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CHAPTER 1
The beginning of the end had been five months ago, a chilly, windswept April day.
"Father, a minute of your time?" Adele Evans stood in the doorway of the rector's office at Grace Church, Seattle, wearing a maroon version of the pants suit that was her uniform. Although no taller than 5'5", she was an imposing figure. She had excellent posture, and with the extra height of her gray French-twist, didn't appear much shorter than the balding rector when they stood side by side, despite his extra five inches of height. Mrs. Evans was the president of the Ladies' Auxiliary, directress of the Altar Guild, and the chair of many other committees.
She was also a frequent volunteer in the church office.
Father Robert Vickers, the rector of Seattle's Grace Parish church, had been enjoying a sardine sandwich and listening to the noon news. Because his mouth was full, he motioned her in. It wouldn't do to turn her away.
His visitor headed toward an armchair across the room, in order, he suspected, to put them on equal footing. Swallowing the last morsel of sandwich, he removed his feet from the desk, wiped his thick glasses with a stray tissue, and joined her in the seating area.
"How nice of you to give up your lunch hour to call on me, Mrs. Evans," he began. "See, I remembered you don't like the Ms. Prefix. I can't say that I blame you. Mzzz sounds like a buzz saw. Maybe someday you'll take up my offer to call me Father Robert, instead of Father Vickers, and then I can call you Adele. Don't you think Vickerzzz sounds like a buzz saw also?" He took a deep breath. "Now, how can I help you?" A counterattack was his only hope of slowing down the steamroller that was Adele Evans before it rolled right over him.
Mrs. Evans pointed over his shoulder to the empty sardine can on the desk and countered, "Be careful, Father, or you'll get grease all over your clerical collar. We Altar Guild ladies have enough to do without acting as a cleaning service."
She fixed him with a severe stare. "And you must say something to Deacon Mary. Last Sunday we discovered chocolate stains all over her white robe."
Father Robert quickly said, "Oh don't worry, my collar's plastic so I can remove any spots with powdered cleanser. Of course, it would be wonderful if the Altar Guild had the wherewithal to purchase linen collars, but I know you have much better uses for your funds. Why, those multicolored carnations were just the right touch at last Sunday's service."
Seeing that she was about to speak, he soldiered on, "Speaking of expenditures, I do have to put my foot down with regard to the altar candles. This was the second time they've burned out in the middle of the service. God's been generous to us at Grace Church, and I think the least we can do is replace the candles before they're down to nubs. I'm sure you agree."
She didn't agree; that was clear, so he went on, "Now, of course, Deacon Mary's robe isn't plastic. I will speak with her. Maybe the Sunday school children hugged her with their little chocolate-covered hands." Mrs. Evans' narrowed eyes said he'd gone too far. Deacon Mary's chocoholism was the worst-kept secret of the parish. He'd better let Adele have her say.
"Father, we have a much more important matter to discuss." Peering over the top of her reading glasses, she pinioned him with her eyes. "Now, I'm sure you haven't meant to be selfish in your use of the rectory provided you by the parish, but you must realize that it was built to house a large clerical family, not a single man."
Uh-oh. He wasn't sure if he could bluster his way out of this one. When Grace Church had called him as their rector six years ago, part of his compensation had included rent-free housing next door to the church. It was a common practice; his three previous parishes had also provided rectory housing. He'd often wondered where he'd end up after retirement.
Father Robert had tried to be generous with the space, often accommodating visiting clergy and boarding students in the extra bedrooms. Most recently, he'd provided lodging for the church's young organist Daniel, until Daniel had moved out to live with his father.
After Daniel left, Lester, the church's new night sexton, had moved into the second-floor bedroom. Robert still teared up remembering how Lester fell to his knees at the doorway, thanking God for ending twenty years of living on the streets.
That still left three drafty bedrooms and one and a half baths on the second floor unused, because Robert had remodeled the third floor attic for his quarters. The old fir walls and the splendid view of the city had proved irresistible. He held informal meetings and small receptions on the first floor, and he was a whiz in the kitchen, but his personal time was spent in the attic hideaway.
"So, Mrs. Evans," Robert said, "I'm sure you have something in mind. Whatever it is, you must know that the vestry will need to give its blessing."
"Certainly, Father," she parried. "I've made some preliminary inquiries and feel certain that the blessing will be forthcoming." Her lipstick-free lips twitched.
"And what exactly is your idea?"
Mrs. Evans picked up two presentation folders from the side table, handing one to him. The folder's title said it all: The Grace Church Charity Thrift Shop and Community Outreach Office. Even without having studied many business plans, he realized within a minute that what he was looking at would pass muster in a downtown-Seattle boardroom. She led him through the sections labeled background, vision, mission statement, goals, deliverables, timelines and outcomes.
