Death in the Choir

by Lorraine V. Murray

  Lily Santiago was as tall and shapely as Patricia was, but had gleaming black hair and exotic features that revealed her Hispanic roots. She was a professional singer in Atlanta with a silken voice that received rave reviews in the newspapers. She always wore sophisticated, trendy outfits and had every gleaming black hair in place. Lily had often voiced her strongly negative opinion of Patricia’s singing abilities to the other choir members.

  Randall, silent, was staring at the piano as if it were an alien life form that he had never seen before.

  “Randall,” Lily said slowly, “I didn’t realize you had already assigned Christmas Eve solos.”

  “I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

  “Oh, really?” Patricia piped up. “Well I seem to remember you promised me a solo.”

  What happened next made Francesca wonder how much punch Randall had consumed. Something inside him seemed to snap. He slammed his hand down on the top of the piano with such force that the framed pictures on a nearby wall were jolted out of alignment.

  “You have about as much talent for singing as pigs have for flying,” he snarled.

  Everyone in the choir seemed to be struck dumb for ten seconds. Patricia’s face turned scarlet. Then Andy Dull, seemingly unaware of the land mine he was treading on, chimed in, “Hey, Patricia’s got a great voice. Give Lily and Patricia both solos, why don’t you, and then we can all get something to eat?”

  Randall had descended back into silence. He was studying the musical score in his hands as if it were a check for a million dollars endorsed to him. Patricia, lips pressed tightly together, stormed out of the room, her high heels grinding tiny holes in Molly’s hardwood floors. Francesca couldn’t help but notice that Lily had a triumphant little smile on her lips.

  “Alright, folks, I think we’ve done about as much damage as we’re going to for now. Let’s take a break,” Randall said.

  *

  Father John rang the doorbell a few moments later, and Molly Flowers rushed to answer it. As he walked in, he was sure he had a guilty look on his face.

  “So glad you could make it, Father.”

  Ah, yes, she’s the one with that wonderful Southern accent. And thank God she’s not a hugger, he thought, making his way to the drinks table.

  He tried to make an appearance at most of St. Rita’s functions, but he’d almost talked himself out of coming tonight. He and Randall hadn’t spoken since the blow-up. Father John was furious with the choir director, who he felt had definitely overstepped his bounds, but he also was somewhat ashamed of the way he had handled the recent confrontation with him.

  Not only that, but Father John had received a call from a parishioner to let him know about a petition to the archbishop that was circulating at the church. Although he didn’t know for sure, he suspected Randall was behind it. That’s all I need, he thought moodily, fishing for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Next thing I know, I’ll be transferred to some hole-in-the-ground church in the Okefenokee Swamp.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked the hostess.

  “Not at all, Father, go ahead.” She gave him a big smile. But, then, as he lit up, he noticed she made a point of throwing open all the windows in the living and dining rooms. So much for honesty, he thought.

  He inhaled greedily. He had a new bargain with himself: He’d give up smoking once the holidays were over. After all, the stress of the upcoming season, not to mention the potential mess with the archbishop, would be impossible to withstand without a few vices. Speaking of which, he filled a tumbler full of red wine and then began helping himself to a few thick slices of roast beef.

  Molly came over and, before he could stop her, she began talking about her job in labor and delivery. Please, spare me the details, he prayed silently.

  “We just catch most of them, Father. Once the head emerges, it all happens so fast.”

  He could feel his face flushing, as he immediately began talking about the weather.

  Anything to get her off that topic. As he was mentioning the forecast for the next few days, he saw a tall blonde woman emerging from the kitchen and shooting Randall a very dark look.

  The woman began chatting with one of the tenors, and Father John stopped in mid-stream with Molly.

  “What is it, Father?” Molly asked.

  “Oh, er, nothing, I thought I heard something.”

  He looked over at the blonde woman. Could she be Lady Chatterly?

  Just then, Molly made an excuse about having to check on the punch bowl, and Andy Dull took her place next to Father John.

