The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (21 page)

"It'll have to wait. Someone shot out her front windows. Her neighbor called it in. I'm on my way out there now."

"Okay. I'm out on Forsyth Road anyway. I'll turn around and head back to her house."

Gwen Jackson lived about twelve miles out of town in the opposite direction from my farm. It was close to six o'clock and already dark by the time I got out to her house. Nancy was in the driveway with a man I took to be the neighbor. Some lights in Gwen's house were on, but her car wasn't in the driveway. She wasn't home.

"Did you try and call her to tell her what happened?" I asked Nancy.

"There was no answer at the office. I called at about five- thirty."

"She's probably at the church. There's a parish meeting tonight. Supper, then the parish meeting, followed by the vestry election. I called St. Barnabas to leave a message for her, but there wasn't any answer. Not surprising really. The phone only rings in the offices."

"What time's the meeting?"

"It should be starting right now," I said as we walked over to the neighbor.

"Hi, Len," I said, shaking his hand. "You know Nancy?

Len nodded toward her. "Len Purvis. Pleased to meet you."

"Can you tell us what happened?" I asked.

"We were eating supper when we heard these shots coming from outside."

"We?" asked Nancy, writing all the information in her pad.

"Me and my wife. We was having pork chops. She's still in the kitchen if you need to talk to her."

"We'll talk with her directly," I said. "Did you hear a car?"

"Heard one leave after the shots and the glass breaking. There were three or four shots, I guess. Shotgun. Twelve gauge."

"How do you know it was a shotgun?" asked Nancy.

"I know a shotgun when I hear one."

"So you heard the shots and the glass breaking, and you came out?" I asked.

"Not right away. I ain't stupid."

"Of course not," I said.

"When we heard the car drive off. That's when we came out."

Nancy had left the driveway and walked the twenty feet over to the front of the house. "Were the lights on when you came out?"

He nodded. "They're usually not on till Dr. Jackson gets home. But I guess they're programmed for burglars or something. They were on when we came out."

"Does she have an alarm system?" I wondered.

"I've never seen one. I think they're just motion lights. Some of them come on when you walk up to the door."

Nancy walked back over to us. "The picture window in front is gone. There's glass everywhere. The two side windows are gone, too. I don't know what else yet."

"Did you see the car?" I asked.

"Nope. It was dark."

"Not that dark when it happened," said Nancy.

"I looked out the window," Len said. "But I couldn't see anything. I wasn't about to come outside."

"What did the car sound like?" Nancy asked.

"Well, it needed a muffler. Or it might have been a truck, I guess. An older truck. You know, it had that rumble. That's all I noticed. I wasn't coming outside. Not till I was sure they were gone."

I turned to Nancy. She nodded and jotted the information in her pad.

"Let's walk around the house, make sure it's secure. Then we'll go talk to Mrs. Purvis…"

"Roweena," interrupted Len.

"Roweena. Then I'll go into town, tell Gwen and come back out with her and get an inventory of the damage. You want to stay here till we get back?"

"Yeah. I'll stay and clean up what I can," said Nancy.

"She'll appreciate it, I'm sure. I don't think we can get any repair people here until tomorrow so she'll probably have to stay in town tonight."

"Her name's Roweena," Len said to Nancy, "but everyone calls her Weenie."

"I'm sure they do," Nancy replied.

"Can I go back to my pork chops?" asked Len.

"Yes sir, you certainly may," said Nancy with just a twinge of sarcasm in her voice. "Thanks for your help."

* * *

I pulled up to St. Barnabas at five till eight, just as people were beginning to come out of the Parish Hall. I presumed that the parish meeting had just concluded. I parked the truck and went into the church to find Gwen Jackson. I found her talking to Davis Boothe and Father George by the kitchen door. Meg spotted me coming in and came over to join us.

"Hello, Hayden," said Gwen. "We missed you at the meeting."

"It couldn't be helped. Can I talk to you for a second?" I indicated we should go outside onto the patio.

"Sure." Gwen slipped on her coat and headed for the door.

"I'll be back in a second," I whispered to Meg as I turned to follow Gwen. Meg gave me a wink and fell into a conversation with Father George and Davis.

"How was the election?" I asked Gwen as I hurried to catch up with her.

"Well, I'm on the vestry again."

"Really? That's great. Who else was elected?"

"Davis and Russ Stafford. That's what we were talking about when you came in. Rob Brannon was elected Junior Warden. That was a surprise."

"Yeah. How about Senior Warden?"

"Jed Pierce."

"He'll do a good job," I said, as we exited the double doors and made our way onto the patio. It was a nice night. Cool, but not too chilly. "Listen, Gwen. There's been some vandalism out at your house."

"What kind of vandalism?" She was shocked.

"Someone shot out the windows of your living room. A shotgun we think. I'd like to take you out there and walk through the house. Nancy's out there now."

"Okay. Sure. I'm not staying out there tonight, though. I'll get a room in town."

"I thought you would. Do you mind if Meg comes out with us?"

"No, I'd like that. May she ride with me?"

"Of course. I'll go get her. Then I'll follow you two to your house. Do you know anyone who might have any reason to do this?"

"Of course not."

"No teenager's favorite pet that might have had to be put down? Nothing like that?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I'll go back and look through the files, but I think I would remember."

