The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) (19 page)

Chapter 22

"Let's go over this stuff," I said. "This is not coincidence. The two Indians, for example, Jango Watie and George Sequoyah."

Nancy, Dave, and I were sitting in the police station on Tuesday morning. We hadn't seen the two men since Sunday, but that didn't mean they weren't around. We'd finally gotten a picture of Jango Watie and I'd identified him as the big fellow I'd seen in the church on Sunday morning. The Cherokee police had warned us about the two. Dangerous.

"We've got a dead Cherokee named Johnny Talltrees," said Nancy. "Killed in the alley behind the bookstore, or killed somewhere else and left there. According to Sequoyah, he also worked for the casino in Cherokee."

"Murder for sure?" asked Dave.

"Manslaughter, anyway," I said. "He was tased and his heart stopped. Whoever did it might not have meant to kill him, but they hit him between the eyes. Maybe because he was so short."

"Then panicked and dumped the body by the dumpster," suggested Nancy. "I can see it."

"It's a thought," I said, then continued. "Rahab is kidnapped, then the ransom paid, and the boy returned. Connection?"

"Probably," said Nancy.

"I agree," said Dave, "but what is it?"

"Don't know yet. We do think that the kidnapper acted alone, right?"

"And might be a woman," added Nancy. "I don't see these Indian guys doing it. Someone took care of that little guy. Dressed him in a hat. Gave him a carrot."

"Right," I said. "Sunday morning, Jango Watie and George Sequoyah show up. Two collection guys from the Friendly Gaming Club in Cherokee, which, by all accounts, is anything but friendly. An hour later Muffy LeMieux is electrocuted. Terry can't find anything amiss other than a faulty ground. An accident?"

"Maybe," said Nancy. "Maybe not."

"Then, yesterday morning, Varmit comes in here looking to get the death certificate."

"Man," said Dave, "he didn't even wait 'til she was cold. You think he's after some life insurance?"

"That's the only reason I can think of," I said. "Be good to know how much life insurance, if any, Varmit had on her."

Nancy jotted the information down in her pad.

"Also be good to know who exactly our Indian friends were looking for on Sunday morning."

"You think they might have killed Muffy?" asked Dave. "You know, as a warning, or something."

"How long were they down front before you saw them?" asked Nancy.

"I don't know," I said. "Joyce called me down when she spotted them. I can't imagine how they would have known that Muffy would be dipping her hand in the water, though, even if one of them had the where-with-all to rig the amp. First off, that baptismal font is kept covered and the wooden lid is heavy. It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment theatrical move. She'd staged the whole thing, all the way from the prayer she was saying between verses to dipping her hand into the water and letting it roll off her fingers."

"Are we now operating under the assumption that Muffy was murdered?" asked Nancy. "And that the kidnapping and the other killing are somehow related?"

"That'd be my bet."

"Did Varmit have the know-how to rig that amplifier?" Dave asked. "He wasn't an electrician."

"I expect he was competent. He was wiring the set for the Little Theater production."

"You saw him?" asked Nancy.

"No, I didn't. But I heard Muffy call out 'It works, sweetie' to someone working on the wiring behind the set. Unless she had another sweetie, I'm guessing that was Varmit."

"Ooo," said Dave, appreciably.

"Let's find out about that life insurance, if there is any. A call to the Friendly Gaming Club might be in order. I wonder if they know Varmit LeMieux."

* * *

Muffy LeMieux was due to be buried in Greensboro in the family plot. The funeral would be on Thursday morning at Second Baptist Church, Muffy's home congregation. This information was tweeted at me by Bev. At least, I think it was tweeted. It popped up on my phone, anyway. It was Meg who set up my Tweety account, so I can't be sure."

At two o'clock, Nancy and I met up at the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop for an afternoon espresso. She'd been doing some legwork on the casino connection. I'd been chasing down Varmit's insurance agent. It wasn't too tough. As part owner of a flourishing enterprise in St. Germaine, i.e., Blueridge Furs, his business license had the name of the liability insurance carrier. A couple of calls later and I was talking with Fiona Babcock of Babcock Insurance. Yes, they had insurance, Feona assured me. Yes, there were "key-man" life insurance policies on both Muffy and Varmit LeMieux, but she wasn't able to provide any other details. Another call to Judge Adams for a warrant and I had the information I was after.

Kylie brought our order to the table. Nancy had chosen one in the back, but it didn't matter. At two o'clock, we were the only ones in the place.

"Warming up," said Kylie. "Be spring soon."

