The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (27 page)

“
Can we take it with us?” asked Nancy. “Maybe Panty can get something off of it.”

Diana looked at Rebecca, who returned a shrug.

“
Sure,” Rebecca said.

“
Bring it back when you’re finished, though,” said Diana. “That’s the only internet service some of our older patrons have. They like to check their email.”

“
Who was the last person on the computer?” I asked. “Before it stopped working?”

Diana looked at Rebecca, squinched her eyes and thought for a moment. “Well, it was Allison O’Steen who complained about it. Before her...”

Rebecca snapped her fingers at Diana. “I remember. Oh,
you
know...that woman...I can’t think of her name...”

Diana looked at her blankly.

Rebecca turned to me. “You know...ol’ what’s-her-name. She’s your friend. The one who’s been playing the organ. Edna something.”

“
Edna Terra-Pocks,” I said.

“
That’s her,” said Rebecca. “I remember ’cause she had her black Range Rover parked illegally out front.”

•••

“
What are the chances of finding anything on that computer?” I asked Nancy.

“
I don’t know,” said Nancy. “But even if she wiped the hard drive, there will be something left. I’ll take it out to Panty. He’s good. Really good.” She thought for a moment. “Was Edna in the building when Mushrat was shot?”

“
Maybe,” I said. “I saw her coming down the stairs as I went up. She’d driven in from Lenoir to practice, but Mushrat had just run her out so he could conduct his Bible study.”

“
And was your gun still under the organ bench when she started playing at St. Barnabas?” asked Nancy. “You know, after the accident?”

“
Yep.”

“
I have an idea,” said Nancy, smiling.

“
Me, too,” I said.

Chapter 29

It was snowing again. According to the Weather Channel we were in for a white Christmas. Meg was in the bedroom wrapping presents, Baxter was lying on the rug in front of the fire, Archimedes the owl was perched on the head of my stuffed buffalo preening his feathers, and I was hunkered down in front of my typewriter, flexing my brain muscles like Arnold Schwarzenegger at a cabinet meeting.

I was being set up like duck pins. I could feel it. Annie Key was no more a singer than I was Hillary Clinton’s rent-boy. Sophie Slugh was a squishy piece of work, but what were the chances that she’d oozed her way past the killer gas-slugs, evaded the under-dwarves, and escaped the salt mines of Kooloobati? Slim, I decided. Virginia Slim.

Then there was Pedro. Pedro LaFleur was a hard case, a countertenor with high Cs to burn, and my righthand man. I knew Pedro. He ate his veal cutlet so rare he had to taunt it like a rodeo clown to get it to come from behind the baked potato. He wouldn’t be caught dead at the Lettuce Patch, a vegan eatery with more sprouts than Rosie O’Donnell’s upper lip.

Things were coming together like...like...

“
Dagnabbit!” I grumbled. “I’ve run out of similes.”

“
That’s nice, dear,” said Meg. She peeked out of the bedroom door. “Would you like an early Christmas present?” she asked coyly. “I’m all out of wrapping paper and I don’t want to go back to the store to get some.”

“
You bet I would,” I answered, happy to take a break. “I only hope it’s what I think it is.” I took off my hat and dropped it on top of the typewriter.

“
It’s not,” said Meg, coming out of the bedroom. “Nice try, though.” She had a large box in her hands. “Here, let me open it for you.”

She tore the tape on the bottom of the box, tipped it, and a large book slid out onto the desk.

“
Nice!” I said. It was an art book, one I hadn’t seen before. I immediately recognized the painting on the dust jacket, a depiction of an Old Testament story titled “Judith Beheading Holofernes,” although until I read the cover, I didn’t remember who painted it.
The Female Hero in Italian Baroque Art—the work of Artemisia Gentileschi.

“
It’s a first edition,” said Meg. “Signed by the author.”

“
Beautiful!” I said. “Thank you!”

“
Well, I thought the gruesomeness of the subject matter would be right up your alley,” said Meg. “All that Biblical gore.”

“
Excellent!” I said, as I flipped one page after another, quickly scanning and admiring the plates that I’d spend some serious time studying after supper. “I love early Christmas presents! I thought I’d have to spend all evening at the typewriter with Soph...” I stopped talking and stared at the book.

Meg looked at me, a question forming on her face. “What’s wrong?”

I pointed to the painting on the page. It was titled
Jael and Sisera
and dated 1620. The work depicted the climax of the story in the Book of Judges. Sisera, a general whose army has been routed by the Israelites, takes refuge in the house of his friend Heber the Kenite. Heber’s wife, Jael, tells him that he’s safe there, but when he falls asleep, she nails his head to the ground with a tent peg. This was the scene I was looking at, rendered in beautiful, rich Baroque brush strokes.

