What the Fly Saw

by Frankie Y. Bailey

  When she had suggested Baxter do it since this was his idea—that he go in pretending to be a college kid, like he used to do when he was in Vice—Baxter had given her a wounded look. He didn’t, he said, look as young as he did then. Being her partner had aged him.

  “And come on, McCabe, if you were a straight male clerk, who would you rather chat with? Me or you?”

  The lieutenant had reminded her that if one of the staff at the archery store should be stupid enough to start incriminating himself, she could always pull out her badge and tell him she was a cop.

  Easy for them to say this was going to be a breeze, McCabe thought. They didn’t have to flirt.

  The younger of the two clerks in the store came over to greet her. “Hi, need help with anything?”

  “Hello,” McCabe said, giving him her best smile. “I could use some advice. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.”

  “What would you like to do?”

  “I know I want to do some target shooting. And maybe hunting … but I haven’t decided about that yet.”

  “Know anything about bows?”

  McCabe shook her head, making her ponytail sway. “Not much. But I was talking to someone who said it’s a super cool, really arctic sport.”

  “It is. Let me show you what your choices are, and then you can try our range and get a feel for the different bows.”

  “That sounds like exactly what I need to do.”

  The clerk took her over to the display of bows and explained the difference between the recurve bow and the compound bow.

  “I really like the way the recurve bow looks,” McCabe said. “It reminds me of that movie last year. You know, the one set in postapocalyptic New France, with everyone wearing those incredible tunics and boots.”

  “We got a lot of people coming in after that movie,” the clerk said. “But you might find the compound bow easier to use. It requires less upper body strength because of the pulley system.”

  “Oh, I see. And they come in different colors. I love the hot pink one. Hot pink is my favorite color. I always wear hot-pink lip gloss.”

  “Yeah, I can see you’re wearing pink gloss now. Would you like to try it—the bow—on our range?”

  “Yes, please. If I’m not keeping you from your other customers.…”

  “That’s why I’m here. To help you find what you’re looking for.”

  McCabe tilted her head and flashed him another smile. Batting her eyelashes would have been a bit too much even if she could have pulled it off.

  The range was in the back of the store. It was as high tech as the recurve bow was ancient. The clerk told her, “Our system maps your stance and provides feedback. Watch this.”

  He turned sideways, bow drawn. On the wall, the system diagramed his shadow image with numbers and arrows.

  “What does all that mean?” McCabe asked.

  “No need to worry about the details. Just notice your number. Mine is seventy-five percent right now. And it’s showing me how to adjust my stance to correct my posture flaws.”

  “Oh, I see! Now you’re at ninety-six percent. Have you ever gotten a perfect one hundred?”

  “Once or twice. But the system is based on the form of champion archers. I’ve only been at this three or four years. Before that, I did my hunting with shotguns.”

  “But then you got into bows? How did that happen?”

  “I have some friends who like hunting with them.” He grinned. “And I needed a job. I talked my way into the part-time position they had open here with the understanding that I’d take lessons. Then I was hired on full time.”

  “You must be a fast learner.”

  “Your turn. Let’s try your stance. Ever fired a shotgun or a rifle?”

  “A few times.”

  “Good. Then you’re halfway there.”

  “I’m so glad you think I’ll be good at this. Oh, and it’ll be fun to do target practice in the park.”

  “You shouldn’t do that unless the park has a designated archery range. The bow is considered a weapon in the state of New York.”

  McCabe pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, how could I have forgotten. That story on the news stream about the man who was killed with his own bow. The funeral director.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Let’s check your stance against the image generated by the system.”

  “Had he ever been in here?” McCabe asked. She dropped her voice. “I know you aren’t allowed to gossip—”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be so curious. But it’s just so weird, isn’t it? I knew this girl once who killed someone when he broke into her family’s house.” McCabe didn’t stop to wonder why she was using her own history in her ploy. “Violence is just so weird, isn’t it? Not something you expect to happen to people you know.”

  “No. It’s a real kick in the gut when it does.”

  “Did you hear about it—the murder—on the news stream?”

  The clerk shook his head. “My boss heard it when he went out to lunch. He told the staff.”

  “So everyone here knew him? The funeral director?”

  “He used to come in for all his equipment. And he’d bring his son in.”

  “The family was religious, weren’t they? I thought I heard he belonged to that big megachurch.”

  “He did. The nice part for us is the church has two archery clubs. We get a lot of business from the members. But after what happened, we may not see them in here for a while.”

  “Oh, you mean after the funeral director being killed with his bow? But maybe they’re like people with guns. They don’t stop using their guns because someone’s killed.”

  “That’s true. So getting back to your lesson—”

  “Just one more little question.” She leaned closer. “Who do you think did it? Do you think it was someone from the church … from the archery clubs?”

  The clerk laughed. “I think that bunch is strictly nonviolent. All they want to shoot and kill are deer and other game.”

