St. Barnabas was contacted by the Northwestern Bank and told that, according to their attorneys, the bond was original, actionable, had never been cashed, and all the papers that Rob Brannon had submitted were in order. Rob, being guilty of criminal fraud, having changed the letter sent to the vestry by Randall Stamps, not to mention the manslaughter plea, had no further claim to the money. St. Barnabas agreed to a settlement of $16,000,000. They would be receiving four annual installments beginning in May, but the bank was kind enough to advance them the ten thousand dollars they needed to replace the furnace and buy a new marble top for the altar. Billy Hixon, the new Senior Warden, said it was the least they could do.
* * *
"That's another case you solved without getting paid," said Marilyn.
"Yeah, but we got the bad guys. Plus I've got all these pictures I can sell to the daily rags." I lit another stogy. "How about a cup of java, Marilyn? And pour one for yourself."
* * *
"The church would really like for you to come back," Meg said, sipping her glass of wine and reclining on my leather sofa. "The congregation misses you, the choir misses you, and Mrs. Carmody isn't exactly Virgil Fox."
"Yeah, Father George has called a couple of times. I might go back in a couple of weeks. I'm thinking about doing an arrangement of the Corelli Christmas Concerto."
"Opus 6, Number 8?"
"Now how did you know that?"
"I had the Pastorale played at my wedding," said Meg. "What kind of an arrangement?"
"I'm thinking that I can write choral parts to go with the strings. I'm going to spell the title with K's. The Korelli Kristmas Kantata. Like it?"
"Good idea. Terrible title."
* * *
Marilyn limped back in like a three-legged Chernobyl walking catfish.
"Pretty good writing, eh?" I asked her.
"I've seen better." Marilyn was getting back to her old self. "Your syntax is lousy, your metaphors are mediocre, your illustrations are juvenile, your similes are mindless, your dialogue is trite and uninteresting and your plot creaks like a broken shutter in an October wind."
"I told you you'd use it," he said, chuckling, his overcoat pulled high and tight around his chin. "Your plot creaks like a broken shutter in an October wind. Great stuff." Then he pulled down the brim of his hat, puffed once on his pipe and disappeared in a swirl of odorless smoke.
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 21
