The Soprano Wore Falsettos (24 page)

“I don’t think that would go over so well,” said Carol.

“You’re baptizin’ a baby?” said Collette, wandering up with a pitcher to refill my water glass.

“Is that you, Collette?” asked Carol, squinting hard at her. “I thought that Pete had finally caved in to the Affirmative Action Commission.”

“There was a little accident at the Dip ’n Tan.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Carol, doing her best to hide her grin. “And the answer is ‘yes.’ We’re baptizing my granddaughter on Sunday morning.”

“Do y’all dunk him all the way under?” asked Collette. I’d never seen her so interested in Episcopalian beliefs. Something was afoot. She had been going to a non-denominational fellowship since Pete had hired her about a year ago.

“We don’t dunk infants,” I said. “Usually, we pour water on their heads. But most priests don’t mind dunking older folks if they want to be dunked. We just have to find another place to do it. Episcopal churches don’t have a tank big enough.”

Well,” said Collette, with a sniff. “We have a big baptism pool. Big enough for five grown people. Pastor Kilroy says that he don’t believe in infant baptism. I don’t either.”

“I don’t mind who gets baptized,” I said. “Baby or non-baby, I’m happy either way.” I ate the last bite of my fish. “How about you Pete?” I asked. “Do you believe in infant baptism?”

“Believe in it?” said Pete, with a snort. “Hell! I’ve
seen
it!”

• • •

Nancy was just finishing with Fred as I walked into the station. She had taken two DNA swabs and was packing them into their cases in the prescribed manner.

“Hi, Fred,” I said. “I’m sure Nancy told you what was going on. We just need to exclude your DNA from the samples we have.”

“Okay with me. The thing is, though, somebody handed me that bell. And if my DNA is on it, I sure don’t know how it got there.”

“Why is that?” Nancy asked.

“I was wearing handbell gloves.”

Chapter 23

I knew three things. I knew who killed Memphis. I knew who was ratting out the Bishop. And I knew that I wasn’t about to wear puce on the Feast of the Transfiguration.

I walked past the Possum ’n Peasel. It didn’t look like the same place. They had changed the name to TJ Frumpett’s and had hung ferns in all the windows. There was a line around the block, and they now had a bouncer standing at the door behind a velvet rope. It was Pedro LaFleur.

“
Pedro,” I asked, “Is this your new gig?”

“
Just on weekends. Any news on the murder?”

“
Yeah. I found the clue. It was in Chapter 13.”

“
Ahhh,” he said. “Well, who did it?” He lifted the rope for a 38C.

“
Can’t tell you yet. I’m not to the end of the story.”

“
Oh, yeah,” he said. “Did I mention that I also checked on the Soprano Enhancement Franchise for the lower East side? Guess who’s got it?”

“
Who?” I asked.

“
Bulimia Forsythe Enterprises, Inc. They’re running infomercials selling a book called
What The Singing Teachers Don’t Want You To Know
. Wanna know what’s in it?”

“
I’ll bet it’s something to do with breath support.”

“
You got THAT right,” said Pedro, eyeballing a 36B up and down before flagging her in.

“
It looks like they’re doing a brisk business in falsettos,” I said, looking down the line.

“
They’re running a special. Buy two, get one free,” smirked Pedro.

“
So that’s the scam,” I said. This case was clearing up like a sixteen-year-old’s face at a Clearasil clambake.

“
What?” asked Pedro, holding the rope aside for a 40 double D.

“
You have bigger sopranos, you need more liturgical fabric…”

Pedro nodded, and shooed away a 32A. “And the more fabric you sell, the more money you make.”

“
It’s simple economics.”

• • •

“Did you hear the news?” asked Meg.

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “What news?”

“Dave Vance and Collette are engaged.”

“No! Really?”

“Yep. Collette announced it at The Ginger Cat. She has a ring and everything.”

“That’s great. I’ll bet that was why Collette was so interested in Episcopal baptism. Dave may have to get re-dunked before the big day.”

“Really? They do that?”

“All the time,” I said. “If you’re dunked when you’re a baby, it may not have taken.”

“Really?”

“Really. It’s in the Bible somewhere. Maybe in Second or Third Fallopians.”

“Well, that explains it then. By the way, how did your Pirate thingy rehearsal go last night?”

“I think it’ll be fine,” I said. “The men’s choir is very good, and they all have their outfits.”

• • •

It was Friday when I got a call from Gary Thorndike. The verdict was in on Fred’s DNA. No match.

We weren’t back to square one, but we weren’t much past square two. I called Nancy into my office.

“Okay,” I said, with a sigh, “let’s go back over what we’ve got.”

“Suspects,” said Nancy. “We’ve got suspects and a few clues. Whoever wrote the confession was left-handed and maybe a man.”

“But maybe a strong-willed woman.”

“Probably a man,” said Nancy, “if we include Pete’s theory that if the person who wrote the note was also the murderer, he had to be strong enough to kill the old coot with one blow to the head with a bell that, although it was heavy, still had a lot of bounce.”

“Old coot?”

“Umm, sorry…Agnes Day.”

“I have an idea,” I said, grabbing a roll of duct tape off the shelf. “Let’s go.”

We walked down the sidewalk and into The Slab. I went into the kitchen and came out with a cantaloupe, a coconut and an old broomstick.

“Ah,” said Nancy. “Brilliant! But we don’t have the bell.”

“We have the next one up the scale. It’s probably only a few ounces lighter.”

We walked over to St. Barnabas, Nancy carrying the cantaloupe and the coconut and me spinning the duct tape on the broomstick and whistling the
Dies Irae.
I had a key to the back kitchen door, a key that I hadn’t relinquished despite my resignation before Christmas, and we went in and put our produce on the counter.

