Death in the Choir (9 page)

Suddenly the girl’s expression changed. She let out
another loud sniff, and her lips trembled a bit. She looked so sad that
Francesca felt a surge of maternal tenderness sweep over her.

“I always hoped they’d get back together, my mom and
dad, but now...” A dark mascara-stained tear trickled down her cheek.

“Oh, excuse me, please.” She grabbed a paper napkin and
swiped at her eyes. “It’s just that all this is so hard to get used to.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Candy. I know how
difficult this must be for you.”

Something
about all this just doesn’t add up,
Francesca thought, as Candy
continued to sniff and dab at her eyes.
I
hate to pry, but how else can I find out what I need to know?

“Candy, did your dad seem depressed when you last spoke
with him?”

“Huh?” Candy seemed startled by the question. “Dad,
depressed? No, not really. He was always a little moody, you know, but I think
he was getting better. He told me when I talked to him on the phone the day
that he...that he died...that things were looking up for him.”

“Was he specific?”

“He said he had an idea about how to get a new organ for
the church. He also said something about finally ending a friendship that had
been bothering him. And there was some new relationship, I think, someone he
thought a lot of…”
 

Francesca avoided Candy’s eyes.
Could that have been me?

She drank the last bit of coffee and put the mug down on
the table. She tried to act as nonchalant as possible. “Any names?”

Candy pulled another donut from the box, tore it into
little pieces, and began rolling the dough between her fingers as if it were
clay. “No, he never really confided in me that much. But he knew a lot of
people.”

Yes,
and it seems that one of them penned those fiery letters
.
I wonder if that was the “friendship” he was
trying to end.

Suddenly Candy jumped up from her chair. The donut
crumbs hit the floor.

“Oh, gosh, look at the time! I’m supposed to get my hair
done at Lenox Square in 20 minutes.”

Now the girl looked at Francesca as if seeing her for
the first time. “Oh, I forgot to ask you about the box of stuff from my dad’s
office!”

Francesca took a deep breath. “Oh, yes, the box…I’ve
just started going through it.”

“Anything in there I might want to have?” Candy asked.
“I don’t have many photos of him…”

“Uh, I think it’s…it’s too early to tell. There was so
much in there, you see….”

“Oh, yeah, Dad never threw anything away. Well, you let
me know, OK?”

“Yes, I will. And thanks for the coffee and donuts.”
Once in her car, Francesca uttered a prayer to St. Joseph.
Help me to know what to do about the letters
.

* * *

When Francesca got home, the first thing she noticed was
Tubs’ absence from his usual spot on the couch. She walked down the hall toward
her study and heard the distinct sounds of gnawing, combined with enthusiastic
purring.
What trouble is that cat getting
himself into?
In the study she found Tubs sitting on top of one of the
piles of papers that had been in the box. He was chewing on the book marked
“R’s recipes.”

“Tubs, give me that!” She gently removed the slightly
tattered book from the cat’s mouth. He continued purring and began batting at a
laundry receipt, chasing it around the room.

Curious, Francesca opened the book. It was a handwritten
journal of some kind, she realized, and definitely not a collection of recipes.
Do I read it or not?
I hate to pry, but if I don’t read it, how
will I know if it
is something I
should give to Candy or not?

An hour later, Francesca was curled up on her living
room couch with Tubs nestled in a space between her knees. Randall had started
the journal a year ago and had written in it about once a week. A lot of the
entries were simply ideas about musical pieces he wanted the choir to
play.
 
There were also notes on
performances he’d attended with his own critical comments on the singers.

“A real dog but with a stunning voice” he had written
about one local opera singer. “Sounded like wolves baying at the moon” read
another entry about a choral group performance. And there was one that
particularly made her smile: “I kept expecting the choral group to start
singing ‘We are Many Parts’ at any moment.”

There were journal entries mentioning some of the people
he had dated, but no real details. Two people with the initials of “L” and “P”
were becoming real pains.
Must be Lily
and Patricia wanting those solos,
Francesca postulated. During the last few
months, Randall had written in the journal about an increasing sense of
hopelessness and gloom. He evidently had hated the job at the CPA firm, which
he described as “soul numbing.” He yearned to be a full-time musician but didn’t
see much chance of that.

He was beginning to dread choir performances because
something always seemed to go wrong. There seemed to be something else
troubling him, but his references were so mysterious, she couldn’t tell what
was wrong. Was he addicted to something, or worried about alcoholism? One entry
read plaintively: “I’m sinking lower and lower. I’ve got to stop this and get
help.”

“Doc has prescribed antidepressants and something for
insomnia,” Randall had written a few months ago, but a more recent entry said,
“The medicine isn’t doing much good.” After the blow-up over the organ with
Father John, he had written: “This can’t go on. I’m wasting my life.”

So
that’s it,
she thought.
He
really was depressed, and evidently he was feeling overwhelmed by his problems.
What a shame that he didn’t confide in
anyone. Maybe he was going to confide in me.
Hot tears stung her eyes.

I’m
still not over Dean’s death, and now I’m mourning the loss of Randall too. Who
knows what might have been?

* *
*

The next morning she was back at her desk in St. Rita’s
rectory. It was an unusually warm fall day with the temperature in the sixties.
She loved her mornings at the rectory. They were very peaceful, a nice time to
catch up on letter writing when the phones weren’t too busy. Her older sister
lived in Oklahoma and had three grown children, who had become Francesca’s pen
pals. Today she began writing to the youngest niece, wondering how much to tell
her about Randall’s death.

