We walked over to St. Barnabas, Nancy carrying the cantaloupe and the coconut and me spinning the duct tape on the broomstick and whistling the Dies Irae. I had a key to the back kitchen door, a key that I hadn’t relinquished despite my resignation before Christmas, and we went in and put our produce on the counter.
“Hang on. I’ll be right back,” I said. “The bells are in the choir room.”
A few minutes later, I walked back into the kitchen carrying C#3, another four-pound handbell, although slightly lighter than our murder weapon.
“Let’s take these outside. It’s going to be pretty messy,” I said. Nancy nodded in agreement and we took our experiment out into the alley behind the kitchen. I set three concrete blocks onto the steps by the kitchen door and stuck the cantaloupe on top of the old broomstick that I’d broken off to the appropriate length. The makeshift Agnes Day dropped neatly into the holes in the blocks.
“That’s about where her head would be,” I said. “Sneak up behind her and give her a whack.”
“Me?”
“You’re a woman, aren’t you? And pretend you’re mad. Make believe it’s Collette.”
“Arrr,” Nancy growled. She measured the distance, took the bell in two hands and absolutely demolished the cantaloupe.
“Well,” I said. “That didn’t take much effort. I think you killed her.”
“Yes,” Nancy smirked. “Yes, I did. You know, it didn’t make much sound either.”
“No, it didn’t,” I agreed. “Okay, then. That wasn’t much of a challenge, and there are those that would argue that a person’s head is stronger than a cantaloupe. We’re going to have to tape the coconut onto the broomstick.”
It didn’t take long, and in a couple of minutes, Nancy was measuring her next attack.
“Hang on,” she said. “That’s a hard shell. It’s going to ding up this bell. This thing has to cost a few hundred bucks.”
“You’re right,” I said. “On the other hand, perhaps it won’t hurt it at all. People have actually dropped them on the floor before. If we ding it up, we’ll pay to get it re-furbished.”
“Shouldn’t we ask permission?” asked Nancy.
“Absolutely. We’ll absolutely ask permission. Now hit the coconut. Remember,” I said, “it’s still Collette.”
Nancy growled again, went into a two-fisted wind-up and smacked the coconut with a swing that would make Joe DiMaggio proud. The resulting clang reverberated in the alley, and although duct tape covered the entire coconut — we had wrapped it completely — seeping out of the silver-gray tape and running down the broomstick was the unmistakable evidence of Nancy’s success.
“Coconut milk. Let’s take the tape off,” I said, “but I’m fairly sure you killed her again.”
After the tape was removed, it was pretty clear to both of us that a woman could have finished Agnes Day off with the handbell in question.
“Look at that,” said Nancy, “The bell smashed the coconut and cut right through the shell. There’s nothing left of this whole side.”
“Not only that,” I added, “but Agnes Day had a lot less damage than this. You absolutely creamed her.”
“It,” Nancy corrected. “I creamed it. Not her.”
“Yeah. How’s the bell?”
“Looks okay to me,” Nancy said, looking at it carefully. “I don’t see a mark on it.”
“There wasn’t any damage to the other bell either,” I said.
“So,” said Nancy, “either a man or a woman could have done this. We’re back to square one.”
“Square one and a half.”
• • •
Back at the office, we resumed our deliberations.
“Whoever hit her,” said Nancy, “didn’t hit her as hard as I hit that coconut.”
“Maybe, they couldn’t hit her as hard,” I said. “She was sitting on the bench and someone came up behind her and hit her on the right side of the head. But if they were left-handed, they would have hit her on the left side.”
“So, it was a righty?”
“Not necessarily. They couldn’t have gotten to her from the left side. Too many steps down and they’d be exposed to the view of the congregation. But swinging right-handed if you were a lefty would account for the relative weakness of the swing. There’s no doubt though, that you could have easily killed her with either hand.”
“I agree,” said Nancy. “Although I probably would have done less damage with my left. You want to go back and try it?”
“No need,” I said. “You, or any other woman in reasonably good shape, could have killed her with either hand. That handbell is heavy. Back to the suspects and clues.”
