“ That reminds me of a pirate joke,” said Marilyn.
“ Not in the mood,” I muttered. “Bring me some joe, will you?”
Marilyn skipped in carrying a steaming mug of coffee and a cinnamon bun shaped like the Virgin Mary. “I thought you could use this, boss. You look as bad as…as bad as a bad looking…um…goat. No, wait…that’s not very good. Shoot. I can’t think of these similes as easily as you.”
“ Keep trying. You’ll get the hang of it quicker than a freshman jack-rabbit on a promdate,” I said. “Now, got any suggestions on this color caper?”
“ Did you check for clues?” Marilyn asked.
“ Yeah. Can’t find them,” I grumbled.
“ Chapter 13?” she asked.
“ Nope. I was looking in Chapter 10.”
“ Look in 13,” she said, skipping back out of the office. “That’s where you put them.”
I laughed like King-Kong on helium.
• • •
“Have I told you how good you’re looking lately?” said Meg. “Your running program is really paying off.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve dropped a few pounds.”
“And rearranged a few more. I swear, I can hardly keep my hands off you.”
“What’s stopping you then?” I asked. “Self-control? A court order?”
“The first one,” laughed Meg. “That, and I don’t want you to think that I’m easy.”
“Ha!” I said. “Too late for that.”
“How’s the Pirate Eucharist coming?”
“Pretty well, I think. I’ve completed my English to Pirate translator. Now I can simply plug in the collect for the second Sunday of Easter and all the lessons. Oh yeah,” I added, “also the Nicene Creed.”
“The creed?”
“Allow me to demonstrate,” I said, assuming what I thought was a perfectly credible pirate accent. “Arrrgh! We gives the nod to one baptism fer the fergiveness ’o sins. We look fer the return voyage from Davy Jones’ Locker, and the life ’o the world t’come. So says one, so says us all. Aye, aye!”
“Oh, no!” Meg said.
“Oh, yes, me buxom beauty. Now will ye join me in a rousing sea chantey?”
“Did you write it?”
“You mean, ‘Did ye write it?’” I corrected.
“Yes, did ye write it?”
“Aye.”
“What’s it called?” Meg asked.
“ How Great Thou Arrrgh!”
• • •
“Gary Thorndike called,” said Nancy, as soon as I entered the police station. “He wants you to call him back.”
“I’ll do it right now,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been working on the Pirate Eucharist. There’s a rehearsal tonight.”
“I remember,” said Nancy. “I have a hymn for you. Dave and I have been working on it all week.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
Nancy cleared her throat and began.
Arrgh! The herald pirates sing,
Glory to the Heav’nly King!
As we sail the seven seas,
Yo, ho, ho is our reprise;
Buckles swashed and timbers shivered,
Legs all pegged and lilies livered.
With a pillage and a loot,
Pirates really give a hoot.
Arrgh! The herald pirates sing,
Glory to the Heav’nly King!
I nodded. “Other than ‘Pirates really give a hoot,’ that’s not bad. But, I think it’s a little too Christmasy.”
“Yeah,” said Nancy. “We were afraid of that.”
“I have two hymns,” I said, “and some service music. It’ll be very distinctive.”
“Go in and call Gary Thorndike, will you?” Nancy said, with a laugh. “We need to get these crimes solved.”
• • •
“Hi, Gary. This is Hayden.”
“Hey there. I think I’ve got some news for you.”
“Great. What’s the verdict?”
“Well, you know the coffee cup that Officer Vance brought up yesterday?”
“Yes?” I said. “Was it a match to the DNA on the bell?”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“Not even close,” said Gary.
“Well…that qualifies as news, I guess.” I was disappointed.
“But the DNA on the bell finally came back with a name. Sometimes it takes a while. DNA is as easy as fingerprints to match, but the databases aren’t nearly as complete yet. It takes a few days, in most cases, to match the DNA with a name.”
“So which is it? The man or the woman?”
“The female. Her name is Olga Spaulding. The reason that we have her DNA in the database is that she had to give a sample when she applied for a work visa in Egypt. Apparently she was working for the State Department in 2002. At least, they’re the ones that have her sample on file.”
“Olga Spaulding? Never heard of her.”
“Really? She’s one of the people who handled the bell.”
“Can we get a picture?”
“You can call the State Department in DC and see if they have a picture. They may have one on file. The passport office does, I’m sure, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to get a copy anytime soon. Sorry. I thought this information would help.”
“Thanks, Gary,” I said. “I’m sure it does. I just don’t know how yet.”
• • •
I gave Nancy the news and the assignment of weaseling a picture out of the State Department as quickly as possible.
“So, it’s not Annette.”
“It’s not her DNA on the handle of the bell.”
“I guess that would have been too easy.”
“I guess. I’m going down to The Slab for lunch. Let me know if you hear anything from the passport office.”
• • •
“Hi, Collette,” I said, as I sat down at my table. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re looking particularly…umm…obsidiastic today.”
“Obsidiastic?” said Collette.
“Onyxian,” I said, searching for just the right inoffensive word. “Melanoid, nigrescent. Downright piceous.”
