Murder Among the Angels

by Stefanie Matteson

  After passing Archfield Hall with its gloomy-looking tower, they headed up the access road to the Octagon House. A few minutes later, they were comfortably settled in Lister’s living room, which was high Victorian in style, with heavy, ornate furniture upholstered in tufted velvet, dark red velvet draperies dripping gold fringe, and layer upon layer of Persian rugs—everything, in fact, but the doilies and antimacassars.

  Unlike the galleries below, which had been squared off by locating closets in the angles of the octagon, this room had oddly angled walls that were pierced by tall windows. The feeling was rather like a room in a fun house: all the angles seemed a little bit off. Charlotte reflected on what Jerry had said about one virtue of an octagon house being that the space in the corners wasn’t wasted. This was true, but there were no right angles either.

  The feeling of the room being a little bit off was exacerbated by the paintings hanging on the walls, which were reproductions of famous paintings that featured skulls. A huge reproduction of a Rembrandt hung over the fireplace. There was also a Bellini and a Holbein—even a Dali.

  Once they were seated, Lister brought out the reconstructed face of Doreen Mileski, and set it down in a cork collar on the marble-topped parlor table around which their chairs were grouped.

  “I finished her just last night,” he said. “I’ve been sitting in the library, looking at her—staring at this face being one of my favorite occupations. Which is why she’s not down in my studio.” He looked up at Jerry. “By the way, did you make your arrest yet?”

  Jerry shook his head.

  “You were going to arrest Dr. Louria?” he asked.

  Jerry nodded. “His alibi checked out,” he explained. “Which leaves us back at square one. This is the ‘after,’ I presume,” Jerry said, nodding at the reconstruction, which was identical to the other two look-alikes.

  Lister nodded. “As you can see, she has that same jutting chin. Lily and her mother were both women who led with their chins. Strong chins are an indicator of stubbornness.”

  “Were they stubborn?” Charlotte asked.

  “As mules—both mother and daughter—though the mother was stubborn in a different way.” He looked at Charlotte, and then said: “If I read you correctly, you’re wondering at the coincidence of the fact that a facial characteristic that is linked with stubbornness—a prominent chin—turns out to belong to people who do in fact have stubborn temperaments.”

  “Something like that, yes,” she said.

  “I maintain that it’s not a coincidence,” Lister said. “More often than not the popular wisdom proves true: nine times out of ten, you’ll find that the redhead has a temper, that the shifty-eyed person is not to be trusted, that the person with a high forehead—what the Victorians called the ‘dome of thought’—is a thinker, and so on.”

  “So the phrenologists were more accurate than we think,” Charlotte said.

  Lister nodded his bald head. “The idea that physical characteristics are a sign of character is not a popular notion nowadays. There are too many ways in which such ideas can be misused—we have the Nazis to thank for that. But there’s a lot of truth in the notion, nonetheless.”

  “And the idea that physical beauty is an expression of goodness?” asked Charlotte, thinking of the contrast between Lily’s sluttish reputation and her angelic appearance.

  “Such an idea is why, of course, we’re drawn to beautiful people—be they in the movies”—he nodded deferentially at Charlotte—“in art, or in person. We subconsciously feel that a beautifully formed face ought to be accompanied by beautiful thoughts and feelings. That’s why two generations of Listers have nourished their creative imaginations on the same remarkable face.”

  Their attention shifted to the face on the coffee table.

  “But does a beautiful face reflect goodness?” Lister asked. “I would have to say yes, but only in middle age and beyond. The virtuous beauty can preserve her looks through her virtuous thoughts, but the base-minded beauty will find that a sulk distorts the lower lip, suspicion narrows the eyes, distrust creases the brow.”

  “‘The very book indeed, Where all my sins are writ,’” said Charlotte. “And that’s myself.”

  “Aha,” Lister said with a smile of recognition. “Richard the Third. Yes,” he continued, “Lillian Archibald was a stubborn woman, but, had she lived, she would have remained beautiful because she had a beautiful soul.”