"Feels like it," said Nancy, offering her a small smile, but nothing else. Kylie took the hint and disappeared into the kitchen.

"What did you find out?" said Nancy, taking a sip of the black, syrupy coffee.

"We were right about the insurance policy," I said. "Babcock Insurance is carrying a half-million dollar key-man policy on both Muffy and Varmit."

"What's a key-man policy?"

"It's insurance that compensates the business for financial losses arising from the death or extended incapacity of the member of the business specified on the policy. It's generally taken on an essential member. So, if that person dies, the business can either liquidate or have time to find a replacement."

"And Muffy was essential to the business?"

"Well, after Varmit and she bought Blueridge Furs from Roderick Bateman, I guess they're the ones who've been running it."

"Let me understand," said Nancy. "Blueridge Furs gets the half-million."

"Yep."

"And according to the business license, Blueridge Furs is now Varmit LeMieux?"

"Yep. No other partners, according to the license on file."

"Interesting," said Nancy. "I talked with the 'comptroller' at the Friendly Gaming Club. Comptroller. What a joke!"

"Did he offer any insight?" I asked.

"He did indeed," said Nancy. "He didn't even require a warrant. It seems that Mr. LeMieux owes the Friendly Gaming Club seventy-five thousand dollars."

"The exact amount of Rahab's ransom."

"Indeed," said Nancy. "So now we know why the Indians are in town and who they wanted to see."

"So why didn't Varmit just pay them the seventy-five grand? No need to kill Muffy for the insurance."

"He owes somebody else as well?"

"Maybe," I said, "but now I'm wondering about Blueridge Furs' financial position in this economy. It could be that they're in trouble."

"It could be," agreed Nancy. "Let's find out."

* * *

"Any word on the plight of the good reverend?" said Bev. I'd stopped by the new offices of Greene and Farthing, Financial Counseling. Meg had chosen her maiden name for the new business. The office was just off the square, behind the library in a small house that had been, in recent memory, a dentist's office, a TV repair store, and a pottery shop. Bev was cleaning and there was still a lot of work to do before they'd be up and running.

"I talked with Judge Adams a couple of hours ago on another matter, but he said that he wasn't inclined to let this go. She'll have her hearing late this afternoon, then bail will be set, and she'll be back home by dinner."

"Shame," said Bev absently, then, "Look at this mess! Once we get this all cleaned up, we still have to get the contractors in, take down a couple of walls, redo the bathroom and the kitchen. Paint, carpet, signs, computers, desks ... Who would have thought it'd be so hard?"

"Me, that's who!"

Bev laughed. "No sweat. This is going to be great. I can't wait to get started."

"Have we, umm, bought this building?" I asked nervously.

"Not yet," said Bev. "We're closing next week, I think. That ball's in Meg's court."

* * *

Stacey Lindsay was in her office when I arrived at St. Germaine Federal Bank. I'd called ahead for an appointment. She stood as I walked in and offered her hand.

"Hayden, good to see you again."

"Thanks," I said. "You, too."

"I checked on the Blueridge Furs account after you called, and normally I couldn't even speak with you about it, but since it's a matter of public record there won't be a problem."

"Public record?" I said.

"Their bankruptcy. Chapter 11. It was filed two weeks ago."

"Isn't that supposed to be in the paper?"

"No, not necessarily. Sometimes, if a reporter goes through all the recorded court documents, they'll find it and do a story. Most times not. Can you imagine what
The Tattler
would do with this?"

"So Blueridge Furs is out of business?"

"Oh, no," said Stacey. "Not yet, anyway. When a business is unable to service its debt or pay its creditors, the business or its creditors can file with a federal bankruptcy court for protection under either Chapter 7 or Chapter 11."

"What's the difference?" I asked.

"In Chapter 7, the business ceases operations, a trustee sells all of its assets and then distributes the proceeds to its creditors. Any residual amount is then returned to the owners of the company. In Chapter 11, the debtor remains in control of the business operations as what we call a 'debtor in possession.' Of course, he's subject to the oversight and jurisdiction of the court."

"And how is it that you found out?"

"The bank was notified as soon as Blueridge Furs filed with the bankruptcy court. We hold a note on the property."

"So Varmit hasn't been making payments?" I said.

Stacey flipped through some documents resting in front of her, then settled on one and read for a moment before answering. "He's only a couple of months behind, and he's been making some minimal payments. We might not have said anything except that he has a balloon payment due on the first of April. It's a big one. A little over a hundred twenty-seven thousand dollars.

"So filing Chapter 11 bankruptcy was preemptive," I said.

