I needed answers and I needed them pronto. A little bird told me I smelled a rat, and when I smell a rat, there’s usually a red herring around. Also rats.
“Something’s fishy,” I said with a sniff. “You’re not pros. You boys smell like last week’s perch pie.”
“What?” said Biff, obviously hard of herring.
“Don’t shoot, mister,” the egg blubbered. “She paid us to come up here. She said you were a pushover.”
“Guess what?” I said.
“What?” said D’Roger and Biff in unison.
“I ain’t.”
• • •
“Did you happen to take any of those wandering musician church jobs, yet?” asked Meg. We were working in the kitchen of her house, whipping up some lunch. Actually, Meg and Ruby were working. I was sipping a Long Island Ice Tea and contemplating the two women with my number six ogle — the one that got me banned from Myrtle Beach. Meg looked a lot like Ruby, whose hair was still mostly black, although now, as she neared seventy, it was becoming streaked with silver. She was still a striking woman, tall and statuesque.
“Quit looking at me like that,” said Ruby. “You should be ashamed. I’m old enough to be your slightly older, very good-looking second cousin.”
“Which is legal in North Carolina,” I added, ducking a piece of celery aimed at my head by Meg. “And, to answer your question, my dear, yes, I did take one of my many offers, but only for the Sunday after Easter. The job was too good to turn down. The chance-of-a-lifetime, if you will.”
“Really. What, pray tell, is it?”
“You’ll laugh,” I said, taking another sip of my very refreshing drink.
“I promise I won’t laugh.”
“Okay then,” I said. “Remember when we did that Clown Eucharist last year?”
“How could I forget? Crown Him You Many Clowns…The Clown Imperial March…it was awful.”
“Yes, well…I got a call from Holy Comforter in Morganton. They heard about our Clown Eucharist.”
“You’re not doing another one?”
“Of course not. I told them a Clown Eucharist was a bad idea, and it didn’t work that well.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Then I might have mentioned another option for them to try,” I said, sheepishly.
Meg’s head dropped. “What did you suggest?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“A Pirate Eucharist.”
“WHAT?!”
“Really, Meg,” Ruby said. “You shouldn’t scream. Use your ‘indoor voice.’ What will the neighbors think?”
“They’re not going to do it, are they?” asked Meg. Then she comprehended the meaning of my maniacal grin. “You may not play for a Pirate Eucharist.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You misunderstood. I’m not only playing for it; I’m writing the Pirate Eucharist.”
“It sounds like fun,” said Ruby. “Can we come?”
“Arrrgh-solutely,” I said, dropping into me best piratese. “Yar, me proud beauty, I be honored to take ye wi’ me!”
“But you can’t!” said Meg.
“Listen,” I said. “Clowns scare little kids to death. Pirates are much more fun. If you can have a Clown Eucharist, why can’t you have a Pirate Eucharist?”
“No reason I can see,” said Ruby.
“Lots of reasons,” said Meg. “Lots.”
“The priest thought it was a great idea. They’re advertising it.”
“Oh, no…”
“Oh, yes!” I said.
• • •
Ruby and Meg finished up the sandwiches in short order.
“Well, if I’m going to a Pirate Eucharist,” said Meg, “then you may go with me to church on Palm Sunday. We’re singing The Palms by Fauré.”
I snorted. “You realize that this particular Fauré is not Gabriel Fauré,” I said. “It’s by his musically challenged half-nephew Jim-Bob Fauré. It’s an awful piece.”
“Well, I haven’t heard it yet since I skipped rehearsal last week, but I’m sure you’re exaggerating because you, as we all know, are a musical snob. It’s probably lovely.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed, eyeing my lunch.
“And speaking of awful writing,” Meg said in her most pitying voice as she handed me a roast beef sandwich, “your story is not going well, is it? The plot seems to be a little off course.”
“Not a bit of it. I’m right on target. Every word a gem. Every nuance a nugget of pure gold.”
“I’d like to read it,” said Ruby, sitting down next to me. “Do you have a copy?”
“Not with me, but I’ll make sure you get one as soon as I finish,” I promised.
• • •
I got the skinny from the boys and set out just after the sun went down. It was a dark night, as nights here in the city usually are, and, in fact, I couldn’t remember a sunny night since my twelve-hour layover at Juneau International in the middle of August. It was also stormy, but that was a given. I pulled the lapels of my trench up over my ears, tucked my head down and turtled down the street at a leisurely pace.
The decorators were a front for a scam--that much was clear. One hundred sixty-five large for fabric swatches? Who did they think they were dealing with--Martha Stewart’s prison consultant? After a little friendly persuasion, they’d given me a name. I didn’t hurt them. I just pinched them a little.
• • •
I walked into The Slab on Thursday morning, bright and early, early for me being eight-thirty. I had taken my time driving in, enjoying the scenery and listening to the Ninth Symphony of Vaughan Williams. It was the symphony about which Aaron Copland quipped, “It’s like watching a cow for forty minutes.” Aaron Copland was right, but it was beautiful music for driving through the mountains on a crisp morning in March.