  “And Lily?” asked Charlotte.

  Leaning over, Lister carefully picked up the “after” sculpture and held it out at arm’s length. “Yes, quite a beauty you were, my dear. Or, I should say, the woman after whom you were modeled. But virtuous?” He looked up at them and shook his head “No. I doubt that Lily Louria would have been beautiful in old age. Too many sins to write on that beautiful face.”

  “What about the ‘before’ reconstruction?” Jerry asked.

  “She’s still downstairs,” Lister said. “I’ll go get her.” He excused himself and headed down the spiral staircase to his basement studio.

  As they awaited his return, Charlotte became aware of a sweet fragrance in the room: it was the fragrance of lilies of the valley. Turning, she noticed a small silver vase of lilies of the valley on the table at her elbow, and then several other bouquets in vases around the room. Skulls and lilies of the valley seemed to be a popular combination in Zion Hill, she thought.

  Lister was back momentarily with the “before” sculpture, which he set down on the table next to the “after” sculpture.

  Charlotte marveled at the difference. It was amazing how the implants on the eyebrow ridges had set poor Doreen Mileski’s protruding eyes back, and the implants on the posterior mandibles had increased the definition between her neck and her jaw, as well as widening her jaw to give her that square-jawed look of the Archibald women.

  “Now this young lady wasn’t stubborn,” Lister said. “I imagine that she was quite sweet, in fact. But wishy-washy. Look at that jaw; or rather, that lack of jaw. A young woman with no direction in life.”

  “It’s hard to believe this is the same young woman whom Lothian Archibald saw in the drugstore and mistook for her niece,” Jerry commented.

  “Dr. Louria did an amazing job,” Lister said.

  “As did you, once again,” said Jerry. Their business concluded, they packed up the sculptures and headed toward the door that led to the spiral staircase. At the door, they paused to say goodbye in front of a table that held yet another bouquet of lilies of the valley.

  “I see you have lilies of the valley,” Charlotte said. She leaned over to smell the nodding, bell-shaped flowers. “The fragrance is lovely.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “They were Lillian Archibald’s favorite flower,” he said. “For that matter, they were Lily’s favorite flower too.”

  “Where did you ever find so many?” she asked.

  “I picked them along the railroad embankment.” He nodded in the direction of the river. “There’s a colony of them growing over by Archfield Hall. I imagine Lillian Archibald must have planted them. Unfortunately, this is the last of them. I went this morning for more, but they were all dried up.”

  He must have been referring to the same colony she had seen growing next to the path leading down to the summer house, Charlotte thought. “It’s a shame that their blooming period is so short,” she lamented. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could get them all year round?”

  “You can,” Lister said. “At least, you can in this area. There’s a florist in Corinth that specializes in growing lilies of the valley out of season for the New York florist trade. They’re used in bridal bouquets. Winter Garden Florist,” he said. “I order them sometimes from there.”

  Charlotte took out a notebook and jotted down the name. “That will be nice to keep in mind for a dreary January day,” she said.

  “But they’re very expensive,” he added.

  After thanking Lister, they descended the spiral staircase and made their
way back out through the Phrenological Cabinet to the police car.

  “That was interesting about the lilies of the valley,” Jerry said as they headed back along River Road.

  “I just wanted to find out how common the knowledge is that Winter Garden Florist supplies out-of-season lilies of the valley,” she said. “If Lister knows, I guess it’s pretty common knowledge.”

  “You did it very well,” said Jerry. “Much better than I would have. See? It pays to have a woman working with you. I couldn’t have feigned an interest in lilies of the valley if my life depended on it. It appears to be common knowledge that they were Lily’s favorite flower too,” he added.

  “Which means that almost anyone—not just Peter—could have ordered them in Dr. Louria’s name,” Charlotte said.

  “Speaking of whom …” said Jerry.

