Fit to Die (23 page)

I remembered the offering envelope in my pocket and
looked around for Morley Leet. “Have you seen Morley?” I asked Dorothy. “I've got the offering to give to him.”

“He was here a minute ago. Probably stepped outside for a cigarette. Filthy habit.” Dorothy sniffed.

“I'll drop it off on my way home. I go right by his house.” I grimaced as I sipped my own coffee. Even three spoonfuls of sugar couldn't disguise the bitter undertaste.

“Now, Donald,” demanded Dorothy in her no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners voice. “What's this about an emergency meeting tomorrow night?”

Father Donald froze in mid knee-bend. He shot her a glance like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming Mack sixteen-wheeler. “Don't get excited, Dottie. You know what the doctor said. Perhaps you'd better take one of your pills,” he suggested hopefully. He'd privately told me that the pills were a godsend—one of them and she was gentle as a lamb, two and she was out like a light.

“No.” Even I cringed at her tone and tried to edge surreptitiously away. “I expect Charles would like to know, too. Wouldn't you, Charles?” The Mack truck had changed course and was bearing down on me.

“Umm, sure, I guess.”

“Well, I wanted to tell you. I would have told you, although I didn't want to say anything until I was sure, well not sure, but at least pretty sure, although there was no reason not to be sure. Anyway, it's hush-hush, well not really, I just can't say anything right now. Although, I could say something, but it wouldn't be any use because I can't tell you everything, not that I know everything, although I think I probably know more than most do about it, well, not more, because as I said to the Bishop… Oh! Shoot! Never mind what I said, not that I said anything, but you're just going to have to wait until
tomorrow night, well not night, evening really, although the meeting is pretty late. I'm sworn to secrecy and that's all there is to it.” He took a large gulp of his coffee and smiled smugly.

Dorothy and I looked at each other blankly. I wondered if she'd made any sense of it all. I tried to sort out the “facts”. Earlier, he'd mentioned an important discovery to do with money and now, a confidential discussion with the Bishop. That could cover anything from the Guild Ladies Luncheon to grand larceny. I decided we were never going to get anything out of Father Donald today, so I left him to the tender ministrations of his now seething sister and headed out to find Morley Leet.

•  •  •

Bessie Leet answered my knock. “He's upstairs, lying down,” she said. “He came in from church, looking terrible. Couldn't eat a bite of lunch. Said he didn't feel well.” She shot a worried glance up at the ceiling. “I hope he's all right. He's been real edgy these past few weeks. I think he's worrying about that new boat of his. I wisht he never got it. How we're going to pay for it, I'll never know. Him with just his pension. I told him to take one of them nerve pills the doctor gave him. That usually settles him down.”

I handed her the envelope. “Perhaps he shouldn't bother with the meeting tomorrow night,” I said. “I'm sure Father Donald will understand if he can't make it.”

“Well, I think this treasuring stuff is all too much for him. His nerves can't take it. Going to resign at the end of this term, so he says. He only done it because his family's always been the treasurers at St. Grimbald's.” She opened a kitchen drawer already stuffed full of receipts, envelopes and various ledgers.
I could see several bankbooks on top. “I'll just put this into his treasurer's drawer. He'll see to it when he's up later.” She crammed the envelope in and pushed the drawer shut. I headed home for lunch and a much-needed cup of my own Special Blend coffee, black with no sugar.

•  •  •

Early Monday afternoon, while I was in the midst of a particularly difficult chapter that just wouldn't write itself, I got a frantic phone call from Father Donald. It took me several minutes to make out what he was saying. He was even less coherent than usual, if that were possible.

“My dear Charles. It's just awful, well more than awful, a tragedy. Poor Edith, what a loss, although Boris will be back for next Sunday, but a loss in the broadest possible sense, perhaps ‘broad' isn't a good choice of words, Edith is such a lady, I mean was such a lady, oh dear, I can hardly believe she's left us.”

I wondered if she'd finally got the message and resigned. Organ one; Edith nothing.

“Left us?' I managed to insert.

“Yes, gone, passed, asleep, away, finished, ended, kaput, no more… dead!”

