The Soprano Wore Falsettos

by Schweizer, Mark

  “Just sequins. They had remnants of hot glue on the back.”

  “Did you send the bell to the lab?”

  “Yes. No prints at all. The lab sent it over to Durham to get it checked for DNA. Just in case. My guy says that the bell was probably wiped down.”

  “Probably, but maybe not. Those handbell players are fanatics about fingerprints on their bells. They wear gloves anytime they touch them.”

  “Really? I had no idea,” said Kent.

  “I doubt if you’ll find a fingerprint on any handbell in the church,” I said. “Thanks, Kent.”

  “Anytime. You guys at St. Barnabas are keeping me in business.”

  Chapter 11

  Francine was in my office the next morning, as bright and early as the bird after that worm, or maybe even ants, the occasional spider or even a wasp, if you happened to be a grackle and up as early as Francine.

  “ I hear that you’re looking for Miss Bulimia Forsythe,” she said sweetly--a sweetness I recognized instantly as the candy coating on a cake listed in the Relationship Cookbook as “Strychnine Surprise.”

  “ Well...yes, I was,” I answered, as innocently as I dared.

  “ Listen, Bub,” she said in a low growl. “You’d better not have anything to do with that floozy, or I’ll turn you inside out quicker than the sock matron at Wanda’s Wash ’n Wear.”

  “ Take it easy, doll,” I said. “She’s a suspect. I think she’s involved in the coloration scam.”

  “ If I find out you’re lying...”

  “ Francine,” I said with an unabashed ogle. “How could I ever step out on you?” I almost think I meant it. There she was, standing in front of me in her hospital whites, that little hat perched on top of her no-nonsense, short blonde hair, a thermometer tucked neatly behind one ear, a blood pressure cuff dangling tantalizingly from her waistband, the seams of her white support hose running in precise vertical symmetry from the perfect hem of her starched dress straight down into her sensible shoes. It was a sight that would make any red-blooded man with a nursing fetish slap his mother.

  “ I was just checking,” said Francine, smiling coyly at my leer before sitting down on the couch, crossing her nylon-covered, alabaster legs and giving me a glimpse of one white garter belt. “I saw her yesterday. She was at the hospital getting a post-op check.”

  “ Post-op?” I asked. “Post-op for what?”

  “ Miss Bulimia Forsythe just had another...procedure. It’s the third one in a couple years. Apparently she thinks that a bigger chest will give her more breath support.”

  “ So,” I said, “she’s packing a couple of falsettos.”

  “ Yep.”

  • • •

  “Hey, guess what?” Pete said, banging open the door to the station. “I have a clue!”

  “A clue for what?” said Dave, who was working the desk. “Hey, is Collette back from Hickory yet?”

  “Yeah, she’s back. A clue to the murder, that’s what!”

  “Well, come on in,” I said. “And tell us of this wondrous clue.”

  Since Nancy was in the official “visitor’s chair,” Pete flopped down in my old, blue leather wingback. “You see,” he began, “I was talking with a guy who knows a guy…”

  “Names, Pete. We need names.”

  “Okay. I was talking with Molly Frazier.”

  “That’s not a guy,” said Dave from the doorway.

  “I was changing the names to protect the innocent,” said Pete. “They do it all the time. I have to protect my sources.”

  “You’re not a reporter, Pete,” said Nancy. “You don’t have sources.”

  “Anyway…” I urged.

  “Anyway,” continued Pete, “Molly comes into The Slab, and I happened, in the course of our conversation, to ask about her brother, Kenny.”

  I nodded. “The feds got him for growing pot,” I explained, for Nancy and Dave’s benefit. “Medicinal.”

  “Yeah,” continued Pete. “Medicinal.”

  “Did you ask her out?” asked Nancy. “She’s pretty cute.”

  “Maybe,” said Pete, hesitantly. “Okay, sure, I asked her out,” he acknowledged with a smile. “She’s very cute.”

  “Back to the clue,” I said.

  “Right. So I ask her about Kenny, and she says that Kenny’s out on bail. She said that Kenny told her that something bad was going to happen to Agnes Day. He said that bad karma will get you every time.”