  “Really? Not even one suspect among them?”

  “No one I’ve met.”

  “What about the minister? Have you met him?”

  “A couple of times. He seems like an okay guy. Usually religious people make me uncomfortable. But these people—at least the ones from the archery clubs—are just normal people.”

  “Oh, that’s disappointing. I mean not that they’re normal … but I was hoping you were going to say they were like one of those cults.”

  “No, they aren’t creepy like that. At least, not the ones we see in here.”

  McCabe smiled. “Then maybe I should start going to their church so I can be in their archery club.”

  “First, I want you to show me your stance again.”

  McCabe turned sideways and raised the bow. “Like this?”

  “Very good. Now, let’s see if you can hit the target.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she gave the clerk one more big smile as he passed over the box containing her new hot-pink compound bow. “See you on Saturday when I come in for my lesson with your pro.”

  “I won’t be working. But if you stop by during the week to pick up anything else you might need…”

  “I’ll do that. Bye, now.”

  She waved as she left.

  Baxter was sitting in his car in the parking lot. He was pretending to look at something on his ORB, but he glanced up and grinned as she walked past.

  21

  Angus was at his ease, stretched out on the sofa, reading a book.

  “What have the two of you been doing?” McCabe asked, glancing at the dog, sprawled beside the coffee table, fast asleep. “He must be tired. He didn’t even notice when the front door opened.”

  “I couldn’t sit here any longer waiting for word about your brother, so I went out to do some research. I took the dog along.”

  “Does this have something to do with your new writing project?”
>
  “It might.”

  McCabe strolled past him toward the kitchen. “Okay, Pop, be mysterious. And don’t ask me about the case I’m working on.”

  As she had expected, he was in the kitchen before she could open the refrigerator door.

  “I made a turkey casserole,” he said. “Pop it in to warm up.”

  The dog wandered into the kitchen, glanced at the two of them, yawned, and flopped out on the floor.

  “He really is tired,” McCabe said. She washed her hands and held them under the air jet. “Did you tie him to your car and make him run along behind it?”

  “We parked the car and did some walking.” Angus sat down at the kitchen table. “What’s been happening with your funeral director case?”

  McCabe took plates out of the cabinet. “I bought a compound bow on my way home,” she said.

  “Find out anything useful while you were at the archery store?”

  “No, but I learned the proper stance for shooting a bow. By the way, do you know a woman named Olive Cooper?”

  “I’ve encountered her on occasion. What about her?”

  “She belongs to Kevin Novak’s church. They were good friends. He attended her celebration of life the day before he was murdered.” McCabe saw she had her father’s attention. “This is off the record, Pop. Completely confidential.”

  “Are you playing that tune again? Who do you think I’m going to tell? I’m retired.”

  “Yes, but you’re up to something … whatever it is you’re working on and don’t want to talk about. That’s why I’m reminding you.”

  “You can rest easy, Ms. Detective. I’m not interested in writing about your cases.”

  McCabe put the salad bowl on the table and sat down. “Then would you tell me about Olive Cooper? What do you know about her?”

  “She’s tough as old shoe leather. If it hadn’t been for her, that husband of hers would have found himself living on the street before he died.”

  “He was a bad businessman?”

  “He was more interested in drinking, gambling, and womanizing. Story was, she put him on an allowance and told him to go to it.”

  “When we talked to her, she sounded like she might have regretted staying with him.”

  “Maybe she did. But when he finally killed himself driving drunk, she ended up with his inheritance, which she had grown into a respectable fortune, his family name, and the family homesteads.” Angus speared a cherry tomato with his fork. “Not bad for a girl from a little town in the North Country. That was how she met him. His family had a camp up there.”

  “Umm.” McCabe chewed and swallowed. “This casserole is good.”

  “Woman in the farmer’s market gave me the recipe when I bought some mushrooms.”

  “Did you know Olive Cooper serves on one of Ted Thornton’s boards?”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. If he was looking for an Albany businessperson for a board, Olive’s a sensible choice. She’s smart and she has connections.”

  “What do you know about the church she belongs to? The New Awakening Church?”

  Angus reached for a whole-wheat roll. “What do you know about the minister?”

  “What should I know about him?”

  “If you’ve done your research—”

  “As a matter of fact, we had the Research Unit run all of the people involved in this case. According to what they were able to find, Reverend Wyatt was born in West Virginia, into a family of miners. He worked in the mines as a teenager, but then got a scholarship and went off to college. He was majoring in business until he nearly died of meningitis. Then he underwent a religious awakening—hence the name of his church, years later. But before that, he changed his college major to religion, went to seminary, and received an appointment as an assistant minister. Then he started his own church, which has become a faith movement in this area.”

  “And it could become a national movement within the next year or two.”

  McCabe chewed and swallowed. “When Baxter and I interviewed him, Reverend Wyatt said he’d missed Olive Cooper’s celebration of life because he had to do a Web conference meeting with a sponsor. Something about national events he’s going to be participating in this fall.”

