ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  She said she was glad I enjoyed them, then added, “I’m sorry to be taking so long with your list.” I must have looked puzzled. She explained, “Mother Hibbard asked me to prepare a list for you of everyone who has access to the sacristy, but things have been hectic lately—with David’s accident, and moving out of the church. I’ll get on it tomorrow. I promise.”

  “Whenever you get to it, I’ll appreciate it,” I told Lillie as she handed me several programs.

  Then I stepped away to join Marson and Glee, who sat at the far side of a back row with an empty chair between them. Rather than climbing over the knees of those already seated, I circled around from the back, but that was a challenge as well, since stragglers from the lobby were entering and milling behind the last row.

  “Excuse me,” I said, having bumped the back of a young woman in a black jumpsuit.

  She turned with a scowl. “Can’t you be more careful?”

  With a flash of recognition, I realized I was face-to-face with the dreaded Kayla Weber Schmidt. Trying to defuse the encounter, I stammered, “I … apologize. And I do want to mention how impressed I was by the sensitive restoration of your Greek Revival farmhouse. I was out there on Sunday.”

  She looked ready to blow. “So it was you.”

  “Is something … wrong?” I wasn’t sure how to address her: Mrs. Schmidt? Ms. Weber Schmidt? Kayla? Whatever I chose, I was sure to offend her.

  “Now Aiden wants a cat!” People were starting to look. She continued, “Do you have any idea what a challenge it is, dealing with a child like Aiden?”

  “If I didn’t before,” I said softly, “I do now. Sorry.” I wanted her to quiet down. I wanted to escape.

  But she saved the best for last: “And you can stay away from my husband.”

  There was so much I wanted to say. But I’d witnessed her making a scene in public once before, in this very room, and the last thing we needed right now was a bitch fight at a funeral, so I zipped it.

  Seething, I stumbled across Glee’s knees and sat between her and Marson. He leaned to ask me, “What was that all about?”

  “Later.”

  He took my hand, set it on his knee, and patted my fingers.

  When everyone was seated, an awkward hush fell over the room. The gathering felt churchlike, but there was no music. Finally, Bob Olson got up from his seat, stood near the side of the altar, and told the crowd, “Please rise.”

  As we stood, the lobby doors opened. The procession began at a stately pace, led by a sturdy-looking man dressed like an altar boy in cassock and surplice—I flinched when I recognized that it was none other than our builder, Clem Carter—who carried the burning incense. He didn’t simply carry the thurible. He didn’t just swing it. Rather, he twirled it in full, brisk, vertical three-sixties, shifting it back and forth from his right side to his left, creating showy whirlybirds of smoke, a theatrical display that, frankly, struck me as dangerous. People sitting on the aisle instinctively leaned away as he passed, while the respectful quiet of the room was broken by an outbreak of coughing and wheezing from the gassed assembly.

  Clem was followed by a teenage altar boy carrying a staff topped with a crucifix. He was followed by two others, younger, side by side with hands folded in prayer, whose function seemed purely decorative. And last but not least, bringing up the rear of the procession, Joyce Hibbard paraded forward in all her silken regalia.

  This was a simple memorial service? Perhaps for Episcopalians.

  When the procession reached the altar, Clem passed the thurible to Joyce before he and the kids dispersed. Joyce slowly circled the altar, incensing it and the photo of David. The crackle and the smoke reminded me of the incense fire in the church, now eight days past, when David was killed. Oddly, it also brought to mind the flambé cart and the cherries jubilee, two days ago at the country club.

  Setting the thurible aside, Joyce stood behind the altar and raised her palms to address her flock:

  “My dear friends in Christ. I welcome you today as we gather to remember David Lovell, who has left this world to join the choir of angels. Though we grieve his tragic passing, we also celebrate his memory, his life, and his many gifts to our St. Alban’s community. Having arrived in this parish only recently, I did not have the privilege of David’s friendship for very long. But most of you had already come to know him as both friend and family…”

  I studied the room. Most of the assembled mourners were parishioners, largely unknown to me, but all of them had known David as their church’s choirmaster. Others were there because of their interest in the circumstances of David’s death. I saw Sheriff Simms, both parishioner and lead investigator of the murder; Heather Vance, the medical examiner; Teresa Ortiz, the victim’s primary physician; Nia Butler, the city’s code-enforcement officer. I saw others whose connections to David were tangential at best: Glee Savage, seated next to me, who considered this gathering a newsworthy social event; Curtis Hibbard and Yevgeny Krymov, who had tussled one evening for David’s affections; and the abrasive Kayla Weber Schmidt, whose connection to David, as far as I knew, was nil. Why was Kayla there at all? Why had she attacked me in the context of her husband? I felt more sorry than ever for Tyler Schmidt—poor guy. At least he was free of Kayla that afternoon.

  Joyce read soothing psalms, filled with sheep and glory and “Thou”s and “Thine”s.

  I wondered if the killer was there among us. I had reason to suspect, to varying degrees, that any number of people in the room could have been motivated to murder David.

  Greed. Resentment. Jealousy. Desperation. Revenge.

