ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  Joyce said, “Hypothetically, Marson—if given a clean sheet—what would you do with it?”

  And I knew that Joyce had followed her bishop’s advice regarding Mary: “Make her an offer she can’t refuse.” By soliciting Marson’s design input and then, no doubt, offering him the commission, Joyce would render Mary powerless to refuse funding the project. At the dinner party, Mary had said she might be persuaded to contribute if Marson approved of the project’s artistic merits. If he ended up designing it from scratch, all the better—Mary’s support would be nailed.

  Marson must not have understood the strategy that was being set in motion; if he had, I doubt he would have played along. When he answered Joyce’s “hypothetical” question about the clean sheet, he spoke with sincerity and vision and knowledge, waxing eloquent for several minutes about the nature of worship as mystical theater; the shared experience of any gathering place; the role of public architecture as living art in a community; the need to combine respect for aesthetic traditions of the past with an understanding of contemporary forms and an eye toward future functions. Without describing in any detail what the new St. Alban’s might look like, without trying to sell himself in the least, he left no doubt that he was the right person to lead the parish on its journey of discovery and design.

  When he finished, no one spoke. Then Mary reached over and patted his hand, telling him softly, “Bravo, Marson.”

  Joyce cleared her throat. “I’m sure I can speak for the vestry, Marson, as well as the entire parish. Would you do us the honor of accepting the commission to design the new St. Alban’s?”

  “Oh, Marson,” said Mary, bouncing in her chair. “You must.”

  Hook, line, and sinker. While I felt a measure of discomfort with Joyce’s motives, I couldn’t fault her technique.

  Marson said, “Well, first time for everything—I’m designing a church.”

  If my husband didn’t grasp what had just happened, and if Mary didn’t either, her cat seemed to get it. Mister Puss fidgeted in Mary’s lap, stood, and gave an odd little yowl, looking directly at Joyce, who stared back at the cat with scrunched features. If the priest could have gotten away with it, I think she would have stuck out her tongue.

  Mister Puss hopped to the floor and paced around Mary’s feet, tangling his leash.

  I offered, “Let me take him, Mary.”

  “Thank you, Brody. You’re so good with him.” She lifted the cat from the floor and passed him to Marson, who passed him to me.

  I settled the cat in my lap and twiddled his chin, which got him purring.

  “And now the unpleasantries,” said Joyce, pleasant as pie. “Costs and funding.”

  Mister Puss turned once or twice, then stood with his paws on the arm of my chair, leaning toward Bob Olson.

  “Sorry,” I said, tugging the cat down.

  Olson laughed. “No problem. I like cats.” He offered his fingers for Mister Puss to sniff. Then he rubbed the cat’s ears. Purring louder, Mister Puss climbed to the arm of the chair again and reached his paws to Olson’s shoulder.

  Joyce was saying to Marson, “Last time we met here, you came up with a rough estimate of what the total project might cost.”

  Mister Puss sniffed his way from Olson’s shoulder to his neck.

  “That was a wild guess,” said Marson, “not an estimate. There are many, many variables that will affect the final cost.”

  Mister Puss sneezed.

  “Okay,” I said, “that’s enough. Sorry, Bob.” Pulling the cat away, I lifted him to my opposite shoulder. Olson stifled a laugh, using the back of his hand to wipe the spray from his cheek.

  Joyce said to Marson, “For discussion purposes, though, you mentioned a very round number.”

  Marson ballparked the millions.

  Purring, Mister Puss reached his snout to my ear.

  He smells like a fruitcake.

  “Goodness,” said Mary, fingers to lips, reacting to the millions. “I had no idea.”

  Coming soon…

  I rubbed the scruff of the cat’s neck as he nuzzled my shoulder.

  Marson turned in his chair to face Mary. Taking her hands, he said, “It’s a lot of money. You shouldn’t feel pressured.”

  She wavered. “I suppose I could postpone a couple of other projects I was considering.” She didn’t sound happy with that option.

  Joyce said, “What a delightful thought, Mary. Your generosity is nothing short of breathtaking.”

  Marson said brightly, “I have another idea.”

  Joyce’s features pinched. “Yes?”

