Pete eagerly nodded his agreement.
“I’ll stay, too,” said Dave. “Someone’s got to guard the French toast.”
•••
Dave and I finished almost all the breakfast while Pete was on the phone with Pauli Girl begging her to come in and sub for Noylene. It didn’t seem to either of us that he was having much luck. I took my leave of the Slab and headed across the park toward the church, consigning Pete to the mercy of his customers. Dave sauntered back to the station, just in case there was a stray donut left over from the week before.
I met up with Gaylen as I walked into the office suite. Marilyn was at her desk on the phone, making an appointment for the Right Reverend Dr. Weatherall to counsel yet another bereaved parishioner.
“This whole thing is somehow your fault,” said Gaylen. Her jaw was still wired shut, but I could understand her much more easily now, her articulation labored and precise. “No. I’m just kidding, even though this is nothing to be kidding about. Bishop O’Connell wants a meeting to know why his deacon was killed.”
“I wish I knew for sure,” I said. “I’m thinking that his deacon was killed because he made someone very angry. Either that, or Mushrat found out something he had no business finding out.”
“Well, I hope you solve this case in a hurry. I told Marilyn I’d do some grief counseling, but most of these people are not grieving. They just want some answers. I can’t blame them.” Gaylen held up her hands in dismay. “How could God allow this? Why was the deacon killed inside the church? Shouldn’t we cancel Christmas services? And, of course, there’s all the speculation about who committed the murder.”
“All good questions,” I said. “I have another one. How did Donald Mushrat get the key to the toggle switch box? You had one, Billy had one, and Bev had one. Three keys. As far as I know, that’s all there were.”
“I can answer that one,” said Gaylen. “He got the master key to the building from out of Marilyn’s desk, used it to unlock my office, then came in and stole it.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s pretty brazen.”
“Yes,” said Gaylen. “If he hadn’t been killed, he would have been fired pretty darn quick, bishop or no bishop.”
“I presume Marilyn won’t be keeping the master key in her desk any longer.”
“No, she won’t,” said Gaylen. “That was my fault. We thought it’d be safe in the back of the bottom drawer under some Sunday School literature. That way, if we needed it for some reason, we’d be able to get it. Anyway, we moved the key to a magnetic box and stuck it behind the copy machine.”
She paused for a moment to rest her facial muscles before continuing.
“Apparently, Mr. Mushrat rifled through all the drawers in Marilyn’s desk one evening when he had nothing else to do. Then, after he found the key, he headed for my office. I have to assume he went through all my files. Luckily, my computer has a password or who knows what else he would have been into.”
“This puts a whole new slant on things,” I said. “Maybe the killer found out that the deacon had been privy to your files.”
“I don’t see how. I didn’t even realize it until this morning. The key hung on a cord right beside the door to the bathroom. Once I noticed that the key was missing, I started looking around and found several files out of place, papers out of order, that sort of thing. And you...” She pointed a stern finger at me. “You can’t say anything about this to anyone.”
“I won’t. But I may come back to you with some more questions.”
“I know.” Gaylen sighed. “At least I’m feeling a little better. And I’ll be in church on Sunday morning, of course.”
“If someone comes in and confesses, you’ll let me know, right?”
Gaylen eyebrows went up. “No.”
I laughed. “By the way, Noylene’s down at the hospital. The little Fabergé-Dupont heir is imminent.”
“That’s good news, anyway.” Gaylen smiled, probably for the first time this morning. “A flame is extinguished, a new light comes into the world. The circle of life.”
“Amen, sister.”
•••
It was one o’clock before I heard from Meg.
“Well, Noylene was in labor for about two hours after we checked in,” she said.
“Is that a long time?”
“Not so long,” said Meg. “Pretty quick, actually, although she’d been having contractions since five this morning.”
“So everything is good?”
“Everything’s fine.” Meg was silent for a long moment. “Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Oh, really!” I could almost see Meg’s eyes roll in exasperation. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“I presume it’s a baby,” I answered.
