ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  “Not yet, doll.” But I assured her, “I’m working on it.”

  “It’s a dreary business, I’m sure. And speaking of dreary business, guess who I’m meeting for an interview.” She didn’t look happy about it, so I assumed she hadn’t finally snagged the sit-down with Yevgeny.

  I told her, “I’m afraid to guess.”

  Marson said, “I’ll pass.”

  Mother Hibbard shrugged.

  Glee slumped. “It’s that horrid Kayla Weber Schmidt. After her performance at the St. Alban’s meeting, I thought there might be some newsworthy conflict brewing with the preservationist faction—”

  “God help us,” intoned Mother Hibbard.

  “—so I mentioned it to my editor. Then he turned around—the son of a bitch—and assigned the story to me.” Glee tossed her hands; her beads rattled. “Guess that’ll teach me to keep my trap shut.”

  “Not gonna happen,” said Marson.

  “I hope to God she doesn’t bring that brat. Say a little prayer for me, Joyce.”

  Joyce wagged her hand in a mock blessing, and Glee trudged off to her table.

  Once more, we sat.

  Nancy Sanderson came over to welcome us and recite a few specials.

  “The quiche sounds divine,” said Joyce.

  Nancy beamed. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Joyce said, “David Lovell told me that as well—he loved it.”

  The cheery expression drained from Nancy’s face.

  “Nancy,” I said, “did David Lovell dine here often?”

  “Often enough.”

  “And you said something at our dinner party about David’s nut allergy.”

  “Maybe.” Defensively, she added, “Everyone knew about that.”

  Surprised by her tone, I tried changing the topic. “This may sound like a strange question, but I had a conversation with someone yesterday who said there are no nuts in macaroons, which I hadn’t known. Since you’re the expert, maybe you could tell me: Is that true? No nuts in macaroons?”

  She brightened again. “Correct, no nuts in American macaroons. You could add them, sure, but the standard recipes don’t call for nuts. Why do you ask?”

  The possible connection between macaroons and David’s death was not yet known outside the investigation. I told Nancy, “Just curious.”

  She continued, “On the other hand, French macarons are often made with almonds—and usually no coconut. The two cookies are entirely different.” With a laugh, she added, “To be honest, I’ve never understood why they share such similar names.”

  “Hngh,” said Marson. “Interesting.”

  Dispensing with the cookie chat, we ordered lunch.

  Then Marson and Joyce got down to business. He asked her, “The committees you appointed at the parish meeting—any reports yet?”

  “Nothing in writing,” said Joyce, “but lots of talk. They seem to be leaning toward the build-from-scratch option. After what happened in the church Wednesday—with all the additional damage—I think the choice has become a foregone conclusion.”

  Marson nodded. “Nearly anything can be fixed—if you throw enough effort and money at it. But what do you end up with? An old, problematic building.”

  Others would disagree. And I noticed that one of them had just walked through the door. Kayla Weber Schmidt made her way through the room to meet Glee, whose prayer had been answered—Kayla’s bratty toddler was not in tow.

  Our conversation continued through lunch. Joyce confirmed that the parish hall was now set up for regular services, which could no longer be held in the church, starting tomorrow. “But we won’t have a choir, of course.”

  I felt compelled to add, “You won’t have an organ, either.”

  Joyce set down her fork and looked to the ceiling. “I wonder if that can be fixed.”

  Marson repeated, “Anything can be fixed.”

  Joyce’s gaze moved from the ceiling to the window. Squinting, she said, “Is that Curtis—across the street?”

  We turned to look just as Curtis Hibbard and another man walked out of view.

  “Why, yes,” said Marson, “that was Curt. Who was that with him?”

  Looking perplexed, Joyce told us, “No idea. He told me he was driving to Appleton with Yevgeny. They were going to visit someone on the dance faculty at the conservatory. But that wasn’t Yevgeny—and they obviously aren’t in Appleton.”

  Marson said, “Plans must’ve changed. Too bad we didn’t know. Curt could have joined us.”

  Oh, please, I thought. I’m trying to eat.

