ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  On Saturday, Mary had awoken with the birds, still keyed up from the delights and hoo-ha of her trip, needing to unpack a few things and catch up with mail. By nightfall, however, with most of her luggage still scattered about the bedroom, unopened, her energies had been sapped, exhausted by the sheer weight of her excitement. When at last she tucked herself into bed, she fell quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Now, Sunday morning, Mister Puss lay curled on her pillow, nesting against her hair. Squinting in the sunlight that intruded through a crack in the curtains, he began to purr and reached his snout to Mary’s ear.

  Time to get it in gear.

  Blinking her eyes open, Mary checked the bedside clock. “Good heavens.” It was after nine-thirty already.

  And I’m hungry.

  Throwing back the covers, she said, “Yes, Your Majesty.” But rather than heading directly downstairs to prepare their breakfast, which was her routine, she first stepped into the bathroom and quickly performed her ablutions, then poufed her hair and dressed for the day—she wanted to be cleared out of the bedroom by the time Cyclone Berta landed. As a finishing touch, Mary paused at her vanity to apply a dab of L’Air du Temps.

  Mister Puss sneezed.

  Then he traipsed down the stairs behind Mary and circled her legs while she got busy in the kitchen.

  When at last the cat was fed and the coffee was brewing and the toast was buttered and the paper was brought in from the porch, Mary sat down at the big oak table and switched on her iPad to check email. Most of what had accumulated overnight was junk. But one of them was a group blast from Mother Hibbard, sent the prior evening around ten o’clock.

  From: The Rev. Joyce Hibbard

  To: The St. Alban’s Congregation

  My dear friends in Christ,

  Little more than two weeks ago, on May 12, during an open meeting of our parish vestry, the St. Alban’s community was faced with an ultimatum from the city of Dumont regarding the future of the beloved church building that has been our parish family’s spiritual home for more than 150 years.

  For reasons already thoroughly discussed, we now find ourselves at a crossroads, needing to reach a difficult decision as to how we shall move forward: Do we completely restore and renovate the old church, or do we replace it with a new building?

  As you know, subcommittees of the vestry, and committees of the congregation at large, were appointed to study these issues and to report their findings and recommendations prior to the city-imposed deadline of May 31. I am now writing to inform you that our parish vestry has scheduled a public meeting to resolve these issues at six o’clock this coming Monday, May 30, which is Memorial Day. I hope this timing will prove convenient for all of you, as it falls at the end of an extended holiday weekend.

  Please, please, please plan to attend. Your valued input is vital to these proceedings, as are your prayers for divine guidance. The decision we must reach has strong advocates for either of our options, but ultimately, we are called together as a community of faith to move forward in a spirit of unity.

  Offering my blessing for whatever decision will be reached, I plead for yours as well. As a family, we have suffered through the recent tragic loss of our beloved choirmaster, David Lovell, who brought such beauty to our lives and to our worship through his music. Let us, in his honor, now strive to achieve a similar harmony as we chart the future course of St. Alban’s.

  Yours in Christ,

  The Rev. Joyce Hibbard, Rector

  St. Alban’s Episcopal Church, Dumont

  Mary groaned, rising from her chair. The coffee had finished brewing, and she needed a cup. Mister Puss watched as she poured it. Having eaten his own breakfast, he then followed her back to her chair and hopped up to the tabletop, purring, while she pondered the email. Again, she groaned.

  What’s wrong?

  “It’s that woman priest, Joyce Hibbard.”

  Quack.

  “You really must stop that.” Mary waited for a snappy comeback, but Mister Puss just sat there, watching her with wide, innocent eyes. Mary explained, “There’s a big meeting tomorrow night. Mother Hibbard wants everyone to be there.”

  Blow it off.

  “I managed to avoid the last one. But I don’t see how I can get out of this one. They’re going to decide what to do about the old church.”

  Hold on to your wallet.