"Yes, I believe it was. That doesn't mean that the debt is wiped out, mind you. Just that he has time to reorganize and come up with a plan suitable with both us and the court."

"What if he has other creditors?"

Stacey shook her head. "He doesn't. Not that this filing applies to, anyway. The bank is the only creditor listed."

"Thanks," I said, standing up to leave. Stacey had another customer pacing impatiently in front of her office door.

"No problem," said Stacey. She stood up to shake my hand again. "Like I said, it's all public record."

I opened the door to leave, then turned back. "Hey, do you know an electrician named Terry?"

Chapter 23

"Can you help us out?" asked Pedro, showing a lot of cojones, considering he was begging a favor from a jilted Amazon with enough attitude to put the squeeze on us (not to mention our cojones), but not literally showing them, because that would just be disgusting.

"Sure. No skin off my nose," said Big, peeling a big piece of skin off her nose. She lumbered over to her desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a winkle, kicking and screeching. He was wearing a little, pointy, green hat, knee breeches, a brown coat, and shoes with buckles.

"Man," said Pedro, "talk about your stereotypes."

"Shut your yap!" screeched the leprechaun in fury.
"She makes me wear this getup!"

"Cute," I said to the Brickle. "Will he help us?"

"He has to," said Big. "I sprinkled some salt on his tail."

"She did it to me, too," muttered Pedro, suppressing a grin at the memory. "And a little cinnamon."

"Them's the rules," said Big, "and he knows it. He either has to give me his pot of gold or serve me for a year. A winkle isn't going to give up the gold."

"Not at sixteen hundred dollars an ounce," grumbled the leprechaun.

"He used to sing with St. Bart's, the American Boychoir, the National Cathedral, who knows where else?
..."

"I was a soloist!" hissed the winkle. "A treble soloist! And you stick me in a drawer. Pah!"

"What's his name?" Pedro asked.

The Big Brickle smiled for the first time. "Fluffernutter O'Brannigan."

"Keeeee!" screeched the leprechaun at the mention of his name.

"Maybe we'll just call you Fluffy," I said.

"Pah!" said Fluffy with as much venom as he could muster, dressed in knee-pants. "I curse you and all your ilk. The leprechaun's curse!"

"Save it for Darby O'Gill," I said.

"Harken to me, Fluffernutter O'Brannigan," chanted the Big Brickle, "I hereby commend your servitude to Pedro LaFleur," she wiggled a wattle at the winkle, "with all the rights and privileges therefore appertaining, etcetera, etcetera."

"Pah!"

"This treble is gonna be trouble, if I have any sooth to say," prognosticated Pedro, forebodingly.

I nodded and fondled my gat.

* * *

Choir rehearsal on Wednesday night started slowly. The group came into the loft in relative silence, found their seats, and started thumbing through their music. Usually there was much jollity and fellowship to be enjoyed and it was tough for me to get them all focused. This evening, though, they were under a cloud, and allowably so.

"What's the news about the play?" I asked. "Anyone know?"

"Cancelled," said Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle, sadness written on her face. She'd been the last soprano to come in. "I talked to Mr. Christopher. He says that there's no way to do artistic justice to
Welcome to Mitford
without Muffy. I even offered to take the lead role, but he's already taking the sets down and moving them somewhere else."

"Well, let's go ahead and rehearse our music for Sunday," I said.

We sang through our anthem,
When Jesus Left His Father's Throne,
but didn't bother with the
Missa di Poli Woli Doodle.
No one seemed in the mood. After we were finished, we all sat in silence for a moment.

"You know who would have liked this story?" said Marjorie, waving my latest missive in the air. "Muffy, that's who."

"She really would have," added Tiff St. James. "She told me that she was Irish. This is St. Patrick's Day after all."

"You could tell that she was Irish by her hair," said Martha. "She was a lot of fun."

"She loved unicorns," said Goldi Fawn. "Leprechauns, too, I'll bet."

"I liked her sweaters," said Mark Wells. That brought a laugh.

"I can't make it to her funeral," said Elaine. "I feel like I really should go, but I'm behind at work."

"Well, it's in Greensboro," said Meg. "At eleven o'clock. That's a two-hour drive one way. Most of us can't make it."

"Hey!" said Randy Hatteberg, "What happened to Mother P? I heard she was arrested."

"She was arrested," I said, "for violation of The Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act."

"Are you kidding?" exclaimed Burt Coley. "Everyone knows about that. I figured that the church had a permit. If that eagle was pre-1940, they're not hard to get."

"That eagle," I said, "wasn't even pre-February."

