The Alto Wore Tweed (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  Meg and I had rescheduled our Christmas tree outing for the afternoon, barring any unforeseen police or financial crisis. If the cold and slightly overcast weather held, this would be a fine time to pick out a tree. With the snow hanging on the branches, we wouldn’t even have to imagine the finished product.

  After a quick stop at The Slab for a Danish to go and brief holiday salutations to Pete and Bob Solomon, I was off to the station for a few phone calls. The first was to Dr. Dougherty, the local GP.

  “Hi Karen. Hayden Konig.” I said, once I had sweet-talked my way past the receptionist.

  “How are you, Hayden?” she said. Karen Dougherty was a pediatrician before she retired and after moving to St. Germaine, worked a couple of days a week as the one and only practitioner of the medical arts in town. Almost everyone with an emergency or who visited a doctor on a regular basis went into Boone, but Dr. Dougherty was happy to do well-baby checkups, routine vaccinations, flu shots and the like.

  “I’m fine, Karen. I just have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you ever see Willie Boyd? I mean, on a professional basis.”

  “He did stop in once a couple of years ago. If I remember correctly, he was complaining of chest pain. Let me look.”

  While I was on hold, I took the opportunity to rummage around on the top of my desk and find a pen and a pad of paper, vowing once again to clean up my desk, or at least to have someone else do it.

  “Got it,” she said, coming back to the phone. “Hmmm,” she said, using the doctor’s familiar “hmmm,” which they are all taught in the first year of medical school. “I listened to his chest and then sent him down to the free clinic in Boone. That’s all I’ve got. No follow-up. They didn’t call me, so I presume they took care of it.”

  “Do you have a number for the clinic?”

  “I’ll give you back to Polly. She’ll get you what you need.”

  After thanking her and getting the phone number from Polly, my next call was to the clinic in Boone.

  • • •

  The Crèches of St. Germaine, as the event was being advertised in the Watauga Democrat, was scheduled to kickoff on December 18th at 7:00 in the evening. The forecast was for snow and an Arctic front, which was nice for the Christmas ambiance, but terrible for the relatively scantily clad angels who had to endure the single-digit temperatures for an hour and a half. There was some talk at The Slab about cutting the time down from an hour-and-a-half to an hour, but neither organization was ready to give an inch. The First Baptist Church Elder Adult Handbell Choir, known as the Nana Pealers, if you could believe their monogrammed, sky-blue windsuits, was scheduled to play at the Kiwanis display for the first half hour. The Rotarians, trying for a quick coup de gras, had hired a brass quintet from the university, but yesterday, after seeing the weather projection, they had called and canceled, explaining that their mouthpieces would freeze to their lips.

  “We’re in trouble,” Bob Solomon told Pete as I waited in line to pay for my Danish. “The brass players are wimping out.”

  “The temperature will be nine degrees without the wind chill. I hardly call that wimping out,” said Pete as he rang up Bob’s breakfast tab.

  “Anyway, we have a backup plan. I got in touch with a guy who lives up on Grandfather Mountain. He’s a bagpiper.”

  “That sounds pretty good.”

  “He says he can play some Christmas songs, but he’s wearing his red longjohns under his kilt.”

  I put my two dollars on the counter and escaped without being asked to comment.

  • • •

  “This is Detective Konig of the St. Germaine Police Department,” I said, identifying myself to the doctor on duty at the St. Luke Free Clinic in Boone. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “Hello, Detective. This is Dr. Drummond. What can I do for you?”

  “You had a patient named William Boyd. He would have been coming in for the past two years.”

  “I don’t remember the name, but there are quite a few doctors that volunteer their time at the clinic.”

  “Would he have seen anyone on a regular basis?”

  “I doubt it,” Dr. Drummond said. “He would have to see whoever was on duty. We don’t make appointments with specific doctors.”

  “Would he have a chart that I could look at?”

  “Of course. But I can’t let you see it without his permission.”

  “Yes, well that’s the problem. He dead.”

  “Next of kin?” Dr. Drummond asked.

  “None that we can find.”

  “Well, fax me over a death certificate and I’ll send the chart over.”

  “I have the number, but I’ll come by and pick it up, if that’s OK?”

  “It’ll be ready for you at the desk. But fax the death certificate,” he reiterated.

  “It’s on the way. Thanks, Doctor.”

  • • •

  I was on my way to Boone to pick up Willie Boyd’s file when my pager went off. It was Malcolm. My plan was to drop by Kent Murphee’s office on my way home, ask him about the file and deliver a Christmas present. Having done the autopsy, I thought that Kent might be able to give me some insight. I decided Malcolm could wait.

  Willie’s chart was waiting for me at the desk as promised and I was on my way to the coroner’s office after stopping by Starbucks for a couple of espressos. One for me, one for Kent—whether he wanted it or not.

  “Bourbon?” he asked, as soon as I walked in. I may have been becoming a little too predictable.

  “Sheesh, Kent. It’s 10:00 in the morning. At least we can pretend that we’re being civilized. Pour mine into this coffee.” I pushed his espresso across the desk to him and he poured a couple of fingers into both cups.