  When Mary had skimmed the remaining emails and the morning paper, she ate the last of her toast and finished her second cup of coffee. Then she carried her dishes to the sink. While taking apart the coffeemaker and rinsing the pot, she fretted over the situation at St. Alban’s.

  Mary had a generous heart and a caring spirit, but she hated to be taken advantage of. Philanthropy had become one of her greatest joys, but she bristled at the notion that any would-be beneficiary might feel entitled to her largess. Granted, St. Alban’s and the Questman family had a long history together, but Mary herself, with clear-eyed maturity, had come to view the very premise of her church as a myth. That hadn’t stopped Mother Hibbard, however, from trying to put the squeeze on her two weeks earlier at an elegant dinner party hosted by dear friends. And stupidly, Mary now thought, she had cracked the door open that night and volunteered that she might be willing to help out if her favorite architect, Marson Miles, was satisfied with the artistic integrity of plans for the resulting project. Instead, she should have kept her mouth shut and followed Mister Puss’s advice to hold on to her wallet.

  Dingdong.

  The perpetually nosy Mister Puss pounced from the kitchen table and scurried out to the front hall.

  Odd, Mary thought, checking her watch. Berta wasn’t due for half an hour, and she always came in through the back with her key. Who could be calling on a Sunday morning? She dried her hands and walked out to the hall.

  When she answered the door, she found a young woman on her stoop, perhaps thirty years old. She had dark, wiry hair and wore a black jumpsuit. While Mary found the attire a bit odd, she was reassured by the woman’s tasteful jewelry, including a sizable wedding ring, and her nice patent pumps.

  Mary had opened the door only a few inches, planting her foot firmly against the inside edge, as Berta had suggested she should do when home alone. Mister Puss peeped out from between her ankles. She asked, “May I help you?”

  “Mrs. Questman?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home on a Sunday, but I’ve been hoping to talk to you before tomorrow night’s meeting at St. Alban’s.”

  “In what regard?” asked Mary. She removed her foot from the door and opened it a foot or two. Mister Puss crept backwards into the hall.

  “My name is Kayla Weber Schmidt. I’m on the executive boards of both the Dumont Historical Society and the Wisconsin Preservationist League.”

  Finding the name vaguely familiar, Mary offered a ladylike handshake. “Won’t you come in?” She stepped aside as her visitor entered.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Questman.”

  “Certainly, Kayla. And you’re welcome to call me Mary.” She didn’t feel like tussling with the clumsy kebob of Kayla’s surnames.

  “My pleasure … Mary.”

  Mister Puss followed as Mary led Kayla into a side parlor off the main hall, telling the younger woman, “We can talk in here.”

  It was a small, intimate space, intended for conversation, but its large swagged window on the front wall of the house, combined with the high ceiling and elaborate cornice, lent a note of cultured formality. Mary perched at the end of a tidy loveseat; the cat hopped up and sat next to her.

  Kayla sat across from them in a quilted-chintz armchair. “You have a lovely home, Mary. I’ve often admired it from the street.”

  Mary accepted the compliment with a restrained smile and a regal nod. “Now then,” she asked, “what would you like to discuss?”

  “Two things. The first has nothing to do with St. Alban’s, but I think you’ll find it of interest. Earlier last we
ek, I was cataloging some of the Historical Society’s recent acquisitions—our inventory space is such a mess, it’s been inadequate for years—but the point is, I ran across something I think you may want to have.”

  “Oh?” said Mary. The cat’s ears perked up.

  Kayla proceeded to explain, in intricate detail, what she had found and why Mary might want it.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Mary, “I’d be delighted to make room for it—and pay for it handsomely.”

  Kayla grinned. “Contributions are always welcome, Mary, but we’ll be happy enough knowing it’s found a good home. It belongs here.”

  Mary was thrilled. “I can hardly wait to hear the other reason you dropped by.”

  Kayla leaned forward from the edge of her chair. “This relates to St. Alban’s, and it’s rather involved. You see, I was in Green Bay on Thursday night, just a personal matter, and while I was there”—Kayla flipped her hands—“it sort of hit me.”