  Angus nodded. “According to a buddy of mine, the reverend went out and got himself a business agent. He’s been negotiating a contract for a series of major arena events across the country. The reverend’s planning to take his show on the road with the goal of going big-time.”

  “This buddy who told you this,” McCabe said. “You just happened to be chatting with him about one of the people involved in my murder case?”

  “No, Ms. Detective. We happened to be talking a couple of months ago about a book my buddy’s working on. We were sitting in a bar in the City having lunch. Did I happen to mention my buddy is a reporter who writes about religion and ethics?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh.’ He asked what I knew about Wyatt’s megachurch up here.”

  “Were you able to tell him anything?”

  “Not as much as he told me.”

  “And what he told you was that Wyatt was about to expand his ministry.”

  “Wyatt’s been taking it slow but sure. He started out preaching out of a storefront and worked his way up. Now, he’s ready to go big-time. But he’s being careful about that, too. Keeping it quiet until everything’s in place.”

  “If your source is reliable,” McCabe said.

  Her father’s blue gaze narrowed. “My source is not only reliable, Ms. Detective, he’s one of the best reporters I know.”

  “Good enough for me. So we have a minister who has enough charisma to expand beyond his base.”

  “He’s pretty good as a performer,” Angus said. “He knows how to hold his audience.”

  McCabe scooped another serving of casserole onto her plate. “This really is good, Pop. You’ve seen Wyatt on the Web?”

  “Seen him in person.”

  “In person? You’ve been to his church?”

  “I have been known to darken the doors of houses of worship.”

  “I know. You and Mama used to take me to church. But I didn’t realize you had been recently.”

  “After the damn doctor told me I had to stop drinking and then I had to go in and have my chest cut open, I was considering my mortality.”

  “Were you?” McCabe nodded. “I can see how that might happen. Did you find Reverend Wyatt helpful?”

  “Not particularly. But he preached a good sermon.”

  “Did you happen to encounter Jonathan Burdett while you were there? He’s the psychiatrist who provides counseling to church members.”

  “That many of their members crazy, huh?”

  “That many of them suffering from the anxieties of modern life, according to Burdett.”

  “Didn’t meet him. But I didn’t stay for the socializing after the sermon.”

  McCabe pushed back her chair. “I think we have some frozen yogurt. Do you want dessert?”

  “Coffee for me. If I wanted dessert, I’d have real ice cream. What’d your research people find out about Burdett when they looked at him?”

  “He grew up in a well-to-do Boston family with connections to Harvard by way of his grandfather and his father, who had both been professors there. Burdett himself was an undergrad at Harvard, did graduate work at Oxford, medical degree from Johns Hopkins, worked in San Francisco and then New York before coming here to Albany.”

  “Why’d he come to Albany?”

  “Not clear. He moved here a year or so after his wife died of cancer.”

  “He could have wanted a change after that,” Angus said.

  “And maybe he was attracted to Wyatt’s religious movement. Aside from his paid part-time position, he’s also involved in church activities and governance.”

  “So you’ve got a psychiatrist who’s religious.”

  “And open-minded,” McCabe said as she edged the frozen yogurt from b
ehind a bag of broccoli. “He said he was sorry that he’d missed meeting Olive Cooper’s spiritualist at her celebration of life.”

  “Her spiritualist?”

  “Luanne Woodward. She’s from North Carolina and a favorite with the media there. A number of well-known people have attended her séances. She once helped the police find a missing person, whom she had a feeling was dead. Although she did tell us that’s not her usual stock in trade.”

  “Was she right that time?”

  “They found the body where she said it was. But it might have been a lucky guess.”

  “Oh, thee of little faith.”

  “Come on, Pop.” McCabe came back to the table with his coffee and her frozen yogurt. “Don’t tell me you believe in the paranormal.”

  As she said it, McCabe realized this was one of the few topics they had never discussed. But once, when she had found him stretched out on the sofa, nursing a hangover, he had scowled up at her and observed, “If your mother could come back from wherever she is, she’d be giving me hell for getting drunk.”

  McCabe said, “You don’t believe it’s possible for the dead to communicate with the living, do you?”

  “Depends on what you mean by communicate,” Angus said.

  “Meaning you don’t want to answer my question.”

  “Meaning the answer to some questions depend on how they’re asked. I try to keep an open mind about what I can’t prove one way or the other. But with the Fox sisters as an example, I’d think twice about consulting a spiritualist if I wanted to receive a message from your mother.”

  “The Fox sisters?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Nineteenth century. Three sisters. The younger two, Maggie and Kate, were at the center of the spiritualism movement in New York State. They claimed they could communicate with the dead and became famous for their ‘rappings.’ Until Maggie confessed it had all been a hoax. But the spiritualism movement continued among the true believers.”