Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “Ah, yes,” Smith said as he slumped in the leather chair behind his desk. Rufus put his head on Smith’s leg. Smith rubbed his ears, then looked into his friend’s large, watery eyes. “Looks like things are about to get interesting, buddy.”

  24

  Later in the Day—Stormy Weather Ahead

  It was the sort of domestic screaming match the neighbors had got used to since Nickelson and his family rented the small house in the subdued lower-middle-class neighborhood. It was worse in summer; then the windows were open and the sound carried farther and was louder. But even with the windows closed, the force of Nickelson’s voice respected no barrier as simple as windowpane or door. You heard it, and sometimes it seemed so intense, so steaming with anger, that you considered calling the police. In fact, you did on a few occasions, and they came and calmed another domestic dispute. No need to haul the husband away, especially not the musical director of the National Cathedral. No blows had been struck, just angry words exchanged between a husband and wife. Nothing new to the D.C. police, or to police in any other city, for that matter.

  It was business as usual this late afternoon for the Nickelsons’ next-door neighbor. She’d been breading chicken for her family’s dinner when the first salvo was fired.

  In the other house, Nickelson shouted again, “I told you we were leaving in a week, Jennifer. Nothing has been done! Absolutely nothing!”

  “We are not going to San Francisco,” she said.

  “Damn it!” He sent a row of books from a low bookcase flying to the floor. “You will do what I say.” Each word was punctuated with a stab of his index finger.

  Jennifer Nickelson turned on her heel and stomped into the kitchen. Their daughters were upstairs trying to do homework. Now they pressed their ears to the bedroom door. Sometimes they fell on their beds and squeezed pillows tightly about their heads.

  Downstairs, Nickelson followed his wife into the kitchen. “You have an obligation to me, and don’t you ever forget it,” he said.

  She wouldn’t face him because she didn’t want him to see the tears silently rolling down her cheeks. She tried to control her voice—and her trembling—as she said, “You have no right to put us through this.” She slowly turned and extended her hands in a gesture of pleading. “Will, are you so insensitive that you don’t see what you’re doing to us? Asking us to pick up and leave so quickly is unfair. Please try to understand how disruptive this is to the children, to me.”

  “I don’t care,” he exploded. “I said we were leaving, and we will leave when I say.” His face was flushed with anger, and Jennifer backed away. While he’d never struck her, she always felt he was capable of it, sensed that if the rage boiled to a certain level it would spill over the rim and obliterate any sense of reason, cause him to do things he would not ordinarily, naturally do.

  He was capable of exhibiting violence against inanimate things. How many times had those books flown off that shelf, or the table been slammed against a wall, a fist rammed through Sheetrock? They’d patched holes in the wall in every house in which they’d lived. Once, Jennifer had laughed when their oldest daughter baby-sat for a family that was considered a bastion of domestic bliss, a perfect couple. The daughter came home and reported that there was a hole in the bathroom wall where the husband had punched his fist through it. “I suppose there’s a hole in the wall of every family in America,” Jennifer had said lightly to one of her friends at lunch. “Better the wall than the wife,” her friend had replied.

  Early in their marriage, the thing that was most difficult for Jennifer to reconcile with her husband’s irrational anger was his profession. He was, after all, the Reverend Canon Wilfred Nickelson, an ordained minister. A priest. Jennifer had been brought up in a religious household, her experience with clergy confined to the local Presbyterian minister, a gentle, ineffectual soul who never raised his voice, and who devoted most of his sermons to the forgiving, loving nature of God. Jennifer responded positively to him; her father was an alcoholic subject to fits of rage that included physical attacks upon her mother, and occasionally upon Jennifer and her younger brother. When she met Wilfred Nickelson, she saw in him the same passive kindness that her minister possessed.

  Besides, Wilfred was very good-looking and loved music, which Jennifer did, too.

  It seemed like only minutes after they were married that his volatile side emerged—about what, she could not remember; few of the issues that sent him into fits of screaming and table-pounding were remembered.

  Now, fourteen years later, she faced him in the kitchen with a determination that she hadn’t felt before. She would not pack up her family within a week and move to San Francisco. That was asking too much. Any rational person would agree with her. Her mother had agreed when she told her about it, and so did her brother. “Let him go by himself, and you follow later” was their advice.

  “Will, we cannot leave here that quickly. It is unfair to the girls. If we must move, why don’t you go to San Francisco and get settled, find us a place to live, and we’ll follow when it’s more convenient.”

  She thought she’d presented this idea nicely, but all it did was set him off again. He accused her of betrayal, of standing in his way, of threatening to break up the family and keep his daughters from him. She felt sorry for him at that point, so misguided were his reactions. She took a few steps toward him and extended her hands. “Will, I love you. We all love you, but …”

  His anger had not abated, but he lowered his voice and thrust his face at her. In a way, the lowered, almost whispered voice projected even greater menace. “What is it, Jen, can’t you leave him?”

  She dropped her arms and stared at him blankly. “Leave who?”

  “Him. Your precious Paul.”

  She tried to say something, but all that would come from her lips was incredulous laughter. “Will, how can you still …?”

