The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "Why are we pretty sure?"

  "Because," said Meg, "if you actually did see Raymond Chandler's ghost and talked with him, he would have begged you to stop defiling his typewriter."

  "He said I was pretty good."

  "Which simply proves my point. You had to be dreaming."

  "It seemed pretty real. He left the light on."

  "No kidding," said Pete pulling up a chair to the end of the booth. "He left the light on?" I hadn't known Pete was listening in. But I should realize by now that there are no secrets at the Slab.

  "Hmmm. What about the symphony then?" Meg was persistent.

  "It was OK. I liked the first movement."

  "But then you fell asleep?"

  "And burnt a hole in my sweater," I added in disgust. "I could have burned the house down. All thanks to minimalism."

  "Well, at least you listened to it."

  "Yep. Now I have to listen to Belshazzar's Feast. Or maybe Falstaff. Just to cleanse my palate."

  "Back to the ghost," said Pete. "What did he look like? Could you see through him? Did you feel a cold wind?"

  "Nope. It looked just like the pictures I've seen of him. He was smoking a pipe."

  "You saw a ghost?" asked Noylene, walking up behind Pete with the coffee pot. "I never saw a ghost, but I talked to one once. Through Madam Cleo. You know, that woman on TV. I talked to my old beautician. She told me to go back to my original hair color and to switch from red nail polish to 'passion pink'. It made all the difference."

  "He was just dreaming," said Meg through clenched teeth. "See what you've done," she hissed at me.

  "I was probably dreaming," I agreed.

  "He was dreaming," agreed Pete.

  "I don't know," said Noylene, doubtfully.

  * * *

  "Thanks for coming in, Hayden," said Father George, making a rare Saturday appearance at the church. "I need to talk to you about something."

  "No problem," I said, sitting down in the chair that the priest had offered. "I was coming in to practice a bit anyway." Father George took his seat behind his desk.

  "We're going to have a new position at St. Barnabas. A Parish Administrator."

  I shrugged. "I've heard of them. What would he do exactly?"

  "Well, mainly he…or she," he added thoughtfully, "would be in charge of all the business affairs of the church. Budgets, writing the checks, scheduling the sextons, hiring and firing non-salaried workers. That sort of thing."

  "Who does all that now?"

  "Well, the duties are spread around. I do some of it. Marilyn does some scheduling, but she really doesn't have time. Carol comes in and writes the checks once a month, but she doesn't keep track of budgets. I just think it's time to get it all consolidated."

  "Fine by me. You have anyone in mind yet?"

  "Not yet. We'll probably advertise for the position." Father George stood up indicating that he'd said what he had to say—a quality I admired about him. I nodded and got to my feet as well.

  "By the way, I read that article about you in the Charlotte paper."

  "I had nothing to do with that. I don't even know where that stuff came from."

  "Hmmm," said Father George with a small nod. Then he changed the subject. "Is there any word on the man found in the altar?"

  "He's at the morgue. There'll be an autopsy, but I probably won't hear anything until next week."

  "If they need money to bury him properly, I have some in my discretionary fund."

  "I appreciate that. I'll let the coroner know."

  * * *

  "Do you want to go over to the revival?" asked Meg. "Apparently, it's the best show in town."

  "I think I'll skip it. Thanks for asking though."

  "You know, he didn't have any music lined up, but then, after folks heard about last night, every service is booked with a choir. It was the chicken that did it."

  "I'll consider it. I would like to see that chicken in action."

  "Well, I think you should. Mamma wants to go so I'm going to take her next week, I think."

  "I have these two apple pies," I said. "We could rent a movie, have some dinner and finish with some dessert.

  "Then we could have some pie," Meg said with a smile.

  Chapter 9

  "What's the grift?" asked Toby, still out of breath from tapping up the stairs. His voice was wheezing like a broken accordion in a Lutheran nursing home dance band. His tapshoes were beginning a rhythm on the linoleum.

  "I've got a dead girl. I need to know who iced her."

  "How would I know?" said Toby Taps, getting his wind and moving into a step-ball-change-flap-ball-change beside the desk.

