Fit to Die (22 page)

Detective Stewart was pretty happy with me. Turned out Dorbinette had been behind all those jewellery store hits, and he'd been hiding a lot of diamonds and stuff in Caitlin's
mother's marbles until he could sell them to somebody else. Mrs. Anderson kept saying that she didn't know he was a criminal and that she wouldn't have kicked out her husband if she'd realized Dorbinette was just using her to hide stolen goods, sneaking down to her studio when she was asleep. I figure she's got to be pretty stupid if she really didn't notice what he was up to. But either way, Caitlin must have caught him, and he'd killed her at the school after marking up that stall door so people wouldn't go snooping around back at the Andersons' house.

Coach Flannigan was even happier. I guess some of those shots I made with his five iron were super-amazing, and not just because I didn't bean any of those cops with a broken marble. He made some calls, and I did some tryouts. It turns out I'm one of the best new golfers anybody's seen in years and years. So now I'm going to be rich and get to do whatever I want, because a bunch of companies want to give me tons of money to wear their clothes whenever I play golf. And I'll probably get to do the LPGA tour next year, too. Pretty good, huh?

MARY KEENAN
is a Toronto-based freelance writer whose first novel was shortlisted in the annual St. Martin's Press/Malice Domestic contest for Best First Traditional Mystery. Her short story, “The Bedbug's Bite”, won first place in a contest run by A&E Television on its
www.mysteries.com
website.

Was the ball that killed the golf pro

An accidental shot?

The detective who was on the case

Felt that it was not.

The suspect pleaded innocence:

“Sir, I just play for fun.”

The thing that really cinched the case?

His second hole-in-one.

JOY HEWITT MANN

PAT WILSON
AND
KRIS WOOD

I settled my stole firmly around my shoulders and turned to see how he was doing. As usual, he'd gotten his stole wound up in his cincture. “Father Donald,” I said, “let me do that.”

I knew it would be easier to disentangle the snarled fringes and knots myself, rather than watch Father Donald fumble ineffectually with the mess. You'd think after twenty years in the ministry, he would have figured out how to put the stuff on right the first time. I remembered to duck as his right arm shot out from the shoulder, stiffened, held and then snapped back to his sides.

The first time, I'd gotten a black eye, but after six weeks of his exercise regime, I'd learned to be wary. At any moment, he was likely to squat, stretch, twist or flex without warning. Father Donald was a large man, and woe betide any poor, unsuspecting lay reader who got in his way. Frankly, I wished that Molly Thubron had never given him the book. It went with him everywhere, and even now lay open on the vestry table,
Flex-er-Cise: Twenty Weeks to a New Physique.
I sighed. Six down, fourteen to go. It was going to be a long summer.

“Oh, shoot. I got it tangled again, didn't I? I don't know what I'd do without you, not that I couldn't do anything, but it's easier, well not easier, but takes less time, although on the
other hand, time isn't really an issue, although some people get annoyed when the service doesn't start on time, not everyone though, some come in late themselves, though they probably have a good reason, although my sister Dorothy always says there's no good reason for being late for church…”

I tuned Father Donald out with the ease of long practice. Five years as his lay reader and I knew that, at the most, only one of every forty words was worth taking note of. His other arm suddenly shot out, held and snapped back. I took the opportunity to slip the green chasuble over his head and roll the collar down smoothly.

“There,” I said. “You're ready to go.”

“Okey-dokey.” He squatted down. “Uh…could you give me a hand?” I heaved him back up. Maybe he wasn't getting fit with his new regime, but the weight training sure was paying off on my biceps.

“Where's my trusty server?” It was a question he asked every week with just the same note of anxiety.

Little Mindy Horton, prudently positioned behind the door well out of the way of Father Donald's gyrations, waved the processional cross and said: “Right here. You want me to start out now?”

“Just a minute, Mindy.” Another small trick I'd learned. “Father Donald. Here is your hymn book, prayer book, announcements sheet, sermon papers, Gospel folder.” I knew better than to give them to him any sooner than this moment. “All right, Mindy. We're ready to roll.”

