The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  Chapter 8

  “Did you talk to Father George?” Meg asked me on Sunday evening.

  “Yep. I called and told him this afternoon. He actually answered his cell phone. I must say, he was quite upset.”

  “Rightfully so.” Meg was sitting at my kitchen table watching Archimedes eat his supper and contemplating recent events. “Don’t you find it odd and a bit unnerving that St. Barnabas has had such a crime wave in recent years?”

  “Not really,” I said. “You forget. I heard her play.” I held up another mouse, and Archimedes took it gently from my hand with his beak.

  “Your bad joke aside, isn’t it weird? And this is the second person to be murdered in the choir loft.”

  “That’s why I used to keep my 9mm Glock under the organ bench. You never know who’s going to take offense at a Hammerschmidt passacaglia. I wanted to be prepared.”

  “Well, I think it’s weird,” said Meg.

  “It’s coincidence,” I said. “It’s not really a crime wave. There have been a couple of murders, sure, but not anything outside the realm of statistical probability for a town this size. And accidents happen all the time.”

  I gave Archimedes the last of the three mice I had taken out of the freezer to thaw. Archimedes was a barn owl that had shown up at the cabin a couple of autumns earlier. I fed him regularly and, over the years, he had become quite used to us. So much, in fact, that I had installed an automatic window in the kitchen so he could enter or leave as he pleased. In the freezer, I kept a supply of mice and a few baby squirrels that I got from Kent Murphee, the coroner in Boone. Where he got them, I never asked. I opened the fridge door and got out the last of Pete’s Wicked Ales, turning back around just in time to see the owl hop up into his windowsill and disappear silently into the dusk.

  “He’s amazing, isn’t he?” said Meg. “I never get tired of watching him. I’m glad he’s stayed around, but I guess he’ll vanish one of these days, and we’ll never know what happened to him.”

  “I guess,” I agreed. “But he’s not that old yet. He may be around for a while. Lord knows, he doesn’t have to scavenge much for food. And he does look pretty well fed.”

  “Speaking of ‘well fed,’ did Father George talk to you about playing this week?”

  “Yes. And what has ‘well fed’ got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. I just thought it was a nice transition,” said Meg. “That, plus you need to go on a diet.”

  “What?”

  Meg giggled. “It’s called ‘stream of consciousness.’ It’s a book I’m reading. You’re supposed to say whatever you’re thinking.”

  “Well, stop it,” I said.

  “Speaking of diets,” Meg continued, “do you think you might consider playing this week? Just through Easter?”

  “Only if you stop,” I said.

  “Done and done,” said Meg, holding out her hand for me to kiss. I missed her hand entirely.

  • • •

  I walked down to the corner and turned right, then right again, left, then right, right, straight, right, straight and a quick left. I popped a mallard into a hotel lobby and looked around for the lounge. It wasn’t hard to find. I’d been here before. I strolled up to the bartender.

  “What’ll it be, Mac?” he snarled in a low grunt, casually wiping down a glass.

  “A shot of Four Roses and an answer,” I said, laying a sawbuck on the bar. “I’m looking for a palooka that goes by Pedro LaFleur. Big guy, about two eighty. Cauliflower ear. Flat nose. Three-inch scar under his eye. Sings counter-tenor for the Presbyterians. Hard guy to miss.”

  “Sorry Mac, I ain’t heard or seen nobody like that.” He reached for the sawbuck, but I covered it with my badge--

  the one I’d swiped from Detective Krupke. He gave a nod toward the back of the bar and slid the bill out from under the badge. I smiled and took my drink for a little walk.

  Pedro LaFleur and I had been partners in a past life. We had been closer than two cousins in a Kentucky hayloft, but went our separate ways about ten years ago. There were ideological differences. He couldn’t get past my understanding of the doctrine of Divine Simplicity as applied by St. Thomas Aquinas, and I didn’t see his need for wrestling with the hermeneutic problems of tri-theism in reformed theology. Now I needed his help.

  “Hello, Pedro,” I said, sitting down across from him.

  He smiled at me--a smile that would make my blood run colder than a penguin’s pizzle if I wasn’t on the same side of the draw.

