Death in the Choir
Page 10
But sleeping pills would be hard to disguise, whether you put them in Scotch or coffee. They would probably float to the top. And even if he were completely plastered, wouldn’t Randall have noticed them? She munched thoughtfully on a cookie and took a sip of tea.
And who are the likely suspects? First there’s Patricia. But the police knew she had visited Randall that night, and they had already questioned her. What about the second mystery woman Mrs. Brumble claimed she had seen? Could that have been Lily?
She knew that Lily and Randall were divorced, but perhaps Lily had been hoping for reconciliation. And Lily might have been infuriated when she noticed Randall’s attention to other women. But there was also Candy, although it was hard to imagine her killing anyone, especially her own father. Still, she would have had a motive too, since she did inherit his house.
Either one of them could have been Randall’s second visitor that night.
Francesca poured another cup of tea. Was there anyone else who might have wanted Randall dead? She was startled by the image that flashed into her mind: Father John. The two men had argued, and it was rumored that Randall had started circulating a petition to the archbishop.
But Father John wouldn’t hurt a fly, protested a voice in her head. Still, he did have quite a temper, another one countered. And even if Randall had been visited by two women that night, Father John still could have dropped by later, after the second woman had left, and Mrs. Brumble had fallen asleep.
Another image entered her mind: Mrs. Brumble’s grandson, Scotty. Maybe the argument about rap music was just the tip of the iceberg. With a neighbor like Scotty Brumble, I imagine there’d be plenty of opportunity for conflicts. And maybe that’s why Scotty didn’t want me asking his grandmother questions because he has a guilty conscience.
When the phone rang, she jumped nervously, spilling her tea. She wasn’t accustomed to thinking about people she knew as potential killers. Maybe I should just drop this whole thing, she thought, as she picked up the phone, breaking her usual rule about letting the machine handle her calls.
A gruff male voice, one she didn’t recognize, rasped at her: “Listen, you witch, keep your nose out of other people’s business, unless you want to end up like the choir boy.” Then the person, whoever it was, banged the phone down.
“Oh, my God!” She was shaking, and her knees nearly buckled under her.
The voice had been dripping with venom. She’d never had anyone threaten her like that. Grabbing her telephone book, she looked up the Decatur police department, and then dialed the number, her fingers trembling.
“Decatur Department of Public Safety.” It was a real person instead of a recording, Francesca noted gratefully.
Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “Is Tony Viscardi there?”
“One moment, please.” It seemed like an eternity, but it was just seconds before she heard his voice, which had a magical, instantly calming effect on her.
“Tony Viscardi speaking.”
She took a deep breath, and the words rushed out, while tears slid down her cheeks: “Tony, it’s Francesca. I’m at home. I just had a very disturbing phone call and…”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She sat on the couch and found herself weeping out of sheer nervousness and fear. But there was something else. Tony’s immediate impulse to drop everything and come to her rescue reminded her so much of her beloved Dean. He had always been there whenever she needed him. She picked up Tubs and wept into his scruffy neck.
It was less than ten minutes when the doorbell rang. She ran gratefully to the door.
“Tony, thank you so much for coming over. I…I…” And then she broke down and cried.
“Sit down, just relax, and you can tell me everything that happened.” He gently led her to the couch.
“Do you have any wine in the kitchen?” She nodded, and he was back in a minute with a glass for her to drink.
“This will help you relax a bit.” She accepted it gratefully, remembering childhood when her mother had poured her a glass of milk before bed.
He sat beside her and listened carefully while she related the whole story. Her suspicions about Randall’s death. How she’d found out that Lily was Candy’s mom. How she’d gone to Candy’s house and hid while she heard Lily searching for something. She could tell he was worried.
“I really wish you wouldn’t get involved in this, Francesca. There’s really no reason for you to be investigating.”
“I know…and, Tony…” I might as well tell him everything. “There’s more. I also visited Randall’s neighbor Mrs. Brumble. Her grandson, Scotty, was pretty disturbing.” She described his ominous appearance and his rude way of talking.
There was a big sigh. “Francesca, there’s no reason to be going around questioning people. This is an open-and-shut case of suicide. Besides, I’ve already questioned Mrs. Brumble.”
She nodded guiltily, taking a sip of the wine. “Something about the case doesn’t make sense to me, Tony. I can’t explain it, but I have the feeling that someone killed Randall.”
“You’ve been watching too many police stories on TV.” He smiled and then leaned over to smooth her hair. When his hand lightly touched her forehead, she had an immediate sense that she was protected and safe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing.
Tony helped himself to one of the cookies on the coffee table. “Randall had been drinking at the party. It seems he had more to drink later. Sometimes, when people have too much to drink, they do things on impulse — stupid, dangerous things. Most of the time, they wake up the next day and regret it. But in Randall’s case, what he did was deadly. And the next day never came. It’s a real shame, Francesca, but he brought this on himself.”
She took another sip of wine. She was starting to relax. “But why was there all the secrecy about Lily?”
Tony brushed a crumb from his jacket. “I knew Lily was Candy’s mom.”