“You’re not one bit funny. It’s a boy, for your information. Eight pounds, eleven ounces.”
“That’s great. What’s the little biscuit’s name? And who’s the proud papa?”
“I actually helped Noylene fill out the birth certificate,” said Meg. “So I guess it’s all public record now.”
“Yep. Spill it.”
“His name is Rahab Archibald Fabergé-Dupont. Noylene thought it sounded exotic.”
“Rahab is a girl’s name,” I said. “She was a prostitute in the Old Testament. Did you point that out to Noylene?”
“No, I did not. And neither will you.”
“It’s gonna be tough,” I said. “But I shall try to remain silent on the subject. So who’s the father?”
“The father of record is Hogmanay McDonald McTavish.”
“Brother Hog?!”
“One and the same,” said Meg. Another silence. “There’s one more thing...”
“Yes?”
“This baby...”
I got a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“What?”
“He’s just fine!” said Meg brightly, hearing the anxiety in my voice. “But he was born with a...a slight...”
My heart sank.
“That is...he has a rather conspicuous...”
I closed my eyes, waiting for the worst.
“Tail.”
Chapter 22
“So,” said Pete. “A tail, eh?” He leaned against the counter that separated Nancy’s and Dave’s desks from the waiting area in the police station. “Could I have one of those donuts?”
“They’re from yesterday,” I said. “Help yourself.” I slid the box across the counter. “Who’s watching the store?”
“I finally talked Pauli Girl into taking the full-time job. Until Noylene comes back, anyway. She was divvying her shifts up between the Slab and the Bear and Brew, but I’ve got her now.”
“What was the final offer? If I know Pauli Girl McCollough, she drove a hard bargain.”
Pete huffed a heavy sigh. “Minimum wage plus tips, plus meals, and a gas allowance.”
“Let’s hope Noylene doesn’t find out.”
Pete looked panicked. “You all are sworn to secrecy!” he said. “I mean it! Aren’t you bound by some kind of policeman’s oath or something?”
“Nah,” said Nancy.
“Get back to the tail,” said Dave. “And pass me that chocolate one with the sprinkles.”
Pete pushed the donut box back across the counter.
“Well, a tail’s not very common, that’s for sure,” Nancy said, “but the obstetrician says it happens. He called it a caudal appendage. The doctors usually take care of it right away, but apparently Noylene wants to think about it before snipping it off.”
“Huh?” I said. “What’s there to think about?”
“How long is it?” Dave asked, seemingly fascinated by the prospect of someone having their own tail.
“Maybe three or four inches,” answered Nancy.
“Wow,” said Dave, nodding. “It’ll probably grow though, right? Is it a prehensile tail? I mean, will the baby be able to use it to carry his bottle around and stuff?
”
“I doubt it,” said Pete. “Although that would be very cool. Who’s the proud daddy, by the way?”
I grinned. “That would be our friend, Brother Hog.”
Pete laughed. “No kidding?!”
Nancy was smiling, too. “It’s on the birth certificate,” she said.
“Back to this tail thing,” said Dave. “Is it curly? Like a pig’s?”
“Shut up, Dave,” said Nancy, with a dismissive wave. “It’s nothing. They’ll whack it off and the baby will be just like any other web-footed child running around town.”
“He’s got webbed feet?!”
“Shut up, Dave,” Pete said.
•••
“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by Noylene’s unexpected natal occurrence,” I said, “I think that Donald Mushrat’s schwanengesang may have something to do with his demise.”
“Schwanenge-what?” said Dave.
“His swan song. His final words. His last articulation.”
“You never said anything about that,” said Nancy. “Neither did anyone else. He said something?”
“I suspect no one really thought about it. I know I didn’t. At least not until later. It wasn’t part of the critical event per se. We all remembered the singing of the hymn, Mushrat lighting the candles, the screeching and the wreath coming down, but just before that, he came out and welcomed us all to his Bible study. Then he said he was going to tell us something about a jail in our community.”