  "You know everything, Toby. If there is a murder in this neighborhood, you know who did it."

  "What's in it for me?" Toby executed a very nice paddle and roll.

  "I'll teach you another aria."

  I had his attention now. Another thing about Toby Taps. He didn't want to be thought of as a one-trick pony. That was four things about Toby--he was stylish, he always wore taps, he had a good tenor voice, and the one-trick pony thing.

  "Yeah? Which one?"

  "Well, you've got a nice leggiero tenor with a good range. I've heard a high B, haven't I?"

  "High C."

  One more thing about Toby Taps. It didn't pay to disparage his range. That was five things then: style, tapshoes, good tenor, the pony thing and his high notes.

  "I must have been thinking about Cleamon 'Codfish' Downs," I said, backpedaling as fast as Lance Armstrong on rewind.

  "Yeah, Codfish had a high B. It's a shame someone dropped a piano on him." Toby implemented a single outward pirouette followed by a slap-riffle-scuff-scuff-repeat.

  "How about 'Deposuit' from the Bach Magnificat?"

  "I don't want nothin' in Latin."

  I had forgotten that little fact about Toby Taps. He didn't want anything to do with Catholics. He went to a parochial school when he was a kid, but was tossed out after an incident involving the Mother Superior, a lit cigarette, a live ferret, and a can of potted meat. That was six, I thought, still trying to keep track--fashionable, tapshoes, good tenor, the pony thing, high notes and a bad case of cathlo-phobia.

  "How about 'The Holy City? '"

  Toby stopped dead in the middle of a shim-sham-shimmy and put a hand to his chin in thought.

  "Yeah. I kinda like 'The Holy City. '"

  "What do you say?" I asked.

  "Let's dance," said Toby.

  That's one thing about Toby, I thought. Nah. Never mind.

  * * *

  "I hear you've been chatting up a ghost," said Rob Brannon on Sunday morning. As a substitute usher, he'd come up to the choir loft to leave the bulletins for the choir. I was putting the hymn descants along with the first chapters of The Tenor Wore Tapshoes in the back of the choir's music folders.

  "Well," I said sheepishly, "I was probably dreaming."

  "That's probably it. Any word on our dead body?" I noticed that Rob had taken ownership pretty quickly.

  "Maybe tomorrow."

  "I talked with Meg this morning during Sunday School. She seems pretty keen on me being on the vestry."

  "She mentioned it to me. I told her that I thought you'd be a good choice."

  "Well, I guess if they really need me, I'll be happy to serve."

  "That's great, Rob. Just great."

  * * *

  "I guess Rob told you the news," said Meg with what might have been just a hint of triumph in her voice.

  "Yes, I guess he did," I said sullenly. "What a schmuck. What a turncoat. What a weasel. What a …"

  "Oh, stop. You don't have to be so grumpy. Why don't you just admit that I have some charms that you may have been taking for granted?"

  "Yes, well, I admit it," I said sullenly. "But now we don't get to go to Seattle."

  "Oh, we're going to Seattle. I already have the tickets."

  I'm sure I looked confused.

  "But you have to go
somewhere for me," Meg added.

  This was ominous and I didn't like the sound of it one bit. "And where would that be?"

  "You have to go to the Iron Mike Men's Retreat."

  My worst fears were realized. The Iron Mike Men's Retreat was sponsored by the Council of Churches in Boone every year at about this time—cold enough for campfires but not too cold to stay in tents under the stars at the Baptist Conference Center. I had been making fun of it for years.

  "Absolutely not!" I said.

  "Well, I never figured you for a welsher. And I did get the tickets for Seattle."

  "Opera tickets, too?"

  "Fourth row orchestra."

  "Aww, sheesh. Not the Men's Retreat," I whined.

  "You need to get in touch with your inner-man."

  "Who says? My inner-man is just fine. He doesn't like to be touched."

  "It's only overnight. And a bet's a bet."

  * * *

  Monday morning, bright and early, Nancy, Dave and I decided to make the trek across the street and brave the throng of now ever-present pilgrims to the shrine of the Immaculate Confection. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it had been last week when Pete took out his ad, but there was still a line.

