“Sarcasm does not become you, but just to be clear, my job is to put the bad guys away. The way the criminal justice system has evolved lately, it’s getting harder and harder to do that, so now we do what we have to do.”
“Okay. But you still haven’t told me why you wanted to get in here. I mean, if you had knocked I would have invited you in. Knock and it shall be opened to you, seek and ye shall find—and all that.”
“At first, I thought you were out of town. That’s what the Bass woman told me. I wanted to check Krueger’s keys against your door. Then I found something out back and decided I would check it first.”
“You are a very suspicious man, if I may say so, Sheriff.”
“Goes with the territory—keeps food on the table and me alive to enjoy it.”
“So what did you find?”
“I’ll get it. It probably belongs to the church and you’ll want it back.”
Schwartz went outside and returned a moment later with a gray, steel file box.
Blake inspected the box. It had apparently been forced open, but the latch seemed intact. Inside were three file folders. He looked at them. They contained letters to Taliaferro and some counseling notes.
“This all there was?” he asked.
“That’s the lot.”
“Well, now I know what happened to Taliaferro’s files. I’ve been looking all over for them.”
“How do you suppose that box got back there?”
“I expect someone mistakenly put this box outside near the trashcans after Taliaferro died. The kids in the neighborhood use our parking lot for a skate park. They also use our trashcans for various tricks they do, and my guess is they found this box, opened it out of curiosity, and then, finding nothing of interest, tossed the files in the trash. When they were done, they pitched it into the bushes.”
“Makes sense. Well, so long, Reverend. By the way, the gun that killed Krueger was a .32, probably a small automatic. I hate to say this, but that puts you on the suspect list. Just a heads up. You have a lawyer?”
“No. You think I need one?”
“Everyone needs a lawyer. That’s why we have so many. Ask the American Bar Association. You said you had another attempt by someone to break in?”
“Yeah. My secretary, Mrs. Bass, tried.”
“What did she want?”
“No idea. I left her outside.”
“Something screwy there. She thought you were away, same as I. She wanted something. I wonder what.”
“No clue. Good night, Sheriff,” Blake said, but he had a sinking feeling he had not seen the last of Schwartz.
Chapter Twenty-five
The next morning, Blake carried Schwartz’s box and its contents to his office. Millie Bass had not yet arrived. He put the box in the middle of his desk, opened it, and withdrew the few remaining files. He put them in a manila envelope, dug out Doris Taliaferro’s address, found an old-fashioned balance beam postage scale and weighed it. A search of Millie’s desk turned up her cache of stamps. He figured two dollars would more than cover the postage. He took three fifty-cent stamps, to which he added two thirty-fours left over from one of the Post Office Department’s postage increases, and stuck them on the package. He was about to close the drawer when he saw the key. It was buried in a jumble of paperclips. It looked familiar, like one of the keys he had sorted through Tuesday morning. But then, every key looked pretty much like every other key when you got right down to it. On a hunch, he carried it back into his office and after he put the stamped and addressed package in his briefcase, tried the key in the steel box’s lock. It worked. He had the lid back down when Millie arrived. She stood in the door with her mouth open as if to say something but no sound came out.
“Good morning, Millie. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Guess what I found.”
“Dr. Taliaferro’s files,” she croaked. “Where…I mean what…?”
Blake decided not to tell her how he came across the box. Who knew what kind of story she would invent and spread around the neighborhood?
“Was there…were the files…are they…?”
“All taken care of,” he said and gestured vaguely at his briefcase. It was not exactly the truth, but close enough.
“Then, that’s it.”
“I guess. Say, I found the key to the box in your drawer. Lucky, huh?”
“Oh, yes…I…that is, we, Dr. Taliaferro and I kept an extra key in the drawer. He sometimes misplaced his, and then he’d need it. So, you’ve taken care of the files?” she repeated.
“I guess so. Unless there is something you know that I should. No? Well, since the box is in pretty good condition, I think I will use it. I have some files of my own I need to move. I’ll store them in this box. I kept all my old sermon notes, I don’t know why. I guess I haven’t the heart to throw them away. I should, but I keep thinking I might need them some day. I can put them in here and free up some drawer space.”
He jerked open his lower drawer and removed fifteen inches of notes and squeezed them in the box. He locked it and lifted it into his crowded closet. It did not fit.
“Millie,” he shouted through the half opened door, “is there any room in the big closet out there? This box won’t fit in here.”
Millie rounded the corner, saw Blake’s predicament and turned back to the large closet in her office that held office supplies. She made some shelf space by removing two reams of copy paper that took up nearly a foot of shelf. There was at least twenty-four inches between it and the shelf above, and the closet was a standard twenty-two inches deep. Blake slid the box in and placed one ream of paper on top, the other, on edge, in front.
“You can’t even tell it’s there. Thanks, Millie.” She grunted a response.
***
Millie wanted to say something, but she was seething. She’d searched high and low for those files. She’d scoured the church attic, the basement closets, and even the vicarage, twice. All for nothing, and now this…this man stumbles onto them and puts the files away. She sat drumming her fist softly on the mouse pad until she’d calmed down. In fact, she knew most of the juicier items anyway, and guessed it would not be long before this new vicar would start keeping records, too—that is, if he lasted. And after the uproar he caused Sunday, that did not seem too likely.