“Huh?”
“Collette,” I said. “You are definitely a darker shade of pale. What happened?”
“I went down to Noylene’s Dip ’n Tan. She was giving me a free one.”
“She still doesn’t have the formula perfected?”
“Oh, yeah. She really does. My hands just slipped when she was dippin’ me. I fell into the tank and couldn’t get out for a couple of minutes.”
“How long is that color going to last?”
“It should start to wear off in a couple of weeks. Faster, if I take more showers.”
I nodded. “Cleanliness is next to godliness. What’s the special today?”
“Pete got some rainbow trout,” Collette said. Then she lowered her voice. “He bought them out of this guy’s trunk around back.”
“What did the guy look like?” I asked.
“Medium build. Sort of old. Short hair, glasses and a gray beard. The weird thing was that he was wearing a leisure suit from the ’70s. One of those yellow ones with the white stitching. He even had the white belt and the white shoes.”
I nodded. “That’d be Cleamon Downs. He sells fish out of his trunk. I wouldn’t worry about it. His fish are usually fresh. The trout producers think he robs their farms at night, but we’ve never been able to prove anything.”
“You want it, then?” asked Collette.
“Absolutely.”
I sat by myself for ten minutes, waiting for my lunch and doodling notes on the pad I’d brought with me. I was still missing something. Collette brought me a cup of coffee I hadn’t asked for and set it down in silence. I put down the pad when my lunch arrived.
I sat at the table and looked deep into the eyes of my entrée —
a beautiful rainbow trout, made even more enticing by an orange teriyaki sa
uce. Pete came and sat down across from me.
“Collette says you’re thinking really hard.”
“Well, I was trying to.”
“Yeah, yeah. How do you like the trout? Nice, eh?”
“Much better than your usual fare,” I said.
“I got a couple of dozen from Cleamon. He had some nice ones. Still wriggling.”
“He must have been busy last night.”
“I guess. I haven’t had any calls from the trout farms,” said Pete. “Usually, when they’re missing some stock, I get calls giving me a heads up and asking me not to buy any free range trout that might turn up.”
I tasted the trout. It was delicious.
“How’s the Pirate Eucharist coming along?” asked Pete.
“Good. The rehearsal’s tonight. I have everything ready I think.”
“Do you need a ship’s bell?” asked Pete. “I have one in the back. You could use it for the Sanctus. Or even the Psalm.”
I held up a finger, put down my fork and opened my cell phone.
“Hi, Nancy. Get me Fred May’s number, will you? Yeah. At the bank.” I waited while she looked it up, then said “Thanks,” and dialed.
“Fred? This is Hayden.”
“Hey there. What can I do for you?”
“You remember a couple of Sundays ago? The Palm Sunday service?”
“Yes. I think so. That was the Sunday Agnes Day was killed.”
“Yeah. Do you remember who was in the choir? There were only about six of you, as I recall.”
“I think that’s right. There was Marjorie and me. Renee Tatton was there ’cause she sang a solo.” He paused. “I’m pretty sure that Steve was there. Judy and Christina. I think that was it.”
“You remember singing the Psalm? You know, ‘Blessed is he who comes,’ ‘horns up to the altar’ and all that.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“There was a handbell that someone used to give a pitch before every refrain.”
“Yep. I remember.”
“Who was ringing the handbell?”
“Why,” said Fred, “I was.”
• • •
“Fred’s coming to the station in about a half hour,” I said to Pete, as I continued attacking my lunch. “And I’ve alerted Nancy. If his DNA matches the male sample we found on the bell, we can exclude it from the equation. Then we just have to find the female.”
“Unless, he’s the one who killed her,” said Pete.
“Now, Pete, why would you say that and ruin my lunch?”
“I was thinking last night how hard you’d have to hit someone with a bell to kill them. It’s a heavy bell, sure, but it’s not solid. There’s a lot of give in the metal. I mean, it’s not like hitting someone with a pipe. With a piece of pipe, you’ve got leverage and an unyielding material. It’d be fairly easy for anyone to exert enough force to crush somebody’s skull.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “There was only one whack. It had to be a doozy.”
“By someone who was pretty strong.”
“A man, then.”
“Or a big ol’ woman,” said Pete.
“Or a little woman with big ol’ Popeye arms.”
The door of The Slab opened, and Carol Sterling came in.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said, pointing in my direction. “I just heard that you aren’t going to be at St. Barnabas on Sunday.”
“Nope. I was just subbing for Holy Week and Easter. I have a Pirate Eucharist to play at Holy Comforter in Morganton.”
“Well, that’s just great! ” she said, in disgust. “A Pirate Eucharist on the very day that my granddaughter is getting baptized. We put it off because we thought you would be there. Who have they gotten to play the organ?”
“I’ve no idea. If you could put it off a few more weeks, I might be able to schedule it in.”
“Nope. Can’t do it. The whole family’s coming up. This baby’s almost three months old. We’ve got to get her legal.”
“Why don’t you take him up to Morganton?” said Pete. “He could be baptized as part of the service. Show her, Hayden.”
