The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 12

  "They were scared?" suggested Nancy. "One of them saw something?"

  I shook my head. "I don't think so. Bud would have come and told me. No, after the movie, he ran into the crowd of zombies because he was scared for Elphina. She was, on the other hand, supposed to be at the bookstore, safely in the bosom of the rest of the dental undead."

  "What's the correct term for a group of vampires, anyway?" asked Dave. "Is there a name for it?"

  "Coven, maybe?" I said. "Clan?"

  "I believe it's called a 'sipping of vampires,'" said Nancy. "A sipping of vampires and a necropolis of zombies."

  I watched Dave write it down on a pad covered with doodles, then took a bite of my donut and wiped some sprinkles from my chin with the back of my coat sleeve. "Anyway," I said, "Elphina was out of harm's way at Eden Books."

  "Unless she wasn't," said Nancy.

  "Unless she wasn't."

  ***

  I filled Dave and Nancy in on Kent Murphee's findings, but, except for the ziplock bag of freeze-dried chipmunks he'd sent home with me for Archimedes, we had nothing.

  Chapter 13

  St. Sanguine's in the Swale was a spookhouse of a Catholic basilica, a Gothic grotesque that looked as though it had been designed by the architectural firm of Karloff, Karloff, and Lugosi, then built by two guys with a gargoyle fetish. I'd been to mass here a couple of times. The choir was good. Very good. Almost too good for a Catholic church. It didn't register at the time, but now as we walked into the vestibule and heard the limpid sounds of Hildegard's "Missa di Stigmata," the realization hit me like a nun with a yardstick. These weren't Catholics, at least not like the Roman Catholics I knew. Where were the guitars? Where were the Jesus-fish-shaped tambourines? A Catholic church without its "icons of the faith" was as unnatural as a bald televangelist. The thought made my belly hair stand on end.

  "I sense the beginnings of a plot," said Meg, after I'd read her my latest installment with artful and thespianic declamation.

  "Perhaps," I said, "but not having one has certainly never stopped me before. We'll just have to see where this goes."

  The night outside had turned cold and we were in for a hard freeze if the forecast could be believed. I had stacked a load of split oak by the fireplace, then built a fire, and turned my attention toward more literary pursuits. Baxter was currently enjoying the blaze, having eaten a hearty supper before plopping down on his stomach in front of the hearth. Meg was sitting on the leather couch, her feet tucked under her and her new iPad, opened to Bill Bryson's latest book, At Home, in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Archimedes was in the den as well, but since Meg didn't like to give him baby squirrels in the house (he tended to leave the tails strewn on the floor), he rested, unfed, one yellow eye open, on the head of the stuffed buffalo. Earlier in the evening, I'd offered him a treat at the kitchen window, but he seemed to prefer the warmth of the house to the mousey morsel. He ignored my offering, made a beeline for the buffalo, and settled onto his spot for the evening.

  The opening strains of The Lark Ascending came out of the surround sound speakers and all was right with the world.

  "I love that," said Meg, looking up from her book. "The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams. Written in 1914, I believe. Did you know that the work was written for and dedicated to the English violinist Marie Hall, who gave the first performance with piano accompaniment?"

  I looked up from my typewriter, suddenly sensing an aberration in the cosmos. "Wait just one cotton-pickin' second!" I said. "That's just too weird. Now, fess up! How're you doing it?"

  Meg laughed and pointed to the CD changer. "Your new stereo is too fancy for your own good. Look," she said. "When the music begins, the title scrolls across the display. Then, just now, I looked it up on my iPad and got the tidbit about Marie Hall."

  "Whew!" I said, relaxing. "That's better. The universe makes sense once more."

  "But I could learn all that stuff," said Meg, giving me a smile over her glass of wine. "If I wanted to. Just so you know."

  "Oh, I know."

  "Down," said Lapke Baklava, pointing to the stone circular staircase leading to the undercroft. "We must go down into the crypt."

  "Watch your head, Lapke," Tessie said urgently, yet somehow provocatively, through red, sensuous, worm-like lips, but he couldn't you know, since nobody can actually watch more than part of his nose or a little cheek if he really tries, but he appreciated her warning and did that thing that some people can do where they curl their tongues into a taco-shape in the traditional Transylvanian gesture of thanks.