"Go back a ways, will you?"

"Sure. I'll do it first thing tomorrow."

Chapter 17

It was around nine in the morning when Kent Murphee, Ace Coroner, came into the police station.

"I thought you guys would be over at the Slab," he said to Nancy, who was working the desk.

"Not this morning," said Nancy. "We sent Dave for some donuts though. He should be back in a couple of minutes."

"Excellent. I'll be happy to wait. If you offered me some coffee, I wouldn't refuse it."

"I'll put on a fresh pot."

"Hi Kent. Anything new on our friend?" I said as I came out of my office.

"As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. I need to look at the altar if you don't mind."

"Okay with me. I'll go let you into the church."

"Let's wait for Dave first," Kent said. "I haven't had any breakfast."

"Do you have a theory?" Nancy asked.

Kent smiled. "I just might. I heard you guys had a shooting last night."

"Yeah. Over at Gwen Jackson's place," I said. Then for Nancy's and my sake, as well as Kent's curiosity, I went over the details.

We didn't have any leads on who shot the windows out of Gwen Jackson's house. When Gwen, Meg and I arrived, Nancy had the lights in the house on and most of the glass swept up. Roweena Purvis didn't have anything to add to her husband's account. She didn't even come outside. Len had told her to stay in the kitchen and call the police. The road was paved, so there weren't any tire tracks. As near as we could tell, the windows were shot from the front yard. Maybe twenty feet away. There were shotgun pellets in the house, but most of the damage was done to the glass. Whoever pulled the trigger blew out the eight-foot plate glass window in the living room, two full-length windows on either side of the front door, the bathroom window in the front of the house and one of the small windows on the garage door. Gwen had called the insurance company and they were meeting her this morning. We, the long arm of the law, had nothing. No clues except a witness hearing a twelve-gauge shotgun—a suspicion borne out by empty twelve-gauge shells on the lawn—and what might be an old car or truck in need of a muffler. Nancy had collected the spent shells, but there were no fingerprints to be found on any of them. She thought that this pointed to an adult rather than a kid bent on mischief. Not many kids bothered to wipe the shells clean before loading them or to put on gloves before handling the ammo. Gloves were clumsy when handling a twelve gauge.

"You catch the guy?" asked Kent, after I had reviewed the evidence.

"Nope. And no leads either. I think that whoever did it knew she wasn't home. It wasn't as though they were looking to break in or do her any harm. They just wanted to make a mess. Maybe scare her a little."

"Is she scared?"

"They obviously don't know Dr. Jackson," Nancy said. "If she finds out who did it, she'll turn them every way but loose."

"Did you guys find out anything about Lester Gifford? Or have you been too busy?"

"As a matter of fact," Nancy said, "I've found out a few interesting things."

The door opened and Dave came in with a box of donuts.

"Set them over here, Dave," said Kent. "I'm the guest."

Nancy had pulled out her pad and was flipping through a few pages while we all made ourselves comfortable.

* * *

"I did some background on the church first. Did you know that Robert Brannon, Sr. (Rob's great-grandfather) was a major contributor to St. Barnabas in the early years?"

"We knew that," I said. "Rob has pointed it out to anyone who will listen on more than one occasion. There are several stained-glass windows with a Brannon family dedication inscribed at the bottom."

"Right. Robert Brannon, Sr. made his fortune in the Civil War. He was originally from Maryland and received one of many contracts from the government to supply rations to the Army of the Potomac. By the time the war was over, he had amassed several million dollars and bought eight hundred acres just outside of St. Germaine. By 1899, he had sold most of it and had moved into town."

"Okay," I asked, "what happened in 1899?"

"In 1899, St. Barnabas burned down. January to be exact. Rob, Sr. was sixty-two years old. In March of that year, the rector of St. Barnabas named Caleb Mortenson, Rob Sr., and two parishioners were killed in a flash flood. According to the newspaper, they were picnicking by the New River. All four of the bodies were found downstream."

"Quite a tragedy for the church," said Dave.

"Yep. The church was rebuilt in 1904. It took them that long to raise the money. I found a couple of letters—Marilyn gave me access to the archives—mentioning that if Rob, Sr. was still alive, the church might have been completed sooner. Rob's son, Rob, Jr., was not enamored of St. Barnabas and didn't see rebuilding as a priority.

"I'm jumping ahead now. It's 1937 and Lester Gifford, our deceased, is an assistant manager at the Watauga County Bank in Boone. There's a merger in the works and, according to the bank records, an extensive audit is underway prior to the merger. Part of this audit, the part that Lester is in charge of, is the identification of the owners of accounts that have not been accessed for several years. Remember, all these records were on paper. There weren't any computers or electronic files. Ledgers, notes, bankbooks, bonds, and certificates were the order of the day. On February 8
^th
, 1937, Lester Gifford was murdered and placed in the altar of St. Barnabas."

"How did you come up with the date?" asked Kent.

"He was mentioned in an article in the
Watauga Democrat
on January 15
^th
. The bank merger happened on February 25
^th
. There was a fire in the records room of St. Barnabas on February 8
^th
. Most, but not all, of the records were lost. The fire went out on its own and didn't spread to the rest of the church. The newspaper said that arson was suspected, but it was just a blurb. No real details, but I don't think the fire was an accident.