  Joyce returned her attention to her quiche. “You might want to mark your calendars: we’re planning a funeral of sorts for David on Thursday, early afternoon. It’ll be a simple memorial, rather than a full-blown Requiem, since we don’t know when or if the body will be released by the medical examiner. And David apparently has no family other than his brother, Geoff. I spoke to him—he’s indifferent about the arrangements—claims he has no funds. Which is fine. David was part of our family, St. Alban’s, and we want to do this for him.”

  Nice. Although I had approached today’s lunch with the attitude that Joyce could not be trusted, this glimpse into the sincerity of her pastoral instincts was heartening. While I had not previously been inclined to share with Joyce that I’d been recruited by Sheriff Simms to assist with the investigation, Glee Savage had spilled those beans upon her arrival, so I now had nothing to lose by questioning Joyce about an issue that had perplexed me.

  “On Wednesday,” I said, “when the three of us rushed to the church, you told me on the front steps that the door should be open, but we found that it was locked. Fortunately, you had your keys. Since then, I’ve been tussling with a couple of questions.”

  Joyce said, “What would you like to know? If I can help, I will.”

  “First, when we approached the church from the back and realized something was wrong, we went past the back door and ran all the way around to the front. Why didn’t we go in through the back?”

  “Because the back door—to the sacristy—is always locked. I had the key, but thought we’d get in quicker from the front.”

  I asked, “When someone leaves through the sacristy door, they always lock it?”

  “It locks by itself.”

  “Okay, got it. Now the front door: It’s usually unlocked during the day?”

  Joyce nodded. “It may seem impossibly trusting—in this day and age—but Father Sterling, who preceded me, had upheld that tradition during his many years here. He thought the church should be open and welcoming. And as far as I know, it was never a problem. Being the new rector, I didn’t want to be thought of as ‘the woman who locked the church.’ In retrospect, I probably should have.”

  “And yet,” I said, “we found the front doors locked on Wednesday. Since they’re usually left open, I assume they don’t lock by themselves.”

  “Correct. From the outside, it takes a key to lock or unlock them—and it can be a hassle, as you saw—big doors, old hardware. So the front doors have always been locked at night from inside. It’s much easier. You throw the bolt, no key required.”

  Mulling this, I said, “In other words, without a key, you could lock yourself in and then leave through the sacristy, which locks itself.”

  Marson joined the conversation. “Which means: anyone could have done it.”

  “Yes,” said Joyce. “Afraid so.”

  “But,” I noted, “whoever locked the doors is almost certainly the same person who set the incense fire. Which probably required at least a passing knowledge of where things were kept—the thurible, the incense, the coal.”

  Joyce said, “Possibly. It’s all kept in the sacristy, but not hidden or locked away.”

  I asked, “Could I get a list of everyone who has ‘backstage access,’ so to speak?”

  “Sure. I’ll have Lillie put that together for you.”

  Across the room, at Glee’s table, Ka
yla Weber Schmidt was getting noisy, drawing disapproving glances from Nancy Sanderson and most of the other patrons. Thumping her hand on the table, Kayla told Glee, “But it’s not just a matter of economics—there’s a piece of the town’s heritage at stake!”

  “Oh, dear,” said Marson, sotto voce. “Glee’s got her hands full.”

  “That Kayla,” Joyce harrumphed. “She’s a viper.”

  I had wanted to broach with Joyce the topic of her marriage and to explore any jealousy or resentment she might feel, stemming from her husband’s wandering eye for men and his brazen disregard for Episcopal propriety. But we were at lunch, in public, amid genteel surroundings on a balmy May afternoon. So I was at a loss to find a tactful way to question her regarding issues that were intensely personal, doubtless painful, and—in the final analysis—none of my damn business.

  When our meal was finished and the check was paid, I noticed Glee and Kayla also wrapping up their lunch meeting. Kayla stood, said something in parting, and left. Glee remained at the table with a cup of coffee, jotting notes.

