I asked, “And you also analyzed the macaroons later given to us by Lillie Miller?”
“We did.”
“And your conclusions?” asked Simms.
“The freshly baked macaroons given to Brody and me on Friday tested negative for any trace of nuts in any form. The macaroons taken from the death scene two days earlier, which we later confirmed had been ingested by David, were identical in appearance and contents to the macaroons given to us by Lillie—with one crucial difference. The macaroons from the church had been infused with a significant amount of almond oil.”
“That’s it, then,” said Simms.
Heather nodded. “I’ve concluded that the cause of death was anaphylactic shock and the mechanism of death was asphyxiation. But that still leaves the manner of death.”
A silence fell over the table. After a long pause, I said, “Looks a lot like murder.”
“Sure does,” said Dr. Heather Vance.
“Sure does,” said Sheriff Thomas Simms.
“Dios mío,” said Dr. Teresa Ortiz, who had not yet spoken at the table.
Simms asked, “Dr. Ortiz, can you give us some medical history regarding David’s allergy to nuts? I assume you knew about it.”
“Of course, Sheriff.” She cleared her throat, appearing nervous. “When David established himself as a patient—about two years ago, after he arrived in Dumont—allergies were discussed during his initial evaluation. He said he was highly allergic to all tree nuts—but not peanuts, which are legumes—and he invited me to request his files from the Lovells’ family doctor in Appleton.”
“Did you follow up?”
“Certainly. His file arrived within a few days after I requested it. It was a thin file. He was a young man. Other than the severe nut allergy, which was noted, he had no health issues at all.”
Heather asked, “Did David carry an EpiPen?”
“His prior doctor had recommended it and prescribed it—and I did as well—but David seemed cool to the idea. He probably didn’t want to bother carrying one around all the time. Plus, they’ve gotten crazy expensive. But I think the main issue was, he was young and felt no risk. He said to me once, ‘The cure is simple: don’t eat nuts.’”
I noted, “The fact that he said that underscores that he wasn’t being careless when he died last Wednesday. Everyone seemed to know about his allergy, so someone must’ve tricked him into consuming almond oil.”
Simms asked the two doctors, “Would almond oil produce the same reaction as the nuts themselves?”
They agreed in unison: “Absolutely,” said Teresa. “You bet,” said Heather.
Simms concluded, “And that’s why we’re now dealing with a murder case.”
Heather said, “I’ll complete my report this afternoon and schedule the body for release tomorrow.”
Simms turned to Nia Butler. “I’m wondering if you can help us with this—from the perspective of code-enforcement issues.”
“Anything to help. What would you like to know, Sheriff?”
“I can’t help feeling that David’s death might have been related to the city’s mandate for St. Alban’s to arrive at a remediation plan for the church building: either restore it, or tear it down and build another. The incense fire, the exploding organ, the poisoning death at the keyboard—talk about wacko. Taken as a whole, it seems so staged and … gothic. Which leads me to wonder if the point of what happened had nothing to do with David, and everything to do with the future of the building.”
Everyone at the table pondered this for a moment. It was a plausible theory, and if it was correct, it made David’s death all the more tragic—and utterly pointless.
During the lull, Mister Puss must have tired of keeping watch over the proceedings. He slipped from my lap to the floor, where he curled near my feet for a catnap.
Nia said, “From the city’s perspective, nothing has changed. The church didn’t sustain fire damage from the burning incense, other than a patch of carpet—but that doesn’t mean you can rule out that someone tried and failed to destroy the place. As for the organ, the blown bellows made a hell of a mess, but it caused no additional structural damage to the building. As far as I’m concerned, the parish still has the same options—renovate or rebuild—and they still face the same deadline at the end of the month, six days from now. By then, St. Alban’s needs to present a firm plan, or Dumont condemns the building outright and begins proceedings to issue a demolition order.”
I shot her a grin. “You’re tough, girl.”
She slid the granny glasses down her nose and winked. “Better know it, honey.”
Half an hour later, concluding a freewheeling discussion of the ins and outs of the case, Sheriff Simms dismissed the meeting, but asked me to stay. I roused Mister Puss from his slumber so the others could coo their farewells, then returned to sit at the table with Simms. Mister Puss hopped up to the cushion of the vacant chair next to me, wound himself into a sleepy knot, and dozed off again.
Referring to a yellow legal pad filled with notes, Simms said, “Okay, it’s official, it was murder. So now we need to shift focus. Suddenly it’s not a matter of what happened, but why. In other words, motive. Any thoughts?” He turned his notes to a clean page and began to draw a grid, an exercise I’d seen before.
I took a deep breath. “Lots of thoughts. Geoff Lovell, the victim’s brother, had a measure of need, greed, and resentment toward his older sibling—all classic motives—and now he’s on easy street, but that wasn’t the case last Wednesday, when he was with David shortly before he died. Plus, are you aware that Geoff’s sickly girlfriend is pregnant?”
“Hngh,” said Simms, making note of it, “so Cindy’s pregnant.”
I reminded him, “Cindy’s the dog. Spark’s pregnant.”
He scratched at his notes.