  All these shortcomings of the soul had their mortal representatives seated piously around me. If present, did the killer now grieve—or merely pretend?

  I continued to study the crowd while Joyce led the gathering in the Lord’s Prayer, muttered by some but recited with practiced, full-voiced cadences by the Episcopalians. After the prayer, Joyce shared a few remembrances of her brief association with David; then she invited others to do the same.

  At first there were no takers. So Bob Olson got the ball rolling with a few bland niceties about working with David on their “parish team.”

  This prompted Sheriff Simms to rise, adding his fond recollections as a “choir parent” and thanking David for the legacy of music he had handed down to the children of the parish.

  By then, the ice was broken, and many others rose, one by one, to share memories and tributes. I kept waiting for David’s brother and heir, Geoff Lovell, to stand and address us—surely others expected this as well—but he never did. He sat quietly in the front row, head bowed, occasionally nodding in agreement with someone else’s warm words, but offering none of his own.

  I also found it somewhat strange, somewhat sad, that Geoff was there alone. Was there no extended family? Was Geoff’s girlfriend, Spark, so sick that she couldn’t be there to support the father of her expected child? Maybe. Or maybe she had never even met David. Or maybe Geoff had discouraged her from attending, not because she needed to rest, but because he feared that her goth vogue would be inappropriate to such a setting. I didn’t have any of those answers. But I did find it conspicuous that Spark was missing.

  And scanning the crowd, I felt that someone else was missing. The people in the room all occupied various orbits that had spun around David’s life, orbits that sometimes intersected—the parish, the broader community of Dumont, the world of music, the gay demimonde—but I had the nagging impression that someone expected was not there.

  And it clicked. David had been a regular patron of First Avenue Bistro. If only for appearances, Nancy Sanderson should have been at the memorial. But she was missing.

  Joyce said, “Before the final blessing, I have a pleasant surprise for all of you, which I hope may help us end this gathering on a happier note. For reasons that are painfully obvious, no music had been planned for this service. But the children of the choir have asked me if they could sing for you a piece that David had be
en preparing with them. It wasn’t intended to be a cappella, but they’re willing to try. Children?”

  The crowd buzzed as Mother Hibbard stepped aside. The children’s choir, numbering a dozen or so, popped up from their chairs and moved forward to gather around David’s photo at the altar.

  Hailey Olson, one of the older, taller members of the group, took the pitch pipe from the table of offerings and sounded a single note. In the hushed space of the former gymnasium, with a backdrop of flickering candles, the choir began to sing.

  Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me …

  A sigh washed over us. Without direction, the kids struggled during the first lines to find their collective rhythm and harmony, but the beauty of their effort, combined with the simple sincerity of the words, had us choking up before the second verse.

  ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,

  And grace my fears relieved …

  David Lovell was truly present that afternoon, having left a living gift to the people of St. Alban’s. As the choir’s confidence grew, so did the power of their performance, verse after verse. And a little black kid in the front row, not yet eight years old, led the way.

  Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

  I have already come …

  Thomas and Gloria Simms beamed, swaying in their seats—we all were—as Tommy’s voice rang out above the others.

  ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

  And grace will lead me home.

  The humble song in that humble setting sounded more glorious than the Möller organ surrounded by Tiffany windows. Happy tears were flowing. Glee blubbered at my side. Then the choir parted, humming their lines to let Tommy take it home, front and center.

  Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

  And mortal life shall cease …

  We knew we were witnessing something unforgettable. People stood to shoot videos with their phones as Tommy nailed the last lines with soul and ecstatic grace.

  I shall possess, within the veil,

  A life of joy and peace!

  Pandemonium. Adding unrestrained bravos to the cheers of the crowd were Curtis Hibbard and Yevgeny Krymov, aficionados who would hear Renée Fleming perform in New York that weekend.

  Chapter 14

  Friday, the day after the funeral, was the last day that Mister Puss would be entrusted to our care. Mary Questman and Berta were returning from Chicago later that day and would reclaim custody of the little one that evening.

  When Marson and I arose that morning, we lingered longer than usual with coffee and the papers, a ritual that, in a few short days, had evolved into our “family time” with the cat. It now struck me as laughable that I had ever worried that Marson might become annoyed by our visitor’s presence. Three days is the oft-stated limit for house guests and fresh fish, so I had feared I was pressing my luck by foisting on Marson (who could be, shall we say, a tad finicky) a full week with a feisty Abyssinian.

  Now, though, as that week neared its end, I said to my husband, “You amaze me.”

  He lowered the newspaper. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You’re far more … adaptable than I would have thought.”

  His brow twitched. “You mean … upstairs?” The bed was upstairs.

  “Well, yeah”—although I recognized he could be a bit of a prig, there was nothing priggish about him upstairs—“but what I meant was, specifically, I’m amazed by how well you’ve adapted to having Mister Puss around the house.”

  At the mention of his name, the cat hopped up to the granite top of the kitchen island and gave me a nose bump, purring.

  Marson good-naturedly swooped Mister Puss off the counter—his adaptability had its limits—and set the cat in his lap. Petting him, he said, “I’ve enjoyed having him around. I’ll miss him. Elegant little fellow. Seems intelligent, too.”

