Death in the Choir

by Lorraine V. Murray

  “I never married. I dated a woman for five years, and I thought we were going to tie the knot, but it just didn’t work out. The kind of work I do, the whole homicide thing, well, it’s hard on relationships. It’s not the kind of job you leave at the office.” He sighed. “The worst part is that if you’re not careful, you can lose faith in humanity.”

  So he really is unattached. She was tempted to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming, given the dearth of available heterosexual males in the metro-Atlanta area. She hoped she didn’t look too ecstatic.

  “But enough about me,” he said. “Tell me something about yourself.”

  “Well, I’m a Miami girl at heart. That’s where I grew up, and I had hoped to live there after college – I went to the University of Florida – but, well, my husband’s job brought us to Georgia.”

  “College, huh? Now I’m impressed. After high school, I went straight into the police academy and then started working. But I always wanted to get a degree. So what did you major in?”

  “Philosophy — something totally impractical, but it fascinated me at the time.”

  Just then, she glanced across the restaurant and saw two familiar figures huddled together in one of the booths. That looks like Candy. And the other woman is definitely Lily. I wonder what they’re doing here together.

  He refilled their glasses. “What made you choose that major?”

  “I think I was searching for something — life’s bigger meaning. It’s strange because in a way I already had many answers from childhood. You see, I was raised Catholic but sort of got off track in college.”

  “Well, we have that in common,” he said. “I went to Catholic schools from day one all the way through high school, but…” His voice trailed off and he fidgeted with his glass.

  “Something happened?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s nothing too original. At some point, I just stopped going to Mass, much to my mother’s horror. But I still think of myself as Catholic, and, well, who knows? I might start going again one of these days.”

  She didn’t say anything, but she felt a deep sense of relief that he wasn’t a diehard atheist. Maybe he’ll start going to church with me.

  “Did you ever find it?” Tony asked as the waitress brought their salads.

  “Find what?”

  “Life’s meaning.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I’m pretty sure I did, but it wasn’t in any of my college books.”

  As they began eating their salads, she found her eyes returning now and again to the two women, who were deeply engrossed in conversation and apparently unaware of her. When the waitress brought the entrees, Francesca brought up Randall’s death.

  “I read in the paper that he’d taken an overdose, but I found myself wondering what he washed it down with.”

  Tony took a roll from the basket and buttered it, as if he were stalling for time. Was it her imagination or did he look uncomfortable? Maybe he’s not supposed to discuss the case.

  She went on: “You see, I went out with Randall once, and I was just starting to work as his assistant. I didn’t know him extremely well, but something about the whole suicide angle doesn’t seem right to me.”

  Tony smiled. “You did say you majored in philosophy, right, not psychology?”

  “True, but I minored in psychology. I guess I took just enough courses to be dangerous. I love to know what makes people tick.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in my telling you,” Tony said. “The details, according to the medical examiner’s report, are pretty straightforward. It seems Randall had three generous shots of Scotch and a few cups of coffee too.”

  The waitress delivered the entrees to the table with a big sigh. “Ya’ll need anything else?” Her expression clearly communicated her deepest hope that they would make no further demands on her.

  “We’re fine,” Tony said.

  Francesca took a bite of the eggplant parmesan, which was tender and delicious, almost as good as her own mother’s recipe. “Why would someone planning to commit suicide make themselves a pot of coffee?” she wondered aloud.

  “We don’t know the actual sequence of events. He could have made the coffee when he got back from the party. Then he might have had the booze later.”

  As they ate their meal, Francesca took occasional glances at the two women across the restaurant. They seemed deep in conversation, and she noticed some rather elaborate hand gestures from Lily, who seemed to be driving home an important point to Candy.

  The waitress plunked down the check on the table as soon as Tony and Francesca had finished their entrees, and turned to walk away.

  “We’d like dessert and coffee,” Tony said evenly, and she stomped off, returning in moments with the dessert menu.

