“That’s okay,” I said. “We have some DNA and other evidence. We just need to know where to look.”
“It would be better if I had the original sample,” Margaret said, her eyes going back to the note. “There’s only one well-documented case of a bad guy actually being caught by a graphology profile — George Metesky, the “Mad Bomber” of New York City in the 1950s —
and he was really nabbed because he’d revealed too many clues about his past in a letter to a newspaper. Of course, things were different then. The courts accepted graphology as a legitimate forensic technique.”
“We’ve got a few people we’re looking at. We just need a little direction,” I said.
“Okay.” She shook her head. “It’s not a lot of script. I wish the sample was larger.”
“Whatever you can give us would be appreciated.”
I killed the organist. I had no choice. Please forgive me.
“First of all,” said Margaret, “I think the writer is left-handed. If there were maybe ten more words, I could say for sure. With this, an eighty percent chance. Also, I think it’s a woman, although I could be wrong. Women tend to have more refined penmanship than men, so it’s a pretty good guess. Don’t hold me to that, though.”
I started taking notes. “Probably left-handed, probably a woman,” I said, writing quickly. “Anything else?”
“You want more? The rest is all conjecture,” she warned.
“Give me all you’ve got,” I said.
Margaret sat forward in her chair, holding the piece of paper in both hands. Then she sighed and nodded.
“See this slant? It’s indicative of a lefty. But, beyond that, it tells me that the outstanding elements of this writer’s personality are her extroverted drive together with inner emotional turmoil.”
“Emotional turmoil?” I said.
“There are some characteristics that tell me that. Very irregular writing, variable form and variable size, irregular baseline, lack of continuity, writing stops and starts,” said Margaret. “I think that the writer is always responding to outside events with the underlying motive being to win social approval.”
“You can tell all that?”
“Yes, look.” She pointed to the paper. “Irregularity of form and movement coupled with exaggerations of the slant. This is classic. The writer is driven to favorably impress everyone who crosses his path in order to gain their admiration of his abilities. But inwardly the writer feels inadequate.”
“There are only eleven words,” I said, astonishment evident in my voice.
“Yeah, it’d be better if I had more to work with. When the writer hides his feelings and intentions, she not only hides her emotions from others but suppresses them within himself. See the distorted middle zone letters?”
I nodded.
“Although outwardly she tries to play the role of the perfectionist, inwardly she is a risk taker — see the strong rightward drive, the sudden burst of writing speed on the word ‘please?’ She welcomes new ventures, wishing to be free from the fetters of convention.”
Margaret sat back in the chair and relaxed, no longer looking at the note.
“I would say that neither inner peace nor outer predictability are within the writer’s reach. In personal relationships, her reactions are probably unbalanced. All her energies are applied to defending an uncertain self-image whose defects she refuses to admit.”
I had stopped writing and was now simply staring at her. She shrugged and smiled.
“Changing forms of letters and the connections between the letters themselves. A variable base line coupled with a shifting emphasis of writing pressure. It’s quite simple, really.”
“Quite simple,” I agreed.
“I’ve also changed my mind. The writer is probably a man. Either that or a very strong-willed woman.”
“That’s amazing.”
“And all inadmissible in court,” said Margaret, with a smile. “But I hope it helps. Does this analysis fit any of your suspects?”
“To a tee. Would you mind writing all of that down? I’m afraid that I missed some of it.”
“My pleasure.”
• • •
Nancy called at about five o’clock. I was still hanging around the office, going over the notes that Margaret Meyerson had given me. If she was as good as she appeared to be, she’d given us a pretty good description of a couple of our suspects.
“Hi, boss,” Nancy said, when I answered the phone. “I think I discovered what happened.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m in Kenny’s barn. Not the main one by the road. The little one about two hundred yards behind the house.”
“I didn’t know he had another one.”
