The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  Stumpy was now Double-Stumpy and didn't look like he'd last till the ambulance arrived. Toby Taps wouldn't be dancing again. He had tripped his last Fandango and gone to that big ballroom in the sky where, if there was any justice, he'd be forced to tap in the chorus of Riverdance for all eternity.

  The only one left, and she wasn't in good shape, was Starr Espresso. She was draped over the bar like a bad prom date.

  "Why'd you do it, Starr? Why did you kill your own sister?"

  "How'd you know?"

  "You were the only character I had left," I said sadly. "You had to be Jimmy Leggs. That, plus the fact that you and Toby Taps were the famous dancing duo of Leggs and Tapperton, winners of last year's International Ballroom Dancing Competition held in Fargo. I saw the finals on PBS. I recognized you both right away."

  "I had to kill her. She was queering the deal. We were making a fortune, but she was getting cold feet. She thought this last hymn would give us away."

  "I thought you guys were rich. What about the coffee fortune?"

  "It's not all jumping beans and Cremora, you know." She coughed and closed her eyes.

  "Wait a second!" I said. "What was the hymn? The hymn she wouldn't put in the hymnal?"

  "It was ...(cough)... 'Whispering Hope.'"

  "Whispering Hope?" Meg said. "Mom loves Whispering Hope."

  "No accounting for taste," I said. "I just tell the story."

  "So everyone's dead but Marilyn?"

  "Yep. I like to wrap everything up neatly. No characters left over to muck up the next story."

  "Oh, no. You mean there's going to be another one?" groaned Meg.

  "Maybe. I'm not saying."

  * * *

  We had a warrant in our hands early the next morning. We called Rob Brannon, but he wasn't home. When we called his office, his answering machine indicated he would be back in town on Thursday. Nancy and I took our warrant and headed over to his house. As we made our way down the sidewalk, we ran into D'Artagnan and Moosey, both of them heading toward the Slab Café.

  "What's up, guys?" I asked. "You seem to be in a hurry."

  "Guess what we found?" said Moosey, his excitement evident.

  "You didn't!" exclaimed Nancy. "For real?"

  "Yep. We've got the Blessed Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll," said D'Artagnan, with noticeable pride.

  "Hey," I said to Moosey. "Why aren't you in school?"

  "Fall break this week," said Moosey with a grin. "You wanna see it?" He held up a brown paper bag. "D'Artagnan's letting me carry it."

  "Sure," I said. "Let's see it.

  Moosey unrolled the top of the grocery bag and rooted around with his hand for a few seconds. Then he pulled out the BVMCR and held it, flat in his hand, for us to inspect.

  "Where did you find it?" asked Nancy.

  "It was in Rob Brannon's office," said D'Artagnan. "Bottom drawer of his desk. In the back."

  "How did you get in there?"

  "D'Artagnan's real good at that," said Moosey. "He's got a set of picks and stuff."

  "Hush up, Moosey!" hissed D'Artagnan.

  "That's what you wanted the warrant for?" I asked.

  "Yeah."

  "How did you find out who had it?"

  "Traced one of the IPs from the eBay site. The e-mail was bogus and the IP address was a Holiday Inn in Charlotte, but the IP of the download of the JPEG was still on there. Everything leaves a footprint. I got a friend who has a friend that knows a guy. The JPEG was downloaded from a computer in Rob Brannon's office."

  "Excellent work D!" I said, clapping him on the back. "Rob probably won't even charge you with breaking and entering."

  "Huh?" He started chewing on his bottom lip. "Um…why not?"

  "I'm hoping he's going to have bigger problems shortly."

  "That'd be good," said D'Artagnan.

  "Hey, wait a minute," said Nancy, looking closely at the cinnamon roll. "What's wrong with this thing? There's a bite out of it."

  "We was pretty hungry," Moosey chagrined. "D'Artagnan just took a little bite."

  "It didn't taste good either," said D'Artagnan, making a face.

  "It's over a month old," said Nancy. "Of course it didn't taste good. What's this stuff?" Nancy pointed at a cloudy film covering most of the roll.