I continued, “Lillie Miller had a creepy crush on the victim, a much younger gay man. She never got to first base with him and may have felt the pangs of a woman scorned, leading to revenge—another classic motive. She often baked macaroons for him, which contained no nuts, and he died from eating macaroons, but those were heavily laced with almond oil. Before he died, Lillie needed to leave the church to send some registered mail at the post office.”
Simms looked up from his grid. “We’re still tracing that. If it checks out, we’ll know soon enough.”
“And then,” I said, “there’s Clem Carter, a builder who’s in a financial pinch because of a bad investment. He’s a member of a parish that’s considering the option of building a new church, which could be an easy contract for him to snag, which in turn could get him over the hump. If his situation is bad enough that he’d be willing to burn down the old church, he might be driven by desperation—another classic motive.”
Simms underlined something in his notes. “That would be consistent with my theory that the crime might not have specifically targeted David. He could’ve been ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ or taking it a step further, the weird circumstances of his death might’ve been meant to create confusion about the true motive.”
“Right. And if you think about it, there’s a flip side to Clem Carter as a possible suspect. What about Kayla Weber Schmidt?”
“The preservation gal?”
“Yeah. She’s hell-bent on saving that church. Frankly, after seeing her in action, I thought she was nuts. So who knows what freaky logic she could have invented as a motive?”
Simms drew a large question mark in one of the squares on his grid.
I added, “I talked to her husband on Sunday. Tyler Schmidt—nice guy, talented artist, too. He struck me as honest and forthright. But Kayla? I dunno.”
Simms added a new column to his grid. “Any other possibilities?”
“Yes, three. But these are long shots, and they’re all connected to St. Alban’s. I’m talking about Joyce Hibbard—”
“Mother Hibbard?” asked Simms, a member of the parish. “She’s a priest, Brody.”
Simms gave me a lengthy blank stare. “I guess you’d better fill me in.”
And I did. I explained the long history of their intertwined involvement, the marriage of convenience, both men’s competitive interest in seducing the choirmaster, the flap over Renée Fleming tickets, and the simmering resentment Joyce had displayed at our dinner party. I told Simms, “I know it seems unlikely that any one of them killed David Lovell, but to varying degrees, Joyce and Yevgeny had motives.”
“What about Curtis Hibbard?”
I paused to recall my interactions with Curtis before answering, “No motive at all—at least none that I can think of.”
Simms filled in three of the squares on his grid. “I hesitate to ask, but anyone else?”
“Not at the moment.” But there was someone else. I wanted to explore what Glee Savage had told me about the possibility that Nancy Sanderson, from First Avenue Bistro, had been sexually assaulted in high school by David Lovell’s father. For Nancy’s sake, however, I was reluctant to dredge up that trauma from her past unless I was able to connect the dots to David’s murder. I needed to talk to Nancy before mentioning any of this to Sheriff Simms.
“Well, then,” he said, closing his notes, “we have plenty to think about. I assume you’ll be at the memorial service tomorrow?”
“Sure. Marson’s coming, too. It’ll be interesting to see who else is there—and who isn’t.”
“Exactly.” Simms sat back in his chair, weighing something. “I was surprised when Heather Vance said she’ll release David’s body tomorrow. I was hoping she’d take a little longer. Geoff told me he was certain David would want to be cremated—David made the decision to cremate their parents after the car crash. But it bothers me that this is moving so quickly now. Cremation cuts off the possibility of future investigation of the physical evidence. Maybe I can convince Jake Haines, the mortician, to drag his feet for a few days.”
I asked, “What would you be looking for?”
“At this point, I have no idea.”
Out in the parked car, before driving back to the office, I laid Mister Puss in the passenger seat. I’d read somewhere that domestic cats sleep about sixteen hours a day—and I believed it. To my surprise, though, he was now awake and alert. He sat up in the seat and reached his paws to the dashboard to peer out the window as I reviewed the notes I’d typed on my phone.
Feeling perplexed—no apparent logic surfaced from the words I’d written—I reached over to pet the cat’s back. He began to purr, which rumbled loudly in the quiet of the car. Soon, he moved from the dashboard to my arm, reaching for my shoulder. His chin brushed my ear.
Switching off my phone, I said, “I’m stumped.”
Follow the money.
I laughed. “Thank you, Deep Throat, for that pearl of wisdom.”
Half the suspects I’d been considering had plausible motives relating to cash, so the cat’s advice had no more value than a coin toss. “Besides,” I told Mister Puss, “you slept through half the meeting.”
I wasn’t the only one. Dullsville, man.
Chapter 13
The next morning, Thursday, I did not take Mister Puss to the office because Marson and I would be attending David Lovell’s memorial service at St. Alban’s, scheduled to begin at one o’clock. Since it would immediately follow the noon hour, I assumed the service would not conclude with a catered reception, as everyone would be sated from lunch. I also assumed that the logic for this timing had been based on Joyce Hibbard’s decision that the parish would bear the expenses of the funeral, due to Geoff Lovell’s plea of poverty, which now rang hollow.
