Death in the Choir (11 page)

What
do I say if she opens the pantry?
“
I just came by to borrow a cup of sugar?”

But Lily didn’t come into the kitchen. Instead, she went
stomping through the other rooms in the house, and Francesca could hear the
sound of drawers opening and shutting. She could also hear the sounds of what
had to be muttered Spanish curses as Lily tore through the closets.

I
wonder what she’s looking for. It sounds like she’s really desperate to find
something – but what? Is it possible Lily had something to do with Randall’s
death? Hadn’t Candy said her mother had once been angry enough with Randall to kill
him?

“Where the hell are those letters?” Lily was evidently
talking aloud in frustration. “I’ve spent too many years cleaning up after that
man! Now he’s dead and I’m still picking up the pieces!”

A few moments later, Francesca heard the staccato sound
of footsteps clicking their angry way to the front door. Then she heard the
door slam. She waited a few seconds and then emerged from the pantry and peered
out the window. She saw Lily getting into her car, and then watched as the car
pulled out in a furious rush from the driveway.

Francesca quickly exited the house, uttering a silent
prayer of gratitude that she hadn’t been discovered. Then, as she was getting
into her car, she had an idea.

Why
don’t I see what I can learn from the neighbors? Maybe I can find out if anyone
heard Randall arguing with someone the night he died. I’ll start with the next
door neighbor, but I will need some pretense to knock on the door
.
I know, I’ll say I’m thinking of buying a
home in the area, and I’m curious about the neighborhood. That should work.

She decided to park her car on the next block, so Candy
wouldn’t notice it in case she returned. Then she walked back to Randall’s
street and rang the doorbell on the house next door to his. A heavily wrinkled
woman of about seventy answered the door. Her head was wreathed in bright pink
foam-rubber curlers, and she was squinting as she took a drag on her cigarette.
Francesca gave her a big smile.

“Hello, my name is Francesca
Bibbo
,
and I’m hoping to buy a house about a block away from here. Would it be OK if I
ask you a few questions about the neighborhood?”

The woman, who identified herself as Mrs. Gladys
Brumble
, fingered a roller on her head. Then she inhaled
deeply on the cigarette. She looked reluctant.

“Well, I got my soaps starting in a few minutes, but
come on in.”

Francesca thanked her profusely and took a seat on the
couch, which had to be at least a hundred years old, judging from the musty
smell and the groaning of the springs. She noticed a cluster of dust bunnies
languidly making their way around the room, thanks to a slight breeze from the
open window. She reached in her purse and took out a little note pad.

“Do you like living here? Are people friendly?”

“It’s OK by me. I have no complaints.” Mrs.
Brumble
sucked on the cigarette as if it were an oxygen
line.

Francesca jotted down a few notes and tried to sound as
casual as possible with her next question.

“Wasn’t there a death recently in the area? I think I
read about a suicide in the newspapers?”

Mrs.
Brumble
brightened
considerably. “Yes, it was my next door neighbor, Randall Ivy.” She seemed
proud of this bit of notoriety.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you know him well?”

Mrs.
Brumble
took her time
inhaling the last dregs of carcinogens from the dying cigarette. Then she
stubbed it out in a loaded ashtray that had “See Rock City” printed in red on
the side. Next she pulled out another cigarette and lit it up. Francesca tried
to edge as far away as possible from the noxious blue stream wafting its way in
her direction.

“Not really and it’s just as well. You see, he’d
sometimes play this opera music so loud it’d nearly split my skull open. Then
one day, Scotty, my grandson – he’s 19 and lives with me – was playing some rap
music.” She paused to cough and flick the ash off the cigarette. “Randall came
over here all bent out of shape.”
 

With her hair in rollers and trails of smoke curling out
of her nostrils, the old woman momentarily brought to Francesca’s mind the
image of a dragon in a beauty salon.

“I won’t even tell you the terrible things he said to my
grandson about rap music,” Mrs.
Brumble
continued
passionately. “’To each his own’ I always say. Some like Mozart, some like
Boyz
in the Hood. It’s all music,
ain’t
it?”

The old lady nudged a dust bunny with her shoe and
looked pleased with her analysis.

Francesca decided to avoid a discussion of music with
Mrs.
Brumble
. She was still trying to digest the
image of Randall confronting someone who was playing rap music.

“That night, the night he died,” Francesca said, “did
you see or hear anything strange?”

“Strange? Well, no, not really. I don’t watch my
neighbors, you know. I’m not nosey.”

She trumpeted another cigarette cough.
“But that night I was having trouble
sleeping. And I did notice something. It was real late when he came home, and
just a few minutes later, another car pulled up in front of the house. A tall
blonde lady got out and went into his house.”

That
had to be Patricia.

“Of course the newspapers said she was a lady friend of
his from the choir.” Mrs.
Brumble’s
eyes glinted.
“But if you ask me, he sure had a lot of lady friends. Just that very night,
another
one came by – about an hour
after the first one left.”

“Did you recognize her?”

Mrs.
Brumble
shook her head and
a few of the rollers trembled. “No, it was too dark.”

“Could she have been the same woman returning for some
reason?”

The old lady looked pensive. “
Naw
,
somehow, she looked…I
dunno
…different. I can’t say
why for sure, but just…different.”

“What about her car?”

“I didn’t see no car. She might of parked it down the
block.”

“How long did the second woman stay?” Francesca hoped
her questions wouldn’t arouse the old lady’s suspicions.

