Death in the Choir (12 page)

It was less than ten minutes when the doorbell rang. She
ran gratefully to the door.

“Tony, thank you so much for coming over. I…I…” And then
she broke down and cried.

“Sit down, just relax, and you can tell me everything
that happened.” He gently led her to the couch.

“Do you have any wine in the kitchen?” She nodded, and
he was back in a minute with a glass for her to drink.

“This will help you relax a bit.” She accepted it
gratefully, remembering childhood when her mother had poured her a glass of
milk before bed.

He sat beside her and listened carefully while she
related the whole story. Her suspicions about Randall’s death. How she’d found
out that Lily was Candy’s mom. How she’d gone to Candy’s house and hid while
she heard Lily searching for something. She could tell he was worried.

“I really wish you wouldn’t get involved in this,
Francesca. There’s really no reason for you to be investigating.”
 

“I know…and, Tony…”
I
might as well tell him everything.
“There’s more. I also visited Randall’s
neighbor Mrs.
Brumble
. Her grandson, Scotty, was
pretty disturbing.” She described his ominous appearance and his rude way of
talking.

There was a big sigh. “Francesca, there’s no reason to
be going around questioning people. This is an open-and-shut case of suicide.
Besides, I’ve already questioned Mrs.
Brumble
.”

She nodded guiltily, taking a sip of the wine.
“Something about the case doesn’t make sense to me, Tony. I can’t explain it,
but I have the feeling that someone killed Randall.”

“You’ve been watching too many police stories on TV.” He
smiled and then leaned over to smooth her hair. When his hand lightly touched
her forehead, she had an immediate sense that she was protected and safe.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m making a big
deal out of nothing.

Tony helped himself to one of the cookies on the coffee
table. “Randall had been drinking at the party. It seems he had more to drink
later. Sometimes, when people have too much to drink, they do things on impulse
-- stupid, dangerous things. Most of the time, they wake up the next day and
regret it. But in Randall’s case, what he did was deadly. And the next day
never came. It’s a real shame, Francesca, but he brought this on himself.”

She took another sip of wine. She was starting to relax.
“But why was there all the secrecy about Lily?”

Tony brushed a crumb from his jacket. “I knew Lily was
Candy’s mom.”

“You knew?”

“It came out during the investigation. It seems Randall
and Lily had an agreement to keep their past quiet. So they just didn’t mention
the divorce. And Randall wasn’t keen on people knowing he had a daughter.
Evidently he felt it didn’t suit his image, so Candy obediently stayed in the
background.”

“So much secrecy,” she sighed. “It seems like a lot of
wasted energy to hide so many things.”

“It does to me too, but I’ve seen it before. People
think they can just lay the past to rest by ignoring it. Unfortunately, it
nearly always rears its ugly head again.”

Tubs climbed into
Tony’s
lap,
and Francesca tried to remove him. She knew Tubs had a habit of shedding
profusely. But Tony just shrugged. “That’s alright. He and I are becoming
buddies.”

She remembered how Tubs had nipped Randall that day. He
seemed to be taking quickly to Tony, however. Then her thoughts returned to the
matter at hand.

“But Candy didn’t hide the fact that Randall was her
father when I met her at the funeral.”

Tony nodded. “She probably figured it didn’t make any
sense to keep the secret going any longer with her father dead.”

“Something Mrs.
Brumble
said
is troubling me,” Francesca said. “She mentioned seeing a
second
woman visiting Randall’s house that night.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what kind of game
Mrs.
Brumble
is playing. When I questioned her, she
never mentioned a second woman. But she doesn’t seem like the most reliable
witness, Francesca, so she might just have been pulling your leg.”

“That’s possible. But why did I get that horrible phone
call? Who could that have been?”

“From what you’ve told me, I’ll bet it was Scotty
Brumble
. People who have something to hide tend to react
like he did when anyone starts asking questions. I don’t know for sure, but
from your description of him, it’s certainly possible Scotty is into something
illegal, maybe drugs. And I don’t think he bought your story about checking out
the neighborhood.”

She thought it over. “It didn’t really sound like him on
the phone, but I only met him once, and…well, I guess he could have been
disguising his voice, right?”

He smiled. “That’s right.” He put his arms around her.
“Listen, Francesca, you know what I advise?”

“What?”

“I think you should stop analyzing everything. You
should stop playing psychologist.”