  "I wonder what we'll find down here?" he mewed innocently as we walked down the steps, but I knew that he already knew.

  ***

  "I found Collette," announced Dave, pulling a chair up to our usual table at the Slab. Nancy and I were attacking a plate of country ham and scrambled eggs with a generous side of grits and redeye gravy. Pete was in the kitchen supervising a new short order cook named Manuel Zumaya that he'd introduced to us when we walked in. In my humble opinion, having just tasted his scrambled eggs, Manuel was a genius and Pete had better hang on to him. These eggs might be the tastiest I'd ever eaten. Noylene was walking to and fro, chatting up the customers with her usual charm, and refilling coffee cups. Cynthia was on duty as well, but she had her hands full with one particular table of demanding tourists.

  Dave took a plate and spooned some eggs onto it followed by a generous helping of country ham. "She was using her middle name and staying at the Broyhill Inn in Boone," he said. "She registered under Collette Freebird, but checked out Sunday morning."

  "You sure it's her?" asked Nancy.

  "How many Collette Freebirds can there be?" said Dave. "These eggs are delicious! Who cooked them? Not Pete?"

  "No," said Nancy. "Not Pete. Manuel."

  "Well, they're great," he said. "I have the address that she gave to the desk clerk, but it might be a fake. It's in Wilkesboro."

  "Did you find a phone number?" I asked.

  Dave shook his head. "No phone line to the house at the address listed. If it's her, she probably just uses a cell."

  "You want to go and see if you can find her?" I said. "That is, if it's her real address?"

  "Sure," said Dave. "What do I tell her?"

  "Tell her the truth. There's been a murder and it was one of the girls in line at the bookstore. We saw her in the video and we just wonder if she can tell us what she remembers."

  "Okay," said Dave. "After breakfast. It's only fifty miles. I just hope she's still wearing that vampire outfit."

  "How about Flori Cabbage's employment records in Charlotte?" I asked Nancy. "Find anything?"

  "Nothing," came the reply. "Like she was never there."

  "That's odd," I said. "Ian told us she was a paralegal, but maybe she had some sort of cash deal going."

  Pete came out of the kitchen and plopped down in the free chair. "Okay," he said. "What have we got?"

  "Eggs," I said. "Delicious eggs. You gotta hang on to that guy."

  "I'll do my best," said Pete. "Manuel's wife is going to come in and do some waitressing, too. But I wasn't referring to the huevos, as Manuel insists on calling them, I was talking about our murder."

  "Our murder?" said Nancy.

  "Sure. I was deputized, remember? Hayden never undeputized me, so I'm still a member of the force."

  Nancy frowned. "You're not even the mayor anymore, Pete. We can't trust you with confidential information."

  "Sure you can. I'm the mayor's Chief of Staff. Her official paramour, if you will."

  "Sounds like a great career opportunity," I said.

  "It has its benefits," said Pete with a smile. "So fill me in."

  "Fine," I said. "Let's get it all out there and see what's what."

  "Excellent," said Pete, rubbing his hands together. "The game is afoot."

  "Here's what we have," I said. "Flori Cabbage was murdered, killed sometime around 5:30 or six o'clock on Saturday night and lef
t in the hay maze."

  "During the movie," said Pete.

  "It seems so," I said. "She wasn't killed in the maze. The evidence points to her being murdered elsewhere and placed in the maze."

  "How about the pumpkin?" asked Pete.

  "The pumpkin was stuck on her head postmortem. Perhaps to make her seem like a stuffed scarecrow to whoever might come by."

  "Any chance she died of natural causes?" Pete asked.

  "Yes, but we doubt it," I said. "She had two fang puncture marks in her neck, but Kent Murphee says she died of a heart attack."

  "Fang marks, eh? Heart attack aside, those sort of point in a vaguely vampirey direction," said Pete.

  "Vaguely," I agreed.

  "Collette was in town when Flori was killed," said Dave. "She's on the video, and she's gone vampirey. We don't know if there's a connection."

  "But there probably is," said Nancy.

