The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (23 page)

“
Shut up, Dave,” Pete said.

•••

“
As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by Noylene’s unexpected natal occurrence,” I said, “I think that Donald Mushrat’s
schwanengesang
may have something to do with his demise.”

“
Schwanenge-what?” said Dave.

“
His swan song. His final words. His last articulation.”

“
You never said anything about that,” said Nancy. “Neither did anyone else. He said something?”

“
I suspect no one really thought about it. I know I didn’t. At least not until later. It wasn’t part of the critical event
per se.
We all remembered the singing of the hymn, Mushrat lighting the candles, the screeching and the wreath coming down, but just before that, he came out and welcomed us all to his Bible study. Then he said he was going to tell us something about a jail in our community.”

“
We don’t have a jail,” said Nancy. “The closest one is the county jail in Boone.”

“
It’s baffling,” I agreed. “The county jail could be considered in our community, I suppose, but he also said that he’d read some correspondence. Then something about spiritual consequences and mentioned Cicero.”

“
Cicero?” said Pete. “The Roman philosopher?”

“
Yep. He said ‘Cicero said it best,’ but never gave the quotation. The whole thing didn’t really make any sense.”

“
So how is this a clue?” asked Pete, reaching for another donut.

“
I was talking with Gaylen this morning and she said that Mushrat had been going through her files.” I glanced over at Pete. “This is confidential, by the way.” Pete grunted and nodded, half a cruller momentarily obstructing his utterances.

“
Ah,” said Dave. “I see where this is going. Maybe he read a letter that implicated someone in the parish.”

“
And he was going to spill the beans,” added Pete.

“
I think so,” I said.

Pete shrugged and shook his head. “Nah. What would a killer write to a priest? A confession? I doubt it.”

“
Can’t you just ask Gaylen?” asked Dave.

“
Well, I could, but it wouldn’t do any good. She can’t and won’t say.”

“
We may be looking at this all wrong,” said Nancy. “What if the two killings are totally unrelated? What if the shooting in the church was done by someone with a different motive entirely?”

“
Stranger things have happened,” I said.

“
Especially in
this
town,” muttered Pete.

“
You need to compare those two bullets,” Dave said. “That should tell us.”

“
Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. If the killer’s a pro, she probably would have dumped the first gun anyway. But I think Nancy’s got a valid theory. Let’s keep it in mind. More importantly, I think I can narrow our list of suspects down to ten or so. Remember, the deacon was about to divulge something that the killer didn’t want known.”

Nancy looked puzzled for a moment. “Hang on,” she said. “I just thought of something. How would the shooter, who was coming in from the outside, know that Mushrat was going to spill the...?” She stopped as realization crept across her face.

“
You see what I’m saying?” I asked.

“
Yep. The shooter was already inside.”

“
Someone hiding in the back?” asked Dave. “Maybe she ran out as soon as she shot him.”

I shook my head. “Nope. When Gwen Jackson ran out to find you two at the Living Nativity, she couldn’t get the dead-bolt open. Remember? If the killer had gone out that way, the dead-bolt would have been thrown.”

“
So that means that the shooter...” Pete paused to take a bite of his third donut, this one creme-filled with a generous dusting of powdered sugar and nuts. A few crumbs dropped on his chin and he brushed them off with the back of his hand.

“
Was in the congregation,” he finished.

•••

“
They’re a match,” said Nancy, coming back into the station and waving two clear plastic evidence bags in my direction. “I went over to Kent’s and used the good microscope. He wants to know if the St. Germaine Police Department will be making the traditional Christmas donation of a case of Maker’s Mark bourbon to the Watauga County Medical Examiner’s Office.”

“
Yep,” I said. “A little graft never hurts.”

“
Anyway,” continued Nancy, “Same exact gun. She didn’t toss it.”

“
There’s something else,” I said. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Chapter 23

“
Let’s go over the statements,” I said. “All the folks we interviewed the night of the shooting.”

Nancy found the file folder on her desk and opened it up.

“
All the statements are almost identical,” she said. “No one mentions anything about a jail.”

“
We won’t worry about that right now. Let’s just put a list together.”

Nancy nodded and handed the folder to me. “You read them off. I’ll write them down.”

“
Okay,” I said. “Number one, Ruby Farthing.”

“
Meg’s mom,” said Dave. “I don’t think she did it.”

“
Of course not,” I said. “Write her down, anyway.”

I turned the page and continued reading. “Darla Kildair, Mattie Lou Entriken, Iona Hoskins, Gwen Jackson.”

Nancy typed each name into her word processor.

“
Kylie Moffit, Muffy LeMieux, Varmit LeMieux, Benny Dawkins, Flori Cabbage, Karen Dougherty.” I paused for a moment while Nancy caught up, then continued, flipping pages and reading the names at the top of each statement.