“Right,” said Nancy, flipping open her pad. “Here’s what we know. Whoever wrote the confession was left-handed. We have, or had, a bunch of suspects. First, Russ Stafford.”
“Cross him off,” I said.
“Second, Ruthie Haggarty.”
“Nope. Cross her off.”
“Next,” said Nancy, “Benny Dawkins.”
“Nope. Didn’t do it.”
“Bennie and Ruthie together in a Bonnie and Clyde scenario?”
“I don’t see it,” I said.
Nancy drew her pen across her pad.
“Kenny Frazier.”
“Nope.”
“Should we worry about who shot him?” asked Nancy.
“I think,” I said, slowly, “that if we figure out who killed Agnes Day, we’ll know who shot Kenny. So let’s use the fact that he was shot to find Agnes Day’s murderer, but for our purposes right now, let’s not worry about who shot him. That make sense?”
“As much sense as anything else,” said Nancy. “How about Renee Tatton? She’s dating Kenny, she was at the Palm Sunday service, she was at the Maundy Thursday service, she’s left handed…”
“She’s left handed? You never told me that!”
“Oh. Sorry, boss. I guess I forgot. I checked on all our suspects. There were two that were left-handed. Renee Tatton and Annette Passaglio.”
“So, Renee’s a viable suspect,” I said.
“How about Annette?”
“Absolutely. If we assume, and I think we must, that whoever wrote the confession note was, indeed, the murderer, then Annette is our number one suspect. She was at both services, she owns a Montblanc pen — indeed, the very one that wrote the note — she was sitting in the pew where the note was written, she hated Agnes Day…”
“But,” said Nancy, “her DNA wasn’t on the handbell.”
“Aye, there’s the rub.”
“So, even if she did do it, we wouldn’t be able to prove it.”
I nodded.
“Back to Renee,” I said. “She was there at both services, left handed, Agnes Day knew about her voice-lift and who knows what else.” I paused. “Hey, what about this? What if she came down from the choir loft with the others when the people were going forward for the Nailing Service, stopped at the back row, picked up the pad and scribbled her confession as an afterthought. Then went up to the front and nailed it to the cross with everyone else. No one would have noticed her with everyone else milling about and standing in line.”
“And the pen?” asked Nancy.
“Well,” I said, “maybe she saw it lying on the pew where Annette was sitting. Or maybe it was sticking out of Annette’s purse. She could have borrowed it, written her note and put it right back.”
“I can see it,” said Nancy, with a nod. “It could have happened like that.”
“How about the DNA on the bell? Any word from the passport office?”
Nancy shook her head. “They said it’d probably be the beginning of next week.”
“We still don’t have a match on the male sample,” I added. “And I’m anxious to see a picture of Olga Spaulding.”
Chapter 24
“Arrrgh!” said Father Owen, beginning the Liturgy of the Black Spot as the Pirate Eucharist was being called. This followed my prelude — variations on the h
ymn tune Melita, better known as Eternal Father, Strong To Save. It was the Navy Hymn, and it was our processional.
“Arrrgh! Alleluia, Christ, he be risen!” Father Owen was dressed in a stunning black and gold coat, pirate boots, a red vest and a plumed hat worthy of Leona Helmsley. He had a couple of pistols stuck in his belt, a shiny silver hook where his right hand should have been, a sword buckled around his waist, and he was accompanied by two acolyte cabin boys hoisting a couple of old-timey lanterns on poles. I, on the other hand, had chosen to be a bit more inconspicuous, donning my black cassock — the one with the hood.
“Arrrgh! The Lord, he be risen indeed. Alleluia!” replied the congregation.
I began the introduction to the hymn. The Pirate Choir consisted of the men from the Holy Comforter choir as well as several men from the St. Barnabas choir who had insisted on singing and had even come down for the rehearsal on Wednesday evening. The congregation joined in with enthusiasm. It was a hymn they knew well.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!
“Almighty God,” said Father Owen. “T’ ye all hearts be open, all desires known, an’ from ye nay secrets be hid: Cleanse th’ thoughts o’ arr hearts by th’ inspiration o’ yer Holy Spirit, that we may parfectly love ye, an’ warthily magnify yer holy Name; through Christ arr Lord. Aye aye.”
