“Flummoxed, you say?”
“I think so. When we were singing the Saint-Saëns Ave Verum, she was just sort of frowning and following the Latin words with her finger.
“But we were singing it in English.”
“Yes. I know.” Meg sat down across from me and tasted her sandwich. “Hey, this is good. Mother made the pimento cheese á la Martha Stewart.”
I nodded and gave an affirmative grunt, having been taught from an early age not to talk with my mouth full. Grunting was okay.
“Don’t fill up too fast. There’s Lemon Meringue Fluff for dessert.”
“Excellent!”
“You know,” said Meg, “I don’t think Muffy actually reads music.”
“She’ll get better. I should call her up and encourage her.”
“She might get better if she sticks with it,” agreed Meg, all too sweetly. “Have you ever called anyone else up to encourage them?”
“Hmm…Not that I recall.”
I watched one of Meg’s eyebrows go up.
“She probably doesn’t need any encouragement,” I decided, taking another bite of my sandwich.
Chapter 11
“What’s the verdict, Kent?” I asked, balancing the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I rooted across the top of the desk for a pen and a piece of paper. Nancy, usually the first one to the station, was in Boone doing some investigating and Dave wasn’t due in until eleven.
“Looks like coronary arrest,” Kent answered. “I just finished the autopsy, but I did a prelim when they brought her in. I would say she died sometime on Tuesday evening. Maybe between seven and ten o’clock.”
“Maybe?”
“Give or take a few hours. It’s tough to tell when the body’s been outside all night. It was cold on Tuesday. Thirty-four degrees according to the weather service.”
“But Tuesday night for sure.”
“Tuesday night,” agreed Kent. “Nancy was in here a little while ago and brought in the courthouse records. Thelma Wingler was eighty-eight years old, so a heart attack isn’t anything out of the ordinary. There wasn’t any prior indication of a heart episode though. Other than being dead, as far as her heart was concerned, she was healthy as a horse. She had a red throat and some swelling of her vocal cords. Nothing out of the ordinary. Probably the onset of a cold. Nancy said she was on the way to talk to Thelma’s doctor.”
“Yeah. The whole thing’s fishy. She didn’t have her purse or her keys. There was nothing else in the garden except a krummhorn hanging in the bushes.”
“Ah, yes,” said Kent, his smile evident, even over the phone lines. “Isn’t that what you detectives call ‘a clue?’ It sounds to me like the old ‘krummhorn in the bushes’ caper.”
“Mock me if you will. I shall solve this conundrum.”
Kent laughed. “I have no doubt. Anyway, I can tell you that she wasn’t killed by a krummhorn.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what a krummhorn is?” I said.
“No, I’m not,” said Kent. “I know what a krummhorn is. I was forced to be part of a Collegium Musicum in college. It’s probably the reason I hate music to this day. If I had a krummhorn, I’d throw it in the bushes as well.”
“You played the krummhorn?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “And the cornamuse. I was drafted because I also played the oboe in the orchestra. The Medieval history professor thought it should be part of my scholarship. They even made me dress up in tights and wear one of those stupid hats with a feather in it. I think I still have the hat somewhere. I will go on record as stating that the krummhorn has all the musical range and beauty of a piglet caught in a vacuum cleaner.”
I laughed. “Then how do you know the krummhorn wasn’t responsible for her heart attack?”
“Easy,” replied Kent, with a chuckle. “Because her ears weren’t bleeding.”
•••
“Will you look at this?” said Pete, thrusting a newspaper across the table. The Slab was void of customers except for myself. I’d missed the lunch rush by at least an hour.
I picked up The Tattler—Pete had thoughtfully folded it open to the editorial page—and skimmed quickly down the “Letters to the Editor” until I saw Pete’s name.
“Wow,” I said, reading Cynthia’s letter, “Cynthia’s not letting up on this underwear thing, is she?”