  “First of all,” said Marson, “responsibility for the new church rightfully falls to the entire parish. So consider a pledge drive, to get all the members ‘invested.’ For a project of this magnitude, though, you can’t squeeze blood from a turnip, so you’ll also need a lead donor—or two—to guarantee the shortfall. Mary seems willing. How about Curtis? They could go halves.”

  “Curtis?” said the rector, Curtis Hibbard’s wife.

  Marson reminded her, “He’s richer than God.”

  Mary was effervescent. “Oh, Marson. I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. I can easily manage half. If it would help get the ball rolling, I can commit to that—today.” Mary repeated, “Half.”

  Joyce was not effervescent. But she was practical enough to reply, “That would be splendid, Mary. As it happens, we’ve taken the liberty of drafting a pledge agreement.”

  Bob Olson rose from his chair and stepped behind the desk, next to Joyce. He opened the manila folder, explaining, “We drew this up with the expectation there’d be a parish-wide fundraising drive, and the wording reflects that Mary is committing to cover any shortfall, not to exceed an amount of ‘blank.’ What amount would you like me to fill in?”

  Marson stated a figure that was half of the ballparked millions.

  “Very good,” said Olson. When he finished the notation, he handed the document to Marson and the pen to Mary.

  While Marson read through the agreement, Mister Puss hopped up from my lap to the desktop, purring.

  “This looks fine,” said Marson, passing the paper to Mary. He said to Joyce, “And when you talk to Curt, tell him I said hi.”

  “Count on it,” said Joyce through a tight, wry smile.

  Mister Puss watched as Mary signed on the dotted line.

  Outside the rectory, the wind whistled.

  Chapter 19

  On that windy Tuesday, one day shy of two weeks since David Lovell’s murder, some half-dozen people with an interest in the investigation found their plans for that afternoon abruptly changed when Sheriff Thomas Simms called for a meeting in his office at one-thirty. There had been a breakthrough, he announced, but he needed more input before taking any action.

  As requested, I arrived ahead of the others. The deputy outside Simms’s office grinned as I approached. “I think you know your way by now,” she said, admitting me with a jerk of her head. I entered the sheriff’s empty office, crossed to the door on the rear wall, and stepped into the conference room, which had the lingering smell of fresh paint.

  Simms looked up from the stack of papers he was arranging at the head of the table. Behind him, the ghosted rectangle of the missing painting had disappeared from the wall, formerly a faded green, now sporting a coat of institutional beige—a slight improvement, much less somber, but uninspired. The medical examiner, Heather Vance, was already there, removing files from her briefcase and placing them on the table, adjacent to Simms. Off to the side, by the wall of bookcases, a police stenographer was setting up his stenotype machine and backup recorder.

  Simms and Heather moved over to greet me. Closing the door, Simms asked dryly, “Did you have time for lunch?”

  “Barely,” I said.

  “I didn’t,” said Heather.

  “Me neither,” said Simms. “But this was sorta sudden.”

  Eyeing the table, I asked, “Where would you like me to sit?”

  Wit
h a gracious sweep of his arm, Simms said, “Be my guest. Anywhere you want.”

  I stepped over to the table and set down my notebook, claiming the seat across from Heather’s; we would both sit adjacent to Simms.

  After a perfunctory rap at the door, the deputy admitted Bob Olson, senior warden of the St. Alban’s vestry, and his pretty wife, Angela. Then the deputy withdrew and closed the door.

  “Hey, Bob,” said Simms, shaking hands, “thanks for coming over on such short notice.”

  “Anything to help, Thomas,” said Olson, “but I hope you don’t mind—Angela and I were out having lunch when you called, and there wasn’t time for me to drive her home, other side of town. I didn’t want to be late, so here we are.”

  His wife quickly added, “I could wait outside, Sheriff, in case this is, you know, ‘confidential’ or anything. I don’t want to butt in.”

  “Nah,” said Simms, “plenty of room, Angela. Always a pleasure to see you. Sorry to mess up your afternoon, though.”

  As Heather Vance was introducing herself to the Olsons, the deputy rapped again, admitting Joyce Hibbard and Lillie Miller. The deputy then left, closing the door.

