“I don’t know. He was on the couch. I thought he was sleeping, but when I tried to get him to wake up, he didn’t. And he was, oh, God, he was so cold.” She broke down again.
“Patricia, where are you now?”
“I got so frightened that I left and came home.”
“You have to call the police. Dial 911 and report his death. Do you understand?”
“Yes, OK, I will,” Patricia sobbed, and then hung up.
“AAAGGH!” Francesca dropped the phone. Something hot and fuzzy was slobbering all over her feet. She jumped from the chair and looked downward, her heart beating so fast she thought she was having a coronary.
“Oh, Lord, have mercy! Spot!”
The big mutt beamed at her, his tongue dangling from his mouth.
*
A short while later, Father John made his way slowly down the stairs. He had a vicious headache, the result of downing too many glasses of wine last night. He nearly tripped over Spot, stretched out on the kitchen floor, gnawing on a shoe. The priest poured himself a glass of water, then lit a cigarette and took a long, blissful drag. Then he saw Francesca entering the kitchen, looking much worse than he felt.
“What is wrong, my dear?”
“Oh, Father, something terrible has happened. Patricia Noble went to Randall’s house this morning and found him.” Her voice faltered. “Found him dead.”
Father John could feel the blood draining from his face. He stubbed out the cigarette and sat down, while also pulling out a chair for Francesca.
“Dead? What do you mean? What happened? And, here, sit down, you look like you need a chair.”
“I don’t know what happened, Father. Patricia said she couldn’t wake him up.”
*
A few days later, while Francesca was sorting the mail in Margaret Hennessy’s office, the front doorbell to the rectory rang. She heard Father William answering it.
“Police?” she heard him say. “What is this all about?” He had returned from visiting his parents in Valdosta only a few minutes ago, and no one had filled him in on Randall’s death.
Francesca quickly returned to her desk in the foyer, where Father William was talking to a rather attractive man. Father John was standing by her desk, fiddling with a pencil.
“I’m Investigator Viscardi with the Decatur Police Department,” the man said. “I’m here about Randall Ivy. I’m questioning anyone who might have some knowledge about Mr. Ivy’s death.”
The officer was olive-complexioned with hair and eyes the color of espresso. I’ll bet he’s Italian, Francesca thought.
“May God have mercy on his soul!” Father William fished in his pants pocket for his Rosary beads. “What happened?”
“He was found in his home three days ago by a member of St. Rita’s choir.” The detective’s eyes swept over the three people standing before him, resting an extra second on Francesca.
“Were any of you at the choir party?” He reached into his pocket and extracted a pen and small notebook.
“I was,” Francesca volunteered. He has sexy eyes. Then her conscience elbowed its way into her thoughts. At a time like this, you’re noticing his looks?
“And you are?” He looked her up and down quickly.
“Francesca Bibbo. I’m in the choir – and I’m… I was… Randall’s assistant.”
“Miss Bibbo, did you notice anything unusual about Mr. Ivy the night of the party?”
She looked down at the carpet, noting that Spot had chewed a small hole in the edge.
What do I say? That I was falling for him? That I didn’t know if I could trust him or not?
“Not really, except that he was drinking quite a bit. When he left the party, it was about midnight, and Molly – she was the hostess – wanted me to drive him home. But he got away too quickly, so I couldn’t.” For some reason she didn’t want to admit that she’d followed him home later.
The detective took some notes. He had strong-looking hands with a nice sprinkling of fur on the fingers. Quite masculine.
“You said you were his assistant. What exactly do you do?”
She felt herself blushing for no reason, as she thought about Rebecca’s little jokes about overtime. “Mostly help him with clerical stuff, like buying sheet music, keeping track of attendance. And I have a big box of his stuff at home that he wanted me to organize.”
This seemed to pique the investigator’s interest. “Well, we may want to take a look at his office at some point and maybe the contents of that box. Would you mind giving me your address and phone number?”
