“Yep. I think so.”
“She’s a witch.”
“I like her though.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
Chapter 16
It was 8:30 by the time Moosey and I got to the lake—a late start to be sure, but I was hopeful.
“We’re gonna get Ol’ Spikey today, aren’t we?” said Moosey.
“Old Spiney,” I corrected. “I think his name is Old Spiney. Anyway, yeah, I’m hoping we’ll get him.”
We got our gear squared away in Pete’s rowboat, put our life jackets on and shoved off into the still water.
“Did you fix dinner for Miss Farthing last night?” asked Moosey, as I pulled on the oars, propelling us into the middle of the lake.
“Yep. I did. Now I’m off the hook for a while.”
“Off the hook,” chuckled Moosey. “That’s funny. ‘Cause we’re fishin’. What did you fix anyway?”
“Some kebobs and a salad.”
“I like macaroni,” said Moosey. “You know how to cook that?”
“Nope. I could read the directions, I suppose.”
“I can cook it myself, but I like it better when Mama does it. When I eat it, I pretend that it’s cheesy worms!” Moosey laughed.
“Here,” I said, handing Moosey his pole. “Put a cheesy worm on that hook and let’s get it in the water. Maybe Old Spiney will like it as much as you like macaroni.”
I decided to go with a lure that Pete suggested called a Walking Worm. It had worked twice for him, but the fish snapped the line both times. With this in mind, I’d also ordered some new 20 lb. test microfilament line that, according to the manufacturer, was a lot less likely to break. I had my line in the water and was just starting to relax when I heard a roar overhead.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Moosey. “Its an old-timey airplane!”
“It’s Five-Dollar Frank,” I said, “He’ll give you a ride for five dollars. And that’s called a biplane. Look. It has two wings on each side—one on top of the other.” We looked up at the bright yellow plane glinting in the sun. “He does crop-dusting sometimes. Wave at him. Maybe he’ll wave back.”
Moosey put down his pole, stood up in the boat and waved and hollered for all he was worth. Frank brought the plane in low over the lake and waggled his wings in reply.
“He did it! He waved at us!” said Moosey. “Hey, what’s that behind the plane?”
“He’s got a banner behind it,” I said. “That’s what he’s up to. He’s advertising for someone. Can you read it?”
“Naw. He’s comin’ straight at us. Wait. Now I can. It says ‘We Got Worms.’ What’s that mean?”
I laughed. “He’s advertising for Uncle Jerry’s Bait Shop in Boone. That’s what their big sign says on the highway. ‘We Got Worms.’”
“Maybe we should get some worms from Uncle Jerry. I mean, they might be professional worms.”
I chuckled. “Let’s see how we do today before we bring in the professional worms.”
* * *
“What do you think’s going to happen to Kokomo?” asked Moosey, once our lines were back in the water. Moosey was letting his pole rest over the side of the boat, but I’d cast my lure about thirty yards toward the shallows and was reeling it slowly in.
“I hope he’ll be okay,” I said. “Maybe the governor will let him go since it was an accident.”
“That’s good. When will y’all find out?”
“The governor said he’d call on Monday.”
“You know the governor? That’s cool!”
“I’ve met him a couple of…Hey! I’ve got a bite!” I yanked hard on my line to set the hook. My Walking Worm had done its job and the line cut a furrow in the surface of the water as the big fish took off toward the middle of the lake. I let some line out with a heavy drag to slow him down and wear him out.
“You got him! You got him!” shouted Moosey, dropping his own pole and grabbing the back of my shirt. “Reel him in! Don’t let him get away!”
I felt the line go slack, but I wasn’t buying it. I’d set the hook pretty well and I suspected that the fish was heading back toward the rowboat. I started to reel in the line, trying to keep pace with him, but he was fast. Too fast.
“He’s coming back toward us,” I said. “He’s a smart one, and he’s got a plan.”