  He grabbed her by the arm and squeezed, his face now inches away.

  “Stop it, you’re hurting me. The girls will hear. Stop it, let me go!”

  He propelled her against the sink. “Can’t leave his ghost?” His voice was a snarl.

  She started to cry, turned her head away from him. He strengthened his grip on her arm and shook her; now his voice peaked. “He’s dead! You can’t have him anymore.” He grabbed her other arm and shook her violently, her head snapping back and forth as he repeated over and over, “He’s dead! He’s dead!” And then he hit her, the first time ever, the back of his hand against her eye, his knuckles breaking skin above it.

  Upstairs, the Nickelson girls lay on their beds in the fetal position, pillows pressed tightly against their ears.

  Nickelson released the grip on his wife and put on his coat. “I will never forgive you for this,” he said. The front door slammed shut.

  She walked on quivering legs to the kitchen table and fell heavily into a chair. Her first thought was to go upstairs and comfort the girls, but at this moment she wasn’t physically capable of it. Besides, they’d see her and only become more upset. She touched the bone above her eye; blood returned with her fingertips.

  There it was again, the accusation.

  It had been that way from the first week of their marriage. He would erupt over many things, insignificant lapses in the housekeeping, or comments from her that he took in the wrong way, but the worst trigger was always his belief that she flirted with other men, was unfaithful to him. He should have known it wasn’t true. What was she, someone who used heavy makeup and batted her eyes at passing males? Of course not. He would interpret her natural openness to another man as a come-on, encouraging attention. She’d never meant it that way, and soon found herself going into a shell socially, barely smiling at men to whom she was introduced and avoiding animated conversations. Couldn’t he see that she was a devoted wife who enjoyed being a homemaker, a wife who baked her own bread and dressed her children nicely and tried to create a home filled with warmth and happiness for him? He couldn’t. It w
as a character flaw, her brother told her one night when she called in a fit of panic. “He should seek help. Find a good shrink. You shouldn’t have to live this way, Jen. He might be dangerous, fly off the handle some night, become violent.”

  Of course, she did not heed her brother’s warnings. Will never struck her or the children, aside from an occasional smack on the girls’ rear ends when they’d been naughty. But she also knew her brother was right. Inside her husband was the capability to lash out one day over some innocuous provocation; he could hurt someone—most likely her.

  The confrontations between them over Paul Singletary began the week Wilfred took up his duties as musical director of the National Cathedral. A welcoming party for them was held. Jennifer was excited about her husband’s new assignment. To be tapped for the National Cathedral was a distinct honor. As far as Jennifer was concerned, he’d both earned and deserved the position, and she basked in it—quietly, and without overt display. She was proud to accompany him to his welcoming party. She bought a new dress and spent more time than was her custom preening in front of the mirror.

  Will was in good spirits that night. They left the girls with a cheerful baby-sitter and went to meet all the wonderful people who would be part of their new lives in Washington, D.C.

  Jennifer’s first reaction upon meeting Reverend Singletary was that he was a very handsome man, and very nice. He took special pains to make her feel comfortable in the crowd of strangers. He brought her a glass of punch while her husband was chatting in a corner with a fellow clergyman, and immediately she knew Wilfred was aware of that simple act of graciousness. He kept looking over at her as she chatted with Singletary. Soon, he was at her side.

  “You have a lovely wife,” Singletary said to Nickelson.

  “Yes, thank you.” He took her arm and guided her away from the handsome young priest to a knot of people, mostly women.

  That night, after they’d got into their robes and were sitting in front of the television, she said, “This is all so exciting, Will. Everyone seemed so nice.”

  “Too nice,” he said, his eyes fixed upon the flickering screen.

  “What do you mean? Was there someone you didn’t like?”

  He glared at her as he said, “Jen, I wish you would become a little more worldly. Just because some of them wear a collar doesn’t mean they’re all goodness and light.”

  She laughed nervously. “I know that. It’s just that on the surface, they all seemed very pleasant and—”

  “Stay away from Singletary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Stay away from him. He has a reputation as a womanizer.”

  “I didn’t … I didn’t know that. I was just being friendly. He brought me some punch and—”

  “Enough said, Jen. Quiet. I want to hear the news.”

  It was only the first of a number of scenes between them over Singletary, each displaying more of Nickelson’s wrath. Jennifer tried to avoid Singletary whenever they were together at a cathedral function, but found it impossible to be rude to him. It didn’t take much; all she had to do was smile and say hello, and her husband’s eyes would be on her throughout the evening. Then, once they were home, there would be the inevitable blowup.

  When Singletary was murdered, Jennifer was devastated. Her husband’s admonitions had created a curious closeness of sorts between Singletary and herself, at least psychically. It was as though they were secret lovers. She’d come to the conclusion that Singletary knew what the situation was and was willing to play along with it, casting glances at her, his smile playful, a twinkle in his eye. A game. It had become a game, and he was an important figure in her life even though they barely said hello to each other.

  All of this went through her mind as she sat at the kitchen table. Eventually she calmed down sufficiently to tend to her injury and go up to her daughters, who had resumed their homework. Jennifer forced a smile. “Hi, girls, how’s it going?”

