ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  “Umm,” said Geoff, whirling a hand, “Stan something—Stanley Burton? He has a law firm in Appleton.”

  Both Simms and I made note of the name.

  “So anyway,” said Geoff, “that’s why Dave always thought I was hassling him, that’s why Spark and I are visiting Dumont, and that’s why I met Dave at the church yesterday—to talk money.”

  Simms looked no less stunned than I felt.

  I said to Geoff, “You met with David? Yesterday? At St. Alban’s?”

  Simms added calmly, “Tell us about that meeting.”

  “Dave knew why I was coming to Dumont, and when I texted him yesterday to let him know I was here, he didn’t want to see me, as usual. He knew I’d be asking for a bigger monthly allowance—I think they call it a stipend—or at least an advance. But I told him I wouldn’t leave town till we had a chance to talk, so he told me to come to the church anytime after lunch, when he’d be practicing at the organ. He said the church was unlocked during the day, so I could just walk in. And that’s what I did. It was maybe one-fifteen.”

  Simms asked, “Did you go alone? Or was Spark with you?”

  She answered, “I felt like crap. I was in bed at the motel.”

  Geoff continued, “So I was alone with Dave. We had our discussion—it went the way it always did—he said his hands were tied, there was nothing he could do. According to him, the terms of the stipend are spelled out in the will. As trustee, he could only approve the monthly payments or not; he was not able to change the amount or the schedule. To be honest, I believed him, but I figured it never hurt to do a little begging—I mean, he was loaded.”

  “So,” asked Simms, “how did you wrap it up?”

  “We didn’t, not exactly. You see, we were interrupted. This older gal walked in, all in a tizzy about her lesson or something, or errands she needed to run—”

  I interrupted, asking, “Was it Lillie Miller, the parish secretary?”

  “Yeah,” said Geoff, “that’s it—her name was Lillie. I think she said she needed to take something to the post office, so she left Dave a plate of cookies and said she’d be back as soon as possible. When she was gone, Dave told me about this setup they have, where Lillie plays some of the organ pieces, but she’s not very good, and he tries to coach or whatever. I wasn’t really listening. I was worried about money and I needed his help and I guess I started to cry. So he took out his wallet and gave me what he had on him—about a hundred bucks, which doesn’t go far—and he said he’d send me a personal check the next day, and asked where to send it, and I said I’d pick it up. Then I left. And now he’s dead.”

  The girlfriend said, “Geoff, I’m gonna be sick. Can we get outta here?”

  Simms said, “Soon, Miss Kavanaugh. Geoff, everyone was fond of your brother. At St. Alban’s, everyone loved David like part of the family. My little boy is in the choir and thought the world of him, so we’re all sharing a measure of your loss. We’re trying to figure out exactly what happened to him, and one possibility we need to consider is that his death might not have been an accident. So I’m wondering: Do you know if David had any enemies?”

  Geoff seemed dazed by the implication of the question. “Enemies? Dave? The golden boy? You said it yourself, Sheriff: everyone loved Dave.” Geoff added, “Sometimes, to a fault.”

  A scene flashed through my mind: at Tuesday’s dinner, Curtis Hibbard and Yevgeny Krymov had tussled for David’s affections like predators fighting over meat. Then Curtis offered David a New York fling featuring Renée Fleming, pissing off both Joyce Hibbard and Yevgeny.

  Simms asked Geoff, “People sometimes loved David to a fault? How so?”

  “Well”—Geoff squirmed—“the old gal at the church, Lillie. Like I said, she seemed ditzed out. When she left, Dave told me about their lessons, but he also said he was worried about her. He thought she was coming on to him, which freaked him. I mean, she’s old enough to be his mother, plus, he’s gay. Everyone knew that.”

  “Geoff,” whined Spark, “I need to leave. Let’s go.”

  Geoff asked Simms, “Okay if we split?”

  “Uh, sure. You’ll be in town awhile, right? I’ve got your number; here’s my card. I’ll keep you informed, and you do the same.”

  Geoff pocketed the card. “Sure, Sheriff. Fine.”

  Everyone got up and headed toward the door. The girl clutched her stomach. The dog limped.

