Murder at the National Cathedral (25 page)

“I have something on my mind, Jen, and I think we ought to discuss it now.”

Her eyes widened. “Sounds heavy. Are you sure I want to hear this?”

“It doesn’t matter whether you want to or not. You’re about to.”

She muffled an angry comment and returned to the kitchen. He followed and sat at a small table. “Sit down,” he said.

“In a minute, as soon as I finish this.”

“Jen, sit down now.”

Her husband would never be characterized as easygoing. She’d learned to live with his temperament over the years of their marriage, although some of her family had rebelled by finding excuses for not spending time with Wilfred Nickelson. Jennifer wiped her hands on her apron, filled a pan with warm water, and put her bowl of bread dough on a rack over the pan. Then she took a chair across the table. “What’s going on, Willie? You sound as though you’re about to announce the outbreak of World War Three.”

He managed a smile, which she knew did not come easily. She looked into his eyes and saw something quite different from any expression that had ever been there over the course of their marriage. Usually there was blankness, anger, or cold control. This day, however, she discerned fear, or at least deep concern, in his eyes. She placed her hands on his on the table and asked, “Willie, what’s wrong?”

If his smile was forced, his laugh took even more effort. “Wrong?” he said. “Absolutely nothing. In fact, everything is right. How would you like to move to San Francisco?”

“How would I like to
move
to San Francisco? I like San Francisco. I loved that trip we took there a few years ago. How would I like to move there? I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like it here. The girls go to school here. We have friends here. Besides, I’m not a fan of earthquakes.” She, too, forced a laugh to lighten things.

“Well, Jen, earthquakes or not, we are about to move to San Francisco.”

She slumped back in her chair and looked at him as though he were an alien who’d dropped in from another planet. “Willie, what do you mean we’re about to move to San Francisco? We live here. You work here.”

“Not for long. I’ve been offered a job as music director at St. Paul’s in San Francisco. I took it. We’re moving there in a week.”

She tried to respond but was incapable of words. Instead, she went to the counter and peered at the bread dough that had begun to rise in the bowl.

“Jen, did you hear me?” Nickelson asked.

“Yes, I heard you,” she said in a flighty voice, a voice she often lapsed into when confronted with a confounding situation.

“Jen, sit down again and listen to me. I mean business.”

“Yes. That’s the problem: I know you do. I just want to make sure—”

The sound of his fist making contact with the table jolted her.

“Damn it, sit down.”

She did as she was told, although she did not look at him. He said, “Jen, I hate my job at the cathedral. I’ve been wanting something else for a long time, and now I have it.” He took her hands this time as he said, “What a wonderful opportunity! How many times have you said you don’t like Washington, hate the heat in the summer? Think about it, Jen. I’ll have a whole new situation that I can be enthusiastic about, and you and the kids can enjoy that beautiful weather out there, enjoy the Bay Area. We need a change, Jen. We desperately need a change.”

It took a moment for her to summon up the courage to express what was on her mind. “Willie, I could understand if you had wanted to find another position and we’d talked about it. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve found something
that pleases you more, but why so suddenly? You said they offered you the job. That means you must have asked for it.”

“Yes, of course I did. I learned of the opening through another music director here in Washington, called, put together a résumé and sent it out, and they want me. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“And you never included me in any of this?” Hurt filled her voice.

“I’m submitting my resignation to Bishop St. James this afternoon. I’m supposed to be out in San Francisco in a week. I promised them that. That means you and the girls have a fast job of packing to do. Call a mover this afternoon. They’re paying for the move, so don’t worry about cost. Just get it done so that we can be out of here no later than a week from now.”

“Willie, what will the Bishop say about giving him such short notice? That isn’t right.”

“Don’t worry about that. He’ll understand. He’ll
have
to understand. Now, I have to get back.” He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic container of tuna-fish salad Jennifer had made the day before for the kids. He smeared salad on two pieces of bread, wrapped it in foil, and took it with him to the foyer, where he shoved the sandwich into his raincoat pocket. Jennifer stood in the kitchen doorway.