“Hang on. I’ll be right back,” I said. “The bells are in the choir room.”

A few minutes later, I walked back into the kitchen carrying C#3, another four-pound handbell, although slightly lighter than our murder weapon.

“Let’s take these outside. It’s going to be pretty messy,” I said. Nancy nodded in agreement and we took our experiment out into the alley behind the kitchen. I set three concrete blocks onto the steps by the kitchen door and stuck the cantaloupe on top of the old broomstick that I’d broken off to the appropriate length. The makeshift Agnes Day dropped neatly into the holes in the blocks.

“That’s about where her head would be,” I said. “Sneak up behind her and give her a whack.”

“Me?”

“You’re a woman, aren’t you? And pretend you’re mad. Make believe it’s Collette.”

“Arrr,” Nancy growled. She measured the distance, took the bell in two hands and absolutely demolished the cantaloupe.

“Well,” I said. “That didn’t take much effort. I think you killed her.”

“Yes,” Nancy smirked. “Yes, I did. You know, it didn’t make much sound either.”

“No, it didn’t,” I agreed. “Okay, then. That wasn’t much of a challenge, and there are those that would argue that a person’s head is stronger than a cantaloupe. We’re going to have to tape the coconut onto the broomstick.”

It didn’t take long, and in a couple of minutes, Nancy was measuring her next attack.

“Hang on,” she said. “That’s a hard shell. It’s going to ding up this bell. This thing has to cost a few hundred bucks.”

“You’re right,” I said. “On the other hand, perhaps it won’t hurt it at all. People have actually dropped them on the floor before. If we ding it up, we’ll pay to get it re-furbished.”

“Shouldn’t we ask permission?” asked Nancy.

“Absolutely. We’ll absolutely ask permission. Now hit the coconut. Remember,” I said, “it’s still Collette.”

Nancy growled again, went into a two-fisted wind-up and smacked the coconut with a swing that would make Joe DiMaggio proud. The resulting clang reverberated in the alley, and although duct tape covered the entire coconut — we had wrapped it completely — seeping out of the silver-gray tape and running down the broomstick was the unmistakable evidence of Nancy’s success.

“Coconut milk. Let’s take the tape off,” I said, “but I’m fairly sure you killed her again.”

After the tape was removed, it was pretty clear to both of us that a woman could have finished Agnes Day off with the handbell in question.

“Look at that,” said Nancy, “The bell smashed the coconut and cut right through the shell. There’s nothing left of this whole side.”

“Not only that,” I added, “but Agnes Day had a lot less damage than this. You absolutely creamed her.”

“It,” Nancy corrected. “I creamed
it.
Not
her.
”

“Yeah. How’s the bell?”

“Looks okay to me,” Nancy said, looking at it carefully. “I don’t see a mark on it.”

“There wasn’t any damage to the other bell either,” I said.

“So,” said Nancy, “either a man or a woman could have done this. We’re back to square one.”

“Square one and a half.”

• • •

Back at the office, we resumed our deliberations.

“Whoever hit her,” said Nancy, “didn’t hit her as hard as I hit that coconut.”

“Maybe, they couldn’t hit her as hard,” I said. “She was sitting on the bench and someone came up behind her and hit her on the right side of the head. But if they were left-handed, they would have hit her on the left side.”

“So, it was a righty?”

“Not necessarily. They couldn’t have gotten to her from the left side. Too many steps down and they’d be exposed to the view of the congregation. But swinging right-handed if you were a lefty would account for the relative weakness of the swing. There’s no doubt though, that you could have easily killed her with either hand.”

“I agree,” said Nancy. “Although I probably would have done less damage with my left. You want to go back and try it?”

“No need,” I said. “You, or any other woman in reasonably good shape, could have killed her with either hand. That handbell is heavy. Back to the suspects and clues.”

“Right,” said Nancy, flipping open her pad. “Here’s what we know. Whoever wrote the confession was left-handed. We have, or had, a bunch of suspects. First, Russ Stafford.”

“Cross him off,” I said.

“Second, Ruthie Haggarty.”

“Nope. Cross her off.”

“Next,” said Nancy, “Benny Dawkins.”

“Nope. Didn’t do it.”

“Bennie and Ruthie together in a Bonnie and Clyde scenario?”

“I don’t see it,” I said.

Nancy drew her pen across her pad.

“Kenny Frazier.”

“Nope.”

“Should we worry about who shot him?” asked Nancy.

“I think,” I said, slowly, “that if we figure out who killed Agnes Day, we’ll know who shot Kenny. So let’s use the fact that he
was
shot to find Agnes Day’s murderer, but for our purposes right now, let’s not worry about who shot him. That make sense?”

“As much sense as anything else,” said Nancy. “How about Renee Tatton? She’s dating Kenny, she was at the Palm Sunday service, she was at the Maundy Thursday service, she’s left handed…”

“She’s left handed? You never told me that!”

“Oh. Sorry, boss. I guess I forgot. I checked on all our suspects. There were two that were left-handed. Renee Tatton and Annette Passaglio.”

“So, Renee’s a viable suspect,” I said.

“How about Annette?”

“Absolutely. If we assume, and I think we must, that whoever wrote the confession note was, indeed, the murderer, then Annette is our number one suspect. She was at both services, she owns a Montblanc pen — indeed, the very one that wrote the note — she was sitting in the pew where the note was written, she hated Agnes Day…”

“But,” said Nancy, “her DNA wasn’t on the handbell.”

“Aye, there’s the rub.”

“So, even if she
did
do it, we wouldn’t be able to prove it.”