The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (3 page)

"Kit," I barked, "you have those pictures yet?"

"Not yet, boss. They probably won't show anything you didn't already see."

"I was thinking we could sell one or two to the daily rag and make this month's nut. Our bank account is emptier than a housefly's bladder."

"That ain't ethical, Boss."

Ethics don't buy the stogies, I thought as I lit one up and picked up the phone.

"Marilyn? The bishop call yet?"

"Nope."

"How about the hymns? Did I pick them out already?" I knew the answer.

Marilyn snickered. "Not unless you did it in your sleep --as usual."

"Very funny." I chomped on my cigar. The fifteenth Sunday of Pentecost. Ordinary time. Usually I could come up with hymns faster than Granny Pearl on You-Pick-'Em Sunday, but today I was as stumped as the three-legged pig whose owner loved him so much, he vowed "I just can't eat a pig that cute all at once."

I flipped through the hymnal. It was tough being in the doghouse every week and this hymnal had some real hounds. Sure, they were all nice and singable when you were sitting in a music conference with a bunch of professionals, but try some of these mutts at home and they'd be barking like the cheerleader squad at St. Mary Margaret's.

"Shall I just use the ones from last week?" asked Marilyn amiably. "And the week before that? And the week before..."

"Yeah, whatever," I interrupted. "It's the fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost. I doubt anyone will notice."

"The bishop will notice. He's standing right here."

If I had been paying attention, I might have noticed Marilyn's intonation change from her no-nonsense secretarial clatter to her sickly sweet stick-a-communion-fork-in-your-neck voix de pudding, but I wasn't and I didn't.

"You misunderstood," I chirped. "The hymns are 435, 623, 15 and 238. In that order." I thought at least a couple of the numbers sounded recognizable. "Type it up." I hung up the phone.

"Still want that cup of joe?"

It was a voice that was familiar, but not too. I looked up and measured her like an undertaker at a nursing home. Her hair was short, her legs were long and the rest of her fell somewhere in between. It was the "in-between" I was interested in.

"I'm Starrbuck. Starrbuck Espresso. But you can call me Starr. I brought you some coffee."

"Of course you did, Kitten."

* * *

"May I read it yet?" asked Meg.

"Not yet. You're too critical. Your negativity will stem the tide that is my creative impetus."

"No, it won't. I promise. Just let me see the first chapter."

I gave no indication I was giving in.

She shrugged. "I'll see it Sunday, anyway."

I was in the habit, for better or worse, of putting the finished chapters into the choir members' folders before the Sunday morning service. I had found out later that these chapters had been making the rounds of the locals in St. Germaine. Not that I minded. I thought some of the prose was pretty darn good. Well, if not good, then not extremely bad. Or, if extremely bad, at least bad on purpose.

"Fine," I said, knowing I'd get no peace until the unjust criticism was leveled. I handed Meg the top page of the story. Although my missives were very short—less than a page—I thought they were clever beyond words. My entire novelette would be under thirty pages. Yes, it was short and sweet, but I wasn't making a career out of this. It was just my way of relaxing. I braced myself for the onslaught.

"Not too bad," said Meg. "In fact, you're getting better."

"You think so?"

"Absolutely. So good, in fact, that you should start your real novel. I'm sure it'll be splendid."

"I don't know. It might take me a couple of years to finish it."

"Really?" she asked, pseudo-innocence dripping from her treasonous lips. "That long?"

"Aha! I see right through your tricks." I snatched my paper back from her hand. "I am, after all, a trained detective. Nope. No way. This shall be my masterpiece."

"Ah well. No one can say I didn't try."

* * *

She swayed delightfully up to my desk like a Polynesian palm tree on a couple of good-looking stumps, her Miss-Middle-America walk defined by her high-heels, a little grace, a lot of practice, and the taffeta clinging to her curves like plastic wrap and rustling like a cockroach in a sugar-bowl.

"The girl you found. She was my sister."

"I see the resemblance," I said, lighting another cigar and thinking of last Thanksgiving.

"I'll pay you to find out who did it."

That sounded like a deal to me. The bishop would pay me. Starr Espresso would pay me. If I could get a couple more people to pay me, I could take the rest of the week off. Suddenly the phone rang. I picked it up. It was another dame.

"Yeah?"

"Vee vant you to find out who killed her."

I recognized the accent right away. She worked for the feds--undercover, of course--and I'd had that pleasure more than a few times. It was Alice. Alice Uberdeutchland.

"How're you doin' Alice?"

"Cut zee small talk. Vee vill give you two hundred a day plus expenses."

I took a long drag, put my feet up on my desk and blew a smoke ring that hung above Starr's head like a smoggy halo. Then I smiled.

* * *

"What's the scoop on the new guy?" I asked.

The staff meetings at St. Barnabas were different from our staff meetings for the police department in that we didn't have a full breakfast—just coffee and donuts. The "new guy" I was referring to had come into the congregation like a whirlwind and was hard to miss. He'd been attending services for a couple of weeks and had met almost everyone in the congregation, shaking hands and kissing babies like a seasoned politician.

