"Not right away. I ain't stupid."
"Of course not," I said.
"When we heard the car drive off. That's when we came out."
Nancy had left the driveway and walked the twenty feet over to the front of the house. "Were the lights on when you came out?"
He nodded. "They're usually not on till Dr. Jackson gets home. But I guess they're programmed for burglars or something. They were on when we came out."
"Does she have an alarm system?" I wondered.
"I've never seen one. I think they're just motion lights. Some of them come on when you walk up to the door."
Nancy walked back over to us. "The picture window in front is gone. There's glass everywhere. The two side windows are gone, too. I don't know what else yet."
"Did you see the car?" I asked.
"Nope. It was dark."
"Not that dark when it happened," said Nancy.
"I looked out the window," Len said. "But I couldn't see anything. I wasn't about to come outside."
"What did the car sound like?" Nancy asked.
"Well, it needed a muffler. Or it might have been a truck, I guess. An older truck. You know, it had that rumble. That's all I noticed. I wasn't coming outside. Not till I was sure they were gone."
I turned to Nancy. She nodded and jotted the information in her pad.
"Let's walk around the house, make sure it's secure. Then we'll go talk to Mrs. Purvis…"
"Roweena," interrupted Len.
"Roweena. Then I'll go into town, tell Gwen and come back out with her and get an inventory of the damage. You want to stay here till we get back?"
"Yeah. I'll stay and clean up what I can," said Nancy.
"She'll appreciate it, I'm sure. I don't think we can get any repair people here until tomorrow so she'll probably have to stay in town tonight."
"Her name's Roweena," Len said to Nancy, "but everyone calls her Weenie."
"I'm sure they do," Nancy replied.
"Can I go back to my pork chops?" asked Len.
"Yes sir, you certainly may," said Nancy with just a twinge of sarcasm in her voice. "Thanks for your help."
* * *
I pulled up to St. Barnabas at five till eight, just as people were beginning to come out of the Parish Hall. I presumed that the parish meeting had just concluded. I parked the truck and went into the church to find Gwen Jackson. I found her talking to Davis Boothe and Father George by the kitchen door. Meg spotted me coming in and came over to join us.
"Hello, Hayden," said Gwen. "We missed you at the meeting."
"It couldn't be helped. Can I talk to you for a second?" I indicated we should go outside onto the patio.
"Sure." Gwen slipped on her coat and headed for the door.
"I'll be back in a second," I whispered to Meg as I turned to follow Gwen. Meg gave me a wink and fell into a conversation with Father George and Davis.
"How was the election?" I asked Gwen as I hurried to catch up with her.
"Well, I'm on the vestry again."
"Really? That's great. Who else was elected?"
"Davis and Russ Stafford. That's what we were talking about when you came in. Rob Brannon was elected Junior Warden. That was a surprise."
"Yeah. How about Senior Warden?"
"Jed Pierce."
"He'll do a good job," I said, as we exited the double doors and made our way onto the patio. It was a nice night. Cool, but not too chilly. "Listen, Gwen. There's been some vandalism out at your house."
"What kind of vandalism?" She was shocked.
"Someone shot out the windows of your living room. A shotgun we think. I'd like to take you out there and walk through the house. Nancy's out there now."
"Okay. Sure. I'm not staying out there tonight, though. I'll get a room in town."
"I thought you would. Do you mind if Meg comes out with us?"
"No, I'd like that. May she ride with me?"
"Of course. I'll go get her. Then I'll follow you two to your house. Do you know anyone who might have any reason to do this?"
"Of course not."
"No teenager's favorite pet that might have had to be put down? Nothing like that?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. I'll go back and look through the files, but I think I would remember."
"Go back a ways, will you?"
"Sure. I'll do it first thing tomorrow."
Chapter 17
It was around nine in the morning when Kent Murphee, Ace Coroner, came into the police station.
"I thought you guys would be over at the Slab," he said to Nancy, who was working the desk.
"Not this morning," said Nancy. "We sent Dave for some donuts though. He should be back in a couple of minutes."
