ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  “Well, yeah,” said Geoff. “Bob is executor of Dave’s estate.”

  At David Lovell’s memorial service, I recalled, Geoff had mentioned meeting with the executor of his brother’s estate, expressing relief that his financial worries were over. I knew that Geoff had been dealing with the Lovell family’s lawyer in Green Bay, Stanley Burton, who had set up his parents’ estate plan. Because lawyers are not generally named as executor of wills or trusts they have written, I had wondered if Geoff was now dealing with someone other than Burton.

  Geoff added, “Bob was our parents’ executor as well.”

  Offhandedly, Olson reminded us, “I serve wealth-management clients throughout the region. And beyond—new account in Milwaukee last week.”

  With a finger snap, Geoff recalled, “Unless I’m mistaken, Bob, didn’t you get Dave the choir gig at St. Alban’s?”

  Mother Hibbard asked, “Really? I didn’t know that. David came to St. Alban’s well before I did.”

  Olson explained, “It was shortly after David’s parents died. He was alone and adrift in Appleton, and unemployed—though money was the least of his concerns. Then, by chance, we had an opening at St. Alban’s, so I put David in touch with Father Sterling. And sure enough, it all worked out. Part of my service. I enjoy helping my clients.”

  I said, “And that kind of personal service pays off, Bob, doesn’t it? Glad to know both you and your clients are thriving. Pardon a snarky question, but if things are going so well, why do you wear such cheap perfume?”

  I don’t know whether it was my non sequitur—or the bitchy tone of it—that elicited a round of quiet, uneasy laughter from the table, but Bob played it safe and joined in. “Beg pardon?” he asked, as if he must not have heard me right.

  “This morning at the rectory,” I said, “Mary Questman’s cat, Mister Puss, was getting spunky. He climbed your shoulder, sniffing your neck—and he sneezed.”

  “So?”

  “Two weeks ago tonight, David Lovell had dinner at our loft. Mister Puss was there. Same thing happened. David’s fragrance made the cat sneeze.”

  True, many things had been making Mister Puss sneeze lately, but there was an additional detail I was not inclined to share at the conference table: Mister Puss had purred to me that both David Lovell and Bob Olson “smelled like a fruitcake,” a crack that applied only to them.

  I told the table, “I was looking after Mister Puss last week, and I took him to see the vet, Jim Phelps. The doctor mentioned that cats have a superhuman sense of smell—about ten times the receptors that we have. Some dogs have way more than that. But cats are even better than dogs at distinguishing between scents. Fascinating, huh?”

  Olson tossed his hands. “So what?”

  “So I think you’ve been wearing the same fragrance that David was wearing the night before he died. He told me it was new. It’s called ‘Chad!’—with an exclamation point.”

  Angela Olson’s eyes bugged as she choked back a sob. Everyone else at the table appeared mystified—everyone except Bob.

  I asked, “Where did you get the Chad!, Bob?”

  “I bought it. There’s been a lot of advertising lately—thought I’d try it.”

  That morning, Mister Puss had reminded me that the new fragrance was “coming soon.” A week earlier, while we were in the vet’s waiting room, Chad Percy was hawking the stuff on TV. At the time, it didn’t register that Chad! was still “coming soon” because my attention shifted when Geoff Lovell walked in with his sick dog. That was six days after David Lovell had worn it to the dinner party.

  “No,” I now told Olson, “you didn’t buy it. Neither did David. After I left the rectory today, I phoned a few department stores—one in Green Bay—asking if they carried it. Same answer everywhere: lots of demand, wished they had it in stock, not available till next month. But somehow, Bob, you already have it. Was Chad Percy one of your clients? Did you do a bit of so-called wealth management for him?”

  He glared at me.

  Simms reminded him, “We can easily find out.”

  “All right,” said Olson. “Yes, Chad Percy was a client.”

  I asked, “Did you also provide him with ‘personal services’?”

  “How dare you?”

