Boyd scowled. “Goldy. He was your priest, he’d been at your parish for three years. You must have known how he was doing.”
I held the velvet ring box tightly. “There are a number of different groups within our church. One is the Old Guard. That would include priests like our former rector, Father Pinckney, and people like Lucille Boatwright, head of the Altar Guild and Art and Architecture Committee, and Zelda Preston, who was our organist. Emphasis on the was. Olson had just fired Zelda, and knowing how much he hated conflict, that must have been painful.”
“Oh yeah? Zelda Preston?” Boyd wrote in his notebook. “What’d he ax her for?”
“They fought continually over the music. He would pick the hymns and she would change them without telling him.” I stopped, uncertain of how to elaborate.