“
So?” said Meg.

“
You know the story?”

“
Sure.”

“
Donald Mushrat wasn’t talking about a jail. He was talking about a ‘Jael.’ In Hebrew, it’s pronounced with a ‘Y’, but I doubt that Mushrat knew that. And with his North Carolina accent...”

“
Ja-el,” said Meg. “So Cicero was...”

“
Not Cicero at all,” I said. “
Sisera.
Jael and Sisera. ‘We have a Jael in our community. I’ve come across some correspondence and I don’t think any of you are aware of the spiritual consequences that this implies.’ Mushrat found out that there was a killer. He knew it was a woman. He read her emails.”

“
Did he know who it was?” asked Meg.

I thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. He would have seen her sitting in the congregation. But she didn’t know how much he’d found out. She didn’t know how many emails he’d read. She couldn’t take a chance.”

“
So she shot him,” said Meg.

“
So she shot him.”

“
Okay,” said Meg. “I’ll buy it. But how did he get her emails?”

“
I don’t know.”

“
Do you know who it is?”

“
Not for sure, but we’re closing in.”

“
Oh, you’ll figure it out,” said Meg. She walked over and gave me a kiss. “I have something else for you. Another early Christmas present. You want it?”

I didn’t have to be asked twice.

Chapter 30

“
When’s Noylene coming back in?” asked Dave.

“
The baby’s not even a week old,” said Nancy.

“
Yeah. I know. But I really want to see the little fella.”

“
You just want to see his tail,” said Nancy. “But that’s not going to happen. He wears this thing called a ‘diaper.’”

“
Maybe he’ll need changing,” Dave said hopefully.

Our table at the Slab Café had been easy to get since Nancy had started stringing yellow “Police Line—Do Not Cross” tape across it.

“
What can I get all y’all?” asked Pauli Girl, sidling up to Dave and giving him a wink.

“
Um...how about an omelette,” said Dave. “Hash browns and some whole wheat toast.”

“
Will do, Sugar,” said Pauli Girl. She looked at Nancy and me.

“
Flapjacks,” said Nancy. “Short stack.”

“
I’ll have a couple of country ham biscuits,” I said. “And some grits.”

“
Gotcha,” said Pauli Girl, writing quickly. She tore the ticket off the pad and headed for the kitchen.

“
And some more coffee,” Nancy called after her. Pauli Girl waved at Nancy over her shoulder.

“
What’s the news on the computer?” I asked.

“
News?” said Nancy. “Here’s the news. There was no hard drive in that computer. It was gone.”

“
Gone?” I said.

“
Taken out. Removed. Stolen. Gone. A big hole where the hard drive should have been.”

“
How long would that have taken?” Dave asked. “To disassemble the computer and pop out the hard drive?”

“‘
Pop out’ being the operative words,” said Nancy, shaking her head in dismay. “These things are almost disposable. Panty and I tried it a couple of times with one of his spare drives. The fastest time we had was one minute forty seconds. The slowest was three minutes and that was because we dropped the screwdriver behind the table and couldn’t find it.”

“
So, nothing on the computer?” I said, knowing the answer.

“
Nope.”

“
Well,” said Dave glumly. “What’s next?”

“
We need to shoot the Glock,” I said. “And check the rifling on the bullet.”

“
Your
Glock?” asked Dave.

Pete walked out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a greasy towel. He tossed it behind the counter, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“
What’s up?” he said.

“
Police line. Do not cross,” said Nancy, pointing at the plastic yellow banner.

“
Yeah, yeah. So what’s up?”

“
Nancy was just going to show us how long it takes to change the barrel on a Glock 17,” I said.

“
I have a Glock 19,” said Nancy, unsnapping her holster and putting the gun on the table. “It’s the compact model—a little smaller, but it breaks down the same.” She dropped the magazine, pulled back the slide, looked in, and then stuck her finger into the opening to make sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber.

“
A Glock has fifty percent fewer parts than other handguns of this caliber. This one, for instance, has only thirty-three parts.”

“
Is the safety on?” said a man at the next table. The gun was pointing vaguely in his direction and he looked very nervous.

“
Actually, there are three safeties,” said Nancy. “But none you can see. There’s a trigger safety, a firing pin safety, and a drop safety. It’s the safest pistol on the market. The only way a Glock handgun will fire is for the trigger to be pulled fully to the rear. It won’t go off by itself.” She sniffed. “Anyway, it’s not loaded.”

“
Okay,” said Pete nervously. “I’m sure we all feel very safe.”

“
Watch this,” said Nancy. She located the locking tabs on both sides of the frame and pulled down on them while tugging on the slide. The slide dropped off into her hand. She lifted out the recoil spring, removed the barrel, held it up for us to see, and then reversed the process.