The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (29 page)

Penny’s eyes grew a little wider.

“
And the
extra-bad
children, the children that aren’t respectful of their elders and also police chiefs, they get whisked away to the coal mines where Black Peter makes them work until they’ve learned to behave.”

“
Hayden!” said Cynthia.

“
But,” I said, bending over to Penny’s height, raising a finger and tapping the side of my nose. “But, if you’ve waited until Christmas Eve to do all your shopping, the Krampus doesn’t have time to figure out what’s what. He skips right over you.”

“
I don’t believe you,” decided Penny.

“
We’ll see,” I said.

Cynthia glared, but gave me a secret smile.

“
Humph,” said Penny as she walked away. “Krampus, indeed!”

•••

“
Merry Christmas!” said Mr. Schrecker, smiling as I walked into his jewelry shop. “I have your purchase right here. They did a wonderful job in New York.”

He reached under the counter, took out a small, velvet-covered box, set it in front of me, and opened the lid. Inside was Meg’s great-grandmother’s cameo necklace, reset in gold filigree and surrounded by diamonds. A new chain had been handmade to match, replacing the original, long since lost. When I’d gotten the piece from Ruby last summer, it had been badly chipped and the setting almost destroyed. Now the cameo had been restored and looked almost perfect. Almost—which is exactly what I told Mr. Schrecker. Almost perfect. I didn’t want it to look brand new. I needn’t have worried. The New York jewelers were artists. The necklace was exactly right.

“
Beautiful!” I said.

“
I’m sure Meg will love it,” said Mr. Schrecker. “Shall I wrap it up?”

“
Please.”

“
Oh, just one more thing,” said the jeweler, taking another box from under the counter. “I liked the necklace so much, that I took the liberty of having a pair of earrings made to match.” He held up his hands apologetically. “Now, I know you didn’t order them, and if you don’t want them, I’m sure someone else in town will be happy to take them off my hands...”

He opened the second box. The matching earrings—diamonds dangling in the same gold filigree that held the cameo—winked up at me from the black velvet cushion.

“
You sly dog,” I said with a grin. “You’re making me look better and better.”

Mr. Schrecker smiled right back. “Now, about Meg’s birthday...”

•••

“
It’s not a match,” said Nancy. “The bullet I fired from your Glock doesn’t match the other two.”

“
So someone switched the barrels,” I said.

“
Sure did,” said Nancy. “And whoever it was switched them before the first murder. Before Sal LaGrassa was shot.”

“
But probably after the shooter had decided that Sal LaGrassa had to go.”

“
So she could pin it on you?” said Nancy.

“
At the very least, to throw a monkey wrench into the investigation. Especially if the FBI got involved. Luckily, they didn’t.”

“
Yep,” said Nancy.

“
By the way, Merry Christmas! Here’s your present.” I handed Nancy an envelope.

A smile split Nancy’s face. “Thanks, boss. What is it, a couple of lottery tickets?” She tore open the end of the envelope, pulled out a sheet of paper and took a moment to read it. Then she gasped, threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss right on the lips.

“
Lieutenant Parsky!” I said, not able to hide my smile.

“
When is this for?” Nancy asked, excitedly rereading the sheet of paper.

“
You leave the fifteenth of January. Two plane tickets and paid vacations to Belize. The resort is all-inclusive, so you can have a blast for ten days. I expect you back tanned and well-rested.”

“
I’ll need a new bathing suit,” said Nancy. “And who on earth do I take with me?”

“
Take whoever you want,” I said. “You have a couple weeks to decide. Meg said I should make it a vacation for two. She said you’d have more fun if you took someone with you.”

“
Well,” said Nancy, now at a loss for words. “Umm. Thanks.”

“
Back to the case at hand,” I said. “Who knew that the gun was under the organ bench?”

Nancy snorted. “Who didn’t?”

“
Yeah,” I agreed. “I guess. So, let’s go back to the auction, this time tossing out the possibility of coincidences.”

“
Okay,” said Nancy.

“
Let’s say that we were right, and that the wine was Sal LaGrassa’s to start with.”

“
By hook or by crook,” said Nancy. “He probably stole it.”

“
Probably. LaGrassa got an email from his contact, or partner, or whoever, saying that his wine was going to be auctioned and that he’d better get back here to bid on it if he wanted it.”

“
Right. The email that Donald Mushrat pasted into the Malachi reading.”

“
His partner couldn’t do it, or didn’t want to, because that’s not her persona in the town and she’s keeping a low profile. Someone buying three expensive cases of wine would attract some local interest to say the least.”

“
Especially if she spent a few thousand dollars,” agreed Nancy.