He drew her nearer. She could feel his clean-shaven
cheek against her own face.
How lovely.
She could hear his nice even breath in her ear and feel his heart racing
beneath his crisp white shirt.
 

“You’re very sweet.” He gave her a light kiss on the
lips, as he held her so lovingly. He stroked her hair. “Such soft hair.” Then
he straightened up. “And you’re a very tempting lady. But I have to go,
darling. I have to get back to work.”

“But promise me one thing.” He stood up.
Anything,
she thought,
anything, just call me
“darling” again.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Leave the police work to me. And if you get any more
phone calls or any trouble of any kind, call me right away.”

It was then that she very sheepishly told him about the
journal and love letters. She felt like she sometimes did in the confessional,
painfully shy while telling her sins to the priest, then immensely relieved
once she received absolution. She then unearthed the journal and love letters
and handed them over to him.

“I didn’t know what to do with these, whether they
should go to Candy or not,” she said. “But I think they would do more good if
you had them. Maybe they’ll give you more insight into the case.”

He riffled through the journal quickly. Then he looked
at the first letter. “Do you know who wrote these?”

“I have no idea. None of them are signed. But after
you’ve read them, you’ll see that it was someone Randall was definitely
involved with romantically.”

“Alright, Francesca, now is there anything else you want
to tell me?”

I
think you’re handsome. And extremely kind.

“No, that’s it. I swear I’ve ‘come clean,’ as they say
in the cop movies.”

He laughed. “OK, now, you take it easy the rest of the
day. I’m going to do some investigating on that phone call. I’ll let you know
as soon as I find something out.”

I should prepare supper and feed Tubs,
she
thought after Tony left. But she just lay on the couch for a while. She
luxuriated in the memory of the handsome investigator’s kiss until Tubs
wandered into the kitchen and meowed plaintively.

Father John was pacing nervously in his room. Ever since
Randall’s death, he’d been having trouble sleeping. An hour ago he’d awakened
from a dream in which the choir director had stormed down the aisle during his
sermon and screamed at him: “Hypocrite, hypocrite!” The entire congregation had
stood up and applauded. Then Randall suddenly had been transformed into Little
Richard, and the congregation had started stomping their feet and waving their
hands, singing in unison, “I’m
Gonna
Cross the River
Jordan with Jesus in My Heart.”

That’s when Father John had realized he was dreaming,
because there was no getting around it: His congregation didn’t sing. And
forget the clapping and stomping; they just weren’t into that at all. Then, to
his horror, the dream had taken a sharp turn, and he’d found himself in the
confessional. The woman behind the privacy screen suddenly pushed it over and
plopped down on his lap. He couldn’t clearly see her face, but he knew who it
was: Lady
Chatterly
.

“Bless me, Father, and then let’s sin,” she whispered.
But seconds later, the confessional door opened and there stood Father William
in his pajamas. He was carrying a cage with his pet hamster running maniacally
on its wheel. At that point, the dream vixen had gone running from the confessional.
She had paused only to deliver a disturbing line to the two men: “I know who
killed him.”

He’d awakened with a start, overcome with anxiety. He
had immediately rummaged for his rosary beads in the bedside table. As he
paced, he began reciting a steady stream of Hail
Marys
to calm himself. As always, the words nudged the train of ugly and disturbing
images off his mental track, slowly giving him a sense of peace. He meditated
on the sorrowful mysteries of the rosary: the agony in the garden, the
scourging of Jesus, the crowning with thorns, the carrying of the cross, and
the Crucifixion.

After the Rosary, he lit a cigarette and glanced at the
clock. It was 3 a.m., and three o’clock, whether it was a.m. or p.m., was
considered a mystical time. It was the hour that St. John of the Cross had
called the “dark night of the soul,” because, according to tradition, Christ
had died on the cross at 3 p.m.

From down the hall Father John could hear Father William
snoring loudly. The sound was accompanied by the rhythmic squeak of Ignatius
the hamster’s wheel. Farther away, a train hooted morosely, and a bevy of
neighborhood dogs began howling. He was fairly sure that one of them was Spot,
reluctantly sequestered in the kitchen at night. Father John put down the beads
and picked up his prayer book, thumbing through to the section entitled “The
Office of the Dead.”

“Like the deer that yearns for running streams, so my
soul is yearning for you, my God,” he prayed, in memory of Randall Ivy. It was
the least that he could do.

