“No, it’s no trouble at all. Tell the Reverend that I’ll be there as soon as they come out of the oven.”
So I was wrong. Reverend Paulson isn’t dead. I guess this makes me a fanciful old woman. I’ll take it. As long as the Reverend is alive, I’ll take that and worse.
I buzz around the kitchen—cracking eggs, mixing flour, rinsing blueberries. 30 minutes later I bundle fresh scones into a wicker basket and pour soup into a plastic container.
Thud. That’s the back door. “What’s for lunch?” Arthur wants to know. “I’m starving.”
I pat his tummy and give him a peck on the cheek. “I doubt that.”
“What smells so good? Did you make scones?”
I grab the basket. “Sorry, they’re for Reverend Paulson.”
“But I thought he was—?”
“I guess I was wrong. Isn’t it wonderful?” I kiss Arthur goodbye and head for the door.
“Hmm. My lunch?”
“There’s lettuce, tomato, ham, and bread in the fridge.” It’s good for him to take care of himself. Who knows which one of us will die first?
***
Even though Plumper Island is the smallest Southern Gulf Island, it has a lot of weather pockets. Weather pockets? I think that's what they're called. Someone once explained that they were caused by the island's unique longitude or latitude--or some such. I can't remember.
I leave a thick layer of grey clouds on my side of the island and enter a heavy downpour on the Reverend’s side. I don’t have an umbrella. Before exiting the car, I pull the hood of my rain slicker up over my head. Puddles are everywhere. Soon there are small lakes in my shoes. I slosh up the stairs to the door. Ms. Matthews opens the door, but her body fills the gap. “I’m afraid Reverend Paulson fell asleep waiting for you.” She takes the basket of scones and soup. “I’ll make sure he gets your care package.”
“But I came all this—.”
“I apologize for any inconvenience. Good day, Mrs. Hazelton.”
I’m not leaving without seeing him. Raindrops trickle down my neck. I try the doorknob. It’s not locked. I ease the door open. It doesn’t creak. I slip into the house. Dark pine covers the walls, floor, and ceiling. I sneak down the hall as quiet as a mouse. The living room is sparsely furnished in sharp-cornered chairs and end tables. A clatter of dishes drifts in from the kitchen. That must be where Ms. Matthews is. I have to avoid that room, which would be easier to do if I knew this house. This is the first time. I've been anywhere but Reverend Paulson's study.
What if Ms. Matthews catches me and tries to kill me? How will I defend myself?
I can’t leave. This may be my one and only chance at seeing the Reverend.
I breathe the 23rd Psalm, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me...”
My journey down the dark hall takes me to another room. Sink, toilet, tub. Next room. The door is open a crack. A large heavy cross hangs over the bed. I put my hand on the door.
What if I wake him? If he’s sick he needs his sleep. Will he understand why I had to invade his privacy?
“Mrs. Hazelton,” Ms. Matthews whispers. She’s right behind me. I feel her hot, angry breath against the nape of my neck. Will she strangle me? Is she holding a meat cleaver? “What are you doing in here? I don’t recall inviting you in.”
I turn around and face her. There’s no meat cleaver, but the look on her face could kill. “Please, I’ve been so worried.”
She doesn’t escort me out; she pushes the door open.
Quickly, before she changes her mind, I cross the threshold.
She grabs my arm. “Don’t wake him. He needs his rest.”
A strong odour, like ammonia, dominates the room. Blankets are piled high on the bed. I admire again the quilt the guild made for him—invisible stitches combine contrasting and coordinating sunshiny fat quarters to create the Hidden Pinwheel.
From this distance, it’s hard to determine if there’s anything under the pile. I inch closer. A head of white hair rests on the pillow. Is it just a head? Is the body still attached? All I see is the back of his head. Is he breathing? I lean over. Sharp, angular features. “Reverend Paulson?” I whisper.
Two hands on my shoulders, Ms. Matthews pulls me out of the bedroom.
“See. He’s fine.” She tells me in the hall. “Just resting. Now, will you stop your worrying?”
I shrug.
“You wanted to see him. You saw him. That should be the end of things.”
“If I could only make sure he’s br—.”
Ms. Matthews opens the front door and ushers me out. "See you on Sunday." She closes the door and I hear her lock it.
Are you following me?
