Silence.
"Nancy, I didn't do this."
"I know, boss. I was just thinking."
"I'll go out to Joe's."
"Don't worry about it. I took his statement and the family is staying with friends tonight."
"Do me a favor, will you? Call Joe before he leaves and ask him if he was ever in the military. Then give me a call back."
"Will do. I'll call you in a few."
I walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a much-needed beer and set it on the kitchen counter. Then I laid out a couple of mice for Archimedes and gave Baxter his nightly treat of dog biscuits that purported to freshen his breath, but unfortunately did little to squelch the terminal case of canine halitosis that cursed him—or me, since he didn't seem to mind it. Then I opened the last of my Malheur Black Chocolates, walked into the den, and fell into my chair. The phone rang ten seconds later.
"Hayden?"
"Yeah."
"Joe Perry was in the Marines for two years. He served in Desert Storm. How did you know? You have this figured out?"
"Part of it. I'll tell you tomorrow."
* * *
I called Meg as soon as I hung up with Nancy.
"How did the rest of the vestry meeting go?" I asked after I filled her in on the latest rash of crimes.
"Nothing much after you left. A few people voiced concern that you might have been serious when you resigned. I said that you'd probably get over it, but Father George said that it might be for the best. So, I think your resignation has, most likely, been accepted."
"Fine with me," I snapped. "I've had just about as much church politics as I can stand."
"Don't get angry with me. I'm on your side."
"I know. Sorry."
"You're forgiven. We're meeting on Tuesday afternoon at Rob's office to review the accountant's report on the stock certificates and decide whether or not to sell them. My inclination is that most of the vestry will vote to do so."
"That's just stupid! There's something very wrong about the whole deal."
"I agree."
"Anyway," I said, "the real reason I called was to ask you out on a date."
"A real date? With flowers and dinner and such?"
"Absolutely."
"Wonderful! When?"
"Tomorrow night?"
"You men are all alike. Calling a girl with one day's notice. I don't even have time to get a new dress."
"Hmmm. I guess…maybe…Friday then?"
"No, tomorrow's fine. There was a dress in the window at Merle's that I wanted anyway. I just didn't want you to take me for granted."
"Never."
* * *
I had never ordered flowers before, but it seemed a good time to start. I walked down to the florist behind the church.
"Hi, Sandy," I said, banging the door and ringing the little bell as I went in. "I need to order some flowers."
"You've never been in here before. What's the occasion?"
"Well, um..." I hemmed. "You know..."
"I know exactly! Now, what would you like?"
"Well," I said, looking around. "How about some daisies?" It was a flower I knew and I figured I'd be safe with it.
"We don't have any," she said, sweeping some cut flowers that looked awfully familiar off her counter and onto the floor out of sight. "You mean roses?"
"Um...what about those?" I asked pointing to some bright purple carnations.
"Those are for the high school homecoming dance. They're all sold. How about some roses?"
I spotted some large flowers in the glassed refrigerator. The sign said "zinnias." They were orange and, I thought, quite fetching. "What about some of those?"
"Unfortunately, they are infected with a rare botanical disease. I have to send them back. How about some roses, Hayden?" She glared at me.
"Roses, eh?"
"Yes. Red roses. Two dozen."
"What about pink? Or yellow?"
"Pink roses are given to represent admiration or sympathy. Yellow roses are for friendship. You'll want the red. Two dozen."
"Two dozen?"
"Yep," she said, writing the order on her pad.
"I'll need them..."
"Pick them up tomorrow," she said, still writing. "Four o'clock."
Chapter 22
On Monday morning, the door to the office opened and D'Artagnan strode in, his green Mohawk flopping as he walked.
"I need a search warrant," he announced.
"A search warrant?" asked Dave. "For what?"
"I know where the Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll is."
"Where?" asked Dave. I merely watched in amusement.
"I can't tell you. I just need a search warrant."
"First of all," explained Dave, "you have to have a name on the warrant. They're very specific. Second, you have to have probable cause for a search, and third, you can only get one from a judge and you can't do that unless you have the first two."
"So, I can get one from a judge?"
"Sure you can," I said. "I suggest Judge Jim Adams in Boone. There are none in St. Germaine. Please tell him I sent you."
"Thanks, I will," said D'Artagnan, exiting the office. Coming in, as he was leaving, was Georgia.
"Hayden," she said, "you need to come over to the Slab right away. Father Tony is there. Wes has been killed in a car accident!"
"Oh, no!" I said, following her out the door with Nancy on my heels. Father Tony Brown was the priest at St. Barnabas before he retired and Wesley was his son. "I didn't think about Tony."
We ran across the street and down to the Slab, banging the door open and spotting Tony, sitting with Pete at one of the back booths. He looked terrible—pale and unshaven and smoking a cigarette, a habit he had given up ten years ago.
"What happened?" I asked as I slid in across from Tony.
He looked at me with a puzzled look on his face. "Wes was killed in a car accident. There was a message on my answering machine at about three o'clock in the morning. It was from you."
"It certainly was not."
"It sounded like you. It had your number on the caller ID…"
"Did you call him?"