  “So?” said Nancy.

  “Kenny’s aunt is Lucille Murdock. Agnes Day, the organist, was Mrs. Murdock’s home health care nurse. So, this is what Molly tells me. Kenny, when he’s trying to get his prescription for medical marijuana refilled, visits his aunt, sees Nurse Day in her dress whites, and asks if she can get him the prescription. She says she can’t, but she suggests that he contact the Feds and maybe they can do it for him.”

  “Holy smokes,” Dave said. “She set him up.”

  “I don’t imagine she thought that he’d actually do it,” I said, “but you can never underestimate the sheer perspicacity of someone that’s been taking medical marijuana for twenty years.”

  “Perspicacity?” said Dave.

  “Ingenuity,” I said. “Perspicuity, intellect, cleverness, astuteness.” I pulled the top page off my “Increase Your Vocabulary Desk Calendar,” a Christmas present from one of the choir members, and handed it to Dave.

  “How often does that work?” Dave asked.

  “Almost never,” I admitted.

  • • •

  It was late in the afternoon on Tuesday when Nancy came back into the office. I was still filling out forms, my once-a-month penance for taking the city’s paycheck.

  “You almost finished, chief?” she asked.

  “A couple more,” I replied. “Did you find out anything?”

  “I did. It’s Tuesday, two days after Agnes Day was killed and, so far, there’s only one claimant for her estate. There wasn’t any will that I could find, and I doubt she had one. She had a quarter million in a savings account, but that was deposited a couple of weeks ago. She probably hadn’t even thought about a will. Anyway,” said Nancy with a sigh, “I turned everything over to the county attorney. He says it’ll all go to probate.”

  “Who’s the claimant?”

  “That’s the interesting part. Her only living relative, that we can find, is a niece.”

  “Does she live in town?” I asked.

  “Well, just outside. It’s Ruthie Haggarty, Little Bubba’s distraught widow.”

  “Ruthie? She’s in the lock-up, right?”

  “Nope. She made bail Sunday morning.”

  “What time?”

  “About eight,” said Nancy. “Her attorney got to a judge on Saturday. He pled spousal abuse. You have to admit, it’s a pretty compelling argument. Anyway, the judge let her put her trailer and the three acres up as bond.”

  “So now she’s in line for a cool quarter million.”

  “Is that motive?”

  “Did she know about the money?” I wondered.

  “If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have put in a claim with the county attorney, now would she?” said Nancy.

  “That’s motive.”

  • • •

  “Do you think that’s everyone?” I asked Meg, after I had filled her and Ruby in on the day’s revelations. We were relaxing on Meg’s porch, listening to the Sanctus from Bach’s B-Minor Mass and enjoying the remainder of the port that Bud had recommended for my dinner party last Saturday. The guest list had included Malcolm and Rhiza Walker, the Sterlings, Meg and myself.

  Malcolm had been very impressed by the wine selection. He was used to drinking spirits that sold upwards of five hundred dollars per bottle. I didn’t tell him how much these bottles cost or that my sommelier was a fifteen-year-old wine snob who was washing dishes at The Slab Café. It made the wine taste all the sweeter, especially when he asked for the label information.

  “I’ll just write these dow
n,” he said, pulling a six hundred dollar pen out of his two thousand-dollar cashmere blazer.

  “Nice coat,” I said. “Nice pen, too, but you’re going to be surprised by the price of the wine.”

  “Thanks,” said Malcolm, clicking his pen open and pulling a business card out of a solid gold clip. “Rhiza got them for me for Christmas. The card clip, too. Nice, eh? It matches the pen. And I don’t mind spending a little more for a good vintage.”

  “You’re such a show-off, Malcolm,” laughed Rhiza. “I don’t think that’s what Hayden meant.”

  The more I thought about it, the more I figured Malcolm was chapped at the prospect of having Lucille Murdock decide what should be done with the church money. From what I knew of Malcolm, this would have irked him to no end.

