“Amen,” echoed the group.
An awkward silence followed until Bertha Chumley took out an economy-sized flowery handkerchief, dabbed her eyes, and let out a great honk. That seemed like the cue for the rest of the choir members to start talking to each other. Meanwhile, Patricia stood up and sashayed over to Thomas, batting her heavily painted eyelashes at him.
She emoted loudly. “I just want you to know, speaking for the whole choir, how pleased we are that you’ll be taking over.”
Francesca mentally rolled her eyes, while Rebecca poked her in the ribs and whispered: “I’ll bet she’s after him.”
Rehearsal that night was a somewhat muted experience with few of the usual jokes. The choir went over “Very Bread,” the anthem for Sunday. They also rehearsed a few more pieces for Christmas. Patricia didn’t say a word about solos, nor did Lily or anyone else. When Patricia tripped awkwardly over a few measures in a way that would have infuriated Randall, Thomas winced but said nothing. And when he forgot to give the group their opening notes on one piece, he apologized profusely.
“Not to worry,” chirped Patricia. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
Rebecca turned to Francesca and whispered: “Methinks the lady doth not protest enough!”
Francesca drove home after choir practice, looking forward to a hot bath and a glass of wine before she went to bed. It was getting dark earlier and earlier. The sidewalks were slathered in piles of crunchy leaves, with just a few leaves left clinging tenaciously on the tree limbs. In the dark, the nearly bare branches had a spidery look. She felt chilly when she entered her house. Better turn up the heat.
But there was something else. She had an uneasy sense that she wasn’t alone. That’s ridiculous; the front door was locked. And the back door too.
Suddenly she remembered that earlier in the day she’d gone into the yard through the back door.
I did lock it, didn’t I? Well, I’ll just go check and be sure. Why am I so jumpy? That phone call really rattled me, I guess.
Once she was inside the house, she carefully locked the front door behind her and dropped the living room shades.
“Tubs, Tubs,” she called out, but there was no sign of him. That’s strange; he’s always here to greet me.
Glancing into the guest room, she was startled to see Tubs crouching in the corner with the fur on his back raised ominously. She smelled an unpleasant sour aroma, but she couldn’t quite place it.
It’s almost like Tubs is afraid of someone, but there’s no one…
Then she turned and saw a man standing in the hall. Her heart lurched in her chest. A chill snaked up her spine and she felt the tiny hairs on her arms standing up.
Oh, sweet St. Joseph, pray for me. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on me.
Suddenly she realized who the figure was, and her heart began racing at an even more frantic tempo. “What in the world are you doing here?” she gasped.
It was Scotty Brumble, looking every bit as sinister in his black leather and chains as he had when she’d first met him. But what happened next surprised her, because at the sound of her voice, Scotty took a step back. Despite his harrowing appearance, his facial expression was almost sheepish.
“Your back door was open, so I just came in. I was going to wait outside in the car, but you’d be amazed at how many people call the police on me just for the way I look.”
She felt slightly nauseated from the waves of panic that were coursing through her body. He was so much bigger than she was, and stronger. He’s just stalling, and then he’s going to attack me.
Terrified of what he might do, she decided to try to distract him. With a huge effort, she attempted to make her voice sound normal, rather than terrified.
“Scotty, let’s go into the living room where we can sit down and talk.”
I have to act as if everything is just fine, she thought. If he detects my panic, I’m done for. He went into the living room and headed for the couch.
“How’s your grandmother?” She was frantically searching for ways to divert his attention from whatever foul deed he was planning. She’d read somewhere that if you talked to a potential attacker there was a chance you might get him to change his mind.
“Oh, Granny’s fine.” He plopped down on the couch, his chains bumping together like empty tin cans. “She keeps busy, watching her soaps and her game shows.”
She smiled widely, feigning great interest and approval, as if he’d just announced that Mrs. Brumble had been nominated for sainthood.
Scotty looked troubled. “Look, there’s something you should know about Randall that the police don’t know.”
“Yes?” She stood up and edged nearer the door. “Listen, I’m going to crack the door to get some fresh air in here.”
He didn’t say anything, so she opened the front door wide. She was tempted to run outside and bang on a neighbor’s door for help, but for some reason her fear of Scotty was rapidly dissipating. It was being replaced by an intense curiosity about what he might tell her.
Anyway, she comforted herself, if he tries anything, I can get out easily. She moved her chair closer to the door.
“You were saying? About Randall?”
“Look, when you live next to a guy a long time, you notice things. And I’m an observant kind of a guy. And there have been some very…” Here he stopped to pluck just the right word from his vocabulary bank. “Very seedy, yes, that’s it, seedy-looking people going in and out of Randall’s house some nights.”
He paused now and delivered the jewel of information he’d come to hand her. “I think he was into some drugs, if you know what I mean.”
And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I weren’t staring right at his dealer, she thought cynically.
Scotty absently picked up a book from the coffee table. He turned it over in his hand as if he were an archeologist examining an artifact from a lost civilization. It was a small hardbound edition of “The Imitation of Christ.” When he saw the title, he dropped the book as if it were radioactive. It fell with a resounding thud onto the tabletop.