“I don’t know. I fell asleep right after that.”

Just then, Francesca noticed a rubber tree plant dying
from thirst in the corner of the room. Mrs.
Brumble
saw her glance and said proudly, “That’s my grandson’s. He likes to garden.”

Francesca smiled and shifted on the couch. “Do the
police know there was a second woman?”

The old woman nervously fingered her wedding band. “No,
I didn’t tell them nothing. I don’t like no one snooping around, especially the
police. It makes me nervous, and my nerves
ain’t
so
good.”

Now Mrs.
Brumble
looked
anxiously at the TV screen, which
  
dominated
the living room like a giant’s leering eye. She stood up and looked pointedly
in Francesca’s direction. “Well, I
gotta
watch my
programs, so...”

Francesca took her cue. She stood up quickly, said her
goodbyes, and started toward the door. But before she could leave, a young man
clumped heavily into the room. He was wearing scuffed black boots and a leather
jacket with various chains dangling from his wrists. There were numerous
intricate black tattoos adorning his hands. He was over six feet tall and his
head was shaven. His expression was none too friendly.

This
must be the Rap
Meister,
Scotty.

“What’s she doing here?” Scotty gestured toward
Francesca.

Mrs.
Brumble
tweaked one of
her rollers. “This lady’s looking to move into a house on the next block. She
was asking me questions about the area.”
 

Scotty cast Francesca a dark look. “Well, I got news for
you, lady: There
ain’t
no house for sale on the next
block that I know of. And I don’t like people poking their noses in our
business for any reason.”

What a
charming lad,
Francesca thought, as he started to move toward
her, the rank smell of his leather jacket assailing her nostrils. She quickly
darted around him and opened the front door.

“I just spoke to a realtor and it seems 211 on the next block
will be on the market in a week or so,” she lied brightly and then quickly
exited the house. Then, praying that there really was a house numbered 211 on
the next block, she hurried to her car.

That afternoon, Francesca made herself a cup of tea, grabbed
a couple of butter cookies, and curled up on the couch with Tubs.
If someone had given Randall an overdose of
sleeping pills,
it was probably
someone he knew – or he wouldn’t have let them in his house that night. And it
was likely that the person was a Scotch drinker who’d brought a bottle along.

But
sleeping pills would be hard to disguise, whether you put them in Scotch or
coffee
.
They would
probably float to the top. And even if he were completely plastered, wouldn’t
Randall have noticed them?
She munched thoughtfully on a cookie and took a
sip of tea.

And
who are the likely suspects? First there’s Patricia. But the police knew she
had visited Randall that night, and they had already questioned her. What about
the second mystery woman Mrs.
Brumble
claimed she had
seen? Could that have been Lily?

She knew that Lily and Randall were divorced, but
perhaps Lily had been hoping for reconciliation. And Lily might have been
infuriated when she noticed Randall’s attention to other women. But there was also
Candy, although it was hard to imagine her killing anyone, especially her own
father. Still, she would have had a motive too, since she did inherit his
house.

Either
one of them could have been Randall’s second visitor that night.

Francesca poured another cup of tea.
Was there anyone else who might have wanted
Randall dead?
She was startled by the image that flashed into her mind:
Father John. The two men had argued, and it was rumored that Randall had
started circulating a petition to the archbishop.

But
Father John wouldn’t hurt a fly
, protested a voice in her head.
Still, he did have quite a temper,
another one countered. And even if Randall had been visited by two women that
night, Father John still could have dropped by later, after the second woman
had left, and Mrs.
Brumble
had fallen asleep.

Another image entered her mind: Mrs.
Brumble’s
grandson, Scotty.
Maybe the argument
about rap music was just
the tip of
the iceberg. With a neighbor like Scotty
Brumble
, I
imagine there’d be plenty of opportunity for conflicts. And maybe that’s why
Scotty didn’t want me asking his grandmother questions because he has a guilty
conscience.

When the phone rang, she jumped nervously, spilling her
tea. She wasn’t accustomed to thinking about people she knew as potential
killers.
Maybe I should just drop this
whole thing,
she thought, as she picked up the phone, breaking her usual
rule about letting the machine handle her calls.

A gruff male voice, one she didn’t recognize, rasped at
her: “Listen, you witch, keep your nose out of other people’s business, unless
you want to end up like the choir boy.” Then the person, whoever it was, banged
the phone down.

“Oh, my God!” She was shaking, and her knees nearly
buckled under her.

The voice had been dripping with venom. She’d never had
anyone threaten her like that. Grabbing her telephone book, she looked up the
Decatur police department, and then dialed the number, her fingers
trembling.
 

“Decatur Department of Public Safety.” It was a real
person instead of a recording, Francesca noted gratefully.

Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “Is Tony
Viscardi
there?”

“One moment, please.” It seemed like an eternity, but it
was just seconds before she heard his voice, which had a magical, instantly
calming effect on her.

“Tony
Viscardi
speaking.”

She took a deep breath, and the words rushed out, while
tears slid down her cheeks: “Tony, it’s Francesca. I’m at home. I just had a
very disturbing phone call
and
...”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

She sat on the couch and found herself weeping out of
sheer nervousness and fear. But there was something else.
Tony’s
immediate impulse to drop everything and come to her rescue reminded her so
much of her beloved Dean. He had always been there whenever she needed him. She
picked up Tubs and wept into his scruffy neck.