"No. There was no reason…"
"What's Wes' number?" I asked, holding my hand out for Nancy's cell phone. Tony pulled out his pocket calendar and read me the number. I dialed it as he called it out. Wes lived in Boulder. It was still early in Colorado.
The phone rang once. Then twice. On the third ring, a groggy voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Wes? Hayden Konig in St. Germaine. You doing okay? You sure? You're not dead or anything? Hang on. Your father wants to talk to you."
Father Tony had tears running down his cheeks as he took Nancy's phone.
"We need that answering machine," I said as I slid out of the booth. "And bring Nancy's phone back, will you?" Tony only nodded and Nancy and I left him to talk with Wes.
"What did you mean when you said 'I didn't think about Tony,'" Nancy asked as we walked back to the office.
"I thought it would be Father George. Not Tony. And frankly, I'm still mad at George, so I may have dragged my heels," I admitted.
"I don't understand," said Nancy.
"Come back to my office. I'll fill you in."
* * *
Nancy followed me into my sanctum, closed the door behind her and sat in the chair across from my desk.
"What's the story?" she asked.
"I think I'm being framed," I said. "This last thing with Tony tears it. I suspected that a priest would be next on the list. But I didn't think of Tony."
"Explain."
"The victims of all the crimes in the last week are following the text of a hymn."
"Which hymn?"
"An All Saint's Day hymn. I Sing A Song of the Saints of God. The hymn is by Lesbia Scott."
"Lesbia? Who would name their child Lesbia?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Scott, I guess. Seriously, though, it's a children's hymn that lists
different saints. The first stanza goes like this."
I sing a song of the saints of God,
Patient and brave and true,
Who toiled and fought, and lived and died
For the Lord they loved and knew.
And one was a doctor and one was a queen,
And one was a shepherdess on the green:
They were all of them saints of God and I mean
God helping, to be one too.
"Okay," said Nancy. "So…"
"The first victim was Gwen Jackson. A veterinarian."
"The doctor?"
"Yeah," I said. "Then Davis Boothe."
"The queen. Cute. And the sheep?"
"That's what tipped me off," I said. "Why a sheep?"
"Ahhh. Shepherdess on the green. Beverly Greene."
I nodded. "The next verse lists three more," I said. "One was a soldier, and one was a priest…"
"Joe Perry was a Marine."
"And then Father Tony," I said.
"Who's left?" asked Nancy.
"And one was killed by a fierce, wild beast," I added.
"That doesn't sound good."
"No. No it doesn't."
* * *
"I'm thinking," I said to Nancy after she had gotten us a couple of cups of coffee, "that the only way this will work as a frame-up, is if the hymn is recognized. We don't sing it at all in church. The kids learn it in Sunday School. It's not an easy connection to make, but once the words are out there, the pattern is easy to discern. And who better to blame it on?"
"True," said Nancy. "It's clever, church music related, devious, and untraceable. Plus, you're dangerously unbalanced. You're channeling the ghost of Raymond Chandler, you stole your best friend's cinnamon roll, ate the scripture chicken, screamed at the vestry, and now you're wreaking havoc on the parishioners of St. Barnabas."
"It sounds bad when you put it like that."
"Yeah."
"He has to make sure that people make the correlation. I doubt that anyone will figure it out on their own, so he'll have to start the rumor. I figure it'll hit the streets tomorrow," I said. "The story of the hymn, I mean. The only way he can get his plan to work is if people make the connection to the hymn. We've got, maybe, one day."
"He?"
"Yeah. You know," I said, "this all started…"
"With the body," finished Nancy.
* * *
We got the call at three o'clock in the afternoon. It was about Randall Stamps, the church's accountant. He was dead. The call came from his housekeeper. She had gone over to his house, used her key to unlock the door and was greeted by the growling pit-bull that chased her up onto the kitchen table where she managed to use her cell phone to call 911. When we got there, the dog was still snarling and snapping at Mrs. Kellerman, who was standing on the table, screaming and shaking like a leaf. Nancy drew her gun as I inched open the door. We could see Randall Stamps lying on his face in the hall.
"Mr. Stamps is dead," Mrs. Kellerman screamed. "You've got to help me."
"Shoot the dog," I said to Nancy without hesitation.
There was an explosion of sound and then silence. I swung the door open and went to help Mrs. Kellerman down off the table. Nancy made her way over to Randall Stamps.
"He's dead," she called. "And judging from the mess in here, that dog has been in here for a few days."
"Mr. Stamps just returned this morning," Mrs. Kellerman said. "He was spending the weekend with his lady friend in Boone. He called me yesterday on his way back there from a church meeting and asked me if I could come and clean up this afternoon."
"So, the dog could have been here since Friday night," I said, "and no one would have known."
"I suppose so. He left on Friday afternoon."
"Let's call the ambulance and let Kent know he's coming in," I said. "Then call Gwen and get a rabies kit run on this dog."
* * *
"How are you feeling this evening?" asked Megan when she opened her front door. She sounded genuinely concerned and wasn't just making small talk.
"I'm fine," I said, and handed her two dozen red roses. "Really."
