The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Schweizer, Mark

  I looked out over the church and tried to recognize folks from the back. It wasn’t that difficult since I’d watched most of them walk in. Varmit and Muffy LeMieux were sitting near the front. Kimberly Walnut was by herself, up on a kneeler, looking as though she was praying fervently. Ruby Farthing, Meg’s mother, was sitting with Wynette Winslow and Mattie Lou Entriken. She was keeping them company. Kylie Moffit, the owner of the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop, was sitting with Shea Maxwell. Flori Cabbage was there. Diana Terry. Karen Dougherty, the town doc. I saw Benny Dawkins, our thurifer, who, I had heard, had just returned yesterday from his European tour. He was sitting toward the back and chatting across the aisle with Frank Harwood. Gwen Jackson...

  Donald Mushrat came into the church through the sacristy door, took a moment to adjust the lights, then walked up to the pulpit. He was wearing his white alb and his purple deacon’s stole. Since he was beginning on time, I quit trying to identify the participants. I wouldn’t be here that long. Just a few minutes to fulfill my obligation and then off to the Bear and Brew for a quick beer before heading home.

  “Good evening. Thank you for coming to this awesome Advent study on the Book of Malachi. And since you all are agreeing with me in faith, I’m going to share something else with you this evening. Something I think we should all be aware of.”

  “What’s that?” asked Kimberly Walnut.

  “There’s a jail in our community. I’ve come across some correspondence and I don’t think any of you are aware of the spiritual consequences that this implies.”

  I perked up. Jails were my jurisdiction. But what on earth was he talking about?

  He continued. “Cicero said it best. But before we start, I’d like us to stand and sing the first and seventh verses of O Come, O Come Emmanuel, as I light the Advent wreath. It’s hymn number 56.”

  I frowned. There were three keys to the lock-box in the pulpit that housed the control for the winch that lowered the giant wreath. Bev had one, Gaylen had one, and Billy Hixon had one. I couldn’t see any one of the three handing it over to Deacon Mushrat for his Bible study.

  The congregation stood and Mushrat started the hymn with Muffy leading the assemblage and Flori Cabbage, who had brought her flute, accompanying. The deacon held down the toggle switch and the wreath lowered to its prescribed height.

  O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,

  And ransom captive Israel,

  That mourns in lonely exile here

  Until the Son of God appear.

  Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

  Shall come to thee, O Israel!

  As the congregation sang, Deacon Mushrat snapped his fireplace lighter and lit two purple candles and the rose one, three of the four candles on the wreath. Then he went back to the pulpit and held the toggle to raise the wreath back into position.

  Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind

  In one the hearts of all mankind;

  Mushrat suddenly looked startled. His eyes grew wide and he dropped his hymnal. It clattered into the back of the pulpit. The congregation was still looking down at their music and continued singing.

  Bid thou our sad divisions cease,

  And be thyself our King of Peace.

  The deacon walked slowly from behind the pulpit and toward the congregation, a horrified look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the back doors and his lips were moving, but not in time with the music.

  Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

  Shall come to thee, O Israel!

  Mushrat stood on the top step of the chancel, hands clutched in front of him as if in prayer. He dropped to his knees and suddenly there was a horrific squealing that caused everyone in the congregation to drop their hymnals and clap their hands over their ears. The wrenching sound was followed seconds later with what could only be described as a car wreck—steel on steel, two immovable objects hitting head on—followed by a loud bang. Mushrat never even looked up as the cable holding the Advent wreath snapped.

  •••

  I raced down the stairs as the screams echoed through the church.

  “Back up, give me some room!” I hollered as I ran up the aisle.

  “I called 911,” said Gwen, as I barreled past her.

  By the time I’d gotten to Mushrat, Frank, Benny and Varmit had lifted the wreath off of the deacon and rolled it to the side. Dr. Dougherty was kneeling by his side. The crowd backed up and gave me enough room to get next to the doctor. Mushrat was lying on his side in a fetal position. I knelt down beside him, looked at him closely, then looked at Karen who was trying to find a pulse. She looked back at me and shook her head.