  “What did?” asked Mary.

  A few minutes later, the back door slammed as Mary and Kayla were winding down their discussion.

  “Mary!” yelled Berta, rushing into the hall from the kitchen. “Mary!” she repeated, spotting them in the parlor, interrupting, breathless. “Driving over here—trouble at Marson and Brody’s place. Big commotion. Crowd out front. Cops.”

  Chapter 16

  Our loft on First Avenue, our home, felt overrun on Sunday morning.

  Since learning on Friday that the cable commentator Chad Percy had been killed in Green Bay sometime Thursday night, a rapid series of events—seemingly unrelated but possibly linked to the earlier death of David Lovell—had heightened my own sense of urgency to solve the choirmaster mystery. When Marson and I found our front wall spray-painted with graffiti on Saturday night, we not only felt the deep emotional sting of having our home vandalized and violated, but far more ominously, we recognized that the scrawled words were tantamount to a death threat.

  RU2 NEXT? GET! OUT! NOW!

  Prior to Chad Percy’s death, his commentaries had made reference to anti-gay incidents in Green Bay, and now those incidents had landed at our doorstep, here in Dumont, which seemed sickeningly out of character for my adopted hometown.

  Moving to Wisconsin from California, I had anticipated a measure of culture shock, but I was amazed to discover that my expectations of intolerance were unfounded. With its progressive traditions of the past, Wisconsin had been the first state in the union to adopt any sort of statewide gay-rights protections—a laissez-faire mind-set that had persisted, despite its swing to the right in recent years, riding the same toxic wave that had embarrassed and imperiled a great nation.

  And now, it seemed, that rightward tide was beginning to turn, with the redcaps being tested and bested by a different base that was inclusive and energized, showing signs of change for the positive—not only in Washington, not only in Wisconsin, but right here in Dumont.

  For example, late Saturday night, after we had discovered the graffiti, Curtis Hibbard left our dinner party and, returning to the St. Alban’s rectory, reported the incident to his wife, Joyce Hibbard, the parish rector. Early Sunday morning, Curtis flew back to New York with Yevgeny Krymov. But Mother Hibbard, rather than preparing to celebrate Mass in the gymnasium at ten o’clock, met her parishioners outside the lobby doors, told them what had happened, and then led a caravan of volunteers to First Avenue.

  Marson and I were not members of St. Alban’s; we weren’t even believers. But Joyce had described us to her congregants as “friends of the parish,” which was sufficient for two dozen of them to roll up the sleeves of their Sunday best and come over to help with the cleanup. It was almost embarrassing. With cars parked up and down the block, and with a crowd busy at a task that could have been handled by two or three people with a bucket and wire-bristled brushes, the scene attracted far more attention than the graffiti itself would have. But their intentions and fervor were heartwarming.

  Another example of Dumont’s empathy with our misfortune was the reaction of Sheriff Thomas Simms. When I phoned him well after midnight to report what had happened—and hoping he would not be too disturbed by the late intrusion—his only concern was Marson’s and my welfare.

  Simms arrived at the loft to begin his investigation within ten minutes, taking pictures and making notes. He assigned patrol cars to keep steady watch on our place, from the street in front and from the alley in back. When he was finally convinced, sometime before dawn, that we were in no immediate danger, he said he would return later that morning, after taking his family to church. Then, since the services were canceled, he came back to the loft an hour earlier than expected.

  Not to overstate the obvious: Simms was straight and black. We were gay and white. And his total support was unconditional.

  Therefore, on that Sunday morning after we had found the threatening graffiti, Marson and I felt that our home had been overrun—not by any forces of malice, but by a kindly invasion of goodwill.

  “I know you haven’t had much rest,” said Simms, “but I assume you’ve been thinking about what happened. Last night, you were stunned by it. This morning, any idea who might’ve done it?”