  I filled him in on what I knew. He didn’t say much, but then, he never had to. He just sipped his drink.

  “Sounds interesting,” he finally said. “I’m in. But let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry as Kate Moss’ tapeworm.”

  • • •

  Monday morning was rainy, cold, windy, and, by and large, one of the nastiest days we had seen for quite some time. When you get used to a couple of weeks of beautiful spring weather, it’s always a shock to be shoved back into winter by a nasty Mother Nature who doesn’t want to be taken for granted. And, to top it all off, we were in for two inches of snow, if you could believe the weatherman on Channel Four, which no one did. If he predicted two inches of snow, it was a cinch that we’d either get ten or a heat wave. The odds were about even. I pulled up in front of the police station just in time to see Nancy get out of her Nissan and slam the door angrily.

  “I just got my bike out, and now this,” she growled. “I hate Channel Four.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed. “Let’s go see if we have anything from Kent.”

  I doubted that Kent would even be in his office this early, much less have a coroner’s report ready on Agnes Day. I was right. Nancy and I headed over to The Slab after leaving a note for Dave. We always left a note, even though he knew where to find us, especially on a miserable Monday morning with murder lurking in the air.

  “Do you feel it?” I said to Nancy, sniffing the air like a bloodhound as we walked the two blocks to the café.

  “Feel what?” asked Nancy. “All I feel is cold and wet.”

  “It’s murder in the air,” I said. “Lurking.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nancy grumbled. “Lurking. It’s definitely lurking. You love this stuff, don’t you?”

  “The weather?” I asked. “I don’t mind it so much.”

  “No, not the weather. The crime, the chase, figuring it out.”

  “Well, I must admit, it does put a spring in the old detective’s step.”

  “Mine, too,” Nancy said, with a wicked grin.

  • • •

  We sat down at our table in The Slab, although, on this particular Monday, we could have had our choice of any of the tables. The weather was keeping all of Pete’s usual patrons inside. Noylene Fabergé was sitting at the counter having a cup of coffee. Pete was in the kitchen, I supposed, just waiting for our order.

  “Hi, Noylene,” said Nancy, as she took her seat. “Is your beauty shop open yet?”

  “Not yet. If it was, I wouldn’t be working here anymore.” Noylene stood up and came over to the table with her coffee pot.

  “I thought you liked it here,” I said, holding out a cup.

  “I like it fine. I just wouldn’t have time to do both. What can I get you?”

  “Whatever’s easy,” I said. “Dave’s coming, too. He’ll be here in a bit.”

  “I’ll tell Pete you’re here and that you’re hungry.”

  “As Kate Moss’ tapeworm,” I added.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” I said, as Noylene headed for the kitchen. I turned my attention to Nancy. “Did you hear anything from the lab?”

  Nancy had taken all of our crime scene evidence to the state police lab in Boone last night. It wasn’t CSI Miami, but it was certainly better facilities than we had in St. Germaine. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much evidence. We found the murder weapon, of course — the handbell, but our subsequent search of the choir loft turned up nothing except qu
ite a few sequins scattered on the floor in front of the organ. I suspected they came from the soloist’s gown, given the way she was flapping about. I picked one up and turned it over. It hadn’t been sewn onto her dress, but rather, applied with hot glue. There were probably so many of them on there that twenty or so wouldn’t be missed. Nancy had diligently collected them and sent them to the lab with the other evidence.

  I doubted that the handbell had anything to tell us except that it was, in fact, the murder weapon. Kent Murphee could match the indentation to the bell and there was probably enough blood on it to make an irrefutable match. I didn’t think that there would be any fingerprints. That would be just too easy.

  Dave walked into The Slab. The door caught the wind, yanked it out of his hand, and banged it against the jamb with a force I thought might break the glass, but didn’t.

  “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” said Pete, bringing some country ham biscuits to the table.

  “I like it,” said Dave, taking off his coat and dropping it over a neighboring chair.

  “To the case at hand,” I said. “Nancy, what do we know?”

  Nancy pulled out her pad, flipped a couple of pages and checked her notes.