  Nancy had called ahead and reserved our table, so we snuck in the back door, through the kitchen, around the counter and sat down before the other patrons noticed their position had been usurped. It probably didn't matter that much, but we didn't want Pete's customers to be irked at our preferential treatment. Nancy, at least, was dressed in her uniform. That gave us a little credibility. Everyone knows that the police force always gets a table.

  "The bun is looking a little peaked," I remarked as Pete came over and sat down, completing our foursome.

  "I should have gotten it glazed."

  "I thought it was glazed," said Dave.

  "No. I mean shellacked. Covered in polyurethane. Sealed for all eternity."

  "But then we couldn't eat it," said Dave.

  Nancy rolled her eyes. "We're not going to eat it anyway, Dave. It's already a week old. If we wanted a cinnamon roll, we could just get a fresh one."

  Dave shrugged. "I would have eaten it, I guess."

  "No one's going to eat it. It's a national treasure," said Pete. "I'll go down to the hardware store and get some polyurethane this afternoon. It'll be as good as new tomorrow morning."

  "It looks like the Virgin Mary is getting wrinkles," I said.

  "Now she really looks like Jimmy Durante," Nancy chimed in. "Look at her nose."

  "Shhh," Pete said. "The other customers are looking at us. You guys want a t-shirt? Twenty percent off."

  "No, thanks," said Nancy.

  "No, thanks," I agreed.

  "I should get a free one," muttered Dave. "I discovered her."

  * * *

  Our breakfast came family style as per Pete's order—plates of pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, a basket of biscuits, a big bowl of grits, and a pitcher of gravy. We dug in as Noylene came around and refilled our coffee cups.

  "Any news on the body?" asked Pete, happily polishing off his scrambled eggs.

  "Nothing yet," I said. "Maybe Kent will have something today. You have anything, Nance?"

  "Matter of fact, I do."

  I didn't expect Nancy to have any information. Not this early. But Nancy frequently surprised me. I looked over at her in expectation. She finished the last bite of her pancakes, put down her fork, took a gulp of coffee and pulled out her notepad.

  "Lester Gifford—our victim—was born on June 12th, 1892, in Watauga County. He was married to Mavis O'Quinn on May 27th, 1924. He was thirty-two years old. She was twenty when they married. I checked the birth records in Watauga County for the years 1924 to 1937. No record of any children that I could find. The last known documentation of Mr. Gifford's presence is a mention of him in the newspaper on January 15th, 1937, in conjunction with a bank merger.

  "Mr. Gifford worked for the Watauga County Bank. He was an assistant manager. A loan officer and in charge of the tellers. In 1937, Watauga County Bank was taken over by Northwestern Bank. The merger article was the piece in which Mr. Gifford was mentioned."

  "Was there a missing persons report?" asked Dave.

  "No police records from that far back."

  "How about the wife? Do we know what happened to her?" I asked.

  "No clue. She may have left the area. She might have remarried. I didn't check the marriage records."

  "I don't think it matters," I said, "unless she killed him. Does either Lester or his wife have any connection to St. Barnabas?"

  "I asked Marilyn for the membership roles. They've got all the information on computer now. It's a lot easier than looking through a bunch of old birth records in the county courthouse."

  "And?"

  "No connection. But here's the strange thing. There was a fire at St. Barnabas in 1937."

  "Really? I didn't know anything about that."

  "February 8th. The fire began in the records room. According to a small blurb in the Watauga Democrat, although arson was suspected, the fire went out pretty quickly. Some stuff was destroyed. Mostly financial records from what I can gather. A few years of baptismal records. But most of the records were recovered and recopied. Marilyn didn't know anything about it either."

  "Well, it was almost seventy years ago. I doubt that there's anyone around that would remember. Especially if it wasn't a major fire."

  "It wasn't."

  "So," I said, "Lester Gifford is murdered sometime after January, 1937. There's a bank merger where he works, and a fire in the records room of St. Barnabas in February. Do you know when the merger took place?"