“Yeah. It’s where he keeps his backhoe and some other equipment. Anyway, I followed the blood trail back here. It was sporadic but pretty easy to follow. There’s a spring gun set up in the rafters and aimed at the back door of the barn. It’s been fired and there’s blood on the ground. Kenny must have forgotten about it or thought the feds had found it. It looks as though he set it off himself.”
“Any other footprints or anything?”
“Yeah,” said Nancy. “Lots. Probably from all the FBI agents. A can of bug spray, too.”
“Well, bring the gun in. Maybe it was an accident. Apparently, Kenny wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree.”
“Have you heard anything from the hospital?
“Yeah. He didn’t make it.”
Chapter 18
It was time to answer some questions. The first question on my list had to do with the murder of Memphis Belle. Who killed her and why? I had some ideas, but I might be way off base.
If there was one rule in detective work, it was to follow the money. Someone was going to a lot of trouble to work this liturgical color scam, and I needed to know the reason. Who’d be in the chips if the deal went through?
There was Raoul, of course, and the rest of the decorating boys, but they were just patsies working for Miss Bulimia Forsythe. The contract would be worth millions. None of the current colors would be allowed under canon law, and the Methodists, Lutherans and Presbyterians would fall right in line like a quaver of ecumenical baby ducks. Even the Catholics would eventually make the switch. They liked to think of themselves as “cutting edge,” even though they were usually about twenty years behind.
So who wanted Memphis Belle dead? I thought it was pretty obvious, and I was going after the culprit.
• • •
“Would you like to go down to The Ginger Cat for lunch?” Meg asked. “There’s no sense in writing any more today. Your muse has clearly left the building.”
“It’s Saturday, and I’m finished writing,” I said. “It’s a day for college basketball. A day for knockwurst, bratwurst, and kielbasa —
all grilled and consumed with a modicum of really good beer. I’m thinking Tuppers’ Hop Pocket Pils. I have some in the fridge in the basement.”
“But then you wouldn’t have the pleasure of my company,” said Meg. “Bratwurst or me — you decide. But I must warn you: choose wisely.”
“Do you think they would have some kielbasa at The Ginger Cat?” I asked, hopefully.
“No, but you could probably sneak one into the restaurant in your expando-pants,” said Meg, with a giggle. “Is that your lunch, or are you just…?”
“Enough,” I said. “I shall endure another sprout-ridden lunch for the sake of your company. And, by the way, I’m not wearing expando-pants.”
“That’s what you say.”
• • •
“Hello, Cynthia,” I said, as Meg and I found a table in The Ginger Cat and sat down. “You’re looking particularly swarthy today.” Meg kicked me under the table.
“Look at her,” I whispered to Meg. “I’m not wrong, am I?”
“I went into Noylene’s Dip ’n Tan,” said Cynthia, bringing a couple of menus over to the table. “I don’t think she has the mixture right yet. I�
��m a little darker than I wanted.”
“It looks very nice,” said Meg. “Very smooth. You look as though you just got back from vacation.”
“Yeah, two years in the Ecuadorian rain forest,” I added under my breath, only to be kicked again. I didn’t bother looking at the menu. “I’ll have a pork chop and some German potato salad.” I wasn’t hopeful. I was just trying to make Meg feel guilty.
“You’re in luck,” said Cynthia. “We have some weisswurst and kraut left. It’s grilled with red peppers and onions.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I don’t know,” I said, scratching my chin. “Maybe I’d rather have a watercress and radicchio sandwich with a side of bok choy.”
“Okay. There’s not much left anyway,” Cynthia said. “Do you want it, Meg?”
“Wait!” I almost shouted. “Please give me the weisswurst! Pleeease!”
“Apologize for your comments about my tan,” said Cynthia.
“I do. I apologize,” I said quickly. “Your tan is ravishing. Thou art dark, but comely, O daughter of Jerusalem, dark as the tents of Kedar, dark as the curtains of Solomon.” I could see Cynthia blush, even under her Nubian countenance.
“Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makes thy flock to rest at noon. If thou know not, O fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds’ tents.”
“That’s just about enough of that! ” said Meg.
“Wow!” said Cynthia. “What an apology! You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Well,” I said, modestly. “I didn’t actually write it.”
“I’ve heard it before,” said Meg. “And I’d better not hear it again.”
“But Meg,” I said. “”Didn’t you hear her? They have weisswurst! Weisswurst!”
“I heard, but you didn’t have to spout the Song of Solomon.”
“ Weisswurst!”
“Okay, okay. I knew they were serving it for lunch. I even brought you one of your beers.” Meg reached into her purse, pulled out a brew from my secret stash, and placed it on the table.
I was overcome. Tuppers’ Hop Pocket Pils and weisswurst. “Thy lips, O my love, are as the honeycomb. Honey and milk are under thy tongue and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.”
“Enough already,” said Meg. “Before you get to the part where you say that my belly is like a heap of wheat.”
Chapter 19
“ Marilyn,” I called, “Call me a tow truck, will you? Some jamoke skizzed my jalopy slot.”
“ You know, most of the time I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“ Listen, Marilyn, it’s no fun being a detective if my own secretary doesn’t get the lingo. Now hustle your pins down to Sheila’s Hard-Boiled Supply and get yourself a dictionary.”
“ Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it this afternoon.” She was lying--lying like the Clinton commemorative presidential impeachment rug, but I was too tired to care.
“ There’s someone in your office to see you,” she said. “She’s got the color chart.”
“ Yeah?”
I went into my office, and there she was--Miss Bulimia Forsythe, looking like a six-foot tall, red-haired, watermelon tree.
“ Hi, Bulimia,” I said, flopping into my chair. “It’s been a while. What have you got for me?”
“ It’s the color chart for the new liturgical calendar. Care to give it a look?”
“ Yeah. Let’s see it.”
Bulimia spread the chart out on my desk, and I looked it over. It was worse than I thought. The color for Advent was titled “Shrimp.” Lent was “Sunset Blush.” Epiphany was changed to “Seafoam.” The other colors on the chart included Cricket, Cranberry Spice, Cobalt, Butterscotch, Mauve and Puce.
Bulimia put a skeletal hand over mine. “There’s enough money here for all of us,” she said. “Just let it alone.”
“ Can’t do it, Bulimia. Not after you killed Memphis.”
“ I didn’t kill anyone.” She seemed surprised. “And I don’t know anyone named Memphis.”
“ What about your boys?” I asked.
She shook her head, and her teeth rattled like seeds inside a pumpkin. “Of course not. They’re good boys. Graduated first in their class at the C.L.A.M. That’s the Christopher Lowell Academy of Mincing. C’mon,” she said, flipping me half a flirt. “Sure, I’d like the cash, but I’m
not going to kill someone over a bunch of fabric swatches.”
I may be a sucker for a couple of falsettos in a Lycra tube sock, but I think I almost believed her.
• • •
I woke up early on Easter morning, pulled on my bathrobe and walked into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I opened the door to let Baxter outside and stared across the field at two feet of new snow. I was on the phone to Meg as soon as my coffee was ready.
“Good morning and Happy Easter!” I said. “Did you guys get any snow in town?” Although I was only about twenty miles from St. Germaine, the difference in precipitation was sometimes astounding.
“Happy Easter, yourself! And the answer is yes. Yes, we did,” said Meg. “It looks like a couple of feet. I haven’t seen this much snow since December. Are you going out jogging?”
“Not this morning. I’m going to leave here early. The roads are bound to be pretty bad. I’ll stop by and pick you up.”
“Okay. Drive carefully.”
