The Baritone Wore Chiffon (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 2

  "Marilyn", I called, looking carefully at the sandwich delivery boy. "How am I gonna pay for this?"

  She sauntered in. Marilyn had an hourglass figure with an extra twenty minutes thrown in for good measure. And she made a good cup of coffee.

  "There's $1.57 left in petty cash." She smiled politely and shrugged her shoulders as she tap-danced coyly back to her desk.

  The delivery boy frowned. "I'll just put it on your tab."

  "Make sure you add a nice tip for yourself," I called after him as he left. "And close the door after you."

  He was a nice kid. He'd done some work for me before and he was interested in learning the business. That is - until he'd seen the down side. In the L.D. business, it's not all sopranos wearing red.

  Finishing my lunch, I reached for a stogie and a cup of joe. Suddenly a shot rang out. A woman screamed. No--Marilyn screamed, but I was used to that. A dog barked. A phone rang. Marilyn screamed again. I lit my cigar and looked up.

  There she was, the bishop's new personal trainer and executive secretary, standing in the doorway, an imaginary zephyr blowing softly through her hair, and all of a sudden I remembered why it was good to be the bishop. Her name, if I remembered correctly - and I don't think I'd forget, was Roxanne--otherwise known as Rocki. Rocki Pilates.

  "I have some big news from the bishop," she said in a low voice. "Can we be alone?"

  "Marilyn," I yelped, my voice going up a diminished seventh. "Take your lunch ... NOW!"

  "But I'm not hun-..."

  The slam of the door cut off anything Marilyn had to say, but somehow I suspected she'd be listening intently on the other side.

  "Canon Cannon, the bishop's right hand man, has been murdered."

  I remembered Canon Cannon. Canon Shannon Cannon. A preacher who could sing pretty good baritone but with a penchant for support groups. He had finally risen to the top of his profession and was the bishop's toady. Was. Now, apparently, he was dead as that dead duck people are always talking about--you know--the lame one that tried to cross the road.

  Tears sprang to Rocki's eyes as she spoke. I wiped them away with my cigar.

  "I know you're busy with that raccoon case, but here's the thing. Some clerical collars came in the mail for the bishop," she sniffled. "The bishop didn't want them so he gave them to Canon Cannon. You know what a stickler the bishop is. These were size 5 collars with the two-inch reveal. The Bishop's Fashion Directory states that no bishop should wear anything less than an 8 1/4 with a two and a half inch reveal. Anything smaller just looks so pedestrian."

  I nodded knowingly. It was the oldest scam in the book. The old poison-collar trick.

  "The bishop wants you immediately. Someone wants him dead!"

  Rocki Pilates leaned across my desk until her face was close. Very close.

  "And I'll be particularly grateful."

  I was on the case.

  •••

  I had never flown business class before, but I liked it. The flight was far from full, and business class was just about empty, so I was surprised to have someone sit next to me. Surprised, but not displeased. She was a real beauty, with black hair and a dark, sultry look set off by a light gray executive business suit. Things could be worse. Just after I had settled in, an attendant was taking my drink order and helping me set my iBook up so I could do a little work. Usually I liked doing my writing on the Underwood, but I thought that the clacking of the keys might be a bit disturbing to the other business class passengers — though I might get by with it in coach. This being a seven-hour flight, I thought I could probably get a couple of chapters finished during the trip. I had coerced Meg into transferring my current efforts onto my laptop before I left.

  "I'll do it," she said, "if I don't have to read it."

  I was well into my second beer when I heard a throaty "ahem...," followed by, "Are you a writer?" The question came from the seat on my right.

  "Why, yes. Yes, I am." I'm sure I was blushing. Wait until Megan heard about this.

  "I'm Lindsey Fodor," she said, extending her hand. "I'm a literary agent. Fodor, Sotherman and Marx out of Durham. And since we have quite a few hours together, I wonder if I might read your work?" She smiled and nodded toward the computer. "You never know. Maybe I can give you some pointers. Or sign you to a big contract."