  Marson pushed back his chair, and the three of us stood. I said good-bye to Joyce, then told Marson, “I think I’ll hang around and schmooze with Glee.”

  “Sure, kiddo. I’m going to check in at the office. See ya later at home.” He leaned to give me a peck, then escorted Joyce out the door.

  The lunch crowd had thinned, and I wound my way through the empty tables toward the back of the dining room, where Glee sat alone, focused on her notes.

  “Hey, doll,” I said, “can I intrude?”

  She looked up with a smile. “Please do. I could use some friendly company after an hour with Kayla—what a churl.”

  “Joyce Hibbard called her a viper,” I said as I sat.

  “Viper,” Glee repeated with a glint in her eye. Then she made note of it.

  “You are not going to print that.”

  “Well, I won’t attribute it.”

  I hardly needed to ask, but did anyway: “How’d it go?”

  “Unpleasant. Sometimes, though, that’s the price of a good story. I’ll have to discuss this with our editor—liabilities, defamation, and such. It’s a delicate balance—gossip and journalism.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Glee set down her pen. “As you know, I don’t normally report hard news—I’m society and arts, which I try to keep glib and entertaining. Then there’s Kayla. Yes, she’s a devoted preservationist, and the county historical society is definitely within my realm. But. She’s so whacking opinionated, everything she says comes across as strident and irrational and, more to the point, slanderous.” Glee raised her coffee cup, holding it near her chin, thinking. The rim was smeared red with her lip prints.

  I asked, “For example?”

  Setting down her cup, she leaned over it and lowered her voice to tell me, “Clem Carter.”

  That got my attention.

  Glee continued, “It was largely the same pissing match that Kayla started with him at the parish meeting—she accused him of having a vested financial interest in seeing the old church destroyed so he can step in as builder of the new one.”

  I had to admit, “To a degree, there’s some logic to that.”

  “Except”—Glee leaned closer—“today Kayla took it a giant step further. And the language. Referring to Clem with vulgarities I’m not inclined to repeat, let alone print, she accused him of setting the incense fire and, by implication, killing David.”

  “Whoa.” I sat back in my chair. “That’s a leap. How’d she back it up?”

  Glee flipped her hands. “Instinct. She says it’s obvious; she just knows.”

  “Instinct”—I snorted—“more like insane.”

  “Tell me. I can’t imagine what Tyler sees in her.” Archly, Glee added, “If I were he, I’d flee.”

  “Who?”

  “Tyler Schmidt is Kayla’s husband. Their little terror is Aiden Weber Schmidt; he must be the four-year-old glue that keeps them together. They live in an old farmhouse—‘historic,’ I’m sure—out on Perkins Road. Tyler is a few years younger than Kayla, kinda quiet, the perpetual-student type. But he’s also an artist and, from what I’ve seen, pretty good. Works in metal, welding, abstract. Big studio in a barn near the farmhouse.”

  “More coffee?” asked Nancy Sanderson, appearing at the table with a carafe.

  “No, thanks,” said Glee, “I need to be going soon. But could you box up a dozen of your madeleines for me to take home? They’re absolument parfait—and one day I’ll get the hang of baking them myself.”

  “Sure, Glee. I’ll have it at the register whenever you’re ready.”

  Watching as Nancy stepped away, I said to Glee, “It’s strange. Nancy is such a great gal—friendly and nurturing, salt of the earth. Same with David Lovell—I didn’t get to know him very well, but it seems everyone flat-out loved the guy. And yet…”

  “And yet,” Glee suggested, leaning low over the table, “you’ve noticed some ‘frostiness’ from Nancy regarding David?”

  “Yes, precisely. At the dinner party at the loft, Nancy’s attitude toward David was chilly. And here today, she went all ice-queen at the mere mention of his name. What’s that all about?”

  Glee glanced over her shoulder. She then told me, “I happen to have a few insights. It’s a long story—goes way back—but this isn’t the time or the place.”

  I whipped out my phone and checked my calendar. “How about Tuesday? Lunch at the club. My treat—but I want the dirt.”

  “Deal.” She stood.