  As they were getting ready to leave, Francesca noticed that Lily and Candy were still having dessert. Their booth was located directly behind the cashier’s station. The two women seemed deeply engrossed in their conversation and apparently did not notice her, so, as Tony paid the check, Francesca managed to catch a few tidbits of the rather loud discussion.

  “You’ve got to find something constructive to do with your time,” Lily said.

  “What’s wrong with shopping and just hanging out?” Candy countered.

  “I said ‘constructive.’ I don’t want you wasting your life.”

  There was a pause. “Mom, tell me something: Why are the things I like to do a waste of time, but anything you do is somehow valuable and… and… constructive?”

  That was all Francesca heard before she and Tony exited the restaurant. But her curiosity was now at high ebb. So Lily is Candy’s mom! She did a quick flashback to the night of the choir get-together. She recalled Lily’s reaction to seeing Randall kissing her. It’s starting to make more sense now.

  *

  Francesca awoke the next day feeling very chipper. Tony had been a complete gentleman, stopping in for an after-dinner drink of Benedictine and brandy at her house. He had scratched thoroughly under Tubs’ chin, eliciting a pleased rumbling sound from the old cat. That was it. No attempt to put the moves on her, and it was just as well.

  Before she had met Dean, she had made the mistake of jumping into bed with a very attractive man she was very much in love with. She had thought he was serious about her, and she had been extremely devastated the next day when he had acted as if nothing had happened. The next week, he had failed to call her for their usual date. She had been forced to face the obvious fact, which was that she had made a huge blunder.

  But the experience had taught her something. After marrying Dean, she had realized that sex without the emotional warmth and commitment of marriage was about as enjoyable as eating a gourmet meal out of Styrofoam containers.

  Yawning and rolling over in bed, she was momentarily startled by the fuzzy warmth of Tubs, who had sneaked to the top of the bed during the night. He let out a little warning meow as if to alert her. As she lay in bed, the image of Lily and Candy kept nagging at her.

  If Lily is Candy’s mom, then why do they seem to be hiding the fact? And if Randall and Lily had once been married, why had they kept their past a secret? Something isn’t right here. I’m going to swing by Randall’s house and see Candy again. Maybe I’ll bring her something from the box of stuff. Not the letters, of course, but some item that she might want as a keepsake.

  She riffled through the piles of stuff on her study floor and came up with a perfect item: A few photographs of Randall with the choir, taken about a year ago. An hour later, she parked in front of Randall’s house and rang the doorbell. There was no answer, but the front door was unlocked. She poked her head in and called out, “Anyone home?” No reply.

  Then she gently eased open the door and stepped inside. Candy might be out snaring another box of donuts. Well, I’ll wait a few moments for her.

  She went into the kitchen and took a quick look around. Dirty dishes were piled everywhere, along with greasy frying pans on the stov
e. It looked like Candy was attempting to expand her cooking abilities beyond instant coffee and had used nearly every utensil in the kitchen in the process. There was a dishwasher, but it was also full to the brim.

  Francesca noticed the doors to the big pantry in the kitchen were open. The shelves were crowded with assorted spices, plus flour, olive oil, a bag of onions, a few clusters of garlic, along with glass jars filled with cereal, rice, and dried beans. But Randall had also devoted some space in the pantry for a selection of alcoholic beverages. There was a wine rack well-stocked with an assortment of imported wines.

  What am I looking for? She stared at the wine rack. Then it hit her: This was apparently where he kept his booze, but there were no bottles of hard liquor at all. No bourbon, rum, vodka – and certainly no Scotch, which was what he had drunk on the night he died.

  Was Randall a Scotch drinker? She remembered the evening they’d gone out together. He’d only had wine. And at Molly’s party, even though there were bottles of the hard stuff on the drinks table, she’d seen Randall concentrating on the wine.

  Then where had the Scotch come from on the night he died? Did someone visit him and carry a bottle of Scotch along? And maybe encourage him to get even drunker than he already was? Did that same someone put the sleeping pills in his drink?