  "Any relation to Eugene Fodor?" I asked, smiling back at her. "He was one of my favorite violinists during my college days. I played for one of his master classes once."

  "I don't think we're related. He's never shown up at a family reunion or called me with free tickets to a concert. Are you a violinist as well?"

  "Accompanist." I scrolled to the top of my manuscript and handed her the computer. She put on her glasses, read for about five minutes and handed the computer back. I looked at her in expectation.

  "So," she started, apparently not knowing exactly how to begin her critique. "When you said you were a writer, you meant that you were...?" She paused, her eyebrows up, a question on her face.

  "A police detective."

  "Thank goodness! And are you as good a detective as you are a writer?"

  "Sadly, no. All my talent lies in the writing craft. But, much like Steinbeck, another famous writer, I am unappreciated in my own time." I mustered my best hangdog expression, which was greeted by a laugh.

  "Yes, I'm sure you are. You're another Steinbeck, only without the talent. Let me buy you a drink and you can tell me about your brazen use of the nefarious simile." She motioned to the attendant.

  "Drinks are free," I said.

  "All the better."

  •••

  The flight over was much more enjoyable than I had anticipated. After supper, another few rounds of drinks and swapping histories, Lindsey fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. I didn't object.

  She awoke as the plane was beginning its slow descent and the smell of coffee filled the cabin.

  "Just water for me," Lindsey said, and then smiled apologetically to the attendant. "I need to take a pill."

  I looked over at the bottle she had put on her tray.

  "I used to take that stuff, but they put me on a beta blocker. I was working way too hard and my blood pressure was through the roof."

  "Mine is so low, most of the doctors think I'm dead."

  •••

  The train trip from the Manchester airport into York is two hours of bad scenery. It was already Friday afternoon by the time I cleared customs and would be close to three o'clock when the train pulled in. Lindsey, as it turned out, was traveling to York as well for a writer's conference at the University, so at least I had a traveling companion.

  "I'm glad I'm with a seasoned traveler. I never would have found the right train," she said, as we settled into a couple of badly upholstered seats.

  "Well, I don't actually know if this is the right one. It doesn't seem to be pointed in the right direction."

  I'm always nervous when I first get on a train in another country. There are signs, of course, but they make no sense to Americans. Too much information is taken for granted. For instance, to get to York from Manchester, you have to find the train to Newcastle, which, as every English child knows, makes a stop at York. If you don't know this, however, you're in the soup. You'd think there would be a sign:

  THIS IS THE TRAIN TO YORK. GET ON THIS TRAIN. NO, NOT THAT TRAIN, YOU IDIOT! THAT'S THE TRAIN TO WICKERSHAM-BADGERTHWAITE-ON-THE-MARSH FROM WHICH NO ONE EVER RETURNS. YOU'LL BE EATEN BY MARSH WOLVES!

  But there isn't.

  It did happen to be the right train and so, feeling pretty confident as a tour guide and seeing that we had a two-hour trip across the countryside, I took the opportunity to point out the many scenic sheep.

  "There's one," I said. Followed shortly by "Look, there's another one."

  "OK," Lindsey finally replied with a sigh as we passed through one of the industrial sections of Leeds. "It's not the prettiest train trip I've ever been on, but we're almost there, right?"


  "Almost. Another twenty minutes."

  "And York is a nice city."

  "York is a wonderful city."

  •••

  York is a city built on Roman and Viking ruins and surrounded by a Roman wall, parts of which date back to the third century. It is a mixture of medieval and modern, — an ancient Roman pillar next to a Starbucks — four-hundred-year-old half-timbered storefronts with windows full of laptop computers and Rolex watches. And at the center and heart of the city is the Minster – the largest gothic cathedral in northern Europe.

  After convincing Lindsey that it would be worth her while to hike into town, we came out of the train station and, pulling our suitcases behind us, spotted the huge towers of the cathedral and began our trek. As we walked I did my best impression of a tour guide, telling Lindsey what I knew about the city in general, while at the same time pointing out landmarks with which I was familiar — the River Ouse, the Museum Gardens where the old St. Mary's Abbey stood, Bootham Bar (one of the old Roman gates), and several churches I had explored on earlier visits. Then, finally, after a brisk and somewhat chilly walk, we stood in the shadow of the great church.