He shifted on the couch and scratched his shaven head. “That’s all I came to say about Randall, but the main thing is not to bother my grandmother again. She’s got a heart condition and I don’t want no one upsetting her.”
“Of course, I understand. The only reason I asked her any questions at all was that I was concerned about Randall.”
“Well, it was suicide, plain and simple.” Scotty touched his nose ring as if to make sure it was still there. “See, my guess is Randall was into a lot of drugs, not just the stuff he killed himself with.” He shifted his weight and the chains rattled. “It’s just what happens.”
“I had nothing to do with his death,” he said firmly, as if reading her thoughts. Now his face assumed a sneer that reminded her of a particularly gruesome Halloween mask. “And I don’t want you – or anyone else — snooping around in my life, understand?”
She nodded brightly, silently repeating her plea to Jesus for mercy. Scotty’s face relaxed, the sneering expression replaced by a blank look. He scratched his unshaven chin and continued.
“When you came to talk to Granny, I got suspicious. That stuff about checking out the neighborhood was pretty lame.”
So much for my acting career. “I suppose that’s why you called me?”
He sniffed loudly and rubbed his nose against his sleeve. “I didn’t call you. I came to see you in person. I knew where you lived because I followed you over here the other day.”
She edged even closer to the open door, watching him nervously as he rose from the couch. He headed straight for the door.
“Well, I gotta go. Granny is waiting for me,” he said as if they had just had a nice social chat. “This is our bowling night.”
At that moment she didn’t know which was more ludicrous: her mental picture of Mrs. Brumble in bowling shoes, trying to score a strike — or the idea that Scotty really
had nothing to do with Randall’s death.
“And one more thing.” He was outside now. Under the porch light, his numerous black tattoos gave him the appearance of someone who’d been badly burned in a fire.
“Yes?” She got a firm grip on the door so she could slam it in his face if necessary.
“You really should have better security around here.” Then he clanked off into the night.
Her heart was still thumping ominously as she threw the deadbolt on the front door. Then she ran downstairs and locked the back door, silently condemning herself for being so careless earlier. She also checked all the windows. Meanwhile, Tubs had cautiously emerged from the bedroom and was standing in the kitchen, examining his empty supper dish. Francesca gave him an extra large portion of food and then poured herself a generous glass of wine.
What am I getting into here? She sank down on the couch. Why don’t I just take Tony’s advice and keep out of it?
The visit from Scotty had really shaken her. It could have been so much worse.
I’m exhausted and totally stressed out. I really should call Tony and tell him what happened, but all I want to do is sleep.
After finishing the wine, she checked the doors again, took a hot shower, and gathered up Tubs. Then she headed to bed. She slept that night with the lights on for good measure.
*
She overslept the next morning and arrived at the rectory a half hour late. Tony called just as she sat down at the desk. When she told him about the visit from Scotty, he sounded angry.
“I’m not angry with you, I’m furious with him. We can get him for breaking and entering.”
She nervously toyed with a pencil. “Well, I’m ashamed to admit this, but somehow I left the back door unlocked.”
There was a sigh on the other end. “We can still charge him with criminal trespassing.”
She thought it over quickly. If I bring charges against Scotty and for some reason they don’t stick, he’ll have even more reason to come after me. And he really didn’t harm me, except for giving me a terrible scare.
She bore down so hard with the pencil, she broke the lead. “I’m not sure I want to press charges. Maybe I’d rather just drop the whole thing.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, then another big sigh. “It’s up to you, but if I were you, I’d get the guy. You never know what he might try next. Besides, I’m worried about you. Think it over, and let me know if you change your mind, OK?”
“Yes, Tony, I will.”
“You might as well know who you’re dealing with. I checked on Scotty in the computer, and he has a record. Nothing very serious: loitering, shoplifting, and one time for disturbing the peace.”
Tony seemed interested when she told him what Scotty had said about Randall and drugs, but he didn’t comment. At that moment, she noticed that Spot had entered the room and was sitting near her with what she took to be a longing expression on his face. He had carried in what appeared to be one of the priest’s slippers and apparently wanted her to throw it for him.
She ignored the dog. “From what Scotty said, it sounds like Randall could have been into the hard stuff. And isn’t it possible that Scotty was his dealer?” she postulated. “And what if Randall decided to get off drugs? And what if Scotty was afraid that Randall might tell the police who his dealer had been? And then Scotty decided to get rid of Randall?”
“The autopsy didn’t show any traces of drugs other than the legal prescriptions Randall was using,” Tony countered. “And we didn’t find anything when we searched his house.”
Now his tone of voice became very serious. “Francesca, I know you’re fascinated with what makes people tick, their motivations and all. But in this case, don’t play psychologist. It’s much too dangerous. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll do some more checking on Scotty. But, remember, I’m doing this on my own time, since the case was ruled a suicide.”
“Tony, I want you to…STOP IT, right now!” she shouted.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, not you, Tony, I’m talking to Spot, Father John’s dog. He’s trying to eat one of my shoes. Tony, I really appreciate what you’re doing. I promise to leave everything to you.”