This was the cue for our “song of praise” that I had adapted from The Pirates of Penzance.? The men sang like…well, like pirates!
All glory be to God on high,
We sing from under the flag we fly,
And peace to all your people on earth,
As long as they give us ample berth.
We worship you, we give you thanks,
From cabin boy through all the ranks.
But we’ll be true to the song we sing,
Indeed you are the King of Kings!
For……He is the King of Kings!
And it is, it is a glorious thing to serve the King of Kings!
He is the King of Kings!
(HE IS! Hurrah for the King of Kings!)
And it is, it is a glorious thing to serve the King of Kings!
(IT IS! Hurrah for the King of Kings!)
Hurrah for the King of Kings!
There was applause in the church after we finished, and more than a few “Arrrghs.” When the people had come into the sanctuary and picked up their bulletin, they were also given an eye-patch and a small plastic parrot to pin to their shoulders. Although some of the more staid members of the congregation had eschewed the patch and the gift of the Holy Parakeet, most of the folks were definitely getting into the spirit of the service. “Most folks” included Meg and her mother, Ruby, both of whom were wearing their parrots and eye patches and sitting behind the organ, out of sight of the congregation, but with a fine view of the festivities. The rest of the St. Barnabas choir — the ones that weren’t singing — were scattered through the congregation. I had seen Christina, Rebecca, Marjorie, Bev, Georgia, Elaine and Billy Hixon, and a few others before the service had started.
“A readin’ from t’ Book o’ Acts,” said the lay reader, a gentleman named Joshua Williams. He was clad in a yellow shirt, sporting a red bandana and a sash across his chest.
“Peter, standin’ wi’ th’eleven,” the reader began, “raised his voice and addressed th’ multitude, “Ye that be landlubbers, listen t’ what I be sayin’: Jesus o’ Nazareth, a man attested t’ ye by God wi’ deeds o’ power, wonders, and signs that the Admiral did through him among ye, as ye yourselves know — this man, handed o’er t’ ye accordin’ t’ the definite plan and foreknowledge o’ God, ye keelhauled and killed by the hands o’ those outside th’ law. But the Admiral be raisin’ him up, havin’ freed him from Davy Jones’ Locker, because ‘twas impossible fer him t’ be held in its power, says I. Fer David says concarnin’ him, ‘I be seein’ the Admiral always before me, for he be at me starboard hand so that I will not be shiverin’.”
“Yar, it be so,” said Mark Wells, who had come down from St. Barnabas to see the show. He and the rest of the choir were in pirate costumes, but Mark had brought a special guest with him — his pet, a Scarlet Macaw named Reefer.
“Yar, yar,” agreed some of the other choir members. Meg started to giggle. At Holy Comforter Episcopal, the choir sat in the stalls in the front of the church and was in full view of the congregation. They had spent a great deal of time on their outfits. There were several eye patches to be sure, but also a couple hooks-for-hands, a peg leg, tri-corner hats, velvet coats, plumes, capes, and sword. They were a motley, but well-costumed crew. Reefer was the only parrot.
“He’s a freeflyer,” Mark had informed me, when I’d met Reefer a few months ago. “I think he’s about twelve years old, but I just got him last year. Actually,” he added, scratching his bearded chin and pushing his baseball cap back a few inches, “I think it’s a ‘him.’ It might be a ‘her.’ You can’t tell just by looking at ‘em, and I’m not about to go rootin’ under those feathers. He’ll take your hand clean off, if he doesn’t like what you’re doing.”
I believed it. Reefer was a huge Macaw and stood a good three feet long from crest to tail. He sat happily on Mark’s shoulder snapping walnut shells like they were bubble wrap. He was a beautiful animal to watch, mostly scarlet-red with yellow and blue on his wings and white patches around his eyes. The rest of the Pirate Choir was quite jealous of Mark’s living accoutrement.