  “Well, now,” said Joyce, taking command, sounding jovial, “we meet again.” She, Lillie, Bob Olson, and I had concluded our morning meeting at the rectory only two hours earlier. Noting the presence of Mrs. Olson, as well as Simms, who was also a parishioner, Joyce said, “This seems to be quite the St. Alban’s crowd.”

  “And there’s a reason for that,” said Simms. “Shall we all sit down?”

  Joyce sat next to me, and Lillie filled in our side of the table, sitting next to Joyce. On the other side, Olson sat next to Heather Vance, and Olson’s wife sat on his far side. With the seven of us seated, there was still one empty chair—at the far end of the table, opposite Sheriff Simms.

  Simms began by pointing out that a transcript of the meeting was being made by the police stenographer. Simms proceeded to read everyone’s name into the record, and he then explained, “You’re here today because we’ve discovered some additional evidence relating to the death of David Lovell. Since David was St. Alban’s choirmaster, I’m sure all of you have an interest in figuring out what happened. This is personal; I feel the pain as well. David’s murder has been a terrible, frightening loss to the whole parish.”

  At the far end of the table, Angela Olson raised her hand.

  Simms said, “Yes, Angela? No need for formality. Please, jump right in.”

  “Sheriff, I just wanted to ask how little Tommy is doing. The kids in the choir have had such a shock.”

  With a soft smile, Simms said, “Thanks for asking. Day by day, Tommy’s doing better. And how about Hailey?”

  Mrs. Olson answered, “Better, yes, but I still catch her crying now and then.”

  Mr. Olson added, “Thanks for your concern, Thomas.”

  Joyce Hibbard said, “Yes, Thomas. We’re so grateful to count you as a member of the St. Alban’s family. And you’ve certainly caught our interest with your news of a breakthrough. What can you tell us about that?”

  “Let me back up a bit,” said Simms. “Because David worked for St. Alban’s and died in the church, on the job, so to speak—and given the truly weird set of circumstances surrounding his death, which has since been declared a homicide—in light of all that, from the beginning, we’ve suspected that David’s killer had some connection to St. Alban’s.”

  His words drew a collective gasp from around the table. Joyce asked, “You mean—one of our parishioners?”

  Simms waggled his hand. “Maybe. Maybe not. It seemed reasonable to assume that the killer was someone within the broader ‘orbit’ of St. Alban’s.”

  Bob Olson said, “Then the killer could’ve been just about anyone. St. Alban’s has connections all over Dumont. It’s part of the fabric of the town.”

  “Yes,” Simms agreed, “that’s the tricky part. But there were two other threads running through this, intriguing details that could’ve had a bearing on what happened to David. First, David’s death stemmed from an allergic reaction to nuts.”

  The others looked at each other and shrugged, as if to say: Sure, David had a nut allergy, everyone knew, so what?

  “And second,” said Simms, “David was openly gay.”

  Again the group shrug: Sure, David was gay, everyone knew, no problem, so what?

  Joyce said, “In the few months since I arrived in Dumont, I’ve found the community to be remarkably tolerant and enlightened. To be honest, when I accepted the assignment here, I didn’t know what to expect, but I was pleasantly surprised. And it goes without saying—the Episcopal Church has long been known as a welcoming denomination.”

  “True enough,” said Simms. “As a person of color, with a wife and child, I’m proud to be building a life here. But being straight, I felt there was an angle to David’s life—and maybe his death—where I didn’t have sufficient insight. Needing some assistance, I turned to a gay friend.”

  I waggled my fingers, explaining to the table, “That would be me.”

  Simms told them, “Brody’s been a tremendous help.”

  At the far end of the table, Lillie Miller had not made a peep since we sat down. She now said to me, “I wondered why you came to my house with Dr. Vance that morning.”

  Heather said, “I hope you didn’t find our visit intrusive, Lillie. We needed to get to the bottom of things.”

  Lillie assured us, “I enjoyed the company. And it was helpful to talk—there were many things that had never been said. Confession is good for the soul.”

  Joyce and the Olsons exchanged a surprised, curious glance.