“Edith's dead?”

“It's just awful. An overdose, although they're not saying that, not that they're saying anything, at least, not to me, but I can read between the lines, well, not read, but listen…uh, where was I?”

“You mean she committed suicide?”

“No, no!” His voice was horrified. “She wouldn't do that, I mean, her playing wasn't that bad, at least, nobody complained, not to me, anyway. You didn't hear anything, did
you? People upset perhaps?”

I saw a quagmire of non-sequitors opening before us and quickly reined in Father Donald's thoughts. “You said an overdose?”

“Yes… that's what they told Benjamin. And he told them she never took anything stronger than echinacea, although I suppose you could overdose on echinacea, at least I'm sure if you took enough of them, although I've never heard of it happening, but people keep taking these plants and herbs and things when there are perfectly good drugs on the market, well, not drugs, but you know, medicine, real medicine, and anyway, Benjamin said she was perfectly fine when she left for church…”

I jumped in as he paused for breath. “When did she die?”

“Probably yesterday afternoon, although it might have been later, she was having an afternoon nap though, so I suppose technically that would make it in the afternoon, although I often nap much later myself, especially if I have an afternoon service. Benjamin said she was terribly sleepy when she got in from church, went to lie down and never got up again. He let her sleep and didn't realize she was dead until this morning. I'm so upset. I'm going to need your help with the meeting this evening. Could you come over?”

I was on my way in minutes, not so much to help Father Donald but to get some coherent information from Dorothy.

•  •  •

If they say that a clean office is the sign of a sick mind, then Father Donald's mind was in outstandingly good health. I cleared a pile of old bulletins off the nearest chair, pushed aside a litter of used Lenten folders on the desk and put down
the cup of tea that Dorothy had handed me as I came through. She looked grimmer than usual and indicated with a shake of her head that she didn't want to talk about it. Not that I blamed her. It would only set him off again.

Father Donald was standing in front of the filing cabinets, doing deep knee bends as he pulled and pushed the two top drawers rhythmically in and out. I wondered if the author of
Flex-er-Cise
had anything like this in mind when he penned his little volume. I doubted it.

Before we could begin our work, the doorbell rang and Dorothy appeared with Sergeant Bernie Bickerton of the local RCMP detachment. “The sergeant wants a word with you, Donald.” I started to get up.

“No, no,” said Father Donald. “Stay, Charles. This won't take a minute. Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you, not that I can do anything, of course, but I suppose I must be able to do something, or you wouldn't be here.”

I saw the familiar dazed look in Sergeant Bickerton's eyes. “Er, umm. Yes, well, the thing is, we want to corroborate that Mrs. Edith Francis was at the service yesterday morning at St. Grimbald's?”

“Why yes, and a lovely job she did, too, especially her rendition of ‘Sweet Hour of Prayer', most unusual, but quite touching.” Father Donald pulled up his shoulders to his ears and dropped them rapidly three times. Then he rotated them clockwise and anti-clockwise.

Sergeant Bickerton stared, fascinated. “Got a crick in your neck, Father?” he asked.

“No, no. It's my flex-er-cises. You should try them.” Father Donald shifted to his neck rolls.

Sergeant Bickerton nodded. “Yes, well, very interesting. Now, was Mrs. Francis also at the coffee hour following the service?”

“Indeed she was. Never missed it, well almost never, although she did forgo once or twice when Mr. Francis arrived early to pick her up, but otherwise, always there. She will be sadly missed.”

Sergeant Bickerton gamely plowed on. I could see why he was a sergeant. “And did you happen to notice what she ate or drank?”

“Well, there were some of Carol Morgan's butter tarts. I'm sure she would have had some of those, except, now that I think of it, I don't think they were there when she came down, not that they'd all been eaten up, although they often are, right off the bat, everyone wants one, the most delicious butter tarts anywhere, well, perhaps not anywhere, but certainly at St. Grimbald's, in fact, I often tell Carol she should start a butter tart business, although not a business, more of a home kitchen thing…” He trailed off, unconsciously licking his lips in remembrance of butter tarts past. “Although,” he rallied, “they were gone because Dorothy had taken them back to the kitchen.”