  "Moosey was licking the glazin' off," said D'Artagnan. "That didn't hurt it none. I mean, it's still the BV-watchamacalit.

  "Outstanding!" I said. "I'm sure Pete will be pleased. You guys better get it down there before any more of it disappears."

  "Yessir!" said Moosey, stuffing the roll back in the bag.

  "Yessir!" said D'Artagnan.

  * * *

  We met the locksmith at Rob Brannon's house. He'd been waiting for us, but indicated that he hadn't been there long. He opened the lock in about a minute and we knocked on the door to see if Rob was actually home, but more importantly, to find out the status of the two Rottweilers that Rob owned—Lucifer and Gabriel. Hearing nothing, we went in the unlocked door and looked around. I asked the locksmith to wait in the kitchen in case we needed him again.

  "What are we looking for?" asked Nancy.

  "Most of the crimes are virtually untraceable. Even if we do find diesel fuel or a twelve-gauge, it wouldn't prove anything and we could only charge him with malicious mischief. We might even convict him of it and he'd probably have to pay a fine. The problem is that he'd still get the money from the bond."

  "Why?"

  "I called Matthew Aaron, the District Attorney in Boone, and he says that even if Rob misled the vestry, he was under no legal obligation to disclose all the information since he wasn't acting as their attorney. All he was required to do by law was to convey the opinion of the accountant, which, unfortunately, he did. He told the vestry that it was Randall Stamps' opinion that they should sell the stock certificates. And it was."

  "Which brings me back to my first question," said Nancy. "What are we looking for?"

  "We need to find something that points to the pit-bull. If Rob had that dog here, and we can prove it, we'd have him on a murder charge and the money would be forfeited. You can't keep ill-gotten money you acquired in the commission of a crime. The other crimes weren't directly related to getting the cash. The murder was. Rob had to shut Randall up because Randall had seen the letter about the bond."

  "So…?"

  "A food dish maybe. Some evidence the dog was here. That would do it. I'll take the basement."

  "I'll start up here."

  Rob Brannon had a small, two-bedroom, one-story, arts and crafts style bungalow with a basement built in the 1920s. It was perfect for a single guy who didn't need much room, and our search went quickly.

  "Nothing," I said, blinking dust out of my eyes as I came up the basement stairs.

  "There's some stuff on the porch," Nancy said. "But it probably belongs to his other two dogs. There are a couple of food bowls and some chew toys."

  "Any leashes?"

  "Nope. Just an old muzzle hanging on a hook by the door. He probably took the dogs with him."

  "I doubt it. Two big dogs like that don't travel easily. Look around for some mention of where he might have boarded them."

  I looked through the kitchen drawers while Nancy picked up Rob's Watauga County phone book.

  "Got it," she called a minute later. "Under 'kennels' in the yellow pages. He has one circled. Blue Vista Kennels on Highway 105 just outside of Boone."

  Nancy dialed her phone and handed it to me.

  "This is Detective Konig in St. Germaine," I said to the female voice. "Can you tell me if you're boarding two Rottweilers for Robert Brannon?"

  "Yes we are," came the answer. "Mr. Brannon brought them in on Tuesday morning."

  "Did they happen to have their own leashes with them?"

  "Oh yes," she said, "they were both on leashes. Muzzles, too. We don't mess around with these two."

  I smiled. "Thanks for your help."

  I turned to Nancy, still grinning. "The muzz
le."

  Chapter 25

  "Hi, Gwen," I said, as Nancy and I walked into the veterinary office.

  "Hello, Hayden," she answered coldly. "Nancy."

  I didn't take the time to explain why I wasn't deserving of her scorn, but cut right to the chase.

  "I need that pit-bull, Gwen."

  "Sorry. I sent it off to the lab in Greensboro. They do all our work. The dog didn't have rabies, though. I got the report this morning."

  "Good to know," I said, "but we're after something else. Will they be sending the dog back?"

  "No. After the animal is tested, it's destroyed."

  "Destroyed?" asked Nancy in horror.

  "Burnt."

  "Have they disposed of it yet?"

  "Probably," Gwen said. "I can call if you want."

  "If you would."