“You knew?”
“It came out during the investigation. It seems Randall and Lily had an agreement to keep their past quiet. So they just didn’t mention the divorce. And Randall wasn’t keen on people knowing he had a daughter. Evidently he felt it didn’t suit his image, so Candy obediently stayed in the background.”
“So much secrecy,” she sighed. “It seems like a lot of wasted energy to hide so many things.”
“It does to me too, but I’ve seen it before. People think they can just lay the past to rest by ignoring it. Unfortunately, it nearly always rears its ugly head again.”
Tubs climbed into Tony’s lap, and Francesca tried to remove him. She knew Tubs had a habit of shedding profusely. But Tony just shrugged. “That’s alright. He and I are becoming buddies.”
She remembered how Tubs had nipped Randall that day. He seemed to be taking quickly to Tony, however. Then her thoughts returned to the matter at hand.
“But Candy didn’t hide the fact that Randall was her father when I met her at the funeral.”
Tony nodded. “She probably figured it didn’t make any sense to keep the secret going any longer with her father dead.”
“Something Mrs. Brumble said is troubling me,” Francesca said. “She mentioned seeing a second woman visiting Randall’s house that night.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what kind of game Mrs. Brumble is playing. When I questioned her, she never mentioned a second woman. But she doesn’t seem like the most reliable witness, Francesca, so she might just have been pulling your leg.”
“That’s possible. But why did I get that horrible phone call? Who could that have been?”
“From what you’ve told me, I’ll bet it was Scotty Brumble. People who have something to hide tend to react like he did when anyone starts asking questions. I don’t know for sure, but from your description of him, it’s certainly possible Scotty is into something illegal, maybe drugs. And I don’t think he bought your story about checking out the neighborho
od.”
She thought it over. “It didn’t really sound like him on the phone, but I only met him once, and…well, I guess he could have been disguising his voice, right?”
He smiled. “That’s right.” He put his arms around her. “Listen, Francesca, you know what I advise?”
“What?”
“I think you should stop analyzing everything. You should stop playing psychologist.”
He drew her nearer. She could feel his clean-shaven cheek against her own face. How lovely. She could hear his nice even breath in her ear and feel his heart racing beneath his crisp white shirt.
“You’re very sweet.” He gave her a light kiss on the lips, as he held her so lovingly. He stroked her hair. “Such soft hair.” Then he straightened up. “And you’re a very tempting lady. But I have to go, darling. I have to get back to work.”
“But promise me one thing.” He stood up. Anything, she thought, anything, just call me “darling” again.
“Sure, what is it?”
“Leave the police work to me. And if you get any more phone calls or any trouble of any kind, call me right away.”
It was then that she very sheepishly told him about the journal and love letters. She felt like she sometimes did in the confessional, painfully shy while telling her sins to the priest, then immensely relieved once she received absolution. She then unearthed the journal and love letters and handed them over to him.
“I didn’t know what to do with these, whether they should go to Candy or not,” she said. “But I think they would do more good if you had them. Maybe they’ll give you more insight into the case.”
He riffled through the journal quickly. Then he looked at the first letter. “Do you know who wrote these?”
“I have no idea. None of them are signed. But after you’ve read them, you’ll see that it was someone Randall was definitely involved with romantically.”
“Alright, Francesca, now is there anything else you want to tell me?”
I think you’re handsome. And extremely kind.
“No, that’s it. I swear I’ve ‘come clean,’ as they say in the cop movies.”
He laughed. “OK, now, you take it easy the rest of the day. I’m going to do some investigating on that phone call. I’ll let you know as soon as I find something out.”
I should prepare supper and feed Tubs, she thought after Tony left. But she just lay on the couch for a while. She luxuriated in the memory of the handsome investigator’s kiss until Tubs wandered into the kitchen and meowed plaintively.
Chapter 7
Father John was pacing nervously in his room. Ever since Randall’s death, he’d been having trouble sleeping. An hour ago he’d awakened from a dream in which the choir director had stormed down the aisle during his sermon and screamed at him: “Hypocrite, hypocrite!” The entire congregation had stood up and applauded. Then Randall suddenly had been transformed into Little Richard, and the congregation had started stomping their feet and waving their hands, singing in unison, “I’m Gonna Cross the River Jordan with Jesus in My Heart.”
That’s when Father John had realized he was dreaming, because there was no getting around it: His congregation didn’t sing. And forget the clapping and stomping; they just weren’t into that at all. Then, to his horror, the dream had taken a sharp turn, and he’d found himself in the confessional. The woman behind the privacy screen suddenly pushed it over and plopped down on his lap. He couldn’t clearly see her face, but he knew who it was: Lady Chatterly.
“Bless me, Father, and then let’s sin,” she whispered. But seconds later, the confessional door opened and there stood Father William in his pajamas. He was carrying a cage with his pet hamster running maniacally on its wheel. At that point, the dream vixen had gone running from the confessional. She had paused only to deliver a disturbing line to the two men: “I know who killed him.”
