The Bishop’s Wife (Linda Wallheim Mystery, #1)(14)

Kurt thought for a long moment. “You know, for some reason, I thought she had died in a car accident, but I can’t remember who told me that. It was years before we moved in.”

How strange that Tobias would never speak about her, especially now that I knew he wanted to stay sealed to her and only her. “Does anyone know the real story?” I asked.

“Well, Tobias,” said Kurt. “You’ll have to ask him, I suppose.”

If I decided ancient history was important enough to bother a dying man, I would.





CHAPTER 5




I spent all Tuesday reading, but had been bored by it more than usual. It made me wonder what was wrong with me. This was the life every stay-at-home mother eventually worked her way towards. After all those twenty-four-hour days with kids scraping their knees, making messes, vomiting and needing constant baths, to have some hours of peace and quiet should have felt like a blessing. But I was itchy for more occupation. Maybe I should join the PTA, although it was a little late for that with Samuel a senior. I should be content with being bishop’s wife.

The doorbell rang that evening just after I’d served dinner. “I’ll get it,” said Kurt, staring at his plate then taking one last, large bite of his potatoes.

“I’ll put your plate in the fridge,” I said, and stood up with him.

“Poor Dad, always on call like a doctor,” said Samuel, as he watched his father walk to the front door and open it.

I heard both a male and a female voice, but I didn’t recognize either of them. I put the dinner in the fridge to wait for Kurt’s return and felt only slightly guilty continuing to eat without him.

“Linda, do you mind coming into the office?” Kurt called out a few minutes later.

I was startled and stared down at my own plate.

“I’ll put it in the fridge,” said Samuel, with a bit of a grin.

“Thank you,” I said and went into the office to discover an older man and woman I had never met before. “Are you new to the ward?” I asked. There were still a lot of new homes being built in the area, though I couldn’t think of anyone moving out.

“No,” said the man. He had a large, Roman nose and a strong jawline. He also had an amazing head of hair for a man his age, which I guessed was about sixty. It was all black, and it looked natural, unlike Tobias Torstensen’s. He had eyebrows that looked like they should have been combed—or cut back like an overgrown hedge. There was something about him that made me think I should remember him. Was he an old high school friend who had come to look me up? Or someone I’d only seen in pictures in Kurt’s yearbook?

The woman was greying gracefully, her hair long and thick. She wore little makeup, and had one of those pleasantly round figures. She dressed for comfort rather than fashion: a cotton floral patterned skirt that nearly touched the floor, and under it had on a pair of flat tan shoes. When I looked into her face, she met my gaze with piercing blue eyes and I suddenly knew who she was before the words came from her husband’s mouth. She was her daughter’s mother.

I felt an old, familiar flicker of irrational anger at that—this woman had a daughter, had been able to raise that daughter to adulthood—and tamped it down. I wondered how often that interrupted my relationships with other women.

“We are Carrie Helm’s parents, Judy and Aaron Weston,” the older man said, standing up in the now rather crowded room. Kurt’s office was filled with two bookshelves of church books, and Kurt had read most of them. There were two paintings of Christ, one from the story in the Book of Mormon, of him blessing the Lamanite children during the visit to America after his death, and the other of Christ in Gethsemane with Michael the archangel behind him, giving him strength. There was also a drawing of the First Presidency, which I always thought was an odd image. To me, it looked like the three men—the president and his two elected apostle-counselors—had one neck with three heads coming out of it.

“Down from Sandy,” added Aaron Weston.

That was about twenty minutes from Draper. I’d had no idea Carrie Helm’s parents lived so close. I had never heard her talk about them. But then again, why would I?

“Oh. I see,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure that I did. I glanced up at Kurt, who was behind his desk.

“They are here because they have not heard from their daughter since she left her family here, and they are concerned about her,” said Kurt.

“We are more than concerned about her. We are overcome with worry,” her father said. He spoke eloquently, and with deep emotion.

“Please, sit down,” said Kurt, nodding to the couch. He got out a folding chair for me, and we all sat. I felt as if the room became less crowded, which made no sense. It was something about Aaron Weston sitting down. He felt less—overwhelming in size and personality.

“I don’t know what Jared has told you about Carrie, but there is no way she would leave Kelly like that,” said Aaron Weston. He gripped his wife’s shoulder, his knuckles white, and she nodded, a look of desperation on her face. I noticed, though, that her hands were folded neatly in front of her.

“I’m sure that she will get in contact with you soon. Maybe she’ll decide she’s made a mistake and want to come—” Kurt began.

Aaron Weston cut him off abruptly with, “The only mistake my daughter made was in marrying Jared Helm. He is a tyrant and a bully and quite possibly insane. Have you heard him talk about his political views? Or his religious beliefs? He is rigid and self-righteous and he actually thinks that the lost tribes of Israel are frozen under the ice at the North Pole.”