“Glad to,” I said. “Arrrgh, me fine little laddie. Are ye prepared t’ walk the plank in t’ name o’ Jesus?”
“I don’t think that would go over so well,” said Carol.
“You’re baptizin’ a baby?” said Collette, wandering up with a pitcher to refill my water glass.
“Is that you, Collette?” asked Carol, squinting hard at her. “I thought that Pete had finally caved in to the Affirmative Action Commission.”
“There was a little accident at the Dip ’n Tan.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Carol, doing her best to hide her grin. “And the answer is ‘yes.’ We’re baptizing my granddaughter on Sunday morning.”
“Do y’all dunk him all the way under?” asked Collette. I’d never seen her so interested in Episcopalian beliefs. Something was afoot. She had been going to a non-denominational fellowship since Pete had hired her about a year ago.
“We don’t dunk infants,” I said. “Usually, we pour water on their heads. But most priests don’t mind dunking older folks if they want to be dunked. We just have to find another place to do it. Episcopal churches don’t have a tank big enough.”
Well,” said Collette, with a sniff. “We have a big baptism pool. Big enough for five grown people. Pastor Kilroy says that he don’t believe in infant baptism. I don’t either.”
“I don’t mind who gets baptized,” I said. “Baby or non-baby, I’m happy either way.” I ate the last bite of my fish. “How about you Pete?” I asked. “Do you believe in infant baptism?”
“Believe in it?” said Pete, with a snort. “Hell! I’ve seen it!”
• • •
Nancy was just finishing with Fred as I walked into the station. She had taken two DNA swabs and was packing them into their cases in the prescribed manner.
“Hi, Fred,” I said. “I’m sure Nancy told you what was going on. We just need to exclude your DNA from the samples we have.”
“Okay with me. The thing is, though, somebody handed me that bell. And if my DNA is on it, I sure don’t know how it got there.”
“Why is that?” Nancy asked.
“I was wearing handbell gloves.”
Chapter 23
I knew three things. I knew who killed Memphis. I knew who was ratting out the Bishop. And I knew that I wasn’t about to wear puce on the Feast of the Transfiguration.
I walked past the Possum ’n Peasel. It didn’t look like the same place. They had changed the name to TJ Frumpett’s and had hung ferns in all the windows. There was a line around the block, and they now had a bouncer standing at the door behind a velvet rope. It was Pedro LaFleur.
“ Pedro,” I asked, “Is this your new gig?”
“ Just on weekends. Any news on the murder?”
“ Yeah. I found the clue. It was in Chapter 13.”
“ Ahhh,” he said. “Well, who did it?” He lifted the rope for a 38C.
“ Can’t tell you yet. I’m not to the end of the story.”
“ Oh, yeah,” he said. “Did I mention that I also checked on the Soprano Enhancement Franchise for the lower East side? Guess who’s got it?”
“ Who?” I asked.
“ Bulimia Forsythe Enterprises, Inc. They’re running infomercials selling a book called What The Singing Teachers Don’t Want You To Know . Wanna know what’s in it?”
“ I’ll bet it’s something to do with breath support.”
“ You got THAT right,” said Pedro, eyeballing a 36B up and down before flagging her in.
“ It looks like they’re doing a brisk business in falsettos,” I said, looking down the line.
“ They’re running a special. Buy two, get one free,” smirked Pedro.
“ So that’s the scam,” I said. This case was clearing up like a sixteen-year-old’s face at a Clearasil clambake.
“ What?” a
sked Pedro, holding the rope aside for a 40 double D.
“ You have bigger sopranos, you need more liturgical fabric…”
Pedro nodded, and shooed away a 32A. “And the more fabric you sell, the more money you make.”
“ It’s simple economics.”
• • •
“Did you hear the news?” asked Meg.
“I don’t think so,” I answered. “What news?”
“Dave Vance and Collette are engaged.”
“No! Really?”
“Yep. Collette announced it at The Ginger Cat. She has a ring and everything.”
“That’s great. I’ll bet that was why Collette was so interested in Episcopal baptism. Dave may have to get re-dunked before the big day.”
“Really? They do that?”
“All the time,” I said. “If you’re dunked when you’re a baby, it may not have taken.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s in the Bible somewhere. Maybe in Second or Third Fallopians.”
“Well, that explains it then. By the way, how did your Pirate thingy rehearsal go last night?”
“I think it’ll be fine,” I said. “The men’s choir is very good, and they all have their outfits.”
• • •
It was Friday when I got a call from Gary Thorndike. The verdict was in on Fred’s DNA. No match.
We weren’t back to square one, but we weren’t much past square two. I called Nancy into my office.
“Okay,” I said, with a sigh, “let’s go back over what we’ve got.”
“Suspects,” said Nancy. “We’ve got suspects and a few clues. Whoever wrote the confession was left-handed and maybe a man.”
“But maybe a strong-willed woman.”
“Probably a man,” said Nancy, “if we include Pete’s theory that if the person who wrote the note was also the murderer, he had to be strong enough to kill the old coot with one blow to the head with a bell that, although it was heavy, still had a lot of bounce.”
The Soprano Wore Falsettos Page 17