A Truth for a Truth by Emilie Richards Page A

any point in having a conversation with the police unless the autopsy shows something we hope it won’t. Until then, this was just an unfortunate heart condition.”
    “Win had so much to offer as a minister.” Now Hildy was speaking to me, not to Jack. “I knew that. Everybody knew that. But he was flawed. I just felt he had so many good things to offer anyway, I could cover up for him a little. It was my job, and I did it, even when I hated to.”
    I reached over and took her hand. “I know you were doing what you thought was right.” Whether I thought it was right or not didn’t really matter now.
    “Everybody’s going to know,” Hildy said glumly. “I wanted to preserve the illusion Win was almost perfect. I didn’t want this to come out.”
    “I’m sorry.” I rubbed her hand in mine. It was as cold as Marie Grandower’s heart.
    Finally I dropped it and stood. “I’m going to leave now. I think you and Jack should have a heart-to-heart about strategy. You don’t need me for that.”
    Hildy gave a short nod. “I wanted you to hear this from me rather than from somebody in the congregation. You’ll tell your husband?”
    Minister’s wife to minister’s wife. You and me against the world. And now I knew I was supposed to cushion the news when I told Ed, to make Win sound better than he had been. But I nodded anyway. “You know we’ll both stand by you, Hildy. We’ll do whatever you need.”
    I was halfway to my car when I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

    I stopped by the church on the way home from Jack’s office, both to see if Ed was asleep at his desk and to get papers to bring home. When we first arrived, I volunteered to be the church historian, because communing with members from the past is less risky than communing with those in the present. No long-gone parishioner withholds a pledge to the church because I inadvertently step on somebody’s toes in a committee meeting. No pledges, no toes, plus I’m a self-congratulatory committee of one. You can’t beat it.
    A few years ago I had put together a scrapbook of church history, then I’d figured that since I’d worked hard to clean up our deteriorating archives, putting more bits and pieces into an anniversary book would be simple. The First Commandment for Clergy Families? Nothing ever is.
    Since the moment I volunteered, I’ve been advised, chastised, and neutralized. My original plan, a simple paperback volume filled with photographs, has now been upgraded into a hardcover tome with fine print to be locally published late this summer. Why did I continue? Because if there were proceeds from the sale, all profits would go toward a new storage room, and that was the major reason I’d agreed to the project.
    Good cause or not, after all the fuss, last month I put my foot down and made the church board my final offer. We would use previously written histories for the first one hundred years of Tri-C, then for the past fifty I would organize years by ministries, publishing one sermon per minister, a recap of important events during his or her tenure, and interviews and photographs if possible. We struck a deal.
    Now, with my deadline approaching, I still have several ministries to complete. These days, with no houses to flip, I sift through old photographs and page through board minutes from the 1950s and 1960s. This week I hoped to complete all the documentation from the speed-dial ministry of one Frederick Yarberry, a perfectly nice man who only served two years. So far the minutes show no hint of discord. I’m assuming two particularly difficult winters led to his move. The Yarberry sermon I’ll include is entitled “Palm Trees at Christmas Time.” Maybe it is about the climate and terrain of Bethlehem at the birth of Jesus, but I think the title speaks for itself. Particularly since his next church was in South Florida.
    I parked in front of the parish house and sprinted inside to get more records. Our secretary, Norma