"Rigor generally lasts about seventy-two hours," Nancy said. "Then the muscles relax. But look at the dust on this guy's suit."
I had already pulled a wallet from the inside coat pocket. The style of the suit was all wrong—the material was too heavy and the cut seemed clumsy and outdated. It was made of wool, but of a coarser quality than I had ever seen. Maybe this guy, I thought to myself, was from an Eastern block country. I rifled through the wallet and found a black and white photograph of a man and a woman who, I presumed from their affectionate pose, were married. Then, a moment later, I came up with a driver's license. There wasn't a picture on it because the license was dated 1936.
"According to this," I said to the group, now looking at me for answers to questions that I'd only begun to ask myself, "the deceased's name is Lester Gifford. He lived in Boone at 423 Councill Street. His birthday is June 12..."
I paused for effect—a habit I had that Nancy found continually irritating.
"June 12…1892. That would make Mr. Gifford 112 years old."
No one said anything.
Billy broke the silence. "He don't look that old."
"Maybe that's not his license," said Nancy in a quiet voice. "Is there a picture on it?"
"Not on the license. But look at this." I handed her the license and the photograph I'd taken from the billfold. On the back of the photo, obviously taken and printed by a professional, was the inscription in a fine cursive hand: "To my darling Lester on our anniversary" and dated "27 May, 1934."
"It's him all right," said Nancy, comparing the photo with the body stretched out on the carpet behind the altar. "But look at his condition." She sniffed the air and then, with a puzzled look, stuck her head inside the makeshift crypt and took a deep breath through her nose.
"Nothing," she said. "There's no smell. In fact…" She sniffed again. "Roses. The whole inside of the altar smells like roses."
"Maybe he was embalmed," offered Marilyn.
"Maybe, but that wouldn't explain this kind of preservation," I adjusted his glasses and touched my fingers to his cheek. "He's cold, but his flesh is soft. And look at his hair. It's perfect. Not dry at all. Go ahead," I said to Billy, who was now bending over the body. "Touch it."
"I ain't touchin' nothin'. This is just spooky. We've been usin' that altar for a hundred years. Now you're telling me that there's been a dead body inside of it since the 30's?"
"Anything else in the wallet?" asked Nancy.
I opened it back up and looked again. "A couple of dollar bills circa 1932 and 28. The 1928 is a silver certificate. A library card and a voter registration, both with Lester's name on them. And here's a business card. Watauga County Bank in Boone. No name on it though. And here's a dime."
"Is that silver certificate worth anything?" asked Billy.
"A couple of bucks. They're not that rare." I turned to Nancy. "Let's get an ambulance up here and get Lester down to the coroner as quick as we can. Preferably, before word of this gets out."
"Too late," said Nancy, looking toward the front door. "Here they come."
* * *
"How'd they find out so fast?" I asked.
"Billy's crew, I'll bet," said Nancy.
Billy was not amused. "Those stinkers stopped for coffee. I'm gonna kick their butts!"
"Didn't you lock the door?" I asked Marilyn.
She shrugged. "Sorry."
"Well, let's lock it now."
Rob Brannon and Pete Moss were already coming up the aisle with several more folks coming in the door. I gestured toward Nancy. "Let Pete and Rob in. Then go with Marilyn to lock the door and invite the rest of the onlookers to wait outside."
Nancy nodded and followed Marilyn out. Pete and Rob came around the altar and stared at the scene in front of them.
"We just heard the news," said Pete. "Billy's crew came in and they all started talking at once. Never seen them so excited. Everyone in the Slab will be coming over as soon as they finish their lunch."
"I swear..." mumbled Billy under his breath. "I told them to go right back to the cemetery."
"Well, I'll be," said Rob, bending over the body. "How long has he been dead? A couple of hours?"
"As near as we can figure, about seventy years."
"That can't be right."
"Let me see," said Pete, maneuvering his way past the scissor lift and closer to the body. "He looks like he's asleep."
"The ambulance is on the way," said Nancy as she walked back up the aisle and clicked her cell phone closed. They were in town anyway on a false alarm. Mrs. McCarty thought she was having another heart attack. Mike and Joe should be here in a couple of minutes."
