Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Read online

  “That would be Helen Pigeon,” said Nancy.

  “Yeah, probably,” agreed Dave, then continued. “According to an eyewitness at the scene of the discovery, Crystal Latimore was dressed in a classic, double breasted, cutaway, linen blend pant suit (in taupe) from Donna Vinci. Wood buttons and flared legs provided a classic accent. Her choral, scoop necked blouse was a silk-blend which lent exquisite softness and drape to the otherwise conventional outfit.”

  “A murder fashion show?” I said.

  “Hang on,” Pete said. “How did Helen know all that?”

  “Don’t be silly, sweetie,” said Cynthia. “Helen knew all that five seconds after seeing her.”

  “The detectives at the scene acknowledged that all the women were found in the same circumstances, although it is not known whether the missing earring was common to all three victims.”

  “Helen is a loudmouth” growled Nancy. “I knew I should have arrested her.”

  “The conclusion of this reporter is that Crystal would have been the best dressed of the three. Crystal was known for her sense of style and, as a court advocate, she was occasionally seen on Channel 3 News discussing crime statistics and trends.”

  “Really?” I said. “I never saw her on TV.”

  “Now that I think about it,” said Cynthia, “I seem to remember that. Didn’t she come on and talk about domestic violence and stuff whenever there was a particularly awful case in the news? It’s been years though.”

  I shrugged.

  Dave read on. “The three houses were purchased by Bud McCollough of St. Germaine, Rachel Walt of Banner Elk, and Jeff and Helen Pigeon, also of St. Germaine. It was thought that Police Chief Hayden Konig was a silent partner in the bidding of the house bought by Bud McCollough, although Mayor Cynthia Johnsson denied that this was the case.”

  “Heh, heh,” snickered Pete. “Culpable deniability.”

  “I denied it,” said Cynthia, “because Bud handed me a satchel full of cash and said it was his.”

  “It was,” I said. “Some of his share of the wine loot.”

  “That stuff that sells for ten grand a bottle?” asked Dave.

  “More like seven I think, but that’s the stuff. You want to buy a couple bottles?”

  “Tempting,” said Dave, “but I think I’ll wait till I win the lottery.”

  Noylene came out of the kitchen with plates full of food stacked neatly up each arm, maneuvered around the table and expertly placed each order in front of us. We all thanked her, passed the coffee pot around, and dug in.

  Dave started on a stack of pancakes topped with two fried eggs. He took a couple of bites, then added extra syrup, and looked back at the article in the paper. “Blah, blah, blah … addresses, then some stuff about Darla’s fight with Noylene.”

  “That warn’t no fight!” said Noylene, who had walked back behind the counter. “I told Annette that it wasn’t me that made her leave. Darla got sideways with Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle and I couldn’t have them two duking it out on Blue-rinse Thursday. I asked them to shake hands and make up, but Darla grabbed her styling tools and stormed out of there like I’d just told her that double coupons don’t work in February.”

  “Says here,” said Dave, grinning, “that you fired her and she had to make ends meet by doing makeovers down at the bus station in Boone.”

  “What?!” screeched Noylene. “That Annette! I’ll show her! Next time she’s in to the Dip-N-Tan, I’m going turn her so orange, the rabbits will think there’s a hundred and eighty pound carrot walking around town!”

  “Hang on,” laughed Dave. “Much as I’d like to see that, I was just kidding.”

  Noylene glared at him and stormed off into the kitchen.

  “Did you read the mystery?” Nancy asked me.

  “I did,” I said. “It wasn’t very good.”

  “What mystery is that?” asked Pete.

  “See Your Shadow by Kitty Holly. It may hold clues to the murder.”

  “Really?” said Cynthia. “Do tell.”

  “There are four murders in the book,” I said. “A lawyer, a book publicist, a hair dresser, and a minister.”

  “Yeah?” said Cynthia.

