A Truth for a Truth by Emilie Richards Page B

Beet, greeted me from her desk in the reception area. Norma has undergone a change recently. She’s joined an aerobics class and lost weight. I’m hoping that soon, she’ll trade in the cat’s-eye glasses and the dark hair dye for something less startling. Norma is blossoming.
    Blossom or not, I had hoped to avoid her. Not because I don’t like her—I do—but because Norma notices and remembers every little thing. Unfortunately, she’s never afraid to share.
    I greeted her and didn’t pause for a response, knowing what a pause can bring. “Is Ed in his office?”
    “He’s making a parish call, or several. Yes, several, I think. People are upset about yesterday. They’ve been calling all morning.”
    This didn’t surprise me, and if Ed felt chipper enough to zip around town, then I had nothing to worry about. I listened as Norma ticked off names of callers and the exact length of their calls.
    She switched gears. “The lilies in the sanctuary look so terrible, we can’t use them for the Easter service—”
    I cut her off before I could hear details of every wilting petal. “I was afraid of that. I stopped by the sanctuary last night. They were looking pretty droopy then.” Particularly after I’d finished with them. I did feel badly about the subterfuge, but I would have felt worse if Ed stopped breathing during his Easter sermon.
    “I took the liberty of calling in an order for potted hydrangeas,” I added. “Our family will donate them.”
    “I’ll tell the flower committee.”
    “Let’s not. Let’s make it a surprise.” I didn’t want supplements.
    “It must have been a terrible day, with the police taking the body and all.”
    Norma had been absent from the service. She hadn’t lived in town when Win Dorchester was our minister, and on Wednesday afternoons she tutors at Teddy’s school, an event she hates to miss. I imagined she had already heard every detail from everybody who called, so I didn’t expand.
    “It was terrible,” I agreed. “Although there was only one detective, and he was probably just there to escort the body to the coroner’s office.” Or more likely because he was interested in seeing what happened when the announcement was made.
    Norma looked worried. “Now it’s going to be even harder for you to get one of Reverend Dorchester’s sermons for the anniversary book, isn’t it? I mean, he’s gone, and I’m sure his wife is too upset to be helpful.”
    For a moment I drew a blank. Then I remembered that two weeks ago, I had mentioned I still needed one of Win’s sermons for the chapter devoted to his ministry. But this was Norma, and nothing remains buried in Norma’s gray matter.
    I nodded vigorously. “That’s right. In the hoopla after Win’s death, I forgot all about the sermon.”
    “You do have the one he preached two Sundays ago.”
    “But I want something he preached during the years of his ministry here.” I’d found sermons in our archives from every other minister since the turn of the twentieth century, but nothing from Win. The lack seemed odd.
    “Maybe one of the older members still has a copy,” Norma said, her brain audibly whirling. “We could ask in the newsletter.”
    “Good idea. Will you put that in? He told me he had a print version of every sermon he’d ever preached, but they were all packed in storage back at their last home. He even checked his computer, but he didn’t have anything that old with him . . .”
    “You’ve looked through the archives?”
    The archives were on the third floor, in what was nothing more than a commandeered attic, hot in the summer and cold in the winter. I’d insisted on archival quality envelopes and cases plus a dehumidifier, which January emptied every day, but even that was a stretch for our antiquated wiring. With profits from the sale of our history, we hoped to renovate and divide a small room in the second-floor religious education wing. Half for teaching supplies, half for church