“Good point,” said Nancy.
“How about this?” said Dave. “The key is magnetic, right? What if the killer used some sort of magnet from the outside to turn the key?”
“Can’t be done,” said Nancy. “Yes, nickel is magnetic, but the door’s too thick, the lock’s too tight and anyway, it’s a double bit key.”
“How about the gorilla?” Dave said. “Could Kokomo have locked the door behind the killer?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s find out.”
I pulled out my cell phone, dialed Kent Murphee and posed the question.
“Let me call Penelope. She drove back to Maryland this morning, but she’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll call you right back.”
We were on our second beer when my phone rang.
“Monkeys,” explained Kent, “have a wrist joint that restricts the movement plane of their wrist in the same way that we restrict the movement of our foot. Now that’s great if you’re in the trees. But if you come down to the ground and think about running around with a foot that has this kind of floppy motion, you won’t last very long. What apes did, when they came down from the trees, is develop an odd form of locomotion called knuckle-walking. It’s the way that they can deal with this wrist problem.”
“But they still have the wrist problem?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“So, could Kokomo work a key in a double lock?”
“Not a chance. It’d be like you trying to lock it with your toes, even if you could hold the key steady. Your foot just doesn’t turn all the way around.”
“So, we’re back where we started,” I said, after I thanked Kent and flipped my phone closed. “So the first question is ‘How did the killer get out of the locked room?’ Second question—Brother Kilroy always kept his key on a ring with a miniature Bible key-fob attached. What happened to the Bible?”
“Maybe it got pulled off in the fracas,” said Nancy.
“If that had happened, part of the key ring would have still been attached. Nope. The key was in the lock, but there was no key ring. I find that very odd.”
“A clue perhaps?” said Dave.
“Perhaps,” I said. “One of you guys is going to need to go through the dumpster again. See if you can find that miniature Bible and the key chain.”
“Aw, man…” said Nancy.
“Just Dave this time,” I said. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Okay, that’s the first part of the puzzle. The How. We also need the Why. We need a motive.”
“It might be easier to discover how and then we’ll know why,” said Nancy.
“Jillian gave me a DNA report on the pipe,” I said. “Kilroy’s DNA is at one end and our killer’s at the other. No match in the system, though.”
“Fingerprints?” asked Nancy.
“Nothing we can use,” I said. “One thing we do know. Our killer is male.”
“Nuts,” said Nancy. “I had a feeling it was Mona.”
“Well, she may be involved, but she wasn’t the one that hit him with the pipe. But here’s another person-of-interest. It seems that Officer Burt Coley had an appointment with Brother Kilroy on the Friday before he was killed. Burt is going into the ministry, and Kilroy was on his discernment committee.”
“Really? You think Burt might be involved?” said Nancy. “I’ve known him since he was eighteen.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I said. “Anyway, I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Don’t forget, Dave—dumpster duty, first thing in the morning.”
“I hate to go into a dumpster by myself. I have dumpster-phobia. Nancy should really come with me.”
“In a pig’s eye,” I said. “You know, Bootsie Watkins sure was jumpy at the beginning of that interview. Then she relaxed. Maybe I just didn’t ask the right questions.”
“Let’s go interview her again,” said Nancy.
“We will. Tomorrow morning, while Dave’s in the dumpster. Right after we interview Kokomo.”
* * *
I barged into Moby Mel’s Fish Emporium like a smelt on National Smelt Day at the Fish Emporium. I looked into the display case and there they were--basses from every choir in the city, stretched out on the ice like Nancy Kerrigan after her attempted Triple-Mooseflip during the long program at the ’94 Olympics. They’d been cleaned and cleaned good.
“Oh, those poor things!” said Marilyn, coming in behind me.
“Don’t look, Babe. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Why’d they do it?”
“Two reasons. First, they don’t want any four-part singing. That’s obvious. Just praise choruses. And with the basses gone, the tenors don’t stand much of a chance. Sure, they’ll wander around for a while, trying to find tonic, but eventually they’ll just give up and go home.”
“How about the altos?”
“They might hang on a little longer. Try to harmonize. But they won’t last.”
“What’s the second reason?” Marilyn asked.
“They needed those scales. Look there,” I said pointing to the naked corpses. “There’s Larry Lydian. That one’s Phreddy Phrygian.” I sighed. “Mick Solydian, A.O. Leon, Linc Locrian. What a waste.”
“Who did it?”
“The Minimalist,” I said.
“You’re referring to me?” came a voice from behind us. It was him--and I was caught with my waders around my ankles.
* * *
Choir practice began promptly at 6:45 during the summer months. That being the case, everyone was in his or her seats and ready to sing at 7:18.
“Everyone sit down and let’s get started,” I called out. “We have a lot to do. I have an announcement to make. Also, there’s some music on the organ we need to look at.”
“Pete sent this,” said Rebecca, holding out a brown paper grocery bag. “I stopped by the Slab for supper before choir, and Pete said to bring this bag on up.”
“What is it?” asked Bev.