  “He’s probably just stunned,” said Muffy. “Or maybe knocked out. I was watching the wreath. It didn’t hit him square on. In fact, his head went right through that opening.” She pointed to the large gap in between two of the candles. “Can’t you do some CPR or something?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s gone.”

  “His neck is broken,” said Karen. “There’s no pulse.”

  “I’ll wait here for the paramedics. You all please go wait in the fellowship hall. And Gwen? I think Nancy and Dave are across the street policing the Living Nativity. Would you go and get them, please?”

  Gwen nodded and ran down the aisle toward the front doors.

  “Everyone else, please go wait for me in the fellowship hall now.”

  “What about CPR?” one of the voices insisted. A woman. “You’ve got to at least try!”

  “It won’t help him,” Dr. Dougherty said sadly. “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter 20

  Nancy and Dave raced into the church, followed closely by Gwen Jackson.

  “Sorry it took so long,” said Gwen, trying to catch her breath. “I couldn’t get the dead-bolt open.”

  “What on earth happened?” asked Nancy, quickly appraising the scene. “My God! The wreath fell on him?”

  Dave was speechless.

  “It fell on him, all right,” I said, “but he’s been shot.”

  I rolled the deacon over, lifted his purple stole, and revealed a spreading crimson stain in the center of his chest.

  “I’ll fill you in, but first you and Dave go on into the fellowship hall, take everyone’s name and phone number, and get their statements. If there’s someone you don’t know, bring him back in here, but I’m pretty sure everyone’s local. Then send ’em home. We’ll call them tomorrow. I’ll be in to help as soon as I secure this mess.”

  “Will do,” said Nancy. “Did you see it happen?”

  “Yeah. Hurry up now. I’ll be in shortly.”

  •••

  The EMTs arrived, but, as Karen had indicated, there was nothing they could do. I ordered them to leave everything as it was, go watch the Living Nativity, get a cup of coffee, and come back in an hour or so. I wanted Dave and Nancy to look at the crime scene with me. I entered the fellowship hall thirty minutes after Nancy and Dave had begun questioning the shaken members of the Malachi Bible study.

  “Everyone saw the same thing,” said Dave.

  “I saw it, too,” I said. “Still, due diligence, and all that. How many statements do you have left?”

  Dave looked around the room. “We’re about half-finished. It doesn’t take long. They were singing a hymn, they heard the winch screech, the cable snapped, the wreath fell on Donald Mushrat. Except some of these folks say Moo-shrat.”

  “Same guy,” I said. “I can’t take notes, but I’ll help you finish up. Then we’ll go back into the church.”

  •••

  Nancy, Dave and I stood at the front of the church, directly in front of Deacon Mushrat’s body. The Advent wreath, having been lifted off him, now leaned on the steps, the broken rose candle nearest the altar.

  “Everyone had the same story,” said Nancy. “You’re a trained detective, so to speak. Did you see anything different?”

  “Well, I was looking right at Mushrat,” I said. “I wasn’t singing. He lowered the wreath, lit the candles and was rais
ing it back up. He had his hymnal in his left hand. His right hand had to have been on the toggle switch.”

  “Yeah,” said Dave.

  “Then, about halfway through the second verse he looked spooked. Confused. He stopped singing and dropped his hymnal. That’s what happened to the switch. The hymnal landed on the toggle and the winch just kept turning until the cable snapped.”

  “I thought there was a safety brake on that thing,” said Nancy.

  “Sure,” I said. “That wreath will come down very slowly, but not if it’s not attached to anything. No one figured that someone would run the winch up until the cable snapped. That’s a lot of pressure. See there.” I pointed up and both Dave and Nancy’s gaze followed my finger. “The winch pulled the connecting mechanism right through the ceiling. There’s a hole the size of a dinner plate up there.”