  “Is that all?” I repeated to Meg. “I’ve got four people with motive and opportunity. Most of the time, I can’t even find one suspect. Now I have four.”

  “Five,” said Meg.

  “Five?”

  “Yep,” she said. “Russ Stafford.”

  I’m sure I looked confused. “Why Russ?”

  “I asked Malcolm about The Clifftops this afternoon. I thought it might be a good opportunity for a couple of my more risk-taking clients. Malcolm told me that he went over Russ’ numbers, and there’s no way he’d invest any money out there. Russ hasn’t sold even one lot. He’s over-extended, and unless he sells something fast, he’s going to be in bad shape.”

  “How bad?” I asked.

  “Bankrupt.”

  “That’s bad,” I agreed. “So what does this have to do with Agnes Day?”

  “I’m so happy you asked. Since Lucille Murdock is in charge of making the decision about the new rectory, Russ has to convince her that investing in The Clifftops is a good idea. Unfortunately for Mr. Stafford, Agnes Day was Lucille’s nurse.”

  “So?”

  Meg looked over to her mother.

  “Agnes Day hated Russ Stafford,” said Ruby. “She thought he was a crook and hated him with a passion.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Russ sold her a house about ten years ago, but he was acting as both buying and listing agent and didn’t tell her. Agnes Day found out he was working both sides of the deal after the contracts were signed and it was too late, but she could carry a grudge like nobody’s business. She had nothing good to say about Russ Stafford. And she told him on Saturday, over at The Ginger Cat, that if she had anything to say about it, he could choke on his Clifftops Properties. I know this,” Ruby said, “because I happened to be there having lunch one table over. Not that I was listening in,” she added.

  “It’s good you weren’t,” I said. “Did you not happen to hear anything else?”

  “Well, Russ bent down and said something to Agnes. I couldn’t hear what it was, but she went white as a ghost.”

  “Very interesting. So, if Russ was hoping to get Lucille’s okay on the real estate deal, he had to get her away from Nurse Day.”

  “That’s about right,” said Ruby. “By the way, your cell phone’s ringing.”

  “Man,” I said, fumbling through my pockets. “Is there anyone in this town who didn’t want to see her dead?” I found my phone on the fourth ring.

  “Hi Nancy,” I said, flipping the cover up. There were two people who had my cell phone number, and I was sitting with one of them. “What’s up?”

  “Go turn on Channel Four. Right now. Hurry up!”

  “Turn on Channel Four,” I called to Meg. She walked into the living room and clicked on the television. Ruby and I followed her in and stared. There, on Channel Four Eyewitness News, was footage of the one hundred-twenty million dollar Powerball winner accepting her check in Nashville.

  It was Malcolm Walker’s wife, Rhiza.

  Chapter 12

  “ Marilyn,” I called out. “Bring in the liturgical color chart, will you?”

  She slithered with a lurching movement, sort of like a snake with one bad leg.

  “ What’s with the slithering?” I asked. Marilyn was a good secretary, but changed her stripes quicker than a tiger didn’t.

  “ I’m trying a new look,” she said, dragging one shapely gam behind her like a Quasimodo Junior-Miss. I read in ‘Hymns and Hers’ that church musicians find this alluring.”

  “ Not so much,” I muttered, taking the chart from her outstretched hand.

  This was the latest chart--approved just three years ago. I didn’t even remember it coming up for a vote. It was as cut and dried as a rogation salami and sailed through all the committees without a second look. It was the same old thing, but with just a couple changes. There were a few more choices than in the “good old days.” Gold, several shades of green, dark blue, light blue...these were all options.

  “ Do we have a chart of the proposed colors?” I yelled after Marilyn as she lurched back to her desk.

  “ Not yet,” she hollered back. “It should be here this afternoon.”

  “ When’s the vote scheduled?”

  “ How should I know?” she yelped. “You’re the detective.”

  • • •

  I hadn’t been to a staff meeting because I wasn’t on the staff, and I hadn’t been to a worship meeting because I didn’t want to go. I explained all this to Marilyn on Wednesday of Holy Week.

