Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines (24 page)

Elaine added, “When we were finished singing he said, ‘See what one good rehearsal with a master musician can accomplish?’” She snorted in derision. “I’m gonna quit. I’ve already had enough.”

“You may not have to,” I said. “Father Dressler did not look at all well.”

“Wait a second,” said Meg, her eyes narrowing. “Did you plan this whole thing?”

“You did, didn’t you?” said Elaine.

“Holy cow!” added Bev. “That’s why you weren’t worried.”

“How could I possibly have planned all that?” I asked. “Anyway, it wasn’t me. It was Georgia.”

“It was not!” said Georgia. “No one could have known what would happen.”

“Of course you knew,” said Meg, with a smirk. “You both knew. This is St. Barnabas, after all.”

Chapter 29

Buxtehooters was bouncing by the time I’d pigeon-holed the new hatcheck girl, bought her a couple of Peppermint Squirts, and told her my life’s story. Her name, she informed me, was Taffi — with an i.

“I don’t get it,” Taffi tittered buxomly. “How did Anne Dante get shot by Klingle without you seeing it? And didn’t Pedro have a smoking gun in his shorts?”

“Deus ex Machina,” I said smugly.

“And why was Anne Dante in the obituaries before she was even killed?” That seemed like a good clue, but you didn’t go anywhere with it.”

“Deus ex Machina.”

“How about Claire Annette Reed? I really thought she’d have something to do with this. I mean, she’d just broken up with Pedro and suddenly, blam, there he was implicated in a murder he didn’t commit. You can’t just throw in a character for no good reason.”

“Deus ex Machina,” I said again.

“What happened to Holly Tosis? Did he solve his case? And Ginger! She was foreshadowed back in Chapter Eleven as Anne Dante’s long-lost sister. Is it the same Ginger - Ginger Vitas - that was the sister of Holly? And if so, wouldn’t Anne also be Holly’s long-lost brother?”

She paused and thought for a moment, then said, “So Holly was actually involved in trying to solve his own sister’s murder, although he didn’t yet understand the relationship? Oh, the irony!”

“Deus ex Machina,” I grumbled.

“What about the St. Groundlemas merger?” she queried. “Ecclesiastica Rodentia? And the candle franchise? There just seem to be a lot of loose ends.”

This dame was beginning to get on my nerves. I didn’t mind a few questions from a good-looking sheila, but the ones I expected from Taffi with an i were more along the lines of “What’s your sign?”, “Is that a shotgun in your pocket?”, and “How far is it to your place, handsome?” These and other pertinent interrogatives accompanied by a giggle and a playful grapple under the table.

“You know,” she said with an air of disdain, “the use of Deus ex Machina is seen to be the mark of so poor a plot that the writer needs to resort to random, insupportable and unbelievable twists and turns to reach the end of the story.”

“Listen Taffi with an i,” I said as I stuffed my hat onto my head. “You spell your name with an i so don’t be giving me no literary advice.”

“And what about Jimmy the Snip?” Taffi with an i answered, priggishly flapping her eyebrows and draining the last drops of her Peppermint Squirt.

I chomped my stogy glumly and left her to argue the merits of White Womanhood and Interracial Kinship in the 20th Century Clerical Detective Genre with some Doctor of Ministry from the University of Life Long Learning.

* * *

I don’t think that Francis Passaglio’s going to admit to the murders,” Nancy said. “He’s lawyered up.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “He still denying it, but he knows something.”

“You think?” asked Dave, managing his third bear claw of the morning.

“I do,” I said. “Let’s go over what we know.”

Nancy opened her pad and summarized.  “The three women were all killed by a dose of aconite, absorbed through the membranes of the their soft palates. Darla, for sure, had the poison administered by way of her retainer, a retainer made by Dr. Francis Passaglio. We don’t know if the other women were poisoned through their retainers as well because we haven’t found them, but it seems reasonable to assume as much. We know that they all had appointments on Monday, January 10th and that Francis wasn’t in the office on the 10th. We also know, but can’t prove, that Francis was having an affair, in the past or currently, with each of them.”

“Probably not admissible,” said Dave, “unless you can come up with a connection and proof.”

What’s bothering me,” I said, “is the other stuff — the clues we quit looking at after we found the retainer. We figured the retainer was the Holy Grail.

“Like what?” said Dave.

