The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (22 page)

"Got it," said Kent.

"Neither Lester, nor his wife Mavis, had any connection with the church that I could find; however, the Senior Warden of St. Barnabas, a Mr. Harold Lynn, was also the owner and president of Watauga County Bank. His father, Wesley Lynn, was the president of the bank in 1899. "

"Coincidence?" asked Kent.

"I doubt it. But if you think so, here's another one. There was a Sunday School teacher named Jacob Winston who was also the church historian. His day job was as a teller at Watauga County Bank. Jacob was arrested on March 4
^th
on the charge of murder. There was no trial and the charges were dismissed—lack of evidence and no body—but Jacob wasn't hired by Northwestern Bank after the merger. Jacob died in 1942. Harold Lynn died in 1958."

"So you think that Jacob did it?" asked Dave.

"No. Actually, I think that Harold Lynn did it."

Kent and I nodded in unison.

"I think that Lester found something in the audit—something that would have impeded the sale of the bank that was about to go through. I also think that it had something to do with the church. That's why the record room was set on fire. Whatever Lester found was also probably in the record room."

"So, if Harold Lynn killed him, it was probably over a financial document," I added.

Nancy nodded. "Yep. And it would have stopped the merger from going through. It's not a big leap to make. Lester found out something, brought it to Harold Lynn. Harold killed him and set Jacob up to take the rap."

"How about this?" I said. "What if Lester went to Jacob, since he was the historian, and enlisted his help to find whatever document might have been in the church records room?"

"And Harold Lynn didn't know if Jacob knew anything or not," Nancy added with a smile. "So he framed him to make sure he wouldn't talk. I'd buy that."

"So," I said, "the only question is, what kind of financial document, that the church would have in its possession, would Harold Lynn think was worth committing murder to keep under wraps?"

Nancy shrugged. "I don't know. Something to stop the sale of the bank. That much is obvious."

"And why didn't Lester's body decompose?" asked Dave.

"That's what I'm about to find out," said Kent.

* * *

It was Thursday—Soup Thursday—and Meg was saving me a table at the Ginger Cat. It was, as usual on any Thursday, packed for lunch.

"Hi there," I said. "Did you order for me?"

"I did indeed. It feels like a clam chowder sort of day."

"I agree," I said, taking my seat. "That sounds great. Anything else happening?"

"Well…there's some scuttlebutt around town."

"Care to fill me in?" I asked.

"It's about you."

"Me?"

"Uh huh. It seems that you've been channeling Raymond Chandler's ghost."

"Well, sure. But you knew about that article."

"Yes, I knew. But it was reprinted in the
Democrat
this morning so now everyone in town's read it."

"Maybe they'll see the humor in it."

"Maybe, but I don't think so," Meg said. "Some people are also saying that you tampered with Brother Hog's chicken and tried to sabotage the service."

"Hmmm," I said, chewing on my bottom lip.

"They're saying that you were the one who stole the Blessed Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll and put it up for auction on eBay. Whoever tried to sell it went by the name Esterhazy. As you know…"

"Yes," I interrupted, "I know."

"Some folks are saying that it might have been you who shot the windows out of Gwen Jackson's house."

"That's absurd. Why would I do that?"

"Heavens, Hayden! I don't know and no one else does either. The prevailing view is that you've been working too hard and that you're about to have a breakdown."

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "First, I'd like to know who is saying these things."

"I heard it from Georgia. She doesn't believe it, of course, but she thought I should be aware of the gossip."

"Did she say where she heard it?"

"She was at the library and heard some ladies talking. So tell me, do you have an alibi for last night? About the time when Gwen's windows were shot?"

"No. I was driving back to town from Ardine's."

"So you were in the neighborhood. Ardine's trailer is only a couple miles from Gwen's house, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you have a twelve-gauge shotgun in your truck?"

"You know I do. Right behind the seat. I'm a police officer," I argued.

"I'm just saying…" said Megan.

"I get your point."

Chapter 18

Marilyn sauntered in to the office, looking like half a million bucks. I could tell something was up. I'm a detective.

"What's up?"

Marilyn gave her girdle a suggestive tug and flapped her eyelashes like a couple of black spiders doing push-ups.

"I was just over for a job interview at Kelly's Detective Agency and Automat."

"You going to be making sandwiches?"

"No, smart guy. I'm going to be working in the front office. Kelly's talking two bucks an hour."

"I'm sure he is. How about if I give you a twenty-cent bump?" We went through this every year. Marilyn would get all dolled up and schedule an interview with Kelly's. I couldn't afford a raise, but I couldn't afford to lose her. She knew it and I knew it and she knew I knew--it was one of the things she knew.

"How about thirty?"

"Sheesh, Marilyn, I can't even afford twenty. How about twenty-two?"

"OK, but Kelly says he'll give me lunch every day."

"I'll tell you what. I'll give you lunch at Kelly's every day, too." Kelly's Automat was a dump. When the health inspector showed up, the roaches disguised themselves as raisins and hid in the bran muffins.