  Finding the church locked and no one around, they proceeded on to the Manse, where they found the pastor pruning the rose bushes that climbed up the trellises mounted to the wall on either side of the front door. He was wearing a faded blue plaid flannel shirt over his black clerical garb. Seeing them, he set down his pruning shears and moved the pile of clippings to one side with his foot so that Charlotte and Jerry’s ankles wouldn’t be snagged by the thorns when they came up the front walk.

  “I’m pruning the deadwood,” he said when they reached him. “This past winter was very hard on roses. On everything, for that matter,” he added, pointing to some dead azaleas by the foundation. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for Peter,” Jerry said.

  “Ah yes, Peter,” he replied, brushing away the shock of dark, glossy hair that hung over his face. He stared off in the direction of the church, his profile, with its hooked nose, turned against the background of shrubbery.

  “He might be in Corinth looking after his rental properties.” He checked his watch. “But he usually takes care of that in the morning. Since it’s after noon, I’d guess he’s down at the glass shop.”

  “Glass shop?” Jerry asked.

  “It’s where the glassblowers blew the glass for the stained-glass windows. Peter uses it as a workshop.” He turned and pointed to the Zion Hill Road. “Continue over the ridge. It’s about a quarter of a mile, on the corner by the Quarry Road. You’ll see a sign for ‘The Retreat.’”

  At the mention of the Quarry Road, Charlotte and Jerry exchanged surreptitious glances.

  “Thanks,” Jerry said.

  “Chief,” said the pastor, as they were leaving, “I had a thought about those tall votive candles that were left with the skull in the undercroft. I think they use votive candles like that down at Immaculate Conception,” he said. “It might be worth checking out.”

  “Or any of the other nine million Catholic churches in America,” Jerry muttered under his breath as they got back into the car.

  “What’s the matter?” Charlotte teased. “Getting tired of the interference of amateur assistants?”

  He smiled. “Only some of them.”

  The glass shop was a long, shed-like building that was nestled in the woods in a vale behind the church. It had vertical wood siding weathered to a dark gray, and long rows of six over six windows, their woodwork painted white. The same old red pickup truck they had seen at the church when they talked with Peter before was parked outside. After parking next to it, they entered the building, and found themselves in a large room cluttered with sixty years’ accumulation of junk. Peter was at the other end of the room, working on a large stained-glass window that lay on a long worktable. He held a soldering iron in his hand, which he was using to repair the lead bars in the stained glass. As before, he was wearing a leather apron.

  Picking their way around the junk, they crossed the big, open room to the worktable. “Reverend Cornwall told us we might find you here,” Jerry said after they had exchanged greetings.

  “It’s usually a good bet,” Peter said.

  Charlotte and Jerry took places on either side of him at the table. “What are you working on?” Jerry asked.

  “This is a stained-glass window from the church,” he replied. “The one I had just removed when I saw you the other day. After a while, the solder that secures the lead at the joints gets brittle and has to be replaced. I’m also cleaning the glass and oiling the leads with linseed oil.”

  The window showed an angel with Lily’s face. She was wearing flowing robes and striding toward the viewer through a field of lilies of the valley. Her wings were outstretched, and her head was surrounded by an orange-gold nimbus. She was flanked by two angels on each side, who had Lily’s face as well.

  This must have been the window that Lisa Gennaro had mentioned at the florist shop, Charlotte thought.

  “This is the angel of the ascension,” Peter said. “It’s the central light in a triplet. The other two show the stairs to heaven. As you know, we believe in Christ, but our emphasis is on the resurrection rather than the crucifixion—on death as a new beginning. That’s why you don’t see any crosses.”

  As he spoke, Charlotte noticed the inscription at the bottom, which read: “Death like a narrow sea divides this heavenly land from ours.”

  “Would you like to see it against the light?” Peter asked.

  Charlotte and Jerry said they would, and Peter lifted it up with Jerry’s help and leaned it against an electric light panel on the wall.