“No turning back, Jen,” he said, pointing his finger at her. “I expect movement on this when I get home tonight.” Then, as though he realized he was being unnecessarily belligerent, which would be counterproductive, he smiled, came to her, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “We’ll have a wonderful life together in San Francisco.”

The Next Morning, Wednesday—Indian Summer

Bishop St. James’s call to Mac Smith the previous morning had reached only Annabel’s voice on their answering machine. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that Smith returned the call and heard about the bishop’s conversation with Jonathon Merle, and that Merle was willing to repeat and elaborate it to Smith. They made an appointment for nine the next morning.

Smith was precisely on time, as was his habit, and sat in the bishop’s study with St. James and Merle. Merle told Smith what he’d told the bishop.

“Reverend Merle, what you say is interesting, of course,” said Smith, “but as an attorney, I have to question the validity of it.” Merle started to respond, but Smith quickly added, “I’m not questioning your truthfulness. I understand that what you say comes out of conviction, but you’ve told me nothing that would stand up as tangible evidence. Was Reverend Armstrong in the cathedral the night of Reverend Singletary’s murder?”

“Yes, she was.”

“How would you know that?” Smith asked. “You said you weren’t here that night.”

If Smith had thought to catch Merle in an inconsistency, he failed. The priest said calmly, “That evening she was scheduled to counsel a group of young couples who are planning to marry, and to prepare a slide presentation in the auditorium upstairs, off the conference center.”

“Reverend Armstrong freely admits she was here the night of the murder,” said St. James. “She told the police that.”

Smith said to Merle, “Why would Reverend Armstrong counsel young couples here in the cathedral? She’s assigned to St. Albans. Are they all planning to be married in the cathedral?”

Bishop St. James again answered the question. “Yes, they are, but there’s no need to wonder why clergy from St. Albans perform tasks in the cathedral. All clergy assigned to St. Albans also conduct a great deal of their business here. We have separate buildings and what are basically separate congregations, but there is a great deal of interchange between the two.”

“I see,” Smith said. He turned back to Merle. “Do you know how late Reverend Armstrong stayed in the cathedral?”

“You mean the night of Singletary’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I intend to, of course, but since you seem to know a great deal about her movements that night, I thought you might save me some time.”

“I don’t know exactly how late, but it had to be at least ten.”

“Why?”

“Because … because the slide presentation was extensive.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“No, but I’ve been told about it.” Merle was not quite as composed as when the conversation started. Earlier, he’d stared blankly at Smith as he answered questions. Now his eyes were in motion, and he picked at the skin on the palm of one of his hands. Rather sharply, he said, “Why are you asking me questions like this? I thought you were my attorney. You sound the way the police did, accusing, distrustful.”

“Not at all, Reverend Merle, but I promised Bishop St. James that I would help if anyone from this institution were to be accused of Paul Singletary’s murder. You’re pointing a finger at Reverend Armstrong. All I want to do is to ascertain what tangible facts you have to back up
your
accusations. The police will be much tougher.”

Merle leaned forward. His lip curled in anger, and he pointed a long, bony finger at Smith. “You want tangible evidence?” His mouth unfurled in a victorious smile. “Here’s one piece of it. A week before Singletary died, I was privy to a conversation between him and Carolyn Armstrong. They didn’t know I was listening. I suppose they assumed no one was able to overhear them. They were wrong.”

“Where did this conversation take place?” Smith asked.

“By the Garth Fountain outside of Good Shepherd.”

“Where were you that you could hear this conversation?”

“In Good Shepherd. I’d gone there to pray. The window was open, and I heard them. At first, I ignored them, but when I heard voices rise in anger, I went to the window and looked out. They were standing next to the fountain.”

“Hard to hear conversations out there with the water running,” Smith said.

“It wasn’t running. The fountain was down for repairs.”

“What did you hear, Jonathon?” St. James asked.

“I heard her accuse him of betraying her, of being unfaithful to her.”

