Donald preened and screwed his mouth into a tight smile. “Awesome,” he said.
Bev looked down at the pad of scribbles in front of her. “Now, what about the choir?”
“Well,” said Meg, “if we can hire Edna to play the organ, Hayden could certainly choose the music and direct.”
“Good plan,” said Elaine. “But what about the music for this Sunday? Our cantata?”
Everyone looked in my direction.
“Well, we have a rehearsal tomorrow morning anyway. If Edna can play the organ part, there isn’t any reason why we can’t do it.”
“I’ll give her a call,” said Meg happily.
Just then Billy burst into the conference room. “Hey, did you hear? They just dragged a dead body out of the lake!”
Everyone looked in my direction...again.
“It’s why I was late,” I explained.
“And you didn’t say anything?” said Meg incredulously.
“Well, I didn’t think it had anything to do with the emergency Advent meeting.”
“Is it anyone that we know?” asked Joyce in a small voice.
“No one that I know,” I answered. “I did see him last week at the auction over at the Frost place.”
“Well, if he was just in town for Old Man Frost’s auction last week, what was he doing here this week?” asked Billy.
“A good question,” I said. “You should be a policeman.”
“Nah,” said Billy. “Don’t pay enough. I’d rather mow lawns.”
•••
Meg and I left the worship meeting and headed over to the Ginger Cat for lunch. An upscale lunch boutique that thrived on the tourist trade, the Ginger Cat had a knack for unpronounceable coffees, exotic teas, and a pretentious carte du jour that would do any snooty tea house proud. Since we’d managed to drag the meeting on past one o’clock, there was no problem finding a table and we chose one in the back.
“Good afternoon, Elphina,” Meg said to our waitress, a waif of a girl dressed in black with jet black hair, who looked as though she could use a good meal over at the Slab rather than trying to subside on the employee-discounted octopus and celery salad with lemon juice. Meg glanced over the menu with a practiced eye. “I’ll have the zucchini and basil fusilli with bacon. And an iced tea.”
“Is that your name?” I asked. “Elphina? I’ve never known an Elphina.”
“It’s my vampire name,” replied Elphina, tossing her hair and revealing a thorned rose tattooed on the side of her neck. “It means ‘delicate one.’”
“Well, Elphina, I’ll have a ham sandwich on rye,” I said, not bothering with the menu. “Hold the plasma. Just lettuce, tomato and a schmear of mustard.”
The waitress looked confused and the corner of her black-lipsticked mouth twitched as she stared at her pad, as if afraid to write my order on the paper. Her black fingernails flicked against the paper nervously.
“That’s not on the menu. Do you mean our chipotle pork panini with roasted caper vinaigrette?” she asked hesitantly, regretting the question almost as soon as she posed it.
I raised my voice slightly. “No! No, I do not mean...”
“That’s exactly what he means, dear,” interrupted Meg. “The panini. And bring him a cup of Nicaraguan Maravilla Gold.”
“Yes, m’lady,” said Elphina, turning sideways and disappearing altogether.
“I hope that was coffee you ordered for me,” I said with a sniff. “And when did vampires start coming out during the day and working at the Ginger Cat?”
“It was coffee and don’t worry about the vampires,” said Meg. “It’s the ‘in’ thing right now.” She put both elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “Now tell me about that man. You know. The dead one. The one in Lake Tannenbaum.”
“Not much to tell. He was shot in the forehead and thrown into the lake. Kent’s doing the autopsy right now. No tire tracks either. Somebody carried him down the hill and threw him in.”
“Maybe they made him walk down at gunpoint, then shot him,” suggested Meg. “Maybe it was a robbery.”
“Could be,” I agreed.
“And you have no idea who he is?”
“None. No identification at all. Of course, there may be fingerprints on file, but we’ll have to wait and see.”
“Hiya, Chief,” said a voice from behind me.
“Hi, Bud,” I said, looking over my shoulder, but recognizing Bud’s voice immediately. “Come have a seat.”
“Sorry I had to run off after the auction, but I had to get back to campus. I had a big final on Monday and our study group was meeting.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Meg and I have been enjoying the wine.”
Bud went white in his chair. “What!?” he hissed, leaning over the table. “Enjoying the wine!?”
“It’s very tasty,” said Meg. “And it should be, seeing that it cost $275 a bottle.”
“No!” shouted Bud, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You aren’t supposed to drink it!”
“Why not?” I whispered back.
“Because we’re partners,” said Bud. “You might have bought it for $275 a bottle, but it’s worth a lot more.”
“Really?” said Meg.
“Really. Chateau Petrus Pomerol. It’s a Merlot—one of the favorite wines at the White House during the Kennedy years.” Bud sat back in his chair. “That’s the official name, Chateau Petrus, but even its label refers to it as simply ‘Petrus.’ The grapes are usually harvested early and left to mature slowly. The panoply of exotic aromas and flavors typically encompass black raspberry, mulberry, iron, cocoa powder, and truffle, while expensive new oak emanates from its rich purple robe.”
Meg and I looked at each other in astonishment. Bud was in his element now.
