The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (8 page)

"So he isn't an Incorruptible?"

"The official Vatican position is that he is."

"But no tests have been done."

"No."

"So," I said. "Do you believe in all this stuff?"

"Yesterday I would have said no."

"Something change your mind?"

"He's lying on the table."

Chapter 6

"How ya doin', Alice?" I said, lighting a cigar. "Glad you could come up."

Alice Uberdeutchland entered the office pelvis first if that could have been anatomically possible which apparently, thanks to yoga, double jointed knees and Arian fortitude, it was. Her flaxen hair hung across one eye like a blonde pirate-patch and the scar that I'd given her during our last encounter was fading but still visible on her porcelainic cheek. Her cigarette holder jutted from between two lovely fingers like another long wooden finger painted black with a glowing cigarette stuck in the end and her red sequined dress hung on her like a Hollywood actor hangs onto his Valium prescription.

"Vat have you found out?" she demanded. "Vee need to know, schnell!"

"Schnell, eh?" I said, narrowing my eyes and giving her a half-smile like one of those cats who looks as though it knows something, but in reality is just a dumb animal with a brain the size of a large walnut--the smile, most probably a little gas from eating some dead lizard--the knowing look, a product of an over-anthropomorphizing culture. "How schnell?"

"Sehr schnell!"

"Sprechen sie English, Alice? I seem to remember that you do."

"Ja." She sank into a chair. "Vee need to find out who killed Candy. She vas taking money from different special interest groups to include zere hymns in zee new hymnal."

"How does Piggy Wilson figure into it?"

"He vants the graft, but he doesn't have zee connections. We don't sink he killed her. It vould be like killing zee golden moose."

"You mean 'the golden goose, ' Alice. Or maybe just a special goose that lays golden eggs. Any way you spread it, it's still pâté."

* * *

Kent and I bent over the body of Lester Gifford.

"He smells like roses," I said. "Nancy smelled the same thing in the church."

"It's sometimes called the
odor of sanctity.
"

"This is amazing," I said. "Did you do an autopsy? I don't see any incisions."

"I haven't started yet. Actually, I was sort of afraid to, you know."

"Yeah."

"I know I have to do it, but once I start, I have to finish. The organs have to come out. Everything. Then, according to North Carolina law, he has to be embalmed. Couldn't we wait until we can study him for a while? After all, he's already been dead for sixty years." I could tell that Kent was really torn.

"Here's the thing, Kent. There was obviously foul play—probably a murder—and I have to have an autopsy. If we put this guy on public display, we will, in all probability, never get one. You agree?"

"I do."

"Once you begin the autopsy, the point is moot. Correct? I mean, the church wouldn't want him if you remove his organs and, by law, you have to embalm him anyway."

"That is correct."

"So," I said, thinking out loud. "Although he wouldn't technically be an Incorruptible when you were finished, you could possibly have adequate time to do some research while he was here. That is, before he was embalmed."

Kent brightened considerably. "Yes. Yes I could. What about burial?"

"No rush."

"Next of kin?"

"Haven't found anyone."

"I'll get started then. It'll probably be Monday before I have anything."

"That's fine. I've got Nancy digging around in the public library and the newspaper archives. Maybe she'll come up with something."

* * *

I met Megan in the downtown park at exactly twelve o'clock. Sterling Park was in the middle of the square. It wasn't a large park—just a full city block square—but, in my opinion, it had everything a park should have. A lot of old trees—chestnut and poplar, a few benches, flower gardens, grass, and a white wooden gazebo placed right in the center. St. Barnabas faced east on the west side of the park; City Hall faced west across the way. There were shops and law offices surrounding the square. Main Street came in from the north, ran around the square and exited south. Addresses were therefore divided into North Main and South Main with all the addresses on the square simply designated as "On The Square." For example, the address for St. Barnabas was simply On The Square, St. Germaine, NC. This used to drive the UPS drivers crazy, but they'd gotten used to it. All the buildings had numbers, of course—they were required by law to have them for 911 calls—but no one ever used them. Most of them weren't even displayed.

"Right on time," I said as Meg walked up.

"I'm always on time."

"I meant me."

Meg smiled one of those dazzling smiles that made me glad I was the one at whom it was aimed. "Yes, you are on time. I'm very pleased. You may kiss my hand."

"Yes, mum," I said, gallantly taking her outstretched hand and brushing her fingers with my lips. "Now then. What's for lunch?"

We sat down on a bench, Meg's basket placed between us. She took the red-checked napkin off the basket and began to unpack. Two bottles of cold Harpoon Ale, turkey sandwiches on thick whole-grain bread, hot German Potato salad and a block of aged Jarlzburg.

"Wow," I said. "This is great. I don't know why I don't marry you."

"Why indeed?" asked Meg, looking at me quizzically. I gulped and tried to change the subject as quickly as etiquette would allow.

"Yes, well…ahem…"

"Never mind," said Meg with a laugh. "You looked positively panic stricken."