  “You see, Marilyn,” I explained, patiently, “I’m not on the staff, so I don’t have to go to the meeting.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I just think you might want to know what’s going on.”

  “I actually don’t even care what’s going on. It has nothing to do with me. I’m just coming tomorrow night for the Maundy Thursday service and Sunday morning for Easter. That’s it. Then, for the next two weeks, I’m playing at two other churches.”

  “Okay,” said Marilyn. “I guess you’ll just have to be surprised.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore. Just tell me what the hymns are and I’ll ask the choir what they’ve been working on. I presume that they’re still having rehearsal tonight?”

  “As far as I know. Have you heard from Rhiza yet?”

  “Nope. No one has. I think she’s in hiding.”

  “You know that Agnes Day’s visitation is tonight as well. Over at Swallow’s Mortuary.”

  “I’d heard that. I think I can get over there before choir rehearsal.”

  “I think everyone that was in her choir is going. I guess I’ll head over there, too. It’s sad, really. She has no family at all, and Mr. Swallow said there were no inquiries from friends. I hope I don’t end up like that.”

  “No chance of that,” I said, with a smile. “I’ll make sure there’s standing room only at your funeral, even if I have to pay people to come.”

  “You’re sweet. Thanks.”

  “By the way, is there any word from Lucille Murdock? How is she going to spend the sixteen million?”

  “No one knows,” replied Marilyn, “because nobody’s heard from her. When Agnes Day was killed, Lucille went down to visit some family members in Hickory. There’s been a lot of talk, but we haven’t heard anything.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Umm…Hayden?”

  “What’s up?”

  “You know I wouldn’t normally repeat anything that I heard in the church, right?”

  “You are the soul of discretion. Now, spit it out.”

  “I was in the sanctuary, taking the Palm Sunday bulletins up to the choir loft. The soloist and Agnes Day were rehearsing, and I didn’t want to interrupt them, so I stood on the stairs, up at the top, waiting for them to finish before I went into the loft.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, I dropped some of the bulletins. So I was picking them up off the stairs and Agnes Day said to the soloist…”

  “Renee Tatton,” I interrupted.

  “Right. Renee Tatton. She said that she recognized her from when she was the office nurse for Dr. Camelback in Boone.”

  “The plast
ic surgeon? That Dr. Camelback?”

  “I guess so. It’s the only one I know. He’s got that infomercial on TV running every hour on the hour.”

  “Makes sense. I understand that Ms. Tatton is quite an ardent enthusiast.”

  “So I’ve heard. Anyway, Renee sort of hems and haws and says ‘Oh yes, how are you?’ and Agnes Day says ‘Do you still have your special friend? I sure wish I had somebody to take care of my doctor bills. I’d be in there every month. He’s a great doctor. An artist.’”

  “She called Dr. Camelback an artist?”

  “That’s what she said. Then she asked — and I swear this is what I heard — how her voice-lift was working out.”

  “Her what?”

  “Her voice-lift. That’s what she said. Do you know what a voice-lift is?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I admitted. “But I’ll find out.”

  • • •

  I was walking back to the police station when it started snowing. A spring snowfall wasn’t an uncommon event in St. Germaine, but it certainly was an unwelcome one. Most of the flowers that had peeked their faces out a week ago in anticipation of an early spring and some easy cross-pollination were now doomed. I’d put on my jacket when I left the office for the church. Now I zipped it and turned up the collar as I headed back.

  Skeeter Donalson met me just as I turned the corner. He was wearing a sweatshirt that proclaimed “I saw ‘The Immaculate Confection’ at The Slab Café,” (one of Pete’s marketing ploys), and he had a handful of flyers that he was giving to anyone who went by.

  “What’s this, Skeeter?” I asked as he thrust one of the lime-green handbills toward me.

  “Noylene’s Beautifery,” Skeeter said. “She’s opening up on Friday. A ‘grand opening,’ she says. There’s gonna be balloons and pie.”

  “An excellent combination,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “There’s a coupon there, too. It’s good for three dollars off your first stylin’.”

  “A first-rate opportunity,” I said. “I could use a haircut. Thank you, Skeeter.”