The only other funeral I had attended at St. Alban’s had taken place, naturally, in the church. But that was not an option for today’s service, as the church had been closed indefinitely by the circumstances of David’s death, and I had serious doubts that the old building would ever again serve its intended purpose. So today the St. Alban’s community would bid farewell to its choirmaster in the confines of a former gymnasium—an adjunct to the parish school that had also been closed, awaiting its destiny with a wrecking ball.
Marson and I said hello to a few people as we made our way through the grounds to the parish hall. It was the last week of May, nearly June, with a cheery sun shining high in the crystalline sky, a harbinger that the long and languid days of summer lay not far ahead. Today, however, little joy could be found in such a vibrant outpouring by the forces of nature. Today—or at least the next hour—was a time reserved for introspection and sober remembrance.
As we entered the lobby, the quiet din of hushed conversations wafted through the space, an aural potpourri to complement the dabs of perfume and spritzes of cologne that were meant to perk up a sad afternoon but, instead, made me wince. Clumps of mourners stood about, wagging their heads and whispering bromides about the good dying young. Mother Hibbard was stationed near the doors to the main room, greeting people, wearing full liturgical vestments, white and gold, though she had told me on Saturday that it would be a simple service rather than a traditional Requiem.
We greeted the Simmses—Thomas, Gloria, and their son, Tommy—as well as the vestry warden, Bob Olson, with his wife, Angela, and their daughter, Hailey. I spotted Jim Phelps, the veterinarian, and we exchanged a nod. Lillie Miller, the parish secretary, bustled about with a box of printed programs. As I glanced at the outer doors, in walked Glee Savage, dressed for the occasion, looking like a beekeeper in black bombazine.
She hustled toward us and, leaning near, asked, “Can I sit with you guys? I hate these things.” I got an up-close whiff of her patchouli.
Marson offered his arm and escorted her to the inner doors.
Joyce Hibbard told us, “Thank you for coming. Pleased you could be here.”
I smelled incense burning, but I could not see its source.
After exchanging handclasps with Joyce, we entered the main room.
Some people were already seated, but many mingled front and center, near the altar table that had been set on a low dais. It was draped in white, with three tall candles burning at either end. An enlarged photo portrait of David was displayed on an easel in front of the altar, reminding me of how strikingly attractive he had been in life—but the photo was unable to quash my memory of David’s gruesome appearance only eight days before, when I had pulled his lifeless body from the console of the organ. The portrait was surrounded by an exuberant mishmash of floral tributes, some modest, some lavish, all of them expressing heartfelt affection for David, GONE TOO SOON, the ribbons said.
In front of the portrait, a low table bore token gifts and remembrances, lovingly placed by those who had known David and worked with him—a pitch pipe, some scraps of sheet music, a black clip-on bow tie that might have been worn with a prom tux, a few snapshots, and a small plate of Lillie’s macaroons. The cookies lent a jarring note, but I reminded myself that their role in his death was not yet a matter of public knowledge.
I noticed Geoff Lovell standing near his brother’s portrait and took Glee and Marson over to introduce them. Just as we neared, Yevgeny Krymov approached Geoff with a smile and extended his hand, saying, “I know you, yes? You stay at Manor House with me—with girl and dog.”
With a finger snap, Geoff said, “Of course. I thought you looked familiar. You were reading in the lounge yesterday when we checked in.”
While they introduced themselves, I whispered to Marson and Glee, “Geoff’s circumstances have improved. They were staying at Pine Creek Suites.”
“Yuck,” said Glee.
“And now,” said Marson, “they’re at the best place in town.”
When Geoff explained he was the brother of the deceased, Yev
geny expressed condolences. “I met your brother the night before death. Lovely man. I am sorry.” Then Yevgeny noticed us standing nearby. “Ah!” he said. “Good friends. Sad day.” With a bob of his head, he retreated.
I watched him wend his way toward Curtis Hibbard, who was gabbing with a group of the nameless vestry members I recognized from the parish meeting.
When Glee and Marson had extended sympathies to Geoff, I did so as well, then said, “I hope your dog is getting better. Dr. Phelps told me he changed her medication.”
Geoff brightened. “Cindy’s doing great, thanks. Spark still has her queasy spells, but I guess that’s part of the drill. They’re looking after each other this afternoon.”
At the risk of sounding tactless, but wanting to test how Geoff would react, I leaned near, saying, “Well, at least you won’t be sweating the expenses.”
Unfazed, he shrugged. “I met with the executor of Dave’s estate. I’ll be fine.”
After expressing my wishes that everything would turn out well, I retreated into the crowd with Glee and Marson, looking for seats. I told them, “Geoff’s girlfriend is pregnant.”
Marson mumbled, “He still looks like a kid, but he’ll be growing up fast.”
Lillie Miller was making her way down the aisle, passing programs to those who were already seated. Marson and Glee moved on to claim a group of seats near a back corner of the assembly while I lingered in the aisle to talk with Lillie. Giving her a little hug, I said, “The macaroons were wonderful, Lillie. Thanks for sending them home with me.” While I am not in the habit of lying to people, I thought the fib was preferable to telling her that her cookies, confiscated by the medical examiner, were now in an evidence bag somewhere, having been dissected for chemical analysis in connection with a murder case.
ChoirMaster Page 17