  “Geoff,” I said, checking my wallet and slipping him a hundred, “I hope that’ll help. Try to take care of them.”

  Looking astonished, he shook my hand. “Thanks, guy.”

  When Simms had seen them out through his office, he returned to the conference room, dismissed the stenographer, and closed the door.

  I was standing near the widow, peering through the slats of the blinds, staring at the brick wall of the jail as I pondered what we’d heard from David Lovell’s brother.

  Simms sat on the edge of the conference table, glancing over his notes. As if thinking aloud, he said, “So Geoff was there. And Lillie Miller was there.”

  I turned to him. “And Lillie may have felt the sting of a woman scorned.”

  Simms stood. “What the hell was that about? That’s nuts.”

  I reminded him, “There’s an uncharitable term for straight women who get obsessed with gay men.”

  Mulling this, Simms suggested, “I bet Lillie would like you. I bet she’d trust you—and maybe even open up to you.”

  “If you want, I can pay her a visit. But the underlying issue is delicate, to say the least. The conversation might be easier if I take along a sympathetic woman.”

  Simms nodded. “Maybe Heather Vance?”

  “Just what I was thinking. And she’d provide a good pretext for the visit—questions about the macaroons.”

  Simms returned to his chair at the head of the table, sat, and phoned the medical examiner.

  Waiting for him to button down our plan, I studied the bare wall behind him and the ghosted shadow of the missing painting. The man with the horse and the odd creature that looked like a monkey—where had they gone?

  At home that Thursday night, Marson and I concocted an easy meal from the trove of elegant leftovers remaining from Tuesday’s dinner party. Seated at the kitchen island with a good bottle of pinot noir, we noshed on warm beef, lamb, and shrimp that Marson had arranged in a free-form salad of chilled greens and tabbouleh, sauced with his masterful vinaigrette. I set aside a generous slab of beef tenderloin for our four-footed house guest, who would arrive that evening.

  While we ate, I updated Marson on the day’s developments with Sheriff Simms. While cleaning up afterward, Marson engaged in a fresh round of playful razzing, addressing me as Sherlock.

  When it started wearing thin, I asked with a smile, “Enough of that, okay?”

  He took me in his arms. “Sure, kiddo. Sorry.”

  “That’s better.” We kissed. “Way better.”

  We had no sooner cleaned the countertops and switched on the dishwasher when—grrring—His Majesty’s retinue arrived at the loft’s street door.

  Marson broke stride to fluff a few throw pillows on his way to open the door. I hung back, watching from the kitchen as he admitted Mister Puss in Mary Questman’s arms, followed by Berta, overburdened with the cat’s whatnot. Marson bowed deeply until they had filed past, then closed the door behind them as I crossed the room to welcome our guests.

  Mary set Mister Puss on the floor. He wore his garish paw-print harness, dragging behind him the nylon leash and its clunky retractor. When I hunkered down to greet him, he jumped into my arms. Sounding befuddled, Mary said, “In spite of his obvious intelligence, Mister Puss still hasn’t picked up the concept of walking on a leash.” With a twitter of laughter, she added, “It’s easier to carry him.”

  The cat purred as I freed him from his reviled getup and returned him to the floor. He gratefully circled my feet, leaning into my shins, and then light-footed his way across the living room, c
hecking out his accommodations. With an effortless, fluid hop, he settled atop the back of a loveseat, where he could keep an eye on all of us.

  Berta schlepped the litter box, litter, cat carrier, bowls, food, brushes, and toy collection to the back hall of the kitchen. Mary hunched over a list with us, reviewing dos and don’ts, feeding schedule, and emergency numbers. Marson recited assurance after assurance that the cat was no trouble and would be in good hands. I exhorted Mary to have a fabulous trip, to indulge in the many literary splendors of the week-long festival, and to bask in Chicago’s magnificent architecture. And finally, amid a flurry of kisses and hugs with us—and sweet good-byes with the cat—Mary disappeared into the night, followed by Berta, who pulled the door closed behind them.

  The loft seemed suddenly, eerily quiet.

  “Well, now,” said Marson to Mister Puss, “it’s ‘just us.’ Alone at last.”