“Petrus 1998.” Bud closed his eyes and looked as though he’d been transported to a vineyard in Italy. “The finish is something to wait for as it caresses the palate. A truly exquisite vintage.” He opened his eyes and peered at me. “It should reach maturity after the year 2012.”
“So this is an investment,” I said.
“Yep. It’s legendary and extravagantly priced. But this wine, from a prime vineyard on well-drained clay soil atop the Pomerol plateau in Italy, has for decades stood as the greatest example of Merlot in the world. Petrus is a wine that is extraordinarily creamy and thick but with the substantial tannic underpinning to ensure decades of development in the bottle.”
“And this means...?” I said.
“That after 2012, this wine will probably double in value.”
“Making it worth...?” I coaxed.
“Making it worth about $7000 per bottle. Three cases. Thirty-six bottles. That’s $252,000. It could even go higher!”
Bud looked around to see if anyone was listening. No one was.
“I already did the math,” he whispered.
Meg’s eyes went wide. Mine, too.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
Bud nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Well, do the math again with thirty-two bottles instead of thirty-six,” I suggested, giving him a crooked grin. “’Cause Meg and I drank four of them.”
“Oh, man,” said Bud, a hangdog look coming over him as he slumped in his chair. “I should have told you.”
“Well, don’t worry about it,” I said magnanimously. “We drank it. We’ll take it off our end.” I looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re telling me that right now this wine is worth over a hundred thousand? And in a couple of years...”
Bud crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Yep.”
“And we drank $28,000 worth of Merlot?” said Meg in a small, terrified voice.
“Oh, yeah,” said Bud.
•••
Dr. Kent Murphee had been the Watauga County medical examiner for the better part of twenty years. When he called the station late on Friday afternoon, Nancy had already clocked out for the
day and Dave was nowhere to be found, not that he should have been working. Dave was usually off on Fridays. I called Meg and she agreed to give me a ride into Boone if she could drop me off and go over to the mall for an hour. I happily agreed. The cast on my arm was such that I couldn’t really drive my pick-up truck. My 1962 Chevrolet, for all its wonderful features—a great stereo, a pretty good spare tire thrown into the back, a twelve-mile-per-gallon original V8 engine, and enough power to tow Rush Limbaugh out of a Rib Shack—didn’t have what anyone might label “power steering.” It was a two-handed job just to keep the truck in the middle of the road most of the time. I was used to it, of course, but Meg hated it, and so wouldn’t switch cars with me. I could have easily driven her Lexus.
“Why don’t you buy another truck?” she said, when I suggested the switch.
“I just need it for a few weeks. If I bought it, I’d be stuck with it.”
“Then rent one. For heaven’s sakes, Hayden. You’re a millionaire. Remember?”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll rent one.”
But I hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.
Meg dropped me off and headed to the mall and I found myself sitting in Kent’s office, preparing to join him in his traditional afternoon bourbon.
Kent was well into his fifties and dressed, on this day as every day, in his tweed jacket, tie, and vest. His pipe was resting in the ashtray on the edge of his desk, and a slight drift of smoke rose from the bowl, although Kent was obviously letting it extinguish itself. He ran a hand through a shock of rather long salt-and-pepper hair, greeted me with a smile, and pushed a glass of his special blend across the desk at me while I sat.
“It’s Friday,” said Kent. “It’s four o’clock. Time for a drink.”
“Fridays at four? That’s your new parameter?”
“Nah,” he said. “I just thought I might entice you to join me since I’ve already poured.”
I took a sip. “I don’t require much enticing. You have news?”
“Yes, I do.” He picked up a small sheaf of papers fastened together with a paper clip. “Killed by a small caliber bullet—9mm to be exact. I’d say it was a handgun. Definitely at close range. The path of the bullet shows a slight upward trajectory.”
“How close?” I asked.
“Two feet maximum. Probably less. There was some gunpowder stippling around the entrance wound. The water cleaned most of the residue off, but there were grains of powder that were actually imbedded in the skin.”
“You have the bullet?”
Kent held up a small plastic bag containing the bullet retrieved from the victim, dangled it a moment, then pushed it across the desk. “Don’t forget to sign the chain of evidence form before you leave,” said Kent. He looked back down at his papers. “I took his fingerprints and sent them off, electronically, to the FBI data base. You’ll hear something by Monday, I expect. That is, if they can match ’em.”
“DNA?” I asked.
“That, too,” answered Kent. “Although that will take substantially longer to find a match, even if his sample is in the system.”
“What about the beard?” I asked.
Kent smiled. “Now we get to the good part. The beard is very good quality. Theatrical supply, I’d say. It’s made of human hair and tied into a very fine mesh. It was applied with spirit gum.” Kent flipped a page. “I will say this, though,” he continued. “It was made specifically for your victim. It’s not an ‘off the shelf’ model. The beard was fitted very exactly to his facial structure. His hair had been dyed, by the way. The natural color is much lighter. Not blonde exactly, but fairer by several shades.”
I looked at Kent in surprise.
“There’s more,” he said, still smiling. “Caps on the teeth, cheek implants, and a new nose. The nose is a couple years old, judging by the scar tissue. The implants are older I think. I can’t tell about the caps.”