“I thought you said we were meeting at eight sharp,” said Nancy as I walked in.
“It is eight,” I said, sitting down. “Isn’t it?”
“Close enough,” said Dave.
“You got here three minutes ago, Dave,” said Nancy.
“Well, I knew that the chief wasn’t going to be on time. He’s always here at eight-thirty. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
Collette filled his coffee cup and looked at him adoringly. “You’re really smart, Dave,” she said.
“Oh, puh-lease!” said Nancy to no one in particular. “I think I’m gonna…”
“Coffee for me, Collette,” I said, hastily interrupting Nancy’s outburst. “And some of those Belgian waffles.”
“Has anyone heard from Lucille Murdock since the meeting on Tuesday night?” asked Pete, pulling up a chair. Pete was always a de facto member of our staff meetings whenever we met at The Slab Café. He was, after all, the mayor, and since he was the owner, he also comped our breakfasts. It was a good deal all around.
“How did you hear about Mrs. Murdock?” I asked.
“Everyone’s heard about it. Are you kidding?” said Dave. “It’s big news. How do you think she’s going to spend the money?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Dave, but she’s certain to have a lot of help deciding.”
“I’m sure Agnes Day will have a few suggestions,” said Nancy.
“Why do you think that?” I asked. “Why would a substitute organist even care?”
“I heard that she was bucking for your old job, boss. If you didn’t decide to go back, that is.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too. So?”
“Well, if she’s the regular organist, she might want to finagle some of that cash into the music fund.”
“She might,” I agreed. “But what does that have to do with Mrs. Murdock?”
“Don’t you know?” asked Nancy. “Agnes Day is Mrs. Murdock’s home health care nurse.”
• • •
Meg and I entered the front doors of St. Barnabas on Palm Sunday at precisely 10:32. The service started at 10:30 or was supposed to. As usual, things were slightly behin
d schedule. Meg had decided to forego singing in the choir after the rehearsal on Wednesday night. I accused her of being a “fair-weather” singer and threw in a few “I told you sos” for good measure. I didn’t get to use them very often, so when I had the opportunity, I jumped on it like a Schnauzer on a schnitzel.
“Hush up,” Meg said, putting one lovely finger to my lips, “and I’ll make it worth your while.”
I hushed up.
I hadn’t been back to St. B.’s for almost five months, and I had mixed feelings as I walked into the nave. I missed playing the organ in church. I missed playing, period. Then I heard Agnes Day’s prelude. This was Meg’s plan, of course, and a ruse that I saw through immediately.
“It won’t work,” I said. “I’m not coming back.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Meg said. The sounds of what I thought might be All Glory Laud and Honor, the Palm Sunday processional, came crashing down from the organ loft.
“What on earth is that?” I whispered.
“Agnes Day is improvising,” said Meg. “It’s her musical gift to the congregation. Each Sunday in Lent, she’s been improvising on hymn tunes for that particular day.”
“My God! I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“It’s not over yet. Here,” she said, handing me a hymnal. “Bite down on this.”
• • •
We sang the Palm Sunday processional and watched as Benny Dawkins, the world-class thurifer, worked his magic with the incense pot. He really was world-class, having finished in the top five for three years running at the International Thurifer Invitational in London. Benny had told me that he had perfected a couple of new moves that he picked up at the competition — the Three-Leaf Clover and the Double Gerbil. He executed them flawlessly.
We joined in on the Kyrie and the Psalm and listened to the sermon. At the offertory, we were treated to a heartfelt, if not completely accurate, choral rendition of The Palms by Jean-Baptiste Fauré.
“I thought you said his name was ‘Jim Bob’ Fauré,” said Meg, as the offering plate went by.
“Jean-Baptiste translates to Jim Bob.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“It should.”
During communion, the musical offering was The Holy City, sung by Renee Tatton. I hazarded a glance back up to the choir loft. Ms. Tatton wasn’t wearing a robe, but instead had chosen a lavender, diaphanous gown covered in sequins. I thought that her arm waving was rather extreme for that particular piece, but Meg said that those bird watchers returning from communion would certainly appreciate it. Other than that, it was a pretty good performance.
“At least she chose to wear something purple,” I commented. “It is a penitential season, after all.”
• • •
The service concluded, and the congregation made their way out of the sanctuary and headed to the parish hall for coffee, cookies and the latest gossip — gossip which chiefly concerned one Lucille Murdock. Meg and I were almost the last to leave, hanging back to listen to Agnes Day’s postlude. Finally, we had to admit that enough was enough, and we followed the lemmings to the coffee pot. We had just finished our second cup — real Sunday morning coffee, not Father George’s anemic brew — and were getting ready to leave when Georgia pulled on my arm.
“You’d better come,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
Meg and I followed her through the kitchen, out the door into the alley and back into the sacristy. Elaine was waiting. She and Georgia were helping prepare the homebound communion.
“Come here,” said Elaine, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the nave. Meg and Georgia followed.