  The cat hopped down from the loveseat and followed Marson into the kitchen, who rummaged in the refrigerator, asking me over his shoulder, “Do we have something to serve our little guest as an amuse-bouche?”

  “Foil packet. Bottom shelf.” I joined them.

  “Aha,” said Marson, opening the foil, shutting the fridge.

  Mister Puss caught the scent and broke into a loud, pleading purr. He paced between us, nearly dancing, then focused on Marson, circling my husband’s legs as he cut up the meat. The kitty dishes left behind by Berta would never do, not for Marson, so he chose a couple of small Art Deco bowls—Puiforcat—to serve as our guest’s temporary dinnerware. He filled one of the bowls with a fistful of the diced tenderloin, rinsed his hands, and then set the bowl on the floor. Mister Puss was on it at once, partaking of his bounty with evident rapture.

  “A nice Côtes du Rhône would be perfect with that,” said Marson.

  He was joking—at least I hoped he was, since he had not yet fully grasped that Mister Puss had acquired some distinctly human habits.

  When the welcoming meal was finished and the kitchen was again spiffed (Marson could not otherwise relax), we settled into our evening at home. Marson got comfortable with a book in the main room. Mister Puss did a bit of exploring, then curled on the cushion of the loveseat where Marson sat reading.

  With our guest contentedly acclimated and accounted for, I decided to clock a bit of office time, so I sat at the computer desk we had hidden behind folding doors along a side wall of the dining area. My workday had been impinged upon by the meetings with Thomas Simms, and I needed to revise my notes for the library proposal, which would soon be due for consideration by the county board.

  After a couple of hours, Marson set down his book, got up, and stretched. “I think I’ve had it. I’m heading upstairs.”

  “Will I bother you if I work a while longer?”

  “Not at all.” Stepping over to where I sat, he leaned to give me a kiss. “Night, kiddo.” He crossed the room and started up the spiral stairs, then looked back from the third or fourth step. “And good night to you, Mister Puss.”

  When Marson disappeared on the mezzanine, I returned my attention to the computer and finished typing a thought that had been interrupted. Moments later, I felt Mister Puss nuzzle my ankles. Pushing my chair back, I patted my knee, and the cat jumped into my lap.

  His back arched beneath my touch as I stroked his spine, asking, “Are you finding everything you need?”

  He purred. He stretched his snout to my chin. Then his face slid up my cheek toward my ear. The purr thundered. The voice was small but distinct.

  You need a break.

  “You may be right,” I answered. I couldn’t help wondering whether I had actually heard the cat’s words or had only imagined them to suit my frame of mind.

  You could use a drink.

  I asked Mister Puss, “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” So I closed the file I was working on, did a quick check for email, and turned off the computer.

  I carried Mister Puss to the kitchen and set him on the counter (Marson would never know). The cat watched my every move as I poured a paltry slug of superb cognac into a large snifter. I swirled it close to his face; his golden eyes followed the wave of amber as it sloshed around the inner rim of crystal. When I tilted the mouth of the glass to his nose, it wrinkled.

  Not a good year.

  Aha, I thought. His wisecrack proved not only that he knew nothing about cognac (always an undated, graded blend), but also that he was not echoing my own thoughts (and therefore speaking for himself). Or was I needlessly splitting hairs?

  I shut off a few lights. Carrying the cat in one hand and the cognac in the other, I moved to the living room and set both on the low table. I slipped off my shoes and curled into the corner of the adjacent sofa, drawing one foot up to the cushion, beneath my other knee.

  When I reached for the snifter, Mister Puss hopped from the table to my lap. He purred as I sipped the liquor and let it linger in my mouth. Time seemed to drift and stall. Then he climbed to my shoulder and settled atop the sofa’s upholstered back with his paws touching my neck. I felt the soft fur of his chin reach my ear as the purring intensified. Another sip of cognac. I set down the glass. Eyelids heavy.