  Angela turned to him, livid, spitting her words: “Well? Did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thursday,” Angela told him, “after David’s memorial, you said you had to drive to Green Bay to see a client. Fine, I know you keep some odd hours. But this was different—you didn’t get home till dawn.”

  I asked him, “Why did you take Ambien with you? Trouble sleeping? I assume you have a prescription.”

  Simms added, “We can find out.”

  Angela turned to the sheriff with steely resolve, telling him flatly, “Yes, Bob has a prescription for Ambien.”

  Olson shot his wife a look of utter hatred. Mimicking her earlier enthusiasm for the proceedings, he quoted her in a high-pitched voice: “I find it all quite thrilling! He-he-he. Not the lazy afternoon I was expecting!” He sounded an awful lot like the Chinesey voice on my phone. Then he dropped to his normal register: “What the hell was that little performance?”

  She explained, “When they started talking about the empty chair, I was excited—because I thought I must have been wrong. I was hoping they’d prove it was someone else who … did these things. Guess not, though.” A tear slipped from her reddened eyes. Snot glistened on her upper lip. “Why ever did you marry me?”

  He countered, “Why did you marry me? You knew what you were getting.”

  “I knew you were into men. I knew, to some extent, I’d have to overlook that. But not this.”

  “What this?”

  She couldn’t say it. She looked away.

  I said to Bob, “I believe your wife was referring to murder. Two murders.”

  He told me calmly, “That’s fucking insane.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “insane. Nevertheless, here’s what happened: A closet case with a beautiful wife and a lovely daughter had the perfect cover for indulging in his yen for men with a few choice clients—two in particular, both of them exceptionally attractive, openly gay, a bit flighty and naive. Both of them, in recent years, had come into some sudden wealth, and both were more than happy to entrust their money-management needs to Bob Olson, who took care of all those pesky details for them, did all the bean counting—and robbed them blind while providing other ‘personal services.’ Along the way, Bob was even given a few advance samples of his Green Bay client’s new unisex fragrance, which he shared with his other special client in Dumont.

  “But something went wrong. Maybe Bob had gotten too greedy. Maybe one of his clients had grown suspicious or had simply gotten bored with him. Maybe there was talk of ‘moving on,’ which would have exposed Bob’s malfeasance to the probing eyes of a new accountant, initiating a domino effect of investigations that would reveal a long history of greed that rose to crime. Needless to say, this was an untenable prospect for a proper Episcopalian senior warden.

  “So those two clients—the linchpins in an elaborate scheme on the verge of collapse—those two needed to be rendered permanently silent.

  “David Lovell was easy. He had a deadly nut allergy, and everyone knew about it, especially the father of a girl in the children’s choir—there were parties and potlucks, and David always warned about the allergy. So Bob waited for the right time to slip David a lethal dose of almond oil, drizzled on a plate of homemade macaroons. Bob knew, or had access to, everyone’s schedule at St. Alban’s. He knew when to find David and Lillie practicing in the church. He was well acquainted with the sacristy, which made it convenient for him to set the bizarre incense fire, clouding the cause of—and the motive for—David’s murder.

  “One down.

  “The other client proved more challenging; he would need to be dispatched by more direct and reliable means. So, following the funeral of the Dumont client, Bob drove up to visit
the Green Bay client, meeting for dinner and some after-hours horseplay. Chad had been on edge because of threatening graffiti and voicemails—guess where those came from—so it was easy for Bob to convince Chad to relax with ample booze that night, followed by a dash of Ambien and a pinch of deadly intent. With Chad finally unconscious and helpless, Bob did what he needed to do.”

  I concluded, “Two down.”

  I then turned to Mother Hibbard, suggesting, “If you’ve been wondering why St. Alban’s has suffered such a financial slide over the past few years, it may be time to call in a forensic accountant. Someone might’ve cooked the books.”

  Mother Hibbard, pallid and ashen, looked blankly toward the ceiling.

  Angela Olson dabbed a few more tears from her eyes.

  Sheriff Simms recited Bob Olson’s rights.

  Olson admitted nothing.

  As a dead stillness took hold of the conference room, the soft tapping of the stenotype machine fell silent.