"Excellent. I'll be happy to wait. If you offered me some coffee, I wouldn't refuse it."
"I'll put on a fresh pot."
"Hi Kent. Anything new on our friend?" I said as I came out of my office.
"As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. I need to look at the altar if you don't mind."
"Okay with me. I'll go let you into the church."
"Let's wait for Dave first," Kent said. "I haven't had any breakfast."
"Do you have a theory?" Nancy asked.
Kent smiled. "I just might. I heard you guys had a shooting last night."
"Yeah. Over at Gwen Jackson's place," I said. Then for Nancy's and my sake, as well as Kent's curiosity, I went over the details.
We didn't have any leads on who shot the windows out of Gwen Jackson's house. When Gwen, Meg and I arrived, Nancy had the lights in the house on and most of the glass swept up. Roweena Purvis didn't have anything to add to her husband's account. She didn't even come outside. Len had told her to stay in the kitchen and call the police. The road was paved, so there weren't any tire tracks. As near as we could tell, the windows were shot from the front yard. Maybe twenty feet away. There were shotgun pellets in the house, but most of the damage was done to the glass. Whoever pulled the trigger blew out the eight-foot plate glass window in the living room, two full-length windows on either side of the front door, the bathroom window in the front of the house and one of the small windows on the garage door. Gwen had called the insurance company and they were meeting her this morning. We, the long arm of the law, had nothing. No clues except a witness hearing a twelve-gauge shotgun—a suspicion borne out by empty twelve-gauge shells on the lawn—and what might be an old car or truck in need of a muffler. Nancy had collected the spent shells, but there were no fingerprints to be found on any of them. She thought that this pointed to an adult rather than a kid bent on mischief. Not many kids bothered to wipe the shells clean before loading them or to put on gloves before handling the ammo. Gloves were clumsy when handling a twelve gauge.
"You catch the guy?" asked Kent, after I had reviewed the evidence.
"Nope. And no leads either. I think that whoever did it knew she wasn't home. It wasn't as though they were looking to break in or do her any harm. They just wanted to make a mess. Maybe scare her a little."
"Is she scared?"
"They obviously don't know Dr. Jackson," Nancy said. "If she finds out who did it, she'll turn them every way but loose."
"Did you guys find out anything about Lester Gifford? Or have you been too busy?"
"As a matter of fact," Nancy said, "I've found out a few interesting things."
The door opened and Dave came in with a box of donuts.
"Set them over here, Dave," said Kent. "I'm the guest."
Nancy had pulled out her pad and was flipping through a few pages while we all made ourselves comfortable.
* * *
"I did some background on the church first. Did you know that Robert Brannon, Sr. (Rob's great-grandfather) was a major contributor to St. Barnabas in the early years?"
"We knew that," I said. "Rob has pointed it out to anyone who will listen on more than one occasion. There are several stained-glass windows with a Brannon family dedication inscribed at the
bottom."
"Right. Robert Brannon, Sr. made his fortune in the Civil War. He was originally from Maryland and received one of many contracts from the government to supply rations to the Army of the Potomac. By the time the war was over, he had amassed several million dollars and bought eight hundred acres just outside of St. Germaine. By 1899, he had sold most of it and had moved into town."
"Okay," I asked, "what happened in 1899?"
"In 1899, St. Barnabas burned down. January to be exact. Rob, Sr. was sixty-two years old. In March of that year, the rector of St. Barnabas named Caleb Mortenson, Rob Sr., and two parishioners were killed in a flash flood. According to the newspaper, they were picnicking by the New River. All four of the bodies were found downstream."
"Quite a tragedy for the church," said Dave.
"Yep. The church was rebuilt in 1904. It took them that long to raise the money. I found a couple of letters—Marilyn gave me access to the archives—mentioning that if Rob, Sr. was still alive, the church might have been completed sooner. Rob's son, Rob, Jr., was not enamored of St. Barnabas and didn't see rebuilding as a priority.