  Beneath the rumble of the purr, other sounds arose, as if from a distant past. A forgotten time of ancient dynasties. Gods and goddesses. Sacred temple perfume. As if slipping into a trance…

  I drifted off…

  Chapter 6

  Friday morning, I arrived at the office earlier than usual, needing to get some work done because the day would again be interrupted by duties that were more investigative than architectural. Sheriff Simms had arranged for Dr. Heather Vance, the county medical examiner, to accompany me on a visit to Lillie Miller, the St. Alban’s parish secretary, which was a part-time position. Since we preferred not to interview Lillie while she was on the job, logistics made it sensible for Heather to pick me up at work and drive together to Lillie’s home. Heather said she would come for me promptly at ten, and I said I’d be waiting outside our First Avenue offices.

  The day was warm, so I carried my sport coat and stood under the awning that spanned the front of our building, which faced the morning sun. My phone vibrated with a text from Heather—she was two blocks away. By the time I returned the phone to my pocket, she pulled up to the curb in a snazzy German convertible, bright red, top down.

  “Morning, handsome,” she said, waving me into the car.

  I thumped the door closed and buckled up. “Nice wheels,” I told her. “It’s not quite what I imagined, given your line of work.”

  “What’d you expect me to drive—a hearse?”

  We both laughed as she lurched from the curb and gunned it.

  Though I had never seen where Lillie Miller lived, I knew from the address that it was a neighborhood of more modest homes on the far side of town, away from the highway as well as the town commons. Heather and I chatted while she drove.

  She said, “Yesterday on the phone, Thomas was fairly vague when he asked if I’d go with you today. While I often play a role in police investigations, I’ve never interrogated a murder suspect.”

  I detected a note of facetious overstatement in her words: our meeting with Lillie was not an “interrogation,” but an informal conversation, and at this early stage, Lillie herself was not a “suspect,” merely a person of interest. However, I wondered aloud, “Was it, in fact, murder?”

  Heather said, “Don’t know yet. The macaroons are being tested for the presence of nuts. If they test positive, then it’s up to you and Thomas to decide what that implies. For whatever it’s worth—and this is utterly unscientific—I thought the macaroons had an almond smell.” With a laugh, she added, “Then again, that’s often the smell attributed to cyanide.”

  I must have looked aghast.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Gallows humor—it’s a hazard of the trade.” As we turned onto Lillie’s street, Heather asked, “Now, what’s this ‘matter of delicacy’ that Thomas mentioned on the phone?
”

  “Can you pull over for a minute? We’re almost there.” After Heather braked the car and we sat idling at the curb, I explained, “Simms and I interviewed Geoff Lovell, David’s brother. He saw Lillie give the plate of cookies to David. After she left, David said that Lillie had developed a romantic obsession with him.”

  “But”—Heather sputtered—“but the age difference. And everyone knew that David was gay.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ohhh …”

  I reminded her, “But this is all secondhand, and there’s a lot we don’t know. For instance, Geoff could’ve invented the story. If not, David could’ve been mistaken about Lillie’s interest in him. If not, we don’t know if Lillie had ever made overt advances. If so, we don’t know if David had explicitly rebuked her. And finally, if David did snub Lillie, we don’t know if she felt the rage of a woman scorned.”

  “Sounds like ‘he said, she said.’”

  “Except,” I noted, “he’s no longer around to give us his side of the story.”

  Heather drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I see what you mean—a matter of delicacy.”

  Lillie Miller lived alone in a spare but neat little house on Lamoureaux Lane, named after a long-ago logger who had helped build the early encampment of Dumont, back when the deer and the antelope played. Today, though, the bleak and faded neighborhood, once a working-class subdivision of middling, affordable housing, had morphed into a tenuous refuge for other precarious species—the old and lonely, the widows and pensioners, the renters and couch-surfers and clerks.

  Heather’s sleek red roadster looked rudely out of place, as if mocking those who might scrimp for bus fare. Instinctively, Heather parked a few doors down from Lillie, where the car would not be seen—at least by Lillie.

  Approaching the house, I shrugged into my jacket as we followed a narrow walkway that bisected two rectangles of weedy lawn. A row of purple petunias planted along the foundation of the porch tried to perk things up, but I found the color sad. The weathered gray floorboards creaked as we approached the door. Heather rang the bell.