  “Agnes Day was killed yesterday sometime between noon and 12:20. The choir came down from the loft after the service was over. She was still alive at that point.”

  “I listened to the MIDI recording,” I said. “It was just about six minutes long before it was cut off. So, if she started at noon, or close to it, she was killed six minutes later. We didn’t find her until 12:20.”

  “Right,” said Nancy. “I haven’t heard from Kent, but we’re presuming that she was killed by blunt force trauma — a handbell to the head. I interviewed most of the choir last night. Plus a couple of members of the vestry, Beverly Greene, and Father George. No one saw anything unusual. Everyone says they left the choir loft after the benediction, put their robes up, and went straight to the parish hall. All eight of them. I haven’t gotten to talk with the soloist. She wasn’t available, but I’ll catch up with her this morning.”

  “Renee Tatton,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “How about motive?” I asked Nancy. “Did you come up with anything?”

  “She wasn’t well liked. No one I talked to had anything good to say.”

  “No one?”

  “Nope. Mighty peculiar. She was, by all accounts, singularly unpopular.”

  “We need to talk to Benny Dawkins,” I said. “He had a disagreement with her. I heard something about a lawsuit.”

  “I’ll check it out,” said Nancy.

  “There’s something else. Lucille Murdock, the lady who is making the decision about how St. Barnabas will spend the sixteen million dollars, was Agnes Day’s home health care patient.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” said Dave.

  “Yes, quite,” I said.

  “Another thing,” said Nancy. “Did you happen to watch America’s Funniest Videos last night?”

  “Is that show still on?” asked Pete.

  “Syndication,” I said. “I didn’t watch it.”

  “Me neither,” said Dave. Pete shook his head.

  “Last night they played a video of the Passaglio wedding.”

  “Really? Was it funny?” asked Pete.

  “It was freakin’ HILARIOUS!” said Nancy, laughing at the thought of it.

  “What’s it got to do with the murder?” I asked.

  “You’ve got to see it,” Nancy said. “I’ll see if I can get a copy of the tape. It was sent in by a videographer in Boone. I got his name.”

  “Yeah,” I said, impatience creeping into my voice. “But what does it have to do with…”

  “Agnes Day,” interrupted Nancy, “was the organist.”

  Chapter 9

  Pedro and I made our way to Ramelle’s, an all-you-can-eat buffet on the next block. We were greeted by the Maitre d’Porcelet and shown to our table.

  “So, who’s the brains?” Pedro asked, looking at me over a huge platter of fried squab and probable equine parts. Ramelle’s was known for their vast quantities of food, most of it unidentifiable once it hit the grease.

  “The boys gave me a name. Miss Bulimia Forsythe. Know her?”

  “I’ve heard of her,” said Pedro, slurping down what might be a lung, or perhaps a forelock. “Soprano, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Skinny? Red hair?”

  “Really skinny,” I said.

  “I don’t know how she does it. I’ve seen her in here putting down enough to choke a Sumo wrestler on Fat Tuesday.”

  “It’s a puzzler, all right,” I said.

  • • •

  I met Annette for lunch at The Ginger Cat. She was waiting for me at a table in the back and waved at me as I came in. Annette Passaglio was a long-time member of St. Barnabas and had been on the vestry a couple of times since I had been organist. She was the closest thing St. Germaine had to a socialite, if our town could claim to even have such a class of folks. Her husband, Francis, was an orthodontist, but Annette was from old money, and I always had the feeling that she merely tolerated his profession, believing that it was beneath the societal position to which she aspired. She’d rather that he had been a surgeon or an investment banker or, better yet, a congressman, and she wouldn’t have minded funding any one of those dreams, had Francis shown even the smallest amount of ambition.

  I made my way past the other diners and sat down across from Annette.

  “It’s nice to see you, Hayden,” said Annette, holding out her hand palm down, as if to be kissed. It was the second hand that I’d had offered to me in the last two days, but this time, I reached across the table and shook it, hoping I’d made the correct decision.

  “It’s nice to see you, too.” I said. “Have you ordered yet?”

  “No,” she said, with a pitying look. “I thought I’d wait for my dining partner.” It took me two beats to comprehend the unspoken rebuke at my faux pas. I smiled in self-defense. Oops.

