The Soprano Wore Falsettos (29 page)

That gown hadn’t been in her apartment when we searched it, so I figured she hadn’t been home. If she had been in her apartment since we’d been there, she would have known we’d searched it, and she certainly wouldn’t have come up to the choir loft. But, if Renee was singing in the choir, I could certainly keep an eye on her until the service was over.

I looked over at her, as soon as the opening hymn was finished, trying to see any vestiges of remaining masculinity. Sometimes, a prominent Adam’s apple was a dead giveaway for a transsexual, but Renee’s was no more noticeable than any of the other sopranos. Nope, I decided, she was definitely a very good-looking woman. Still, if she was a murderer, she was one cool customer. I scribbled a note to her, asking her to stay after the postlude and talk to me, passed it down the row and watched her read it. She gave me a big smile, nodded her head and gave me a little wave. Cool as the other side of the bed.

The anthem at the offertory went surprisingly well. The choir wasn’t singing a communion anthem, and after Father George had offered the invitation to the table, they made their way downstairs. I looked down from the choir loft toward the altar. Father George was celebrating, as usual, but Father Tony Brown, our retired priest, was assisting. Malcolm Walker was one of the Lay Eucharistic ministers, holding the cup on Father George’s side. Carol Sterling was the other, helping Father Tony, directly opposite.

I had played through a couple of hymns by the time the choir came back to the loft. The choir at St. Barnabas, whether they were singing or not, always went down to communion first — before the rest of the congregation. They sat down in their seats and waited for the congregation to finish, my cue for the final hymn. I looked across the soprano section.

“Where’s Renee?” I whispered to Meg.

“She was right behind me,” said Meg, looking around.

I had come to a stopping point, so I cadenced and looked out over the congregation. Father George’s side of the nave was backed up, congregants lined down the center aisle, all the way to the back. He had the cup in one hand and the plate of bread in the other, doing his best to juggle them as carefully as he could. Malcolm was nowhere in sight.

“Here’s the MIDI disk,” I whispered to Meg. “You remember how it works?” She nodded back at me, waited until I had climbed off the organ bench, then slid the disk into the slot. I smiled at the choir, gave them a few reassuring hand signals and made my way down the stairs, punching Nancy’s number into the speed dial of my cell phone.

I went out the front door, stripping off my cassock as I ran around the building toward the fellowship hall. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew that Malcolm and Renee already had a head start. Who knew? I might get lucky.

I circled the building and, not seeing anyone, went down the alley behind the kitchen and opened the back door to the sacristy. I could hear
Be Thou My Vision
being played on the organ, via the MIDI disk, and the choir and congregation singing along. Malcolm’s cassock was draped over the banister rail leading up to my old office. I hadn’t been up to my office since I’d left the employ of St. Barnabas. It was situated in the old organ pipe chamber above the front of the nave. When the organ was moved from the front of the church to the rear loft, I commandeered the space. I walked up the stairs and tried the door. It was locked.

The hymn was going into the last stanza. I ran back down the stairs and out the side door of the sacristy, looking up and down the street that ran beside the church as I came out of the door. I spotted Malcolm’s dark green Jag at the corner and started walking toward it. At the same time, Malcolm and Renee came around the other side of the church. Malcolm had Renee’s arm by the elbow, and he was hustling her along at a slightly faster pace than her high heels were allowing. They hadn’t seen me and weren’t expecting to. Malcolm had unlocked the car and had the passenger door open for Renee when I walked up as nonchalantly as I could, given my harried pace to get there.

“Hi, Malcolm,” I said. “Hi, Renee. You guys are leaving early today. I’d hoped to talk to you after the service.” I directed the last statement to Renee. She smiled thinly and nodded. Malcolm let go of her arm, and I watched a couple more sequins drop to the ground.

“We’re in sort of a hurry,” said Malcolm. Then he looked confused. “Aren’t you playing the rest of the service?”

“I have someone covering for me.”

“Well, we have to go,” he said. I stepped to the car and pushed the passenger door closed.