I’d love to! Please, God, let him be single!
“Not at all.” She wrote the information on an index card and gave it to him.
He smiled in an officious way, but his next question startled her. “Thank you, Miss, or is it Mrs. Bibbo?”
“I’m a widow. I still go by Mrs.”
Next he turned to Father John, giving him a brief once-over while turning over a new page in the notebook. Father extended his hand.
“I’m Father John Riley, the pastor, and I was also at the party.”
“Mr., uh, Father Riley, did you notice anything out of the ordinary about Mr. Ivy that night?”
“We didn’t get a chance to speak.” Father John tweaked his collar, which had begun chafing him.
“And how would you describe your relationship with him? Did you know Mr. Ivy well?”
“Uh, well, he was the choir director, so of course we spoke frequently, about the musical selections and so on.”
Then Father John noticed Father William running his fingers nervously over the Rosary beads, his lips moving in silent prayers. Father John didn’t want to let the younger man down.
“There is something else. Randall and I had a disagreement recently. You see, he wanted me, or rather the church, to purchase a new organ. He was very displeased with the one we already have. He had asked me many times. Well, I lost my temper. I told him, more or less, to either accept the situation or, uh, or leave.”
“So you threatened to fire him?”
“Well, yes, you could say that. But really he was a fine musician and I wouldn’t have…” his voice trailed off.
The officer questioned Father William for a few moments and then left.
*
Francesca noticed that the church was filled to capacity for Randall’s funeral, since he was well known by most of the parishioners. Margaret Hennessy had arranged for the director from a church downtown to lead the choir in a few traditional funeral pieces. Fortunately, there was the blessed absence of “On Eagle’s Wings,” which Randall had made fun of at numerous rehearsals (“Every time I hear it, I want to clip the wings on that blasted bird.”) Lily Santiago sang a gorgeous solo rendition of “O Divine Redeemer” that had nearly everyone in the church teary-eyed, especially when she sang the words, “Grant me pardon, and remember not my sin.” Francesca saw Lily leaving the church in tears when the song was over.
Francesca also learned from Margaret that Randall had no siblings, and his parents were deceased. Still, in the front pew, usually reserved for family members, there was someone who caught Francesca’s eye. She looked very young, maybe 20, and she was Lily’s height. After Mass, Francesca walked over to the young woman.
“I’m Francesca Bibbo, and I was Randall’s choir assistant. I don’t think we’ve met?”
There was a shy smile and the offer of a limp little hand. “No, I haven’t been here before. I’m Candy.”
“It’s so terrible about Randall.” Francesca grasped the girl’s hand lightly, noting how thin she was. “He was a wonderful musician and the whole choir will miss him dearly.”
Candy touched a handkerchief delicately to her eyes. The tip of her nose was red, but it didn’t detract from her beauty.
“Yes, Daddy always loved to play music.”
Francesca hoped the shock she was feeling wasn’t too obvious on her face. “Oh, he was your…your father? I didn’t realize. I’m so v
ery sorry for your loss.”
“He didn’t tell most people about me unless he knew them really well. It’s kind of strange, I know. He and my mom got divorced when I was a baby. I grew up with my mom in Miami, so I only saw him about once a year. I moved to Decatur not too long ago, hoping we could get to know each other better, but now…”
“Candy, I have a large box of your father’s papers from his office that he wanted me to organize. I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet, but it is possible there could be something there you might want. Photos or letters or something like that.”
Francesca scribbled her name and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to the girl. “Why don’t you give me a call when you have a chance? Maybe we can get together.”
Candy took the paper and tucked it away in a tiny black purse. She sniffed and then smiled. “I would like that.”
Chapter 5
Tubs had managed to climb up on a dining room chair. There, he was watching the squirrels scouring the front yard for the bread crumbs Francesca had put out for the birds. Every so often, the old cat would let out a little cry of interest and twitch his tail, as if he were watching a particularly captivating action movie.
