Silver Spire (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 6)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “How was your presence explained to others at the church?”

  Fred frowned and slurped coffee, easing the cup back onto its saucer. “The church had some break-ins recently—nothing big, mostly just broken windows and petty vandalism. There’s a night watchman, but he’s older than Methuselah, and I don’t think he hears very well. Anyhow, they did call the cops in on this, but they weren’t much help, so the break-ins were a convenient reason to bring me in. And that gave me the excuse to ask all kinds of questions about anything relating to security—including how the dough’s handled after the offering gets taken.”

  I’ve been around long enough to know when my boss loses interest, although others usually can’t tell. I read the signs while Fred was talking, so I was hardly surprised when Wolfe held up a hand. “Would either of you care to stay for lunch? We’re having shad with sorrel sauce.”

  “That’s an offer it pains me to turn down, especially with the memories I have of past meals here,” Parker responded with a sad smile. “But I must be in court at two. In fact, I should be going now.”

  “And I need to get home to Fanny,” Fred said hoarsely. “When I called her after Mr. Parker got me out, she sounded worried sick.” The truth in Fred’s case is that he knows he’s not overly welcome at Wolfe’s table, and hasn’t been since the day he asked for vinegar, which he proceeded to stir into a brown roux for a squab.

  “Very well,” Wolfe said, not sounding the least bit disappointed. “Fred, if you are able to spare the time this afternoon and can return, Archie has a number of questions.” That was news to me—but good news, because it meant Wolfe was jumping in, fee or no fee. Not that I ever doubted he would.

  *A Family Affair, by Rex Stout.

  FIVE

  AFTER LUNCH I HOOFED IT to our neighborhood branch of the Metropolitan Trust Company, where I had a certified check cut, made out to Parker for fifty grand. Back in the brownstone, I called Lightning Bolt Messenger Service, and within fifteen minutes, one of their kamikaze bicyclists—dressed in yellow spandex tights, black silky shorts and yellow jersey top, and black-and-yellow crash helmet—swung by and picked up the envelope containing the check, mumbling a vow that it would be on Parker’s desk within the half-hour. I laid a healthy tip on the lad, then watched from the stoop as he pedaled the wrong way down Thirty-fifth Street, swerving to avoid a collision with a Yellow Cab, whose driver shook his fist out the window and yelled something I could not make out. It probably wasn’t “Have a nice day.”

  I had time to get a batch of orchid-germination records entered into the PC before Fred came back to the brownstone at four-fifteen. The timing ensured he wouldn’t run into Wolfe, who already was well into his playtime in the plant rooms. Fred looked almost as frazzled as he had earlier. “What does he think, Archie?” the accused asked as he dropped into one of the yellow chairs.

  “He thinks—no, make that he knows—that you’re as innocent as a newborn Lhasa apso,” I said, swiveling in my desk chair to face him. “In fact, he’s so sure of it that he’s willing to commit my time to getting you cleared.”

  “What do you think, Archie?” Fred asked plaintively, avoiding eye contact.

  “Oh, come on, for God’s sake, remember who you’re talking to. How long have we known each other? But if it makes you happy, I haven’t forgotten how to ask direct questions: Did you plug Meade?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s move right along. First off, any nominations you want to make?”

  He turned fleshy hands palms up and shrugged weakly. “No, but I gotta say that, for church people, a few of them didn’t seem all that nice, especially Meade.”

  “Aha. Then let’s talk about the late Mr. Meade—and the others. Start at the start.”

  That drew another shrug, no more lively than the first; Fred sighed and launched into it.

  “Well, as I said this morning, I went to see Morgan a week ago last Saturday, the day after you gave him my name. We met in his office in the church, and he showed me the notes, the ones you’d already seen and sent back. Anyway, I told him the thing sounded tough, but that I’d give it a go. The pay was fine, I can’t kick about that. Then Morgan took me in to meet Reverend Bay—it seems like a lot of the Silver Spire people work Saturdays—and that’s when I learned that I couldn’t be open about why I was there, except to that Circle of Faith bunch. With everybody else I talked to, I had to act like I was looking into the vandalism stuff.”