"Look here," said Rob, reaching into the back of the altar.
I looked. Against the wooden panel, behind where Lester Gifford had been resting, was a brown accordion folder that was stuffed full of papers. It was almost the same color as the wood and, being covered with dust, was almost indistinguishable from the wood—especially in the darkened corner of the altar. At least, that was my story, and I was sticking to it. Still, I was more than a little embarrassed that this lawyer spotted the folder before I did. Me! A highly trained detective! Rob lifted the folder out.
"We haven't completed processing the crime scene yet," I grumbled. "Don't touch anything."
Rob grinned and handed me the file. "Sorry. Here you go."
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "I would have found it, you know."
Pete laughed. "Just open it up, will you. And maybe Rob can find a few other clues while you're going through it."
The elastic band had rotted and it snapped as soon as I tried to remove it. I opened the cardboard folder, pulled out a sheaf of papers and thumbed through them quickly.
"Looks like a few loan documents. Here's some correspondence." I flipped through a couple more. "Here's a letter of farm foreclosure signed by Lester to a Wilmer Griggs. He hadn't mailed it yet. It looks to me like a bunch of take-home office work. I guess things haven't changed much in seventy years. We'll go through it when we get back to the office."
"Maybe Wilmer Griggs killed him to save his farm," offered Billy.
I ignored him and pointed to the altar. "Anything else in there?" I asked Nancy.
After Rob had found the folder, Nancy, as chagrined as I, had flipped out her flashlight and begun scouring Lester's tomb for any other clues.
"Nothing, boss."
"Not even a last message scratched into the wood with his fingernails?" asked Rob.
Nancy almost started looking again before realizing that Rob was joking. Then she looked anyway.
"Anyone tell Father George?" I asked.
"He's not here," said Marilyn. "But I left him a voice mail."
"No last messages," said Nancy, finishing her inspection.
There was a banging at the front door.
"That'll be the ambulance guys," I said. "Go let them in and let's try to keep the commotion to a minimum."
Nancy and Marilyn headed back up the aisle for what seemed like the umpteenth time. We fitted the back panel onto the altar and waited in silence as we stared down at what was probably the strangest case I'd ever come across. It didn't take Mike and Joe long to load Mr. Gifford onto the gurney, cover him with a sheet and wheel him out the front door. I'd be seeing him again soon. He was headed into Boone and straight to Kent Murphee's office.
"If you'd like a legal eye to look at those papers, I'd be happy to help," said Rob. "Pro bono, of course."
"Sounds like a deal," said Pete who, as mayor, was always on the lookout for a budgetary bargain.
"That'd be fine," I said. "Why don't you stop by tomorrow and give the papers the once-over."
"I'll be there," said Rob. "Am I also invited to join you in one of those fancy 'free breakfasts' at the Slab I've been hearing about?"
"No," I said.
"Nope," said Nancy, shaking her head.
"Definitely not," said Pete.
Chapter 5
"So who did it? You
solve the case yet?" asked Kit, as curious as that cat that got itself killed for exactly the same reason that I told Kit to shut up for.
I looked out the window. It was a dark and stormy night--not so dark that I couldn't see the feminine form lurking in the shadows of the building across the street, the business end of her lit cigarette glowing in the haze like a lone Christmas bulb on some lurking Christmas thingy, nor stormy enough that a "Severe Weather Watch" had been issued by the National Weather Service, and to tell the truth, it was more like late afternoon rather than night because I think that Jerry Springer was still on, but a dark and stormy night nevertheless.
"I know two things," I said. "One. Candy Blather was in over her head and she got herself iced. The word on the street is that she was into Piggy Wilson for fifty thou."
"Fifty thou? That's a lot of bim--even for Piggy."
"It sure is," I said, lighting up a stogy.
"What's her dodge?"
"Hymn fixing," I said, puffing away like a three hundred pound woman with a beat-up ThighMaster and an upcoming high-school cheerleader's reunion. "There's a new hymnal coming out. The pressure is on from all sides. As the expert on pietic hymnody of the early 20th century, she was on the hot-seat to justify some of the committee's idiotic choices."