  "And if there is," Dave added, "we don't know what it is."

  "Okay, what else?" I said.

  "Bud and Elphina are missing," said Nancy. "They may have seen something and think someone is after them. Ian Burch is worried or says he is. Flori Cabbage told Ian that she'd seen her old boyfriend from Charlotte and that she was scared. She texted him sometime before the movie."

  "She saw her old boyfriend here?" said Pete. "In town?"

  "In Boone," clarified Nancy. "Earlier in the day. Close enough."

  "Flori Cabbage's apartment has been trashed and her laptop computer taken," I said. "Why? We don't know, but obviously there was something on the computer that someone, probably the killer, wanted." I looked at Nancy. "I presume that nothing came from the fingerprint hunt."

  "You presume correctly," said Nancy. "There were prints everywhere, and I've got them logged in, but they're Flori's and Ian's. Just what we'd expect to find."

  "That's it?" I said.

  Dave and Nancy looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded.

  "That's it," Nancy said.

  "That's plenty," said Pete.

  ***

  I drove out to Coondog Holler, turned into the McColloughs' driveway and pointed the truck up to the trailer. I didn't expect to find Bud, and Moosey was staying with the Kentons, but I did think that Pauli Girl would be there and I wanted to talk to her. She heard me drive up, or maybe spied me through the window, and met me on the front porch when I walked up. The old McCollough family pickup, the one Pauli Girl used to drive into town, was in the driveway. The car that I'd bought Bud as a graduation present was nowhere in sight.

  "Hi, Pauli Girl," I said, clomping up the wooden steps to the porch. "I wonder if you've seen Bud? We're all getting pretty worried."

  "No, I haven't seen him," said Pauli Girl.

  She had her mother's wary stance when unsure of her prerogatives. Her arms were crossed, both hands curled underneath and hidden from view. Her feet were close together and her expression was hard.

  "Pauli Girl," I said with a chuckle, "you're a terrible liar. We just want to know that he and Elphina are safe."

  She managed a smile. "I guess he's safe enough. They're not here."

  "You'll tell your mother?"

  "She knows."

  "Okay, then," I said. "You need anything, you give me a call, okay?"

  "I have your number."

  "You can even send me a text."

  Pauli Girl laughed and relaxed. "Maybe I will."

  I walked back down the steps toward my truck.

  "Hey, Chief?" she called.

  I turned back. "Yeah?"

  "Mary Edith Lumpkin. I know she's Bud's girlfriend, but I don't like her. I really don't like her."

  "Any specific reason?"

  Pauli Girl didn't answer, but gave me a sober look and disappeared back into the trailer.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when Dave Vance's Prius pulled up to the front of the police station. Nancy and I looked out the front window and saw a face in the passenger seat. Not an unfamiliar face. Dave got out of the car. Collette didn't wait for him to walk around and open the door for her. She climbed out, stepped onto the sidewalk, and made her way up to the door in a pair of tight black pants, a black leather jacket, and motorcycle boots. She pushed open the front door and walked up to the counter. It was Collette all right, but what a transformation. Her hair, naturally brown, was a dark purple color. She'd lost at least twenty pounds since she'd left St. Germaine, then added five back in the form of facial accouterments—rings, studs, and miniature chains. She was wearing dark purple lipstick and eye shadow to match. She had a tattoo on her neck, a spider web, and another, some kind of Celtic floral design, that was plunging down the half-zippered front of her jacket.

  "Afternoon, Collette," I said. "Thanks for coming over."

  "Bite me," said Collette. "What do you want?"

  Dave followed her into the station after locking his car. He stood behind her for a moment, shook his head in amazement, then walked around to our side of the counter.

  "How about a cup of coffee?" I asked.

  "I don't drink coffee," she said.

  "C'mon, Collette," I said. "You didn't have to come back here. You know that. At least sit down with us and have a drink."

  Collette softened a bit. "Yeah, okay. I'll talk to you." She nodded in the direction of Nancy and Dave. "Not these two, though. And I'll have a beer."

  "Bear and Brew?"

  "Okay," she said, and offered Dave a come-hither wink. Nancy growled.

