The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (5 page)

"Police Department."

"Hayden, it's Marilyn."

"What's wrong?" I asked. I could recognize tension when I heard it.

"You'd better come over to the church. And bring Nancy with you."

"I'm on my way."

* * *

"What's going on?" asked Nancy as we walked briskly down the sidewalk.

"I don't know. Marilyn just said to come down to the church."

"And you didn't ask?"

"Nancy," I explained patiently as we walked. "It will take us three minutes to get there. Nothing will change in the meantime. We couldn't have gotten to the church any faster, and I would have wasted even more time trying to get her to tell me over the phone."

"But aren't you curious?"

"Of course I am. But we'll find out soon enough."

* * *

Marilyn met us at the bright red doors in the front of the church. Doors of Episcopal churches are traditionally red. In earlier times, it was understood that anyone passing through the doors would find literal sanctuary. Over time, however, this meaning had changed, and it was behind these doors that people were now offered spiritual rather than physical refuge.

"What's going on?" asked Nancy again, this time directing her question to Marilyn.

"You aren't going to believe this," said Marilyn, ushering us in and closing the door behind us. "You've got to see this for yourself." She hurried in ahead of us and pointed to the ceiling. "Billy was going to change the light bulbs in the nave—the ones at the top."

"It's a lousy job. I'm glad it's not in my job description," I said, as we followed her down the center aisle and up to the altar. Sitting next to it was a scissor lift with a basket on top. Billy was waiting for us, shifting from one foot to the other in an obvious display of agitation.

"Okay. We've got something to show you," said Billy as we walked up. I could tell he was rattled. "I put everything back just the way we found it."

"Calm down, Billy," I said. "Take a deep breath."

"What's this thing?" asked Nancy, pointing to the large piece of equipment. I knew what she was doing. It was a pretty common technique: changing the subject briefly to put a witness at ease.

"It's called a 'man-lift,'" said Billy with a stiff shrug. "I borrowed it to put some lights on the big fir tree in my front yard. You know, for Christmas. While I had it, I thought it'd be a good idea to go ahead and change out all the light bulbs in the nave."

"It's pretty neat," I said, following Nancy's lead. "How did you get it in here?"

Billy relaxed a bit. "Right in the front doors. You just sit in the bucket and drive it. Then when you've got it where you want, you lock it down and use the joystick to go as high as you want. Well, up to thirty-five feet anyway."

"Billy!" yelped Marilyn. "Show them!"

"Okay, okay." Billy's anxiety returned immediately. "We got in here and we realized that we had to move the altar a couple of feet to the right to get the lift where it needed to be. I called three of my boys who were working down at the cemetery to come and help me move it. It's pretty heavy."

Billy Hixon was the Junior Warden of St. Barnabas and as such, he was in charge of the maintenance of the church. He also ran a very profitable lawn-care service.

"They came in about a half hour ago. I told them to be real careful, but Steve dropped his corner. Said it slipped out of his hands, but I think he was just being lazy. Anyway, that made Joe lose his grip and the whole end of the altar dropped."

"Where are the boys?"

"I sent 'em back to work."

"Did it break when it dropped?"

Billy shook his head. "Didn't break, but look here." He jiggled the back panel of the altar. "This come loose." I looked up at Marilyn. She was standing stock still, chewing on her lower lip with her arms crossed in front of her.

The altar of St. Barnabas had been at the church since it was founded in 1846. This was the second building, the first having burned, and was built by the congregation in 1904. The altar was one of the two things left from the fire; the other was the church bell. Local legend holds that when the town arrived on that cold Sunday morning in January of 1899 to find their church in smoldering ruins, the altar had somehow been carried outside the wooden structure and was sitting on the snow-covered ground with all the communion elements in place. The people of St. Barnabas gave thanks for the angelic intervention and had the morning service right there in the snow. The legend had become gospel in St. Germaine. I found it a good story. The altar had to weigh close to four or five hundred pounds including the marble top which, as far as I knew, was not removable. The only way it
could
have been carried out was by angels. Either that, or a company of very strong men with a heavy-duty piano dolly. In addition to the marble top and the thickly carved woodwork beneath it, the altar was enclosed on all four sides with dark panels. The wood was probably mahogany, although no one I knew ever bothered to find out for sure. I had been working at St. Barnabas for about ten years, and I had never seen the altar moved. It was simply too heavy.

I tested the long panel in the back. "So, it came loose. We can put it back on. It's not a big deal."

"Just a second," said Billy. He bent down and lifted the rear panel of the altar off of a couple of old wooden pegs. I could see where one of them had broken off.

"It doesn't look too bad," I said.

"O my God," said Nancy in a whisper.

"No, look," I said, still looking at the peg. "We can replace that without too much trouble. No one will even be able to …"

Nancy lifted my chin up and directed my gaze. The light in the church wasn't the best and was particularly dim on the floor behind the altar. My eyes focused down the length of the enclosed communion table. At the other end—the end I hadn't been looking at—was a man. He was wearing a gray suit and tie, and had a mop of brownish hair. A pair of glasses hung off one ear and sat crookedly on his nose. He was sitting up, his hands and arms clasped around his knees, his head bowed as if he was asleep. But he wasn't asleep. He was dead. And, by the look of him, he hadn't been there long.