"So why was she killed?"
"Don't know yet."
"And who's that skulking across the street?" Kit asked.
"That's Alice. Alice Uberdeutchland. I'd recognize that silhouette anywhere."
"How 'bout if I get us some dinner?"
I flipped her a fin. She snatched it from the air like a walleye hitting a Crab Wiggler.
"Get out of here and get yourself some grub. I've got work to do," I said.
"What's the other thing you know?"
I smiled. "I know Alice."
* * *
"You know," said Megan, after I had filled her in on the happenings at the church, "it seems to me that ever since you got this typewriter, there are more bodies piling up in St. Germaine than in Cabot Cove."
"Cabot Cove?"
"You know. Murder, She Wrote. Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer. Cabot Cove, Maine—the murder capital of the world."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. Jessica solved over two hundred fifty murders in Cabot Cove."
"How many residents?"
"About a thousand I think."
"So St. Germaine doesn't seem so bad," I offered.
"Well, that was a TV show. Not real life."
"Ahhh. But here's the thing. That first body was a legit murder. We can count that one. But the clown's demise was an accident—not a homicide. The chorister was killed in England—not here. Jelly Barna didn't die—even though she was shot. And this guy would have been dead by now anyway. He's one hundred and twelve years old."
"Even so," said Meg. "You will admit that it's getting rather peculiar."
"Just coincidence."
"Has your ghost come back?"
"We've chatted a couple of times," I said.
"You should ask him then."
* * *
Choir rehearsal started on time for once. Or seemed to. All the new music had been passed out. The choir was punctual, in their seats and apparently ready to begin as I launched into the introduction of Behold the Tabernacle of God. All indications were for a productive rehearsal, and I played all the way to the choir entrance before things came apart.
"Hang on," said Rebecca Watts from the alto section. "You can't just start choir practice. What about the dead body?"
"What about the anthem?" I countered, now that the rehearsal had ground to a halt.
"Well," said Meg, happy to tell all she knew. "It seems that Billy was changing some light bulbs and discovered a body in the altar."
"He was changing a light bulb in the altar?" asked Marjorie.
"He was changing bulbs in the nave," I explained, now realizing that rehearsal was a lost cause, at least until everyone's curiosity was satisfied. "They were moving the altar—the back fell off and there he was. His name is…was…Lester Gifford. He's probably been in there since the 1930s. We don't know how he was killed although we suspect it was foul play—mainly because if it weren't, there wouldn't be any need to hide him in the altar. That's all we know at this point."
"Was he a member of St. Barnabas?" asked Rebecca.
"Not that we know of. He's not on any of the membership rolls."
"What about the miracle?" asked McKenna, another alto. I began to suspect that the alto section was trying to forestall the rehearsal of the Harris piece. The alto line had been giving them fits for the last two rehearsals. The soprano section, on the other hand, was sitting quietly and smiling demurely, having already mastered most of the notes in the upcoming anthem. Basses and tenors were, by all indications, asleep.
"I don't know about a miracle," I said, "but I will say that the body was remarkably preserved. Lester is down at the coroner's office. We'll get a report tomorrow. Now then…altos alone …measure fourteen. "
"Wait," said Rebecca, now close to panic as she watched me adjust my music and prepare to begin again. "What about your new literary masterpiece? When do we get to read about the tenor? And what is he wearing?"
"No," hissed Meg to Rebecca. "Don't ask him. It's not worth it. Not even to escape this anthem."
"You'll see soon enough," I sniffed. "Measure fourteen, altos. And sing it like you mean it."
