The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (28 page)

"Wes? Hayden Konig in St. Germaine. You doing okay? You sure? You're not dead or anything? Hang on. Your father wants to talk to you."

Father Tony had tears running down his cheeks as he took Nancy's phone.

"We need that answering machine," I said as I slid out of the booth. "And bring Nancy's phone back, will you?" Tony only nodded and Nancy and I left him to talk with Wes.

"What did you mean when you said 'I didn't think about Tony,'" Nancy asked as we walked back to the office.

"I thought it would be Father George. Not Tony. And frankly, I'm still mad at George, so I may have dragged my heels," I admitted.

"I don't understand," said Nancy.

"Come back to my office. I'll fill you in."

* * *

Nancy followed me into my sanctum, closed the door behind her and sat in the chair across from my desk.

"What's the story?" she asked.

"I think I'm being framed," I said. "This last thing with Tony tears it. I suspected that a priest would be next on the list. But I didn't think of Tony."

"Explain."

"The victims of all the crimes in the last week are following the text of a hymn."

"Which hymn?"

"An All Saint's Day hymn.
I Sing A Song of the Saints of God
. The hymn is by Lesbia Scott."

"Lesbia? Who would name their child Lesbia?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Scott, I guess. Seriously, though, it's a children's hymn that lists different saints. The first stanza goes like this."

I sing a song of the saints of God,

Patient and brave and true,

Who toiled and fought, and lived and died

For the Lord they loved and knew.

And one was a doctor and one was a queen,

And one was a shepherdess on the green:

They were all of them saints of God and I mean

God helping, to be one too.

"Okay," said Nancy. "So…"

"The first victim was Gwen Jackson. A veterinarian."

"The doctor?"

"Yeah," I said. "Then Davis Boothe."

"The queen. Cute. And the sheep?"

"That's what tipped me off," I said. "Why a sheep?"

"Ahhh. Shepherdess on the green. Beverly Greene."

I nodded. "The next verse lists three more," I said. "One was a soldier, and one was a priest…"

"Joe Perry was a Marine."

"And then Father Tony," I said.

"Who's left?" asked Nancy.

"And one was killed by a fierce, wild beast," I added.

"That doesn't sound good."

"No. No it doesn't."

* * *

"I'm thinking," I said to Nancy after she had gotten us a couple of cups of coffee, "that the only way this will work as a frame-up, is if the hymn is recognized. We don't sing it at all in church. The kids learn it in Sunday School. It's not an easy connection to make, but once the words are out there, the pattern is easy to discern. And who better to blame it on?"

"True," said Nancy. "It's clever, church music related, devious, and untraceable. Plus, you're dangerously unbalanced. You're channeling the ghost of Raymond Chandler, you stole your best friend's cinnamon roll, ate the scripture chicken, screamed at the vestry, and now you're wreaking havoc on the parishioners of St. Barnabas."

"It sounds bad when you put it like that."

"Yeah."

"He has to make sure that people make the correlation. I doubt that anyone will figure it out on their own, so he'll have to start the rumor. I figure it'll hit the streets tomorrow," I said. "The story of the hymn, I mean. The only way he can get his plan to work is if people make the connection to the hymn. We've got, maybe, one day."

"He?"

"Yeah. You know," I said, "this all started…"

"With the body," finished Nancy.

* * *

We got the call at three o'clock in the afternoon. It was about Randall Stamps, the church's accountant. He was dead. The call came from his housekeeper. She had gone over to his house, used her key to unlock the door and was greeted by the growling pit-bull that chased her up onto the kitchen table where she managed to use her cell phone to call 911. When we got there, the dog was still snarling and snapping at Mrs. Kellerman, who was standing on the table, screaming and shaking like a leaf. Nancy drew her gun as I inched open the door. We could see Randall Stamps lying on his face in the hall.

"Mr. Stamps is dead," Mrs. Kellerman screamed. "You've got to help me."

"Shoot the dog," I said to Nancy without hesitation.

There was an explosion of sound and then silence. I swung the door open and went to help Mrs. Kellerman down off the table. Nancy made her way over to Randall Stamps.

"He's dead," she called. "And judging from the mess in here, that dog has been in here for a few days."

"Mr. Stamps just returned this morning," Mrs. Kellerman said. "He was spending the weekend with his lady friend in Boone. He called me yesterday on his way back there from a church meeting and asked me if I could come and clean up this afternoon."

"So, the dog could have been here since Friday night," I said, "and no one would have known."

"I suppose so. He left on Friday afternoon."

"Let's call the ambulance and let Kent know he's coming in," I said. "Then call Gwen and get a rabies kit run on this dog."

* * *

"How are you feeling this evening?" asked Megan when she opened her front door. She sounded genuinely concerned and wasn't just making small talk.

"I'm fine," I said, and handed her two dozen red roses. "Really."

"How sweet! Red roses. My favorite! Let me put them in water."