As she picked up her pen to start a letter, the blaring
noise of an electrical contraption assailed her ears.
Oh, no, a leaf blower
. She went to the front door and peered out.
Sure enough, there was a yardman with a leaf blower strapped to his body,
spewing smoke everywhere.

It was one invention she deplored.
No wonder heart disease and obesity are on the rise,
she thought
darkly.
A rake provides aerobic exercise,
and it doesn’t pollute. Especially in a city so near Atlanta, with the air
growing filthier by the day, you’d think people would avoid leaf blowers like
the plague.
And then there are sports
utility vehicles-—another blight on humanity. Asthma among kids is increasing
because of air pollution, but people still drive around in cars the size of
barns.
She suddenly smiled
. There I
go again. I’m on my mental soapbox. Didn’t Jesus say, “Judge not lest ye be
judged?”

Maybe
I should run for political office
, she mused. “If elected, I
promise to outlaw leaf blowers and SUVs,” she envisioned herself proclaiming to
the crowds. Then she pictured the crowds hurling rotten fruit at her.

The phone rang. “St. Rita’s -- Mrs.
Bibbo
speaking.”

Even though many women of her generation had assumed the
title of “Ms.,” she enjoyed the more old-fashioned approach. Francesca had been
delighted to take Dean’s last name upon marriage and to place the lovely title
of “Mrs.” in front of it. She was actually relieved to be rid of her maiden
name, which had been largely unpronounceable:
Andriuolo
.
Some of her feminist friends had been horrified that she had not hyphenated her
last name with his, but she had replied: “Francesca
Bibbo-Andriuolo
?
Are you serious?”

The voice on the other end was a very nice one. Rather
deep.

“Hello, Mrs.
Bibbo
, I don’t
know if you remember me, but this is Tony
Viscardi
from the Decatur Police Department.”
 

A pleasing image of the handsome officer flashed through
her mind. “Yes, I remember. And please call me Francesca.”

“Well, Francesca, this isn’t a professional call, and I
hope it’s OK to call you at work.”

“Oh, it’s not actually work. No pay involved.” She
glanced down at the pin
 
on her shirt
that read: “Don’t yell at me. I’m just a volunteer.”

“And personal calls are allowed,” she added. Her
curiosity was definitely piqued.
What
could the handsome investigator want that was personal?

“Well, I won’t keep you long. I was wondering if you
might like to have dinner with me tomorrow night. We could go to that new
Italian restaurant downtown.”

That’s
the same place I went with Randall. Still, if that’s where the cute police guy wants
to go, I think I can make the sacrifice and eat more Italian food.

“That would be lovely.” She began mentally surveying her
closet and wondering what she would wear.

“I’ll come by at seven. I have your address. You live
very close to St. Rita’s, I noticed. Do you, by any chance, bike over to the
church?”

She cringed. It was one of those promises she kept
making to herself. She knew biking would be better for her health and better
for the environment than using the car
. I
plead laziness
, she thought,
probably
just like the guy with the leaf blower.
 

“Sometimes, yes.”
Well,
it’s a white lie.
She envisioned her bike in the basement with its two flat
tires.

“Be careful. Decatur’s roads aren’t very biker
friendly.”
 

After the phone call, she sat at her desk staring at the
calendar while her mind spun out a few fantasies.
He’s Italian and he is definitely good-looking. He has an interesting
job. Watch out
, another voice said bluntly,
he may be too good to be true
.
Besides,
how do you know he’s not married?
The bubble burst.

Just then, Margaret Hennessy stepped into the foyer.
“Good morning, dear, it’s so nice to see you today. I don’t know what we’d do
without you.”

Francesca beamed. Margaret was one of those people who
had a gift for making others feel important. In her early sixties, she was a
tall woman who nearly always had a little smile playing on her lips as if she
were savoring a private joke. Her brown eyes always had a merry glint. She was
listed as the director of education in the church bulletin, but some of the
parishioners jokingly referred to her as “Father Margaret” behind her back
because she did so much for the congregation.
 

Now Margaret grew serious. “I was just watering the
plant in Randall’s office. What a shame. I still can’t quite believe he’s gone.
The last time I spoke with him, he was really looking forward to the Christmas
Masses. And he seemed hopeful about raising money for a new organ. I told him
I’d do everything in my power to persuade Father John to match any donations Randall
was able to get. He really seemed pleased.”

“Do you recall when that was?”

“Oh, yes, it was the morning of the choir party, I mean
get-together. The same day he committed suicide.”
 

Outside, the leaf blower shut off. The rectory
momentarily was bathed in an ocean of silence, at least until someone down the
block revved up a chain saw.

“It’s hard to tell with some people,” Margaret
continued. “Sometimes they have their own personal demons that no one knows
about. There was probably something quite serious bothering him. I just wish
he’d shared it with one of us, so we might have helped him.”

“We never know when our time will come, do we?” she
added. “I was just reading the New Testament passage about the wise and foolish
virgins, and how some weren’t ready when the bridegroom arrived.”

The words “bridegroom” and “virgin” stirred up a few
decidedly romantic images in Francesca’s mind. She saw herself and the handsome
police officer toasting each other with champagne at their wedding reception.
Oh, where did that come from?
She felt a
tide of hot blood rush into her face.
It’s
been two years since Dean’s death, and sometimes the loneliness is just too
much. Thank God Margaret can’t read minds.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Margaret smiled. “You’re awfully
quiet today.”

Francesca was sure her face was now bright red. “I was
just reflecting on the passage you mentioned, that’s all. And wondering if I’ll
be ready when the, uh, bridegroom arrives in the night.”