by Nic Saint
“I really don’t think your Nurse Braun and Yoko Bricknell’s situation are comparable,” I protested.
“Just you wait and see, Max,” said my friend, the soap opera fan. “Nurse Braun still hasn’t been caught, and I doubt she ever will. And the same probably goes for Yoko.” He cast a critical look at the restaurant, where both Yoko and Bill now stood watching us.
“See? They’re watching us, talking about the murder,” said Dooley.
“I’m sure they’re simply talking about what happened to Neda.”
“Exactly,” said Dooley. “And about who their next victim will be. Mark my words,” he said as we walked on, “Neda isn’t the first victim of these Bonnie and Clyde wannabes.”
“I thought it was Nurse Braun and Doctor Adolf?” I said with a smile.
He gave me a keen look. “Do you know what Nurse Braun’s first name is?”
“Um, no,” I had to admit. I’m not keen on watching soap operas myself.
“Bonnie,” he said, and gave me a meaningful nod. “And Doctor Adolf’s is Clyde.”
“Bonnie Braun and Clyde Adolf?”
“Exactly. I rest my case, Max.”
11
While Dooley was still ruminating on the repercussions of his stunning discovery, Odelia and Chase had walked the short distance from the restaurant to St. John’s Church, where Father Reilly holds forth on a regular basis.
The aged priest is a dear friend of Gran, and also a member of one of the two neighborhood watches Hampton Cove is proud to look to for its protection. When we arrived we found him pottering about in the church, making sure he had all his ducks in a row, though in his case those ducks had taken the shape of the chairs his parishioners liked to lower themselves on to hear him spread the word of their Lord and Savior.
He welcomed us with open arms, but since there were a couple of parishioners in church, lighting candles or sitting in the pews with bowed head, he felt it more prudent to take the conversation to the sacristy, next to which he has his office.
It was a small room located behind the sacristy, and when we arrived there, I could tell that Father Reilly, if he’d had an affair with Neda, had merely gone through the motions, for his private space clearly needed a woman’s touch, as it now looked very much the epitome of a bachelor’s pad. His desk was buried under a mountain of documents, and there was no air there.
“Why don’t we open a window first?” Odelia suggested the moment we entered and she wrinkled her nose.
She proceeded to put her money where her mouth was and opened a window while Father Reilly took a seat behind his desk and looked out at his visitors across the mountain of paper.
So Odelia did what any sensible person would do in those circumstances: she began to move those mountains to the floor, to make some space.
Father Reilly muttered a few token protestations but finally gave up and watched with stunned surprise at the speed with which Odelia created order in the chaos of his small office. “Pity you already have a job,” he finally said. “Otherwise I’d hire you as my personal assistant. You’re obviously very good at this.”
“I’ve been doing the same thing for Dan for years,” she explained, referring to her aged editor Dan Goory, who also has an issue with the concept of a clean desk.
“So what did you want to discuss?” said Father Reilly finally, as he steepled his fingers and leaned back, the picture of the wise old man, ready to confer with his fellow clergymen about some important theological dilemma, be it the number of angels dancing on the head of a pin or even the baffling mystery of their gender.
“You heard about what happened to Neda?” asked Chase.
“Tragic,” said the priest as he sadly shook his gray head. “An absolute tragedy. Cut down in her prime—and by a burglar, or so I’ve been told?”
“That remains to be seen,” said the cop. “All we know for sure is that she was attacked and that her safe was burgled, and presumably those two facts are related.”
“I hope you catch this person soon. Several of my parishioners have approached me, expressing concern that a burglarious murderer is allowed to run amok in our small and peaceful community, slaying one of our own in such a heinous and brutal fashion.”
“We’re doing our best. So we wanted to talk to you about the choir, Father.”
“Yes? What about the choir?”
“Neda had only recently been appointed your new director, and as I understand, her appointment didn’t go unchallenged.”
