ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  Marson asked Joyce about fire extinguishers, she pointed to one, and they both ran off to fetch it.

  All the more shocking, however, was the sight and sound of David Lovell, up near the sanctuary, collapsed at the bench of the hundred-year-old Möller organ, splayed facedown on the keys of its three manuals. Rank upon rank of towering pipes joined voices to blare a hideous, nasal shriek.

  “David!” I shouted, running to the console, fearing he would not respond.

  My pace slowed as I neared. I could see that he had vomited, adding another layer of stench to the noxious scene. The top of the console was cluttered with stacks of sheet music, a bag of chips, plate of cookies, bottle of water, David’s phone and keys, a notebook, pencils. I reached beneath David’s chin, trying to find a pulse, but I could not. So I tried to lift him upright on the bench, but his limp body would not cooperate. Sliding on the polished wood, his full weight dropped to the pedalboard.

  Abruptly, David’s freakish farewell recital modulated from the upper registers to the lowest of lows. The full complement of huge bass pipes disgorged a continuous groan and rumble. David’s bluish face seemed to stare up at me, though his eyes had swollen shut; his puffy lips were ringed with hives. As I attempted to tug him from the pedalboard, one of his knees lodged into the crescendo pedal.

  The whole building rattled. My stomach shook as I tried to turn off the bellows pump, but virtually no two pipe organs are identical, so I couldn’t find the switch among the dizzying rows of stop knobs. Although St. Alban’s organ was indeed an antique keyboard instrument, its console more closely resembled the cockpit of a B-52, leaving me clueless.

  And then, it blew.

  With a final, thunderous gasp, the beast fell silent, spewing from its majestic row of façade pipes a shower of dust and grit, the accumulated grime of a century of hallelujahs.

  Joyce screamed. With a clang, Marson tossed aside the spent fire extinguisher and rushed to my side. The pile of coals and incense hissed, smothered by a pool of foam. Outside, the rain had started, pelting hard against the barnlike roof of the old church. The organ’s blower still ran, flapping the leather scraps of the bellows.

  Hunched in one of the pews, Joyce phoned nine-one-one.

  Slumping on the edge of the organ bench, I phoned the sheriff’s office and asked to speak to Thomas Simms.

  While I waited, the first few drips began to leak from the rotten rafters.

  “Thomas,” I said, “this is weird as hell. I think you’d better get over here.”

  PART TWO

  Mother Hibbard’s Secret Sauce

  Mary Questman hadn’t heard about it. She’d spent a quiet evening at home on Wednesday, reading, as the rain continued into the night. So she was unprepared for the news on Thursday morning.

  She awoke as usual, sometime before seven, with Mister Puss sharing her pillow, nesting against her hair. The curtains at one of the bedroom windows were not fully closed, admitting a shaft of sunlight that angled across the foot of her bed. How nice, she thought. The storm had passed.

  Getting out of bed, taking care not to disturb Mister Puss—but he stirred—she shrugged into her housecoat and stepped into her slippers, then headed downstairs. By the time she reached the bottom tread, the cat was at her feet. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” Proceeding into the kitchen, she asked, “Are we hungry?”

  Of course he was. Mary started the coffeemaker, fed Mister Puss, and popped out to the back porch to fetch the paper. Waiting for the coffee, she sat at the table, opened the Dumont Daily Register, and gasped as she lifted the front page.

  Tragedy at St. Alban’s

  Choir director dies in bizarre incident

  involving fire damage to church

  Compiled from Register staff reports

  •

  MAY 19, DUMONT, WI — The parish family of Dumont’s historic St. Alban’s Episcopal Church is in mourning today, following yesterday’s death of choir director David Lovell, 28, whose lifeless body was found at the console of the church organ while a fire began to spread from a toppled incense burner in the center aisle of the nave.

  The scene was discovered by the Rev. Joyce Hibbard, newly installed rector of St. Alban’s, in the company of Marson Miles and Brody Norris, local architects who are advising the parish regarding restoration issues that have plagued the old church. Dumont’s code-compliance department has threatened to condemn the building if a suitable remediation plan is not arrived at by May 31.

