The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (10 page)

“
It’s Friday,” said Kent. “It’s four o’clock. Time for a drink.”

“
Fridays at four? That’s your new parameter?”

“
Nah,” he said. “I just thought I might entice you to join me since I’ve already poured.”

I took a sip. “I don’t require much enticing. You have news?”

“
Yes, I do.” He picked up a small sheaf of papers fastened together with a paper clip. “Killed by a small caliber bullet—9mm to be exact. I’d say it was a handgun. Definitely at close range. The path of the bullet shows a slight upward trajectory.”

“
How close?” I asked.

“
Two feet maximum. Probably less. There was some gunpowder stippling around the entrance wound. The water cleaned most of the residue off, but there were grains of powder that were actually imbedded in the skin.”

“
You have the bullet?”

Kent held up a small plastic bag containing the bullet retrieved from the victim, dangled it a moment, then pushed it across the desk. “Don’t forget to sign the chain of evidence form before you leave,” said Kent. He looked back down at his papers. “I took his fingerprints and sent them off, electronically, to the FBI data base. You’ll hear something by Monday, I expect. That is, if they can match ’em.”

“
DNA?” I asked.

“
That, too,” answered Kent. “Although that will take substantially longer to find a match, even if his sample is in the system.”

“
What about the beard?” I asked.

Kent smiled. “Now we get to the good part. The beard is very good quality. Theatrical supply, I’d say. It’s made of human hair and tied into a very fine mesh. It was applied with spirit gum.” Kent flipped a page. “I will say this, though,” he continued. “It was made specifically for your victim. It’s not an ‘off the shelf’ model. The beard was fitted very exactly to his facial structure. His hair had been dyed, by the way. The natural color is much lighter. Not blonde exactly, but fairer by several shades.”

I looked at Kent in surprise.

“
There’s more,” he said, still smiling. “Caps on the teeth, cheek implants, and a new nose. The nose is a couple years old, judging by the scar tissue. The implants are older I think. I can’t tell about the caps.”

“
So this guy had a new face,” I said, pushing my glass toward Kent for a refill. “And a false beard.”

“
And
he dyed his hair,” Kent reminded me. “Sounds as though he didn’t want to be recognized.”

Chapter 9

St. Barnabas Episcopal Church had been rebuilt on the same footprint as the earlier building that had burned two years ago. It was a classic design, built in the shape of a cross.

The choir was in the back balcony that also housed the pipe organ. The steps to the choir loft were in the narthex, the entrance to the church. The transepts, or alcoves, formed the arms of the cross. The high altar was in the front in the sanctuary and a smaller Mary altar decorated the east transept. The sacristy, where the clergy and choir put on their vestments and where communion was prepared, was still behind the front wall with two invisible doors opening in the paneling behind the altar. St. Barnabas’ nave seated about two hundred and fifty when the church was comfortably full.

It wasn’t often that we had a Saturday choir rehearsal. We almost never had a Saturday choir rehearsal. The fact that we were having one on this particular Saturday was a testament to the choir’s penchant for goofing off during Thanksgiving. The choir seemed to feel that the Thanksgiving break began on the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving Day—they all were, in theory, cooking their big meals and couldn’t possibly come to rehearsal—and lasted until the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving Day. Most years, the Sunday after Thanksgiving was, unfortunately, the First Sunday of Advent. Hence, I didn’t ever schedule much fancy singing for the First Sunday of Advent. Sure, we could rehearse ahead of time. But I discovered, long ago, that the musical memory of an average church choir singer wasn’t to be relied on.

“
Have we ever seen this before?” asked Marjorie, my only female tenor, and the only one that had a low C. “You should give us this music ahead of time.”

“
We’ve been rehearsing it for four weeks,” I said with a sigh. “We worked on it two weeks ago.”

“
I have never seen this music before,” insisted Marjorie.

“
Sure you have,” said Steve from the bass section. “Remember? This is the one that has no time signatures and the dotted bar lines. You said it was driving you to drink.”

Marjorie looked down at her score. “Hmm. Yes.”

“
You remember now?” asked Steve.

“
Nope. I can just see where it would drive me to drink.”

“
Well, just sight-read it,” said Mark Wells. “Lord knows, that’s what I’ll be doing.”

“
The instrumentalists will be here in a half hour,” I said. “We’d better know it by then. Now,”—I gestured toward Edna, seated at the organ console—“I’d like to introduce you to our organist for the next six weeks. Or until I can play again.”

“
We wondered how you were going to manage,” said Rebecca. “Or rather, how
we
were.”

“
This is Edna Terra-Pocks, an old friend of mine from college. She currently lives in Lenoir, but will be driving up for Wednesday night rehearsals and Sunday mornings.”

Edna stood up at the organ and gave a smile and a small bow. She wasn’t a great beauty by any means, but attractive in that well-put-together, very rich, middle-aged way. She was heavier than when I’d known her in college, but weren’t we all? I remembered her as svelte. She couldn’t be described as svelte now, but she still had a nice figure. Her dark brown hair was cut stylishly and fell about shoulder length. She was wearing a very expensive sweater, pearls and dark slacks. Old money. The picture of southern gentility. Her reading glasses dangled at the end of a gold chain and rested upon her, what could only be described as ‘substantial,’ chest.