“You can’t go, Malcolm.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know who killed Agnes Day.” I looked at Renee Tatton.

“I didn’t kill her,” Renee said in alarm. “Why would I?”

“A couple of reasons,” I said, “the most obvious being that she knew about your secret.”

Renee went white and bit her lower lip.

“She was the surgical nurse for Dr. Camelback when you had several of your surgeries. She knew about your sex change operation.”

Now it was Malcolm’s turn to go white. “Your
what?!”

“Ah. You didn’t know,” I said. “Renee is a transsexual.”

“Malcolm,” said Renee, an air of desperation in her voice, “it doesn’t change anything. If two people love each other…”

“Oh my God!” said Malcolm.
“Oh my God!”

Renee turned back to me. “You...you...I suppose you’ve told everyone in town!”

“No, I haven’t,” I said, “But I’ve known Malcolm a long time. I figured he should know.”

“I didn’t kill Agnes Day.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Malcolm. I looked over at him. He was green, sure enough.

At that moment, Nancy pulled her Harley in behind Malcolm’s Jag.

“I didn’t kill her,” said Renee, again.

“I know you didn’t,” I said. Malcolm was leaning against his car in shock. I reached over, took his right arm, pushed the sleeve of his sport coat up over his wrist and looked at his Rolex. Then I opened his coat and pulled a Montblanc Miesterstuck Solitaire out of his inside breast pocket.

“Check his car, Nancy,” I said. “It’s already open.”

“Do we need a warrant?” asked Nancy.

“Nope.” I said. “He’s double parked and he’s getting a ticket. That’s reasonable cause for a search. You see, Malcolm, labs can now check the composition of ink and trace it to a particular pen. I’m betting that this is the pen that wrote the confession note. You were feeling pretty guilty, and you never thought it’d be traced back to you.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything, but his eyes darted from side to side. “Renee…” he started. “Renee killed the organist…”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “She was wearing the same outfit on Palm Sunday that she’s wearing today. If she had been the one who hit Agnes Day with the bell, there would have been sequins all over the organ keys and down into the pedal board. Those things are dropping off like it was molting season at a majorette convention. We found sequins, all right, but they were all in
front
of the organ.”

Nancy came walking around the front of Malcolm’s car holding a .45 automatic. “This yours?” she asked Malcolm. “I found it under the front seat.”

“Yes,” said Malcolm. “I want my lawyer.”

“You’ll need one, I think,” I said. “We got a fingerprint off the shotgun at Kenny’s farm. I’m betting that it’s yours.

“Are you left-handed?” asked Nancy. Malcolm didn’t answer.

“I’m pretty sure he is, but we can ask Rhiza,” I said. “His watch is on his right arm. That’s a pretty good indicator.”

“Why’d he have the .45?” Nancy asked me.

“He had to get rid of Renee,” I said, watching Renee’s eyes go wide.

“You were going to kill me?” Renee asked Malcolm. Malcolm didn’t reply, or even look at her. “But why?”

“He had no money,” I said. “He thought that if Rhiza found out about you, he’d be out thirty-four million dollars. Also, he couldn’t take the chance that you might have told Kenny about your affair. He’s broke.”

“Broke?”

“Broke. No more plastic surgery for you, I’m afraid.”

“Broke?” asked Renee, again, looking at Malcolm as if she’d never seen him before. “And you were going to kill me?” The service had finished and people were starting to come out of the church. She turned to me. “I’d like to get out of here. Am I under arrest?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said. “But don’t leave town. One more thing, though. Why was Malcolm paying for all that extra surgery? I mean, you were already a woman, right?”

“Sure. Malcolm just liked bigger, better and younger. Didn’t you, Hon?” She blew him a sarcastic kiss.

Nancy had the cuffs on Malcolm, and we watched Renee disappear around the corner of the church.

“I just have one question, Malcolm,” said Nancy. “Could you
really
not tell that she used to be a man? I mean, once push came to shove?”