  "Just a moment." Gwen disappeared into her office. Nancy and I waited impatiently and when she came out, we could tell it was bad news.

  "They destroyed it last night."

  "Oh, man," said Nancy. "That's bad."

  "I still have the collar. I took it off before I sent the dog to Greensboro."

  "Gwen," I said, "Your beauty is only exceeded by your genius! Where is it?"

  "It's in the back. I'll get it."

  "Let me go with you," said Nancy, following her through the swinging door. "So we don't lose any evidence."

  * * *

  Nancy had bagged the pit-bull's collar. I had the muzzle from Rob Brannon's house. When we got back to the station, Nancy checked them both for fingerprints. There was a good one on the muzzle, right on the strap that hooked over the dog's ears. There was a print on the collar, as well, but it wasn't Rob's. It was probably Gwen's.

  "First things first," I said to Nancy. "Can we connect the muzzle to Rob?"

  "That's not a problem. It was found in his house and the print is his. All attorneys are fingerprinted and it came back as a match in about three minutes."

  "Then the problem," I said, "is connecting the same muzzle to the pit bull that killed Randall."

  "What about DNA?" asked Nancy.

  "Hmmm. Doggie DNA?"

  "Why not? Isn't the process the same as identifying human DNA?"

  "I don't know. Let's find out."

  It only took three phone calls and a transfer to find out that Nancy was right and five minutes later I was walking out of the office, on my way to Durham where a friend of mine worked in one of the many laboratories at Duke University. He indicated that a DNA comparison could be done in about an hour and if I could get there by three o'clock, he'd see if he could push it through before the end of the day. I didn't know if there was enough DNA on the items to make a match, but I was willing to give it a try.

  "You want me to come with you?" Nancy asked.

  "Nah. I'll do it. I'll call you as soon as I know something."

  "You'd better."

  * * *

  Gary Thorndike came out of the lab, wearing the signature white coat of a lab techie and holding a clipboard in his hand.

  "I think we have good news. Or bad. Depending on what you want to hear. You didn't tell me what you wanted to find."

  "It's better that way if you have to testify, Doc," I said. "What's the verdict?"

  "Well, there were quite a few epithelials—skin cells—on the collar. I don't know for sure, but I would say that the dog was not in good health. The collar rubbed away some of the skin as well as the hair and there was some blood on it as well. The bottom line is, we got a good DNA sample from the collar."

  "And the muzzle?"

  "That was more difficult. We checked the leather, but couldn't get any clean samples. We finally did get one off the metal. A pit-bull, like most dogs bred for fighting, produces an abundance of saliva. We got a good specimen."

  I waited expectantly.

  "And the muzzle definitely was on the dog that killed Randall Stamps."

  * * *

  I called Nancy on the way home and gave her the news.

  "Excellent!" said Nancy. "Should I pick him up?"

  "Why don't you go ahead and get a warrant for his arrest. He'll be back into town tomorrow. You can arrest him then. Tell you what," I said. "Wait until lunchtime. Tomorrow is Thursday. He'll be eating at the Ginger Cat."

  "Good plan, boss."

  "Wait till I get there, will you? I'm meeting Meg around noon."

  "Will do."

  * * *

  I walked into the Ginger Cat precisely at noon. Meg was, as usual, waiting for me and holding a table. I was gratified to see Rob Brannon standing in line, waiting for his order.

  "Hayden," he called to me as I came in the door. I gave him my biggest smile.

  "Afternoon, Rob."

  "No hard feelings?" he asked. "About the church, I mean."

  "I'll let you know. I haven't decided yet."

  "There was another matter I needed to talk to you about," Rob said.

  "Yes?"

  "My office was broken into. Probably yesterday or the night before."

  I shrugged, doing my best Andy Griffith impersonation. "It seems to be happening to everyone. We just can't seem to get a handle on these crimes. Was anything taken?"

  "I don't know yet. I haven't done a complete inventory." He raised his voice just enough for the rest of the lunch crowd to hear. "You know, maybe the town council should consider hiring a real detective. Maybe he could solve some of these crimes you can't seem to 'get a handle on.'" The crowd inside the Ginger Cat had quieted to hear the exchange.