She reached beside the door and dropped the roses into a waiting vase.

"You knew I was bringing flowers?"

"Of course. Ready to go? Let me get my coat."

I helped her with her coat and offered my arm as we descended her front steps.

"It was a terrible thing about Mr. Stamps," Meg said. "Did Kent call you yet about the autopsy?"

"He did. The pit-bull killed him. Got him by the throat after he fell."

"How horrible."

"Yes, it was."

"Did you hear from Gwen?" Meg asked, as we made our way to her car. Our agreement was that we'd take her Lexus whenever we went out. My old Chevy truck was more than she could bear.

"She called as well. She didn't think the dog was rabid, but she sent it away for the test. She said it was malnourished and abused and probably used in dog fights, judging by the scars on its body."

"This is all so sad."

"It is, but let's talk about something else. At least for the evening."

"Okay. Have you really quit? I mean, you are going back, aren't you?"

"To the church? I don't think so."

"But you love it."

"I'll find something else. Maybe do some subbing for a while. My friend, Virginia, subs for organists in Asheville almost every Sunday. She really enjoys it."

"Hmmm. Well, maybe something will change. Do you have any clues about the crime spree?"

"I do, but I can't share them yet. Nancy and I are working on it."

"That's good. But solve it quickly, will you. I don't like being the significant other of a pariah."

* * *

We drove down to the Hunter's Club outside of Blowing Rock and had a lovely supper—quail as the entrée, a nice Chilean chardonnay wine suggested by our waiter, dessert followed by coffee and as we were finishing our aperitifs, I lowered my voice and cleared my throat.

"Meg, there's something I want to ask you."

"Yes?"

"Um…" I cleared my throat again. "Would you like to get married?"

"You mean, to you?"

I smiled nervously. "That would be the idea."

"Well, I wondered if you were going to get around to asking me before dinner was over."

"You knew?"

"Of course I knew. Why do you think I bought a new dress?"

"You knew yesterday?"

"Uh huh."

"Does Sandy the florist know?"

Meg smiled and nodded.

"All our friends know?"

"Yep."

"Your mother?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well…" I paused. "What's your answer?"

"I'll have to think about it," she said sweetly, lifting her glass to her lips. "But, thank you for asking."

Chapter 23

The door of the pub banged open and Alice Uberdeutchland strode in like a storm-trooper in a light drizzle.

"Freeze, you moogs!" Alice yelled, dropping into her shooting stance and brandishing a heater the size of a loaf of bread--not white bread, sliced and packaged in a see-through plastic bag and tasting vaguely like paste; but rather, one of those loaves of dark rye, or maybe pumpernickel, oblong in shape and slightly smaller, although infinitely heavier than the white, complete with caraway seeds that provided a delightful texture as well as a mélange of flavors when your teeth happened to crunch down on one by accident, or maybe on purpose, and surprised you (in the good kind of way) by their unexpected presence--and that brought me back to Alice.

"YOU freeze!" oinked Piggy Wilson, his porcine head suddenly appearing from behind a newspaper at the table by the kitchen, his hoof clutching a snub-nosed .38; small and compact, which is more than I could say for Piggy.

"You ALL freeze!" barked Kit, suddenly popping up from behind the bar like a perfectly toasted English muffin and sweeping her sawed-off shotgun across the counter like a butter knife ready to spread raspberry death across the open-faced sandwich that was the Possum 'n Peasel.

"Freeze!" commanded Kelly, leaping out of the walk-in freezer, a revolver in his shivering hand and Marilyn in tow; she, at least, obeying his command, seeing as her lips were now a bluish color and she couldn't blink.

"Everybody freeze!" shouted Stumpy, turning down the thermostat to thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit because thirty-two degrees Celsius would really have felt more like early summer in the Catskills.

"Is that everyone?" I asked, lighting a stogy and giving it a puff.

* * *

"So, you finally have everyone in the same room," said Meg. "I sense a conclusion to the festivities. And I'm interested to learn the name of the hymn that was so bad that even Candy Blather wouldn't include it."

"The world waits in expectation of the news. The worst hymn ever written."

"Will we know soon?" asked Meg.

"One more chapter," I said.

* * *

Meg called me at the office after the vestry meeting.

"Have you found your cell phone?"

"Nope," I said.

"Hmmm. Anyway, we met over at Rob's office. Nine of us plus Rob and George."

"That's a quorum, I guess."

"Yes it is. Rob had a report from Randall that he said had been mailed to him on Monday morning before the…um…accident."

"No accident," I muttered. "What did the report say?"

"Pretty much what Randall had told us at the vestry meeting. That the stock certificates were probably worth $500 apiece to a collector—maybe more to
The Sons of Richmond
since they were based in Richmond and might have some ties to the old bank they were drawn on. Seven of the vestry signed the agreement plus Rob and George. Mark Wells and I wouldn't do it."