  “What do you think about that new ordinance, Father, the one that’s going to make it illegal for homeless people to beg for money downtown?”

  It was one of Father’s John’s hot buttons, the way the city tried to shame poor people.

  “If Christ were to visit Atlanta today,” he told Andy sadly, “He might be thrown in jail for vagrancy.”

  “I wonder what Christ would think if He came to St. Rita’s.”

  “What do you mean?” Father John hoped Andy wasn’t going to launch into criticism about the parish.

  But Andy didn’t seem to have any ulterior motive. “Well, I think He would see that we’re trying to take care of the poor, what with all the collections for the St. Vincent de Paul Society, and the way folks help out at the homeless shelters.”

  “Oh, yes, definitely, our parish is very concerned about the poor.”

  Now Andy stared at the floor. “But what about the music?”

  Uh, oh, here it comes. Something about how Christ would buy a new organ or something, Father John thought and took a sip of his wine.

  “The music is quite dignified and quite traditional, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, sure, but to keep it that way, I think we need that new organ, Father, with all due respect.”

  “As the pastor, I have to be a good steward of the money, Andy. And I really believe the organ can be repaired.”

  Andy had opened his mouth for a rebuttal, when suddenly Molly walked over and interrupted them. “Father, would you bless the food before we begin?”

  Father John quickly put down his plate. “Oh, yes, of course, certainly.” Saved by the belle, he thought.

  *

  After everyone had eaten their fill, some of the tipsier choir members gathered at the piano and began singing Christmas carols.

  “Don’t we know any Advent songs?” Molly asked.

  “I’m dreaming of an Advent wreath.” Andy wrapped a hairy arm around her shoulder.

  “Excuse me, I need to get another drink.” Molly quickly disengaged herself.

  Andy was not one to be discouraged easily. “Rudolph had an Advent Candle, and he lit it every night,” he bellowed, “and if you ever saw it, you would say it sure was bright.”

  There were collective groans from the group gathered at the piano.

  “Alright, maybe I’m not a songwriter after all.”

  Francesca, meanwhile, was keeping an eye on Randall. She noticed that, after a brief hello, he had managed to avoid Father John for most of the evening. But now she saw Randall follow Patricia out onto the back deck. She scooted close enough to the door to peek outside and overhear their conversation. She knew in her heart that what she was doing was wrong, but the impulse to eavesdrop was stronger than her impulse to heed her conscience.

  Patricia appeared to be studying the night sky as if the stars were Tarot cards revealing her future. Francesca saw Randall come up behind Patricia and put his arms around her slender waist.

  “Hey, beautiful, are you going to forgive me?”

  Patricia turned around to face him.

  “Why did you say those horrible things about my singing?”

  “Darling, look, you have a lovely voice, you know it and I know it, but how was I going to deal with Lily? I don’t want to be forced into giving anyone a solo. You were wrong to mention the solo before I had a chance to announce it to the whole group.”

  Patric
ia’s expression changed. The dark angry look softened – and Francesca felt a true wave of compassion for her. She really wants to believe whatever he tells her, she realized.

  “Oh, I didn’t think of that. But you didn’t mean what you said about my singing, did you?”

  “Of course not! Your voice is beautiful.” Then Francesca saw him draw Patricia near and give her a long, lingering kiss on the lips.

  She had seen enough. She felt a quick stab of remorse and guilt as she moved away from the window. Then she headed into the kitchen to pour another glass of wine, nearly colliding with Thomas White. He laughed and gave her a very sensuous blue-eyed look.

  He’s not very tall, but that’s OK, Francesca thought.

  “Where are you headed in such a hurry, Mrs. Bibbo?”

  “Uh, I was going outside for some fresh air, but I think it’s starting to rain.”

  He looked her over appraisingly from head to toe. “You sure look pretty tonight. Did you do something different to your hair?”

  “Just some highlights.” She was pleased that he’d noticed. “Thanks.”