  After entering the Minster, it took several minutes for our eyes to adjust to the softer light – a gentle radiance that resembled twilight, but gave the stained-glass windows unbelievable clarity. As we walked up the nave toward the choir screen – the architectural division between the nave and the choir containing fifteen life-sized carved images of the early Kings of England – the sound of the pipe organ filled the church. A practice session, presumably, but a lovely and appropriate soundtrack to our tour. We walked around like the rubes we were, our heads tipped backwards, gawking at the grandeur of it all and dragging our American Touristers behind us like a couple of indolent children.

  "Where was the murder?" she asked in a whisper as we wandered past yet another monument. I'd given her the bare facts on the plane.

  "In the treasury. It's closed though."

  "Do you have a camera? Mine's somewhere in my suitcase."

  I pulled a small digital camera out of my pocket. "Be prepared," I said. "That's my motto."

  "Would you take a picture of me by the kings? My mother would love to see them."

  I took some pictures of Lindsey standing in the Minster and promised to e-mail them to her when I returned to the States. We exchanged telephone numbers, e-mail addresses and business cards, and I walked her to a cab heading for the university.

  Although I knew I should try to stay awake as long as I could to combat the effects of jet lag, I figured a little nap wouldn't hurt. And besides, if I slept for about an hour, I'd be able to stay awake through Evensong. I walked around the north side of the cathedral, across the small park that nestled into the angles of the great building and through the gate into Minster Yard — a row of houses occupied by the canons of the church. Hugh and his wife Janet lived in one of these houses. Theirs is a rambling, three-story house built about the same time as the cathedral construction was begun. The key was under an old flowerpot in the garden, and before long I was fast asleep, my eyes closing on the vision of the huge stone edifice filling the southwest window.

  •••

  I awoke to the sound of my travel alarm at half past four. I had time for a quick shower, having figured out the plumbing situation on earlier trips. Plumbing is never to be taken for granted in England. Finishing up quickly, I was in the side door of the Minster, past the policemen's post and sitting in the choir, that area directly behind the screen that divides the nave from the rest of the building, with ten minutes to spare. There were other visitors sitting in adjacent stalls, as was the custom when there was room available.

  I settled into the rigid seat of an unnamed Bishop and waited for the service to begin. I gave Hugh a nod as he followed the choir in and took his place with the other clergy. York is so far north that, in February, it's almost dark at five o'clock, making Evensong quite a moving experience, the shadows from the choir's candles bouncing off the fading surfaces at odd angles. On this particular evening the songmen were joined by the girls. A full complement in the Minster Choir consisted of twelve songmen, singing alto, tenor and bass, joined by sixteen girls singing the soprano part. Or, as on this evening, ten songmen and fourteen girls, four of those sniffling. The cold and rainy weather was taking its toll.

  On alternate days, the boys sang the soprano parts. I must admit that I'd rather hear the boys, but the girls sang very well, and I'd be around long enough to hear both groups.

  We were treated to a Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, the evening canticles, set to music by Orlando Gibbons, a Renaissance composer. It was the short service but nevertheless a wonderful treat for the first Friday in Lent. Maybe Megan was right. Maybe I shouldn't torture myself quite so much. The anthem, Almighty And Everlasting God, was by Gibbons as well. I closed my eyes and let the sound of the voices wash over me, draining the tension of the journey from my road-weary bones, tension I was unaware of until it was gone.

  The choir processed out in silence, the Friday service being unaccompanied by the organ, and I followed them, meeting Hugh outside the sacristy.

  "How was your trip?"

  "Long. And it gets longer every time, although this was certainly better than last time. If you have a choice, business class is the way to go," I said.

  "Only if someone else is paying for it."

  "Yep."

  "How's Noylene?" he asked. He had heard about her from various e-mails I'd sent, keeping him up to date on St. Germaine happenings, and was intrigued by the lifestyle of the mountain folk.