  Just then, she heard a car pull up outside. Candy must be back. Well, I’ll just give her the photos and head out. But when she peered out the window, it wasn’t Candy she saw hurrying up the walkway. It was Lily. Her heart beating furiously, Francesca followed her first instinct, which was to hide. She edged her way into the pantry and shut the doors behind her. I don’t think she’ll know it’s my car, so I’m safe on that score.

  Then she heard Lily push open the front door and call Candy’s name. Next she heard the sound of high-heeled footsteps as Lily entered the living room.

  What do I say if she opens the pantry? “I just came by to borrow a cup of sugar?”

  But Lily didn’t come into the kitchen. Instead, she went stomping through the other rooms in the house, and Francesca could hear the sound of drawers opening and shutting. She could also hear the sounds of what had to be muttered Spanish curses as Lily tore through the closets.

  I wonder what she’s looking for. It sounds like she’s really desperate to find something – but what? Is it possible Lily had something to do with Randall’s death? Hadn’t Candy said her mother had once been angry enough with Randall to kill him?

  “Where the hell are those letters?” Lily was evidently talking aloud in frustration. “I’ve spent too many years cleaning up after that man! Now he’s dead and I’m still picking up the pieces!”

  A few moments later, Francesca heard the staccato sound of footsteps clicking their angry way to the front door. Then she heard the door slam. She waited a few seconds and then emerged from the pantry and peered out the window. She saw Lily getting into her car, and then watched as the car pulled out in a furious rush from the driveway.

  Francesca quickly exited the house, uttering a silent prayer of gratitude that she hadn’t been discovered. Then, as she was getting into her car, she had an idea.

  Why don’t I see what I can learn from the neighbors? Maybe I can find out if anyone heard Randall arguing with someone the night he died. I’ll start with the next door neighbor, but I will need some pretense to knock on the door. I know, I’ll say I’m thinking of buying a home in the area, and I’m curious about the neighborhood. That should work.

  She decided to park her car on the next block, so Candy wouldn’t notice it in case she returned. Then she walked back to Randall’s street and rang the doorbell on the house next door to his. A heavily wrinkled woman of about seventy answered the door. Her head was wreathed in bright pink foam-rubber curlers, and she was squinting as she took a drag on her cigarette. Francesca gave her a big smile.

  “Hello, my name is Francesca Bibbo, and I’m hoping to buy a house about a block away from here. Would it be OK if I ask you a few questions about the neighborhood?”

  The woman, who identified herself as Mrs. Gladys Brumble, fingered a roller on her head. Then she inhaled deeply on the cigarette. She looked reluctant.

  “Well, I got my soaps starting in a few minutes, but come on in.”

  Francesca thanked her profusely and took a seat on the couch, which had to be at least a hundred years old, judging from the musty smell and the groaning of the springs. She noticed a cluster of dust bunnies languidly making their way around the room, thanks to a slight breeze from the open window. She reached in her purse and took out a little note pad.

  “Do you like living here? Are people friendly?”

  “It’s OK by me. I have no complaints.” Mrs. Brumble sucked on the cigarette as if it were an oxygen line.

  Francesca jotted down a few notes and tried to sound as casual as possible with her next question.

  “Wasn’t there a death recently in the area? I think I read about a suicide in the newspapers?”

  Mrs. Brumble brightened considerably. “Yes, it was my next door neighbor, Randall Ivy.” She seemed proud of this bit of notoriety.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you know him well?”

  Mrs. Brumble took her time inhaling the last dregs of carcinogens from the dying cigarette. Then she stubbed it out in a loaded ashtray that had “See Rock City” printed in red on the side. Next she pulled out another cigarette and lit it up. Francesca tried to edge as far away as possible from the noxious blue stream wafting its way in her direction.

  “Not really and it’s just as well. You see, he’d sometimes play this opera music so loud it’d nearly split my skull open. Then one day, Scotty, my grandson – he’s 19 and lives with me – was playing some rap music.” She paused to cough and flick the ash off the cigarette. “Randall came over here all bent out of shape.”