Appendix A was a floor plan of the rectory with an overlay designating the living room for men's clothing, household items, and a cashier station. The dining room would be devoted to women's clothing and accessories and a dressing room.
The study, a holdover from the days when the rector had the luxury of studying before composing the Sunday sermon, would be used for sorting and pricing donations. The kitchen and adjacent half bath would be a break area for volunteers, who could use the sink to clean up the dirtier donations.
All but one of the second-floor bedrooms would be converted to offices for the church's food bank, located in the old gym behind the rectory. The staff were now perched precariously where the upstairs bleachers used to be. The remaining bedroom was labeled Thrift Shop Manager.
Father Robert couldn't sit still one minute longer. He rose from the chair and began pacing about, careful to avoid the papers piled on the floor, which served as his filing system.
"Very impressive, Mrs. Evans, especially the use of graphics." He picked up the folder and flipped through it. "Like this chart on page ten summarizing the need for the project, and the graph on page — let's see — twelve, showing community benefit. Oh my, I've never seen a graph go from zero to one hundred percent so quickly."
He gave her a long look. "In order to get all this data, you must have consulted with a few people. I assume you found the floor plans in the sexton's office, or maybe the archives. And you must have talked to Terry Buffett at the Food Bank. What was his reaction?"
Mrs. Evans took a water bottle from her purse and took a long drink before answering. "Oh no, Father, that would be your responsibility. However, as chairwoman of the parish outreach committee, I'm familiar with their operation and talk to Terry on a regular basis. I'm well aware that lack of office space hinders their ability to provide the optimal level of services."
"And Lucy Lawrence," he continued, "have you spoken to her?" Lucy was the senior warden, the chair of the church's vestry.
"I merely mentioned informally to her that a proposal might be forthcoming."
He wanted nothing more than to wrap this up. "So, Mrs. Evans, I can see how the parish rectory meets your criteria for size and location perfectly. But," he flipped through a few more pages, "don't proposals like this normally include at least two other options, if only to highlight the benefits of the preferred location?"
His attempt at a chuckle turned into a gargle. And his face was warm, never a good sign. Although he had several snide comments on the tip of his tongue, he was sick of hearing himself talk. The obvious question was, where would he move? But he already knew the answer, even before viewing Appendix B, which described his new digs in detail.
Pausing to make sure he was finished, and disregarding his question, Mrs. Evans said, "To summarize, Father, the conversion of the rectory for this purpose will — I mean, would — allow Grace Parish to provide the three necessities which our Lord preached about: feeding the hungry with the food bank, housing the needy at the halfway house across the street, and now clothing the naked at the Grace Parish Thrift Shop." She rested her case.
Father Robert sat down and tossed the proposal toward one of the piles. "And for my summary, just let me say this: you make a persuasive case, very persuasive. You've almost persuaded me that leaving my lovely historic home conveniently located next to the church — the scene of many parish meetings and new member receptions, a home away from home for visiting students and pastors — is a no-brainer. Almost." He cleared his throat. "Is that all, Mrs. Evans? Because if it is, I need to spend the afternoon in meditation and prayer."
"Of course, Father." She nodded toward him, much as a nun might to a priest.
"Just one more thought, if I may." Her head remained bowed. "I realize that the church-owned condo is somewhat bland. I can't help but think that Mrs. Ferguson would be the perfect person to help with decorating. She has such a flair, don't you think, and could help you make the space your very own."
Mrs. Ferguson was Molly, the love of his life, a widow who just last week had accepted his proposal of marriage. Although the news hadn't been made public yet, their relationship was no secret. He translated Mrs. Evans's comment to mean that having his own space would offer the necessary privacy for Molly and him to engage in ... whatever they wanted to engage in.
Father Robert stayed seated as Adele left, in an inexcusable display of inhospitality. After the door closed, he took his cellphone from his pocket and texted Molly, When you get a break, listen to the message I'm leaving on your cell. The message he then left began, "I need you to come over and pull me off the ceiling," and continued with variations on the theme of "How dare she?" and "They're not getting rid of me so easily!"
Then Father Robert stood and looked through the large glass window that took up the top half of his office door. It had been installed at the direction of the church insurance company so that any impropriety on his part vis-à-vis a visitor could be seen and documented. The intention was good, but the result was that anyone in the outside office had to duck their heads to avoid witnessing such sights as prominent members of the church sobbing because of a financial or spiritual crisis.
Father Robert fast-walked through the office, telling Arlis, his afternoon secretary, "Food bank!"
Arlis, who had replaced Marion and also served as the food bank's bookkeeper, texted Terry the manager, Father's headed your way and he's not happy.