“Like, how did Helen Pigeon know about the missing earring? Like, why were the women dressed up like characters in
See Your Shadow
?” Like, what do the Bookworms have to do with all this?” Like, why would Francis put a dead body in a house that he was trying to buy?” Even stranger, why put bodies in all three houses when he was only interested in the one?”

“Who knew he was only interested in the one?” asked Dave

“According to him,” said Nancy, “no one.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Be real quiet for a second.”

There was a vague memory bouncing around in my cortex like a crazed flying squirrel, jumping on the furniture, climbing the curtains, almost within reach, then gone again.

“Almost
…
” I closed my eyes and concentrated, my hands slowly reaching out. “Careful
…
” The squirrel stayed put for just a moment, looked at me with his big Bambi eyes and blinked, then
…

“Gotcha!” I said.

“Huh?” said Dave. “What are you doing?”

“Catching the squirrel.” I said triumphantly. “The answer has been there all along. This is what comes of getting old.”

“What?” said Nancy.

“What?” said Dave.

“I know who the murderer is, of course,” I said. “I just should have realized it sooner.”

“Are you kidding?” said Nancy. “Francis did it.”

“Nope,” I said.

“Dagnabbit!” said Nancy. “Okay, genius. Who did it?”

“Who else besides Helen was in the room with us when we found Crystal’s body?”

“No one,” said Nancy.

“Yet it was in the paper. It was part of the story.”

“Yeah?” said Nancy, still confused. Then realization lit her face.

“I still don’t get it,” said Dave.

“If Helen didn’t know about the missing earring,” said Nancy, nodding, “but it was in the article, who else knew about it?”

“I guess whoever wrote the article,” said Dave, then, after a pause, “Son of a gun!”

“Annette,” said Nancy.

“I should have remembered,” I said. “At the auction, when Helen complained that they couldn’t look in the properties before buying them, Annette told me that she and Francis had already taken a peek inside the houses.”

“If she’d done that, she would have had the keys,” said Dave. “You think she found out about the affairs and stuck the bodies where Francis would find them?”

“Or find at least one of them, then hear about the other two. Annette said he wanted to buy one of the houses for a rental property. She didn’t know about the cemetery relocation deal he was working.”

“She’d have to be crazy,” Dave said.

“Certifiable,” I agreed.

“What about the book club?” asked Nancy.

“She was spurned by the Bookworms, same as Ruby. I have no doubt she went onto the blog, read that trashy murder mystery and was struck by the similarities in the women’s professions. Not exact, but close enough to make a comparison. I think reading the book probably triggered the whole plan. When we check with Robin at the office, I’ll bet we find that all three victims came in to get their retainers cleaned on the 10th, and it was Annette that did it.”

“She covered the retainers with poison,” said Dave. “Then she sent the women home and picked up the bodies the next day.”

“Maybe the next night,” I said. “Francis was at a three day conference.”

Nancy continued the narrative. “She dressed them up, gave them all one earring, and counted on someone noticing.”

“Implicating one of the Bookworms,” I said. “That one was easy. Ruby said that it was Annette that told her about the Bookworm’s blog. Annette would have known that Ruby would read that book, realize the similarities, and tell me about it. She is my mother-in-law, after all, and sharp as a tack.”

Nancy squinted in thought. “How did she get them out of their houses and into the closets?”

“How about that refrigerator dolly we saw in the office workroom?” I said. “And Annette has that minivan.”

“You realize,” said Nancy, “that Francis has known all along who the murderer was.”

“Of course he knows,” I said, “but how could he turn in his own wife? Especially when it was his fault.”

“Can we prove any of this in a court of law?” asked Nancy.

“We’ll get a warrant and check Annette’s minivan for trace evidence,” I said. “She’s been good so far, but I doubt she’s
that
good.”

Francis is going to throw a right fit,” said Dave. “He’s best friends with Judge Adams.”

I nodded. “
Fiat justitia ruat coelum.
”

“Let justice be done though the heavens fall,” said Nancy.

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“You’re not the only smartass in town,” she said.

* * *

When we served Francis the warrant on the minivan, he crumpled.

“My God,” he said. “Annette. I guess it’s my fault.”

“You’re damn right it is!” snapped Nancy.

“We have to talk to her,” I said. “If you want to bring her down to Boone with your lawyer and have her turn herself in, that’s okay with us.”

“She’s not here. She took a trip to Paris.”

I was skeptical. “Really? Paris?”

“I think it was Paris. Maybe Peru.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care. “Polynesia? Something with a ‘P’ I think, although I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m sure you can check on these things. She’ll be back in a few weeks.”