Chapter 4

We stared at the body for a long moment.

"Well, what're we gonna do?" asked Billy.

"Let's get him out," I said, motioning for Nancy to lend a hand.

"How long has he been in there?" asked Marilyn, as Nancy and I maneuvered ourselves to lift the body out of its hiding place.

"Not too long," said Nancy. "There's not even any rigor present."

"This doesn't make any sense," I said, more to myself than anyone else. I had my hands under the arms of the dead man. Nancy had his feet. He was a slight man and didn't weigh much—maybe one hundred thirty pounds—and although the angle was awkward, we lifted him easily out of the altar. His limbs were loose, his cheeks still pink. He looked for all the world as though he were asleep.

"Rigor generally lasts about seventy-two hours," Nancy said. "Then the muscles relax. But look at the dust on this guy's suit."

I had already pulled a wallet from the inside coat pocket. The style of the suit was all wrong—the material was too heavy and the cut seemed clumsy and outdated. It was made of wool, but of a coarser quality than I had ever seen. Maybe this guy, I thought to myself, was from an Eastern block country. I rifled through the wallet and found a black and white photograph of a man and a woman who, I presumed from their affectionate pose, were married. Then, a moment later, I came up with a driver's license. There wasn't a picture on it because the license was dated 1936.

"According to this," I said to the group, now looking at me for answers to questions that I'd only begun to ask myself, "the deceased's name is Lester Gifford. He lived in Boone at 423 Councill Street. His birthday is June 12..."

I paused for effect—a habit I had that Nancy found continually irritating.

"June 12…1892. That would make Mr. Gifford 112 years old."

No one said anything.

Billy broke the silence. "He don't look that old."

"Maybe that's not his license," said Nancy in a quiet voice. "Is there a picture on it?"

"Not on the license. But look at this." I handed her the license and the photograph I'd taken from the billfold. On the back of the photo, obviously taken and printed by a professional, was the inscription in a fine cursive hand: "To my darling Lester on our anniversary" and dated "27 May, 1934."

"It's him all right," said Nancy, comparing the photo with the body stretched out on the carpet behind the altar. "But look at his condition." She sniffed the air and then, with a puzzled look, stuck her head inside the makeshift crypt and took a deep breath through her nose.

"Nothing," she said. "There's no smell. In fact…" She sniffed again. "Roses. The whole inside of the altar smells like roses."

"Maybe he was embalmed," offered Marilyn.

"Maybe, but that wouldn't explain this kind of preservation," I adjusted his glasses and touched my fingers to his cheek. "He's cold, but his flesh is soft. And look at his hair. It's perfect. Not dry at all. Go ahead," I said to Billy, who was now bending over the body. "Touch it."

"I ain't touchin' nothin'. This is just spooky. We've been usin' that altar for a hundred years. Now you're telling me that there's been a dead body inside of it since the 30's?"

"Anything else in the wallet?" asked Nancy.

I opened it back up and looked again. "A couple of dollar bills circa 1932 and 28. The 1928 is a silver certificate. A library card and a voter registration, both with Lester's name on them. And here's a business card. Watauga County Bank in Boone. No name on it though. And here's a dime."

"Is that silver certificate worth anything?" asked Billy.

"A couple of bucks. They're not that rare." I turned to Nancy. "Let's get an ambulance up here and get Lester down to the coroner as quick as we can. Preferably, before word of this gets out."

"Too late," said Nancy, looking toward the front door. "Here they come."

* * *

"How'd they find out so fast?" I asked.

"Billy's crew, I'll bet," said Nancy.

Billy was not amused. "Those stinkers stopped for coffee. I'm gonna kick their butts!"

"Didn't you lock the door?" I asked Marilyn.

She shrugged. "Sorry."

"Well, let's lock it now."

Rob Brannon and Pete Moss were already coming up the aisle with several more folks coming in the door. I gestured toward Nancy. "Let Pete and Rob in. Then go with Marilyn to lock the door and invite the rest of the onlookers to wait outside."

Nancy nodded and followed Marilyn out. Pete and Rob came around the altar and stared at the scene in front of them.

"We just heard the news," said Pete. "Billy's crew came in and they all started talking at once. Never seen them so excited. Everyone in the Slab will be coming over as soon as they finish their lunch."

"I swear..." mumbled Billy under his breath. "I told them to go right back to the cemetery."

"Well, I'll be," said Rob, bending over the body. "How long has he been dead? A couple of hours?"

"As near as we can figure, about seventy years."

"That can't be right."

"Let me see," said Pete, maneuvering his way past the scissor lift and closer to the body. "He looks like he's asleep."

"The ambulance is on the way," said Nancy as she walked back up the aisle and clicked her cell phone closed. They were in town anyway on a false alarm. Mrs. McCarty thought she was having another heart attack. Mike and Joe should be here in a couple of minutes."

"Look here," said Rob, reaching into the back of the altar.

I looked. Against the wooden panel, behind where Lester Gifford had been resting, was a brown accordion folder that was stuffed full of papers. It was almost the same color as the wood and, being covered with dust, was almost indistinguishable from the wood—especially in the darkened corner of the altar. At least, that was my story, and I was sticking to it. Still, I was more than a little embarrassed that this lawyer spotted the folder before I did. Me! A highly trained detective! Rob lifted the folder out.