  I assured my husband, “Highly intelligent.”

  Mister Puss gave me a look.

  Marson said, “Last day together—should we take him to the office?”

  “Sure.”

  We’d developed a routine for the days when we took Mister Puss to work. To spend an entire day there, he needed litter and food, so one of us would haul the supplies while the other transported the cat. Today, Mister Puss rode with Marson in the Range Rover. I arrived ahead of them, and when I watched them enter the office, I was delighted to note that both my husband and the cat had thoroughly gotten the hang of walking together with the leash and harness. I wondered if Mister Puss would later extend this cooperation to Mary Questman—but I still had visions of the cat lying on the floor while Mary tried to drag him.

  That morning’s arrangement would work well, with Marson busy at the office, looking after the cat. I needed to slip away at ten o’clock for a meeting with Nancy Sanderson at First Avenue Bistro, where Mister Puss would not be welcome.

  The premise for our meeting was to discuss some side items Marson and I would need for our “boys’ night” dinner at the loft on Saturday. But I also intended to explore Glee Savage’s theory that Nancy had felt animosity toward David Lovell because he was a living reminder of a long-ago incident with David’s father. While I was walking from the office to the Bistro, my mind reeled at the challenge: How does one make a nonchalant conversational segue from the topic of appetizers to the lingering psychological turmoil inflicted by sexual assault?

  When I entered the Bistro, the dining room was empty, as planned. The last of the breakfast patrons had left, and there would be a long lull till lunch. I could hear activity in the kitchen, as well as the scratch of chalk on a blackboard behind the counter, where Nancy stood writing a list of the day’s specials, which included clam chowder—no surprise, as it was Friday.

  She turned at the sound of the door opening. “Morning, Brody,” she said with a smile, setting down the chalk and clapping the dust from her fingertips. With a gesture that encompassed the roomful of empty tables, she added, “Take your pick.”

  I chose the corner table where Marson and I usually sat, between the fireplace and the windows to the street. Nancy brought over a notepad and sat with her back to the window; I sat with my back to the fireplace, with a view of the room and the street.

  She began scratching notes. “Now, the event’s tomorrow night, correct?”

  “Right.” Reviewing a few details I’d mentioned on the phone, I said, “It’s dinner for four at the loft, but much less elaborate than the party two weeks ago. We won’t need help with serving or cleanup, and Marson plans to prepare his standby tenderloin as well as the salad—he does a fabulous vinaigrette, by the way—so we’ll need some cocktail nibbles, a couple of side dishes for the main course, and dessert.”

  “Easy,” she said. “Should I deliver everything late afternoon, or were you planning to pick it up?”

  “Delivery would be great, maybe four o’clock?”

  “Perfect.” She then ran me through the possibilities for each item, which proved to be simple choices, since we’d done this many times before. When we got to dessert, she suggested, “Let me show you something you might like.” Rising, she led me over to the display case.

  I saw her macaroons and the French macarons, as well as trays of pastries and a variety of magazine-worthy cakes propped up regally on white porcelain stands. My gaze slid toward the cash register and the small display of tiny bottles containing gourmet specialty oils and extracts. Even from a distance, I recognized the bottle of almond extract.

  Nancy was saying, “I’ve been working with a new recipe for this honey-almond Bundt cake.” She tapped the glass of the display case. “I’m delighted with it, and I think it would be a nice finish for your beef course.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said.

  She smiled. “But this would serve ten or twelve. What I could do—and it should make a great presentation on the table—I could bake small, individual cakes for the four of you.” She ma
de a sphere with her fingers, about the size of a baseball. “Finish it with powdered sugar and shaved almonds. You could add a dollop of ice cream, maybe.”

  I laughed. “Well, that’s a no-brainer.”

  “Great,” she said. “Let me write this up.”

  We returned to our table near the window. Nancy reviewed the items with me as she checked her list. While gabbing about payment—she would simply bill us later, as usual—I noticed, through the window, across the street, Curtis Hibbard walking along with the same man I’d seen the prior Saturday while I was seated at that same table with Joyce Hibbard. Curtis and his companion were now walking in the same direction as before. I leaned in my chair to watch them disappear out of view.

  Nancy asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not. Did you happen to see Curtis Hibbard out there just now?”

  “No.” She turned in her chair, from which she could see farther down the street than I could. “Ah. Yes, I think that’s him. Stocky build, dark suit. Who’s he with?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “He and Joyce come in here often. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s been in a three-piece suit. Always dark, always pinstripes, always a vest. No one around here dresses like that.”

  I reminded her, “New York lawyer. Wonder if he sleeps like that—like he’s going to a funeral.” We both laughed.

  And that was my opening.

  “Only yesterday, I was thinking he’d missed his calling. He looked for all the world like an undertaker. Were you there—at David Lovell’s memorial?”

  “Uh, no. I had too much going on here.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Sorry you missed it. Incredible outpouring for David—seemed everyone flat-out loved the guy.”

  She said nothing.

  “And Tommy Simms—wow. Did you know that kid can sing?”

  “Uh, no,” she said with a tentative smile.