  Her daughters turned to her with red-rimmed eyes. “Do we have to go to San Francisco?” the younger asked.

  Jennifer stood silent, her eyes trained out the window. She responded in a calm and firm voice, “No, at least not right away.” Then she hugged each of them and returned to the kitchen, where she filled the house with the sweet smell of baking cookies.

  “Glad you could make it, Mac,” a chapter member said as Smith entered the meeting room at six o’clock. He’d considered skipping the meeting and staying home in case Clarissa Morgan called again, but decided to take his chances. The meeting could be important, and he’d get back home as soon as it ended.

  “Not much of a chore. It was a dinner date I could easily put off.” Which wasn’t true. He’d suggested to Annabel that they have a late dinner when he returned from the meeting. Her response was to announce that she was returning to the gallery, where she would try to reconcile those ridiculous spreadsheets and bank statements for those ridiculous accountants, and would take care of her own dinner needs, thank you very much.

  Smith joined the others at the conference table and waited for St. James to arrive. When the bishop came through the door, his face was drawn and the corners of his mouth sagged. He said nothing, simply took his seat at the head of the table and stared at the tabletop, his hands flat on it, his fingers spread. He eventually looked up. “There is an urgent matter we should discuss immediately,” he said wearily. “I just had a call from Mrs. Kelsch. As some of you know, she’s the mother of Joseph Kelsch, one of our students and the most gifted singer in the boys’ choir.”

  The bishop paused and said nothing for a moment.

  “He sang at our wedding,” Smith said into the silence. “He does have a beautiful voice. He was—”

  “He’s disappeared,” said St. James.

  There were muffled responses from the chapter members.

  “He was supposed to come home after school, but didn’t show up. Mrs. Kelsch became concerned and called the school.”

  “Why assume he’s disappeared?” a chapter member asked. “Maybe he went off with a friend for the afternoon. You know how kids are.”

  “His room was searched. He’d evidently taken some items of clothing and a small suitcase he always kept in his closet. There is also the possibility that some harm has befallen him. Mrs. Kelsch told me he’s been extremely upset lately, so much so that she sought the advice of the boy’s pediatrician.”

  St. James looked at Smith, who said, “It probably is too early to assume the worst. But not too early to find him. The police have been called? Do we know who his closest friends are? Would Joey go to a grandparent?”

  “Yes. The police have been alerted. One problem seems to follow another these days,” St. James said. “Trouble comes in threes. Isn’t that the saying?”

  “Yes, and without much substance to back it up,” said one of the chapter members, though smiling. The man was one of the more cautious members. “At what point do we worry about this in an official sense, Mac? Is there something we should do to protect ourselves legally?”

  Smith didn’t appreciate the pragmatic question, but ignored that aspect of it. “I suggest we conclude this meeting as quickly as possible and do what we can to help.” He surveyed the faces at the table. “I understand this meeting has been called to deal with another aspect of the Singletary case. Has something new developed on that front?”

  St. James answered. “Yes. The police have determined that the murder took place behind the altar in the Bethlehem Chapel.”

  Smith sat back, and nasty visions filled his thoughts. He could see Singletary sprawled on the stone floor behind that altar, and his mind immediately traced what happened after that—candlestick carefully wiped, blood mopped up from the floor, the body dragged down the hallway past the choir room and up that short flight of stone steps to Good Shepherd. Then, or maybe in reverse order, the murderer sought a place in which to discard the murder weapon. Who could it have been? Damn it, who did this? Let it be ove
r. He glanced at St. James, who seemed to be waiting for him to say something. “Sorry, my mind was wandering. I’m glad they’ve nailed down where the murder took place.”

  “There’s another issue to be raised here this evening,” said St. James. “This recent development seems to indicate more strongly, at least to me, that Reverend Singletary was murdered by someone with a connection to this cathedral, not by a stranger. If so, I want to allocate funds for the defense of that person, whoever it might be.” He looked at the members of the chapter. “Mac told me earlier today that he could no longer continue in this role. I know he wanted to tell you himself, but—”

  Smith interrupted. “Bishop St. James is right. I did make a decision to disassociate myself from this case. A simple matter of time, or lack of it. But I’ve reconsidered.” Smith realized that his change-of-heart announcement came on the heels of the bishop’s mention of funds being available to defend the murderer. Bad timing, he told himself. It would sound like money was behind his decision to back off. He said, “If you intend to finance the defense of Paul Singletary’s murderer, that’s admirable. But not related to my decision. I’ll want only expenses. However, if you think that by creating a defense fund you will, in some way, cleanse the image of the cathedral, you’re misguided. The cathedral didn’t kill Paul. Eventually, people will come to see that.”

  “Oh, no, Mac,” said a chapter member. “It is much more a matter of responsibility. I suppose you could term it taking care of our own.”

  “If that’s the case, I applaud your generosity and sensitivity. Look, I’m not in this as defense attorney. I don’t try cases, nor do I want to. My role is advisory. I will find you an attorney, should that need arise, and will do what I can to help that attorney do the job. Whatever money you come up with goes to that attorney, not to me.” He finished with “Enough said. Is there any other reason for me to stay?”