Murder at the National Cathedral (5 page)

“Well, not close, but we saw many things eye-to-eye.”

“I’ll see you downstairs,” said the bishop.

Merle left, leaving St. James to put on a purple cassock, over which he slipped a white rochet with embroidery at the bottom. A black silk chimere with white lawn sleeves and
cuffs came next; his stole hung straight down from his neck, befitting his status as a bishop. A pectoral cross rested comfortably on his chest. As he donned these holy garments, his thoughts were less than holy. There was no escaping politics, not even in the house God built. Even early in his career, when he was a simple parish priest, there had been the squabbles between parishioners, some seeking God, some seeking ego-gratification, others looking for the enhanced possibility of salvation through increased influence in church matters. As he rose through the ranks, political considerations had increased proportionately. He’d become the National Cathedral’s bishop and dean after serving as suffragan, or assistant bishop, to the previous bishop, John Walker, a brilliant and passionate black man who seemed to walk easily between the lofty demands of his position and the humbler demands of using the nation’s house of worship to feed the hungry, clothe the poor, and minister to the sick in the ghettos of the capital. A simple devotion to Christ was not enough, not in the nation’s church in the most politically fueled city in the world, Washington, D.C. Politics! The least pleasant aspect of his duties, although he knew he was good at it; St. James had learned much about the art of negotiation and diplomacy from Bishop John Walker.

The bishop frowned as he gave himself a final check in the mirror, not because of what he saw but because of the invitation he’d extended to Merle. Now he’d have to go through with it another night. An evening with Jonathon over a Chinese meal was like the old joke, he thought, a contest in which the winner received one week in Philadelphia, the second-place winner two weeks. He looked up, crossed himself, and said with a wry smile on his face, “I do this only for You.”
And because I do like hot-and-sour
, he added silently. Come to think of it, that describes my two canons.

As he opened the door and prepared to descend the steps, he thought of a dinner he’d had a month ago with Mac
Smith and Annabel Reed, now Mr. and Mrs. Mackensie Smith. He’d been away from Washington when Paul Singletary celebrated Mac’s marriage to the beautiful redheaded woman with whom Mac had been intimately involved for some years. The first thing St. James had done upon returning was to call and invite them to dinner. He wished Smith would be willing to take on a more active role with the cathedral chapter now that Adam Vickery was gone. Smith, like Vickery, was an attorney, which gave him a unique way of looking at problems. As the bishop started down the stairs, he realized he’d never met anyone who had Mac Smith’s innate ability to be involved with so many people and so many things, yet maintain a safe distance from all of them. A lawyer. A very good lawyer—and, oh yes, a professor.

St. James had rounded the final turn and was about to step into the north entrance’s foyer when the scream erupted, reverberating off the cold stone walls, ceilings, and floors. He stopped and felt his stomach tighten. Screaming again; a woman, close by. St. James swung to his right; the shrill, piercing voice seemed to be coming from only a short distance away—from the Good Shepherd. He went to the door and looked in.

Three two-person pews were empty. He stepped inside and looked left, to the small altar upon which a tiny vase of wilted flowers stood in front of the Salisbury pink granite sculpture of Christ cradling a lamb in His arms. Standing there was a woman, her eyes wide with fright, her screams now reduced to smaller sounds of anguish and pain. She was trying to speak, but the words were caught in her throat. She turned and stared down to a pew just large enough for one person, and almost hidden from St. James’s view from the door. The bishop saw an arm. Another step and he saw more of the figure slouched in the pew. A crude sign taped on the stone wall directly in front of the body said
PLEASE NO SMOKING
.

The woman started to scream again. St. James held up his hand against the noise, put his hand on her shoulder, and took a final step that allowed him a full view of the occupied pew.

“My God,” he said as his eyes fixed upon the crushed skull and lifeless body of the Reverend Canon Paul Singletary.

That Same Morning—A Splendid, Sunny, Temperate October Day

Mac Smith returned from a brisk walk with Rufus. He steered the Great Dane into the kitchen and set about squeezing two glasses of orange juice, heard the shower going, heard Annabel singing “When You Wish Upon a Star,” which seemed to have become her favorite tune to lather by since their wedding. Prior to that she’d been partial to Gilbert and Sullivan and the Beatles. Good: he preferred the Disney song.