The reader continued. “Tharfore me heart be glad, and me tongue rejoiced; more o’er me flesh be livin’ in hope. For ye will not be abandonin’ me soul t’ Davy Jones, nar let yer Holy One be seein’ corruption. Ye be makin’ known t’ me the ways o’ life; ye be makin’ me full o’ gladness wi’ yer presence.” He paused. “This be the word o’ the Lord” he concluded. “And all the people replied…”
“Arrrgh!” thundered the congregation. “Awwwwk!” screeched Reefer. This was followed by laughter and more applause. I had to agree. Joshua Williams was a very good pirate.
We said the Psalm, accompanied by Pete’s ship’s bell and a choral refrain Yo, ho, ho, to the Father and Son.
“Avast, me hearties!” said the congregation in unison. “I will be givin’ thanks t’ the LORD wi’ me whole heart, in the assembly o’ the upright, in the congregation.”
“Yo, ho, ho, to the Father and Son,” sang the choir.
“He has shown his swabbies the power o’ his works in givin’ them the lands o’ the nations,” said the congregation.
“Yo, ho, ho, to the Father and Son,” sang the choir.
“Yar,” said Mark, as we finished up. “This be the best Psalm I sung in many a moon.”
“Yar, yar,” agreed members of the choir. Reefer snapped another walnut.
• • •
Reefer, Mark had informed us at the rehearsal, was a talking parrot, or so he had been told when he bought the bird from a friend of his in Greenville. Mark hadn’t heard him speak, although he’d been trying to teach him a few phrases.
“I’m his second owner,” Mark explained to the choir. “He has to really like you to start talking. I’ve had him for about eight months and we’re just now starting to bond. I even took him freeflying a couple of weeks ago. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t sure he’d come back.”
“What phrases are you teaching him?” asked one of the Morganton Pirates, a stalwart fellow with a stick-on church nametag that proclaimed “Hi, I’m Pegleg Pete.”
“When I heard we were invited to a Pirate Eucharist, I started trying to teach him to say ‘the gifts of God for the people of God,’” said Mark. “I haven’t gotten him to do it yet, but he’ll be ready next year. You can bet your stump on it!”
• • •
The gospel lesson for the
second Sunday of Easter is always the same — the story of Doubting Thomas, slightly different when translated to piratese.
“A readin’ from the Gospel Accordin’ to Cap’n John,” said Father Owen.
“Aye, aye!” said the crowd.
“When ‘twas evenin’ on that day, the first day o’ th’ week, and the hatches o’ the house where th’ disciples had met were battoned fer fear o’ the fleet, Jesus came and be standin’ among ‘em and said, ‘Peace be wi’ ye.’ After he said this, he be showin’ them his hands and his side. Then th’ maties rejoiced when they saw th’ Lord. Jesus said to ‘em again, ‘Peace be wi’ ye. As the Admiral has sent me, so I send ye.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said t’ them, ‘Be receivin’ th’ Holy Ghost. If ye forgive th’ sins o’ any, they be forgiven them; if ye be hoardin’ th’ sins o’ any, they be hoarded.’”
“I’m starting to understand him,” whispered Meg. “This is not a good sign.”
The lay reader — Joshua Williams — stood up. He was going to be playing the part of Thomas. Father Owen continued the reading.
“But Thomas the Bos’n’s mate, was not wi’ them when Jesus came. So th’ other disciples told him, ‘We be havin’ seen th’ Lord.’ But he said t’ them…”
“Unless I see th’ mark o’ th’ nails in his hands, me hearties,” said Joshua, “and put me finger in th’ mark o’ th’ nails and me hand in his side, I will not be believin’.” Joshua had his part memorized. It was a nice touch.
Father Owen took over again. “A week later, the Lad’s disciples were again in th’ foc’sle, and Thomas was wi’ them. Although th’ hatches be battoned down, Jesus came and stood among ‘em and said, ‘Peace be wi’ ye.’ Then he said t’ Thomas, ‘Put yer finger here and see me hands. Reach out yer hand and put it in me side. Do not be doubtin’ but believe.’ Thomas answered him.”
“Me Lord and me God!” bellowed Joshua.
“Jesus said t’ him, ‘Ha’e ye believed because ye be seein’ me? Blessed be those who ha’e not seen and yet ha’e come t’ believe.’” There was a pause and then Father Owen finished the reading with “This be the word o’ th’ Lord! And all th’ people replied…”
The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 18