  City fire, medical, and police crews responded to the scene yesterday at approximately 2:45 P.M. Also summoned were the Dumont County sheriff, Thomas Simms, and medical examiner, Dr. Heather Vance.

  When asked by a reporter to characterize the incident, Sheriff Simms responded, “It’s suspicious, to say the least. We’re working on the assumption that the fire must have been related to the death of Mr. Lovell, but at this point, we have no idea why or how. And the cause of the victim’s death is still a mystery, but we have a theory. We’re just getting started.”

  Due to the fire and impending investigation, the church is now closed indefinitely. Regular services will be held in the parish hall, adjacent to the vacant school building, until further notice.

  What’s wrong?

  Mary lowered the paper to find Mister Puss sitting on the table. She said, “I’m stunned. Remember the young choir director, David, from the dinner party?”

  He smelled like a fruitcake.

  Mary frowned. “Perhaps. But now, he’s dead. And they’re not sure why. It was terrible.”

  Sorry.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Mister Puss padded over to Mary and gently butted his head against her shoulder, purring, as if to offer apologies and condolences.

  In these quiet moments, Mary still marveled that such a creature had simply walked into her life a year ago, unannounced and unexpected, creating a bond that defied all rational explanation. The vet had tried to explain it. Dr. Phelps had assured her that Mister Puss could not possibly speak to her, that she was lapsing into an occasional mental loop with the cat, similar to déjà vu. She was using him to clarify her own thinking, said the vet. The voice she was hearing was her own, said the vet. The cat was incapable of telling her things she did not already know, said the vet.

  But hearing is believing, concluded Mary.

  After breakfast, Mary and Mister Puss went back upstairs to the bedroom. Mary made the bed—though a woman of privilege, she always made her own bed promptly after breakfast—then bathed and dressed for the day.

  While she checked the mirror, primping her hair, Mister Puss lay sprawled in the middle of the taut chenille bedspread, luxuriating in a blast of May sunshine. His ruddy coat gleamed.

  On the settee opposite the bed, two suitcases were packed but not yet closed. Two other bags sat on the floor, also packed but not closed. The trip with her book club would begin tomorrow. And to Mary’s surprise, Mister Puss was only too willing to spend the week in Brody’s care—they had discussed it. Often.

  But now, considering what had happened at St. Alban’s, considering that Sheriff Simms had deemed David Lovell’s death “suspicious,” Mary had to wonder if Brody might possibly be drawn into the investigation. It had happened before. And if that were to happen, would he regret having agreed to look after Mister Puss? The cat, after all, could be quite the handful. Should she cancel the trip?

  Out in the hall, the stairs creaked. “Morning, Mary.”

  “Come on in, Berta,” Mary called to her housekeeper, who’d arrived for her duties.

  “Lordy,” said Berta, entering the bedroom, “ain’t it awful, what happened at St. Alban’s?”

  Mary gave her head a woeful shake. “I barely knew David—met him Tuesday night—but he seemed like such a nice young man.”

  “Flighty, but friendly enough. Before he left, he came into the kitchen to thank me and Nancy. Loved the meal.”

  Mary shuddered. “Finding him dead like that. In church.
At the organ.”

  Under her breath, Berta said, “Sheriff Simms called it ‘suspicious.’”

  “Yes, I noticed.” Mary tossed her hands. “To think that something so … sinister could happen here in Dumont. It’s dreadful.”

  Berta gave her a soft smile. “Well, don’t let your imagination get carried away. Fretting does no good. Who knows? Coulda had a stroke or something. When your time’s up, your time’s up.”

  Mary wasn’t buying it.

  “Oh,” said Berta, “mail’s here already.” Fishing something from her apron, she added coyly, “I know how you’ve been looking forward to this.” She handed Mary a note-size blue envelope, then retreated into the bathroom to tidy, scrub, and spritz.