“We don’t have a jail,” said Nancy. “The closest one is the county jail in Boone.”
“It’s baffling,” I agreed. “The county jail could be considered in our community, I suppose, but he also said that he’d read some correspondence. Then something about spiritual consequences and mentioned Cicero.”
“Cicero?” said Pete. “The Roman philosopher?”
“Yep. He said ‘Cicero said it best,’ but never gave the quotation. The whole thing didn’t really make any sense.”
“So how is this a clue?” asked Pete, reaching for another donut.
“I was talking with Gaylen this morning and she said that Mushrat had been going through her files.” I glanced over at Pete. “This is confidential, by the way.” Pete grunted and nodded, half a cruller momentarily obstructing his utterances.
“Ah,” said Dave. “I see where this is going. Maybe he read a letter that implicated someone in the parish.”
“And he was going to spill the beans,” added Pete.
“I think so,” I said.
Pete shrugged and shook his head. “Nah. What would a killer write to a priest? A confession? I doubt it.”
“Can’t you just ask Gaylen?” asked Dave.
“Well, I could, but it wouldn’t do any good. She can’t and won’t say.”
“We may be looking at this all wrong,” said Nancy. “What if the two killings are totally unrelated? What if the shooting in the church was done by someone with a different motive entirely?”
“Stranger things have happened,” I said.
“Especially in this town,” muttered Pete.
“You need to compare those two bullets,” Dave said. “That should tell us.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. If the killer’s a pro, she probably would have dumped the first gun anyway. But I think Nancy’s got a valid theory. Let’s keep it in mind. More importantly, I think I can narrow our list of suspects down to ten or so. Remember, the deacon was about to divulge something that the killer didn’t want known.”
Nancy looked puzzled for a moment. “Hang on,” she said. “I just thought of something. How would the shooter, who was coming in from the outside, know that Mushrat was going to spill the...?” She stopped as realization crept across her face.
“You see what I’m saying?” I asked.
“Yep. The shooter was already inside.”
“Someone hiding in the back?” asked Dave. “Maybe she ran out as soon as she shot him.”
I shook my head. “Nope. When Gwen Jackson ran out to find you two at the Living Nativity, she couldn’t get the dead-bolt open. Remember? If the killer had gone out that way, the dead-bolt would have been thrown.”
“So that means that the shooter...” Pete paused to take a bite of his third donut, this one creme-filled with a generous dusting of powdered sugar and nuts. A few crumbs dropped on his chin and he brushed them off with the back of his hand.
“Was in the congregation,” he finished.
•••
“They’re a match,” said Nancy, coming back into the station and waving two clear plastic evidence bags in my direction. “I went over to Kent’s and used the good microscope. He wants to know if the St. Germaine Police Department will be making the traditional Christmas donation of a case of Maker’s Mark bourbon to the Watauga County Medical Examiner’s Office.”
“Yep,” I said. “A little graft never hurts.”
“Anyway,” continued Nancy, “Same exact gun. She didn’t toss it.”
“There’s something else,” I said. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”
Chapter 23
“Let’s go over the statements,” I said. “All the folks we interviewed the night of the shooting.”
Nancy found the file folder on her desk and opened it up.
“All the statements are almost identical,” she said. “No one mentions anything about a jail.”
“We won’t worry about that right now. Let’s just put a list together.”
Nancy nodded and handed the folder to me. “You read them off. I’ll write them down.”
“Okay,” I said. “Number one, Ruby Farthing.”
“Meg’s mom,” said Dave. “I don’t think she did it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Write her down, anyway.”
I turned the page and continued reading. “Darla Kildair, Mattie Lou Entriken, Iona Hoskins, Gwen Jackson.”
Nancy typed each name into her word processor.
“Kylie Moffit, Muffy LeMieux, Varmit LeMieux, Benny Dawkins, Flori Cabbage, Karen Dougherty.” I paused for a moment while Nancy caught up, then continued, flipping pages and reading the names at the top of each statement.
