The Soprano Wore Falsettos (9 page)

“Everything.”

“When did
that
get installed?”

“A couple of years ago,” I said. “I bought it and had it put in so I could hear how the organ sounded out in the church. Just to check myself. A practice tool, mostly.”

“But you could record a postlude or something, and we could play it back later?”

“Sure. I did it a couple of times.” I turned to Meg. “Remember when I got that call half-way through communion? You just put the disk in for the hymn and the postlude, punched the ‘play’ button and the service never missed a beat.”

“You recorded the music for every service in advance?” Elaine asked.

“No,” I said. “Just an emergency hymn and an emergency postlude. Father George and I had a signal worked out. If I had to leave before the end of the service, we’d skip the middle hymn if we hadn’t already sung it, announce the last hymn as
Be Thou My Vision
and finish up. Communion would be silent, but that didn’t really bother anyone.”

“Hey, can we go downstairs?” said Georgia. “This is creeping me out. I mean, just look at her. Aren’t we being disrespectful?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m used to it. You can go on down if you want.” Georgia just shrugged.

“I still don’t get it,” said Elaine. “So what happened?”

“Agnes Day was recording her improvisation. When she got hit, her foot kicked the zimbelstern on and her hand fell on the playback button. Look here. The MIDI played back everything she’d recorded along with the notes that her body and left arm were playing as they rested on the keys.”

“So when it finished…” Elaine nodded, finally understanding.

“The recorder simply played it back over and over. Until we came up and turned it off.”

“How long do you think it took before she died?” asked Georgia, edging slowly toward the stairs.

“I can’t tell for sure. Like I said before, it could have been ten minutes, maybe more. Meg and I were in the parish hall for almost twenty.”

We were all quiet for a moment.

“If only she hadn’t been such a bad organist,” said Elaine, sadly. “We might have saved her.”

• • •

Nancy arrived at the church a matter of minutes after I had called her. Dave was right behind her. The ambulance was on the way.

“You ladies stay up here for a little while,” I said. “Dave, you go wait for the ambulance and send them up here with a gurney. Hopefully, most of the congregation has gone home, and we won’t have to explain any of this until tomorrow. Is Father George still here?”

“He didn’t even stay for coffee,” Georgia said. “He had a couple of hospital visits to make, and he wanted to see the ball game this afternoon.”

“Fine. We’ll tell him later. Nancy? Let’s you and I have a look around before the EMTs get here.”

• • •

I explained the series of events to Nancy as we quickly searched the choir loft. It didn’t take long to find the murder weapon — a C3 handbell that I remembered being used to give a pitch for the Psalm. It was heavy — about four pounds — and had noticeable blood on the finish. The killer hadn’t even tried to clean it off, just set it back on the shelf by the organ.

The organ console was clean, nothing out of the ordinary at all. I took off the pedal board, and we looked under the organ. It was clean as well.

I called Elaine and Georgia over. “Did either of you hear a handbell clang during Agnes Day’s recessional? Maybe a dull thud, following by a ringing sound?”

“Who could tell?” said Georgia. “All I heard was just a bunch of wrong notes.”

“I might have heard it,” said Elaine. “No,” she decided. “I guess not. Not that I remember anyway.”

“Any idea who might have wanted to kill her?” asked Nancy.

“Anyone who heard her play,” answered Georgia.

Chapter 8

“Did you talk to Father George?” Meg asked me on Sunday evening.

“Yep. I called and told him this afternoon. He actually answered his cell phone. I must say, he was quite upset.”

“Rightfully so.” Meg was sitting at my kitchen table watching Archimedes eat his supper and contemplating recent events. “Don’t you find it odd and a bit unnerving that St. Barnabas has had such a crime wave in recent years?”

“Not really,” I said. “You forget. I heard her play.” I held up another mouse, and Archimedes took it gently from my hand with his beak.

“Your bad joke aside, isn’t it weird? And this is the second person to be murdered in the choir loft.”

“That’s why I used to keep my 9mm Glock under the organ bench. You never know who’s going to take offense at a Hammerschmidt passacaglia. I wanted to be prepared.”

“Well,
I
think it’s weird,” said Meg.

“It’s coincidence,” I said. “It’s not really a crime wave. There have been a couple of murders, sure, but not anything outside the realm of statistical probability for a town this size. And accidents happen all the time.”

I gave Archimedes the last of the three mice I had taken out of the freezer to thaw. Archimedes was a barn owl that had shown up at the cabin a couple of autumns earlier. I fed him regularly and, over the years, he had become quite used to us. So much, in fact, that I had installed an automatic window in the kitchen so he could enter or leave as he pleased. In the freezer, I kept a supply of mice and a few baby squirrels that I got from Kent Murphee, the coroner in Boone. Where he got them, I never asked. I opened the fridge door and got out the last of Pete’s Wicked Ales, turning back around just in time to see the owl hop up into his windowsill and disappear silently into the dusk.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” said Meg. “I never get tired of watching him. I’m glad he’s stayed around, but I guess he’ll vanish one of these days, and we’ll never know what happened to him.”

“I guess,” I agreed. “But he’s not that old yet. He may be around for a while. Lord knows, he doesn’t have to scavenge much for food. And he does look pretty well fed.”

“Speaking of ‘well fed,’ did Father George talk to you about playing this week?”

“Yes. And what has ‘well fed’ got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. I just thought it was a nice transition,” said Meg. “That, plus you need to go on a diet.”

“What?”

Meg giggled. “It’s called ‘stream of consciousness.’ It’s a book I’m reading. You’re supposed to say whatever you’re thinking.”

“Well, stop it,” I said.

“Speaking of diets,” Meg continued, “do you think you might consider playing this week? Just through Easter?”

