The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (18 page)

“
Life Coach Accompanist?” I asked.

“
I thought you’d given up the noir detective genre for a few weeks,” said Meg, reading over my shoulder and then uttering a heart-felt sigh. “I was so happy.”

I adjusted my fedora and chomped down on my unlit
Romeo y Julieta
Cuban cigar. “Couldn’t do it. Sophie Slug was okay, but she had no real ethos. No magnetism. No charisma.”

“
She’s a slug.”

“
Exactly. She keeps melting.”

Meg shook her head in mock-disgust. “Well, our company will be here in a few minutes to help with the tree. Don’t get too involved.” She bent down over the back of the chair and gave me a kiss on the cheek opposite the cigar. “How’s that beer, by the way?”

“
Stout. Stout and delicious. Just the thing for a cold Saturday night after the greatest Christmas parade in history.”

“
Save me some.” Meg disappeared into the kitchen.

I took another sip and looked down at the page. I not only had to type one-handed, but one-fingered, since it was now hunt-and-peck. But hunt-and-peck I would.

“
Life Coach Accompanist?” I asked again, because Meg had interrupted and I’d lost my train of thought.

“
It’s the ‘in’ thing,” said Annie Key, twirling a delicate digit through her blonde curls. “They play for you when you sing. Then they tell you how to run your life. They give you advice.”

“
Sounds like every voice teacher I’ve ever met,” I said. “But I’ve never heard of a Life Coach Accompanist. What’s the skinny on a deal like that?”

She shook her head and I could have sworn I heard a rattle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“
How much do they charge?” I asked.

“
Three hundred twenty-five dollars an hour. But it’s easy. You just give them your credit card number.”

A light bulb blinked over my head. I remembered I hadn’t paid the electric bill and then an even brighter, although metaphorical, light bulb blinked and I had an idea. A brilliant, hundred-watt idea.

Life Coach Accompanists were charging three hundred twenty-five semolians an hour. I was getting two Cs a day, and that was when the fish were running. It didn’t take a genius to do the math, especially with a fancy calculator like the one I had sitting on my desk, thanks to a little game I invented called “You Bet Your Calculator” that I talked the bishops into playing when I invited them over for casino night, them and their calculators.

By day, I was an L.D., Liturgical Detective duly licensed by the Diocese of North Carolina and dedicated to the prospect of early retirement. But by night... I had a phone, advice, and a Rolodex full of more suckers than the all-you-can-eat Wednesday night octopus buffet at the Red Lobster.

“
You want my advice, Toots?” I asked. “And would you take it, if I gave it?”

“
Of course. That’s why I’m here.”

“
You need a new Life Coach Accompanist.”

•••

“
Oh,
no!
” said Meg. She was on the phone in the kitchen. “That’s
terrible.
What does the doctor say?”

I picked up my beer, clicked off the banker’s light over the typewriter and headed for the kitchen to get whatever bad news was looming, then decided that Baxter might need to romp outside for a few minutes, at least enough of a romp to let Meg finish her phone conversation.

We snuck out the front door and Baxter tore off into the field after a phantom herd of deer, barking his head off, then returned in short order, his tongue hanging out, and a very satisfied look on his face. I scratched him behind his ears and followed him in the kitchen door.

“
What’s up?” I asked, dreading the answer. I set my oversized bottle of
Samichlaus
on the counter, only half empty. I sensed I’d be finishing it up pretty quickly.

“
It’s Gaylen. She was walking down the basement stairs when the lights went out all over town. She fell down the last three and the emergency room doctor thinks one of her broken ribs might have punctured a lung. Luckily she had her cell with her. That was Georgia calling from the hospital.”

“
Should we go over?”

Meg shook her head. “Georgia said not to. Gaylen will be okay, but she’s staying the night at least.”

“
That’s a relief,” I said, “but this does not bode well for St. Barnabas.”

•••

“
That’s it, then,” said Dave, standing up and brushing his hands on the front of his sweater to get rid of any loose needles. “Looks good to me.”

“
It’s leaning to the left,” said Cynthia. “And it needs to be turned a quarter-turn to the right, so that bald spot is against the wall.”

“
Yes, exactly!” agreed Meg.

Dave and Nancy had come over to help Meg put up the Christmas tree. Pete and Cynthia had come over to watch and give directions. Ruby, Meg’s mother, was happy to join in the festivities as well.

Dave sighed, got back on his knees, and grabbed the tree stand, so he could help Nancy spin the tree.

“
There,” said Meg. “Perfect.”

“
Whew! I’m exhausted,” said Pete, watching from my overstuffed, leather club chair. “What’s for supper?”

“
Chili and jalapeño cornbread,” I said. “And a nice Christmas beer, if you’d like.”

“
I’d rather try some of that fancy wine you bought,” said Ruby.