“Benny Dawkins, Shea Maxwell, Frank Harwood, Kimberly Walnut. Got ’em?”
“Got ’em,” said Nancy.
“Roweena Purvis, Cleamon Downs, Wendy Bolling, Annette Passaglio, Lucille Murdock, Katherine Barr, Wynette Winslow, Sammy Royce.”
Nancy looked up from the screen. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I said.
Nancy took a moment to count the names on the list. “Twenty-three. That sound right?”
“Yep. Some of these names we can go ahead and cross off.”
“Meg’s mother?” asked Dave.
I laughed. “Yeah. Scratch Ruby off. Also, since we’re looking for a woman, take off the men.”
“How about Wynette and Mattie Lou?” asked Nancy.
“Take ’em off.” Wynette and Mattie Lou were both pushing eighty and had been members of St. Barnabas since the ’40s. “Lucille and Iona Hoskins, too. They’re both pretty mean, but I don’t think they have the skill set to shoot a deacon in the chest from fifty feet away.”
“That leaves us with twelve.”
“Take Karen and Gwen off the list,” I said. “Wait a second. Hang on. Leave Gwen on there. She fits the profile pretty well. Take Karen off, though. And Annette Passaglio.”
“Katherine Barr?” asked Nancy. “She’s a blonde.”
“Can’t discount a blonde,” I said, grinning. “I just pointed out that the odds were good that it was a brunette.”
“How about Wendy Bolling? She’s old, she drives an old VW bug, and she wears glasses like the bottoms of Coke bottles.” Nancy shook her head. “I don’t think she’s the one.”
“I agree. Go ahead and take her off the list. Roweena Purvis, too. Roweena’s had Parkinson’s disease for the past three years.”
“Kimberly Waln
ut?”
“She and Mushrat had something going on,” I said. “Last week they came into the worship meeting together, both of them looking guiltier than Adam and Eve in the fruit department.”
“Like they were having an affair?” asked Dave.
“Exactly like that,” I said. “It sort of seemed as if they might have been tussling with each other right before the meeting, probably in her office. Bev remarked on it and Kimberly Walnut blushed like a teenager. She was certainly flustered.”
“Well,” said Dave. “Counting Kimberly Walnut and Gwen Jackson, we’re down to eight.”
I looked at the list: Darla Kildair, Gwen Jackson, Kylie Moffit, Muffy LeMieux, Flori Cabbage, Shea Maxwell, Kimberly Walnut, and Katherine Barr.
“You have any favorites?” asked Nancy.
“Let’s see. Shea Maxwell has two little kids. I’ve known Katherine Barr since I was six. Her parents and mine were friends back in Raleigh. I’ve known Gwen for about fifteen years, but Gwen fits the profile. She has a four-wheel drive pick-up for making her vet house calls. I’ve seen her shoot and she’s good. She’s strong, fit, and single.”
“What color is her pickup?” asked Dave.
“Light green,” said Nancy.
“Well, it can’t be her then,” said Dave.
“Well, I don’t think it’s her, but not because of that,” I said. “Call it a hunch. I’ve seen Gwen shed tears over a dog she had to put down. I don’t think she’s a killer.”
“How about Darla?” asked Dave.
“Darla cuts hair at Noylene’s Beautifery. I don’t know her very well. It could be her, but she’s really tiny. She’d have needed help to carry Sal LaGrassa’s body down the hill.”
Nancy looked at me, waiting for a final answer.
“I don’t know much about Kylie Moffit,” I decided. “Same with Flori Cabbage. They’re both new in town. Let’s look closely at them.”
“And Kimberly Walnut,” said Nancy.
“Yep.”
“How about Muffy?” asked Dave. “I’d like to keep an eye on her.”
“Yeah. Muffy, too,” I said. “Redheads can be a tad volatile, or so I’ve been told. If she’s the one, that character she’s playing would make a heck of a cover, wouldn’t it?”
The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 14