  With her hair in rollers and trails of smoke curling out of her nostrils, the old woman momentarily brought to Francesca’s mind the image of a dragon in a beauty salon.

  “I won’t even tell you the terrible things he said to my grandson about rap music,” Mrs. Brumble continued passionately. “’To each his own’ I always say. Some like Mozart, some like Boyz in the Hood. It’s all music, ain’t it?”

  The old lady nudged a dust bunny with her shoe and looked pleased with her analysis.

  Francesca decided to avoid a discussion of music with Mrs. Brumble. She was still trying to digest the image of Randall confronting someone who was playing rap music.

  “That night, the night he died,” Francesca said, “did you see or hear anything strange?”

  “Strange? Well, no, not really. I don’t watch my neighbors, you know. I’m not nosey.”

  She trumpeted another cigarette cough. “But that night I was having trouble sleeping. And I did notice something. It was real late when he came home, and just a few minutes later, another car pulled up in front of the house. A tall blonde lady got out and went into his house.”

  That had to be Patricia.

  “Of course the newspapers said she was a lady friend of his from the choir.” Mrs. Brumble’s eyes glinted. “But if you ask me, he sure had a lot of lady friends. Just that very night, another one came by – about an hour after the first one left.”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  Mrs. Brumble shook her head and a few of the rollers trembled. “No, it was too dark.”

  “Could she have been the same woman returning for some reason?”

  The old lady looked pensive. “Naw, somehow, she looked…I dunno…different. I can’t say why for sure, but just…different.”

  “What about her car?”

  “I didn’t see no car. She might of parked it down the block.”

  “How long did the second woman stay?” Francesca hoped her questions wouldn’t arouse the old lady’s suspicions.

  “I don’t know. I fell asleep right after that.”

  Just then, Francesca noticed a rubber tree plant dying from thirst in
the corner of the room. Mrs. Brumble saw her glance and said proudly, “That’s my grandson’s. He likes to garden.”

  Francesca smiled and shifted on the couch. “Do the police know there was a second woman?”

  The old woman nervously fingered her wedding band. “No, I didn’t tell them nothing. I don’t like no one snooping around, especially the police. It makes me nervous, and my nerves ain’t so good.”

  Now Mrs. Brumble looked anxiously at the TV screen, which dominated the living room like a giant’s leering eye. She stood up and looked pointedly in Francesca’s direction. “Well, I gotta watch my programs, so…”

  Francesca took her cue. She stood up quickly, said her goodbyes, and started toward the door. But before she could leave, a young man clumped heavily into the room. He was wearing scuffed black boots and a leather jacket with various chains dangling from his wrists. There were numerous intricate black tattoos adorning his hands. He was over six feet tall and his head was shaven. His expression was none too friendly.

  This must be the Rap Meister, Scotty.

  “What’s she doing here?” Scotty gestured toward Francesca.

  Mrs. Brumble tweaked one of her rollers. “This lady’s looking to move into a house on the next block. She was asking me questions about the area.”

  Scotty cast Francesca a dark look. “Well, I got news for you, lady: There ain’t no house for sale on the next block that I know of. And I don’t like people poking their noses in our business for any reason.”

  What a charming lad, Francesca thought, as he started to move toward her, the rank smell of his leather jacket assailing her nostrils. She quickly darted around him and opened the front door.

  “I just spoke to a realtor and it seems 211 on the next block will be on the market in a week or so,” she lied brightly and then quickly exited the house. Then, praying that there really was a house numbered 211 on the next block, she hurried to her car.

  That afternoon, Francesca made herself a cup of tea, grabbed a couple of butter cookies, and curled up on the couch with Tubs. If someone had given Randall an overdose of sleeping pills, it was probably someone he knew – or he wouldn’t have let them in his house that night. And it was likely that the person was a Scotch drinker who’d brought a bottle along.