“
Are you married to Bill?” asked Mark. “Bill Pocks?”

“
Yes, I am,” said Edna, with a smile.

“
I know Old Bill,” said Mark. “We used to call him ‘Chicken.’” He laughed. “Ol’ Chicken Pocks! How about that? I haven’t thought about him for years.”

“
What about our story?” asked Muffy LeMieux. She looked into her choir folder and came up with last week’s opening hymn. She flipped the page over, held it up, and waved the previous installment at me. “The one about the under-dwarves of Kooloobati.”

I shrugged with my one good arm. “I can’t type. I don’t know how I’m going to manage to finish it.”

“
You could dictate it to Meg, and she could type it for you,” suggested Georgia.

“
No way!” said Meg. “Not a chance.”

“
You could use that voice-recognition software,” said Elaine. “You just talk into the microphone and the computer writes it down for you.”

“
I’ll think about it,” I said.

“
But what about the under-dwarves?” said Muffy, a tear almost springing to her eye.

“
They’ll have to fend for themselves. We’ve got to look at this cantata.”

•••

“
That went pretty well,” said Meg as she drove us home from the rehearsal. “The instrumentalists were fabulous.”

“
I suppose,” I groused. “I didn’t much care for Edna’s registration in the final movement.”

“
Then why didn’t you say anything?” Meg sniffed. “You just don’t like having to share the console.”

“
I don’t mind sharing. I just don’t want to have to be there for it.”

“
It’s only for six weeks or so.”

“
Harumph!”

Chapter 10

Monday mornings were slow at the Slab. Saturdays were Pete’s busiest days during December. Sundays were next, as the out-of-towners flocked into St. Germaine for the quaint, small-town atmosphere and the shopping.

“
Well, how’d the service go?” asked Pete. “How was your first day as conductor of the choir?”

“
Miserable,” I said. “It’s just not going to work. Where’s Noylene? I need some coffee.”

“
Noylene’s taking Mondays off,” said Pete. “Not much happening on a Monday. Cynthia’s back in the kitchen, but you can get your own coffee.” He nodded at the coffee machine just behind the counter. Two pots of regular and half a pot of decaf were just waiting to be consumed.

“
C’mon,” I whined, flopping my cast piteously. “Look here. I’ve got a broken arm.”

“
Oh, fine,” said Pete, getting up in exasperation. “I’ll get your coffee.”

“
Might as well bring the pot,” said Nancy, as the cowbell banged against the glass of the front door, announcing her entrance. She pulled off her heavy jacket and hung it on the rack of hooks by the door, then walked over to the table and sat down heavily across from me. “How was your substitute?” she asked.

“
Not at all good,” I said. “I can’t do it, no matter what Meg says. The tempos were too slow on the hymns. The service music was too fast. Then, to top it all off, she played some eight minute, gawd-awful Advent prelude by Marcel Dupré.
Le monde dans l’attente du Sauveur
. It was too long, mind-numbingly boring, and all together unlistenable. It made my teeth hurt.”

“
I know I asked,” said Nancy with a smirk, as Pete set a full coffee cup in front of her, “but I don’t really care. I was just making conversation.”

I snarled. “You’d better care. I’m your boss.”

She took a sip and settled back. “Yeah? Well, I’ve got real news. We got a match on the prints that Kent sent to the FBI.”

My mood brightened. “Hey, that’s something. Care to enlighten me?”

Pete sat down and looked at Nancy. “Well?” he said.

Nancy lifted her hands in exasperation. “Police business, Pete. You ever hear of police business?”

“
I’ll shoot him if he tells anyone,” I said. “Promise.”

Nancy huffed. “Fine.” She put her forearms on the table and leaned forward, excitement now evident in her voice. “Here’s the thing. The feebs just called and said we’ve solved one of their big-deal cases.”

“
Really? The FBI?”

Pete’s eyebrows went up. “Wow! Ten most wanted?”

Nancy shook her head. “Nah. Not that big. Just something they’ve been working on for a long time. The dead guy’s name is Sal LaGrassa. Sal, short for Salvator. Apparently...” she paused for effect, “he’s a professional killer.”

Pete whistled. “A hit-man?”

“
Big as life,” said Nancy. “Well...not anymore. Anyway, the agent in charge, Ryan Jackson, wanted to know if we’d had any murders in town.”

Pete snorted into his coffee. I chuckled as well. Murders? In St. Germaine? What were they thinking?

“
I told him not lately,” said Nancy, grinning back at us. “At least not any unsolved ones by a mysterious, unknown killer for hire.”

“
So who shot him?” asked Pete.

“
That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Nancy. “Here’s the interesting part. This guy was apparently part of a team—a man and a woman. At least, that’s what the FBI thinks. They might have posed as husband and wife and lived together, but it’s more probable that they lived totally apart and just got together for jobs.”