  For the next hour, Fred Durkin recounted his experiences at the tabernacle. I could feed you the whole thing verbatim, which is what Wolfe got later from me, but I won’t, because most of it was unimportant. Here, though, are edited versions of Fred’s comments about the big players at the big church:

  Lloyd Morgan—“You’ve met him, Archie, so I know you’ve got your own opinions. To me, he’s awful pompous and self-important. I doubt if he’s smiled since Christmas mornings when he was back in grade school, if then. He acts like he’s overworked, and, although he doesn’t say it, he seems to disapprove of most of the others on the staff—except for Reverend Bay, of course. He acts like he’s the only one of the staff who’s concerned about Bay—not just the note thing, but Bay’s overall well-being. And he looks worried all the time, shaking his head and tut-tutting. Must be a real stitch at a party. He was with some fund-raising outfit before he joined the Silver Spire.”

  Barnabas Bay—“Damned impressive guy. What you notice first is how young he looks. I did some checking later and found out he’s forty-nine on his next birthday, but he could pass for thirties—early thirties. He’s tanned, over six feet, and has sandy hair and a movie actor’s jaw. Aside from all that, he’s got a way about him that puts you right at ease; maybe it’s partly the southern drawl. Anyway, as I told you and Mr. Wolfe when I was here before, he seemed more embarrassed by the notes than threatened. He said something like ‘I think it’s the work of some misguided and troubled individual, but Lloyd here, bless him, feels there might be some danger, so I’ve relented.’ Then he stressed that he wanted my investigation to be very low-profile. I think he was saying it as much to Morgan as to me. The idea of bad publicity really spooks him.”

  Royal Meade—“Right after we’d been with Reverend Bay, Morgan took me to meet Meade and left us alone. Talk about instant dislike! I didn’t take to him, and I know damn well he didn’t like me. He is—was—a little younger than Bay, but he seemed older. Not a bad-looking specimen, but tense, you know, almost jumpy, eyes moving all the time. The first words out of his mouth to me were something like ‘I’ll be candid; I have no respect whatever for your profession, if it can even be called that. I’m seeing you only because Barney asked me to—and I know he did that because Lloyd talked him into hiring you. I fought the decision.’ Meade went on to say he thought the notes were the work of some harmless crank and really didn’t deserve the attention they were getting. Then he dismissed me—rudely, at that. And I found out later he was bad-mouthing me around the church, just on general principles.”

  Roger Gillis—“Gillis oversees the church’s education programs, both for the adults and the kids. They must have three dozen different classes, some of ’em on weeknights. He’s in his mid- to late thirties, but like Bay, he looks younger: lanky, loose, and with a big mop of red hair. He’s a likable sort, the ‘aw, shucks’ type, you know? But underneath that easygoing way, the boy’s as sharp as a small-town barber’s razor. He doesn’t miss much that goes on around him, and he seems to think those notes to Bay are worth worrying about, although he didn’t seem to have a specific reason for feeling that way.”

  Sam Reese—“Reese has got the title Minister of Evangelism, which, he explained to me, means he’s in charge of spreading the word and getting more people into the church, preferably as members. He’s not much to look at—mid-fifties, a bigger gut than mine, and less hair than me, believe it or not. But he’s a dynamo. He’s played a big part in the church’s
growth, and he isn’t exactly shy about saying so. Claims it was his idea to put billboards advertising the Silver Spire on the freeways years back, and he told me he provided the push to get Bay’s ministry on TV. He also grabs the credit for setting up the shelters for women and the homeless, and for the newspaper and magazine publicity the church has gotten. As to the notes, he took Meade’s position that they were the work of some crackpot. ‘In a congregation as big as ours, you’re bound to attract a few oddballs. It’s the law of averages,’ he said.”

