“Anniversary?” asked Sandy.
“Yep,” I said. “Anniversary of the second…no, third time I asked Meg to marry me. Of course, she said no.”
“Smart girl,” said Sandy.
“But then, she eventually said yes,” I replied.
“Like I said…” said Sandy with a grin.
•••
I walked into St. Barnabas at 6:30 and heard the unmistakable sounds of Max Reger’s Basso ostinato in E minor emanating forth from the organ. All week, Michael Baum had been working his artistry, putting his final stamp on the instrument. It sounded to me as if he’d accomplished his objective. The organ case was a work of art in itself, but it was the sound that brought a grin. Magnificent was the only word for it. Michael was a much better organist than I, but if I could make the organ sound half as good as he did, I’d be more than content. I’d probably even find time to practice.
I walked up the steps into the choir loft and took a seat in the alto section, smack-dab in the midst of the sound. Michael gave me a smile and kept playing. Thirty seconds later, he finished with a flourish, and the sound reverberated through the nave just long enough to make me shake my head in appreciation.
“You’ve had that smile on your face since you walked in,” said Michael. “I take it you approve.”
“It’s brilliant!” I said.
“The voicing is finished,” Michael said. “I’ve checked the midi interface so you can record and play it back. That’s all working.”
“Great,” I said.
“You know there’s a handgun in the organ bench?”
“Yeah. That’s mine. It’s a Glock 9mm. Tends to keep the tenors in tune.”
“Ah, of course. Anyway, the zimbelstern is hooked up,” he said, pointing at the bells mounted on the upper case. “I also have a surprise for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Listen.” Michael pulled a knob and pushed a key. The sound of birdsong echoed through the church. I was smiling again. It was one of the toy stops that Baroque organs used to have in abundance. This one was comprised of two small organ pipes, mounted upside down and blowing into a water-filled vessel.
“A nachtigal?”
“Yep,” said Michael.
“That wasn’t in the specs,” I said.
“No, but I thought you’d like it.”
“I love it!”
“Then my work here is done,” said Michael with finality. “I’m just kidding. If you need anything else or if something goes haywire, just give me a call. I think we’re fine, but occasionally I miss something.”
I nodded, but Michael never missed anything.
•••
The choir wandered in and found their seats to the sounds of Michael Baum’s interpretation of Marcello’s Psalm 19.
“Wow,” said Rebecca. “Wish Hayden could play like that.”
“Hey,” I said. “I’m insulted.”
Michael finished to applause, got off the organ bench and took a well-deserved bow.
“It’s all yours, now,” he said, sitting down and changing his organ shoes for a pair of worn-out Adidas.
“I’ll do the best I can,” I said.
•••
Twelve-Fingered Teddy was a drunk, but that didn’t stop him from playing a mean service. Stewed or not, he was the only ivory-jockey in the city who could play the “Polydactic Etudes for Queen Wilhelmina” by Dutch composer Roloff van der Vlees, and he did so with relish
—most often sweet pickle, although he occasionally preferred a mild chow-chow if there were frankfurters involved.
“Hello, Teddy,” I said when I reached the choir loft. Teddy’s eleventh finger slipped off the high G# with a squeal like Al Gore accepting his Nobel Prize.
Teddy unzippered his mouth like a gymbag and sputtered “Whaddyawan?” slurring his crotchets and syllables in equal measure.
“I want some answers. And maybe that hot-dog you’ve got heating up on the en chamade.”
Teddy was a canary with stool pigeon tendencies. If he knew something, you could sprinkle some salt (and by salt, I mean gin) on his tail (and by tail, I mean uvula) and he’d sing like Celine Dion being taunted with a pork-chop. I handed him a flask. He opened it with two fingers while continuing to play the fugue with the other ten.
“So ask,” he said, wiping his mouth with one of his feet, the one that wasn’t playing a pedal C. “But keep your hands off my wiener.”
“You hear anything about any diamonds?”