  "Well, let me know," I said, cheerfully. "I'll be happy to fill out a police report for your insurance company."

  "Yeah. Seems like you're real good at that," said Rob with a smirk and a wink.

  I smiled at him, walked over to our table and sat down by Meg. She had already ordered, and my French Onion soup was steaming up at me from my paper placemat.

  "How can you let him…" she started, angrily. I held my finger up to my lips, my smile silencing her outrage, while at the same time, directing her gaze toward the door as Nancy came in with Dave.

  "Robert Brannon," announced Nancy loudly, pretending to look around the room.

  "Yes," said Rob.

  Nancy walked up to him, grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him up to the bar, holding his face down on the counter while she frisked him quickly with her free hand.

  "Ouch," cringed Meg. "That had to hurt."

  "Hope so," I said.

  "Rob Brannon," continued Nancy, still holding his face against the counter, "you're under arrest for the murder of Randall Stamps. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…"

  "I know my rights," said Rob, through clenched teeth. But Nancy was enjoying this. She put the cuffs on him and spun him around.

  "If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. If you give up these rights, anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?"

  All the other patrons had become deathly silent.

  "I said…" Nancy continued.

  "I understand. May we leave now?"

  "Sure, Rob. We're going over to Boone for arraignment. I don't think there will be any bail."

  "We'll see," he said, glaring at me.

  "Good soup," I replied, saluting him with a spoonful.

  Postlude

  "Have you talked to your ghost lately?" Meg asked.

  "He came by once after that time in my office. But I haven't seen him in about a month."

  It was the end of November. A cold, wet November that invited everyone to start hating winter even before it arrived. Things were almost back to normal in St. Germaine.

  Pete had declined to pay D'Artagnan the fifty dollars for finding the BVMCR. He said it had been irrevocably ruined, mainly because Moosey had taken yet another bite out of it, choosing not to believe D'Artagnan when he said that it tasted awful. Pete still had several hundred coffee mugs
, but he had given all of his Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll t-shirts and sweatshirts to the local shelter for a nice tax deduction. Pete tried in vain to create another "miracle", but it was not to be.

  Brother Hogmany McTavish found another chicken and began training it. According to his website, he was planning a revival in Myrtle Beach in February. I sent him an e-mail and his reply assured me that the chicken would be ready.

  Megan and I, after several lengthy discussions, had decided to table my proposal. Not that she thought I was unbalanced, or so she said, but because we were so good the way we were. To tell the truth, I was a little relieved.

  * * *

  I kicked back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk. I lit up a stogy.

  "Marilyn," I called. "Shiver your pins in here, will you?"

  Marilyn hopped in like the Easter Bunny of Golgotha, still recovering from the loss of two frostbitten toes courtesy of Mr. Fridgidaire.

  "Did I pick the hymns for next week yet?"

  "No sir," she said, as demurely as a piece of angel food cake at a Unitarian bake-sale.

  "How about 'Whispering Hope?'"

  "'Whispering Hope? ' Never heard of it."

  "Put it down anyway, Doll, and see if you can find a copy."

  * * *

  Rob Brannon, after the evidence was presented to him and his lawyer, had pled guilty to manslaughter, rather than go on trial for first-degree murder. It was his contention that the pit-bull was meant to be a practical joke—the last line of the hymn—but he was selling what no one was buying and he knew it. He was sentenced to fifteen years and would probably serve seven of those. It became clear to everyone in St. Germaine that he was also responsible (but never charged) for the other crimes that happened during those two weeks—the theft of the Immaculate Confection, Gwen's window, the dead sheep on Bev's lawn, Davis Boothe's car, the burnt cross, and the call to Father Tony—and I was offered apologies by all concerned.

  Nancy had already been scheduled to speak at the North Carolina Justice Academy, her alma mater, for the upcoming seminar on Cold Case Investigations. She was also hopeful about a spot on the program at the US Law Enforcement Conference in DC, but that wasn't until late May and she hadn't heard anything yet. One of her two articles had been accepted by the Journal of Economic Crime Management and would be published in June. She was very excited.