* *
*

When her doorbell rang, Francesca was stretched out on
her bedroom floor, doing exercises that were supposed to flatten the stomach.
She jumped up from the floor and ran into the bathroom, where she quickly
applied lipstick before heading to the door. She thought it might be Tony, and
she hoped she didn’t look too frowsy in her old jeans and sweater. But when she
peeked through an opening in the door, she was surprised to see Thomas White
from the choir. He was wearing a pale blue dress shirt and neatly pressed
pants.
 

As she opened the door to let him in, he gave her a big
smile. “I hope I’m not stopping by too early, but I was on my way to the
university and thought I’d say hello. We’re practically neighbors, you know.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize…” She returned his smile. “Someone
else is covering phones at the rectory this morning, so I have a day off. Come
in and have some coffee.”

She deposited him on the sofa with a
National Geographic
magazine, right next
to Tubs, who was snoring softly.
 
Then
she went into the kitchen to get the coffee pot. As she gathered up the mugs
and joined him in the living room, she noticed that Tubs had awakened. He was
purring while he gazed at Thomas.
A good
sign.

She put down the mugs on the coffee table, then went
back into the kitchen to get the sugar bowl and cream. “So where do you live,
Thomas?” she called from the kitchen.

“I moved into a house on Kathleen Drive, just three
blocks away. I’ve been there about two weeks, and I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

She didn’t know much about Thomas, only that he was a
tenor who’d joined the choir about the same time Randall had become director.

She poured two mugs of coffee and handed him one. “Do
you work nearby?”

“Actually, yes, I’m working on a master’s degree in
music at Emory.” He took a sip of coffee.

“Oh, that sounds interesting.” She was relieved that he
wasn’t in computers or business, which were usually conversation stoppers after
the first few obvious remarks had been made.

“I’m getting a rather late start,” he said. “You see, I
spent my twenties and thirties doing the practical thing. I was in real estate.
When I turned 40, I decided it was time to finally do what I loved. And that’s
music.”
 

His turquoise-blue eyes roamed the living room, settling
on the Celtic harp in the corner. “Do you play?”

“I’m afraid the extent of my musical ability is singing
in the choir – and my greatest contribution is my talent at lip syncing,” she
joked. “The harp is, or rather was, my husband’s. He could play just about any
musical instrument by ear.” She looked at the floor. “He…uh…he passed
away.”
 

Thomas put his coffee mug down on the table. “I’m sorry
to hear that. When did it happen?”

“Two years ago. It was an automobile accident. A complete
shock.” There was something about the warm, understanding look in his eyes that
made her feel as if she might start bawling.
Change the subject
.

“What do you think of the neighborhood so far?”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s wonderful, lots of friendly
people. And your coffee is excellent. I’m sorry I have to drink and run, but I
have to get to class.” Then he paused at the door. “I wonder: Would you like to
go out for dinner some time?”

“That would be lovely.”

Maybe
the old adage about how it never rains but pours is really true. Could it be
that all my prayers for a social life are being answered all at once?

“How about tomorrow night? I’ll come by about six?”

“Sounds good.” Then she added, “I guess I’ll see you at
rehearsal tonight.” She’d already heard the rumor that Thomas would be filling
in as director until a permanent person was hired.

After he left, she sat down on the couch by Tubs. “I
think we’re on a roll here.”

Tubs meowed, and she realized it was treat time.

* *
*

That evening, the choir members seemed unusually quiet
as Francesca entered St. Rita’s. It was their first rehearsal since Randall’s
death. Casting an appraising glance at the soprano section, she noticed that
Lily looked pale and glum. Patricia, however, seemed as chipper as ever, dolled
up in a powder-puff pink sweater with matching lipstick.

Thomas looked uncomfortable in front of the group.
Talk about a hard act to follow,
Francesca thought. Randall had been widely respected as a musician, and the
choir was accustomed to his style.

“Let’s say a prayer before we begin.” Thomas cast his
eyes downward and clasped his hands. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for
bringing us together here tonight. We ask you to be with us during these
difficult times and to guide us always toward your light. May your light shine
on Randall’s soul.” His voice quavered a bit. “And may he rest in peace, amen.”

“Amen,” echoed the group.

An awkward silence followed until Bertha
Chumley
took out an economy-sized flowery handkerchief,
dabbed her eyes, and let out a great honk. That seemed like the cue for the
rest of the choir members to start talking to each other. Meanwhile, Patricia
stood up and sashayed over to Thomas, batting her heavily painted eyelashes at
him.