“Aussi diamonds?”
“Yeah. Aussi diamonds.”
“Maybe.”
“Listen, Teddy,” I said. “Spill your guts, or I’ll kick your diapason all the way back to Lizard Lick.”
“How did you know?”
“Know what?” I asked.
“How did you know about Lizard Lick?”
“?,” I queried.
“The Lizard Lick Creation Museum,” said Twelve-Fingered Teddy. “I hear the bishops are fit to be tied.”
I was speechless. Teddy was positively gluttonous with self-approbation. The hot-dog just sat there, like an inanimate object.
•••
“You know,” said Sheila, “this may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read.”
All the altos nodded in agreement.
“Thanks,” I said. “And just for that, I’m not going to make any altos sing higher than a ‘D’ this evening.”
The altos smiled. “Told you it would work,” said Sheila.
“I heard you were starting a children’s choir,” said Elaine. “What a good idea!”
I couldn’t tell exactly if this was sarcasm, but I chose to think better of Elaine. “Just for the summer,” I said. “We’re meeting on Wednesdays at 5:30; so if you know anyone who’s interested, tell them to come.”
“Any audition required?” asked Mark.
“Of course,” I said.
“No,” said Meg. “No audition. Any child who wants to may join.”
“Huh?” I said. “Wait a min…”
“It’s important that all the children be involved,” said Bev. “Whether they’re tone-deaf or not.”
“What? Tone deaf?” I said.
Bev and Meg crossed their arms in a show of solidarity. Elaine chuckled.
“Well, I’m picking the music,” I mumbled, holding on to the one shred of control I had left.
“It has to be fun,” said Georgia. “Kids won’t like it if it’s not fun.”
“And scriptural,” added Muffy Lemieux. “It needs to be the Word of God. Hey! How about a musical?”
“An excellent idea,” said Meg happily. “A musical.”
“But I’m picking it,” I said, my voice getting smaller. “Because I’m the director.”
“I saw some kids do a Jonah and the Whale thing over in Johnson City last year,” said Steve. “It was a Lutheran Church, I think. I’ll bet I could find out the name of it.”
“You see,” I muttered. “I agreed to this because Meg said I would get to choose the music. I was thinking that maybe we’d learn some two-part Heinrich Schütz motets in the original German…”
“Jonah and the Whale would be great!” said Bev. “Or maybe another Bible story. I’m sure that Hayden can find us one.”
“This will be fun,” said Meg. “I’ll help make the costumes.”
“Me, too!” said Muffy. “And I can help with make-up.”
“We’ll build the sets,” said Phil. The rest of the men agreed enthusiastically.
“If we can get the music fairly quickly,” said Sheila, “rehearsals can start next week. Then the kids could put it on in July.”
“Great idea,” agreed Bev.
“Because I’m the one in charge,” I sighed.
Chapter 12
“I have the list,” said Nancy. “I got it from Kimberly Walnut, then confirmed it with Vera Kendrick, the children’s minister from New Fellowship Baptist.”
“Let’s hear it,” sa
id Pete.
“Hey,” I said. “This is police business.”
“Sorry,” said Pete.
“So let’s hear it,” I said.
The Slab Café seemed to stay busy from June straight through to Labor Day. Pete had an “owner’s table” by the kitchen, so it was no problem getting a seat, but getting served was another matter entirely. Noylene was busier than a one-armed paper hanger, and Pauli Girl was hustling as well. Cynthia, our mayor, wasn’t on the waitress schedule this morning.
“Be with you in a bit,” said Noylene as she raced by. “Help yourself to some coffee.”
Dave got up and retrieved the coffee pot from the burner. We all held up our empty cups in salute. Dave filled them and then dutifully filled all the cups that the rest of the patrons held aloft as soon as they spied him with a coffee pot.
“Now,” I said, once the coffee was poured and Dave had rejoined our table. “Let’s hear the list.”