  Carola Reese—“Sam’s wife. She’s at least ten years younger than her husband, maybe fifteen, which would make her fortyish or so. Mrs. Reese is the church’s star soloist, met Reese some years back when she joined the choir. She’s apparently been married before, but I don’t know whether he has. She’s borderline flashy, both in her clothes and the way she acts. I kind of like her, though—of all Bay’s inner circle, she’s the friendliest, or at least was toward me. As far as the notes, she felt they were worth worrying about. ‘It sounds like someone with a sick mind’ is what she said to me.”

  Marley Wilkenson—“Wilkenson’s called Minister of Music, and he oversees the whole program—choirs, orchestra, guest artists, everything. The church’s big deal is the ‘Spire Choir,’ which has made several best-selling religious records and tapes, like the Mormons out in Salt Lake with that famous choir of theirs. Marley’s a wiry little guy, and has a head of white hair that would make Tip O’Neill jealous. He’s a widower, and he’s got a reputation for being tough, but nobody’s about to knock his musical abilities or his success. He strikes me as a cold fish, though. He pooh-poohed the notes and said that worrying about them was just a waste of time.”

  Elise Bay—“Bay’s wife, and what a beauty. I think she was maybe Miss North Carolina some years back. Once you get past the looks, which takes a while, you find out she’s also got brains. When I met her, I figured she was around the church a lot just because of who she’s married to. Well, maybe that’s how it started out, but I’m telling you, don’t sell her short; Elise Bay is damn smart, she’s got clout in the running of the place, and she knows how to use it. She acted decent enough to me, but I don’t think she liked the idea of having a P.I. around. I asked her what she thought about the notes, and she was evasive, said they were an ‘anomaly,’ whatever that means. I got the feeling she wasn’t losing sleep about them, though.”

  I leaned back and digested Fred’s comments, then asked if he wanted something to drink. “I just want this nightmare to be over,” he groaned, sagging in his chair and pressing his palms to his eyes.

  “Understandable. But with Nathaniel Parker on the legal end and Mr. Wolfe on the puzzle-solving end, you haven’t got any worries,” I told him. That’s me, ever the optimist. “Now, let’s talk about last night’s meeting, where everybody got so worked up.”

  Fred shifted in his chair, looking sheepish. “Well, I guess maybe I didn’t handle it all that well, Archie. But, dammit, Bay wanted a report, and he got one. Apparently, he has these Circle of Faith get-togethers almost every Monday night; they’re kind of informal, not like the church’s regular meetings of officers. But because these are his closest advisers, he puts a lot of stock in what they have to say.”

  “And that includes his wife and Mrs. Reese?”

  “From what I gather, they both are always invited. Yesterday afternoon, I was at the church poking around and talking to people on the staff, and Morgan told me that Bay wanted me to come to the Circle of Faith meeting at seven-thirty and fill them all in on my investigation. I told Morgan I needed more time, but he said to come anyway, and give a progress report.”

  “Then what?”

  “What could I do? I went to the meeting.”

  “Details, please.”

  “Well, we were in the plush conference room on the ground floor—the same level as the parking lot. It’s in the office-and-classroom wing, which itself is the size of a small office building. Anyway, Reverend Bay seemed uncomfortable having me there, but right after he gave the prayer to open the meeting, he turned to me and said something about how everybody around the table knew who I was and why I was present, which seemed unnecessary; after all, I’d had at least a few minutes with each of them over the last several days, and they all knew why I’d been hired. Then he asked me to summarize what I’d learned. I started slow, telling how I’d watched the services for two Sundays, how I’d used the vandalism cover when I talked to the office staff and others. Then I said I was sure the notes to Bay were an inside job.”

  “And all hell broke loose?”

  Fred shrugged. “Yeah, you could say that. Meade jumped up and yelled he’d heard all the nonsense he was going to. He called me a ‘sleazy snoop’ and a few other things. That’s when I made a big mistake.”

  “How so?”

  “You know my temper, Archie. I have to work to sit on it, and the last few years, I think I did pretty good—mainly thanks to Fanny, who tells me to do things like count to ten and think good thoughts. This time, though, it got the best of me. Meade had been making smart-alecky cracks ever since I first walked into that place, and I finally popped. I told him off, using some words that should never get said in a church. ‘Jackass’ was probably the mildest one.”

