Blessed Is the Busybody by Emilie Richards Read Free Book Online Page B

his book and found his page. In a moment he was immersed again.
    I got up and checked all the locks on our doors, and for good measure all the downstairs windows, too.

4
    Sunday is the most chaotic day of the week for a minister’s family, and sometimes I’m tempted to strike it from our calendar. Then at some point between the opening prelude of our morning service and Ed’s final words, my blood pressure drops, my blessings parade in Technicolor, and I’m ready to face another week.
    Not today. Today, after yesterday’s events and a gush of last-minute crises, I needed that still, small moment of the soul more than usual. Instead, as the bombastic whoosh and toot of Tri-C’s ancient tracker organ filled the sanctuary, I found myself surveying our parishioners, one by one, for signs of guilt. Who looked tired this morning, as if he—or she—hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep? Who looked repentant, smug? Who, besides me, was unobtrusively searching the room?
    Through the years of Ed’s ministry I’ve become the mistress of snap judgments. I know what trouble looks like, and I know the members with whom I can really be myself. I’m afraid my accuracy is somewhere in the ninetieth percentile. Today as I assessed the familiar faces, those dear to me and those like Gelsey Falowell whose fondest wish was to empty the parsonage, I could not, in good conscience, believe any of them to be a murderer.
    Gelsey, Sally, and Yvonne sat together in the row just in front of me. Sally and Yvonne to soak up whatever comfort they could from Ed’s sermon, Gelsey to find more ammunition in her battle to rid the church of Ed’s presence.
    No matter what I thought of Gelsey, I couldn’t believe any of these women would ever resort to violence. Every year Sally makes certain our church recognizes and shows its support for the United Nations. Yvonne is a pacifist and vegetarian who routinely splits her time between protests at Wright-Patterson Air Force base in Dayton and the fur department of the Beachwood Neiman Marcus.
    And Gelsey, for all her behind-the-scenes maneuvering, is a pillar of Emerald Springs society who would die before jeopardizing her community standing. After all, it’s Gelsey’s sworn duty to show the rest of us how we should live.
    I invented similar personality alibis for the other eighty or so parishioners listening raptly to my husband. Jack, who practiced the law and had too much invested in his future to break it. May and Simon Frankel, psychologists who teach conflict resolution through peer mediation at Emerald High.
    The principal of our middle school, three of our best elementary school teachers, a juvenile court judge, our mailman, Emerald College staff and professors, the county agricultural agent, the president of the local food bank, two restaurant owners, two members of the city council. The list went on, each member, to my knowledge, a normal, responsible citizen who believes in discussion and the democratic way.
    Not murder.
    The music built and ended with a final crash. Esther, our organist, has played the old tracker organ for so many years she knows how to attack each key, stop, and pedal to get maximum volume. One Sunday a decade ago she tired of people chatting during her preludes. No one tries it now.
    This morning Ed wore a black robe with a stole highlighting each of the major world religions. He looks particularly imposing in the pulpit. Ed is tall and broad-shouldered, and he strikes a fine balance between father figure and honored son. Thankfully he has no pretensions to be either, which adds a welcome note of modesty.
    Usually there’s a buzz after the prelude, as if every thought suppressed during Esther’s fusillade must be expressed before settling down for the rest of the service. Today there was only an expectant hush. The woman sitting beside me dropped her key chain, and poor Sally slapped her hand over her heart in response.
    Ed recited his opening words, and the board