“She didn't offer them to Mrs. Francis?”

“Good grief, no! Dorothy wouldn't give Edith
anything!
They were mortal enemies, well not mortal any more, more like immortal I guess, what with Edith being gone and all. But they never got on, never since Dorothy discovered that it was Edith who told the regional president of the A.C.W. that Dorothy…Oh! Shoot! It's a secret. Dorothy said she'd have my…well, let's just say it wouldn't be pleasant, if I told anyone. Can't say a thing, not a thing, silence of the confessional and all that, not that she confessed, at least not to me, but then she wouldn't, would she, confess that is. ‘Vengeance is mine' is Dorothy's personal motto. No, no, I can't say another word.” With this, he made the motion of
locking his mouth shut, turning the key and throwing it away.

“So they didn't get on?” Sergeant Bickerton leaned forward intently. “Was Ms. Peasgood in the kitchen then?”

“Who? Ms. Peasgood? Oh my sister, of course, I always think of her as just ‘Dottie'. Yes. She was in the kitchen.” He sat on the edge of the desk and lifted both legs up, held them rigid and slowly lowered them back down. His face mottled a bright purple. Steady, I thought, or we'll be having two funerals at St. Grimbald's this week.

“And did you see Mrs. Edith Francis drink anything?”

Father Donald looked off into space. I could almost see when the light bulb went on. “Why yes! I did! She drank the cup of coffee Dorothy gave her.”

Sergeant Bickerton was instantly alert. “So, you're saying that Ms. Peasgood
did
give Mrs. Francis something, after all?” he asked in a voice of steel. “I think I should have a little talk with Ms. Peasgood myself.”

“Oh, dear, must you? She gets upset so easily. It's her nerves, you know—very delicate. Always have been, although not when she was younger of course, not that she's all that old now, but still, the pills have made a great difference, although she'd rather not have anyone know that she takes them, in fact please don't mention I told you, she'll kill me, I'm sure. She's capable of almost anything when she gets in a temper…”

After that, I watched it go steadily downhill. The upshot was that Dorothy was asked to go into the station with Sergeant Bickerton to give a statement, and Father Donald insisted on going along to give her moral support. Frankly, I feared he'd given her far too much support all ready. I, of course, was asked to take the Parish Council meeting in his absence.

•  •  •

I arrived several minutes late, but contrary to their usual practice, everyone was already there. Even Morley Leet made it, although I thought he still looked a bit shaky. It seemed appropriate that I break the news about Edith so that we could begin with a moment of silence for our dear departed substitute organist.

“I have some very sad and serious news,” I began. “Today, we have lost a vital part of St. Grimbald's, someone who is near and dear to each and every one of us, someone whom we will all sorely miss, someone who unselfishly contributed so much towards the spiritual worship in our congregation. I know you all feel as saddened as I do by this tragic loss.” I paused dramatically, thinking I'd done pretty well by poor old Edith, and wondered if I'd be called upon for the funeral eulogy. Before I could continue, Morley Leet stood up.

“I'd like to say a few words,” he said. I was surprised, since I hadn't realized he was especially fond of Edith.

“I'd like to have it put on the record that I have always admired the steadfast leadership and deep spiritual qualities that were brought to this parish by Father Donald. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say that he was a good rector and an all-around good human being.” He wiped a tear from his eye, sat down and looked solemnly around him.

Before I could say anything, the door banged open and Father Donald bounded into the room. “I'm back! Well I wasn't really away, just gone for awhile, but I was with you all in spirit. So how's the meeting going, Charles—have you told them my good news?”

Morley Leet stood up. His chair fell with a crash backwards onto the cement floor. He thrust an arm towards Father Donald. “You! You're, you're…” and he fainted dead away.

Suddenly, I flashed back to yesterday's coffee hour, and I
could see the arm thrusting the cup of coffee into the Father Donald's hands. I could hear the voice, “Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” It had been Morley Leet. The drugged coffee was not only deliberate, but it had been meant for Father Donald. And Edith was dead because of Dorothy's vigilance, not vengeance.