“But you’re reeling him in,” said Moosey. “He’ll be at the boat in a second.”
I nodded and wound the line back onto the spinner as fast as I could. We watched as the line cut back across the water toward the boat, but by the time I’d caught up with him, he was directly underneath us.
“He’s right under us!” exclaimed Moosey. “We’ve got him now! That’s for sure!”
I reeled in the line as far as I could and felt the tension as the end of the pole dipped toward the lake.
“I think he’s foxed us again,” I said. “See this? He’s not moving. He went underneath our boat and wrapped the line around a stump or something.”
“Can’t you just pull him up?” asked Moosey, disappointment evident in every word.
“Nope,” I answered. “See? Look here. I’m pulling on the line as as hard as I can. The end of the pole is almost in the water. He’s caught the line on something, and he’s just waiting for me to cut it.”
“What if you don’t cut it?” Moosey asked.
“We can’t stay out here forever,” I said. “And anyway, we’ll get another chance at him. I’m going to think of a plan to catch that smart old fish. You’d better cut him loose for now.”
“Won’t that line get caught on a tree or something while he’s swimming around?”
“It might, but I don’t think so. And there’s a good chance he’ll work that hook out eventually. Cut it down as low as you can reach.”
Moosey reached over the side with a pair of snips and, with an audible sigh, cut the line.
“Dadburn fish!” he said.
* * *
“Junior got the pole position at Darlington,” Billy said with a grin. “He’s driving like a maniac!”
“Is that good?” asked Elaine.
“Heck, yeah!” exclaimed Billy. “That means he’s got the fastest car out there right now. By the way, I found four more ushers for this morning.”
“Great,” I said. There was still an hour until the service started, and I told the choir that we’d have to practice beforehand. These big crowds were beginning to wear on all of us. “If this keeps up, I’m going to want a pay raise.”
“Fine,” said Billy. “We’ll double your money. No, we’ll triple it.”
“You understand that even though I give my salary back, my check goes into the music fund, right?”
“Really? Okay then, never mind.”
* * *
The church was filling up, even as we rehearsed. We went over the service music, the Psalm and the hymns, but the anthem was falling flat. Being a highly-trained professional, I immediately hit on the problem.
“Where are all the stupid tenors?” I asked.
“Hey!” said Marjorie. “I’m not that stupid.”
“I mean the ones that aren’t here.”
Marjorie shook her head in despair. “I don’t know. This is like Easter every Sunday. Or Christmas Eve. I’m not sure I can take the pressure to perform.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage just fine,” said Meg. “But you’ll have to sing a solo this morning. You look like the only tenor.”
“This is what I’m talking about!” wailed Marjorie. “The stress is too much!”
“Don’t panic,” I said. “Everyone look in the back of your folders and pull out Emergency Anthem number one. Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing. It’s two part and you all know it.”
“But it’s not what’s listed in the bulletin,” said Fred.
“Let’s just see how many people notice,” I said with a smile.
“I need a drink,” said Marjorie, reaching for her flask.
“Where’
s our latest installment of The Bass Wore Scales?” asked Martha.
“It’s on the back of the Psalm,” said Meg, answering Martha’s query. “I begged him not to do it.”
“Did you give Gaylen one?” asked Rebecca.
“I put one in her prayer book,” said Bev. “I just hope it doesn’t get mixed in with her sermon.”
* * *
After church, at Meg’s behest, a group of us headed over to her house to watch the race. Ruby had fixed lunch for us as well as an abundance of snacks. I wasn’t really a race fan, but I really liked snacks and, as they say, when you have a dog in the hunt, it makes it a lot more interesting. We were crowded into Meg’s living room—Billy and Elaine, Pete, Georgia, Noylene and Wormy, Molly and Nancy. Meg didn’t have a big screen TV, but we all managed to find a seat with a view.
