The Soprano Wore Falsettos (13 page)

“
Not so much,” I muttered, taking the chart from her outstretched hand.

This was the latest chart--approved just three years ago. I didn’t even remember it coming up for a vote. It was as cut and dried as a rogation salami and sailed through all the committees without a second look. It was the same old thing, but with just a couple changes. There were a few more choices than in the “good old days.” Gold, several shades of green, dark blue, light blue...these were all options.

“
Do we have a chart of the proposed colors?” I yelled after Marilyn as she lurched back to her desk.

“
Not yet,” she hollered back. “It should be here this afternoon.”

“
When’s the vote scheduled?”

“
How should I know?” she yelped. “You’re the detective.”

• • •

I hadn’t been to a staff meeting because I wasn’t on the staff, and I hadn’t been to a worship meeting because I didn’t want to go. I explained all this to Marilyn on Wednesday of Holy Week.

“You see, Marilyn,” I explained, patiently, “I’m not on the staff, so I don’t have to go to the meeting.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “I just think you might want to know what’s going on.”

“I actually don’t even
care
what’s going on. It has nothing to do with me. I’m just coming tomorrow night for the Maundy Thursday service and Sunday morning for Easter. That’s it. Then, for the next two weeks, I’m playing at two other churches.”

“Okay,” said Marilyn. “I guess you’ll just have to be surprised.”

“Nothing surprises me anymore. Just tell me what the hymns are and I’ll ask the choir what they’ve been working on. I presume that they’re still having rehearsal tonight?”

“As far as I know. Have you heard from Rhiza yet?”

“Nope. No one has. I think she’s in hiding.”

“You know that Agnes Day’s visitation is tonight as well. Over at Swallow’s Mortuary.”

“I’d heard that. I think I can get over there before choir rehearsal.”

“I think everyone that was in her choir is going. I guess I’ll head over there, too. It’s sad, really. She has no family at all, and Mr. Swallow said there were no inquiries from friends. I hope I don’t end up like that.”

“No chance of that,” I said, with a smile. “I’ll make sure there’s standing room only at your funeral, even if I have to pay people to come.”

“You’re sweet. Thanks.”

“By the way, is there any word from Lucille Murdock? How is she going to spend the sixteen million?”

“No one knows,” replied Marilyn, “because nobody’s heard from her. When Agnes Day was killed, Lucille went down to visit some family members in Hickory. There’s been a lot of talk, but we haven’t heard anything.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Umm…Hayden?”

“What’s up?”

“You know I wouldn’t normally repeat anything that I heard in the church, right?”

“You are the soul of discretion. Now, spit it out.”

“I was in the sanctuary, taking the Palm Sunday bulletins up to the choir loft. The soloist and Agnes Day were rehearsing, and I didn’t want to interrupt them, so I stood on the stairs, up at the top, waiting for them to finish before I went into the loft.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then what happened?”

“Well, I dropped some of the bulletins. So I was picking them up off the stairs and Agnes Day said to the soloist…”

“Renee Tatton,” I interrupted.

“Right. Renee Tatton. She said that she recognized her from when she was the office nurse for Dr. Camelback in Boone.”

“The plastic surgeon? That Dr. Camelback?”

“I guess so. It’s the only one I know. He’s got that infomercial on TV running every hour on the hour.”

“Makes sense. I understand that Ms. Tatton is quite an ardent enthusiast.”

“So I’ve heard. Anyway, Renee sort of hems and haws and says ‘Oh yes, how are you?’ and Agnes Day says ‘Do you still have your special friend? I sure wish I had somebody to take care of my doctor bills. I’d be in there every month. He’s a great doctor. An artist.’”

“She called Dr. Camelback an artist?”

“That’s what she said. Then she asked — and I swear this is what I heard — how her voice-lift was working out.”

“Her what?”

“Her voice-lift. That’s what she said. Do you know what a voice-lift is?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” I admitted. “But I’ll find out.”

• • •

I was walking back to the police station when it started snowing. A spring snowfall wasn’t an uncommon event in St. Germaine, but it certainly was an unwelcome one. Most of the flowers that had peeked their faces out a week ago in anticipation of an early spring and some easy cross-pollination were now doomed. I’d put on my jacket when I left the office for the church. Now I zipped it and turned up the collar as I headed back.

Skeeter Donalson met me just as I turned the corner. He was wearing a sweatshirt that proclaimed “I saw ‘The Immaculate Confection’ at The Slab Café,” (one of Pete’s marketing ploys), and he had a handful of flyers that he was giving to anyone who went by.

“What’s this, Skeeter?” I asked as he thrust one of the lime-green handbills toward me.

“Noylene’s Beautifery,” Skeeter said. “She’s opening up on Friday. A ‘grand opening,’ she says. There’s gonna be balloons and pie.”

“An excellent combination,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“There’s a coupon there, too. It’s good for three dollars off your first stylin’.”

“A first-rate opportunity,” I said. “I could use a haircut. Thank you, Skeeter.”

• • •

Since The Slab was on my way back, I was happy to drop in for a cup of coffee. Now that I had the monthly reports out of the way, the world was my oyster. I went in the door, brushed the snow from my hair, shook my coat from my shoulders and tossed it over an empty chair. It wasn’t hard to find one. They were all empty.

I went behind the counter, took the coffee pot off its warmer and poured myself a cup. Pete must have heard me come in because he came out of the kitchen a half-beat later.

“Did you see this?” I handed him the flyer.

“Noylene’s Beautifery?”

“I’m hoping she’s ordered a neon sign,” I said. “Something in reds and yellows.”

“
Noylene’s Beautifery?”

“Look, Pete. It’s her shop. She can call it what she wants.”