  "Of course. February 25th was the official date." Nancy looked extremely smug.

  "And?"

  "And there's no record of Lester Gifford ever being on the payroll of Northwestern Bank."

  "So he was either canned or he quit," Pete said.

  "Or was murdered," Dave added. "Maybe it's all coincidence."

  " Is that all?" I asked Nancy.

  "Nope."

  "There's more?" asked Pete.

  "I don't know how she finds all this stuff out in two days," said Dave.

  "Because, Dave, I work at it," said Nancy.

  "Yeah, well I have to answer the phones."

  "And get the donuts," I added, turning back to Nancy. "What's the rest?"

  "The president of Watauga County Bank at the time of the merger—a Mr. Harold Lynn—was the Senior Warden at St. Barnabas."

  "That's no coincidence," Dave said.

  "And a Sunday School teacher named Jacob Winston—also a bank teller at Watauga County Bank—was arrested, but never tried, for murder."

  * * *

  I was in the office later that morning when I answered the call from Kent Murphee.

  "Hayden. This is Kent."

  "What's the news?"

  "Well, two things."

  I waited.

  "First," Kent began, "the cause of death was as you expected. Your boy was killed by a blow to the back of the head. Easy to see once you and Nancy got him out of the altar. It was a pretty good shot—broke the skull causing hemorrhaging in the brain. An amazing autopsy, quite frankly. I videoed the whole thing."

  "Amazing in what way?"

  "The body was perfect. Except, of course, that he was dead and his head was smashed in. His tissue was in perfect condition—even the part of his brain where the trauma occurred. It was like Lester had just died yesterday."

  "So you were right about the incorruptible thing. What else?"

  "It's very strange. I did most of the autopsy on Friday afternoon, then put him back in the cooler. This morning, when I pulled him back out, there was severe rigor. The body had started decomposing at a normal rate. Starting—and I'm only guessing here from the rigor in the muscles—on Saturday evening."

  "So he's not an incorruptible?"

  "Well, not any more. I keep trying to think if it had anything to do wit
h the autopsy, but I don't think it did. Scientifically, anyway."

  "Scientifically?"

  "Well, the other explanation would be sort of…well…miraculous."

  "And that would be?"

  "That an Incorruptible only remains incorrupt as long as we believe in the miracle. As soon as I did the autopsy, the miracle came to an end and the body returned to its earthly condition. Right where it left off."

  "You believe that?"

  "Hell, Hayden. I'm a Catholic. I don't know what to believe."

  I laughed over the phone.

  "You know what I mean. Anyway, I'll do some more tests and let you know. So for now, he was definitely murdered. Blunt trauma to the back of the head. Nothing in the wound."

  "I don't know how far we'll go with this thing. There's no statute of limitations on murder, but unless he was killed by a young teenager, whoever did it is most probably already dead."

  "Maybe Nancy wants to work on it."

  "Yeah, maybe she does. If she solves it, she can at least get some regional recognition—maybe write up a paper and present it to a couple law-enforcement conferences. It's an interesting case." I nodded to myself as I thought about it. "It's a great idea, Kent. I'll see if she wants to give it a go. Thanks."

  "No problem. I'll keep you informed."

  Chapter 10

  "Who youse got?" asked Toby Taps.

  "I've got the dead girl, Candy Blather, alias Latte Espresso. She was killed on the dining room table."

  "Knife in the heart, head in the mashed potatoes?"

  "That's her. You know who did it?"

  "Maybe," said Toby. "Who else youse got?"

  "I've got her sister, Starrbuck. I've got the feds, too."

  "Alice Uberdeutchland?"

  "Yep."

  "Anyone else?" asked Toby T, tapping a tantalizing tarantella on the terrazzo.

  "I've got Piggy Wilson. Candy was into him for about fifty large."

  "Yeah, Piggy. Youse knows about the hymnal scam?"

  "I've heard. But you could fill in the gaps."

  "Piggy didn't do it," said Toby Taps. "It's not his style and besides, he still needed her to woik the fiddle."