The priest displayed a wan smile. “Human foibles have caused a certain amount of friction, that is true. But I can assure you that the large majority of our beloved choir was very happy with Neda.”
“Janette Bittiner wasn’t happy. Yoko Bricknell wasn’t happy.”
“No, but that was only to be expected, as they both had hoped to rise to the position themselves. But there really was no doubt, as far as I was concerned. Neda had the capacity and the ambition to fill Samuel Smalls’s large shoes.”
“And Janette and Yoko didn’t?”
“I’m not saying Janette wouldn’t have made an adequate conductor. She certainly is passionate. But it’s not enough to have a passion for the position. You also need to have the necessary leadership skills.”
“And Janette didn’t have those.”
Father Reilly shook his head. “Janette is a dear, dear soul, but she’s not leadership material, I’m afraid. Neither is Yoko. You shouldn’t underestimate the challenges a choir director faces, my dear friends. It’s not just about musical talent, or, as I said, passion. You have to get a group of fifty people to work together and extract a certain result from them. It’s hard.”
“And Neda had that talent.”
“In spades.” He sighed. “But sadly it wasn’t to be. I’ll have to start from scratch, and find a new director.”
“Janette Bittiner?”
“Absolutely not. Janette would only create discord and chaos if she took the reins.”
“Yoko?”
“Too impulsive and inexperienced. And I’ve told her so. No,” he said, a pensive look coming over him. “I think this time I’m going to have to look beyond the choir. Bring in an outsider. Which just might be for the best. As this whole experience with Neda has proved, if you promote someone from the main group to director prominence, all you reap is jealousy and spite.”
“Do you think Janette Bittiner is capable of murder?” asked Odelia, now putting her cards on the table.
Father Reilly looked startled at this. “Janette? A killer? Oh, no. Absolutely not. Janette may be a gossip and a busybody, but she’s harmless.” He shifted uncomfortably on his hard wooden chair, which as I could see from my vantage position on the stone floor didn’t even have a cushion. “The only person I can think of with the wherewithal to commit murder…” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m not saying she’s responsible for what happened to Neda, mind you.”
“Just spit it out,” said Chase.
“There was an incident a couple of weeks ago. Neda had just been selected as the new head of St. Theresa Choir, and being a passionate and forceful woman, she had a tendency to direct the choir with a vigorous hand. And so when they told me what happened, frankly I wasn’t surprised.”
“What happened?”
“I think Neda was doing the Brahms,” he said as he directed his mild blue eyes heavenward, as if searching his memory for those salient details that make all the difference. “She was conducting it with a wide and powerful sweep of her arm, really driving home the importance of adhering to those delightful harmonies. And of course Amadeo always has a tendency to arrive late, and not to look where he steps.”
“Amadeo Larobski?”
“Indeed. Amadeo is one of our senior members. Pushing seventy now. Not the best voice in the chorus, but we like him, even though I have had to ask him several times now not to sing too loud, as he sings so terribly out of tune he distracts the others.”<
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“What happened to Amadeo?” asked Chase, an edge to his voice. Chase is a patient man, but even a patient man can be pushed to the brink when the interviewee is intent on taking the scenic route before coming to the point, if indeed there even is a point.
“Oh, she hit him, of course. Knocked him to the floor. Poor man hit his head and according to Hazel hasn’t been the same since.”
“Hazel…”
“Hazel Larobski. Amadeo’s wife. She blamed Neda. Accused her of staging an attack on her husband. When everyone could see that it was simply an unfortunate accident.”
12
After we left Father Reilly’s office, Odelia and Chase decided to grab a coffee and discuss the case, while Dooley and I decided to do the same. Not grab a coffee, I mean, but take a moment to discuss the case. And since Odelia and Chase were planning to have their coffee at the Café Baron which doesn’t have a street café, and we didn’t feel like being cooped up inside again, we wandered on and enjoyed some fresh air. Our wanderings took us in the direction of the Star hotel, where we came upon Gran and her friend Scarlett, who were sipping their drinks, seated in the outside dining area.