  I said, “Over the last two weeks, I’ve heard more than a few confessions.” I was thinking not only of Lillie’s desperation to know the love of a perfect gentleman, David Lovell. I was also thinking of Nancy Sanderson’s hatred of David’s father; Heather Vance’s “special friendship” with a gay guy in college; Clem Carter’s need to find a lucrative construction job that would help him pay off a bad investment; Kayla Weber Schmidt’s admission that she had been lashing out at everyone, feeling frightened and guilty because of her son’s developmental issues; Tyler Schmidt’s understanding with Kayla that love and passion aren’t necessarily the same thing; and Curtis Hibbard’s stated contentment with an odd marriage that merely “works for us.”

  All of those confessions bared some measure of personal guilt—the graceless struggle with a shortcoming or with a difficult turn of fate—which can be cleansed, at least partially, by exposure to daylight. With the simple act of admission, such foibles can be atoned for and forgiven. Confession, as Lillie noted, is good for the soul.

  However, confessions that are good for the soul don’t arise from a rotted core where a dark kernel hides, festering with the motive to kill.

  I told everyone, “David Lovell didn’t die because of his nut allergy—not exactly. And David didn’t die because he was gay—not exactly. Both of those factors played a part in it. What killed him, though, was the motive.”

  Simms nodded. “That’s generally how it works.”

  “Now, really, Thomas,” said Joyce, “you’re both speaking in riddles. If you know, just tell us: What was the motive? And who killed David?”

  “We’re working on that,” said Simms. “But that’s for Brody to tell. He has a strong theory. In fact, he asked me to invite you here.”

  Joyce pivoted in her chair to face me directly. “You?” she asked with an air of annoyance. “Brody love, I genuinely enjoy your company, but don’t you think we’ve already seen enough of each other today? I realize you younger people are fond of ‘taking meetings,’ but frankly, I have a parish to run and a church to build. Must we play games?”

  Bob Olson added, “And I have a business to run, with clients to meet.”

  “Won’t be much longer,” I assured them while checking my watch. “You see, we’re not all here yet.”

  All heads turned to observe t
he empty chair at the far end of the table. Lillie, sitting adjacent to it, recoiled an inch or two, as if it might bite. Joyce Hibbard and Bob Olson, sitting across from each other, exchanged a look of exasperated boredom. Angela Olson, blond and buoyant, said, “Well, I find it all quite thrilling. Not the lazy afternoon I was expecting, not one bit.”

  I explained, “While we were meeting this morning about the new church, something clicked. I could be way off base, but we’ll know soon enough.”

  Joyce and Lillie compared notes, deciding that the only people at the rectory meeting who were not now in the conference room were Mary Questman, code officer Nia Butler, and my husband, Marson.

  Joyce said, “None of them could possibly be involved with this. Could they?”

  Bob Olson responded, “I hate to say it, but I have a hunch Clem Carter will be walking through that door.”

  They debated these possibilities, as well as other random theories—suggesting murderous intent on the part of everyone from the church custodian to a disgruntled groundskeeper who’d been sent packing nine years earlier with a booze problem. While they passed the minutes searching, in their minds, the closets and cellars and belfries of St. Alban’s, I waited.

  As two o’clock approached, gusts of wind raised bits of gravel and whorls of dust from the service drive beyond the big window looking out toward the brick wall of the jail. Pebbles and grit pecked at the glass.

  And then came the rap at the door.

  It opened. It closed.

  Into the conference room walked Geoff Lovell, brother of the deceased choirmaster. Seeing everyone quietly settled in, he said, “Gosh, am I late? I thought you said two.”

  Simms told him, “Right on time, Geoff. Have a seat.”

  As he approached the table, Geoff acknowledged Joyce Hibbard and me, whom he’d encountered several times already. Then, sitting, he noticed Olson. “Well, hi there, Bob. Didn’t realize you’d be here.” Geoff reached over the table to offer a handshake, adding, “Thanks for setting everything up. All set.”

  “Great,” Olson mumbled, “happy to help.”

  That was it. Geoff’s handshake had marked Bob as surely as the kiss of Judas. I asked, “You know each other?”