The organ was still playing. Agnes Day had been improvising on What A Friend We Have In Jesus as the postlude. I’d heard enough of it, before we left the first time, to know that it wasn’t going to be a virtuoso performance. Now, amid the din of the organ, I noticed the zimbelstern, a set of seven bells played by a rotating hammer and activated by a toe stud on the pedal board. The zimbelstern was great for effects — very pretty — and I used it liberally on Christmas Eve, but I hadn’t ever heard it used in What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Then again, I’d never heard an improvisation on that particular hymn tune.
“Listen to her,” said Georgia. “That’s just awful, even for her. She’s been playing the same thing for ten minutes.”
“Maybe she’s still improvising,” Meg said.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. C’mon.”
I was down the aisle and up the stairs to the choir loft in short order with the three women following me. I stopped in front of the big stained-glass window that framed the loft and looked at the organ. There, draped across the console, was Agnes Day. I took out my cell phone and called for an ambulance as Meg, Elaine and Georgia joined me in front of the window.
“Is she dead?” asked Meg. “She’s not moving.”
“I don’t know.” I stepped down to the console, followed closely by Meg. I pulled Agnes Day back from the console and looked at her face. Her eyes were open and unseeing. I let her slump back gently where I found her, then reached around and turned the organ off.
“She’s not breathing,” said Meg, “Shouldn’t we do CPR or something?”
I shook my head. “Look here,” I said, pointing to the right side of her head. “If we’d gotten here ten minutes earlier, maybe. Even then…” I left the sentence unfinished.
“Then who was playing the organ?” asked Georgia. “A ghost?”
I pointed to the MIDI recorder. “She was recording her improvisation. I suppose to play it back at some point — maybe listen to it.”
“What’s that thing?” asked Elaine.
“MIDI is short for Musical Instrument Digital Interface. Basically, in this application, it records all of the aspects of a pipe organ’s performance.”
“So it will play it back exactly as it was recorded? All the stops and wrong notes and everything?” asked Georgia.
“Everything.”
“When did that get installed?”
“A couple of years ago,” I said. “I bought it and had it put in so I could hear how the organ sounded out in the church. Just to check myself. A practice tool, mostly.”
“But you could record a postlude or something, and we could play it back later?”
“Sure. I did it a couple of times.” I turned to Meg. “Remember when I got that call half-way through communion? You just put the disk in for the hymn and the postlude, punched the ‘play’ button and the service never missed a beat.”
“You recorded the music for every service in advance?” Elaine asked.
“No,” I said. “Just an emergency hymn and an emergency postlude. Father George and I had a signal worked out. If I had to leave before the end of the service, we’d skip the middle hymn if we hadn’t already sung it, announce the last hymn as Be Thou My Vision and finish up. Communion would be silent, but that didn’t really bother anyone.”
“Hey, can we go downstairs?” said Georgia. “This is creeping me out. I mean, just look at her. Aren’t we being disrespectful?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m used to it. You can go on down if you want.” Georgia just shrugged.
“I still don’t get it,” said Elaine. “So what happened?”
“Agnes Day was recording her improvisation. When she got hit, her foot kicked the zimbelstern on and her hand fell on the playback button. Look here. The MIDI played back everything she’d recorded along with the notes that her body and left arm were playing as they rested on the keys.”
“So when it finished…” Elaine nodded, finally understanding.
“The recorder simply played it back over and over. Until we came up and turned it off.”
“How long do you think it took before she died?” asked Georgia, edging slowly toward the stairs.
“I can’t tell for sure. Like I said before, it could have been ten minutes, maybe more. Meg and I were in the parish hall for almost twenty.
”
We were all quiet for a moment.
“If only she hadn’t been such a bad organist,” said Elaine, sadly. “We might have saved her.”
• • •
Nancy arrived at the church a matter of minutes after I had called her. Dave was right behind her. The ambulance was on the way.
“You ladies stay up here for a little while,” I said. “Dave, you go wait for the ambulance and send them up here with a gurney. Hopefully, most of the congregation has gone home, and we won’t have to explain any of this until tomorrow. Is Father George still here?”
“He didn’t even stay for coffee,” Georgia said. “He had a couple of hospital visits to make, and he wanted to see the ball game this afternoon.”
“Fine. We’ll tell him later. Nancy? Let’s you and I have a look around before the EMTs get here.”
• • •
I explained the series of events to Nancy as we quickly searched the choir loft. It didn’t take long to find the murder weapon — a C3 handbell that I remembered being used to give a pitch for the Psalm. It was heavy — about four pounds — and had noticeable blood on the finish. The killer hadn’t even tried to clean it off, just set it back on the shelf by the organ.
The organ console was clean, nothing out of the ordinary at all. I took off the pedal board, and we looked under the organ. It was clean as well.
I called Elaine and Georgia over. “Did either of you hear a handbell clang during Agnes Day’s recessional? Maybe a dull thud, following by a ringing sound?”
“Who could tell?” said Georgia. “All I heard was just a bunch of wrong notes.”
“I might have heard it,” said Elaine. “No,” she decided. “I guess not. Not that I remember anyway.”
“Any idea who might have wanted to kill her?” asked Nancy.
“Anyone who heard her play,” answered Georgia.
The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 6