"Oh, man," said Burt, shaking his head. As a police officer in Boone, he knew the penalties. "That's not good. Who'd she draw?"

"Judge Adams," I answered.

"Oh,
man!
" he said again.

"She had her hearing yesterday," said Meg. "The trial date was set for May and her bail was set at one hundred thousand dollars. Cash bond."

"Are you serious?" said Fred May. "For having a stuffed bald eagle?"

"That's the maximum fine," I said, "for a first offense at least. It's federal court, not district. Judge Adams says he wants to send a message. Apparently the game wardens have found carcasses of three bald eagles with their tail feathers removed in the past few months. They'd all been shot."

"Did Mother P make her bail?" Fred asked.

"She had to come up with ten percent. The bond agent came up with the rest. She's no flight risk, so, to answer your question, yes, she did. She was released last night."

"My word," said Bev. "What a mess."

"Indeed," added Rhiza Walker. The rest of the choir made mumbling affirmations of agreement, then silence again.

"I wish there was something we could do for Muffy," Elaine finally said. "You know. Just us."

"Well," I said. "I thought maybe we'd sing something." I could see a few smiles. "Look in the back of your folders. This is the piece that we sang at last year's 9/11 Remembrance Service over at Sand Creek Methodist. "

Smiles, broader now, as the choir flipped to the back of their folders. Muffy had made a big deal out of this choral number when we'd sung it last fall. It was the last Sunday afternoon before Mother P had arrived.
Sing Me to Heaven
was a piece that wasn't exactly liturgical, but would be just right for Muffy's sendoff. The fellow that composed it, Dan Gawthrop, was a friend of mine, and lived right up the road. Muffy had found out, somehow gotten his phone number and cajoled him into coming to our performance. Then she'd gotten him to autograph everyone's copy.

"Let's try it," I said. I gave a chord and played the opening melody line. The choir blended their voices as if they remembered the piece, something that this choir often failed to do.

In my heart's sequestered chambers lie truths

stripped of poets' gloss

Words alone are vain and vacant, and my heart is mute

In response to aching silence,

memory summons half-heard voices

And my soul finds primal eloquence, and wraps me in song

If you would comfort me, sing me a lullaby

If you would win my heart, sing me a love song

If you would mourn me and bring me to God, sing me a requiem, sing me to Heaven

The chords were rich and lush and our voices moved as if another spirit were present. I'd stopped waving my arms somewhere on the first page. I wasn't conducting. We were just singing.

Touch in me all love and passion, pain and pleasure

Touch in me grief and comfort, love and passion,

pain and pleasure

Sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem

Love me, comfort me, bring me to God.

Sing me a love song, sing me to Heaven.

We finished the piece and the last chord echoed through the resonant building. There weren't many dry eyes, and I'd noticed that Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, had carried most of the alto part through the last half of the song, as the rest of the altos were gulping. As the sound died away, and silence returned, we heard an "Ahem" at the choir loft door. Standing there, framed in the light from the stairwell, was Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh. Mother P. Tears were running down her face.

"I had no idea," she said, then choked up. She gained control of herself a moment later and said, "Thank you for that. Do you think we could pray together?"

We all bowed our heads. The choir members reached for one another's hands without looking at each other, linking themselves in an unspoken bond, no one saying a word.

"O most merciful Savior," said Mother P, "into your hands we commend your servant Muffy." She took a deep, audible breath, as if to compose herself, then continued. "We humbly beseech you to welcome her, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen."

"Amen," said the choir.

Silence again, heads still bowed, then Bev said, "Our Father, who art in heaven," and the choir joined in. We finished, stood there for a long moment, and then the choir began to file out of the loft and down the stairs. Not a word was said.

Rosemary gave everyone a hug as they departed and soon she and I were the only ones remaining.

"I had no idea," she said again, then wiped some remaining tears from her face.

I looked at her. Her face was lined and she seemed older.

"Thanks for posting my bail," she said with a sigh. "I suppose you told the choir?"

"Nope. Not even Meg."

She cocked her head and studied me with a quizzical look. "I had no idea that this music could be so ... so ..."

"Yeah," I said with a smile. "We could have sung
Eagle's Wings
, I guess."

Rosemary smirked and then gave a small chuckle. "Don't be ridiculous." She hugged me and, not knowing what to do with my hands, I sort of hugged her back, just using my fingers. Then she said, "Would you have the choir sing that piece on Sunday morning for the congregation?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"It's not an appropriate anthem," I said.

She looked into my face, then down from the balcony over the empty church. "You'll have to help me, you know," she said. "I'm new at this."

"I'm happy to do it," I said.