She emoted loudly. “I just want you to know, speaking
for the whole choir, how pleased we are that you’ll be taking over.”

Francesca mentally rolled her eyes, while Rebecca poked
her in the ribs and whispered: “I’ll bet she’s after him.”

Rehearsal that night was a somewhat muted experience
with few of the usual jokes. The choir went over “Very Bread,” the anthem for
Sunday. They also rehearsed a few more pieces for Christmas. Patricia didn’t
say a word about solos, nor did Lily or anyone else. When Patricia tripped
awkwardly over a few measures in a way that would have infuriated Randall,
Thomas winced but said nothing. And when he forgot to give the group their
opening notes on one piece, he apologized profusely.

“Not to worry,” chirped Patricia. “You’ll get the hang
of it in no time.”

Rebecca turned to Francesca and whispered: “Methinks the
lady doth not protest enough!”

Francesca drove home after choir practice, looking
forward to a hot bath and a glass of wine before she went to bed. It was
getting dark earlier and earlier. The sidewalks were slathered in piles of
crunchy leaves, with just a few leaves left clinging tenaciously on the tree
limbs. In the dark, the nearly bare branches had a spidery look. She felt
chilly when she entered her house.
Better
turn
up the heat.

But there was something else. She had an uneasy sense
that she wasn’t alone.
That’s ridiculous
;
the front door was locked.
And the back door too
.

Suddenly she remembered that earlier in the day she’d
gone into the yard through the back door.

I did
lock it, didn’t I?
Well, I’ll
just go check and be sure. Why am I so jumpy? That phone call really rattled
me, I guess.

Once she was inside the house, she carefully locked the
front door behind her and dropped the living room shades.

“Tubs, Tubs,” she called out, but there was no sign of
him.
That’s strange; he’s always here to
greet me.

Glancing into the guest room, she was startled to see
Tubs crouching in the corner with the fur on his back raised ominously. She
smelled an unpleasant sour aroma, but she couldn’t quite place it.

It’s
almost like Tubs is afraid of someone
,
but there’s no one...

Then she turned and saw a man standing in the hall. Her
heart lurched in her chest. A chill snaked up her spine and she felt the tiny
hairs on her arms standing up.

Oh,
sweet St. Joseph, pray for me. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have
mercy on me.

Suddenly she realized who the figure was, and her heart
began racing at an even more frantic tempo. “What in the world are you doing
here?” she gasped.

It was Scotty
Brumble
, looking
every bit as sinister in his black leather and chains as he had when she’d
first met him. But what happened next surprised her, because at the sound of
her voice, Scotty took a step back. Despite his harrowing appearance, his
facial expression was almost sheepish.

“Your back door was open, so I just came in. I was going
to wait outside in the car, but you’d be amazed at how many people call the
police on me just for the way I look.”

She felt slightly nauseated from the waves of panic that
were coursing through her body. He was so much bigger than she was, and
stronger.
He’s just stalling,
and then he’s going to attack me.

Terrified of what he might do, she decided to try to
distract him. With a huge effort, she attempted to make her voice sound normal,
rather than terrified.

“Scotty, let’s go into the living room where we can sit
down and talk.”

I have
to act as if everything is just fine,
she thought.
If he detects my panic, I’m done for
. He
went into the living room and headed for the couch.

“How’s your grandmother?” She was frantically searching
for ways to divert his attention from whatever foul deed he was planning. She’d
read somewhere that if you talked to a potential attacker there was a chance
you might get him to change his mind.

“Oh, Granny’s fine.” He plopped down on the couch, his
chains bumping together like empty tin cans. “She keeps busy, watching her
soaps and her game shows.”

She smiled widely, feigning great interest and approval,
as if he’d just announced that Mrs.
Brumble
had been
nominated for sainthood.
 

Scotty looked troubled. “Look, there’s something you
should know about Randall that the police don’t know.”

“Yes?” She stood up and edged nearer the door. “Listen,
I’m going to crack the door to get some fresh air in here.”

He didn’t say anything, so she opened the front door
wide. She was tempted to run outside and bang on a neighbor’s door for help,
but for some reason her fear of Scotty was rapidly dissipating. It was being
replaced by an intense curiosity about what he might tell her.