  “Cheers,” he said, picking up the file folder with his free hand and leaning back in his chair.

  I stirred my coffee with the end of my pen, wiped it on my jacket and waited for Kent to peruse the file.

  “Looks like your boy had a bum ticker. But I knew that already.”

  “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It didn’t really have anything to do with the autopsy. He still died of poison. Having a bad heart, it may have taken less to kill him, but he had a dose that would have killed three men. Anyway, it was in the report. ‘Signs of heart disease.’ Didn’t you read it?”

  “I’m ashamed to say that I must have missed it. How bad was he?”

  “Bad enough. Congestive heart disease. He probably had three months, six at the most. He might have been a candidate for a bypass five or six years ago, but he was way past that.

  “Did he know? I mean, did the doctor tell him?”

  “Yep,” he said flipping the page. “He knew.”

  “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure, since it’s Christmas and I’m feeling pretty generous. Also, may I expect the usual Christmas gift from the St. Germaine PD?” referring to the case of bourbon I’d been taking up the past few years. “Not that I need the bribe. I only ask because they’re having a sale down at Appalachian Liquors and if you’re sending something special, I won’t go down and stock up.”

  “I have your gift in the back of the truck.”

  “You are a gentleman and a scholar.”

  “Now the favor,” I said, pulling a baggie out of my pocket containing a cheap, half-smoked cigar.

  • • •

  I was coming back into town when my pager went off again. Malcolm Walker three times in the last hour. I knew he was getting pretty worried when I walked into the station to a chorus of “Mr. Walker has been calling all morning. He’s on the line now.” I nodded, grabbed a donut off the counter and headed into my office, closing the door behind me and picking up the phone.

  “Hi, Malcolm, it’s me,” I said.

  “Hayden. Thank God. We’ve got to talk.” Malcolm sounded past worried and well on the way to frantic.

  “Calm down. I can meet you right now if you wan
t.”

  “Yes, of course I do. Can you come by the office?”

  “No problem. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  • • •

  “Anything going on?” I asked Dave as I went back though the office on my way out, my iBook in my hand. I had thought seriously about getting a case for it, but it was easier to just haul it around with me.

  “Nope,” said Dave. “But don’t forget the show tonight. The Crèches of St. Germaine. Sounds pretty poetic.”

  “What’s the forecast? How cold is it supposed to be?”

  “About six degrees by showtime. Some light snow.”

  “I’ll bundle up. You coming?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Dave said, laughing. “Nancy’ll be there too. We figured a show of force would be the best deterrent to the Christmas looting.”

  “Very funny.”

  • • •

  Malcolm was expecting me. I met Mona, his secretary, leaving the office, taking what she called “an early lunch.” Mona, unlike Rhiza, his former secretary turned wife, was in her late 50’s and gave the word “frumpy” a whole new meaning. I suspected that Rhiza had a hand in the hiring.

  “Come on in Hayden. Want a drink?”

  “No thanks, I’ve already had my limit this morning.”

  Looking slightly puzzled but not saying anything else, Malcolm ushered me into his office and closed the door. I’d been in here many times before. The look was what we in the biz call “well-appointed.” Not overdone opulence, but sparsely elegant with only the best in furnishings. There wasn’t a piece of furniture in this office that cost less than four thousand dollars, and I suspected most were several times that figure. I knew for a fact that he paid over fifty thousand dollars just for the carpet because I was at the same auction and ended up with a twelve-hundred-dollar antique sleigh bed. Of course, as he pointed out later, his purchase was tax deductible. Mine was not. I suspected, although I did not know for sure, that the Andrew Wyeth water color on the wall was an original. The three leather club chairs and the sofa in the seating area came from a 19th-century gentlema’s club in France that had sold its furnishings when it was closed by the government in the 1980’s for offering a little more female companionship than was mentioned in the membership brochure. A small LCD computer screen and a keyboard perched on top of and off to one side of his antique mahogany desk. A couple of antique Montblanc fountain pens finished the desktop. There were some papers—I assumed financial reports—neatly stacked on the opposite corner. His bookshelves were neat and well ordered, as if the books were a just prop in his set dressing and I had my doubts that few if any of them had been opened. There was a wet bar against the far wall and as he motioned me to a leather chair in the informal seating area, he went to over to it and poured himself a glass of something to steel his nerves.

  “You’ve heard the rumors?” he said, finishing his drink in two gulps and taking a seat across from me.

  “A few. What did you hear?” I asked him.

  “I heard what everyone else has heard,” he said trying to control his obvious anger. “Loraine Ryan said that you’d deciphered the clue and that it pointed to Rhiza.”

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. “It does point to Rhiza, but it’s not definitive by any means. It could have been written by anyone.”

  “What is it that you do know, if I may ask?”

  “You may,” I answered, putting the laptop on the coffee table between us and opening it up.

  “You certainly have gone high tech lately,” Malcolm commented with no real interest as the screen glowed to life.

  “Yep, Kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Here’s what I have.”

  I went through the litany again for myself as well as Malcolm, hoping something would jump out at me. I didn’t share all my thoughts with Mr. Walker, but I did give him the highlights.