“
She might have gotten it for a couple of hundred dollars and gone unnoticed, but you never know what’s going to happen at an auction.”

“
I’m with you so far.”

“
So Sal LaGrassa loses the bid and he’s pretty hot. A quarter million bucks—gone. He’s mad as hell at his partner. The question is, what would have been LaGrassa’s next move, having lost that bid, keeping in mind that he’s a thief and a killer for hire?”

Nancy took a deep breath. “He would have found out exactly who you are and where you live. He’d have gone out to your house, shot you, shot Meg, taken the wine back, as well as whatever else he could find that was easy to carry, and burned down your cabin.”

“
Pretty harsh, but that’s what I was thinking, too,” I said.

“
It would have been like shooting fish in a barrel,” said Nancy.

“
Hey! I am not without certain skills, you know.”

“
Think about it,” said Nancy. “Sal shows up at your cabin. You know he was the guy who was bidding against you at the auction. He obviously wanted the wine. You figure he came over to make you an offer, probably for quite a bit more than you paid for it.”

“
Hmm,” I said.

“
You invite him in to hear what he has to say and blam!”

“
Blam?”

“
Blam,” said Nancy, pointing a finger gun at me and dropping her thumb.

“
Exactly,” I said. “So why didn’t he do just that?”

Nancy thought for a second. “No reason except one. His partner shot him.”

“
In the forehead,” I said. “And he never saw it coming. Caught him completely by surprise. Next question. Why did she shoot him?”

“
He threatened her?” said Nancy.

“
No doubt. But I expect he’d threatened her before. If his plan of action was to get his wine back, she shouldn’t have been afraid for her life.”

“
Ah,” said Nancy. “But she was afraid for
yours
.”

“
Maybe. But I’m the heat. The fuzz. The man.”

“
The fuzz?” said Nancy with a smile. “You’re the fuzz?”

“
You bet. Extremely fuzzy. But there’s another answer.”

“
Meg,” said Nancy.

“
Meg,” I said. “She’s friends with Meg.” I paused and thought for a moment. “That’s probably not the whole story. And let’s not tell Meg about any of this just yet.”

“
Agreed,” said Nancy. “And if it’s any consolation, rest assured that I would have avenged both of your horrific deaths.”

“
That’s very kind.”

•••

The
Mouldy Cheese Madrigal
has an interesting history. I’d vowed, early in my St. Barnabas career, never to perform any anthem in church that attempted to rhyme any word with “Jesus.” This avowal came after we’d been forced to sing (at the behest of a Philistine bishop) an installation anthem by an unnamed composer that began, “Here’s to Jesus, the one who frees us.” The composer went on to attempt many other such rhymes in the course of the verses, including: “release us,” “sees us,” “tease us” and, of course, my personal favorite, “squeeze us.” It was then that I’d sworn my oath. The choir dubbed the dictum the “Jesus-Squeezus” rule and it had been in play ever since.

Except on Christmas Eve.

Many years after that bishop had gone on to greener pastures, I amused myself one Christmas by penning a holiday madrigal. Eric Routley, an authority with keen insight, wit, grace and style, always held that a good English carol contained a reference to a mouldy cheese. Taking his advice to heart, my madrigal contains the following lines spoken by the shepherds:

What offering can we bring

to give this little king?

A coat of fur to warm him,

And a little lamb to charm him.

Some milk and mouldy cheeses,

We give to the Holy Jesus.

Fa la la la la la.

Rhyming “Holy Jesus” with “mouldy cheeses” was a stroke of genius. Generally, the “fa la la’s,” were followed by “ha ha ha’s”—at least in
our
choir. But even so, the
Mouldy Cheese Madrigal
had become a Christmas Eve standard.

We finished it up with hardly a snicker; evidence, in my mind at least, that anything too stupid to be said can easily be sung. We sang some carols and listened to Edna Terra-Pocks rattle around some French Noëls that made my ears bleed. Then Muffy got up to sing her big solo. Varmit was on the back row, beaming.

“
She’s got it memorized,” he said proudly to Bob Solomon, who was sitting beside him in the bass section.

“
We
all
do,” said Bob.

The church was only half full at 10:45. On Christmas Eve, people wandered in from their parties, dinners, and celebrations anywhere from half past ten until the service started at eleven o’clock. It was an informal time; some people chatted, some sat and listened to the music, some spent their time in silence, reflecting on the miracle of the birth of Jesus Christ. It was relaxed; it was special; it was the way we celebrated the Nativity.

This being our custom, there was naturally some talking downstairs in the church when Muffy stood to sing. Varmit frowned.