After they said goodbye, she had to dissuade Spot from destroying her shoes. She also removed the slipper from his vicinity, placing it safely on the desk. As soon as her back was turned, however, he went for her purse. She removed it patiently from his drooling mouth and placed it out of harm’s way.
“Go get a toy.” He looked at her curiously. “Toy. Go. Get. A. Toy.” She carefully enunciated each word. He wagged his tail and vanished down the hall.
Margaret Hennessy appeared moments later, carrying a mug of coffee and wearing a yellow sweater and emerald-green pants. Somehow she reminded Francesca of a large parrot in her improbable colors, but a very friendly parrot. Margaret placed a Three Musketeers bar on the desk.
“A little sustenance. How are you, dear?”
Francesca almost broke down and told her about the visit from Scotty. But she was still embarrassed about having left her back door open.
“Just fine,” she lied. There was the loud sound of toenails scraping against the wood floors, as Spot reappeared joyously in the foyer with something dangling from his mouth.
“What do you have, boy?” Francesca bent down and grabbed one end of the object in the dog’s mouth and tugged. Spot appeared to be enjoying the game thoroughly, and surrendered his treasure with great reluctance. It was a pair of men’s polka-dotted boxer shorts, now quite torn.
“Oh, my.” Margaret’s face had turned scarlet. “I bet that belongs to one of the priests.”
At that moment, Francesca saw Father William, prayer book in hand, coming down the hall. At this time of morning, she knew he was probably on his way to visit elderly patients at the Eternal Sunrise Nursing Home. After that, he usually headed over to Emory Hospital to give Communion to Catholic patients. She had often heard him say that it was his favorite part of being a priest, comforting the sick and lonely.
“I’m off to do my visits,” he announced to the two women. Then his face turned a more vivid shade than Margaret’s.
“Uh, Father, it seems Spot somehow got hold of…” Somehow Francesca was unable to say “underwear” in front of him.
The dog spared them the embarrassment of any further discussion by suddenly lifting his leg and watering the carpet. In the ensuing chaos, the boxer shorts were forgotten.
Chapter 8
The voice on the telephone the next morning sounded tentative and nervous. And when the caller identified herself as Lily, Francesca was surprised.
Now what? I’ve promised Tony to leave the case to him. Still, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe this call has nothing to do with Randall’s death.
“I’ve meant to call you sooner.” Lily’s vowels revealed traces of her native Spanish. “There are some things I’d like to talk to you about, but not over the phone. Can you stop by for coffee – maybe this morning?”
It turned out that Lily’s place wasn’t that far from Randall’s, so it took Francesca only a few minutes to drive there. The house immediately brought to mind the word “charming” with all the associated clichés. It was adorned with an almost preternaturally manicured yard.
The driveway was gleaming white, and there was not a leaf out of place. Francesca thought about her own yard, usually strewn with leaves, bread crumbs, and the occasional pile of poop from the neighbor’s dog, Bainbridge. As she rang the doorbell, she looked around, half expecting to see a well-groomed squirrel decked out in a tuxedo.
Lily was attired in a pair of black corduroy pants and a long-sleeved purple sweater that exactly matched the stones in her earrings. Her big dark eyes were carefully circled in black liner, and her lips were the color of blackberries. She invited Francesca to sit down on a flower-print couch in the living room.
“I’ll be right back,” Lily said. “The muffins are almos
t ready.”
Homemade muffins. Francesca savored the aroma. I didn’t realize Lily was so domestic.
She settled back on the couch, which was almost groaning under the weight of ruffles. Then, glancing around the living room, she recognized the unmistakable signs of a devoted disciple of Martha Stewart. A cluster of hand-decorated knickknacks perched upon the mantle, while on a nearby shelf, picture frames were adorned with shells and dried flowers.
She had long been convinced that, just as wild animals can be identified by their droppings, Martha Stewart’s followers make their presence known with a trail of glitter, ruffles, and artificial flowers.
Once she’d read an article by Martha describing how to make party favors out of egg shells. First you had to remove the raw eggs from the shells, which was a miraculous enough feat. Then you had to glue diminutive, dried flowers inside the shells. It had sounded like an abominable waste of eggs and time, she recalled.
Or maybe I just have a case of sour grapes because every time I try to make something by hand, it looks like an infant did it.
Lily emerged from the kitchen carrying a shining tray upon which rested an engraved silver coffee pot and delicate china cups with a butterfly motif. Cream and sugar were cozily ensconced in matching china vessels, and a cluster of steaming muffins perched upon a platter. Lily carefully handed Francesca a cup of coffee and placed a muffin on a china plate, along with a generous slab of butter. Then Lily poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down in the ruffled chair opposite Francesca. An unusual spicy odor, which was emanating from a bowl on the table, wafted up to Francesca’s nostrils. Potpourri, another sure sign of Martha.
The tender muffin was delicious and the butter oozed generously over its top, coating Francesca’s fingers with a sweet slickness. As they sipped the steaming coffee, which Lily said was made from freshly ground beans, Francesca murmured a few sincere compliments about the muffins. And then Lily launched right in.
“Well, I don’t want to beat around the proverbial bush, so I’ll just come right out with it.”
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