Smith was about to take a sip of juice when the phone rang. He glanced at the kitchen clock—7:10. Early for a casual caller. He headed for his small study at the rear of his—their—house in Foggy Bottom, which he’d shared until recently only with Rufus.

“Mac, it’s George St. James.”

“Good morning, Bishop,” Mac said. “You’re doing God’s work early. What prompts a call at this hour?”

St. James sighed before he said in a low, breathy tone, “Mac, a terrible thing has happened here this morning.” Before Smith could ask, St. James said, “Paul has been murdered.”

“Run that past me again, George.”

“Paul Singletary has been murdered. Right here in the cathedral. I found his body a half hour ago.”

“Christ! I just saw him … well, no, it was August, but he married us.”

“I know, Mac. It’s a dreadful shock. I can’t begin to tell you how terrible, to, find his body …”

“Where?”

“In the cathedral. In the Good Shepherd Chapel.”

“The tiny one.”

“Yes.”

“How was he killed? How do you know it was murder?”

“The side of his head is bashed in. Someone struck him a wicked blow.”

“
You
found the body?”

“Yes. Well, a woman actually did.”

“What woman?”

“I don’t know her name. She’s distraught, beside herself. I have her here with me in my dressing room.”

“Have you called the police?” Smith asked.

“No. I wanted to speak to you first.”

“George, I think the police should have been first on your list.”

“Please, Mac, can you come here right away? I want to explore things with you before I call the authorities.”

“What about the cathedral’s legal counsel?”

“They’re money lawyers, Mac. You’ve had experience with criminal matters. I know this is an imposition, but …”

“I’ll be there as quickly as I can. Annabel and I were getting ready for breakfast before coming to Adam Vickery’s funeral. I’ll tell her.”

“Don’t mention this to her, Mac. Not to anyone until we’ve talked.”

“George, this can’t be kept a secret.” Smith didn’t want to sound annoyed, but his voice reflected what he was feeling at that moment. “Who else have you told?”

“No one. I pushed a piece of furniture up against the chapel’s door.”

“The body is still in there?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be in your office?”

“Yes, I … no. Can you meet me in the Bishop’s Garden?”

Smith looked at a clock on his desk. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. But you should call the police.”

He hung up and stuck his head into the bathroom, where Annabel was drying her hair, a huge pink towel wrapped around her nakedness. “Who called?” she asked.

“George St. James. I’m heading for the cathedral now to meet with him. We’ll have to scrap breakfast.”

“Why?” she asked.

“There’s been a … an accident at the cathedral. George wants to discuss it with me … from a legal point of view. I said I’d meet him in twenty minutes.”

“What kind of accident?”

Smith looked into her large green eyes and had a sudden burst of recognition, which had been happening with some regularity since the wedding. They
were
married. She
was
his wife. No secrets. Right? Right! “Look, Annabel, this will be a shock, but Paul Singletary is dead.”

She slumped back on a stool, the hair dryer blowing hot air on her feet. “Paul? How? What happened?”

No secrets. “He’s been murdered. Somebody hit him in the head, at least according to George. He’s … he’s dead.”

“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” she said, standing and redirecting the hot air at her thick, wet red hair.

“No. Right now, George is concerned about people knowing, for some reason. It’s got to come out, of course.
I’m meeting him privately, in the Bishop’s Garden. You hang out here, take any other phone calls, and meet me at the back of the cathedral at quarter of nine, near the statue of George Washington.”

“Mac, I … You’re not going to get involved in another—”

“Please. I’ve told you all I know. I’ll do better at quarter of nine.”

Smith drove his blue Chevy Caprice up Wisconsin Avenue and stopped at Church House Road, the first small access road to the cathedral close. He saw the gathering of security people, and decided to continue on Wisconsin until reaching another road that would take him to the north side of the cathedral, where there should be less activity. He parked in a designated visitors’ space and walked briskly around the North Cloister and the administration building, turned right, the College of Preachers on his left, and followed the road south past the library and the deanery until reaching the Norman Arch, the main visitors’ entrance to the lovely Bishop’s Garden. He paused and looked back; a Cathedral Police white Ford Bronco, its yellow lights flashing on top, sped by. Had the bishop changed his mind and informed the authorities? Smith hoped so.