  Chapter 20

  By evening, the armed guards at our loft had disappeared. Marson cooked, opening a rare vintage of Château Lafite Rothschild that he’d tucked away for a special occasion. Together, we celebrated the end of a harrowing two weeks—and my unlikely role in bringing a killer to justice.

  The next morning, the first of June, it was a pleasure opening the front door to an empty street, without the ritual of acknowledging a salute from a squad car. Birds twittered—apparently they’d been cued up for the happy ending—as I retrieved our rolled copy of the Dumont Daily Register and took it inside. The front page displayed the expected headline story:

  Two murder victims linked

  Charges filed against alleged killer

  of gay men in Dumont and Green Bay

  Compiled from Register staff reports

  •

  JUNE 1, DUMONT, WI — The mystery surrounding two recent deaths, which had baffled law enforcement in Dumont and Green Bay, came to a dramatic close Tuesday afternoon when the alleged killer was named and apprehended in the Dumont offices of Sheriff Thomas Simms.

  Robert Olson, 44, was charged with two counts of murder. Further investigation could produce additional counts of fraud and embezzlement, stemming from Olson’s financial services provided to victims David Lovell and Chad Percy, who were both gay.

  At a press briefing where Sheriff Simms announced these developments, a reporter asked if Olson had confessed to the alleged crimes.

  Simms responded, “No, but I’m confident we’ve arrested the guilty party. And I’m confident a jury will agree.”

  Simms also said, “I want to assure the gay communities in Dumont and Green Bay, as well as those cities at large, that the danger has passed and justice will be served.”

  The accused is well known within Dumont business circles for his wealth-management services. As a parishioner at St. Alban’s Episcopal Church, Olson has served for several years as…

  Pouring coffee, Marson asked me, “What do you think, Sherlock? Were they crimes of passion or just garden-variety greed?”

  “Greed,” I answered without hesitation. “Sure, there was sex involved—apparently lots of it—but when Olson killed David and Chad, it wasn’t blind passion. It was calculated, and it had one purpose: to hide the secret of Olson’s ill-gotten gains.”

  Marson nodded. “Follow the money.”

  With a laugh, I recalled Mister Puss purring those exact words into my ear. I had razzed him about it, calling him Deep Throat and facetiously dismissing his advice as a “pearl of wisdom.” But as things turned out, he was right. Was it a lucky guess? Or common sense? Or was there another, more rational possibility: Had I simply imagined those words from the cat, intuiting for myself the root of these crimes?

  Ping.

  “Uh-oh,” said Marson. An email had arrived on the iPad at the kitchen island. “It’s from Curt. He must’ve found out that he’s building half a church.” Marson slid the tablet toward me, and we read the message together.

  From: Curtis Hibbard

  To: Marson Miles

  Good morning, old chum. I understand there was a good deal of excitement in Dumont yesterday. Poopsie tells me she was there in the sheriff’s office when your charming young man ferreted out the murderer of our late, beloved choirmaster and that other gay goose up in Green Bay. And to think—the culprit had been right there all along, like a viper in Mother Hibbard’s nest, a slave to his insatiable taste for filthy cash.

  The darkness of the soul can be so appalling, can it not?

  Bad enough—but there’s more to this narrative.

  While Poopsie had me on the phone last night, she said there was another matter of some urgency that we needed to discuss, but I told her it would have to wait. What I did not tell her was that she had caught me at an inconvenient moment in the back of my car, being driven home from dinner, in the company of a fine specimen of a young man named Jürgen, in town this week with the Stuttgart Ballet, which is on tour.

  As you’ve surely noted, I have always been drawn to dancers. Not only are they svelte and athletic, but they often tend to be shorter than I am, which I find appealing—a nice, tidy package, so to speak. More to the point, I enjoy kissing shorter men, the way they need to lean back the head to reach my lips. Not that I’m into a dominance scene (ho-ho), but I love that image of a hungry bird, a hatchling seeking my sustenance.