"Never mind," said Marilyn, lighting up a cigar. "Now in honor of my new raise, I'll give you some information."

I perked up like Juan Valdez's cappuccino machine.

"When I was waiting in the office, I heard some talk behind the office door. Toby Taps was reporting to Kelly."

"What did you hear?"

"It has to do with a hymn. That's why Candy was killed. She wouldn't put it in the new hymnal. She said it wasn't worth any amount of money."

"So Toby is in on it?"

"Yeah. Him and Kelly and Piggy--although Piggy was just the hoofer. You'd better be careful. Toby isn't anyone to mess with."

"Neither am I."

* * *

"I need to talk to you," said Jed Pierce as I picked up the phone at the cabin. I hadn't showered yet. It wasn't even six o'clock. I'd gotten up early though, fed Baxter, let him out and put a couple of mice on the sill for Archimedes.

"Sure," I said, "What can I do for you?"

"Have you seen
The Tattler
this morning?"

"No. I don't get a paper out here. I usually pick one up in town."
The Tattler
was the St. Germaine weekly equivalent of the small town papers all across America that listed the comings and goings of its residents, recipes, relatives who were visiting, quilting-bee schedules and the like.

"Well, it seems that I'm on page four."

"Is this a good thing?"

"It is not," answered Jed in an angry voice. Jed was a pharmacist. He worked in Boone, but lived in St. Germaine. "It's a short article about St. Barnabas and the new vestry."

"It must be a slow news week."

"Yes it must be. The only reason that I can fathom that the newspaper included it is the mention of me being elected Senior Warden."

"Why is that newsworthy?" I asked.

"Don't play innocent with me Hayden. You're the only one in St. Germaine I ever told about that accident."

I remembered. Jed had been involved in a fatal car accident in South Carolina about twelve years ago. I found out about it when I was running a background check on him for a pharmaceutical company. There was an elderly woman killed, and Jed, the driver of the other car, had originally been charged with a DWI. The charges were subsequently dropped when there was no evidence other than the arresting officer's testimony. The Breathalyzer test had been administered, but lost. I had asked Jed about it at the time, and he had told me the entire story—including denying being drunk at the time. All this, including the denial, was in the public record, but would be tough to find unless you knew where to look.

"The accident report is in the paper?"

"Not all of it. Here's what it says. 'Newly elected Senior Warden of St. Barnabas is pharmacist Jed Pierce of St. Germaine. Mr. Pierce may seem a strange choice to head the Episcopal congregation given the fact that he escaped a felony indictment for vehicular manslaughter in 1982 when evidence of intoxication was misplaced by the police.'"

"Why would they print such a thing?"

"You tell me."

"I didn't have anything to do with it," I said. "You have my word."

"I don't believe you. You're the only one that knew about the accident. You stole the cinnamon roll. You're talking to a ghost. You probably shot out the windows of Gwen Jackson's house…"

"I certainly did not," I said calmly. "Why don't you call the paper and ask them who called?"

"I did. It was an 'anonymous tip.' They said they checked it out and it turned out to be true."

"It wasn't me."

"Yeah, sure. Anyway, I thought you should know that I'm resigning from the vestry," he said, slamming down the phone.

* * *

Nancy and I met Kent Murphee in the nave of the church. He came walking down the aisle, carrying a black case the size of a shoebox. We were waiting for him, as he requested, by the altar.

"Good morning," said Kent. "Bring your flashlights?"

"You certainly seem to be in a good mood this morning," said Nancy, still nursing a hot cup of coffee she'd brought with her from the office. I held a couple of Maglites aloft in answer to Kent's inquiry.

"I have some good news," said Kent. "I may have solved the riddle."

Nancy and I watched as Kent put his case on the floor, opened it and pulled out a handheld black electronic device about the same size as a large calculator.

"What is it?" asked Nancy.

Kent just smiled and clicked a button on the side, making the dials jump momentarily with the power surge. "I borrowed it from the geology department at the university. It's a Geiger counter."

He walked around the nave, playing with the knobs until we could all hear a steady click coming from the box. Then he made his way toward us. The clicks gradually increased in speed until the box was rattling like hail on a tin roof.

"We're radioactive?" asked Nancy.

"Not you," said Kent, pointing the Geiger counter towards the altar. "This. Specifically, the top."

"Marble isn't radioactive," I said.

Kent turned the machine off and set it down. "Help me take the back off of this thing."

We removed the back, and Kent turned the Geiger counter on and held it inside the altar. The speed of the clicks increased to machine gun status.

"That's roughly 1400 CPM—clicks per minute—which is how these counters measure radiation. It's a pretty basic instrument, consisting of the Geiger-Mueller tube, a visual readout in milliroentgens per hour and an audio click. Each radioactive particle makes a click as it travels through the tube. I took the readings yesterday and then had the lab at the university analyze them."