  I stood. We moved together to the gleaming display case of to-go items adjacent to the checkout counter. Nancy gabbed with Glee while ringing up the madeleines. I browsed the goodies that glistened beneath the curved glass.

  My gaze was instantly drawn to a tempting mound of macaroons, all golden brown and gooey and bristling with toasted coconut. Next to them sat a selection of prim, smooth French macarons in assorted pastels with a variety of delicate fillings.

  Then, moving to the cash register, I noticed a small display of tiny bottles containing gourmet specialty oils and extracts. When I leaned in for a closer look, my eye stalled on one of the labels: PURE ALMOND EXTRACT.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday morning, Marson and I relaxed in the living room of the loft, sharing sections of the Dumont Daily Register and dropping finished pages to the floor for Mister Puss’s amusement. He would slide beneath them as they landed, then shred them as he escaped, pouncing into the mess he’d created. The front section carried an updated story regarding the investigation of David Lovell’s death, but skimming it, I found there was nothing reported that I didn’t already know, so I dangled the sheet to catch Mister Puss’s attention. He leapt, snatching it from my fingers and tumbling with it to the floor.

  Marson gathered up some of the shreds and took them to the trash in the kitchen when he went to get more coffee. While he was there, the iPad on the center island pinged with an incoming email, which he sat down to read. A few minutes later, he brought the tablet to the living room. Handing it to me, he said, “Take a look.”

  From: Curtis Hibbard

  To: Marson Miles

  Marson, old chum, my precious Poopsie has been in a bit of a dither regarding the financial challenges now facing St. Alban’s. When she sought my advice last night, I adroitly sidestepped the issue, ho-ho, and suggested she take up the matter with her bishop, who is paid to deal with such unpleasantries. I thought the attached correspondence might be of interest to you.

  On another matter, I do hope to see you (and your charming young man) again soon, while I am still here in Dumont. Perhaps dinner?

  Best regards,

  Curtis Hibbard, Founding Partner

  Hibbard Belding & Smith, LLP

  New York • London • Berlin

  Following is a copy of Poopsie’s message to her bishop.

  From: The Rev. Joyce Hibbard

  To: The Rt. Rev. Stuart P. Wigg
ins

  Dear Bishop Wiggins,

  Barely two months after being entrusted to serve St. Alban’s as rector, I have been confounded by a situation that could prove of great significance to the future of the parish. Attempting to sort out this dilemma, I have sought direction from my pastoral training and from fervent prayer, but without success. So I turn to you, Bishop, in hopes that you might guide me with the wisdom of your good counsel.

  As you know, St. Alban’s is a historic parish that has suffered through many years of declining membership. As a result, the physical properties of the parish have fallen into varying stages of disrepair and neglect. The church itself is the most stirring and enduring symbol of St. Alban’s former greatness, but it, too, has reached a point where serious action is needed, and soon. (It may already have come to your attention that, earlier this week, our beloved choirmaster died, and was possibly murdered, on the premises. As if that weren’t sufficient frosting on the cake, a minor fire inflicted further damage to the building.)

  Amid lengthy discussion, soul-searching, and prayer, our parish vestry is now considering whether the current building should be replaced with a new structure that better reflects the purpose and aspirations of a Christian community entering the third millennium. The decision seems imminent, and I support it. The difficulty, of course, is funding.

  Our great hope in this regard rests in the potential generosity of Mrs. Mary Questman, a widow (childless) of considerable means whose family has a long history as parishioners at St. Alban’s. Given your tenure in the diocese, Bishop, do you perhaps know her?

  The predicament I now face is that Mary seems to be suffering a crisis of faith. I would offer to pray with her—to gently nudge her back into the loving embrace of the Church—but Mary’s doubts do not stem from within. Rather, she has fallen under the influence (and I hesitate to write these words) of her cat, with which she imagines to communicate. She told me matter-of-factly that the cat informed her that “God is a myth.” You will wonder, perhaps, if she might have been joking. I can only assure you that her manner of delivery lacked any hint of mirth.