"How sweet! Red roses. My favorite! Let me put them in water."
She reached beside the door and dropped the roses into a waiting vase.
"You knew I was bringing flowers?"
"Of course. Ready to go? Let me get my coat."
I helped her with her coat and offered my arm as we descended her front steps.
"It was a terrible thing about Mr. Stamps," Meg said. "Did Kent call you yet about the autopsy?"
"He did. The pit-bull killed him. Got him by the throat after he fell."
"How horrible."
"Yes, it was."
"Did you hear from Gwen?" Meg asked, as we made our way to her car. Our agreement was that we'd take her Lexus whenever we went out. My old Chevy truck was more than she could bear.
"She called as well. She didn't think the dog was rabid, but she sent it away for the test. She said it was malnourished and abused and probably used in dog fights, judging by the scars on its body."
"This is all so sad."
"It is, but let's talk about something else. At least for the evening."
"Okay. Have you really quit? I mean, you are going back, aren't you?"
"To the church? I don't think so."
"But you love it."
"I'll find something else. Maybe do some subbing for a while. My friend, Virginia, subs for organists in Asheville almost every Sunday. She really enjoys it."
"Hmmm. Well, maybe something will change. Do you have any clues about the crime spree?"
"I do, but I can't share them yet. Nancy and I are working on it."
"That's good. But solve it quickly, will you. I don't like being the significant other of a pariah."
* * *
We drove down to the Hunter's Club outside of Blowing Rock and had a lovely supper—quail as the entrée, a nice Chilean chardonnay wine suggested by our waiter, dessert followed by coffee and as we were finishing our aperitifs, I lowered my voice and cleared my throat.
"Meg, there's something I want to ask you."
"Yes?"
"Um…" I cleared my throat again. "Would you like to get married?"
"You mean, to you?"
I smiled nervously. "That would be the idea."
"Well, I wondered if you were going to get around to asking me before dinner was over."
"You knew?"
"Of course I knew. Why do you think I bought a new dress?"
"You knew yesterday?"
"Uh huh."
"Does Sandy the florist know?"
Meg smiled and nodded.
"All our friends know?"
"Yep."
"Your mother?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well…" I paused. "What's your answer?"
"I'll have to think about it," she said sweetly, lifting her glass to her lips. "But, thank you for asking."
Chapter 23
The door of the pub banged open and Alice Uberdeutchland strode in like a storm-trooper in a light drizzle.
"Freeze, you moogs!" Alice yelled, dropping into her shooting stance and brandishing a heater the size of a loaf of bread--not white bread, sliced and packaged in a see-through plastic bag and tasting vaguely like paste; but rather, one of those loaves of dark rye, or maybe pumpernickel, oblong in shape and slightly smaller, although infinitely heavier than the white, complete with caraway seeds that provided a delightful texture as well as a mélange of flavors when your teeth happened to crunch down on one by accident, or maybe on purpose, and surprised you (in the good kind of way) by their unexpected presence--and that brought me back to Alice.
"YOU freeze!" oinked Piggy Wilson, his porcine head suddenly appearing from behind a newspaper at the table by the kitchen, his hoof clutching a snub-nosed .38; small and compact, which is more than I could say for Piggy.
"You ALL freeze!" barked Kit, suddenly popping up from behind the
bar like a perfectly toasted English muffin and sweeping her sawed-off shotgun across the counter like a butter knife ready to spread raspberry death across the open-faced sandwich that was the Possum 'n Peasel.
"Freeze!" commanded Kelly, leaping out of the walk-in freezer, a revolver in his shivering hand and Marilyn in tow; she, at least, obeying his command, seeing as her lips were now a bluish color and she couldn't blink.
"Everybody freeze!" shouted Stumpy, turning down the thermostat to thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit because thirty-two degrees Celsius would really have felt more like early summer in the Catskills.
"Is that everyone?" I asked, lighting a stogy and giving it a puff.
* * *
"So, you finally have everyone in the same room," said Meg. "I sense a conclusion to the festivities. And I'm interested to learn the name of the hymn that was so bad that even Candy Blather wouldn't include it."
"The world waits in expectation of the news. The worst hymn ever written."
"Will we know soon?" asked Meg.
"One more chapter," I said.
* * *
Meg called me at the office after the vestry meeting.
"Have you found your cell phone?"
"Nope," I said.
"Hmmm. Anyway, we met over at Rob's office. Nine of us plus Rob and George."
"That's a quorum, I guess."
"Yes it is. Rob had a report from Randall that he said had been mailed to him on Monday morning before the…um…accident."
"No accident," I muttered. "What did the report say?"
"Pretty much what Randall had told us at the vestry meeting. That the stock certificates were probably worth $500 apiece to a collector—maybe more to The Sons of Richmond since they were based in Richmond and might have some ties to the old bank they were drawn on. Seven of the vestry signed the agreement plus Rob and George. Mark Wells and I wouldn't do it."
"Good for you. Did you happen to get a copy of the agreement? And a copy of Randall's report?"
"I insisted on it. They're right here."
"Could you bring them over?"
"Sure. In about an hour?"
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 18