“Only if you stop,” I said.

“Done and done,” said Meg, holding out her hand for me to kiss. I missed her hand entirely.

• • •

I walked down to the corner and turned right, then right again, left, then right, right, straight, right, straight and a quick left. I popped a mallard into a hotel lobby and looked around for the lounge. It wasn’t hard to find. I’d been here before. I strolled up to the bartender.

“
What’ll it be, Mac?” he snarled in a low grunt, casually wiping down a glass.

“
A shot of Four Roses and an answer,” I said, laying a sawbuck on the bar. “I’m looking for a palooka that goes by Pedro LaFleur. Big guy, about two eighty. Cauliflower ear. Flat nose. Three-inch scar under his eye. Sings counter-tenor for the Presbyterians. Hard guy to miss.”

“
Sorry Mac, I ain’t heard or seen nobody like that.” He reached for the sawbuck, but I covered it with my badge--

the one I’d swiped from Detective Krupke. He gave a nod toward the back of the bar and slid the bill out from under the badge. I smiled and took my drink for a little walk.

Pedro LaFleur and I had been partners in a past life. We had been closer than two cousins in a Kentucky hayloft, but went our separate ways about ten years ago. There were ideological differences. He couldn’t get past my understanding of the doctrine of Divine Simplicity as applied by St. Thomas Aquinas, and I didn’t see his need for wrestling with the hermeneutic problems of tri-theism in reformed theology. Now I needed his help.

“
Hello, Pedro,” I said, sitting down across from him.

He smiled at me--a smile that would make my blood run colder than a penguin’s pizzle if I wasn’t on the same side of the draw.

I filled him in on what I knew. He didn’t say much, but then, he never had to. He just sipped his drink.

“
Sounds interesting,” he finally said. “I’m in. But let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry as Kate Moss’ tapeworm.”

• • •

Monday morning was rainy, cold, windy, and, by and large, one of the nastiest days we had seen for quite some time. When you get used to a couple of weeks of beautiful spring weather, it’s always a shock to be shoved back into winter by a nasty Mother Nature who doesn’t want to be taken for granted. And, to top it all off, we were in for two inches of snow, if you could believe the weatherman on Channel Four, which no one did. If he predicted two inches of snow, it was a cinch that we’d either get ten or a heat wave. The odds were about even. I pulled up in front of the police station just in time to see Nancy get out of her Nissan and slam the door angrily.

“I just got my bike out, and now this,” she growled. “I hate Channel Four.”

“Me, too,” I agreed. “Let’s go see if we have anything from Kent.”

I doubted that Kent would even be in his office this early, much less have a coroner’s report ready on Agnes Day. I was right. Nancy and I headed over to The Slab after leaving a note for Dave. We always left a note, even though he knew where to find us, especially on a miserable Monday morning with murder lurking in the air.

“Do you feel it?” I said to Nancy, sniffing the air like a bloodhound as we walked the two blocks to the café.

“Feel what?” asked Nancy. “All I feel is cold and wet.”

“It’s murder in the air,” I said. “Lurking.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nancy grumbled. “Lurking. It’s definitely lurking. You love this stuff, don’t you?”

“The weather?” I asked. “I don’t mind it so much.”

“No, not the weather. The crime, the chase, figuring it out.”

“Well, I must admit, it does put a spring in the old detective’s step.”

“Mine, too,” Nancy said, with a wicked grin.

• • •

We sat down at our table in The Slab, although, on this particular Monday, we could have had our choice of any of the tables. The weather was keeping all of Pete’s usual patrons inside. Noylene Fabergé was sitting at the counter having a cup of coffee. Pete was in the kitchen, I supposed, just waiting for our order.

“Hi, Noylene,” said Nancy, as she took her seat. “Is your beauty shop open yet?”

“Not yet. If it was, I wouldn’t be working here anymore.” Noylene stood up and came over to the table with her coffee pot.

“I thought you liked it here,” I said, holding out a cup.

“I like it fine. I just wouldn’t have time to do both. What can I get you?”

“Whatever’s easy,” I said. “Dave’s coming, too. He’ll be here in a bit.”

“I’ll tell Pete you’re here and that you’re hungry.”

“As Kate Moss’ tapeworm,” I added.

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” I said, as Noylene headed for the kitchen. I turned my attention to Nancy. “Did you hear anything from the lab?”

Nancy had taken all of our crime scene evidence to the state police lab in Boone last night. It wasn’t CSI Miami, but it was certainly better facilities than we had in St. Germaine. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much evidence. We found the murder weapon, of course — the handbell, but our subsequent search of the choir loft turned up nothing except quite a few sequins scattered on the floor in front of the organ. I suspected they came from the soloist’s gown, given the way she was flapping about. I picked one up and turned it over. It hadn’t been sewn onto her dress, but rather, applied with hot glue. There were probably so many of them on there that twenty or so wouldn’t be missed. Nancy had diligently collected them and sent them to the lab with the other evidence.

I doubted that the handbell had anything to tell us except that it was, in fact, the murder weapon. Kent Murphee could match the indentation to the bell and there was probably enough blood on it to make an irrefutable match. I didn’t think that there would be any fingerprints. That would be just too easy.

Dave walked into The Slab. The door caught the wind, yanked it out of his hand, and banged it against the jamb with a force I thought might break the glass, but didn’t.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” said Pete, bringing some country ham biscuits to the table.

“I like it,” said Dave, taking off his coat and dropping it over a neighboring chair.

“To the case at hand,” I said. “Nancy, what do we know?”

Nancy pulled out her pad, flipped a couple of pages and checked her notes.

“Agnes Day was killed yesterday sometime between noon and 12:20. The choir came down from the loft after the service was over. She was still alive at that point.”