  ***

  "Flori was about the only friend I had here when I left," said Collette.

  "What about your church family?" I asked.

  "They were awful. That night of the fire, when I was waiting outside St. Barnabas praying to get Dave back, it sort of hit home. I ran into the church to find him, but I didn't see anyone. Somehow I found the back door and ended up on the back lawn by Mrs. Wingler's old house. All of a sudden, I knew Dave wasn't going to marry me, that the church had taken all my money, and there wasn't anything more for me here, so I just left." She took several swallows of her beer, finishing about half of her pint in one gulp before returning her glass to the table. "Divine revelation."

  "Tell me about Flori Cabbage."

  "Like I said, we were friends. We made plans to meet at the bookstore and get our books signed by Salena Mercer. Maybe even get our pictures taken."

  "She didn't show up?"

  "Nope," said Collette.

  "Were you worried?"

  "Not particularly. Flori was her own person. I figured she was going at it with that geek she had a thing for."

  "Ian Burch," I said. "When did you first meet Flori?" I asked.

  "Right after she moved to town, I think. Maybe four years ago. She lived in Boone when I was here. She'd just moved from Charlotte and was looking for a job. She came into the Slab one day and we just hit it off."

  "Did you know anything about a boyfriend?"

  "Here? In St. Germaine? Ian?"

  "No," I said. "In Charlotte. It seems she had a boyfriend. Maybe someone she was afraid of?"

  "She never mentioned a boyfriend."

  "How about family? We haven't been able to find any family."

  Collette shook her head. "She told me she didn't have any. I took her down to Spartanburg a couple of times for Thanksgiving with my folks."

  "Do you know where she worked? In Charlotte, I mean. We've looked but can't find any record of her employment."

  "She worked as a paralegal, but she didn't have a permanent position. She worked as an independent contractor."

  "Aw, nuts," I said. "Another dead end."

  "She did tell me that she worked for one law firm for about a year. As a contractor."

  I looked at Collette. This was a different girl than the one who had left St. Germaine three years ago, and it wasn't just the physical transformation. She was tougher, more self-assured.

  "Something with ABBA in the title. I remember because we laughed about it."

  I looked
at her, puzzled.

  "You know," she said, "ABBA. The singing group? 'Dancing Queen?'"

  "I'll check it out," I said. "You going to stick around?"

  "Nah. Dave said he'd drive me home."

  I stuck out my hand. "It's good to see you, Collette. Thanks for your help."

  She took it.

  Chapter 14

  We snuck into the crypt and looked around at ten empty caskets.

  "Where do you think they are?" asked Pedro. "Taking a coffin break?"

  "That line's been done to undeath," I said. "They're here. I can smell 'em."

  "Oh, they are here all right," said Lapke Baklava with a swirl of his cape. "And now we've got you, too."

  "Lucky I slipped into my garlic-flavored pantaloons," said Pedro with a determined grin. "You have yours on?"

  "Not me," I said. "I have a date later."

  ***

  It didn't take long to find a law firm in Charlotte that included only the initials A and B. Aaron, Brokovitz and Adger, Attorneys at Law. Seven years ago, the initials were ABBA, but the firm had dropped one of the partners when he plead guilty to manslaughter and was sent up the river for fifteen years. That partner's name was Brannon. Rob Brannon.

  Carol Sterling introduced me to him four years ago when he moved to town. "Rob's been a visitor here at St. Barnabas since he was born," she said. "His family's from St. Germaine, but he's never really lived here."

  When the old church stood, it was easy enough to find the Brannon name amongst the good and great. Rob's ancestors were among the founding members of St. Barnabas and there were three earlier Robert Brannons memorialized in the stained glass windows. This Rob Brannon though, Rob Brannon, IV, was a different story. He'd tried to legally lay claim to thirty-four million dollars that St. Barnabas Church had in an old account, but had no idea that it was still entitled to. When the church treasurer, Randall Stamps, got in the way of the deal, Rob arranged for his untimely death. It was a closed case and we'd put the rascal away, although the church still bore some of the divisive scars that he'd inflicted. That Flori Cabbage had worked for Brannon in Charlotte was no coincidence.