  A moment later, a slightly disheveled-looking Randall and Patricia walked back into the house. When he saw them, Thomas called out, “Hope there isn’t a storm on the way.” They looked at him quizzically.

  When Father John ambled over to ask Thomas about his graduate studies, Francesca excused herself and headed to the bathroom to touch up her makeup. To get there, she had to go through the master bedroom. As she reached out to open the bathroom door, she felt someone grab her from behind.

  “Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, and then realized who it was. “What are you doing?” she cried out as Randall embraced her. Then she started to laugh. I’ve had too much to drink.

  “Waiting for you, of course.” He switched off the light.

  He pulled her against him so tightly, she was sure he could feel her heart trying to jump out of her chest. He kissed her, a long, hungry kiss, and she felt her willpower dissolving. She leaned against him, letting out a little sigh like someone devouring chocolate ice cream after a long diet. Girl, get a grip, she warned herself.

  “I really want to be with you again soon.” And then he lightly stroked her earlobe, as if he knew it happened to be one of her most intense erogenous zones. “Alone.”

  At that moment, the lights flickered on and there stood Lily in the doorway.

  “Well, excuse me,” she said in a tone of voice that could have instantly turned water into ice. “I had no idea this room was occupied. Don’t let me disturb you two…love birds.”

  Randall drew back from Francesca as if he had just learned she had a contagious disease. He straightened the front of his shirt and looked guilty. “I think I’ve had way too much to drink…”

  Lily smiled in a way that mystified Francesca and then exited the room.

  Well, thanks a lot, Francesca thought, angered by the implication that alcohol had motivated his kiss, rather than affection.

  He must have noticed her expression. “Look, don’t misunderstand me. I just don’t want to …well, I want to be a gentleman with you, that’s all.”

  She wanted to believe him. “It’s alright. Let’s just forget it.”

  He took her hand. “I don’t want to forget it, Francesca. Look, I’m no saint. I’m going to level with you. I was outside with Patricia earlier, and I kissed her. Not because I’m attracted to her, but because I was trying to make amends for what I said about her singing earlier. That was wrong, and I know it. But you’re special to me. You really are.”

  She remained silent. She didn’t know what to say. I hope he means it.

  Now he smiled at her. Those dimples again. “Are you angry with me? Are you going to quit your job as choir assistant?”

  “Of course not.” Let’s change the topic, she thought. Talk about something safe like work. “But you really haven’t given me much work to do so far.”

  He straightened his tie. “You’re right, but I do have a big assignment for you. If you’ll go in my office, you’ll find all kinds of papers in the desk drawers. Everything is terribly disorganized. Old programs, invoices, you name it. I’m famous for throwing stuff in drawers and forgetting about it. You can take everything home with you, and organize it there.”

  He took her hand gently. “Would you be interested in putting some order in my life?”

  How can I say no? Here’s a man who needs me. Isn’t that what I miss so much about Dean?

  “Yes, of course, Randall, I’ll be happy to.”

  Now he hugged her, but the feeling wasn’t romantic. There was almost desperation in the embrace. When he drew back, there seemed to be moisture glistening in his eyes.

  “Francesca, some day I want to tell you more about my life. I haven’t been…exactly an angel…but I’ve been trying to change.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Randall. We all have stuff we wish we hadn’t done.”

  “You’re the best, Francesca. You’re really a godsend. And I think we’re going to make quite a team.”

  It was midnight when the party started breaking up. Francesca had stopped drinking at 10 because she knew she’d be driving home. As people were straggling out into the night, Molly whispered, “Randall looks soused. Maybe you could drive him home?”

  “Sure, let me get my purse.” But by the time Francesca returned, Randall had already slipped out. They saw his car pulling out of the driveway.