"I'm jumping ahead now. It's 1937 and Lester Gifford, our deceased, is an assistant manager at the Watauga County Bank in Boone. There's a merger in the works and, according to the bank records, an extensive audit is underway prior to the merger. Part of this audit, the part that Lester is in charge of, is the identification of the owners of accounts that have not been accessed for several years. Remember, all these records were on paper. There weren't any computers or electronic files. Ledgers, notes, bankbooks, bonds, and certificates were the order of the day. On February 8th, 1937, Lester Gifford was murdered and placed in the altar of St. Barnabas."
"How did you come up with the date?" asked Kent.
"He was mentioned in an article in the Watauga Democrat on January 15th. The bank merger happened on February 25th. There was a fire in the records room of St. Barnabas on February 8th. Most, but not all, of the records were lost. The fire went out on its own and didn't spread to the rest of the church. The newspaper said that arson was suspected, but it was just a blurb. No real details, but I don't think the fire was an accident.
"Got it," said Kent.
"Neither Lester, nor his wife Mavis, had any connection with the church that I could find; however, the Senior Warden of St. Barnabas, a Mr. Harold Lynn, was also the owner and president of Watauga County Bank. His father, Wesley Lynn, was the president of the bank in 1899. "
"Coincidence?" asked Kent.
"I doubt it. But if you think so, here's another one. There was a Sunday School teacher named Jacob Winston who was also the church historian. His day job was as a teller at Watauga County Bank. Jacob was arrested on March 4th on the charge of murder. There was no trial and the charges were dismissed—lack of evidence and no body—but Jacob wasn't hired by Northwestern Bank after the merger. Jacob died in 1942. Harold Lynn died in 1958."
"So you think that Jacob did it?" asked Dave.
"No. Actually, I think that Harold Lynn did it."
Kent and I nodded in unison.
"I think that Lester found something in the audit—something that would have impeded the sale of the bank that was about to go through. I also think that it had something to do with the church. That's why the record room was set on fire. Whatever Lester found was also probably in the record room."
"So, if Harold Lynn killed him, it was probably over a financial document," I added.
Nancy nodded. "Yep. And it would have stopped the merger from going through. It's not a big leap to make. Lester found out something, brought it to Harold Lynn. Harold killed him and set Jacob up to take the rap."
"How about this?" I said. "What if Lester went to Jacob, since he was the historian, and enlisted his help to find whatever document might have been in the church records room?"
"And Harold Lynn didn't know if Jacob knew anything or not," Nancy added with a smile. "So he framed him to make sure he wouldn't talk. I'd buy that."
"So," I said, "the only question is, what kind of financial document, that the church would have in its possession, would Harold Lynn think was worth committing murder to keep under wraps?"
Nancy shrugged. "I don't know. Something to stop the sale of the bank. That much is obvious."
"And why didn't Lester's body decompose?" asked Dave.
"That's what I'm about to find out," said Kent.
* * *
It was Thursday—Soup Thursday—and Meg was saving me a table at the Ginger Cat. It was, as usual on any Thursday, packed for lunch.
"Hi there," I said. "Did you order for me?"
"I did indeed. It feels like a clam chowder sort of day."
"I agree," I said, taking my seat. "That sounds great. Anything else happening?"
"Well…there's some scuttlebutt around town."
"Care to fill me in?" I asked.
"It's about you."
"Me?"
"Uh huh. It seems that you've been channeling Raymond Chandler's ghost."
"Well, sure. But you knew about that article."
"Yes, I knew. But it was reprinted in the Democrat this morning so now everyone in town's read it."
"Maybe they'll see the humor in it."
"Maybe, but I don't think so," Meg said. "Some people are also saying that you tampered with Brother Hog's chicken and tried to sabotage the service."
"Hmmm," I said, chewing on my bottom lip.
"They're saying that you were the one who stole the Blessed Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll and put it up for auction on eBay. Whoever tried to sell it went by the name Esterhazy. As you know…"
"Yes," I interrupted, "I know."
"Some folks are saying that it might have been you who shot the windows out of Gwen Jackson's house."
"That's absurd. Why would I do that?"