Francesca sat across from him in her bathrobe, sipping a cup of coffee and mulling over the story about Randall’s death in the morning paper. The paper reported there had been no signs of a struggle or forced entry into his house. The autopsy revealed that Randall had evidently taken an overdose of a prescription drug for insomnia. The death was ruled a suicide, even though no note was found.
As Francesca glanced outside, a single leaf winged its way to the ground like a little yellow bird. It was another snazzy fall day in Decatur with the trees decked out in fanciful colors, and somehow this made the fact of Randall’s death seem even more tragic. Something about the police’s conclusion bothered her. She didn’t doubt the accuracy of the autopsy report, but she had trouble with the notion that Randall had killed himself.
When he kissed me at the party, and when he talked to me, he didn’t act like someone who would kill himself a few hours later. Then one of her inner voices chimed in. People are unpredictable. But why didn’t he leave a note? she countered. Maybe, the voice answered, because he was inebriated. And most drunk people aren’t going to get a pen and paper and write a letter.
She thought about this as she fixed herself a bowl of cereal. Was it possible that the overdose had been accidental? But Randall was an intelligent man. Surely he would know how dangerous it was to combine pills with booze.
As she sat lost in thought, she heard Tubs making a peculiar noise. Looking outside, she saw her neighbor’s dog depositing a generous pile of manure near her front path. Just as he was lifting his leg to take aim for the birdbath, she put down her spoon and rushed to the front door.
“Go away, Bainbridge! Bad dog!” But the animal, an unkempt German shepherd, simply stared at her. Then she heard her next-door neighbor calling for him.
“Here, Bainbridge, here boy!” The dog scratched at his disheveled ears before deciding to amble home. Myra Findley, her neighbor, had proudly introduced her to the dog a few months ago.
“We don’t need a security system at our house,” Myra had bragged, as the dog peered at Francesca through yellowish eyes. Bainbridge, it turned out, was a trained attack dog. And Myra was so proud of this fact that she had shared with Francesca the secret words and gesture that would supposedly trigger an attack response in the dog.
“But he’s as gentle as a lamb around the kids,” Myra had gushed.
Good thing, Francesca had thought, because Myra has five little kids. Despite Myra’s assurances, it had made Francesca nervous knowing the dog was wandering around loose in the neighborhood.
What if one day he snaps and lunges for me while I’m out filling the bird feeder? But she had made a real effort to befriend the dog, hoping to win him over. Dog biscuits and an occasional rawhide bone were the offerings she left Bainbridge on her front porch. The result, she now realized, was that the dog felt so comfortable around her, he considered her front yard part of his territory.
Glancing back at the newspaper, she suddenly remembered the box that she had stashed in her back study. It’s time to organize the stuff. Even if Randall doesn’t need it anymore, there could be things in there that the church needs, like invoices and old receipts. And there could be photos that his daughter would want.
She poured another cup of coffee and headed into her study to begin the task. As she upended the box onto the floor, she realized that Randall must have been a true pack rat. There were old phone messages, restaurant receipts, and even envelopes from bills that apparently had been paid. She sighed as she realized how large a task this would be.
First things first. I’ll put anything personal in one pile and church stuff in the other. Church bills in one pile, and programs in another. And stuff that is clearly trash in another. As she sorted through the materials, she found a small notebook marked simply “R’s recipes.” She smiled as she placed it in the personal pile. I didn’t even know he liked to cook.
And then she unearthed something that really surprised her. Tucked away among church bulletins and handwritten lists of musical selections was a stack of letters bound with a loop of string.
I wonder if these might be letters from Candy.
She untied the string and began to read the first few letters. They were written in black ink in a very elaborate, somewhat old-fashioned handwriting with plenty of flourishes. None were signed, nor were they dated. And someone, she deduced, after reading for a few minutes, certainly had been enamored of Randall.