“Well,” said Nancy, flipping her pad open. “The adults from New Fellowship Baptist who were there for the last bit of The Stoning of Stephen skit are as follows. Vera Kendrick. She’s the children’s minister. The woman working at the basket shop was Jenny Thatcher.”
“I don’t know her,” I said. “You?”
“Nope,” said Nancy. “She may not be from St. Germaine. I’ll get addresses and phone numbers on all these folks.”
I nodded.
“Jenny’s husband, Jeremy, was there, too. He was working in the carpenter’s tent. They have a six-year-old and an eight-year-old. Both kids were enrolled.”
“Okay,” I said. “Who else?”
“The girl in the dye shop, the one that said ‘Lydia’ on the outside, is named Diana Terry. She’s a retired teacher.”
“Ah, I didn’t recognize her,” I said. “I know Diana. I don’t think she’s a suspect.”
“Why not?” asked Dave.
“She’s an ex-nun,” I said. “Call it a hunch.”
“The two soldiers are named John Perdue and Jimmy Tinsdale. College students, home for the summer. They’re both on the NFB praise team. The man playing the beggar was Mitch St. Claire. Mitch was the only one of the bunch who was at the Bear and Brew the morning it burned down. The weekend before that, he was arrested in Greenville, South Carolina, at a men’s Bible conference called Jesus 2.0—Retool and Reload. He punched out one of the presenters.”
“A fight?”
“More like a mugging. The pastor pressed charges. Mitch St. Claire was arrested and spent the night in lock-up.”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
“The two college kids didn’t even get home till the Saturday before the Bible Bazaar. They weren’t in town for Brother Hog’s protest.”
“Let’s talk to them, anyway,” I said. “The Thatchers, too. But Brother Mitch sounds like he might be bearing the brunt of our perlustration.”
“Huh?” said Dave.
“Bring him in,” I said.
•••
Father Tony was walking his beagle in Sterling Park when he saw me and motioned me over with a wave. He was dressed in his civvies, that is, a polo shirt and khakis instead of his black shirt and collar and his dress grays. His white hair was as thick as it ever was, and he looked to be in great shape for a man in his seventies. Sparkling blue eyes looked kindly on everyone he met from behind round, tortoise-shell glasses.
“Good news,” he said, smiling. “My second retirement is coming to fruition a tad early.”
“Really? What’s up?”
“St. Barnabas found a priest.”
“That was quick. Did we use a headhunter?”
“Nope. Didn’t need to.”
“Well, fill me in. Who is it?”
“It’s Gaylen. Gaylen Weatherall.”
“She’s the Bishop of Colorado,” I said.
“Soon to be retired. Her father had moved out there after her mother died, but can’t deal with the altitude. He’s got emphysema.”
“So she’s coming back here? As a priest?”
“We offered her the job, and she accepted. She’ll be back next month. I might add that, even though she retired from the episcopate, she’s still a bishop. The Right Reverend Rector of St. Barnabas.”
“That’s great!” I said. “I know you’re happy.”
“You bet I am,” said Father Tony. “I’m going to visit Wes, Carol and the kids for a few months. Did you know they moved to Florida?”
“I didn’t know that, but it sounds like fun. You need to see those grandkids.”
“You ain’t kiddin’!”
•••
“Did you hear the news?” asked Georgia as I walked into the bookstore.
“Father Tony just told me.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yeah, great. Do you have a copy of Playback? It’s Raymond Chandler. I can’t find my copy anywhere.”
“No, but I can order it for you,” said Georgia.
“Then do so at once, my good woman.”
Georgia laughed. “It’ll be here in a couple of days.”
“I’ll check back,” I said as I turned to leave. “Thanks.”
I walked out onto the sidewalk, squinted my eyes against the sun, and wondered if Meg might need a hand sorting out some rather egregious investment problem over a cup of tea.