Smith glanced at the bishop before asking his next question. “You say she accused him of being unfaithful to her. Did she get more specific?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. She accused him of having an affair with another woman—she didn’t say who that was, nor did I wish to know, but she was very clear about it.”

“And you understood from the conversation that Reverend Singletary was intimately involved with Reverend Armstrong at that point.”

Merle’s laugh was sardonic. “What would
you
deduce from that, Mr. Smith?”

Smith nodded, conceding the point. “Did Reverend Singletary say anything in his own defense?”

“He told her to stop being childish, told her that she did not own him and that he was free to do what he wished.”

Smith sighed. “Again, Reverend Merle, interesting but hardly reason in itself to accuse Reverend Armstrong of Reverend Singletary’s murder.”

“They ended their conversation this way, Mr. Smith. Armstrong told him that if she couldn’t have him, no other woman ever would.”

Smith said, “I appreciate your telling me this, Reverend Merle. Was there anything else said, or done, during that conversation that would lend credence to the notion that she is Reverend Singletary’s killer?”

A look of exasperation came over Merle. His voice matched it. “Even if there were, is anything else needed, Mr. Smith? Just remember. Reverend Armstrong is a pathological liar. Just remember that. She and I could never work together as … closely as she did with Singletary.”

Smith was about to tell him that from a legal perspective a great deal more was needed, but he decided he wasn’t there to give a lecture on jurisprudence. That was for his class at GW. He thanked the priest again and watched him leave the room.

“What do you think, Mac?” St. James asked.

“He may know more. But I think that a
motive
has been established for Carolyn Armstrong to be a suspect, nothing more. Merle was certainly known to have disliked Singletary, which gives him a motive, too. I told you I intended to speak with Reverend Armstrong. I didn’t do that, but Annabel did. They had dinner together.”

“What came out of that dinner?”

“Nothing substantive, although Annabel left it convinced that Reverend Armstrong certainly had been intimate with Paul. Madly in love is more like it. Let me ask you this, George. Since we’re discussing motive here, is there anyone else in the cathedral who would have had a motive, no matter how minor, for killing Paul?”

St. James pondered the question before saying, “I don’t think so. Of course, none of us go through life without run-ins with other individuals. Paul had his share. I recall him berating one of our maintenance people once. I forget what it was about.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Months.”

“Is that individual still employed by the cathedral?”

“Yes, but don’t read more into this than it deserves. I’m talking about an isolated incident.”

“Did you mention this to the police?”

“No, I don’t think so. I never thought about it until now.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine Paul berating anyone,” Smith said. “I’d better have a word with this maintenance man.” The bishop gave Smith his name. “While we’re coming up with suspects, is there anybody else to add to the list?”

“If having a minor squabble qualifies you for the list, I suppose there would be dozens of people. A harsh word here or there, a momentary fit of pique. Canon Nickelson certainly was not personally fond of Paul.”

“That so? Why?”

“I could never really put my finger on it, Mac. Something to do with Nickelson’s wife. There had been rumors, briefly, that Paul had become involved with Jennifer Nickelson. I confronted Paul about it. I remember it clearly. He laughed and assured me that there was absolutely no truth to the rumors, that he liked Mrs. Nickelson as a person but that they had never done anything more than shake hands. I believed him, of course. Still, the rumor persisted, and I was told that Canon Nickelson was furious about it.”

“Did you ask Nickelson about it?” Smith asked.

“No. I felt that would be in bad taste. Frankly, Mac, I’ve always been aware of Paul’s reputation as a bit of a womanizer, but there isn’t the slightest doubt in my mind that he had nothing to do with Jennifer Nickelson. Besides, it’s all about to become academic.”

“Why?”

“Nickelson resigned today.”

“Really? From what I’ve seen—and heard—he does an excellent job.”

“Yes, he’s a talented musician. He’ll be difficult to replace, although what really upset me was that he gave only a week’s notice—six days, actually. It puts us in quite a bind.”