* * *
I skipped breakfast the next morning. It was an easy decision. The line for a table at the Slab was, if possible, even longer than it was the day before. I could probably sneak in and get a seat, but I wasn't anxious to brave the crowd and the plethora of malicious stares that would be leveled in my direction if I tried it. I didn't even slow down as I looked in the window of the diner, but as I walked by, I did notice that the Immaculate Confection had moved to the center of the counter and was now displayed under a very fancy cake cover along with an "artist's representation" of how the Mother of Our Lord might look if she were to make a surprise appearance in a pastry. In fact, I was trying to dance my way through the queue outside the café while looking at the picture through the window when I ran smack into Skeeter Donalson. Skeeter was just coming out the door of the Slab and pulling a new sweatshirt over his overalls. His new purchase was a light coffee color and proclaimed in large black letters beneath a copy of the same picture I had been studying: "The Immaculate Confection, The Slab Café, St. Germaine, NC." The picture of the bun bore more resemblance to the Madonna than the actual artifact, but that was to be expected. It was artistic license.
"Careful, Hayden," said Skeeter, good-naturedly.
"Sorry, Skeeter" I said, "I didn't see you. That a new shirt?"
"Pretty nice, eh? It was only $29.95."
"Only?"
"Well, the t-shirts are $14.95, but I figured that with winter coming and all, I'd go ahead and get the sweatshirt. I got this coffee mug, too," Skeeter said, holding up a mug, roughly the same color as his new shirt. "It came with a certificate. And," he said with pride, "it's notarized."
"No kidding. Notarized?"
"By a bishop and an archbishop. You should get one while they're still available. There's a limited number, you know."
"I'd heard that," I said, fighting a smile.
"You going in to see the Holy Virgin?"
"Not today."
"Don't wait too long," said Skeeter, moving down the sidewalk and waving his notarized certificate in my direction. "There's a limited number. You take care now," he called. I waved back and headed across the street toward the police station.
* * *
Dave met me at the door of the police station, coming from the opposite direction and carrying a box of donuts.
"No breakfasts for a while, I guess," said Dave, "so I went down to Dizzy Donuts and got us a dozen."
"You're a good man, Dave," I said, holding the door for him and following him into the station. "Your police work i
s getting better all the time."
"I should have eaten that stupid thing while I had the chance."
"I'm inclined to agree. But it may all work out for the best. We'll miss a few breakfasts, but Pete will make a whole bunch of money and he may share some with you."
Dave shrugged and put the donuts on the counter. "I guess."
"Is Nancy here?"
"She's patrolling."
I nodded, took two donuts, walked over to the sink and found my still unwashed coffee cup. I gave it a quick rinse, filled it with fresh coffee and went into my office to check my messages.
"Hayden," said the machine. "This is Kent. It's nine o'clock in the morning. You sure don't keep regular hours, do you? Give me a call."
I made a note and punched the erase button.
"Detective Konig," said the machine, working backwards through the list, "this is Rob Brannon. I can come over and look at those papers in the morning if you'd like. Give me a call. I'm free pretty much…well…whenever."
Erase.
"This message is for the Police Captain. This is the Reverend Hogmanay McTavish. Our first tent service is scheduled for tomorrow evening and I wonder if it would be possible to have a policeman on hand to help with parking and traffic control. Mayor Moss said to tell you it shouldn't be any trouble and that the Slab Café will be open after the revival for those who'd like to get a bite to eat. Thank you very much."
Erase and slump.
* * *
My first stop was at the tent now filling the vacant lot on Main Street. The blinking yellow arrow on the portable marquis pointed the way to the faithful and the lost alike, proclaiming in large, clip-on letters, "Rev. Hogmanay McTavish's Gospel Tent Revival."
The tent was empty. Empty of people anyway. I walked up the center aisle, past what looked like plenty of chairs, and up to the white plywood pulpit. In front of the pulpit was a table with a raised lip, the edging a good three inches higher than the top. The entire surface was covered with about an inch of sawdust, restrained by the rails, and in the center of the four by four foot table was perhaps the largest Bible I had ever seen. I opened the cover. It was the Biblical equivalent of the Humvee, a red-letter, annotated King James with a concordance, a sixteen-page family tree, forty-two color prints by the Renaissance masters and finished off with thick brown cordovan embossed-leather upholstery. In other words—loaded. It was at least eight inches thick and as large as a small coffee table. I'll bet it weighed close to forty pounds.
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 4