We weren’t in our seats two hours later, though, when Junior Jameson won his second race in a row. It was a close and exciting race. On the last lap, Junior just managed to edge out the second place car after he’d nudged the leader into the wall. The announcers were getting ready to replay the unfortunate bump, all the while debating whether the officials would let the victory stand, when Junior Jameson decided to show off with a double-donut at the end of his victory lap. He spun around the first time with a squeal of tires, smoke billowing from the rear of his car. He should have stopped there and headed into Victory Lane, but Junior was riding high on adrenaline and Holy Water. We watched in horror as the second donut took him into the wall in front of the grandstand. As a wreck, it didn’t look that bad. But it was.
And now Junior Jameson was dead.
* * *
When I arrived at the office on Monday, Nancy was waiting for me with a cup of coffee in both hands.
“Here’s your coffee, Chief. We’ve got to go to Boone and see Kent Murphee.”
“What’s up?”
“He says he wants us in the coroner’s office ASAP. Something about the Kilroy killing.”
“You want me to drive?” I asked.
“Unless you want to ride on the back of the motorcycle.”
“I’ll drive. I’ll play some Medieval music for you on the way. I’ve got a new recording of a bladder-pipe ensemble.”
“Oh goody.”
* * *
We wandered into Kent’s office about a half an hour later, and he was sitting at his desk reading a Playboy magazine from the 1970s.
“Reading the articles?” Nancy asked as we both sat down in the armchairs opposite his desk.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Did you know, for instance, that there have only been two instances ever reported of gorillas in the wild using tools? That is, an object to help perform a specific task?”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “Is that in the Playboy article?”
“Nah,” said Kent, putting the magazine down on his desk. “I was just looking at Miss November. I dated her in graduate school, you know.” He lovingly patted the top of the magazine. “I talked with Penelope. She said that Kokomo uses tools all the time, but he’s picked it up from watching and living with people. He can use a nutcracker, for instance, and will, on occasion, eat with a fork.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Nancy, stifling a yawn. “Is that why we’re here?”
“Yep. I finished the autopsy. I had a devil of a time convincing Mrs. Kilroy to let me do it. Since the death was listed as an accident of sorts, she had the last word on whether the autopsy should be performed.”
“And you talked her into it?” I said.
“Nah. I lied. I told her that in all cases of animal homicide in North Carolina, an autopsy was required.”
“And she agreed?”
“I just pushed the paper across the desk, and she signed off. That was last Friday.”
“You could be fired, you know,” said Nancy.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Kent, with a smile. “I’m crazy, and everyone knows it. Anyway, I doubt I’ll be fired.” He handed Nancy and me each a copy of his report.
“There wasn’t any DNA evidence. He’d been floating in the water too long, and it was full of chlorine. I’m guessing that Kilroy threw a tablet in when he filled it.” Kent picked up his own copy. “Of course, he had a broken neck—that was obvious. And it seems,” he continued, “the blow to Jimmy Kilroy’s head was substantial. It caused a four-inch gash that bled profusely. The blow was also responsible for an acute subdural hematoma—that is, a blood collection below the inner layer of the dura but external to the brain itself and the arachnoid membrane.”
“Arachnoid membrane?” said Nancy. “I’ve got spiders in my brain?”
“Most definitely,” I said. “They crawl out your ears sometimes.”
“Same root word,” said Kent. “The membrane’s like a spider-web forming the middle of the three coverings of the brain and the spinal cord. Anyway, the indentation on Kilroy’s skull was caused by a cylindrical iron object. Like an old pipe, for instance. I found traces of rust deep inside the wound. I would never have seen them without the autopsy—there was too much blood. Also, when I x-rayed the skull, I could see the indentation of the pipe. Again, not apparent to the naked eye. So I would say the weapon was an iron pipe, two-inches in diameter.”
“Kokomo hit him with a pipe?” asked Nancy.