Terry didn't notice the text, because he was engaged in shooting hoops with Nick, one of the food bank volunteers. They made quite a pair — Nick big and burly, Terry short and slender. Because they were standing upstairs in the old bleacher area, their shots fell down toward the one hoop remaining from the old gym. Mel, another volunteer stationed below, lobbed the ball back up. The three switched positions every ten minutes. They'd get back to work as soon as the afternoon food distribution began.
Father Robert came up behind Terry and Nick, having entered from an access door located off the Sunday school rooms.
"Why didn't you tell me? I thought you were my friend!"
Terry jumped. Nick yelled "Holy Crap!"
The three faced off for a minute, and then Terry said, "I was afraid to."
"What are you talking about?" asked Nick.
Terry said, "See you later, bro." Nick saluted and left.
It took an hour and two beers at a tavern down the street for Robert and Terry to reconcile. Terry admitted that he lusted for decent office space and had convinced himself that Robert would be happy to move to the condo. Robert steamed and stewed for a while, but decided their friendship took precedence over his ego.
Because of the beers, Father Robert took the rest of the afternoon off, and at five called his senior warden, Lucy Lawrence.
"Why didn't I know about this plan of Adele's?" he asked, a bit too loudly.
Lucy answered, "She mentioned her proposal to me on Sunday, and I told her not to say another word until she'd talked to you. And that the vestry would only consider the idea if you proposed it yourself. Now, why didn't I warn you then?"
"I don't know, Lucy, why?"
There was a pause as Lucy deliberated over her answer. "Father, I don't think you realize how many people approach me each week with wonderful ideas for making Grace Church the premier house of God in the United States. I guess I've gotten into a wait and see habit. But I should have known better than to dismiss Adele in the same way. I'm sorry that you were blindsided and will do anything in my power to resolve this."
"Thank you, Lucy, that's all I can ask." Ordinarily he would have continued the conversation, but Father Robert was anxious to consult with Molly, who had invited him to dinner.
An hour later, seated at her oval Danish Modern dining table, he let loose. "Molly, I hate this. I hate being challenged this way. I know that when we're married I'll be living in this wonderful home with you. But until then I can't stand the thought of being exiled to a cookie cutter condo in a building full of young urban professionals on the make."
With a broad smile that lit up her amber eyes, Molly replied, "I imagine that at least a few are older retired professionals enjoying life to the fullest." He so admired Molly's serenity in the face of a crisis. And now, as always, he took in her curvy figure and the curly auburn hair that framed her heart-shaped face and wondered how an average-looking Joe like him had gotten so lucky.
"You're right, sweetheart, that's not it. It's ... it's ... let me think while I devour this chicken pot pie."
"Lovingly provided by our local Foodie Market," she said.
After further discussion, they agreed that Robert felt as though no one appreciated how his presence in the rectory had benefited the parish for all the years he'd been single. He'd made himself indispensable, to the point of running next door in the middle of the night every time the old-fashioned alarm sounded, so as to avoid a fine from the fire department. And to the point of welcoming parishioners at all hours, no matter how insignificant their issue, and answering the knock on the door from anyone looking for a handout.
Over a Foodie Market dessert of pear tart with crème fraiche, he said, "I hate the idea of moving. The problem is, it makes so much sense. On the other hand, I'm convinced that this is a power play on Adele's part."
"You know, Robert, you're probably right on both counts," Molly said.
The vestry met the next Sunday after services. This was one of the few years Mrs. Evans wasn't on the vestry, but she was sitting quietly in the corner of the meeting room in case there were questions.
There were questions, none that Father Robert hadn't asked himself. Mrs. Evans answered clearly and concisely, which pleased the vestry members who wanted to get home before the start of the Seahawks game.
Given his turn, Father Robert stopped short of a hearty endorsement but refused to offer a rebuttal, despite urging from Lucy Lawrence. The vestry voted their approval six to two.
CHAPTER 2
A moving van arrived at the rectory door on a sunny day in late June. Father Robert and most of his belongings were transported five blocks north to the fourth floor of the Vistaview Condominiums. Unit 403 was part of a recent bequest from parishioners Neola and Fred Peterson, the remainder of which was being used to repair the church's crumbling bell tower.
The Petersons had bought the condo eight years ago for their recently divorced adult daughter and her two children. But Audrey had much preferred the suburbs and was soon remarried to someone who felt the same way.
The events surrounding her mother's funeral had only strengthened Audrey's resolve to live the rest of her life outside the Seattle city limits, and she'd gladly signed away any claim to the property.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Death in the Old Rectory"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Kathie Deviny.
Excerpted by permission of Coffeetown Enterprises, Inc.
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