  “Sounds like it fit him. What next?”

  “Everybody looked shocked. Then Bay jumped in. First off, he led us all in a prayer, to cool things off, you know? I was dying to punch out Meade’s lights, what with that damn smirk on his face, but I had to sit there looking down while Bay prayed, quoting something from the Psalms about how we should refrain from anger and wrath. Then he told all of us to find a room to meditate alone in for fifteen minutes, and we would reconvene.”

  “And you meditated?”

  “Yeah. The building was pretty much empty that time of night, and I got pointed toward a small office nobody was using down the hall from the conference room. Most of the others went to their own offices, or found unoccupied ones.”

  “And that’s when Meade was zapped?”

  Fred nodded.

  “Did you hear a shot?” I asked him.

  “No, but I had closed the door of the office I was in. And Meade’s was closed, too. Archie, that whole place is built like a battleship—they didn’t stint on construction. Those doors are heavy and thick; they don’t have windows in them, and they look like they’re made of oak. You might not hear a shot through one door, and you sure as hell wouldn’t through two.”

  “But it was your gun that did it?”

  He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “That’s what the cops say. Go ahead and call me stupid, Archie; God knows, I’ve called myself that enough since last night. Ever since the first day I went to the church, I took to removing my suitcoat and hanging it in an alcove with a couple dozen coat hooks that’s along that ground-floor hall. All the other men there—including Bay himself—work in their shirtsleeves, and I like to blend in as much as I can. But you know I always wear a shoulder holster when I’m working—like you do. I would have felt stupid walking around the halls of a church with a weapon sticking out of a damned harness. So I always hung up the holster and gun, and then draped my suitcoat over it so that all you saw walking by was the coat. I mean, it is a church, after all! Who’d ever think anybody would want to filch a gun there, let alone use it?”

  “I can’t argue with that logic. I probably would have done exactly the same thing,” I said reassuringly. “Anybody else hang coats in that alcove?”

  “No, at least not while I was there. They’ve got a small auditorium just down the hall, and I guess those hooks are used mainly when they’re having some sort of function in the auditorium. The staff all probably hang their own coats in their offices.”

  “Do you know who might have spotted you using that alcove as a parking place for your trusty blunderbuss?”

  Fred shrugged. “I guess anybody could have. To be honest, I didn’t pay a lot of attention, though. I suppose an
yone who noticed me come into the building could have figured out from the bulge under my suitcoat that I was carrying a gun.”

  “No doubt. How did you learn Meade had been shot?”

  “Well, I’d been sitting in that stuffy little office for close to the fifteen minutes. Bay had asked us to do our meditating, but I was mainly thinking about what I was going to say when we all sat down again in the conference room. There was a knock at the door and Elise Bay came in, looking as pale as skim milk in a glass. She asked if I’d been sitting there the whole time—since Bay had dismissed us, that is. I told her I had. ‘Something terrible’s happened,’ she told me then. ‘Roy is—’

  “I didn’t give her a chance to finish the sentence. I was up and out the door. Meade’s office is about thirty feet down the hall to the left of where I was, and both Morgan and Wilkenson were standing just outside his door, looking grim. As I walked toward them, Wilkenson held up his hand like a traffic cop. He told me to stop right there, that the police had been called and were on the way. As it turned out, Bay himself was inside, trying to administer CPR to Meade, which was futile. The guy had taken two shots to the head. Apparently, either one was enough to finish him. They found my thirty-eight and two shell casings from it on the floor in the office. Meade had been sitting at his desk when he’d been shot—from the front.”

  “Hard to make a case for suicide,” I observed dryly.

  “Yeah. And my prints were the only ones on the gun,” Fred muttered. “I’ve been set up. Screwed.”

  “It sure looks that way. Who found Meade?”

  “Wilkenson. His story is that he’d left his own office after fifteen minutes of meditating or whatever, and was walking down the hall toward the conference room. Said he came to Meade’s door and knocked to tell him it was time to reconvene. He got no answer, knocked again, opened the door, and found the body slumped over the desk.”