“I’m the mayor. We have tourists. She cannot call it Noylene’s Beautifery!”

“I believe that she’s already incorporated and has her business license with the state.”

“Arrrgh!” said Pete.

“Look on the bright side,” I said. “With a name like Noylene’s Beautifery, she’ll either go out of business in two months, or it’ll become a bizarro, cutting-edge, cult-like, styling salon that people will flock to. Noylene will be charging four hundred dollars a haircut. Either way, it’s win-win.”

Pete nodded. “Yeah. It might just work. That’s really, really clever. Hey, wait a minute. Do you think she’s that smart?”

“Could be,” I said, sipping my coffee.

“Have you heard from Rhiza? Who’d have thought one of us would win something like that?” Pete was referring to the three of us, he and I and Rhiza Walker née Golden, who were in the music department together at Chapel Hill. “The rich get richer, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” I said. “Now, let’s see.” I held up three fingers. “I’m rich, Rhiza’s richer, and you’re…”

“Hush your mouth and stand up for a second,” said Pete.

“What for?” I asked.

“Just stand up.”

I stood up, an impish grin spreading across my face.

“Are those?” Pete grabbed hold of my waistband. “Yep…I knew it!” he laughed. “Expando-pants! You got yourself a pair!”

“Let’s just keep this between us,” I said, feeling like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “No need to spread this around.”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It’s just between us. But how do you like them?”

“You were right,” I said. “I’m never going back.”

• • •

Nancy was brushing the snow off the windshield of her car as I walked up to the station. It was still coming down and the temperature was dropping.

“Did you get a chance to talk to the soloist?” I asked. “Renee Tatton?”

“Nope. She didn’t answer the phone, and I can’t find her. I talked to Meg, though. She said that she thought that Ms. Tatton would be at choir practice tonight. Maybe you can ask her a few questions after practice. Or send her down here tomorrow.”

“I’ll do one or the other,” I said.

“That’s something about Russ Stafford, isn’t it,” said Nancy, as she got into the Nissan. I had filled her in on Meg and Ruby’s exposé this morning. “By the way, I also got a call from the state police. They want to know if we need any help. Do you think we poor mountain folk can figure this one out?”

“Yassum,” I said, in my best hillbilly-ese. “But, what we sorely needs, Mizz Parsky, is some clues.”

Chapter 13

I was on my way to see Memphis. I didn’t tell Francine. Not that she would have minded. No, I was sure she wouldn’t, I told myself. But I was lying like a Welsh shepherd at an ASPCA inquiry.

Memphis lived in midtown. A penthouse suite. Apparently the Presiding Bishop had extended his influence into the real estate market. The name on the building was Bishop Towers. A nice address. An address you could hang a shingle on and say you made it or a couple of million of them if they were a buck apiece.

The doorman was only a Right Reverend. I had expected a Very Reverend at the least--maybe an Extremely Reverend. Still, once the epaulets had been sown on the cassock, you had to kiss the ring.

“
I’m the Right Reverend Sherman,” he said with Anglican snoot dripping from every pore. “Do you have an appoint-ment?”

“
You bet I do, bub,” I said. “Tell Memphis I’m here, will ya?” I lit a stogy.

“
I’ll call Miss Belle, and there’s no smoking,” he said, flipping his purple cassock as he executed a perfect ecclesiastical pirouette and headed toward the concierge desk.

I lit two more cigars just for spite and looked around. The lobby was as opulent and obvious as a Southern Baptist’s gold eyetooth. There were fountains, jabats, torchieres, pedestals, swags, cornices, sconces, tassels, finials and a whole bunch of other decorations that I could only guess at. It was worth a fortune, or I wasn’t smoking out of all three sides of my mouth. In a moment, the Right Reverend called me over and pointed to the elevator.

“
Top floor,” he said with obvious disdain. “See if you can manage to find it.” I could feel my ire starting to swell like week-old roadkill on hot asphalt in the Texas sun, but then I remembered that Dr. Phil said that it wasn’t good to keep anger bottled up, so I walked over and slapped the priest in the head with a fermenting mackerel I kept in my coat for just such an occasion.

“
Pay attention, Padre,” I said, slipping the fish back into my trench. “I ain’t sayin’ this twice. Next time I see you, you’d better have read The Confession of St. Ambrose. Especially the part about humility. Capice?”

He nodded and wiped a loose fin from his hair.

“
Now beat it,” I said, punching the button for the penthouse.

• • •

Meg and I walked up to the choir loft together. We turned the corner at the top of the stairs and entered the loft to see a person in every chair and three basses sitting on the steps. Twenty-three people, several of them actual singers.

“Welcome back,” they called, as I walked down to the organ. I felt guilty, but not
that
guilty.

“I’m not back,” I groused in my best curmudgeonly intonation. “I’m just subbing for myself until Easter.”

“Huh?” said Rebecca. “How can you sub for yourself?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Now tell me what you guys are working on.”

“Didn’t you pick something out for us?” asked Georgia.

“No. I’m just subbing. I’m playing tomorrow night for the Maundy Thursday service and Sunday Morning for Easter. Then I’m off to Morganton the next Sunday and maybe Hickory the week after that.”

“I heard you were playing for a Pirate Eucharist,” said Randy. “I think we all might take a road trip. It’s Low Sunday anyway.”

“What’s a Pirate Eucharist?” asked Marjorie.

“It’s like a Clown Eucharist, except with pirates,” said Christina.

“That sounds great,” said Rebecca. “Arrrgh. Let’s plan on it.”

“Arrrgh,” said the rest of the choir in unison. All except Meg, who closed her eyes in silent prayer.

I struggled to regain control. Control that I’d never had, as I recalled — not in all the years I had been choir director.