  "Well, she's jes' fahn," I said in my best North Carolina backwoods accent. "She's startin' at the Catawba College of Beauty and Small Engine Repair. We all gits a free haircut and a tune-up once she gits her certifyables."

  "Lovely. How about some supper then? I set up your appointment with the Minster Police and the detective from the Police Authority for nine in the morning. Janet is visiting her mother so you can sleep late, but try to be on timefor the appointment. They'll probably be civil, but the Police Authority has made it clear that they don't care for Yanks meddling in their cases."

  "I'll try to be humble and not mention the American Revolution more than twice."

  "Great. Let's eat."

  Supper in a pub isn't always a memorable culinary experience. I'm always wary when I see "Spotted Dick" on the menu, but after two days of traveling and a few pints of Guinness, almost anything tastes great. I hit the bed a few hours later and, after musing about Lindsey for a few moments, switched my thoughts over to Megan and slept the sleep of the almost-righteous.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning found me wide awake at six a.m., which was fine by me. I took a shower, got dressed, and ventured out into the cold February semi-darkness, making my way around the Minster and down Stonegate, before passing the inevitable Starbucks and getting an extra large cup of coffee to go. I could walk the length of the wall – three miles in all – in about an hour and, after wandering through the center of town and dodging the early morning delivery vans, I found one of the many well-worn rock stairwells leading to the top and started off.

  An hour later, I had walked off my lethargy and was back at Minster Yard, ready for another cup of coffee and a piece of toast for breakfast. Hugh was up and making the coffee in a French Press – absolutely the most unhealthy and best tasting coffee that there is.

  "Have a nice walk?"

  "I did, yes."

  "Well," Hugh said, "I have some work to do over at the office, but I'll meet you at nine at the treasury."

  "OK. I'll be there."

  •••

  The Minster Treasury is located in the undercroft and can be viewed by anyone with a couple of pounds for admission. After being introduced to Detective Ronald Blake of the North Yorkshire Police Authority and Frank Worthington of the Minster Police, I followed Hugh and the two officers down the steps, and past the Roman ruins unearthed during r
epairs to the Minster in the late 60's. I walked through the ancient remains, pausing briefly to look at the columns and the Roman well that still survived from the original fortress. Despite the signs advising against it, there were more than a few coins resting on the rocky bottom, courtesy of "well-wishing" tourists. I hadn't ever seen an actual chalk outline first hand, but there, on the well-worn stones, was a classic rendering. I viewed the scene.

  "He was found Monday night after Evensong," Detective Blake said. "Sorry we couldn't leave him here until you could come across. You might have been able to solve the case right away." His sarcasm was evident.

  "Hmmm," I said, scratching the back of my neck and trying to look thoughtful. "Maybe I could have. It's hard to say. It's a shame about that revolution, though."

  Hugh blanched.

  "Huh?" grunted Officer Worthington.

  "Well, I'm here now," I said, "and although I'm sure you have the investigation well in hand, for the sake of hands-across-the-sea and all that, maybe you could fill me in."

  "Actually, we have no earthly idea why this happened or who did it," said Worthington, trying to avoid the daggers sent his way by the detective's dark look. "This is the most bizarre crime I've ever seen."

  "I'll fill you in," said Blake, feigning resignation, "with the facts as we know them. Then you can explain to the family when you get back to the States."

  He opened his folder and pulled out a couple of eight by ten photos. The first was an enlargement of a snapshot of a man – slightly built – standing in front of the choir stalls. He had longish brown hair, wire-rim glasses, and a fairly long, well-trimmed beard. The second was of the same man, lying sprawled on the floor in the exact position of the chalk outline.

  Detective Blake watched me look over the photos, then opened a notebook and began his recitation.

  "The victim's name was Kris Toth. He came to York on a Gillette Fellowship and received a position in the Minster Choir. The choir master and the Dean were glad to have him especially considering the state of the budget and the fact that his fees were paid by the fellowship."