He’d awakened with a start, overcome with anxiety. He had immediately rummaged for his rosary beads in the bedside table. As he paced, he began reciting a steady stream of Hail Marys to calm himself. As always, the words nudged the train of ugly and disturbing images off his mental track, slowly giving him a sense of peace. He meditated on the sorrowful mysteries of the rosary: the agony in the garden, the scourging of Jesus, the crowning with thorns, the carrying of the cross, and the Crucifixion.
After the Rosary, he lit a cigarette and glanced at the clock. It was 3 a.m., and three o’clock, whether it was a.m. or p.m., was considered a mystical time. It was the hour that St. John of the Cross had called the “dark night of the soul,” because, according to tradition, Christ had died on the cross at 3 p.m.
From down the hall Father John could hear Father William snoring loudly. The sound was accompanied by the rhythmic squeak of Ignatius the hamster’s wheel. Farther away, a train hooted morosely, and a bevy of neighborhood dogs began howling. He was fairly sure that one of them was Spot, reluctantly sequestered in the kitchen at night. Father John put down the beads and picked up his prayer book, thumbing through to the section entitled “The Office of the Dead.”
“Like the deer that yearns for running streams, so my soul is yearning for you, my God,” he prayed, in memory of Randall Ivy. It was the least that he could do.
*
When her doorbell rang, Francesca was stretched out on her bedroom floor, doing exercises that were supposed to flatten the stomach. She jumped up from the floor and ran into the bathroom, where she quickly applied lipstick before heading to the door. She thought it might be Tony, and she hoped she didn’t look too frowsy in her old jeans and sweater. But when she peeked through an opening in the door, she was surprised to see Thomas White from the choir. He was wearing a pale blue dress shirt and neatly pressed pants.
As she opened the door to let him in, he gave her a big smile. “I hope I’m not stopping by too early, but I was on my way to the university and thought I’d say hello. We’re practically neighbors, you know.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize…” She returned his smile. “Someone else is covering phones at the rectory this morning, so I have a day off. Come in and have some coffee.”
She deposited him on the sofa with a National Geographic magazine, right next to Tubs, who was snoring softly. Then she went into the kitchen to get the coffee pot. As she gathered up the mugs and joined him in the living room, she noticed that Tubs had awakened. He was purring while he gazed at Thomas. A good sign.
She put down the mugs on the coffee table, then went back into the kitchen to get the sugar bowl and cream. “So where do you live, Thomas?” she called from the kitchen.
“I moved into a house on Kathleen Drive, just three blocks away. I’ve been there about two weeks, and I’ve been meaning to stop by.”
She didn’t know much about Thomas, only that he was a tenor who’d joined the choir about the same time Randall had become director.
She poured two mugs of coffee and handed him one. “Do you work nearby?”
“Actually, yes, I’m working on a master’s degree in music at Emory.” He took a sip of coffee.
“Oh, that sounds interesting.” She was relieved that he wasn’t in computers or business, which were usually conversation stoppers after the first few obvious remarks had been made.
“I’m getting a rather late start,” he said. “You see, I spent my twenties and thirties doing the practical thing. I was in real estate. When I turned 40, I decided it was time to finally do what I loved. And that’s music.”
His turquoise-blue eyes roamed the living room, settling on the Celtic harp in the corner. “Do you play?”
“I’m afraid the extent of my musical ability is singing in the choir – and my greatest contribution is my talent at lip syncing,” she joked. “The harp is, or rather was, my husband’s. He could play just about any musical instrument by ear.” She looked at the floor. “He…uh…he passed away.”
Thomas put his coffee mug down on the table. “I’m sorry to hear that. When did it happen?”
“What do you think of the neighborhood so far?”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s wonderful, lots of friendly people. And your coffee is excellent. I’m sorry I have to drink and run, but I have to get to class.” Then he paused at the door. “I wonder: Would you like to go out for dinner some time?”
“That would be lovely.”
Maybe the old adage about how it never rains but pours is really true. Could it be that all my prayers for a social life are being answered all at once?
“How about tomorrow night? I’ll come by about six?”
“Sounds good.” Then she added, “I guess I’ll see you at rehearsal tonight.” She’d already heard the rumor that Thomas would be filling in as director until a permanent person was hired.
After he left, she sat down on the couch by Tubs. “I think we’re on a roll here.”
Tubs meowed, and she realized it was treat time.
*
That evening, the choir members seemed unusually quiet as Francesca entered St. Rita’s. It was their first rehearsal since Randall’s death. Casting an appraising glance at the soprano section, she noticed that Lily looked pale and glum. Patricia, however, seemed as chipper as ever, dolled up in a powder-puff pink sweater with matching lipstick.
Thomas looked uncomfortable in front of the group. Talk about a hard act to follow, Francesca thought. Randall had been widely respected as a musician, and the choir was accustomed to his style.
“Let’s say a prayer before we begin.” Thomas cast his eyes downward and clasped his hands. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for bringing us together here tonight. We ask you to be with us during these difficult times and to guide us always toward your light. May your light shine on Randall’s soul.” His voice quavered a bit. “And may he rest in peace, amen.”