“Could be,” said Kent. “But here’s the thing. If Kokomo got mad and hit him with a pipe, Kilroy would have been unconscious. I can’t see him breaking Kilroy’s neck just for spite. And, if he broke his neck first, then why come back and whack him with a pipe? Now, I know this is a gorilla, and I have no idea what his thought process might be, but it just doesn’t make sense.”
“Hmm,” said Nancy.
“I don’t think Kokomo did it,” said Kent. “I can’t prove it, of course, and I’ll admit I’m biased since I really like Penelope, but it just doesn’t add up. Oh, I think the gorilla tore the office up, that’s for sure. There aren’t many people capable of throwing a grand piano across a room. But his tantrum, if we can call it that, may have been a reaction to the killing. I just don’t know.”
“Here’s another question,” I added. “If, as we surmised, Kokomo was in the pool with Kilroy to be baptized, why would he be holding a pipe?”
“Did you find one at the scene?” asked Kent.
“No,” admitted Nancy. “But the place looked like a tornado hit it. And we didn’t know what we were looking for.”
“Have they cleaned everything up?” asked Kent.
“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s all sitting in a dumpster around the back of the church. I don’t think the disposal company has picked it up yet.”
“You’d better get back to work then,” said Kent with a grin. He picked up his Playboy. “Here’s the other thing. You’ve got a witness. A talking gorilla.”
* * *
Nancy was silent on the drive back to St. Germaine, a sure sign that she was thinking—or maybe just enjoying the bladder-pipe music. We arrived at the New Fellowship Baptist church just in time to see a flat-bed truck with “New River Dumpster Service” written on the side pull into the parking lot. I walked up to the driver, showed him my badge, told him he wouldn’t need to pick this dumpster up for a few days, and asked if he could bring us another one the same size.
“That one’s twenty feet long, and it’s just a little more than half-full. What’re you gonna do with another one?” he asked.
“We need to empty all this trash out and go through it piece by piece,” I said. “If you’d put it right next to that one, it’d be a big help.”
“I can’t get back here till tomorrow morning,” the driver said. “I’m booked up today.”
“What’s the weather supposed to do?” I asked Nancy, knowing she always checked the weather before taking her motorcycle out.
“I think we’re fine—until Friday anyway,” said Nancy.
“Tomorrow will be fine,” I said. “First thing, right?”
“First thing,” said the d
river. “Should I have it billed to the church?”
“No, bill it to the St. Germaine Police Department.”
“Will do.”
We watched the truck pull away. “Call Dave,” I said to Nancy, “and get him to bring a tarp down here and cover up that dumpster just in case the weatherman’s wrong. Then let’s go in and take another look at the office.”
Chapter 17
“Can I help you?” asked Bootsie Watkins, when we walked into her office.
“We need to see Brother Kilroy’s office, if you don’t mind,” I said.
“We’ve had a couple of men from the church working on cleaning it up, off and on, for the past couple of days. Ever since the insurance adjustor gave us the okay.”
“Can we have the key?”
“It’s open,” said Bootsie, “but here’s the key. It’s the only one. We’re going to change that old lock and get a new door. There’s no reason to keep that one since Brother Kilroy is de…uh…no longer with us. It came out of his grandfather’s old church.”
I looked at the key that she handed me. It was a skeleton key, dark with age, the once sharp edges worn down over decades of use.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll check back with you when we’re finished.”
* * *
Nancy and I walked down the hall to Kilroy’s office. We reached the heavy wooden door, and Nancy reached for the knob.
“Hang on a second,” I said. “Before you open it. Let’s think about this.”
Nancy pulled her hand back and looked at the door. “The window’s still broken,” she said.
“Yep. But, here’s the thing. When we got here, the door was locked. Remember? Locked from the inside.”
“I remember. The key was still in the lock.”
“Right. The door couldn’t have been locked simply by pulling it closed. It’s not that kind of lock. So, if there was another person in there—someone who hit Kilroy in the head with a pipe—how did he get out?”
The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 16