He didn’t know where in the gardens George St. James would be waiting, but decided to head for the Rose Garden, where floribundas and hybrid tea roses would be in full bloom in Washington’s mild October weather. His hunch was right. St. James, now dressed in simple clerical collar and black suit, stood at the end of the Rose Garden beneath an old pear tree. Next to him, surrounded by rare Kingsville dwarf box, stood Heinz Warneke’s statue of the Prodigal Son. The scent of roses hung thick in the still morning air.

St. James spotted Smith and waved him over, as though directing the relocation of a piece of heavy furniture.

They shook hands. What had happened that morning was written all over the bishop’s face. It was drawn and sallow,
a pleading quality in his ordinarily bright blue eyes. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

“I saw some activity,” Smith said. “Did you change your mind, notify the police?”

St. James shook his head. “I told you I wanted to wait until—”

“All right, tell me again what occurred this morning.”

St. James quickly recapped the events, culminating with the discovery of Singletary’s body in the Good Shepherd Chapel.

“Who is the woman who found him?”

“I don’t know her name. Eileen is with her in my dressing room.”

“Eileen knows?”

“Yes, I had to tell her. I mean, she is my wife.”

“Of course.… I understand. When did you last see Paul?” Smith asked.

“A few days ago, just before he left for London.” St. James stopped, as though having been struck by a revelation. “He wasn’t due back in Washington until today.”

“Looks like he cut his stay short. George, you do know that we must advise the authorities and do it now.”

“Can’t we wait a few hours, at least until the Vickery funeral is over?”

“Why do that? What would that accomplish?”

St. James let out an exasperated sigh and turned away, took a few steps, then turned again. “I don’t know, Mac,” he said, “it just seems to me that a few hours wouldn’t matter. A funeral is about to be held here of a man who has been important to this cathedral. Does it have to be interrupted by police sirens and television crews?”

Smith jammed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground before saying, “One, there is always disruption when someone is murdered, whether it’s in this cathedral or elsewhere. Two, it is illegal to withhold from the police the fact that a murder has been committed. Three, to postpone
notification not only puts you and the cathedral in a bad light, it could have an adverse influence on the eventual investigation. No, George, the time to tell them is now.”

St. James’s mind seemed to wander into a less tangible realm. He spoke not to Smith but to an unseen person: “ ‘Puts the cathedral in a bad light.’ That’s what I want so desperately to avoid.”

Smith said brusquely, “The light is going to shine here whether you want it to or not, George, and it’s going to be a lot hotter if you don’t do the right thing and do it now.”

Smith’s hard words snapped the bishop back to the garden. He nodded. “Yes, of course you’re right, Mac. That’s why I called you. I knew you would know the right thing to do, and would see to it that I did it. Is it possible … well, I also wondered: would
you
call the police and ask them if they could be as discreet as possible while the funeral is going on?”

St. James’s concern for the funeral irritated Smith, but he didn’t vent it. He simply said, “Yes, I’ll call them now.”

Smith followed the bishop across the gardens, through the Norman Arch and into the cathedral and the hallway outside the door of the Good Shepherd Chapel. A large armoire had been pushed against it. A scribbled sign hung from it:
CLOSED FOR REPAIRS
. Smith stifled a wry smile. What could possibly have been running through the bishop’s head to go to this trouble? Confusion, obviously, and some well-meaning fear—more likely
hope
—that the reality of it could be postponed indefinitely. But sealing off the chapel would help the investigation.

“He’s in there, exactly as you found him?” Smith asked, his eyes fixed upon the armoire.

“Yes. Maybe you should take a look before you make your call, Mac.”

Mac silently debated it, then decided to do it quickly. “You said the woman screamed. Didn’t anyone else hear her?”

“Yes, a parishioner looking for a bathroom, but I said someone had fallen, twisted her ankle.”