I snarled at him.

“She’s been having some real trouble adjusting to her new medication. She’s been suffering from major depression since last fall.”

“No doubt being married to you,” said Nancy.

Francis ignored her. “It started when Maggie left for college.  She’s our youngest. Empty nest syndrome they call it. I suppose you’ll want to talk to her as soon as she returns.”

“Sooner,” I said, a real edge in my voice. “When did she leave?”

“Yesterday. It was a spur of the moment trip.”

“I want you to get her on the next plane back to the states.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a contact number for her,” he said with a shrug. “Unfortunately, she left her cell phone here, but I’ll tell her when she calls.”

“I will have you up on obstruction charges,” I growled. “I’m not kidding, Francis.”

“You do what you have to do,” he said sadly, a heaviness in his voice. He didn’t look the dapper playboy we’d seen the day before yesterday. There were heavy lines in his face and his eyes had no sparkle in them. He looked older. Much older.

“Call my lawyer if you want to speak to me again,” he said, and closed the front door in our faces.

* * *

We searched the minivan and found exactly what we were looking for, although the van had been carefully cleaned. Some stray hairs that had found their way into the spare tire wheel well and another retainer wedged under the driver’s seat, both of which, we thought, would end up tying Annette to the victims.

And we were right.

Postlude

Once we checked Annette Passaglio’s passport record to see where she had gone, we discovered that she’d driven to Atlanta, flown to Qatar, from there to Bangkok, finally arriving at the airport in Vientiane, Laos, two days after she’d left St. Germaine. The passport agency told us that the Passaglios had been in Laos the previous year for two weeks — a business trip, according to Francis’ tax return — and Annette, presumably, had decided Laos was her favorite non-extradition country. Her passport had been flagged, so if she decided she missed her children or her grandchildren enough to make a clandestine trip to any country that had an extradition treaty with the U.S., we’d be waiting for her.

Francis, meanwhile, had fired his receptionist, Robin, hired a new twenty-two year old assistant right out of Community College, got a facelift, some pectoral implants and a tummy tuck, had laser eye surgery so he would no longer have wear contacts, and bought a vacation home in Myrtle Beach. In early May, he took his assistant to an “orthodontic conference” in Costa Rica and was having the time of his life till he was bitten by a snake while on a zip-lining tour of the jungle. According to the report that we heard, he mistook the twelve foot poisonous bushmaster for a large vine, the final “tweaking” of his eye surgery scheduled for the week he returned from his conference. He and his nubile assistant were in the middle of the rain forest with the guide and another couple and the nearest hospital was several hundred miles away. He died screaming. “Well,” said Nancy, “karma’s a bitch.”

St. Barnabas got a registered letter on the Friday after Candlemas from Father Gallus Dressler. In the letter, he withdrew his application to be full-time rector, and regretted to inform us that he’d accepted another full-time position in New Hampshire. Effective immediately. Marilyn told me he didn’t even come back to pack up his office. Two men appeared from Ackerman’s Moving and Storage, boxed everything up, and walked it out to the truck. That was the last Marilyn saw of it.

The Chevalier, once Father Dressler had departed, didn’t have much standing, and the vestry informed him that his sabbatical replacement status had been revoked. He smiled and produced a contract, signed by Father Dressler, hiring him until June, at which point, “further negotiations for full-time employment would be entered into.” They church honored the contract, paid him for six months of service, and bade him depart immediately in the way he had come taking his choir ruffs with him.

“That’s my money, you know,” I said to Georgia. “You gave him six months of
my
money.”

“Money that would have gone into the choir fund anyway,” said Georgia. “So quit your whining. You want me to call him back?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Meg would kill me.”

“By the way,” said Georgia, “the vestry cancelled your sabbatical.”

“Fine with me,” I said. “I was getting bored sitting at home on Sunday anyway.”

St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in St. Germaine, North Carolina muddled through the next few months with supply priests, then finally hired a new one. But that’s another story.

Bud McCollough’s grand opening was a success. The Wine Press was an instant internet phenomenon thanks mainly to his reputation among wine snobs across the world. Funded by Yours Truly, Bud had been holding forth at wine conventions, international competitions, and food fairs for the past couple of years in preparation for this day, and the combination of his youth, nose, and notoriety made him an overnight success. Not inconsequential were the thirty-three bottles of Chateau Petrus Pomerol, 1998 that went up for auction in the first month. Different prices were realized, but no bottle sold for less than $7600. Toward the end, as the bottles were disappearing, the prices went up. The last four bottles, bought by a connoisseur in Rio de Janeiro, sold for $11,300 each. All told, the partnership pocketed $266,900. It was a good start, and the auction created “buzz,” a crucial element, I was informed, to any internet site.