  “They’re all women. In the book, they’re all middle aged except the lawyer who is just out of law school. They’re all single, and their bodies all found in closets of houses that are for sale. Empty houses.”

  “Wow,” said Cynthia.

  “They all belong the same Sunday School,” added Nancy. “And they had all been to a Sunday School party which is why they were dressed up. We don’t find that out until the end, though. “

  “Seems like a copy cat killer,” said Pete. “Or at least a copy book killer. Who did it in the book?”

  “The police chief,” said Nancy with a smile.

  “I’m fairly sure that I didn’t do it,” I said.

  “He wasn’t even a character,” said Nancy, disgust evident her voice. “Kitty Holly brought him in at the last minute to tie things up. Then, to top it all off, the one decent clue was the earring all the victims were missing. Know what it was?”

  “What?” said Cynthia. “Don’t keep us all in suspense.”

  “The police chief’s mother wouldn’t let him wear an earring to the prom. She was a Sunday School teacher. How lame is that? Kitty Holly throws all this into the confession that the chief blurts out right before he throws himself in front of a church bus.”

  “Deus ex machina,” said Dave.

  “Huh?” said Cynthia.

  “Deus ex machina. I was an English major, you know.”

  “Okay,” said Pete. “Impress us.”

  “Deus ex machina is a literary device whereby a seemingly unsolvable problem is suddenly and abruptly resolved, with the contrived and unexpected intervention of some new event, character, ability, or object. Critics claim that it’s usually it’s done when the author has painted himself into a corner or has a deadline looming. Of course, it can be used for comedic effect as well.”

  “The end of the Three Penny Opera for example,” I said.

  “Exactly, said Dave. “War of the Worlds, As You Like It … there are many examples.”

  “So, did you glean any other clues from the book?” asked Cynthia.

  “Not really,” said Nancy. “These women were poisoned at the Sunday School party. Our three victims didn’t attend the same church. In fact, Darla didn’t even attend.”

  “How about the poison?” asked Dave.

  “The poison in the book was succinylcholine.” Nancy said. “Kent’s checking on it this morning. It causes respiratory paralysis and the victim usually dies of a heart attack.”

  “According to the internet,” I said, “it’s mostly used in hospitals to allow the insertion of a breathing tube into a patient who is still conscious.”

  “Had our three dead women been in the hospital lately?” asked Cynthia.

  “Not that we know of,” I said. “We’ll check on that this morning. It may be the connection we’re looking for, though.”

  “A lawyer, a publicist, a hair dresser, and a minister,” said Pete. “Not exactly the same. We have a trial advocate, a grant writer, and a hair dresser.”

  “Still, it’s pretty close,” said Dave.

  “One thing that bothers me,” I said. “We have three of the four murders that happened in See Your Shadow here in St. Germaine. There’s still one more to go.”

  Nancy nodded and said, “Or maybe we just haven’t found her yet.”

  “It’s a minister,” said Cynthia. “We don’t have a woman minister in St. Germaine.”

  “We have a woman deacon, though,” I said. “Kimberly Walnut.”

  Chapter 16

  The Bear and Brew was the meeting place of choice for the Blue Hill Bookworms. I had presumed that, considering their highfaluting pedigree, they’d be tasting watercress mini-sandwiches and drinking tea — pinkie fingers extended — at the Ginger Cat. They weren’t. When I found them, they we
re gathered around a table with a large Panda Spinacis pizza in the center — mozzarella, spinach, and shiitake mushrooms. The concession to the lack of ambiance in the Bear and Brew was their choice to drink champagne rather than order one of the brews on tap. In reality, the Bear and Brew had plenty of ambiance, just of a different sort. Where the Ginger Cat was an upscale eatery serving pretentious, bite-sized portions of things like Oysters Gerard with carrot mousse. The Bear and Brew, on the other hand, was modeled after an old feed store and served gigantic pizzas, a few other Italian dishes, and twenty-seven beers on tap.