“Chief Konig,” said a voice behind me. I turned and saw Brianna Stafford standing in front of me. Her hands were clasped in front of her, resting nervously on her tennis skirt. She had a lime-green sweater draped loosely around her shoulders, and her bottle-blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. One expensive white tennis shoe was tapping absently on the pavement.
“Brianna. How’re you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Can I help you?”
“I need to show you something. Would you come over to the house?”
“Sure. Now?”
“Uh huh. I’m just around the corner and down the street.”
“Let’s go, then,” I said with a smile.
We walked down Main Street, away from the square, into one of the old established neighborhoods. I knew exactly where Brianna Stafford lived. Hers was one of the largest houses in the downtown area, originally built as a summer residence for an Atlanta banker. Brianna didn’t say anything on our walk over. She kept her eyes facing front and her back straight, walking at a clip that I had to hustle to match.
We turned up the walk and ascended the granite steps onto the massive wrap-around porch whereupon Brianna pulled a key out of her pocket, unlocked the front door and walked into the house ahead of me. The hallway was full of boxes, sealed with packing tape and labeled with their contents.
“You’re leaving?”
“I can’t live here anymore. I’m moving back to Auburn. That’s where my family is.”
“I understand. When will you be leaving?”
“In a couple of weeks, I guess. I have some things packed up,—” she gestured toward the boxes in the hall,—“but I still have to sell the house.”
“What is it you wanted to show me?”
“In here,” she said.
Brianna led me into a large room off the hallway. Large shelves covered the walls, floor to ceiling, and were loaded with hundreds of books in leather bindings of various colors. I tipped one out and ran a finger over the dust on the golden page edges. Middlemarch by George Eliot. Unread. Probably all of them. There was a huge, overstuffed leather couch in front of a fireplace flanked by two matching arm chairs. Against one wall was an antique desk, French, by the looks of it. There were some files stacked on one end; an expensive laptop in the center; and various electronic accessories, including an iPod, a USB hub, some speakers and a large monitor that Russ could plug into if he wanted a big screen.
“This was Russ’ office,” she said flatly. “I was packing up his desk when I found that.” She pointed to a manila envelope sitting beside the laptop. I looked at her and raised my eyebrows.
&nb
sp; “Go ahead. Open it.”
I walked over to the desk, picked up the envelope, opened it and poured five uncut diamonds onto the desk.
“Russ never told me anything about them,” Brianna said. “But when I saw them I knew they were just like the ones that were in the time capsule.”
“They sure look like it,” I said. “There wasn’t a note or anything?”
Brianna shook her head. “Do you think he stole them from St. Barnabas?” she asked in a small voice.
“No,” I said. “Noylene said he was trying to buy her place. I’ll bet he found them up there.”
Brianna relaxed visibly. “I was so scared,” she said. “I prayed they weren’t from the church. We’ve been working with the youth group. Afterglow.”
“I know. Listen, can I ask you something?”
“Okay.” She was nervous again.
“There’s been talk about some inappropriate behavior…”
Her face fell. “I heard some of the girls whispering about it, but when I asked, they wouldn’t tell me. It wasn’t Russ.”
“You sure?”
She was quiet for a moment, then, “Pretty sure. We were happy. We couldn’t have any kids of our own, but we were happy.” She paused for a moment, then said, “You think he was killed because of those diamonds?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet.” I picked up the handful of stones, uncut but hinting at brilliance that was waiting to be discovered. “What do you want to do with these?”
“Are they mine?”
“I suppose they are. We don’t know where he got them for sure, so no one else has a claim to them that I can see.”
“What do you think I should do?”
I shrugged. “If it were me, I suppose I’d sell them. It’s a lot of money, Brianna.”
She nodded sadly. “I guess I will.”
Chapter 13
The two college kids looked scared. Nancy had them sitting on a couple of folding chairs with their backs to the front window. She was behind the desk typing something or other and had been letting them stew for a half-hour or so, occasionally glancing up and giving them a menacing look. I walked over and smiled at them. Bad cop, good cop.
The Diva Wore Diamonds Page 11