“No, she isn’t,” said Pete. “I can’t believe it’s become an issue. I thought she was going to let it go, but now that she’s hired this yahoo from Boone, that’s all they’re going to talk about.”
“Do you know them?”
“Nope. It’s a new public relations firm.”
“I guess it’s a pretty good strategy. She doesn’t actually have a political platform now that you’ve brought all that business to town.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have a new plan. I need you to do something for me.”
“Is it illegal?”
“Nope. I need you to write a rebuttal to Cynthia’s letter. Quote some scripture or something. There’s got to be some biblical precedent for not wearing underwear. I mean, it’s not like I’m one of those nudists or anything.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks. Now how about some lunch?”
“Sounds great. Reuben sandwich?”
“Coming right up,” said Pete with a grin. “Hey, Collette!” he hollered.
“Collette? Collette’s back?”
“She called me last night and asked for her old job back.”
“Nancy isn’t going to be happy about this. Now that she and Dave are a couple…” I let the thought trail off, then continued. “As you may recall, Collette’s and Dave’s breakup wasn’t exactly amicable.”
“Oh, I recall all right,” said Pete. “And I appreciate you chipping in to pay for the damage. Collette tore this place up. But here’s the thing. I’ve got to have a waitress during the day. Noylene can’t do it—she’s got to be at the Beautifery at eleven. Bootsie is a disaster, and I can’t find anyone else. I’ve had a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window, an ad in the paper…I even put up flyers at the university.”
Collette came through the kitchen door and put a Reuben sandwich with a side of coleslaw down in front of me.
“How’d you fix this so fast?” I asked.
“I saw you come in and figured you’d want one,” said Collette with a smile. “Was I right?”
“You were right,” I said. I took a bite and chewed slowly, savoring the sauerkraut and corned beef for a long moment before swallowing. I closed my eyes in culinary rapture.
“Ah. Delicious,” I proclaimed, settling back in my chair. “Now tell me, Collette, why’d you decide to come back?”
“The Holy Spirit has told me that Dave and I are meant to be married,” stated Collette, as matter-of-factly as you please. “I’ve come back to fight for him. I plan to witness to him until he sees that this is the Lord’s will for us.” She gave us a peaceful smile, turned primly and proceeded to walk back into the kitchen.
“Well, that should work,” mumbled Pete under his breath.
“Mmm,” I agreed, another bite of my sandwich disappearing.
“I didn’t know about that thing with Dave and the Holy Spirit,” said Pete, shaking his head. “She just asked me if she could have her old job back. I swear…”
Pete’s swear didn’t quite make it out of his mouth before it was interrupted by Collette’s blood-curdling scream. He and I were both out of our seats and through the kitchen door in a matter of seconds.
“Help! Oh, help, help, help!” she screeched.
“What?” hollered Pete, looking around for an imminent disaster. “Why are you screaming?”
“In the walk-in! In the walk-in!” screamed Collette, dancing from one foot to the other and pointing with one hand toward the walk-in refrigerator while the other hand clutched at her apron. “Down by the lettuce!”
“What?” yelled Pete. “I don’t see anything. The stupid
light bulb’s out again!”
“It ran behind the onions! Oh, Lord!” shrieked Collette. “Oh, Lord! It’s a rat from the pit of hell!”
“We do not have rats!” hissed Pete, looking around for any customers that might have come into the Slab during our brief absence, and wandered into the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. He needn’t have worried. “Keep your voice down!” he said.
I spotted a furry face looking out from behind a bag of potatoes. “There it is,” I said quietly, pointing it out in the semi-dark walk-in.
“Sweet Jesus,” whispered Pete, “it is a rat! Look at the size of that head! Give me your gun, will you?”
Collette screamed one last time, fainted against the dishwasher and slid to the floor.
“I don’t carry it with me,” I said. “It’s in the organ bench. Anyway, I don’t think rats eat salad. Get me the flashlight, will you?”