“His new Communion Fish,” said Rebecca. “They’re really tasty! Try one!” She passed the bag down the row of altos. “This flavor is Tongues of Flame—Cajun Spicy. I’m going to need something to drink, though. These are hot!”
The bag made its way across the section, each alto reaching into the bag of Communion Fish and coming up with a handful.
“Isn’t this sort of sacrilegious,” mumbled Tiff, her mouth full of crumbs. “I mean, isn’t this the body of the Lord?”
“Not until it’s blessed,” I said. “Till then, it’s just crackers. Cajun-spicy fish crackers. Let me try one of those.”
“Hey, these are great,” exclaimed Marjorie when the bag had made its way to the tenor section. “I vote we use these all the time.”
“I agree,” said Mark Wells. “Delicious!”
“Is there a rule that communion bread has to taste bad?” asked Fred. “And be stale to boot?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “There’s no rule.”
“I think the vestry should vote on these,” said Elaine. “They’re very tasty, and look—they have a little cross on the side. How cute!”
“Do they come in other flavors?” asked Georgia.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I’m afraid so.”
“What’s this thing?” asked Meg, looking askance at the Xeroxed music she’d picked up off the organ.
“It’s the anthem for tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “That’s the announcement I have to make. As you know, Junior Jameson died on Sunday in a car accident. He won the race, but then crashed into the wall. Anyway, we’ve been asked to sing at the funeral. It’s going to be televised.”
“That’s great!” said Mark. “We’ll be on national television. The St. Barnabas choir will be famous!”
“What are we going to sing?” asked Georgia. “How about something from the Brahm’s Requiem? How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place?”
“Nope.”
“How about that thing they sang at Princess Di’s funeral?” said Rebecca. “The ‘flights
of angels sing thee to thy rest’ song. It’s really pretty.”
“Song for Athene,” I said. “No, not that one.”
“What about Never Weather-Beaten Sail,” said Phil. “That’s the one I’d want at my funeral.”
“I’ll make a note. But alas, Kimmy Jo Jameson has sent over the piece we’ll be singing. She wrote it specially.”
“Not this?” said Meg in horror, her eyes scanning the page.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “And if I have to do it, you all have to do it with me. Would you pass them out, please?”
Meg took the stack of music off the organ and passed it down the rows of choir chairs. There were a few snickers as people started reading through, but the snickers broke into full-fledged guffaws even before everyone had their hands on the anthem.
“She can’t do this,” said Meg. “Isn’t it under copyright?”
“I was hoping so. That would have certainly been an easy way out for us. But, no. The song was written in 1922, so it’s in the public domain. She can do whatever she wants with it.”
“Do we have to sing it with a straight face?” asked Phil Camp.
“Yes, we do. That’s why we’re practicing it tonight,” I said. “Now, we need a soloist. Who wants to be on national TV singing a solo?”
There were no hands.
“C’mon,” I said. “This could be someone’s big break. How about you, Tiff?”
Tiff shook her head in terror.
“Okay. We all know the chorus. We can do the verse in unison. How many of you know how it goes?”
No hands.
“You’re lying,” I snarled.
“Why don’t you sing it, Hayden,” said Bev. “From the console. We’ll get you a mic.”
“Yes, yes!” came the enthusiastic cheers from the choir. “Exactly! Perfect! That’ll be great!”
I slumped forward, my head hitting the keys of the top manual with a thump. My goose was cooked, and I knew it.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
I turned on the organ, punched a couple pistons and started crooning in my best Frank Sinatra imitation.
Praying is never wasted,
It’s a fine habit they say;
All the glory I’ve tasted,
Just seems to fade away.
I believe that God answers our prayers,
So standing with Jesus, I’ll say:
The choir was howling with laughter. I ended on the dominant chord, growled at the choir and they took off singing. The tune, familiar to everyone in North Carolina, had been arranged in four parts with an oom-pah accompaniment. It wasn’t difficult and wouldn’t take much rehearsal—maybe just enough to work the giggles out.
Nothing could be finer, laid to rest in Carolina
in the morning,
It’ll be like Eden, with my Jesus, when I meet him
in the morning.
Where the morning glories,
Wrap around my grave,
Whispering the story,
I know I’ve done been saved!
Strolling with my Savior, where there is no bad behavior
in the morning,
Angels all will kiss me and my loved ones ne’er will miss me
at the dawning,
If I knew my life was done, and had time to pray,
I’d close my eyes and here’s what I’d say:
Nothing could be finer, laid to rest in Carolina
in the morning.
“Hahahahahahaha!” screamed the choir.
“We’ve got to sing this?”
“On national television?”
“Oh…my…GOD!”
“I can’t do it!”
“Oh, you’ll do it, all right” I said. “You’ll do it with a straight face and a tear in your eye! The funeral’s at two o’clock. We have to be there by 1:30. Wear your robes and don’t be late!”
Chapter 22
Nancy met me at the McCollough trailer at 7:30 in the morning. Her Harley growled to a stop on the dirt driveway just as I was knocking on the door for Moosey. The door opened, and Ardine greeted me.