“I’ve never known greater joy than when we are together,” the author wrote. “My Darling, you make me feel cherished, reborn, and so special.” There followed some detailed, almost X-rated descriptions involving the words “ecstasy” and “faint.”
This was evidently quite a lurid twosome. But when she glanced over one of the more recent letters, it sounded like the poor woman was despairing of the relationship.
“I’m ready to give up everyone else for you and live with you, but you have to be ready to make a commitment to me as well. I can’t wait for you forever, as much as I love you.”
I wonder who wrote these. Could it be Patricia? Somehow, I can’t imagine her baring her heart like this, but I don’t know her that well. And, dear Lord, what do I do now? Do I give these to the police or not? Obviously Randall didn’t know these letters were in his desk. He must have wanted to keep them a secret. But if I don’t give them to the police, is that withholding evidence? And what about Candy? Would he have wanted her to see these or not? Oh, what do I do?
The phone rang. “Hi, Mrs. Bibbo, how are you?” The voice on the other end was very young and tentative.
“This is Candy Ivy, Randall’s daughter. From the funeral, remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course! How are you doing?” As she spoke, she found herself stashing the letters between some books on her shelves. I’ll figure out what to do about them later.
There was a sniff on the other end of the line. “I guess I’m OK. I wondered if you’d like to drop by for a cup of coffee. I’m staying at my dad’s place.”
“I’d love to come by. When’s a good time?”
“Any time this morning. I’m just hanging out.”
“And the address is?” Francesca asked in a tone that she hoped sounded genuine. Somehow she didn’t want Candy to know she already knew where Randall lived.
After hanging up the phone, Francesca dressed in black jeans, a white cotton sweater, and a new pair of suede boots. As she was heading to her car, she forgot about Bainbridge’s earlier visit and managed to step smack dab into the fresh pile of dog poop. Her new boots were ruined. Furious, she went back inside and changed her shoes, making a mental note to complain to Myra about the dog’s behavior.
*
Francesca felt strangely nervous as she pulled into the driveway behind Randall’s car. S
omehow she expected him to throw open the front door and greet her. He would hug her and then assure her that his death had all been a big joke. But it was Candy who opened the door. She was wearing a pair of skin-tight faded jeans with rips in the knees, plus a sweatshirt with a slogan that proclaimed, “Use me, re-use me, and throw me out.” Francesca was relieved to discover there were some pointers about recycling in the fine print.
“It feels a little weird being here, if you know what I mean,” Candy confided. With her hair pulled back in a pony tail and no make-up on, she looked about twelve years old.
“Don’t sit on the couch, OK? That’s where, that’s where he…where they found him – and I plan to get rid of it as soon as possible.”
“So you’re planning to stay in Decatur?” Francesca settled into a plush armchair.
“Yeah, I think I will. It’s a pretty happening town. Close to Atlanta with all those clubs and malls.”
I hope she’s not one of the many people who worship at a mall instead of a church. Francesca had read somewhere that more people visited malls than churches these days, and Atlanta was becoming the Vatican of consumerism.
“Would you like some coffee and donuts?” Candy asked.
“That’d be nice.”
When Candy got up and went into the kitchen, Francesca felt her eyes drawn morbidly to the couch. She heard Candy rummaging around, making the occasional crashing sound as she evidently located mugs and spoons.
“I hope you don’t mind instant. I’m not much of a cook.” Candy entered the room carrying two mugs.
Francesca suppressed a smile. She had never thought of freshly brewed coffee as a culinary specialty.
“Instant is fine.”
Candy went back into the kitchen and returned shortly with a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. As she plopped the box down on the coffee table, Francesca’s couldn’t help but notice that she seemed like a little girl playing house.
“My big weakness.” Candy picked up a chocolate-covered pastry. “I hate Krispy Kremes, though. They’re like eating lard.”
“I never turn down donuts, no matter what the brand.” Francesca was delighted to see a shy smile on Candy’s face. The poor girl needs some cheering up.
Death in the Choir Page 7