Pete kept a big flashlight sitting on top of the fire extinguisher and in a moment it was in my hand. The beam swept the floor of the walk-in and settled on a dark brown shape sitting up behind a fifty-pound sack of Idaho spuds, a head of cabbage securely in its paws. We both recognized it at the same time. A Minque.
“Aw, geeze,” said Pete. “How did that thing get all the way over here from Blueridge Furs?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But if there’s one loose there’s bound to be more.”
•••
I left Pete to call the Minque farm and headed over to St. Barnabas to practice my prelude for Sunday. I had very cleverly entered through the transept door, making my way up to the choir loft unnoticed. I wouldn’t be unnoticed, of course, as soon as I started playing, but at that point, most folks were loathe to interrupt the artistic process.
Most folks didn’t include Father Lemming.
“Glad I caught you!” he barked from the nave, finally hearing a slight cessation of music. Unfortunately for him, the pause was only long enough for me to pull the stop for the trompette en chamade. I grabbed a handful of notes and pretended I hadn’t heard him. That much was easy. He was harder to ignore when he came up into the loft, leaned against the console, and began drumming his fingers on top of the organ. I stopped playing.
“May I help you with something?” I asked, not bothering to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“Yes. I need to see you in my office immediately.”
“I’ll come down as soon as I’m finished practicing.”
“Well, hurry up. There’s someone waiting,” he said and disappeared down the stairs.
I didn’t bother to rush, but eventually I’d done all the improving I was going to do and made my way downstairs to the suite of offices. Marilyn was typing away at her computer and, when she saw me, rolled her eyes and nodded in the direction of Father Lemming’s office.
“Go right in,” she said. “They’re waiting for you.”
“They?”
Marilyn just smiled.
•••
“Have a seat, Hayden,” said Father Lemming. “You remember Carmel Bottoms?”
“Yes, I do,” I said shaking her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Carmel.” I turned to Father Lemming who was perched behind his desk like a Poobah. “I really can’t stay and chat,” I said. “I have another appointment. Is there something you need?”
“I’ve called Carmel in as a spiritual consultant, dontcha know.” Father Lemming pushed his glasses up his nose. “We were in seminary together. I discerned very early on in our Spiritual Gifts seminar during our first year together that Carmel had a tremendous affinity for identifying unwanted spirits.”
“Really?” I said.
“With these two latest deaths, it has become clear that St. Barnabas has an unhealthy influence residing within its walls, dontcha know.”
“Unhealthy influence?”
“I suspect demons,” said Carmel Bottoms. “More than one. I felt them as soon as I came in this morning.”
“You didn’t feel them the first time you were here?” I asked. “Last month?”
“They’re able to shield their presence from me,” she explained. “For a while.”
“Well, you know,” I said, “Thelma Wingler wasn’t killed in St. Barnabas. In fact, she wasn’t killed at all. As far as we know, she had a heart attack. Davis’ suicide was terrible, but I don’t think that it was due to demons. At least not demons living in the church.”
“I knew you’d say that.” She pulled out a piece of paper. “What about Willie Boyd? Darlene Puckett? Kris Toth? Peppermint the Clown?” She looked down at a page of notes and read off a list of names. “Lester Gifford, Randall Stamps, Agnes Day, Kenny Frazier, Little Bubba Haggarty, Jimmy Kilroy and Junior Jameson. All associated with St. Barnabas.”
“Well, not exactly,” I said. “Okay. Willie Boyd, sure. And Agnes. You might count Randall Stamps, although he was killed in his house and not in the church. But Lester Gifford was killed over sixty years ago…”
“Demons don’t measure time in the same way we do,” said Carmel. “Sixty years could be yesterday for all they care.”
“And,” I continued, “Kenny Frazier isn’t dead. He was shot, but he’s fine now. Darlene was a traffic accident. Little Bubba Haggarty was killed by his wife in his trailer and wasn’t a member of St. Barnabas. Neither was Ruthie. In fact, I think they were Catholic.”
“Doesn’t she go to church here?” asked Father Lemming. “I thought I saw her on the list.”