  When Francesca left the party about a half hour later, something told her to drive by his house to check up on him. She knew from the choir list that his house was about a mile away from Molly’s. It was one of the refurbished 1940s cottages that were becoming very popular in Decatur. As she slowed down, she could see that the lights in his house were off and his car was parked in the driveway. All is well, she thought, and then she felt a distinct temptation to ring the doorbell. Why not? Would that be so wrong?

  Then she noticed another car out front. A sparkling white Mercedes — Patricia’s. It looks like Romeo has found his Juliet. Why was I stupid enough to believe anything he said? She drove home, scrubbed off all her make-up, and put on her pajamas. Then she climbed into bed with Tubs.

  “It’s you and me, boy, and it’s a good thing you’re not a human being. Some of us just can’t be trusted.”

  *

  The next morning, she awakened at eight and had to rush around getting dressed to get to the rectory by nine. Tubs watched her as she dressed, as if fearful she might forget to feed him. But just before she scurried out the door, she upended an entire can of tuna into his bowl.

  The phone was already ringing as she took her seat at the little desk in the foyer of the rectory. The priests lived upstairs, while the downstairs area contained the kitchen, plus a few offices. “What time are the Sunday masses?” the caller wanted to know. Then a new mother called to sign up for baptism classes, and an unidentified parishioner called to register his complaint about how chilly the church had been last Sunday. “Isn’t anyone paying the heating bills?”

  When the first wave of phone calls subsided, Francesca wandered down the hall and stopped in Margaret Hennessy’s office. Margaret, the director of education, wasn’t coming in today, but her office door was open. There was the usual big glass jar of candies on her desk. Margaret was pencil thin and didn’t indulge in candy, but she kept the jar full for others. A nice ministry, Francesca reflected.

  Mmmmmm, Milky Way bars. She put a few in her jeans pocket and started heading back to her desk, but then she decided to stop by Randall’s office.

  I’m going to forget all about last night and all the romantic stuff he said to me. I’m going to be his assistant and nothing more. I’m not going to act like a jealous idiot just because he has a thing for Patricia.

  She unlocked the door and went in. She remembered his description of how disorganized he was. He wasn’t kidding. There were stacks of papers and music books on his desk, plus old church bulletins, old programs from past Christ
mases, pencils and pens strewn every which way, and sticky notes with dates and times scribbled on them posted on the desk top. On the sunny windowsill a single African violet plant had birthed a tiny white flower. I’ll bet Margaret Hennessy waters it.

  It was difficult opening the desk drawers because they were stuffed to capacity. She decided to take everything out and start from scratch in organizing things. She found a very large, empty cardboard box in the corner of the office and upended folders, papers, and musical scores into it. She put the box on the floor and pushed it down the hall, since it was too large to carry. I’ll take it home with me and bring everything back in a few days.

  Just then, the phone began ringing.

  “Francesca, it’s me, Patricia,” a voice on the other end wailed. But it didn’t sound like Patricia at all.

  “Oh, it’s too horrible, I just can’t, I can’t take it…”

  Another line started ringing. “Hold on, Patricia, I have another call. I’ll be right back. St. Rita’s,” she said to the other caller. “Please hold.”

  “No, ma’am, I won’t hold. This is Jack Davis, and I’ve been a member of the church now for 20 years. But I have to say I’ve never before heard a sermon about the rules about genuflecting and I just don’t understand why we have to be subjected to…”

  She did something that she had never done before. She hung up on him, promising herself that if he called back, she’d explain there had been an emergency.

  “Patricia? Are you still there? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s just horrible. I went by Randall’s house this morning and rang his bell, but he didn’t come to the door. His car was outside, so I was worried something might be wrong. He was awfully drunk last night, you know.”

  “Well, I went around to the back door and it was open, so I went in.” Patricia started sobbing again. “I don’t know how to say this,” she wailed. “But Randall’s dead.”

  Dead! A wave of nausea swept through Francesca as she felt herself reliving some of the shock she’d experienced two years ago when she’d learned about Dean’s death over the phone.

  “Oh, dear Lord! What happened?”