  “Ah, well…ahem,” I stammered, clearing my throat and noticing that she’d already placed her menu down on the table. “What would you like?”

  “I’ll have the duckling and wild rice,” she said, ordering the only entrée on the menu with a price tag of twenty bucks. “And raspberry tea. Iced.”

  Meg had given me some etiquette tips for my lunch meeting with Annette, and one of the things she prepped me on was ordering. It was my job and mine alone. Cynthia walked over to our table with two glasses of ice water and set them down warily. Then she stood back and looked at them for a moment before reaching across the table and moving my glass a quarter inch to the right. She’d obviously encountered Annette as a customer before.

  “Are you ready to order?” she asked. “Or would you like more time?”

  I think we’re ready,” I said. Annette just smiled.

  “Mrs. Passaglio will have the duckling and wild rice. And raspberry tea. Iced.”

  “And for the gentleman?” said Cynthia.

  “I’d like the wild rice as well. But I don’t care for baby ducks. May I have piglet with mine?”

  Cynthia made a snorting sound as she tried to stifle her laugh. It was not a lady-like snort. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re out of piglet.”

  “Then I shall have a sandwich. Sprouts and mushrooms, I guess. Maybe some other fungi, if there’s some lying around the kitchen. You choose. Hey! What about the feet from the duckling? Can you put those on there, too? Maybe a little Grey Poupon?”

  “No feet,” said Cynthia. “We put those in the soup, but I’ll check on the availability of fungi. They may be out of season.”

  “They’re never out of season in my shower.”

  “That’s more information than I need,” laughed Cynthia, heading toward the kitchen.

  The cold smile never left Annette’s face.

  • • •

  I had seen the wedding video an hour earlier at the station. Na
ncy had gone down to Boone and gotten a copy from Todd Whitlock, Watauga County’s foremost wedding videographer. The whole thing had been very entertaining, and I smiled in spite of myself as I remembered it.

  As wedding videos went, the beginning was pretty typical. Nancy fast-forwarded to the homily and handed me the program that went with the video. Father George was one of the two ministers involved in the service, the other being someone I didn’t recognize and who the program identified as Rev. Caleb Latimer, minister of St. Matthew’s United Methodist Church in Greenville. I assumed that this was the groom’s minister.

  Misty Passaglio’s wedding was the social event of last winter. Even though a February wedding in St. Germaine was rare, Misty’s fiancée, Jerry, who worked for the State Department, had been assigned to the American Embassy in Italy beginning in April. It was a job of which Annette approved, and although it would have been preferable for Misty to have her wedding in June, or even late May, Annette thought that a winter wedding might be distinctive enough to offset the seasonal awkwardness. I had been invited, of course, but in reality, only as “the help.” Once Annette found out I wouldn’t play for the wedding, both Meg and I were quickly relegated to inconsequential status, and since I make it a policy not to be present at any weddings that I am not paid to attend, we both skipped it entirely.

  I had heard that, although Misty wanted to be married in St. Barnabas, Annette had decided that the church was just too small for the number of guests that would be attending. There were any number of churches available, but Annette had chosen Covenant United Methodist Church in Boone. The sanctuary was white and crisp, they had a piano as well as a pipe organ, and, most importantly, it could seat about twice the number of people as could attend if the wedding were held in St. Barnabas.

  I turned my attention back to the tape. Rev. Latimer had just finished his homily as Nancy and I watched intently.

  “Here it comes,” she said. “This is just great!” Nancy hated Annette.

  According to the program, it was time for the vows and, after they had been recited, the soloist would sing O Promise Me, not my favorite, but then, it wasn’t my wedding. The videographer was in the back balcony with a good telephoto lens. He panned back for a wider shot. The soloist, who was sitting in the first pew, walked up to the piano and stood in the crook, waiting for his cue. The piano wasn’t on the dais, but placed on the floor of the sanctuary, nestled into a niche constructed for just that purpose. The organ console, on the other hand, was up on the platform, the entrance on the same level as the minister’s overstuffed furniture, and separated from the congregation by a raised panel that mimicked the choir railing stretching across the front of the church.