I opened the vestry door, and Mindy started out. I followed, Father Donald close on my heels. The notes of the opening hymn, “Onward Christian Soldiers”, trickled reedily from the electric organ, under the quavering fingers of Edith, our fill-in organist. I'll be glad when Boris is back, I thought. His annual
holiday in Portugal always meant we had to endure three weeks of Edith's fumblings. She wasn't a bad pianist, if only we had a piano in the church. As it was, she was terrified of the electronic Hammond organ and never played above a whisper.

Mindy and I settled into our accustomed places, and I waited for the service to unfold as it always did, although with Father Donald in charge, it tended to be a little more fluid than perhaps the church fathers had intended. I watched him tuck in a couple of knee-bends as he stood behind the lectern. I wondered how it looked to the congregation as his head appeared and disappeared several times over the top edge. I opened my prayer book and turned to page 185.

However, our beloved rector had something else in mind. “Before we begin, well we've really begun, but before we get into the service, although on the other hand, I've already started, I have a really important announcement to make, well maybe not that important, but fairly important, at least it will be to some people, in fact, probably to all of you, and certainly to me…” His voice dropped to a low, serious note we seldom heard. I saw his sister Dorothy, ensconced in her usual seat, last pew, right hand side, sit up and cast a gimlet eye on him. Uh-oh, I thought. She doesn't know anything about this.

Father Donald turned his head sideways, held it, then rotated to the other side. He snapped back and continued: “An extremely serious matter has surfaced. I don't want to go into right now, although I probably should, but then, we really don't have time, not if we're going to get out of here by twelve, and I know how you feel, although not all of you, but most of you have homes to go to, not that everyone doesn't have a home…” He executed a full neck roll. As his head returned to the frontal position, his eyes locked on Dorothy's.

Even from my seat at the back of the choir stalls, I could
smell the brimstone. Get on with it, man, I silently urged him, before she explodes. I'd seen Dorothy in action before. She ran a tight ship, whether it was the A.C.W., the Altar Guild or Father Donald. Even his current exercise craze was her idea. “It's time he pulled himself together,” she'd told me, “took off some of that flab, toned up, showed a little discipline.” This from a woman who easily weighed 250 pounds.

“So, in light of what I've found out, discovered really, although I wasn't looking for anything, I'm calling a special Parish Council meeting for Monday night at seven in the rectory.” Dorothy's glare could have felled an ox at a hundred yards. Father Donald backpedalled rapidly, “Er, that is, not the rectory, but the church basement. Yes, that would be a better place, wouldn't it? Although, on the other hand, not that you aren't all welcome at the rectory, you understand, but with Dorothy's spring-cleaning and all…” I saw her massive bulk lift slightly from her pew. So did Father Donald. He hurried on. “It's to do with our monies, and you know how important that is, especially to our treasurer although, not as important as some things perhaps, as our Lord tells us ‘where a man's heart is, there also is his treasure',” and I saw it coming. One of his awful jokes. “And we all know where our treasurer's heart is. It's in that brand, spanking new boat of his, right, Morley?” Everyone laughed and nodded in agreement, but I saw Morley Leet turn deathly pale. Oblivious to everything, Father Donald launched into the service. “Page 185 in your prayer books,” he announced.

The service rolled on without incident except for a slight hitch when Edith hit the Samba button on the organ by mistake, and the second hymn, “Sweet Hour of Prayer”, was underlaid with a distinct “oom cha cha, oom cha cha”. Father Donald took the opportunity to twist and roll from the waist in
time to the music, seemingly unaware of the inappropriate beat.

We all settled into the service groove, but when the time came for Morley Leet to pick up the offering plate, he had disappeared. Finally, Dorothy leaned forward and tapped George Anderson on the head with her hymn book. He got the hint and stumbled forward.