Gran spotted us, and beckoned us over to join them.
“What’s all this I’m hearing about Neda Hoeppner being murdered?” she asked the moment we’d hopped up on two chairs and had made ourselves comfortable.
“She was murdered by Bonnie and Clyde,” Dooley said, who was sticking to his original theory.
“Bonnie and Clyde?” asked Gran with a frown.
“You remember. From Friday’s episode of General Hospital. Nurse Bauer and Doctor Adolf murdered Bonnie Bauer’s competitor for the position of head nurse.”
“I remember,” said Gran. “But why would Nurse Bauer murder Neda?”
“Not Nurse Bauer,” said Dooley with a laugh. “Yoko Bricknell and her boss Bill Bouillabaisse. It’s the same thing, Gran, only instead of head nurse, Yoko wanted to become choir director, and since Neda was standing in her way, she killed her.”
“Huh,” said Gran, and quickly translated Dooley’s frankly outrageous theory for her friend, who unfortunately can’t speak our language. Though recently Scarlett has been correctly interpreting some of the things we say. My guess is that she’s so in tune with Gran that a few words come to her from time to time. The miracle of intuition, you know.
“I don’t think Yoko Bricknell is capable of a thing like that,” said Scarlett, wasting no time refuting Dooley’s theory.
“You know that girl?” asked her friend.
“Oh, sure. I used to work at Bill’s restaurant from time to time, and Yoko was my colleague. That girl is so talented. She’s an artist,” she explained.
“An artist?” asked Dooley, who seemed surprised that Yoko wasn’t a nurse in her spare time.
“She paints,” Scarlett explained. “And she’s pretty good, too. And none of that modern stuff either. She paints portraits, and does a very nice job. She’s painted my portrait. It’s hanging in my living room. Above the mantel.”
“Yoko painted that?” asked Gran.
“She’s good, isn’t she?”
“She is good,” Gran admitted. “So maybe I should ask her to paint my portrait. I don’t think anyone has ever painted me before. And then I could give it to Tex as a present. He can hang it in his bedroom. I’m sure he’d like that.”
Not even in my wildest dreams could I imagine Tex being excited about having a portrait of his mother-in-law in his bedroom, but then who am I to speak for Odelia’s father?
“So if Yoko didn’t do it, who did?” asked Gran. She turned to me. “Any other suspects?”
“Well, there’s Janette Bittiner,” I told her. “She was holding a grudge against Neda, for stealing a job she felt was owed her. And there’s also Raban Pacoccha, Neda’s gardener, who, at least according to Neda’s secretary, is a drug addict, and always in need of some ready cash to fund his unhealthy and expensive habit. And we just heard from Father Reilly that a woman named Hazel Larobski was upset with Neda for hitting her husband Amadeo over the head with her conductor’s baton and causing permanent damage.”
“Permanent damage, my ass,” Gran scoffed. “Amadeo has been a fruit loop for as long as I’ve known him. That blow to the head he received from Neda didn’t do any damage.”
“Oh, I remember that,” said Scarlett, nodding. “Hazel made a big fuss about that, didn’t she?”
“A big fuss about nothing.” Gran wagged her finger. “You know what we should do?”
“No, what?” asked her friend, as she brought her cappuccino to her bright-red lips and took a dainty sip. As usual, Scarlett was dressed to impress, in roll-up denim shorts and a tank top, covered with a nice blazer, while her friend wore her usual tracksuit.
“We should stake out Neda’s place tonight.”
“But… what’s the point of staking out a place when the owner is dead?”
“A killer always returns to the scene of the crime, Scarlett,” said Gran, stabbing a sharp bony finger in her friend’s shoulder. “It’s a law of nature. So if we stake out that place tonight, we will catch Neda’s killer, it’s as simple as ABC.”
“You really think so?” said Scarlett, who didn’t look entirely convinced.