"His name is Rob Brannon," said Georgia. Georgia Wester was one of the Lay Eucharistic Ministers and on the Worship Committee. The other people at the table were Marilyn, Father George and Carol Sterling. Our Christian Ed director, Brenda Marshall, was absent from the conclave. Brenda was a very emotional and hug-oriented woman. I had thought she might resign after our interim priest left, but she'd decided to stay on—at least for the time being.

In some Episcopal parishes, it's traditional for the entire staff to write letters of resignation as soon as a new priest is hired. Usually, but not always, the letters are refused. Sometimes, they're kept on file for a couple of months to see how all the personalities work out. Father George had decided to keep them all on file. The scuttlebutt around St. Barnabas was that Princess Foo-Foo (as Megan had nicknamed Brenda) was on a short leash and currently absent because she was attending a conference on Puppet Ministry that she had scheduled prior to Father George's arrival.

"Rob's been a visitor here since he was born," said Carol. "His grandparents have passed away, but his family's from St. Germaine."

"The name's familiar," I said. "Ahh. Robert Brannon, as in the Robert Brannon whose name is on at least three of the stained glass window memorials?"

"That's the family. I think Rob is Robert Brannon the fourth. His great-grandfather was one of the founding members of St. Barnabas."

"And is he back to stay?" Father George asked.

"It seems so," said Georgia, holding her now empty cup out to me for a refill. I obliged.

"Well, he's on my list for a visit. I'll try to see him sometime this week."

Father George Eastman had come to St. Barnabas in the early summer. He had interviewed just after Easter and had been well received by almost everyone. His wife, Suzanne, was a good alto and had joined the choir the first week they'd arrived. During the five months George had been at St. Barnabas, things had run smoothly. Compared to the last two priests, he was literally a godsend. The atmosphere of St. Barnabas felt as if a huge cloud had been lifted. The whole congregation could feel it. He had his quirks, but I liked him. We got along just fine.

"You'd
better
visit him," smiled Marilyn Forbis, the church secretary. "He's already joined. I received his letter this morning. He also turned in his pledge card."

I was impressed. His pledge card? In the Episcopal church, pledge cards were as rare as hen's teeth—at least before Thanksgiving when the screws were tightened.

"We have a vestry election in a couple of weeks," Father George said. "I've read the procedures. Is the nominating committee in place?"

We all looked at Marilyn. She nodded and flipped a couple of pages before settling on the correct document.

"There are four retiring members, so they'll make up the committee. Meg Farthing, Katherine Barr, Carol…" She nodded toward Carol. "And Malcolm Walker."

"How long has Malcolm been Senior Warden?" asked Father George.

"Four years," said Marilyn. "He should have left last year, but we were in transition, and we thought it would be wise to keep the leadership in place. We didn't have an election last year."

"Will Billy Hixon remain as Junior Warden?"

"He has another year, but I've heard rumblings that he might like the job of Senior Warden instead."

"Could he do it?" asked Father George, turning toward me.

"Sure," I said with a shrug. "I don't know why not."

Father George looked at Georgia, then to Carol.

"Yeah," said Georgia.

Carol nodded. "I guess so."

* * *

After the meeting, I made my way up to the choir loft to look at some music. St. Barnabas was an old church—old for this part of the country anyway. It was built in the traditional shape of the cross, the choir loft and the organ being in the back balcony. I had just settled in for an hour of practice on the Reger
Ein feste Burg Fantasie
when JJ Southerland came up the stairs and stuck her head though the doorway.

"I have some vittles for you in the kitchen if you want some lunch."

I grinned at her. "Are you here cooking every day?"

"Almost." JJ pulled the errant strap of her white painter's overalls back onto her shoulder, adjusted her baseball cap and gave me a smile. "I'm working on tonight's church supper anyway. You coming?"

"What are you making?" I was always wary of JJ's cooking. Sometimes it was a delicious pâté de foie gras. Sometimes it was pâté de possum. And you never knew which it would be.

"I don't know yet, but it could be good. Billy and John are grilling."

"I don't want to miss that. Give me about an hour, and I'll come down and give it a taste."

"Well, the real reason that I came up is that there's a huge rat in the pantry, and we can't get it out. Would you bring your gun down and teach it some manners?"

I reached under the organ bench and pulled out my 9mm Glock. "Let's go then."

* * *

The rat in the pantry was pretty big, and it had been living on the largesse of the kitchen committee for so long that it was too fat to move very quickly. There were three choices as I saw it. Shoot it, trap it or poison it. Shooting it was the fastest. Once the deed was done, I got it out the door and into the dumpster as quickly as I could. I didn't want to leave it for JJ because I wasn't altogether sure where it would end up.

"Thanks," said JJ, standing at the stove and pushing her current concoction around the blackened frying pan with a fork. "Grab a plate."

I looked over her shoulder. She had some sausages, onions, garlic and green peppers sizzling dangerously close to culinary perfection.

"It smells great. No wonder the rat didn't want to leave."

"Well, I've known about him for quite some time. But, live and let live I always say. That is, until he got into my potatoes."