And then, she still had copies of those letters from Philadelphia buried with the other letters, the ones from the clergy up there. She could retrieve either set anytime she liked, put them in their proper file if, for example, the issue ever came up about why they had not been distributed before. She had a copy of the cover letter that indicated she did her part. How they got lost in the transmission would remain a great mystery.
She thumped the mouse pad some more and listened as he shifted around in his chair in the next room, then watched as the door between the offices swung shut. The light blinked on the phone. He was making a call. Well, she thought, let’s just see what this is all about, and picked up the receiver.
He had Bournet on the line.
“Philip? I think we are in the clear. The police found out our murdered organist skipped out of San Francisco with information about organized crime up there. They think the mob found him and some hit man flew in to do the shooting.”
“Good news for you, then. Must be a relief.”
“It is. By the way, thank you for Mary Miller. She is a delight.”
“Isn’t she wonderful? Betsy said you two were made for each other. She has high hopes.” Betsy Bournet prided herself in matchmaking.
“Philip, please, you are not trying to marry me off, are you?”
“Not me, Betsy.”
“Well tell her she is premature. Mary is delightful, but right now all I can say is, I think she is a lovely person and I hope to see more of her. That’s it. Tel
l Betsy. It will make her feel better, and maybe help her resist the temptation to push any harder.”
“I’ll do that,” Philip chuckled.
Millie quietly returned the receiver to its cradle. She had what she needed. She pulled open a file drawer and recovered a packet of the damning letters from Philadelphia and put them in an envelope.
“Let’s see what the beautiful Ms. Miller thinks of him when she reads these,” she muttered.
By hanging up, and because she was angry, she missed the significance of the first part of the conversation, the information that might have changed a great number of things in her unhappy life.
Life had not always been hard for her. Thirty years before, Millie Carney married a graduate of the Naval Academy in one of the dozen or so ceremonies performed in the Academy chapel immediately after the graduation exercises. A year later she suspected her husband of cheating. She did not know it for a fact, but there were hastily ended conversations, and then she found some unexplained long-distance phone calls on their bill, calls to her best friend, Darlene.
After fretting about it for a month, she confronted her husband, who denied any wrongdoing. The calls, he told her, were about his possible assignment to Turkey. Darlene, he said, had been there and he wanted to know more about the country—that was all. Millie did not believe him.
Millie stewed over what she believed to be their affair. She tried following her husband on the nights he said he had to work late, but he never budged from his office. It was all she could do to get home before he did. Finally she decided to do something and put an end to it. Darlene worked in Naval Intelligence. She found some old Polaroid pictures taken when she and Darlene went on a singles cruise years before. Unlike Millie, Darlene had always been a risk taker. One night, in a moment of alcohol-fueled exuberance, she decided to dance on the top of a table for some of the young men, during the course of which, her top fell off. The picture made her look completely wanton, even though a split-second later she had recovered her top and modesty, and run red-faced from the room.
Millie mailed the picture anonymously to Darlene’s boss. Darlene was fired. Millie gloated. Her husband found out what she had done and left her. Two years later, he married Darlene, confirming Millie’s worst suspicions. Since that time she lived in her private world of victimhood, repeating and embellishing her story, the cause of her unhappiness, to anyone who would listen.
***
Blake spent the afternoon reading and rereading the Sunday lessons. He worked on his notes until five-thirty and then left to fix himself a light supper. While he ate his omelet he heard cars arriving. Thursday and choir practice—Mary Miller would be there. He wondered if he were somehow reverting to adolescence. He gulped down his meal and stalled around—watched the end of the news. Finally he caved in and left the house and crossed the parking lot to sit in on choir practice. It was, after all, Mary’s first meeting with the choir, and she might need some help. At least that is what he told himself.
He went through his office and opened the door between it and the sacristy, and the sacristy door as well, so that he could hear but not be seen. The rehearsal seemed to be in full swing as he settled in his chair. He could not be sure which sounded better to him, the music, or Mary’s voice. He decided Betsy Bournet knew what she was talking about. Finally, he could not resist the temptation to go into the church, and he walked into the nave.
The choir barely noticed him as it swung full-voiced into a cantata of some complexity. Blake was stunned. The choir had never sung anything more difficult than the simple harmonies in the hymnal and an occasional descant, and then not very well. Mary had brought them a light year away from the dull fare they usually dished up on a Sunday. When they finished, Blake applauded. Mary blushed, and most of the choir smiled in appreciation.
“Join us,” Lanny Markowitz said.
“You do not want me to sing, Lanny, I promise you. A cow overdue for milking sounds better.” Amid laughter they broke up and drifted out the door. Blake sidled over to Mary.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee and dessert?” he asked. “I know it’s a ‘school night’ but—”
“Actually, I am starving. I came here straight from work and haven’t eaten anything since ten o’clock this morning.”
“Neither have I,” he lied. “I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’ll join you, but I will pay, if it is all the same with you.”