  Willie Boyd was killed on Friday afternoon a little after five. He called the police station at 5:10 to report a robbery—a robbery that he himself had committed. He was found at 5:17. We found the three cases of wine in the trunk of his car. He had taken Loraine Ryan’s cross from the sacristy and, according to Bev, who was in the sacristy and saw him, kissed it before going up to the choir loft where he then drank some of the wine he had stolen. Then he had a heart attack and died. The wine was not poisoned as first believed, but the cross was loaded with chemicals from the oleander plant. The chemicals were absorbed though Willie Boyd’s oral membranes. The olive-wood cross from the Holy Land was the murder weapon.

  There was a clue to the murder left on the organ by someone still unknown.

  I saw who did it. It’s Him. It’s Matthew.

  O hark the herald angels sing;

  The boy’s descent which lifted up the world;

  The clue points to a bible verse—Matthew 9:5. “For which is easier, to say ‘your sins are forgiven,’ or to say ‘Rise, and wk?” This clue seems to point to Rhiza Walker. But it’s weak. Very weak.

  I’m was pretty sure that Willie’s death was an accident and that the cross was intended for Loraine Ryan. After all, it is the priest’s custom to kiss the cross they wear as they place it around their neck. If it didn’t kill Loraine immediately, it would surely make her very sick, and eventually Herself would have gotten a fatal dose. The cross was boiled in the oleander and was lethal. There wasn’t any way that the murderer would know that Willie would steal the cross or that he had a bad heart. The dose that killed him probably wouldn’t have killed a healthy person on the first try.

  I also suspect that Mother Ryan knew more than she was saying. She was in the kitchen and knew about the oleander broth that JJ had been cooking up for the hedgehogs.

  So, I was back to the question “who would want Loraine Ryan dead?” With Rhiza’s recent revelations, I was ready to look seriously at the man sitting across from me.

  Malcolm studied me without saying anything for a long moment.

  “How well do you know Rhiza?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I shrugged, trying to avoid answering the question and hoping he wouldn’t press the issue. The truth was, I knew her very well.

  He got up, went over to the bar and poured himself another drink. His back was to me when I heard him say, “She’s having an affair.”

  I processed the comment, made sure I heard correctly, then said “Really? I’m sorry.” I waited the appropriate ten seconds for him to say something: then I ventured “Any idea who?”

  “Yes. I know who.”

  I waited again as he turned around and looked at me, a sad look in his eyes.

  “It’s Loraine. Loraine Ryan.”

  What was it that Rhiza said? “I’m pretty sure she dances at both ends of the ballroom.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked Malcolm.

  “Pretty sure. At least as sure as I can be without walking in on them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Notes, messages. She’s in Loraine’s office at all hours of the night. And now this.” He handed me a piece of folded paper. I opened it and read the handwritten message aloud.

  “Darling—meet me in my office after eight.”

  “You know who wrote it?”

  “It’s Loraine’s handwriting. I’ve seen it plenty of times.”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t Rhiza’s note,” I offered.

  “It was in her coat pocket. Please,” he begged. “Don’t say anything to anyone.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I always knew she was...that Rhiza was...hmm...attracted to women.” He continued, searching for the right words. “I just knew,” he said finally. “She was always hanging around Loraine. Going into her office for meetings at all hours, taking notes for her conference.” He drained his glass for the second time. “But I don’t think Rhiza tried to kill her.”

  • • •

  I was on the phone about thirty seconds after I got back to the office. No sense in beating about the bush.

&n
bsp; “Hello, Rhiza? It’s Hayden.”

  “Hayden. What a surprise.”

  “Knock it off.” I admit I was more than a little irked at the way she played me. “I just talked to Malcolm.”

  “Thank God. He still won’t call me back. Where is he?” She actually sounded concerned.

  I cut right to the chase. “He says you’re having an affair with Loraine Ryan.”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear me? I said–”

  “I heard you.”

  More silence.

  “Rhiza? You still there?”

  “Oh, hell. Did he say how he found out? Did he say it was from Willie?”

  Now it was my turn to bite my tongue.

  “We need to talk,” I said, meaning “I need to think for a bit.”

  “Tonight?” she asked.

  “No. I’ve got to police the show. Come on over tomorrow morning. Around nine.”

  “I’ll be there in time for coffee.”

  Chapter 18

  “I think that’s about enough,” I said, sitting up and spitting a few teeth onto the wooden floor like so many unchewed tic-tacs. I waved my .38 at the three them as menacingly as I could, noting that Amber’s gun was resting safely on my desk a good two giant steps from any of the so-called ladies in the room.

  Denver Tweed took one look at my weapon and let out a walrus-like bark that I took to be some kind of laughter.

  “Who do you think you’re going to stop with that pea-shooter?” she growled, cracking her knuckles and flexing her thumbs in anticipation.

  I looked at Denver and stopped waving the gun, pointing it instead at Amber Dawn.

  “Not you, Denver, certainly,” I said, getting to my feet. “But I’ll be more than happy to make Amber Dawn a lot less attractive real fast.”