  Mary rolled her eyes. The envelope was from St. Alban’s rectory, postmarked yesterday. Opening it, she sat at her dressing table to read the handwritten letter.

  Dearest Mary,

  What an absolute delight it was to meet you last night at Marson and Brody’s home. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to spend the evening with us.

  Now that “the ice is broken,” so to speak, I hope we may get to know each other far better. I was greatly heartened by your openness to the possibility of playing some role in resolving the issues now facing our parish, which has been your family’s spiritual home for so many, many years.

  If you’ll forgive me for a wee touch of vanity (not one of the seven deadly sins, thank God!), I was bursting with pride (oops, there’s one!) when you noticed and complimented the perfume I was wearing last night. As you know, my signature fragrance is out of production and in short supply, but I am sending you a bottle of it—under separate cover, which should arrive soon.

  I hope you will enjoy it, dear Mary.

  Yours in Christ,

  The Rev. Joyce Hibbard, Rector

  St. Alban’s Episcopal Church

  Just what I need, thought Mary. Mother Hibbard’s “secret sauce,” her husband had called it. Though Mary had complimented the scent, she had found it so-so. Not bad. But it could never replace her beloved L’Air du Temps.

  Mary returned the letter to the blue envelope and set it on her dressing table, propped against the Lalique perfume flacon with its frosty, kissing doves. The letter, thought Mary, had surely been written yesterday morning, before tragedy struck. With its effusive style, the chatty note could not have been composed by a woman whose thoughts were muddied by sudden death.

  In the mirror, Mary saw the bed behind her, where Mister Puss snoozed, oblivious to the intrigue that had clouded such a lovely sunny morning in May.

  Chapter 5

  I slept later than usual on Thursday morning; so did Marson. Our harrowing experience the prior afternoon at St. Alban’s had left us rattled and jittery all evening, then unable to sleep after climbing the spiral stairs to the bed on the mezzanine of our loft. Well after midnight, we at last drifted off, but Marson’s rest was surely no less fitful than mine.

  Sometime after eight, the intense sunshine pouring in through the skylights could no longer be ignored, so we got up, put ourselves together, left a message at the office that we were running late, and then settled in the kitchen with coffee and the morning paper. As expected, the story of David’s death was headline news in the Dumont Daily Register, including a reference to “Marson Miles and Brody Norris, local architects.”

  “Whataya know,” I told my husband. “We made the front page.”

  “We also made the features section,” he said, passing it to me. “Glee’s column, page three. It’s datelined today, but it must’ve been written yesterday, early.”

  I turned to it:

  Inside Dumont

  Timely tidbits: Roundup of newsy notes

  from one drop-dead dinner party

  By Glee Savage

  •

  MAY 19, DUMONT, WI — Your intrepid social reporter had the great honor and delight to attend a marvelous dinner party on Tuesday evening, hosted at home by architects Marson Miles and Brody Norris in their First Avenue loft. When this dashing duo decides to entertain, the results never disappoint. Tuesday’s soirée delivered not only star-studded company, sparkling conversation, and superb cuisine, but also several pages of newsworthy notes.

  Ready for some gossip? Space is limited, so here we go.

  1. This reporter was awed to find herself seated next to none other than Yevgeny Krymov, the world-renowned ballet dancer who made his way from Moscow to New York by means of a risky gambit in Stuttgart at the height of the Cold War. Recently retired from the stage, he is now visiting Dumont for reasons not yet known to this scribe. But watch this space. Mr. Krymov has hinted he may sit down for an interview, which I hope to share with you soon.

  2. On the architectural front, Messrs. Miles and Norris, who are married, report that progress on their new home, being built on the outskirts of town, has been stalled by unforeseen delays. Having studied the plans and visited the construction site, this writer can assure you that the new residence, while of modest scale, will have lasting and recognized design significance. Look for an extensive photo feature upon completion of the project.

  3. Further, the new Dumont County Museum, designed by Marson Miles and already well documented in this column, is nearing completion on schedule, adjacent to Questman Center for the Performing Arts. Looking ahead, the county library system has begun discussions with Brody Norris for the design of a new main library, to be located on the same cultural campus.