“
No,” muttered Meg. “Absolutely not. Not ever. Never, in fact.” She looked around the room, a blank look on her face. “Fancy wine? What fancy wine?”

“
Okay, okay,” said Ruby, raising her hands in surrender. “Anything but beer, though.”

“
Cheap chablis?” Meg asked.

“
Wonderful,” said Ruby.

“
I’ll have the beer,” said Cynthia. She’d changed out of her belly dancing outfit, much to my disappointment.

“
Ditto,” said Nancy.

“
Yes, please,” agreed Dave. “Beer.”

“
We’ll put the decorations up after we eat, then,” decided Meg. “Dave, you and Nancy are in charge of the lights. That’s usually Hayden’s job, but he is incapacitated.”

“
I still have one good drinking hand,” I said. “And I can probably point to stuff.”

“
Well, point your way to the kitchen,” said Ruby.

•••

“
Well,” said Meg, “I, for one, am glad that Big Mel won the float contest. I mean, how could anyone have topped that?”

“
There are those that would argue,” said Nancy. “You can’t put out all the lights in town and walk away with three thousand dollars.”

“
Nothing in the rules about that,” said Pete.

“
Not to change the subject or anything, but how’s the investigation going?” asked Cynthia. “This cornbread is great, by the way!”

“
Thanks,” said Meg. “The secret is to use creamed corn. That way it doesn’t get dry.”

“
The investigation is going just fine,” I said. “And I affirm the cornbread as well.”

“
We’ve got nothing,” said Nancy glumly.

“
Nothin’,” agreed Dave, his mouth half full of chili.

“
Aw, c’mon,” I said. “We know the guy’s name. We know he was a killer-for-hire. We know he was shot with a 9mm handgun at close range.”

“
It’s not much,” said Nancy.

“
Umm,” agreed Dave, still eating.

“
We know he has a partner. We’re almost sure it’s a woman, we think she lives in the area, and that she’s the one who killed him. She might have moved here within the last five years.”

“
Slim,” said Nancy. “Very slim.”

Dave nodded.

“
We know he was trying to buy some very expensive wine at a foreclosure auction. What we don’t know is why he was there in the first place.”

“
Or who killed him,” said Nancy.

“
Well, it seems like you know quite a lot,” said Ruby.

“
But not the important stuff,” said Pete.

I looked across the table at him, blowing gently on a spoonful of too-hot chili.

“
Really,” I said. “How about this? His partner’s white, in her late thirties, five feet eight inches tall, slim, athletic and attractive, although she probably wears oversized and unflattering clothes. She has brown hair, unless it’s been dyed and she wears it either short or tied back. She drives a late model SUV four-by-four. Probably black. She has a checking account at a local bank, but it doesn’t have more than two thousand dollars in it. Her off-shore accounts are where she stashes all her money. She buys almost everything locally with cash.”

“
What?” said Meg in astonishment.
“What?”

Pete laughed. Nancy looked up from her meal, a startled look on her face, and Dave choked on half a piece of cornbread.

“
Pretty good, eh?” I said with a grin. “I saw it on
Criminal Minds
. Those FBI profilers are
so
clever.”

“
Yeah?” said Nancy. “Explain, please.”

“
Kent said that Sal LaGrassa was shot at close range and that the bullet had a slightly upward trajectory. Sal was six feet even, so Kent and I did the math and came up with five foot eight for the shooter. Sal was forty-five years old, and it’s reasonable to assume that, if he’s romantically and professionally linked with this woman and she’s in the same business as he is, she would be in her thirties or early forties. He might have had a girlfriend that was a teenager or in her twenties, but it wouldn’t be prudent to have her for a partner. Plus, she’s good. She’s experienced. She got the drop on him and put a slug right between his eyes before he could say ‘Blow me down a rat-hole.’ Still, he’d go for a slightly younger partner. Vanity and all that. He’d see himself as the senior member of the team. She wouldn’t.”

“
Blow me down a rat-hole?” said Cynthia.

“
She’s attractive, because Sal was attractive: well-built, athletic, trim. He’s a player—cars, art, wine, property—so he’s not going to be romantically involved with someone who’s frumpy. Also, being fit kind of goes with the job. Sal wasn’t a lightweight. He weighed one hundred ninety pounds and she managed to carry or drag him quite some distance.”

“
Huh,” said Nancy, turning this information over in her head.

“
Also, seventy-three percent of white females have some shade of brown hair. Pretty good odds, wouldn’t you say? There were no aberrant hairs on the clothes or on the body even though she lugged it down the hill and tossed it in the lake. Odds are she’s very careful about leaving any DNA and pretty pragmatic as far as her appearance is concerned. Hence, short hair, or hair pulled back most of the time. If she only pulled her hair back when she was getting ready to kill someone, it would certainly be a giveaway to her partner.”