“Sure! We can’t miss. Her killer will return, and we’ll be there waiting.”
“But why would her killer return?”
“How should I know? I’m not a killer,” said Gran with the kind of spurious logic she likes to employ.
“Yoko could come back to erase every last trace of her crime,” said Dooley, who still hadn’t given up on that Nurse Bauer wannabe as his prime suspect. “Maybe she dropped something, and now she’s going to have to find it, before the police do.”
“Good thinking, Dooley,” said Gran, before relaying Dooley’s latest brainwave to her friend.
Scarlett was staring intently at me and Dooley. “You know, sometimes I think I can almost understand them,” she said now. “I feel like I’m almost there—but not quite.”
“You’ll learn,” said Gran, patting her on the arm. “You just stick with me, and I’m sure that my skill will rub off on you sooner or later.”
“I would like that,” said Scarlett. “It would be so much fun to understand cats and dogs and all the other pets.”
“Just cats,” said Gran curtly as she took a swallow from her hot chocolate. A small puff of cream was left on her upper lip but she didn’t seem to notice.
“What do you mean, just cats?”
“We can only understand cats,” said Gran. “I’ve told you this, Scarlett.”
“You mean you can’t understand dogs?”
“Nope. No dogs, only cats. Though Max and Dooley can talk to dogs, and if they’ve got important information to share, they tell us. Though I can’t imagine dogs could ever have anything important to tell us. They are, after all, an inferior species compared to cats.”
“But I would like to talk to dogs,” said Scarlett. “I like dogs more than cats,” she explained.
Gran sat up as if stung. “You never told me that!”
“Well, I do. I’m a dog person.”
“No way!”
“Yes, way. Dogs are cute and funny. Cats are… well, a little scary, you have to admit.”
“I don’t have to admit anything! Dogs are dumb, Scarlett. Cats are smart. Everybody knows that.”
“Dogs can be very smart, too, Vesta. Some of them even save humans from certain death, when they’re buried under an avalanche or whatever.”
“You’re thinking of St. Bernards,” said Gran, a dark frown still creasing her brow. “They like to lug a gallon of Scotch around the mountains for some mysterious reason.”
“Or how about that nice dog that followed Richard Gere around in that movie?”
“Following Richard Gere around like a moron doesn’t necessarily indicate smarts.”
“Well, I think dogs are all right.”
“Okay, b
e that way,” said Gran with a sigh. “But don’t expect me to agree with you because I don’t.”
“Fine. Let’s agree to disagree.”
“If you say so,” said Gran, but it was obvious her respect for Scarlett had taken a big hit. A St. Bernard-sized hit, in fact. She got up, abruptly shoving back her chair, which scraped on the stone floor. “Well, I gotta go. I’m meeting my decorator Jason.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Scarlett, and drained her cup. “I want to meet this guy.”
“He’s the best,” said Gran as she threw down a couple of bills. “The best of the best, in fact.” She gave both me and Dooley a kiss on the top of our heads, and then they were off. “So how did you get this weird fascination with dogs? And do you think it can be cured?”
“It’s not a disease, Vesta. I just happen to like dogs.”
“I think you should see a shrink. This is not normal.”
“Plenty of people like dogs!”
“Plenty of people are sick in the head.”
“You take that back, Vesta Muffin.”
“I’m just trying to help!”
13
Odelia, who’d enjoyed a nice coffee and a piece of banana cake with cream on top, announced it was time for our last interview of the day.
And so we found ourselves sitting in the car with her and Chase as the cop drove us in short order—but always within the speed limit—to the home of the Larobskis.
Hazel Larobski, when she opened the door, turned out to be a woman with lined face but plenty of unnaturally dark hair that fell in curls around that face. It was hard to determine how old she really was, which was the same problem I’d had with Janette Bittiner and even with Neda’s secretary Cher. Hazel’s face told me she was closer to sixty than forty, but her hair broadcast the message she was barely out of her teens.
