The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (11 page)

"I thought it
was
glazed," said Dave.

"No. I mean shellacked. Covered in polyurethane. Sealed for all eternity."

"But then we couldn't eat it," said Dave.

Nancy rolled her eyes. "We're not going to eat it anyway, Dave. It's already a week old. If we wanted a cinnamon roll, we could just get a fresh one."

Dave shrugged. "I would have eaten it, I guess."

"No one's going to eat it. It's a national treasure," said Pete. "I'll go down to the hardware store and get some polyurethane this afternoon. It'll be as good as new tomorrow morning."

"It looks like the Virgin Mary is getting wrinkles," I said.

"Now she
really
looks like Jimmy Durante," Nancy chimed in. "Look at her nose."

"Shhh," Pete said. "The other customers are looking at us. You guys want a t-shirt? Twenty percent off."

"No, thanks," said Nancy.

"No, thanks," I agreed.

"I should get a free one," muttered Dave. "I discovered her."

* * *

Our breakfast came family style as per Pete's order—plates of pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, a basket of biscuits, a big bowl of grits, and a pitcher of gravy. We dug in as Noylene came around and refilled our coffee cups.

"Any news on the body?" asked Pete, happily polishing off his scrambled eggs.

"Nothing yet," I said. "Maybe Kent will have something today. You have anything, Nance?"

"Matter of fact, I do."

I didn't expect Nancy to have any information. Not this early. But Nancy frequently surprised me. I looked over at her in expectation. She finished the last bite of her pancakes, put down her fork, took a gulp of coffee and pulled out her notepad.

"Lester Gifford—our victim—was born on June 12
^th
, 1892, in Watauga County. He was married to Mavis O'Quinn on May 27
^th
, 1924. He was thirty-two years old. She was twenty when they married. I checked the birth records in Watauga County for the years 1924 to 1937. No record of any children that I could find. The last known documentation of Mr. Gifford's presence is a mention of him in the newspaper on January 15
^th
, 1937, in conjunction with a bank merger.

"Mr. Gifford worked for the Watauga County Bank. He was an assistant manager. A loan officer and in charge of the tellers. In 1937, Watauga County Bank was taken over by Northwestern Bank. The merger article was the piece in which Mr. Gifford was mentioned."

"Was there a missing persons report?" asked Dave.

"No police records from that far back."

"How about the wife? Do we know what happened to her?" I asked.

"No clue. She may have left the area. She might have remarried. I didn't check the marriage records."

"I don't think it matters," I said, "unless she killed him. Does either Lester or his wife have any connection to St. Barnabas?"

"I asked Marilyn for the membership roles. They've got all the information on computer now. It's a lot easier than looking through a bunch of old birth records in the county courthouse."

"And?"

"No connection. But here's the strange thing. There was a fire at St. Barnabas in 1937."

"Really? I didn't know anything about that."

"February 8
^th
. The fire began in the records room. According to a small blurb in the
Watauga Democrat,
although arson was suspected, the fire went out pretty quickly. Some stuff was destroyed. Mostly financial records from what I can gather. A few years of baptismal records. But most of the records were recovered and recopied. Marilyn didn't know anything about it either."

"Well, it was almost seventy years ago. I doubt that there's anyone around that
would
remember. Especially if it wasn't a major fire."

"It wasn't."

"So," I said, "Lester Gifford is murdered sometime after January, 1937. There's a bank merger where he works, and a fire in the records room of St. Barnabas in February. Do you know when the merger took place?"

"Of course. February 25
^th
was the official date." Nancy looked extremely smug.

"And?"

"And there's no record of Lester Gifford ever being on the payroll of Northwestern Bank."

"So he was either canned or he quit," Pete said.

"Or was murdered," Dave added. "Maybe it's all coincidence."

" Is that all?" I asked Nancy.

"Nope."

"There's more?" asked Pete.

"I don't know how she finds all this stuff out in two days," said Dave.

"Because, Dave, I work at it," said Nancy.

"Yeah, well I have to answer the phones."

"And get the donuts," I added, turning back to Nancy. "What's the rest?"

"The president of Watauga County Bank at the time of the merger—a Mr. Harold Lynn—was the Senior Warden at St. Barnabas."

"That's no coincidence," Dave said.

"And a Sunday School teacher named Jacob Winston—also a bank teller at Watauga County Bank—was arrested, but never tried, for murder."

* * *

I was in the office later that morning when I answered the call from Kent Murphee.

"Hayden. This is Kent."

"What's the news?"

"Well, two things."

I waited.

"First," Kent began, "the cause of death was as you expected. Your boy was killed by a blow to the back of the head. Easy to see once you and Nancy got him out of the altar. It was a pretty good shot—broke the skull causing hemorrhaging in the brain. An amazing autopsy, quite frankly. I videoed the whole thing."

