Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon (2 page)

I'm an L.D. That's Liturgy Detective, duly licensed by the diocese of North Carolina and appointed by the Bishop's Council on Physical Fitness. The International Congress of Church Musicians had me on retainer, but since the case of The Alto Wore Tweed, things had been a little slow around the office. Polite, church-going people had apparently shunned me. It seemed like there still wasn't room for people of all fashions in ecumenical society. My latest case involved a family of Full Gospel Raccoons that was wreaking havoc on an Episcopalian Mobile Home Park. I couldn't tell yet if they were proselytizing or just eating the garbage, but it was just a matter of time.

"Sprechen sie hard-boiled?" I asked.

"You dumb palooka, get your nose out of the eel juice before I stuff that stogie down your mush. I'm a dame that needs some bim." She grinned.

She was good all right. Maybe too good. She could speak hard-boiled better than most flatfeet.

"The sucker with the snoozle poured a slug but before he could drift, a couple of ginks showed him the shiv and he hopped in a boiler. It was eggs in the coffee."

"Yeah. OK. You'll be fine. Now hustle your pins down to Marilyn and tell her to order me a sandwich. I'll call you when I need you."

It was gonna be a long day.

•••

The phone was ringing as I stepped out of the shower on Sunday morning.

"Hayden Konig," I said.

"Hayden, how are you? It's about time you were up and about." I recognized the voice right away.

"Ah, Hugh, how are things in England?"

"Terribly busy, as usual. I just called to give you a heads up."

"About what?"

"You're going to be getting a call from one of our city's finest. It seems that there's been a murder at the Minster."

Hugh Kirkby was a priest and canon at York Minster.

"So why call me?" I asked.

"He was a choir member – a songman – who was over here on a fellowship from North Carolina. Raleigh to be exact. Anyway, the Dean wanted someone from the colonies involved – strictly as a courtesy – so I suggested the Minster Police contact you. It would be a free trip across. And some cash to boot."

"That sounds like a deal. Do I actually have to do anything?"

"Just solve the crime and make us all look good."

"That should be no problem at all," I said.

"Great. We'll clear it with the Home Office and get all your papers in order. Otherwise you won't get paid."

"By all means," I said agreeably.

"Get a flight on Thursday. See you soon."

•••

Monday morning found me down at the Slab. I opened the door and saw Nancy and Dave already holding our table. Nancy Parsky is the other full-timer on the force and can only be described as "an efficient law enforcement professional." At least to her face. Dave Vance answers the phones, has a crush on Nancy, and only works about twenty hours a week.

"Mornin', Pete," I called, as I walked over to the coffee pot and poured myself a mug.

Pete Moss is my old roommate from college, the mayor of St. Germaine, and the owner of the Slab Cafe.

"Good mornin', yourself. Grab your chair. I'll be out in a minute with some grub."

I pulled up a chair across from Nancy. She had just taken her notepad from the breast pocket of her freshly starched shirt. Nancy was the only one of the three of us who wore a uniform and the only one to carry a gun. Dave almost always wore a Land's End ensemble. This time of year, I'm usually in a flannel shirt and jeans – not to mention a jacket. The weather in February in the mountains of North Carolina can be downright bitter. We hadn't had a lot of snow since January began, but the cold hung on like a kitten on a pair of corduroy pants.

"What's on the agenda?" asked Dave.

I deferred to Nancy with an upraised eyebrow.

"Nothing much," said Nancy, checking her notebook. "It's another cold week, and all the various and sundry ne'er-do-wells have holed up for the duration of the winter. It's my new theory."

"Sort of like criminal hibernation," said Dave.

"Exactly."

"Maybe you should write a thesis on your hypothesis," I quipped. "They'd be happy to hear about it in Alaska, since they obviously have no crime at all ten months out of the year."

"What about Antarctica?" said Dave. "That's even colder than Alaska."

Nancy rolled her eyes. "Dave, there are no actual people in Antarctica. Just scientists and penguins."

"What about seals?" Pete had just come up to the table, bringing some country ham biscuits and a big bowl of grits. "I'm pretty sure there're seals."

"How 'bout when they kill them baby seals to make fur coats?" It was Noylene Fabergé, Pete's new waitress. "I'd sure call that a crime." She paused. "Unless I had me one of them coats."

"Forget about those seals, Noylene," I said. "You should be worrying about those little polyesters slaughtered on the ice by harpoon wielding Eskimo evangelists in lime-green leisure snowsuits."

Dave choked back half a laugh and covered it with a mouthful of coffee.

Noylene looked shocked. "No kiddin'? Well, I'm writin' a letter. My congressman's gonna hear about them Eskimos." She was shaking her head as she left the table.

"You shouldn't do that to Noylene," Pete said, pulling up a chair and making himself at home. "Have some grits."

"Anyway," continued Nancy, spooning some grits onto her plate as if nothing had happened. "It's shaping up to be a very slow week. So unless we have a major crime spree, it would be a good time for a vacation."

"Speaking of which," I said. "I'll be going over to England for a few days to help in a murder investigation."

"It's probably not cold enough over there," said Pete through a mouthful of ham biscuit.