“She does now,” I admitted, “but when she killed Little Bubba she was attending the Catholic church. Anyway, she was acquitted.”
Carmel Bottoms gave me the look that said, “she’s still a murderer,” but I let it go.
“Jimmy Kilroy was the pastor at New Fellowship Baptist. I doubt that he’d even been inside an Episcopal church. And Kris Toth was killed in England, for heaven’s sake.”
“Yet, all the killings are intertwined with the fabric of St. Barnabas,” sniffed Carmel, with a sardonic smile. “What are the chances?”
“In this town, and with me being the police chief, I’d say about one hundred percent.” I looked at her pointedly. “Do you also think it’s fascinating that almost all the cases involve the clergy in one way or another?”
Carmel ignored me, but I could see her stiffen.
I continued. “Junior Jameson wasn’t even from St. Germaine. He was killed in a racing accident in South Carolina. Peppermint the Clown was not a well man. His death was an unfortunate series of unrelated events.”
“I doubt that either of them would have been killed if it weren’t for their involvement with the church,” said Carmel.
“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But that’s like saying that if Thelma hadn’t come to services on Sunday, she wouldn’t be dead now.”
Carmel shrugged and was about to speak when she was interrupted by Father Lemming.
“It does us no good to argue, dontcha know,” he said. “It’s obvious that there’re spiritual forces at work here—forces that Carmel is uniquely equipped to deal with.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “I’m not arguing. I’m always in favor of prayer.”
“Oh, it’s more than prayer,” said Carmel. “We’re going to need a full blown exorcism.”
I shrugged and raised both hands affably. “Well, whatever you think. Let me know how it goes. I certainly am in favor of nobody else getting killed—especially someone connected with St. Barnabas.”
“I’m glad you see it that way,” said Father Lemming. “I’ve authorized Bev to write the Rev. Bottoms a check for fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Excuse me?” I said incredulously. “Fifteen thousand dollars? That’s the fee?”
“It’s not like the church is hurting for money,” said Father Lemming. “We have millions of dollars at our disposal, dontcha know.”
“I’ll be bringing in my associates,” said Carmel. “We met in seminary and formed a ministry that is uniquely equipped to deal with demonic i
nfluence. We’re based in Asheville, but our associates are in place across the country.”
“Your associates are priests?”
“Of course. Five total. One of us has a parish, but the rest are now working exclusively in the demonic area.”
“Ordained priests?” I asked.
“Ordained by God,” came the self-satisfied answer. “We are the Exorkizein.
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You…” I pointed at Father Lemming, “are paying five priests fifteen thousand dollars to get rid of some demons that Carmel says are lurking in the walls of St. Barnabas.”
“No,” insisted Father Lemming. “You misunderstand. I don’t think the vestry would ever go for that. Quite frankly, I don’t think they can see the danger, dontcha know. What I’m going to do is to have Carmel’s group come in and exorcise the demons. I will then make a donation to their non-profit ministry from my discretionary fund.”
“You have that much in your discretionary fund?”
“Sure,” replied Father Lemming. “Gaylen Weatherall had all kinds of money in there.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering my conversation with Gaylen. “I talked to her about it in August. She was going to send a large donation to the women’s shelter in Boone, start a soup kitchen here when the weather turned cold, fund some scholarships to a summer camp…I can’t remember what else.”
“Yes, well…whatever.” Father Lemming waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure we can make some donations to her causes as well, dontcha know.”
“I don’t think the vestry will approve this expense,” I said.
“They don’t have to,” he answered. “It’s discretionary.”
“So why tell me?”
“You, above all, know the danger and we may need your help,” said Carmel Bottoms. She folded her hands in a prayerful position in front of her and suddenly I knew.
“This isn’t a scam is it?” I said. “You’re serious.”
“This is a matter of life and death,” said Carmel gravely. “It is a battle in the spiritual realm for the very existence of St. Barnabas.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 10