“
Benny Dawkins, Shea Maxwell, Frank Harwood, Kimberly Walnut. Got ’em?”

“
Got ’em,” said Nancy.

“
Roweena Purvis, Cleamon Downs, Wendy Bolling, Annette Passaglio, Lucille Murdock, Katherine Barr, Wynette Winslow, Sammy Royce.”

Nancy looked up from the screen. “That’s it?”

“
That’s it,” I said.

Nancy took a moment to count the names on the list. “Twenty-three. That sound right?”

“
Yep. Some of these names we can go ahead and cross off.”

“
Meg’s mother?” asked Dave.

I laughed. “Yeah. Scratch Ruby off. Also, since we’re looking for a woman, take off the men.”

“
How about Wynette and Mattie Lou?” asked Nancy.

“
Take ’em off.” Wynette and Mattie Lou were both pushing eighty and had been members of St. Barnabas since the ’40s. “Lucille and Iona Hoskins, too. They’re both pretty mean, but I don’t think they have the skill set to shoot a deacon in the chest from fifty feet away.”

“
That leaves us with twelve.”

“
Take Karen and Gwen off the list,” I said. “Wait a second. Hang on. Leave Gwen on there. She fits the profile pretty well. Take Karen off, though. And Annette Passaglio.”

“
Katherine Barr?” asked Nancy. “She’s a blonde.”

“
Can’t discount a blonde,” I said, grinning. “I just pointed out that the odds were good that it was a brunette.”

“
How about Wendy Bolling? She’s old, she drives an old VW bug, and she wears glasses like the bottoms of Coke bottles.” Nancy shook her head. “I don’t think she’s the one.”

“
I agree. Go ahead and take her off the list. Roweena Purvis, too. Roweena’s had Parkinson’s disease for the past three years.”

“
Kimberly Walnut?”

“
She and Mushrat had something going on,” I said. “Last week they came into the worship meeting together, both of them looking guiltier than Adam and Eve in the fruit department.”

“
Like they were having an affair?” asked Dave.

“
Exactly like that,” I said. “It sort of seemed as if they might have been tussling with each other right before the meeting, probably in her office. Bev remarked on it and Kimberly Walnut blushed like a teenager. She was certainly flustered.”

“
Well,” said Dave. “Counting Kimberly Walnut and Gwen Jackson, we’re down to eight.”

I looked at the list: Darla Kildair, Gwen Jackson, Kylie Moffit, Muffy LeMieux, Flori Cabbage, Shea Maxwell, Kimberly Walnut, and Katherine Barr.

“
You have any favorites?” asked Nancy.

“
Let’s see. Shea Maxwell has two little kids. I’ve known Katherine Barr since I was six. Her parents and mine were friends back in Raleigh. I’ve known Gwen for about fifteen years, but Gwen fits the profile. She has a four-wheel drive pick-up for making her vet house calls. I’ve seen her shoot and she’s good. She’s strong, fit, and single.”

“
What color is her pickup?” asked Dave.

“
Light green,” said Nancy.

“
Well, it can’t be her then,” said Dave.

“
Well, I don’t think it’s her, but not because of that,” I said. “Call it a hunch. I’ve seen Gwen shed tears over a dog she had to put down. I don’t think she’s a killer.”

“
How about Darla?” asked Dave.

“
Darla cuts hair at Noylene’s Beautifery. I don’t know her very well. It could be her, but she’s really tiny. She’d have needed help to carry Sal LaGrassa’s body down the hill.”

Nancy looked at me, waiting for a final answer.

“
I don’t know much about Kylie Moffit,” I decided. “Same with Flori Cabbage. They’re both new in town. Let’s look closely at them.”

“
And Kimberly Walnut,” said Nancy.

“
Yep.”

“
How about Muffy?” asked Dave. “I’d like to keep an eye on her.”

“
Yeah. Muffy, too,” I said. “Redheads can be a tad volatile, or so I’ve been told. If she’s the one, that character she’s playing would make a heck of a cover, wouldn’t it?”

Chapter 24

It was late in the afternoon when Nancy found me in Sterling Park, waiting for Meg and pondering the case. The next day was the winter solstice, and this time of year the sun dropped behind the mountains at about five o’clock. The Christmas lights around the square had come on an hour earlier and, as the sunlight faded, downtown St. Germaine began to glow with electric holiday cheer. I’d found a comfortable bench, purchased a large cup of joe from the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop and was absently watching the crew of Kiwanians clean up the Christmas crèche for the evening show.

The harder I thought about it, the more convinced I was that I was missing a piece of the puzzle: something I’d heard that wasn’t quite right. I hoped it would come to me in a flash of insight, but that hadn’t happened yet.