“So this guy had a new face,” I said, pushing my glass toward Kent for a refill. “And a false beard.”
“And he dyed his hair,” Kent reminded me. “Sounds as though he didn’t want to be recognized.”
Chapter 9
St. Barnabas Episcopal Church had been rebuilt on the same footprint as the earlier building that had burned two years ago. It was a classic design, built in the shape of a cross.
The choir was in the back balcony that also housed the pipe organ. The steps to the choir loft were in the narthex, the entrance to the church. The transepts, or alcoves, formed the arms of the cross. The high altar was in the front in the sanctuary and a smaller Mary altar decorated the east transept. The sacristy, where the clergy and choir put on their vestments and where communion was prepared, was still behind the front wall with two invisible doors opening in the paneling behind the altar. St. Barnabas’ nave seated about two hundred and fifty when the church was comfortably full.
It wasn’t often that we had a Saturday choir rehearsal. We almost never had a Saturday choir rehearsal. The fact that we were having one on this particular Saturday was a testament to the choir’s penchant for goofing off during Thanksgiving. The choir seemed to feel that the Thanksgiving break began on the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving Day—they all were, in theory, cooking their big meals and couldn’t possibly come to rehearsal—and lasted until the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving Day. Most years, the Sunday after Thanksgiving was, unfortunately, the First Sunday of Advent. Hence, I didn’t ever schedule much fancy singing for the First Sunday of Advent. Sure, we could rehearse ahead of time. But I discovered, long ago, that the musical memory of an average church choir singer wasn’t to be relied on.
“Have we ever seen this before?” asked Marjorie, my only female tenor, and the only one that had a low C. “You should give us this music ahead of time.”
“We’ve been rehearsing it for four weeks,” I said with a sigh. “We worked on it two weeks ago.”
“I have never seen this music before,” insisted Marjorie.
“Sure you have,” said Steve from the bass section. “Remember? This is the one that has no time signatures and the dotted bar lines. You said it was driving you to drink.”
Marjorie looked down at her score. “Hmm. Yes.”
“You remember now?” asked Steve.
“Nope. I can just see where it would drive me to drink.”
“Well, just sight-read it,” said Mark Wells. “Lord knows, that’s what I’ll be doing.”
“The instrumentalists will be here in a half hour,” I said. “We’d better know it by then. Now,”—I gestured toward Edna, seated at the organ console—“I’d like to introduce you to our organist for the next six weeks. Or until I can play again.”
“We wondered how you were going to manage,” said Rebecca. “Or rather, how we were.”
“This is Edna Terra-Pocks, an old friend of mine from college. She currently lives in Lenoir, but will be driving up for Wednesday night rehearsals and Sunday mornings.”
Edna stood up at the organ and gave a smile and a small bow. She wasn’t a great beauty by any means, but attractive in that well-put-together, very rich, middle-aged way. She was heavier than when I’d known her in college, but weren’t we all? I remembered her as svelte. She couldn’t be described as svelte now, but she still had a nice figure. Her dark brown hair was cut stylishly and fell about shoulder length. She was wearing a very expensive sweater, pearls and dark slacks. Old money. The picture of southern gentility. Her reading glasses dangled at the end of a gold chain and rested upon her, what could only be described as ‘substantial,’ chest.
“Are you married to Bill?” asked Mark. “Bill Pocks?”
“Yes, I am,” said Edna, with a smile.
“I know Old Bill,” said Mark. “We used to call him ‘Chicken.’” He laughed. “Ol’ Chicken Pocks! How about that? I haven’t thought about him for years.”
“What about our story?” asked Muffy LeMieux. She looked into her choir folder and came up with last week’s opening hymn. She flipped the pa
ge over, held it up, and waved the previous installment at me. “The one about the under-dwarves of Kooloobati.”
I shrugged with my one good arm. “I can’t type. I don’t know how I’m going to manage to finish it.”
“You could dictate it to Meg, and she could type it for you,” suggested Georgia.
“No way!” said Meg. “Not a chance.”
“You could use that voice-recognition software,” said Elaine. “You just talk into the microphone and the computer writes it down for you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“But what about the under-dwarves?” said Muffy, a tear almost springing to her eye.
“They’ll have to fend for themselves. We’ve got to look at this cantata.”
•••
“That went pretty well,” said Meg as she drove us home from the rehearsal. “The instrumentalists were fabulous.”
“I suppose,” I groused. “I didn’t much care for Edna’s registration in the final movement.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Meg sniffed. “You just don’t like having to share the console.”
“I don’t mind sharing. I just don’t want to have to be there for it.”
“It’s only for six weeks or so.”
“Harumph!”
Chapter 10
Monday mornings were slow at the Slab. Saturdays were Pete’s busiest days during December. Sundays were next, as the out-of-towners flocked into St. Germaine for the quaint, small-town atmosphere and the shopping.
“Well, how’d the service go?” asked Pete. “How was your first day as conductor of the choir?”
“Miserable,” I said. “It’s just not going to work. Where’s Noylene? I need some coffee.”
The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 6