"Heavens, Hayden! I don't know and no one else does either. The prevailing view is that you've been working too hard and that you're about to have a breakdown."
"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "First, I'd like to know who is saying these things."
"I heard it from Georgia. She doesn't believe it, of course, but she thought I should be aware of the gossip."
"Did she say where she heard it?"
"She was at the library and heard some ladies talking. So tell me, do you have an alibi for last night? About the time when Gwen's windows were shot?"
"No. I was driving back to town from Ardine's."
"So you were in the neighborhood. Ardine's trailer is only a couple miles from Gwen's house, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you have a twelve-gauge shotgun in your truck?"
"You know I do. Right behind the seat. I'm a police officer," I argued.
"I'm just saying…" said Megan.
"I get your point."
Chapter 18
Marilyn sauntered in to the office, looking like half a million bucks. I could tell something was up. I'm a detective.
"What's up?"
Marilyn gave her girdle a suggestive tug and flapped her eyelashes like a couple of black spiders doing push-ups.
"I was just over for a job interview at Kelly's Detective Agency and Automat."
"You going to be making sandwiches?"
"No, smart guy. I'm going to be working in the front office. Kelly's talking two bucks an hour."
"I'm sure he is. How about if I give you a twenty-cent bump?" We went through this every year. Marilyn would get all dolled up and schedule an interview with Kelly's. I couldn't afford a raise, but I couldn't afford to lose her. She knew it and I knew it and she knew I knew--it was one of the things she knew.
"How about thirty?"
"Sheesh, Marilyn, I can't even afford twenty. How about twenty-two?"
"OK, but Kelly says he'll give me lunch every day."
"I'll tell you what. I'll give you lunch at Kelly's every day, too." Kelly's Automat was a dump. When the health inspector showed up, the roaches disguised themselves as
raisins and hid in the bran muffins.
"Never mind," said Marilyn, lighting up a cigar. "Now in honor of my new raise, I'll give you some information."
I perked up like Juan Valdez's cappuccino machine.
"When I was waiting in the office, I heard some talk behind the office door. Toby Taps was reporting to Kelly."
"What did you hear?"
"It has to do with a hymn. That's why Candy was killed. She wouldn't put it in the new hymnal. She said it wasn't worth any amount of money."
"So Toby is in on it?"
"Yeah. Him and Kelly and Piggy--although Piggy was just the hoofer. You'd better be careful. Toby isn't anyone to mess with."
"Neither am I."
* * *
"I need to talk to you," said Jed Pierce as I picked up the phone at the cabin. I hadn't showered yet. It wasn't even six o'clock. I'd gotten up early though, fed Baxter, let him out and put a couple of mice on the sill for Archimedes.
"Sure," I said, "What can I do for you?"
"Have you seen The Tattler this morning?"
"No. I don't get a paper out here. I usually pick one up in town." The Tattler was the St. Germaine weekly equivalent of the small town papers all across America that listed the comings and goings of its residents, recipes, relatives who were visiting, quilting-bee schedules and the like.
"Well, it seems that I'm on page four."
"Is this a good thing?"
"It is not," answered Jed in an angry voice. Jed was a pharmacist. He worked in Boone, but lived in St. Germaine. "It's a short article about St. Barnabas and the new vestry."
"It must be a slow news week."
"Yes it must be. The only reason that I can fathom that the newspaper included it is the mention of me being elected Senior Warden."
"Why is that newsworthy?" I asked.
"Don't play innocent with me Hayden. You're the only one in St. Germaine I ever told about that accident."
I remembered. Jed had been involved in a fatal car accident in South Carolina about twelve years ago. I found out about it when I was running a background check on him for a pharmaceutical company. There was an elderly woman killed, and Jed, the driver of the other car, had originally been charged with a DWI. The charges were subsequently dropped when there was no evidence other than the arresting officer's testimony. The Breathalyzer test had been administered, but lost. I had asked Jed about it at the time, and he had told me the entire story—including denying being drunk at the time. All this, including the denial, was in the public record, but would be tough to find unless you knew where to look.
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 14