"Amazing in what way?"

"The body was perfect. Except, of course, that he was dead and his head was smashed in. His tissue was in perfect condition—even the part of his brain where the trauma occurred. It was like Lester had just died yesterday."

"So you were right about the incorruptible thing. What else?"

"It's very strange. I did most of the autopsy on Friday afternoon, then put him back in the cooler. This morning, when I pulled him back out, there was severe rigor. The body had started decomposing at a normal rate. Starting—and I'm only guessing here from the rigor in the muscles—on Saturday evening."

"So he's not an incorruptible?"

"Well, not any more. I keep trying to think if it had anything to do with the autopsy, but I don't think it did. Scientifically, anyway."

"Scientifically?"

"Well, the other explanation would be sort of…well…miraculous."

"And that would be?"

"That an Incorruptible only remains incorrupt as long as we believe in the miracle. As soon as I did the autopsy, the miracle came to an end and the body returned to its earthly condition. Right where it left off."

"You believe that?"

"Hell, Hayden. I'm a Catholic. I don't know what to believe."

I laughed over the phone.

"You know what I mean. Anyway, I'll do some more tests and let you know. So for now, he was definitely murdered. Blunt trauma to the back of the head. Nothing in the wound."

"I don't know how far we'll go with this thing. There's no statute of limitations on murder, but unless he was killed by a young teenager, whoever did it is most probably already dead."

"Maybe Nancy wants to work on it."

"Yeah, maybe she does. If she solves it, she can at least get some regional recognition—maybe write up a paper and present it to a couple law-enforcement conferences. It's an interesting case." I nodded to myself as I thought about it. "It's a great idea, Kent. I'll see if she wants to give it a go. Thanks."

"No problem. I'll keep you informed."

Chapter 10

"Who youse got?" asked Toby Taps.

"I've got the dead girl, Candy Blather, alias Latte Espresso. She was killed on the dining room table."

"Knife in the heart, head in the mashed potatoes?"

"That's her. You know who did it?"

"Maybe," said Toby. "Who else youse got?"

"I've got her sister, Starrbuck. I've got the feds, too."

"Alice Uberdeutchland?"

"Yep."

"Anyone else?" asked Toby T, tapping a tantalizing tarantella on the terrazzo.

"I've got Piggy Wilson. Candy was into him for about fifty large."

"Yeah, Piggy. Youse knows about the hymnal scam?"

"I've heard. But you could fill in the gaps."

"Piggy didn't do it," said Toby Taps. "It's not his style and besides, he still needed her to woik the fiddle."

"You got another name for me?"

"Jimmy Leggs."

* * *

"Jimmy Leggs!?" said Megan in obvious disgust. "That's the stupidest name I've ever heard."

"It's a tap-dancing motif."

"Jimmy Leggs? Alice Uberdeutchland? With names like these, you'll never get an agent. You'll never make millions of dollars and become the John Grisham of your generation, whiling away your time on your Mississippi riverboat, fighting off hoards of beautiful, money-grubbing, half-naked law clerks."

"John Grisham
is
my generation."

"It's too late then. You should give up now and maybe start a new career selling Bell-Tone hearing aids door to door."

"Did someone come a-knocking at your door?" I asked with a chuckle.

"Yes, and he was deliberately talking too softly."

"I have a career, my dear. I'm a highly paid law enforcement professional."

"Really? Highly paid? You forget that I do your taxes."

"Well, I have a lot of money."

"Yes. Mostly thanks to me."

"OK, then. Do you have a better name for the hit-man than Jimmy Leggs?" I asked.

"Hmmm. Let me ponder a moment," Meg said, putting a finger to her lips in mock-thought. "Instead of Jimmy, how about his brother, Harry? Yes! That's it! Harry Leggs!"

Meg was almost fast enough to make it out of the room ahead of the sofa cushion. Almost.

* * *

"I've been robbed!"

Pete was frantic. I hadn't heard him this frantic since his walk-in went out on a Friday afternoon and the repairman couldn't get parts for a week and a half.

"We'll be right over," I said, hanging up the phone and motioning to Nancy.

"We'll be back in a bit, Dave."

"What's up?"

"Pete's been robbed."

"Should I come?"

"Nope. Someone has to stay in the office."

"Bring me a sandwich then."

Pete met us at the door of the Slab Café.

"How much did they get?" asked Nancy. "Did you leave the money in the register?"

"They didn't take any money," said Pete, holding the door open for us. Noylene was cleaning the fancy glass cake plate in the middle of the counter. The empty cake plate.

"The bun?" I asked.

"Stolen," said Pete. "I'm ruined."