They arranged to meet at the local Friendly’s. He helped Lanny lock up and drove to the restaurant. Mary had a booth and he joined her. Most of the other choir members were there, too, ordering ice cream.
“They have a tradition,” Mary said, “of meeting after choir practice for dessert—not all of them but the, ah, nicer ones.” She lowered her eyes in embarrassment at the last remark. “I shouldn’t have said that. I am sure they are all nice.”
“Of course they are, and Osama Bin Laden is just misunderstood. Have you ordered? I think I will follow your choir and have dessert.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t eaten. You should have something more than dessert.”
“I lied. I wanted an excuse to be with you. Sorry.”
Mary blushed again. He guessed if Betsy Bournet had her way, he would be responsible for a lot of blushes in the future.
The waitress sauntered over to their booth, snapped her gum, and took their orders. While they waited, they talked. He had to ignore the stares and smirks on the faces of the choir members. Lanny caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up. Mary asked about the murder investigation and he told her about Schwartz’s discovery that Templeton was, in fact, a mobster from San Francisco.
“Wow,” she said, “how exciting. It’s like a movie.” Her eyes danced at the thought. “Credits roll…a plane, sunset behind it, drops in for a landing,” she began. Blake watched as she flattened her hand and brought it in for a landing next to her mashed potatoes. “Brrrt, brrt,” she said, making the sounds of airplane wheels touching down on the tarmac. “Door opens and a man wearing aviator sunglasses gets off and retrieves his luggage. No one knows, but it has a secret compartment.”
“Naturally, everyone who wears aviator sunglasses—he ought to have a trench coat, too—all those guys have secret compartments in their luggage. I’m thinking about getting one myself,” Blake added.
“Hush.” She gave him a stern look. “This is my movie. He checks into a cheap motel in Picketsville—”
“There are no motels in Picketsville, cheap or otherwise.”
“He checks into a motel out on the highway…satisfied? And he opens the bag. The secret compartment has a big gun, one of those big shiny ones, you know, like Clint Eastwood had in that movie?”
“A three fifty-seven magnum.”
“That’s the one, a three fifty-seven magnet.” Blake did not correct her. He liked magnet better anyway. “He drives to Stonewall Jackson Church, sneaks up the stairs. Waldo is playing the organ—Bach, I think—deedle dee, dum, dum, dah. He doesn’t see the killer. Waldo…what was his real name, do you know?”
“Walter. Walter Krueger.”
“Walter/Waldo turns and stares at the man. He takes off his aviator sunglasses and says, ‘That’s right, Walter/Waldo, it’s me.’ Then, blam! He shoots poor Walter/Waldo. ‘Arrgh’ says Walter/Waldo and he falls down dead.”
“Very dramatic. One problem, Walter/Waldo was killed behind the altar, not at the organ.”
“Oh well, then Aviator Glasses sneaks up the stairs through your office, where he pauses to admire your diplomas. He is a man with academic aspirations. And then he skulks into the sanctuary, where he lurks, an evil presence, waiting for his victim. Walter/Waldo plays Bach, deedle dee…”
“I get the picture. How does he get into the offices? The doors are locked.”
“He’s a crook. He can pick a lock, can’t he
?”
“Sure, but what is Walter/Waldo doing in the church at that time? Choir practice would have ended long before then. And how would the bad guy know? Wouldn’t he need to follow him around, find out his habits, things like that?”
“You are deliberately trying to ruin my movie,” she said with a pout.
“Sorry. How about this. Aviator Glasses is on the airplane. He is studying some pictures. We zoom in and see they are pictures of Walter/Waldo. The plane lands.”
“Brrt, brrt,” Mary added.
“Exactly. He books into a motel nearby and then drives his rental to Picketsville. He parks in front of Walter/Waldo’s house and waits. His victim drives up, unaware of the danger that lurks in the shadows. Headlights go out. He gets out of his car. Aviator Glasses follows Walter/Waldo to the front door. He turns. He’s terrified. Aviator Glasses says, ‘That’s right, Walter/Waldo, its me’ and—”
“Blam!” she finished. “You’re right, that makes more sense.” She finished her dinner and got up to leave. “But that’s not what happened.” Blake speared the check.
“My treat,” he said.
“No way,” she protested.
“Just this time. You can pay the next time.”
“Who said anything about a next time?”
“Tomorrow night, dinner and a movie, how about it?”
“Oh I see, you want me to spring for the expensive meal.”
“Dutch,” he said.
“What time?”
“Seven?”
“No good. Pick me up at seven-thirty.”
Blake watched her leave. He poured himself another coffee and stared at his placemat. He turned his thoughts from Mary and their “movie.” His eyebrows knit in a frown. It did make more sense—that was the problem. It did not happen that way.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mary picked up her mail and quickly sorted through it. Anything without a first-class stamp went into the wastepaper basket with the fliers and junk mail. The rest she dropped, unopened, in the pile on the little desk by her front door. Mary had a rule. Neither telephones nor mail would manage her life. She did not have an answering machine. She did once, and found that it obligated her to make calls she did not want to make. The messages were on the machine and it would be rude not to return the call. By getting rid of the machine, she got rid of the obligation as well. She didn’t have to respond to a message she never received.
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