  Such was the case last night, in the car, when Jürgen and I were interrupted by that untimely call from Joyce. It thoroughly jinxed my well-laid plans, with the result that Jürgen ended up back at his hotel. And I (boo-hoo) went home alone.

  Speaking of dancers, Yevgeny—or Zhenya, now that he counts you among his intimates—can’t seem to stop talking about your young man. He asked me to let both of you know that his upcoming relocation to Wisconsin is proceeding as planned. He looks forward to seeing you again once he is settled.

  Best regards,

  Curtis Hibbard, Founding Partner

  Hibbard Belding & Smith, LLP

  New York • London • Berlin

  I said to Marson, “Seems your old chum hasn’t heard about the ‘grand bargain’ you brokered between Joyce and Mary.”

  “He’ll find out about it soon enough—when he’s not busy cheating on his wife, or trying to.”

  I set aside my coffee, pondering something. “In their case, is it cheating? Sure, they had a la-di-da wedding with the presiding bishop—ten thousand nights ago—and there must’ve been vows involved, but they didn’t have blinders on. They struck a ‘grand bargain’ of their own, and they’re still married.”

  “It’s their choice.” Marson flipped his hands. “Marriage of convenience.”

  Though the concept was anything but novel, marriages of convenience had played an outsize role in the events of the last couple of weeks. The Hibbards—Curtis and Joyce—had blown into Dumont with their unconventional relationship, raising more than a few eyebrows and not giving a damn; they’d been at it for a long time.

  Then there was the artist, Tyler Schmidt, and his wife, Kayla Weber Schmidt. Their arrangement seemed more subtle, less premeditated than the Hibbards’. The Schmidts were still finding their way, or their separate ways, while also defining what was understood and expected. In the sense that their marriage was an equation, their troubled son was the variable—and the challenge. But something told me that Kayla and Tyler would make the best of this.

  On the other hand, there could be no silver lining to the marriage of convenience between Bob and Angela Olson. How do you begin to “fix” something like that? You can’t. You don’t—not after all the deceit, not after two murders.

  That same day, Wednesday, the day after Bob Olson’s arrest, we learned that Angela and her daughter, Hailey, had already left Dumont. They had fled to a remote summer cabin owned by Angela’s parents along the upstate shore near the Apostle Islands, where they could hide for a while, grieve, and think about what to do next. Come fall, Hailey would need to be back in schoo
l. But I felt certain they would never return to Dumont.

  Over the next couple of days, Marson and I found that life got back to normal. We had a house to build—the perfect house—and fortunately, Clem Carter seemed to have the project back on track.

  There were also paying projects at Miles & Norris that needed our attention, and now we were able to focus again on doing the jobs we loved. Demand for our design brand had spread far from Dumont, but even there at home, we had plenty to keep us busy. Completion of the new county museum was at the top of Marson’s list. As for me, I was gearing up to take on a design commission for the county library system’s new main facility; their board had just voted final approval to proceed.

  With Memorial Day behind us, with schools closed, and with the days heating up and growing longer, it now truly felt like summer. On Thursday, Mary Questman phoned, inviting us to an impromptu cookout the next evening in the backyard of her home. She suggested arriving around six, when there would be plenty of daylight remaining for relaxed conviviality.

  On Friday, Marson and I decided to stay at the office past five, using the extra hour for some quiet catch-up, undisturbed. Leaving at six, locking up, I said to my husband, “This is a cookout, remember.” He removed his jacket and tie as we climbed into the SUV.

  Prairie Street, the graceful old boulevard where the members of Dumont’s early elite had staked out their turf, looked serene and welcoming that evening as we cruised beneath the arching elms, which transformed the warm gold of low-slung sunlight into long, cool shadows of dusky blue. As we approached Mary’s house, I noticed familiar cars parked up and down the block—there could be no mistaking Glee Savage’s vintage fuchsia hatchback. I briefly studied the distinctive lines of the Taliesin-designed house Glee had told me about, where a prior publisher of the Register had lived. Marson slowed the Range Rover as we drove by; then he parked only a few steps from Mary’s driveway.