  4. On the social scene, you’ll need to act fast if…

  I set aside the paper, saying, “I didn’t see her taking notes. Did you?”

  “No,” said Marson, “but there’s no stopping Glee when she sniffs a story. At least she didn’t write about Joyce Hibbard putting the hammer on Mary.” Sitting with me at the kitchen island, he was fiddling with our iPad. “How do you watch TV on this?”

  “Here.” I took the gadget from him and logged in to our cable account. “News?”

  “Please,” he said. “I wonder if they’re covering the St. Alban’s story in Green Bay. I mean, it’s weird.”

  I found the channel and propped up the tablet against the carafe of coffee. The newscast was on, but they weren’t talking about suspicious death. Rather, Chad Percy was doing his segment, talking up his new fragrance. Dollcakes was saying, “…and we call it ‘Chad!’ That’s right, with an exclamation point…”

  I switched it off just as the phone rang.

  Marson answered our land line. “Well, good morning, Mary. Yes, it was ghastly. But we’re all right, a little shaken, no harm done. Wish we could say the same for David Lovell, poor guy.” He paused while Mary spoke at length about something. Then he said, “He’s sitting right here, Mary. Let me pass the phone.”

  I took it. “Mary? Good morning. What can I do for you?”

  “Brody love,” she said, sounding winded, “after reading what happened yesterday—and you were there—and Sheriff Simms was there—and that poor David Lovell is dead—and Thomas called it ‘suspicious’—and Mister Puss is planning to stay with you—and I’m wondering if it might not be too much.”

  “Wh … what?” I said, trying to sort it out. Marson was grinning at me.

  “I mean, I’m wondering if I should cancel my trip—so you won’t have to look after Mister Puss—so you can concentrate on the investigation.”

  I laughed. “Mary, don’t be silly. It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but do not cancel your trip. You’re going to have a ball. Mister Puss will be a great house guest. And I will not be getting involved with the investigation. Why would I?”

  She reminded me flatly, “It’s happened before.”

  Marson’s grin grew wider.

  I told Mary, “Now, I want you to bring Mister Puss over this evening, exactly as planned, okay? Marson and I are looking forward to the patter of little feet.”

  Marson held a hand to his mouth, got up from the island, and stepped away.

  “You’
re sure it won’t be an imposition?” asked Mary.

  I heard the beep of a call-waiting alert and checked the readout. I told Mary, “Don’t give it another thought. See you tonight, love.”

  When Mary said good-bye and rang off, I answered the other call.

  “Hello, Thomas.”

  Marson stifled his laugh, but I could barely hear the sheriff.

  Sheriff Thomas Simms invited me to his office, on the pretext that he needed more information regarding my discovery of David Lovell’s body yesterday—but I found it curious that he made no mention of including either Joyce Hibbard or Marson, who had entered St. Alban’s with me, witnessing everything I had witnessed. I also found it curious that he intended to invite the medical examiner, Heather Vance, to join us. He suggested eleven o’clock.

  Leaving the loft, I drove to our Miles & Norris offices and then caught up at my desk for a couple of hours. Shortly before eleven, I walked to the sheriff’s headquarters, which was only a few blocks away, adjacent to the county courthouse.

  When I arrived outside Simms’s office, a deputy said, “He’s expecting you.” She opened the door, then closed it behind me. Both Simms and Dr. Vance stood to greet me as I entered.

  “Brody,” said Simms in his mellow baritone through a broad smile as he reached to shake my hand, “thanks for coming in on such short notice.” He looked dapper as ever. His attire never varied much—always a dark, beautifully tailored business suit with a crisp white shirt and jazzy silk tie. But the neckties themselves varied greatly. Today’s featured bold stripes of white, silver, and chrome yellow.

  Heather gave me a hug. “We keep meeting under terrible circumstances, but it’s always a pleasure.” It was an accurate observation. The medical examiner and I were on a hugging, first-name basis because this was not the first time we had met in the context of untimely death.