  “Champagne?” I said as I walked up to the table. “Why champagne?”

  “We always have champagne,” said Diana. “It a Bookworm tradition. We bring it ourselves if the restaurant doesn’t have any.”

  “We used to go to the Ginger Cat,” said Sara Black, but Annie decided to charge us a fifteen dollar “corking” fee, and that was the end of that.”

  “Too bad, too,” said Catherine Duncan. “I really liked the carrot mousse.”

  “No one likes carrot mousse,” said a woman I recognized, but couldn’t put a name to. She introduced herself. “I’m Rachel Barstow, Hayden. Nice to see you again.”

  I took the hand she extended and shook it. “Nice to see you again, too. All of you.”

  I’m Annabel Stratton,” said the curly haired blonde woman to Rachel’s right, and the other women I didn’t really know introduced themselves as well: Alison Jaeger, Sarah Aspinal, and Stephanie Bilton. Eight total.

  “Stephanie,” I said, shaking her hand. “You’re the personal assistant, right?”

  “Used to be,” she said with a shrug. “There’s not much call for it anymore. Now I’m working for an insurance agent.”

  “We’re all here,” said Diana. “Except for the newest member. She won’t be invested until our meeting in May.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Oh, we can’t reveal that,” said Diana. “It very hush-hush.”

  “Top secret,” said Stephanie.

  “We could tell you, but then we’d have to kill you,” joked Rachel, then put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! I didn’t mean that. We’d never kill anyone!”

  “You did tell Ruby Farthing that she was’t getting in, though.”

  “Sure,” said Stephanie. “We had to tell the ones that aren’t getting in. That’s only polite.”

  The waitress showed up at the table, took my drink order and went to get my pint of Thunderstruck Coffee Porter, a seasonal brew that I’d never tried. The ladies were attacking the pizza and I, with expert maneuvering, managed to get a slice without losing any digits.”

  “It’s no wonder you all eat like you’re starved,” I said, counting my fingers. “It’s probably that miniature food you eat at the Ginger Cat. Man does not live by carrot mousse.”

  “It’s true,” said Sarah Aspinall. “We should really come over here for our meetings.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Alison. “This isn’t an official function. We could never be seen having our meetings here. Maybe at Virginia’s Tea House, but not in a beer and pizza joint.”

  “I agree with Alison,” said Annabel. “We do have a reputation to maintain.”

  “Which is why I’m surprised that you’re reading a third-rate murder mystery,” I said. “A cozy, no less.”

  All the women except Diana blanched.

  Stephanie leaned across the table and whispered, “Who told you that?”

  Diana caught my eye and gave me a panicked look.

  Rachel said, also in a hushed tone, “We are not reading any such thing!” Alison agreed by shaking her head.

  My beer arrived at the table and I took a sip. Good. A robust porter with some hints of chocolate, mild hops, and a hint of coffee. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “It’s on your blog. Your whole reading list is on the blog along with all your reviews, comments, and everything else.”

  The ladies looked confused and Sara B said, “Sure, but that blog is private. You can’t read it unless you’re a member. You have to log in.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “I went right to it. Bluehillbookworms/blogspot.com.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Annabel. She glared at Stephanie. “Sure, you can get onto the Bookworms’ site, but our blog is private, right?”

  Stephanie looked uncomfortable and squirmed in her seat. “Well, it used to be, but then I updated it and couldn’t get the privacy settings to work right. I thought it was private, but then we never had to log in anymore. Didn’t you notice?”

  “What?” said Sarah A. “I thought my browser had just saved the password as a cookie or something. You mean everyone has been reading our blog?”

  “Not everyone,” I said, in between bites of my pizza. “I’m sure there are many people in the world who don’t really care what you’re reading.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Sarah A, glumly. “Can everyone post comments as well?”

  “No,” said Stephanie. “Thankfully, you still have to log in to do that.”

  “This is awful,” said Catherine. “I wonder how many people have read our private posts?”