"I guess not. There was a choir member killed in York Minster. A guy from Raleigh over there on a fellowship, so they want me to be on hand."

"And they're calling you to come over?" asked Pete. I could tell he was impressed. "Are you that well known?"

"I know a few folks over there and they want an American involved in the investigation. Politics I think."

"Can I call the newspaper and get something in there about it?" asked Pete. As mayor, he was always looking for any chance of publicity. "It'll be a great local interest story. 'St. Germaine Cop Called To Assist Scotland Yard'"

"Sure," I said. "It's fine with me. I'll e-mail you the details."

"Great!" said Pete. "I'll call it in this afternoon."

"How about me?" asked Nancy, hopefully. "I'll be happy to go. I want to be in the paper, too."

"Nope. You have to stay here and keep watch over your hypothesis."

Chapter 2

"Marilyn", I called, looking carefully at the sandwich delivery boy. "How am I gonna pay for this?"

She sauntered in. Marilyn had an hourglass figure with an extra twenty minutes thrown in for good measure. And she made a good cup of coffee.

"There's $1.57 left in petty cash." She smiled politely and shrugged her shoulders as she tap-danced coyly back to her desk.

The delivery boy frowned. "I'll just put it on your tab."

"Make sure you add a nice tip for yourself," I called after him as he left. "And close the door after you."

He was a nice kid. He'd done some work for me before and he was interested in learning the business. That is - until he'd seen the down side. In the L.D. business, it's not all sopranos wearing red.

Finishing my lunch, I reached for a stogie and a cup of joe. Suddenly a shot rang out. A woman screamed. No--Marilyn screamed, but I was used to that. A dog barked. A phone rang. Marilyn screamed again. I lit my cigar and looked up.

There she was, the bishop's new personal trainer and executive secretary, standing in the doorway, an imaginary zephyr blowing softly through her hair, and all of a sudden I remembered why it was good to be the bishop. Her name, if I remembered correctly - and I don't think I'd forget, was Roxanne--otherwise known as Rocki. Rocki Pilates.

"I have some big news from the bishop," she said in a low voice. "Can we be alone?"

"Marilyn," I yelped, my voice going up a diminished seventh. "Take your lunch ... NOW
!
"

"But I'm not hun-..."

The slam of the door cut off anything Marilyn had to say, but somehow I suspected she'd be listening intently on the other side.

"Canon Cannon, the bishop's right hand man, has been murdered."

I remembered Canon Cannon. Canon Shannon Cannon. A preacher who could sing pretty good baritone but with a penchant for support groups. He had finally risen to the top of his profession and was the bishop's toady. Was. Now, apparently, he was dead as that dead duck people are always talking about--you know--the lame one that tried to cross the road.

Tears sprang to Rocki's eyes as she spoke. I wiped them away with my cigar.

"I know you're busy with that raccoon case, but here's the thing. Some clerical collars came in the mail for the bishop," she sniffled. "The bishop didn't want them so he gave them to Canon Cannon. You know what a stickler the bishop is. These were size 5 collars with the two-inch reveal. The Bishop's Fashion Directory states that no bishop should wear anything less than an 8 1/4 with a two and a half inch reveal. Anything smaller just looks so pedestrian."

I nodded knowingly. It was the oldest scam in the book. The old poison-collar trick.

"The bishop wants you immediately. Someone wants him dead
!
"

Rocki Pilates leaned across my desk until her face was close. Very close.

"And I'll be particularly grateful."

I was on the case.

•••

I had never flown business class before, but I liked it. The flight was far from full, and business class was just about empty, so I was surprised to have someone sit next to me. Surprised, but not displeased. She was a real beauty, with black hair and a dark, sultry look set off by a light gray executive business suit. Things could be worse. Just after I had settled in, an attendant was taking my drink order and helping me set my iBook up so I could do a little work. Usually I liked doing my writing on the Underwood, but I thought that the clacking of the keys might be a bit disturbing to the other business class passengers — though I might get by with it in coach. This being a seven-hour flight, I thought I could probably get a couple of chapters finished during the trip. I had coerced Meg into transferring my current efforts onto my laptop before I left.

"I'll do it," she said, "if I don't have to read it."

I was well into my second beer when I heard a throaty "ahem...," followed by, "Are you a writer?" The question came from the seat on my right.

"Why, yes. Yes, I am." I'm sure I was blushing. Wait until Megan heard about this.

"I'm Lindsey Fodor," she said, extending her hand. "I'm a literary agent. Fodor, Sotherman and Marx out of Durham. And since we have quite a few hours together, I wonder if I might read your work?" She smiled and nodded toward the computer. "You never know. Maybe I can give you some pointers. Or sign you to a big contract."

"Any relation to Eugene Fodor?" I asked, smiling back at her. "He was one of my favorite violinists during my college days. I played for one of his master classes once."

"I don't think we're related. He's never shown up at a family reunion or called me with free tickets to a concert. Are you a violinist as well?"

"Accompanist." I scrolled to the top of my manuscript and handed her the computer. She put on her glasses, read for about five minutes and handed the computer back. I looked at her in expectation.