  “You miss the effect if you don’t see it with the backlighting. But even this light doesn’t do it justice. I like to look at it when the rays of the sun are falling directly on the glass. The sun turns each of these individual pieces of glass into glowing gems.”

  Charlotte marveled at the opalescent quality of the glass, which gave the window such an ethereal air. “It’s magnificent,” she said.

  “Yes, it is. The Zion Hill glassblowers rediscovered techniques that had been lost for centuries. The striated ruby, for instance: you can’t tell it from the striated ruby at Chartres. They also discovered some new techniques. See this shade of yellow?” he said, pointing to a ray of the angel’s nimbus.

  They looked at the lovely color, a rich apricot-yellow.

  “The master glassblower had tried and tried to get this shade, without any success. One day, he was mixing up a batch of yellow pot metal when a piece of his hair fell into the crucible—he had just come from the barbershop. The instant the hair fell in, the batch turned exactly the right shade.”

  “So he used his hair from then on?” Jerry asked.

  “Yes,” Peter replied. “I don’t know if it had to be his hair. If it did, it must have had to grow pretty quickly.” He smiled. “We have a lot of this shade of yellow in our windows.”

  Jerry stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the stained-glass window. “All the angels look like Lily Louria,” he commented.

  “The model was her mother, Lillian Archibald. But yes, they do look like her. Portraits of Lillian are everywhere in Zion Hill. Would you like to give me a hand with this?” Peter asked.

  “It’s actually about Lily that we’re here,” Jerry said, as he helped Peter with the window. “We’d like to know about your relationship with her.”

  “What would you like to know?” Peter asked as he resumed his work. After propping a piece of soldering wire into place with a small block of wood, he proceeded to melt it with the soldering iron.

  Charlotte was fascinated by the practiced skill with which he compensated for the lack of an arm, and wondered briefly if he had done the same with the bodies.

  “In the kingdom of the unskilled, the one-armed man is king,” Peter said, with a smile as if he had been reading her mind.

  “How long you had known her,” Jerry said in response to Peter’s question. “How close you were. That sort of thing.”

  “I’ve known Lily since the fifth grade when my parents moved here from upstate. My father had converted to the New Church when he came across some of Swedenborg’s writings in the local library. We had been on a waiting list t
o move here. Lily and I went through the Zion Hill School together.”

  “Were you very close to her?”

  “Are you familiar with Swedenborg’s works?” Peter asked. He looked up from his work, his long blond hair hanging over his face.

  “Only very generally, I’m afraid,” Jerry said.

  “Swedenborg believed that everyone has a soul mate, and that everyone will eventually be united with their soul mate, if not on earth, then in heaven. When two soul mates come together in heaven, they merge into one angel, and live in conjugial bliss into eternity.”

  “Conjugial bliss?” asked Charlotte.

  “It’s a term from Swedenborg’s writings. It’s the expression of conjugial love, which is heavenly love, as opposed to mere conjugal love. He believed—we believe—that the true love between a man and a woman is the foundation of all other love, and that to experience this love is to experience the highest state of God’s grace.”

  “Are you saying that Lily was your soul mate?” Jerry asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “She was. To use a phrase of Swedenborg’s, we were like the ‘two hemispheres of the brain enclosed in one membrane.’ We were engaged to be married at one time.”

  “What happened?” Jerry asked.

  “She broke off the engagement after I lost my arm. Then she met Victor Louria and married him, as you know.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  Jerry was beginning to sound like a shrink.

  “I was angry about it for a long time. But she and I are working it out. I’ve come to understand her motives for marrying Victor better, and she’s making amends for how she treated me.”

  Something was wrong with his tenses. “Is making amends?” Charlotte said.

  “Yes. The love between soul mates doesn’t end with the death of one of them, because the spirit of the dead continually lives with the spirit of the living. I still talk to her; every day, usually.”

  He sounded as if he were talking about making a long-distance call. Charlotte and Jerry stared at him, nonplussed.