"Whew."

"What did Kent have to say?"

I filled her in on Kent's narrative over lunch. I told her about meeting Hogmanay McTavish. We discussed the weather (which was perfect) and some church business. You know, I really
didn't
know why I didn't marry her. Other than the fact that I was terrified.

"You know that I'm off the vestry this election," Meg said, cutting a sizeable piece of the Jarlsburg and handing it to me.

"I'd heard that."

"And I'm on the nominating committee."

I nodded, my mouth too full of cheese to answer.

"What do you think of that new lawyer? Rob Brannon."

I swallowed. "He seems to be a good guy. Rich. Smart. Plenty of time on his hands. He'd be a good choice I guess, but I don't think he'll do it."

"Really. I think he might be interested if I asked him in the right way."

"Nah. You forget that I'm a professional," I said, remembering my recent conversation with Rob. "I can read people. There's no way he's going to be on the vestry. He's not the type."

"You certainly are sure of yourself," Meg said.

"I'm almost always right."

"Would you care to make a wager?"

"I certainly would. What are the stakes?"

"Well," she said, biting her lower lip. "If you win—which we both know you will because you are, after all, a professional—then I will go with you to Seattle next summer and sit through the entire Wagner Ring Cycle."

I could feel my eyes growing wide.

"Really? What's the flip side?"

"If I win—which we both know I won't because I'm only a woman and couldn't possibly convince a single, good-looking lawyer to be on the vestry—then you have to do whatever I ask you to do. No complaining."

"Is this a ploy to get me to marry you?"

"Nothing to do with marriage," Megan said. "Cross my heart. I just don't know what I want you to do yet."

"I don't know. A wager with unidentified stakes? Sounds fishy to me."

"What about this then? If I have to go to Seattle for a week, then you have to go wherever I say. Not to exceed five days."

"Still a bit vague. Will you be coming with me?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But, if you're chicken, I understand."

"It's a bet," I said. "Seattle, here we come."

"You can't tell him I'm going to ask. That wouldn't be fair."

"Oh, shoot!" I said, suddenly remembering my other quasi-appointment. "I knew there was something else I was supposed to do this morning! The lawyer in question is coming by to look through those papers we found with the body. I'd better run."

"Don't you tell him! I mean it!"

"I won't say a word. Thanks for lunch."

* * *

I found Rob back at the station. He was sitting at my desk with a stack of papers in front of him and an empty accordion folder off to the side.

"Find anything interesting?" I asked, my irritation just under the surface, but certainly palpable.

"Oh, hello, Chief," said Rob with a disarming smile, then, seeing my expression, added, "Nancy just stepped out for a moment. She was in here with me till about three minutes ago."

As if on cue, Nancy walked up behind me.

"Sorry, boss," she whispered. "I had to go to the bathroom. Pete came in with Mr. Brannon here and made it clear that he wanted this guy,"—she nodded toward Rob—"to go through the Gifford file."

I nodded and smiled at Nancy who was obviously as irked as I at the intrusion.

"Thanks, Nancy. I'll take it from here."

I turned back to Rob who was busy putting the sheaf of papers back into the folder.

"Find anything interesting?" I repeated.

"Well," Rob said looking down at his notes, "there are two sets of mortgage papers. Unsigned. I don't know if they were refiled, but I suspect they were. Once Lester disappeared, these folks would have started again with his replacement. In the old days, you knew your banker. He knew you and your family and his assessment of your ability to pay back the loan carried a lot of weight. There's the letter to Wilmer Griggs detailing his delinquency and noting the foreclosure date on his farm. There is a ledger with about thirty short-term loan accounts including payments and interest. Nothing over five hundred dollars though. And nothing in arrears. Except for Mr. Griggs, Lester seemed to have quite a good record of making and collecting his loans."

"Wouldn't foreclosing on the farm be advantageous to the bank?"

"Not in the 30's. Coming out of the Great Depression, the last thing a bank wanted was a farm that wasn't making any money."

"Good point."

Rob closed the folder and secured it with a large elastic band. He laid it on the desk.

"Maybe you can find something that I missed."

"I doubt it. I can't imagine that the murderer left any kind of a clue in the folder. Still, we have to go through it."

"Well, call me if I can help," he said, shouldering past me, giving Nancy a nod and disappearing out the front door.

"Harumph," I grunted under my breath.

Chapter 7

"Get me Toby on the phone," I called to Marilyn, Ace Secretary, as I breezed into the office the next morning. My evening with Alice had left me feeling as chipper as the deluxe floor model at Mr. Mulch.

"Toby who?" asked Marilyn, not looking up from the clattering keys of her typewriter.

"Toby Taps. That's who."

Marilyn stopped clattering and peered at me over her half-glasses, her eyes appearing to be half-full, or maybe half-empty. depending on your perspective.

"Toby Taps?" she said through pursed lips. "I thought he was retired."