  “Hmm,” said Nancy. “Go back to before the cable broke.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “So Mushrat is looking confused. He’s staring at the back wall.”

  “Up where you are?” asked Nancy. “In the balcony?”

  I thought for a moment. “Nope. Downstairs.”

  “So he’s looking at the back wall downstairs? Where the doors are?”

  “Yeah.” I tried to replay the scene in my head. “The back wall for sure, but he could have been staring at the doors.”

  “How about this, then?” said Dave. “The killer comes in during the service, the deacon recognizes him...”

  “Or her,” said Nancy.

  “Or her,” agreed Dave. “Then the killer shoots him, he drops his hymnal on the toggle and staggers to the steps where the cable breaks and the wreath falls on him, finishing him off.”

  “Sounds right,” I said.

  “Silencer?” asked Nancy.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t hear a gunshot.”

  “Noise suppressors make rifles unwieldy,” Nancy said. “I’m betting handgun. Easier to hide, easier to carry.”

  “I’d say it was a 9mm,” I said. “That’s a small hole in Mr. Mushrat. If this isn’t the work of our Lake Tannenbaum shooter, I’ll eat Raymond Chandler’s hat.”

  “It was a good shot,” said Nancy, appraising the distance, “but certainly not terribly difficult. The shooter didn’t go for a head shot. Now that would have been something from seventy-five yards. Especially with a silencer.”

  “Someone might have seen the shooter come in or leave,” I said. “Sterling Park was packed.”

  “You want to interview everyone in the park?”

  “No,” I said. “We’ll put out a call and ask for witnesses to come forward. But, you know, I’ll be surprised if anyone saw anything.”

  “I agree.”

  “Let’s check the rest of the church,” I said. “Look for a casing...” I shrugged. “Anything. This gal’s good, but maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Chapter 21

  Meg joined us for breakfast since she was currently “on vacation.” As she explained it, during the few weeks leading up to Christmas the investment business slowed to a crawl. Then between Christmas and December 31st there was a flurry of activity as her clients tried to take advantage of as many tax breaks as they could before the end of the year. She didn’t have to work, being married to a millionaire, but she enjoyed her job and since she was extremely good at it, was chiefly tasked with keeping our fortune intact.

  It was a gloomy Thursday morning, the day after the tragedy and ten days before Christmas, that found us at our table in the back of the Slab Café. I’d already had a busy a.m., having met Kent Murphee at the morgue in Boone and returned with the medical examiner’s official report on the murder.

  Noylene, now approaching beach-ball proportions, was still doing her best to keep up with the needs of the customers. Pete had moved the tables slightly farther apart in deference to her expectancy and had taken a couple of two-toppers off the floor and put them in the storeroom.

  “Y’all gotta pardon my butt,” she said, as she waddled by with the coffee pot. “It always gets like this when I’m pregnant.” She filled Meg’s cup first, then squeezed around the table replenishing the rest: Pete’s, Cynthia’s, Nancy’s, Dave’s, and finally, mine.

  “How about I just bring out some French toast?”

  “Great,” said Pete. He rubbed his hands together. “Just wait till you guys try this. It’s a new recipe. Straight from the Food Network.”

  “I can’t wait,” said Meg. “I love French toast.”

  We sat in awkward silence for a moment as Noylene headed for the kitchen. The Slab was unusually quiet, although most of the chairs were occupied. People were talking in hushed voices.

  “It’s the shock of it all,” said Meg quietly. “It has everyone on edge.”

  “You know,” said Cynthia, “I did a little research. Statistically, over the last five years, a person is more likely to get murdered in St. Germaine than in Chicago. We have the highest per capita murder rate in North Carolina.”

  “Hey!” said Pete, brightening. “Maybe we could work that into our new town motto.”

  “Everyone has already heard about Mushrat being shot,” said Dave. “I don’t know how it got around so fast.”

  “Wasn’t me,” said Cynthia.