  We were huddled around the kitchen island with coffee and notes. Simms was looking his best, spiffed for church, wearing one of his beautifully tailored suits and a snappy silk tie, which was how he dressed for a regular workday. When we’d seen him overnight, though, he’d looked a bit rough—jeans and flannel shirt, unshaven, leather bomber jacket—and I’d realized he was not only handsome and refined, but fiercely attractive, with the emphasis on fierce. Sweet Jesus.

  “Not a clue, Thomas,” said Marson. “I’ve lived here most of my life, except for college, and I’ve never witnessed this sort of hate-mongering, not even once. Can’t imagine why anyone would threaten either Brody or me.” With a chuckle, he added, “Unless it was Prucilla.”

  Marson was talking about his ex-wife, my mother’s sister, who was born in Dumont, still lived in town, and still relished, with operatic flair, the tragic role of a woman whose husband of thirty years had dumped her for her nephew—which was, I admit, a little hard to wrap your head around. Nonetheless, I understood that Marson was joking.

  Simms didn’t seem to take him seriously, either, turning to ask, “How about you, Brody? Any ideas?” He flipped his notes to the suspect grid he’d constructed the prior Wednesday in his office. It still contained some blank squares.

  I slowly shook my head. “Sorry, Thomas. But I’ve been meaning to ask you about something. Several times in his cable segments, Chad Percy referred to anti-gay ‘activity’ and ‘incidents’ in Green Bay, as if it was a growing trend. Disturbing, sure. As far as I remember, though, he never gave any details about those incidents, which struck me as strange in the context of a news program. Granted, as a reporter, Chad Percy was about as hard-hitting as one of those Fox bunnies, but I’m wondering: Do you happen to know what the ‘incidents’ were that Percy found so alarming?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Simms blew a long, low whistle. “I got details about that from Green Bay law enforcement. And that’s why I hustled over here last night. That’s why I’m taking this seriously.”

  Marson and I exchanged a wary look.

  Simms explained, “Percy found the incidents alarming because they were highly personal, directed at him. Which is probably why he didn’t go into detail, at least not publicly. But he was specific in his reports to police, who concluded there was no evidence the incidents were part of a trend that targeted Green Bay’s gay population at large. Bottom line: the only target of this stuff was Percy himself.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And what were the incidents?”

  Simms pinched the bridge of his nose, telling us, “Graffiti. The door to Percy’s condo. The walls of his parking garage. Eventually, the car itself.” He seemed reluctant to add, “Orange spray paint. Looked a lot like your front wall—similar message and lettering. I sent the pictures to Gree
n Bay, and they sent me theirs.”

  “Well now,” said Marson with profound understatement, “how sobering.”

  Simms continued, “There were a few voicemails, too. Sent from a burner, of course, a prepaid phone that’s hard to trace. The messages were short and scripted, with the wording the same as the graffiti. And here’s a weird twist: the voice sounded sorta ‘Chinesey.’ High-pitched and giggly. Obviously fake—that’s the whole point—impossible to identify, couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”

  “That sounds ridiculous,” I said with an exasperated laugh. “It would almost be funny—if Percy hadn’t wound up dead.”

  “Yeah,” said Simms. He pored over the suspect grid, then tossed his hands.

  I said, “At least we know this: There’s definitely a link between what happened to Chad Percy and what happened to us. But we don’t know why. Going a step further, all of this could possibly be linked to what happened to David Lovell, but not necessarily.”

  Simms told me, “A fair summary, yes.”

  Marson said, “I’m no sidekick, let alone a detective, but if you’d like my two cents, I think it’s all the same ball of wax.”

  Simms and I held each other’s gaze briefly, then nodded. He was drumming his fingers on the suspect grid. I noticed the empty squares again.

  “Thomas,” I said, “I’ve been tussling with something for a couple of days. You’ve asked me more than once if I could think of any other possible suspects—for David’s murder—and I held back. Actually, there is someone else who might’ve had a strong but irrational motive against David. Trouble is, I don’t see how she could possibly be involved with Chad Percy’s death—or the graffiti on our front wall.”

  “She?” said Simms. “I’m listening…”