“So to speak,” I added.

Malcolm ignored the question.

“Those surgeons are very good,” I said. “I don’t know the particulars, but from what I’ve read in the past couple of days, I can see how he’d be fooled.”

“I guess. How come we didn’t find his DNA on the handbell? And why was Renee’s DNA on it?” Nancy asked me, now ignoring Malcolm as if he wasn’t even there.”

“Easy,” I said. “Renee was the one who handed the bell to Fred right before the Psalm. And when Malcolm came upstairs, he was wearing gloves.”

“Handbell gloves?”

“No, regular gloves. It was pretty cold that morning. Right Malcolm?”

Malcolm Walker didn’t say anything. He just turned and walked across the street toward the police station. Nancy and I looked at each other, shrugged in unison and followed him.

Chapter 28

Monday night meetings at St. Barnabas were notoriously ill attended, but this one proved the exception to the rule. As Senior Warden, Billy Hixon was presiding, and the parish hall was as full as it was for the meeting just a few short weeks ago.

Mrs. Murdock was sitting in a chair at the front of the hall. She had both her hands in her lap, clutching her black purse that looked, in her diminutive lap, big enough to carry a good-sized badger. She peered out across the hall through thick, black-rimmed glasses. Father George was sitting next to her.

“Let’s come to order,” said Billy. “This won’t take too long. Mrs. Murdock has an announcement to make.”

“Before she does,” said Jed Pierce, from the back of the room, “I’d like to make a motion. I move that if we don’t agree with what Mrs. Murdock decides, we take another vote on what to do with the money.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Billy.

Father George stood up. “The congregation has already voted, and the vestry met last week and upheld that decision,” he said. “That’s it. We’re just waiting for Mrs. Murdock.”

“This is a parish meeting, isn’t it?” hollered Jed. “We can vote on anything we want.”

“Why don’t you just shut up, Jed,” said Joe Wootten. “You’re really a jackass.”

“Yeah,” said Phil. “Shut up for once in your life.”

With no support for his motion, Jed crossed his arms and plunked down into his chair.

Billy reached down and helped Mrs. Murdock to her feet. She handed her purse to Father George and walked up to the microphone.

“I have given this matter careful prayer and consideration,” she said in a wavering voice, “and I have decided that St. Barnabas would be a better place without sixteen million dollars in the bank. Yes, it would make the life of our church much easier, but where would I be if I hadn’t given to the church all these years? If St. Barnabas hadn’t needed the money that I gave, I probably wouldn’t have given it and just think of all the blessings that I would have missed out on.”

I looked around the room. There were some nods of agreement, but most people were listening intently, not showing much emotion at all.

“I have decided that the sixteen million dollars would best be spent spreading the word of God. My two nephews came up with an idea that will put the name of Jesus in front of millions of people.”

We all waited expectantly.

“I’ve decided that St. Barnabas is going to sponsor a NASCAR racing team.”

• • •

After the meeting, Meg, Ruby, Pete, Nancy and I were sitting in The Slab eating pecan pie.

“Excellent!” I said. “A truly excellent decision!”

“NASCAR?” said Nancy.

“It’s the fastest growing spectator sport in the country,” Pete said. “I’ve been to a few races. It’s a real rush.”

“How long will sixteen million dollars last? That’s an expensive sport,” said Meg.

“Depends on if we win or not,” I said. “Even if we lose, two or three years, anyway. That’s my guess.”

“Who’s the driver?” asked Pete.

“It’s my understanding that it’s going to be Lucille’s nephew. His name is Junior Jameson.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Nancy. “He’s won a few races.”

“His team is looking for a new sponsor,” I said. “Apparently their old sponsor didn’t take kindly to Junior painting religious slogans on the car — especially on the back bumper. But Junior said that it unnerved the other drivers coming up behind him and gave him an edge. Imagine driving up behind someone at two hundred miles per hour, trying to pass, and seeing ‘Where will you spend eternity?’ jump out at you in bright yellow letters.”