• • •
I drove up to Meg’s door with about an hour to spare. I must admit that it didn’t seem much like Easter. Easter was all about rebirth and resurrection, and here I was, on the first Sunday in April, driving through snowdrifts to get to the Easter service. It wasn’t April Fool’s Day, but it was close enough for me to envision St. Mednard, or whichever Catholic saint was currently in charge of weather control, chuckling over his prank. At least, I thought to myself, I didn’t have to play for the sunrise service. They were on their own for that one.
Since I was early, Meg, Ruby and I decided to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee before I drove everyone to the church. Meg only lived about a half-mile away, and normally we would have walked. Ruby, who attended the Baptist church, decided that it might be better to go with us on this particular morning. She would have had to make a five-mile commute in her old Buick, and her car lacked the four-wheel drive capability that made my old truck so serviceable. I offered to drive her, but she said that she’d just as soon go with us.
“They’re having a performance of an Easter cantata by John W. Peterson,” said Ruby. “I went to a couple of rehearsals, but I just couldn’t do it. Hang on. I have a flyer here somewhere.”
“Do you have any donuts?” I asked. “I’m starved.”
“There’s a cheese danish in the fridge,” said Meg, “but it’s about a week old.”
“Great!”
“Here it is,” said Ruby, finding the flyer and reading it out loud. “ The Glory of Easter by John W. Peterson premiered in 1962. It will be performed by our Sunset Choir on Easter morning at the eleven o’clock service.”
“The Sunset Choir?” I asked, munching happily on my danish.
“That’s the old folks choir,” explained Ruby.
“So I gathered,” I said. “But isn’t that a bit morbid? That’s like calling them the ‘Eternal Rest Choir’ or maybe the ‘One Foot Already In Heaven Choir.’”
“That’s good,” laughed Ruby. “I prefer to call them the ‘Sit In My Seat and Die Choir.’ They’re very possessive.”
“So, you don’t want to hear The Glory of Easter?” I asked.
“They’ve sung it every other year since 1962. It never gets any better.”
• • •
For a cold, wintry morning in April, it looked as though attendance at St. Barnabas would be surprisingly good. It was almost like every other Easter that I had experienced in the small Episcopal church, except fur coats, earmuf
fs and mittens replaced the usually festive Easter hats and spring outfits. Meg and I walked into the nave and were heading toward the choir loft when I saw Benny Dawkins.
Benny was practicing with the thurible, something he did for about fifteen minutes before the congregation arrived. He didn’t have it lit, so the effect wasn’t quite as dramatic as when the incense pot was sending smoke cascading through the sanctuary, but I watched in appreciation as Benny walked down the center aisle, whipping the thurible through its various orbits, before stopping it on a dime just before it crashed into the altar. It was a pleasure to watch a true professional at work.
Benny had finished his warm-ups and was walking back to the sacristy to fill the pot with incense when Russ Stafford walked into the sanctuary.
“Hey, Benny!” he called loudly, from six pews away. “I heard about your violin. What was it worth? A cool quarter million?”
Benny ignored him and continued toward the door leading into the sacristy.
“I wish that I would have bought it from you, but I didn’t know you only wanted eight hundred bucks!” Russ laughed the raucous guffaw of the boorish real-estate salesman.
“I don’t think that I would make Benny too angry,” I whispered to Meg. “He’s got quite a temper. Russ is on thin ice.”
I met with the choir, and we went over the Messiah choruses, tuning up a few spots that I felt could use a little tuning up. I hadn’t chosen the hymns, but Marilyn had given me a “heads up.” One of the hymns, Up From The Grave He Arose , isn’t actually found in the Episcopal hymnal, but Father George had printed the words in the bulletin, hoping, I presume, that everyone knew the tune. I was pretty sure that some people did, at least the congregants that came to the Episcopal church later in their ecumenical experience. The cradle Episcopalians, or the “frozen chosen” as they are referred to by the Episco-Come-Latelys, had probably never sung it. I had copied the hymn out of a United Methodist hymnal, knowing that I, at least, would need the music in front of me.
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