“I’m just on my way to work,” she said. “Moosey’s coming. He wouldn’t tell me what this is all about. You sure he’s okay?”
“He’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
Ardine smiled a tight smile and went down the steps to her old car. I waved as she drove off, heard the slam of a screen door, and looked down to see Moosey right beside me, happily munching on a Milky Way bar. He had a brown paper grocery bag in his other hand. The top was rolled shut.
“Y’all ready?” he asked. “I’ve got some food for Kokomo.”
Nancy pulled her bike up on the stand, took off her helmet and put it on the seat.
“I guess we’re walking,” she said.
“Yep,” I answered. “Moosey says it’s about a mile.”
“Let’s get going then. Before the hunters are up and about.”
“They’re already out,” I said. “I saw three or four pick-ups beside the road on the way into town. They’re looking up closer to Gwen’s clinic, though.”
“C’mon,” said Moosey impatiently. “Let’s go. I hope Kokomo’s all right. I haven’t seen him for a couple days.”
* * *
We walked into the woods behind Moosey’s home, following a path cut years ago by a logging truck. The summer morning sun shone through the overhanging branches, dappling the forest floor with splashes of light that danced as the light breeze played in the trees. The path turned up the mountain, climbing at a steep angle, and Nancy and I were breathing hard in a few moments despite our high level of donut conditioning.
“How far did you say?” huffed Nancy.
“Almost...there,” I puffed back.
“You’re lying.”
I was lying, but after about twenty minutes, we came to a sharp bend in the path, and Moosey announced that we had arrived.
“We’re here!”
“We’re where?” asked Nancy. “Where’s here?”
“The bus is back over there,” said Moosey, with a grin. He pointed into a huge thicket of mountain laurel. “Nobody knows it’s in these woods anymore.”
“How’d they get it up here?” asked Nancy.
“They probably drove it up, back in 1952,” I said. “Way back when this was a road. I would have never found it.”
“C’mon,” said Moosey. “I wanna see if Kokomo is okay.”
* * *
We picked our way through a hundred feet of thick laurel and finally saw the outline of a pale green school-bus. The tires had rotted to shreds, the hood was up and most of the windows were broken. Some of the panes had been replaced by pieces of old plywood. On the side of the bus was painted “Homewood Four-Square Church” in faded white letters. The door was standing open. Moosey ran up the steps in a flash.
“Kokomo!” we head him call from inside the bus. “Kokomo!” He stuck his head back out of the door. “The food’s almost gone, but Kokomo’s not here.” He sounded very worried.
“Come out here and call him,” I said. “Maybe he just went out for a stroll.”
“Humph,” said Nancy. “Yeah, that’s it. A stroll.”
“Kokomo!” Moosey called from the steps of the bus. “Kokomo! Come here! I’ve got some food for you!”
Without warning, there was a tremendous crash right behind us, as the gorilla burst through the thicket. Nancy and I both jumped, adrenaline sending our hearts into overdrive. This time, however, our pants remained dry. At least, mine did. I couldn’t speak for Nancy.
“Jiminy Christmas!” I said through clenched teeth, hoping I hadn’t screamed it. “I wish he wouldn’t do that!”
“There he is!” Moosey sang out. “Kokomo! Come over here.”
The gorilla grunted and lumbered toward Moosey on all fours. He sat down in front of the boy and began to run his fingers through Moosey’s hair.
“I think he’s looking for bugs,” said Moosey. “But Mama says I
don’t have ‘em anymore. Not since the school nurse sent home that shampoo.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Milky Way candy bar. Kokomo snatched it out of his hand, delicately peeled away the paper, and nibbled on it like an old lady eating a watercress sandwich at a tea party.
“Moosey,” I said. “See if he’ll answer some questions for us.”
“He says ‘yes,’” said Moosey, intently watching Kokomo’s gestures.
“I forget he understands what we’re saying,” whispered Nancy. “Man, I just can’t get used to this.”
“Kokomo,” I said. “Do you know who hurt Brother Kilroy?”
“That’s it,” said Nancy, under her breath. “Get right to the point. No use beating around the bush.”
“That red,” signed Kokomo, brushing Moosey’s shirt with his free hand.”
“Yes,” said Moosey. “That’s red. Did you see who hurt Brother Kilroy?”
“Friend,” signed Kokomo.
“Yes, he was your friend,” said Moosey. “Who hurt him?”
“Tiger bad,” signed Kokomo.
“He says ‘Tiger bad,’” said Moosey. “Just like I told you.”
“You mean Tiger, your cat?” I asked.
“Tiger man,” signed Kokomo.
“Tiger man,” translated Moosey.
“Tiger man friend hit,” signed Kokomo. Moosey translated again. “No like tiger man. Kokomo dream tiger man devil scared. Red.”
“Red again?” I asked. “Blood? The water was red?”
“Water red,” came the answer. “Friend red. Devil Tiger.”
Suddenly Kokomo stood up to his full height, pounded on his chest and, with a roar, disappeared back into the thicket with a crash and the sound of breaking limbs.
“That went well,” said Nancy. “At least my pants are still dry.”
The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 21