I rolled my earnings back into the company. Bud bought Annette Passaglio’s Honda minivan for a song, had it professionally detailed, repainted with the company’s logo, and was a happy guy. He offered to buy his mother, Ardine, a new mobile home, but she declined. She still thought that her boy “just weren’t quite right.”

Moosey and Bernie delivered wine all summer long and occasionally helped out with an animal emergency. They made enough money in tips to buy themselves iPhones and pay, in advance, for two years of unlimited calls and texts.

My 1962 Chevy pickup got its makeover and, boy howdy, was it ever sweet! I didn’t go for an original restoration — quite frankly I wanted a newer engine, a suspension that didn’t rattle my fillings, and leather interior as opposed to the factory issued vinyl. Even with all the upgrades, it sure
looked
original. It wouldn’t win any car shows though. The minute someone looked under the hood they’d notice the EcoTec3 5.3L V8 engine, the fancy computer, and a wiring harness never dreamed of in the 1960s. The sound system now took advantage of satellite radio and MP3 technology. No more CDs for me. The truck’s body had been totally redone including new chrome, a two-tone blue and white paint job, and a lacquered oak truck bed. Meg would now have to give me half of the garage, but Nancy was right. I could drive this pickup for the next twenty years and then be buried in it.

Ruby and Meg were both invited into the Blue Hill Bookworms and, after mulling it over, decided that they would go ahead and join. There was an installation and, although I wasn’t invited, I had it on good authority that part of the initiation involved a piglet, a flashlight, and five gallons of spaghetti sauce.

* * *

In late May, Meg and I stopped into Bun in the Oven bakery to buy some bread. Diana greeted us.

“Did you get into the book yet?” she asked Meg, wrapping up the loaf of tomato basil rye.

“I started it last night,” said Meg. “It’s a slow beginning.”

“You’re not lying,” said Diane.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“
Beyond Good and Evil
by Friedrich Nietzsche,” said Meg.

“Are you kidding?” I said with a laugh. “On purpose?”

Diana said, “No kidding. It starts out ‘Supposing that Truth is a woman — what then?’ After that, it becomes obtuse.”

“Obtuse, you say.”

“Incredibly,” agreed Meg. “Sarah Black put it on the list. Why? I don’t know. I believe that I may tough it out to the end of the prologue, then get the Cliff Notes.”

“I already have the Cliff Notes,” said Diane. “You can borrow them when I’m finished. It’s my turn to pick the next book, by the way, and we’re going to read
Bleak House
.”

“Dickens,” I said. “A good choice.”

“Don’t leave yet,” said Diana, “I have some day-olds for Dave in the back.”

“Would you also get me a lemon cannoli?” asked Meg. “I’ve really been dying for a lemon cannoli.” She put a finger to her chin and said, “And asparagus. I’ve been craving asparagus, too.”

“Sure. One cannoli coming up. I don’t have any asparagus, though. You should check with Stephanie. She grows the stuff.” Diana disappeared into the kitchen.

Meg gave me a strange look. “I guess this is as good a place as any,” she said.

“As good a place for what?”

“To break the news.”

News?” I asked. “What news? Are you divorcing me?”

“And you call yourself a detective,” Meg said. “Look around.”

“We’re buying a bakery?” I guessed.

Meg giggled. “No, silly. Cannoli and asparagus cravings
…
Bun in the Oven
…
”

My blood ran cold.

* * *

Marilyn was back on Tuesday from her National Literary Device Convention. We’d gotten Anne Dante out of the office and parked her on the back seat of a Greyhound with a month-long bus pass in her hand. Where she ended up was no concern of ours.

“Did you learn anything?” I asked Marilyn.

“Sure did,” said Marilyn. “For instance, did you know that hyperbole is a literary device wherein the author uses specific words and phrases that exaggerate and overemphasize the basic crux of the statement in order to produce a grander, more noticeable effect.”

“I think that hyperbole is, without a doubt, the single greatest thing in the history of the universe,” I said.

“Really?” said Marilyn, her eyes big as boiled eggs. “That’s what I think, too!

“Fix me a cup of java and let’s discuss it,” I said.

It’s good to be a detective.