As Father Donald collected the full plate from George's hands, I saw Morley Leet come in and stand at the back of the church. I wondered if he wasn't feeling well again, since he'd looked so pale earlier. We all knew that Morley Leet suffered from “the nerves”, the same malady as Father Donald's sister had. I could understand Dorothy's malady, living with her brother as she did, but what Morley had to be nervous about, I couldn't imagine.

Father Donald beamed broadly at George and said, “Well, looks like we got a new money man. Everyone wants to be treasurer, eh? Must be a pretty well-paid job.” He laughed at his own small joke, lifted the collection plate up and down several times as if he were bench-pressing a hundred pounds, mumbled the prayer and dropped it carelessly on the side table. I lunged for the plate and steadied it just as it was about to slip off the edge. I did this every week.

I took a deep breath and settled back. It was time for the sermon. I had a little game I always played with myself. It helped pass the time. I counted every instance when Father Donald said “although”, then qualified his previous statement. So far, the record stood at twenty-one, but I had hopes for something I could call Guinness about.

The past few weeks, I'd been off my count. Watching Father Donald under cover of the larger pulpit doing various flex-er-cises was distracting to say the least. From my vantage point, every bend and curl was easily seen.

“My text for today's meditation,” he began, using his best sermon voice, deep and resonant and slightly British, “is Matthew,
Chapter 21
, Verse 13, ‘my house shall be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a hideout for thieves'.” I saw Morley Leet duck back out. He must be sick, I decided. Or smart.

There were only eleven “althoughs” today—not a record, but satisfying, nevertheless, and I might have missed a couple when he began to jerk and swing his hips from side to side, not seen by the congregation, but all too clear to me.

At the end of the service, a smattering of “amens” followed us down the aisle. As Father Donald passed Dorothy, she leaned out of her pew and smacked him sharply on the leg with her purse. “Coffee,” she hissed.

“Whaaa?” Father Donald halted suddenly. I glanced back. We'd lost him again. The procession straggled to a halt.

“Coffee Sunday!” she whispered urgently. “You forgot to mention it!”

“Oh! Oh! Shoot! Wait, just a minute. Hold the phone! I forgot. It's coffee Sunday. Come on downstairs—coffee's on. Although, not just coffee. There's tea, too, although if you don't like coffee or tea, I don't know what you'll do. You could have water, although on the other hand, we know our water's not that good. Well, good enough, I guess. For coffee, anyway.” Dorothy smacked him again. He pulled himself together and joined us at the door.

Later in the vestry as I disrobed, I noticed that the collection plate which Mindy had brought in was still on the table.

“Where's Morley Leet?” I asked her. “He hasn't picked up the offerings.”

“I think I saw him going downstairs. Shall I go and get him?”

“Never mind. I'll take it down to him.” I scooped the money into an old envelope and shoved it in my pocket. “Let's go and take our lives into our hands with a cup of St. Grimbald's coffee.” Only the fact that it had been perking for the last two hours made it drinkable at all. Father Donald wasn't kidding about our water.

Mindy and I left the vestry, marched through the now-deserted pews and gathered up Father Donald, who was still at the back of the church. Together we descended the steep stairs into the dank, dark nether regions under the church which the wardens and the A.C.W. had ineffectually tried to render habitable. The usual miasma of mildew and old hymn books was mercifully overpowered by the sharp, heady tang of coffee.

We used Father Donald as a battering ram to take us through the throng to the counter. It wasn't difficult, since he'd already caught sight of Carol Morgan's butter tarts and was moving in on them like a elephant who'd spotted a bag of peanuts. Unfortunately, Dorothy was on an intercept course, and at the last moment, she scooped up the plate of tarts, shot him a triumphant glance and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Shoot!” Father Donald visibly sagged under the disappointment.

“Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” Someone handed him a cup of coffee. Before he could take a sip, the cup was snatched from under his nose.

“I've got
your
coffee here. Sweetener and just a little skim milk.” Dorothy took the offending cup and handed it to Edith, who was waiting in line next to the coffee urn. “Here,” she said, “you can have this one.”

“Shoot!” Father Donald sipped glumly, bending gently at the knees as he did so.