  “I can tell you that I know at least three people who have been on your blog site,” I said. “Myself, Lieutenant Nancy Parsky, and Ruby Farthing.”

  “Ruby’s been reading it?” said Stephanie. “Oh, no! She knows we’ve been reading that trashy beach mystery!”

  “Yes, she does,” I said, “and she was quite appalled. She told me that she found the Bookworms’ taste in literature to be totally bourgeois. Or maybe she said ‘banal.’ I don’t quite remember, but you get the drift. She’s said she’s considering joining the faculty wives’ book club over at Lenoir-Rhyne University.”

  “She said that?” asked Catherine, thoughtfully. “Oh, my. Maybe we should reconsider her application.”

  “I do think we should reconsider,” said Diana. “We haven’t announced yet our new member yet. We might want to rethink our choice.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “That’s not what I asked you here to talk about.”

  “Oh,” said Diana. “Of course. The murders.”

  “Indeed.” I looked around the table. “You know about the similarities?”

  Diana said, “It didn’t take long to figure it out, Hayden. It’s all anyone has been talking about all week. I finished the book last night and called the Bookworms, and … well … it was obvious why you wanted to talk with us.”

  “How many of you have finished the book?” I asked.

  All the women raised their hands and Sara B said, “We all finished it last night after Diana called us and told us what was happening.”

  “I read it last summer,” said Stephanie.

  “Then you know that these three killings are copies of the ones that took place in the See Your Shadow.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Have any of you seen the Tattler this morning?” I asked.

  No one had, or admitted they had.

  “Well,” I said, “quite frankly, this book makes you all suspects.”

  “What?” said Sarah A. “Why?”

  “Because, as far as we can tell, up to this point, you eight are the only ones that have had occasion to read this book. You all, Nancy and myself, and Ruby, and Ruby is my mother-in-law and therefore above reproach.”

  “Really? Above reproach?” said Rachel.

  “Absolutely. Oh, she might have murder in her heart, but I can’t see a seventy-year-old woman, no matter how spry, hauling three dead corpses into dark, locked houses.”

  “You do have a point,” said Alison, who’d been mostly quiet till now. “Ruby’s not a big woman. She’s tall certainly, but fairly thin.”

  “So that leaves you eight,” I said, counting them off around the table. “Eight prime suspects.”

  “Well, then,” said Catherine, “have you come up with a motive? In the mystery, the victims were all members of the same Sunday School class. Is it the
same with these three?”

  “No.”

  “What about the victims?” said Diana. “In the book, victims were a personal injury lawyer, a book publicist, a hair dresser, and a priest.”

  “A minister, to be precise,” I said. “Almost the same as here, or close enough.”

  “How about the minister?” asked Sara B.

  “We haven’t found another victim, but we also don’t have the resources or probable cause to search every vacant house in St. Germaine. Many of these are vacation homes. The three houses where the women were found had all been owned by the same corporation and were all up for auction on the same day. That’s a connection we can’t ignore. Also we don’t have a timeline on any of murders. With this cold we’ve been having, the medical examiner can’t give us any reasonable time of death.”

  “Well, it had to be after January 12th,” said Catherine. “That’s when we decided to read the book and put it up on the blog.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “How about the missing earring?” asked Stephanie. “Is that part of it?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “We’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

  “What are the names again?” asked Alison. “I remember Crystal Latimore, because I knew her. She was a patient of mine a few years ago, but I haven’t seen her for some time. She might have found a new doctor, but I don’t think so. I would have sent her records over and I don’t remember signing off on that.”

  “Darla Kildair and Amy Ventura were the other two,” I said. “Do any of the rest of you know these women?”

  “Sure,” said Rachel. “I knew Amy and Darla.

  “I knew Crystal,” said Stephanie. “Not the other two, though.

  I took a count and discovered that all the Bookworms knew at least one of the victims, none knew all three, or rather, none admitted knowing all three.”