  “I suspect it was one of the EMTs,” I said. “I didn’t tell them to keep quiet about it. Joe’s living in St. Germaine now, so he might have spilled the beans. Once the cat is out of the bag, you can’t stop the small town grapevine.”

  “That’s probably it,” agreed Pete.

  “Also, I had to go over to Gaylen’s last night and tell her what happened. She might have told someone.”

  “Well, she’s been over at the church since nine o’clock this morning doing grief counseling,” said Meg. “And here’s the strange thing. Most of the folks coming in weren’t even at the church last night. Apparently there are a lot of people who are overcome with grief, even though they couldn’t stand the man when he was alive. Emily Douglas hauled the twins out of school and brought them, and I haven’t seen Garth or Garrett in church since last summer. I doubt they ever even met Deacon Mushrat.”

  “This thing has everyone shaken,” I said. “People feel like they have to do something, even if they didn’t like him. I expect his funeral service will be packed.” I changed the subject. “I saw Billy and his crew at St. Barnabas when I drove out early this morning.”

  “Are they going to hang the wreath back up?” asked Dave.

  “Not a chance,” I said. “They’ll probably haul it away and stash it somewhere. You know, since they aren’t going to be using it, I wouldn’t mind having it for the cabin. I could have it wired with bulbs...”

  “You will not!” exclaimed Meg. “That wreath killed someone.”

  “Well, technically it did,” I said. “But according to Kent, Mushrat’s ticker had already stopped even though he was still staggering around. The bullet was a nine, just like we thought. It hit him just to the right of the sternum and tumbled through his heart. He might have been alive when the wreath hit him, but there was no chance he was going to survive.”

  “You have the round?” asked Nancy.

  “Yeah,” I said and pulled a sealed, polypropylene bag out of my pocket. “Here you go.”

  Nancy took the clear bag and held it up against the light coming through the front plate glass window. She studied the bullet for a moment.

  “Nine mil all right. Not too much damage. We can compare the rifling to the other round, but I’ll bet it’s a match.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but from what I’ve read about these professional killers, they use a gun once, then dump it.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Nancy. “I read that, too.”

  “But why kill Deacon Mushrat in the church?” asked Meg. “How much easier would it have been to wait until he got home, then go in and shoot him?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question,” I said. “And I think the answer lies in what Mushrat said right before he
was killed.”

  Everyone at the table looked at me in expectation just as Noylene toddled up with empty plates and handed them all around.

  “I’m bringing a platter of toast out in a sec,” she said, then grimaced, grabbed her belly with both hands, and started puffing.

  “Noylene,” asked Cynthia, “are you in labor?”

  “Just a little,” growled Noylene through gritted teeth. “I’ll be okay in a minute. Mind if I sit down?”

  Dave, Pete and I all jumped to our feet. Dave’s chair was the closest and Noylene plopped down heavily. “Pete said that if I could just take the first shift, he’d have someone else in here at noon.”

  “How far apart?” asked Meg.

  “How far what apart?” said Pete.

  Cynthia’s eyes flashed. “Contractions, you idiot,” she said. “You’re making this poor woman wait tables while she’s in labor?”

  Pete raised his hands in supplication. “What?” He pointed an accusing finger at Cynthia. “You said you couldn’t work this morning.”

  Cynthia was incredulous. “I had a meeting at eight!”

  “Noylene said the baby probably wouldn’t come till this afternoon,” Pete explained.

  “How far apart?” asked Meg again, wiping a bead of sweat off of Noylene’s forehead with her napkin.

  “Maybe five minutes,” puffed Noylene. “For the last couple of hours.”

  Nancy stood up decisively. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital,” she said. “My car’s out front. Who wants to go?”

  “I’m coming,” said Meg, helping Noylene to her feet.

  “Me, too,” said Cynthia, joining the trio of women.

  “I’ll stay here and wait for news,” I said. “And Pete’s got to stay and take care of the customers.”