The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (24 page)

“
I have some interesting news,” said Nancy, sitting down beside me.

“
Do tell.”

“
Well, the ballistics report came back on the bullet that killed Sal LaGrassa.”

“
I thought it was the wreath that actually killed him.”

“
Potato, potahto,” said Kent. “Dead is dead. The rifling on the two bullets matched. They were both fired from the same gun.”

“
Huh. What else?”

“
Ryan Jackson just called.”

“
The FBI guy? What did he want?”

“
He wanted to know...” Nancy paused.

I took a sip of coffee. I saw Meg coming across the park and waved at her.

“
Wanted to know what?” I said.

“
He wanted to know why Sal LaGrassa was killed by a bullet from
your
gun.”

“
What?!”

“
Your 9mm Glock 17,” said Nancy. “You remember...we all sent in a spent round for identification. Procedure and all that.”

“
Yeah?”

“
Well, the slug was in the system. It came from your gun.”

I stood and drained the Styrofoam cup, digesting this information along with the dregs of the coffee. Meg walked up a moment later and gave me a kiss.

“
What’s up?” she said. “You look positively flamboozled.”

“
It seems as though my gun was the one that shot Mushrat and Sal LaGrassa.”

“
Surely not,” said Meg. “Who says so?”

“
The FBI.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “Oh,” was all she could manage.

“
Let’s go check it out,” said Nancy. “It’s under the organ bench, right?”

“
No, it’s not,” I said. “I took it out from under there a week and a half ago, the day I got the new truck. I wanted to shoot some rounds out at the house. It’s still locked under the back seat of the Tundra.”

•••

“
So is it yours?” asked Nancy.

Meg looked on as I inspected the handgun.

“
It’s mine.” I handed it to Nancy and tapped on the butt of the gun. “I had my name etched right here on the back of the grip.”

“
You were up in the loft when Mushrat was shot,” said Meg. “And your gun was locked in the truck.”

“
Yep.”

“
But your gun was the gun that killed him.”

“
It sure looks like it,” I said.

“
Well, how did
that
happen?” asked Meg.

“
I wish I knew,” I said. “But it looks as though someone is setting me up.”

“
I have an idea,” said Nancy. “Let’s keep this quiet. No need to make this public knowledge.”

“
For now,” I agreed.

Chapter 25

“
Let’s go, Toots,” I said, grabbing Annie’s hand. “We need to go find Pedro.”

Sophie Slugh and I had a history. I met her when she was just a wee snaif, peddling pump organs for Peter Pooter’s Portable Penny Pumpers. But Pooter’s Penny Pumpers went plooie and Peter Pooter became a pensive pauper.

Sophie Slugh, on the other hand, turned to crime. She was as slimy as pearl onions in clam sauce and left a trail of despair and mucus wherever she went. Although she never had the spine for it, she had a rap sheet that included a-salt, i-stalking, and mollusktation. Sure, I had some fun with her -- me and all the other boys in Miss Galloway’s Garden Glee Club -- but once the bottle stopped spinning and we got into her genes, we discovered a hermaphrodite gastropod whose idea of afterglow consisted of chomping off whatever got stuck in the mix. I got away easy. Stumpy Johnson never sang baritone again.

Our paths had crossed since then, but I’d kept my nose and my shoes clean, and the last time I saw Sophie, she was dribbling down the side of Reichenbach Falls, the tiny teeth of her radula gnashing in anger. I didn’t give her a second thought. A few months in the salt mines would do her good. As my Aunt Terraria used to say “Easy come, escargot.”

“
Pedro’s at The Lettuce Patch,” said Annie. “He told me to tell you.”

“
I’ll bet he did,” I said.

Her kiss grabbed my lips like an aroused sea barnacle.

“
Baby,” I said. “You’re my kinda gal.”

•••

“
It seems to me,” said Edna Terra-Pocks, “that I should get some sort of life-insurance policy or something. People don’t last very long in this church.”

“
Oh, most of them do,” said Elaine. “I’ve been here for years.”

“
It’s true,” agreed Fred. “I don’t think you have to worry. If you weren’t killed after that first prelude, you’ll probably make it through Christmas.”

“
Who’s celebrating communion this morning?” Rebecca asked.

“
Gaylen’s here,” I said. “She said the sermon’s going to be short, though, so we’re doing two anthems. One after the Epistle reading and one at the offertory.”

Marjorie walked into the choir loft and shook her photocopied hymn at me. On the back of the page was my latest effort. “I would like this slug story better if it had some Christmas stuff in it,” she complained.

“
Like what?” asked Georgia, coming in behind her. “Shepherds? Angels? Reindeer?”

“
Reindeer,” decided Marjorie, plopping down in her chair.

“
You know,” said Mark Wells, “I think there should be something in science called the ‘reindeer effect.’ Just once I’d like to turn on CNN and hear a newscaster say ‘Gentlemen, what we have here is a terrifying example of the reindeer effect.’”

“
I’m not sure how a reindeer would fit into the plot,” said Elaine, reading over my glorious prose.

“
I’m not sure how
anything
fits into the plot,” sighed Meg.

“
Sing Lullaby,
” I announced. “By Richard Shephard. Get it out. Then we’ll go over Parker Ramsay’s
Magnificat.
You already know it, so don’t pretend that you’ve never seen it before. And don’t forget choir rehearsal this Wednesday.”

“
Are we singing the
Mouldy Cheese Madrigal
on Christmas Eve?” asked Muffy.

“
I suppose so,” I said.

“
Before or after I sing
O Holy Night
?”

“
Umm...”

“
We practiced it before you came up,” said Edna. “I think it sounds just great.”

•••

“
Have you seen Benny?” I asked Bev as the choir was getting ready to go downstairs for the processional hymn. “I need to ask him something.”

“
He’s gone again,” Bev said. “He had a gig at All Souls’ in Asheville. They’re giving him the entire prelude. That place is going to be smokin’!”

“
I’ll be glad to get him back,” I said. “Not that Addie isn’t doing a great job.”

Benny Dawkins, our thurifer, hadn’t been to a Sunday service at St. B’s for months. Oh, we had incense, but the pot was being wielded by Benny’s protégé, a little eight-year-old girl named Addie Buss. Addie, although she showed flashes of brilliance for one so young, didn’t have the polished showmanship of a true master. Not yet. But Addie was good. She’d already mastered some of Benny’s easier signature moves with the incense pot:
Walk the Dog, Around the World,
and the
Double Reverse Swan.
Now she was beginning to step out and improvise with routines reminiscent of the Chicago legend, Wilson “the Firefly” Gillette. We all knew that it wouldn’t be long before she was giving Benny a run for his money.

Benny Dawkins had won the International Thurifer Competition in Spain last year and, having demolished his archrival Basil Pringle-Tarrington and receiving the highest score ever recorded in the event, decided to retire and travel the circuit. He’d been touring Europe most of the fall, playing all the major cathedrals. Benny was apologetic, of course, for missing the Advent and Christmas season, but vowed to be back for the Feast of the Epiphany.

The lay reader on this, the Sunday before Christmas, was Joe Perry, an English professor with a glorious speaking voice. The Old Testament lesson was from the Book of Micah.

“
But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the least of the tribes of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel, whose origin is from of old, from ancient days.”

It may have been Joe’s voice that triggered the memory, or perhaps it was the fact that I enjoyed listening to Joe read and hence was actually paying attention. All of a sudden, I realized what had been lurking just behind the frontal lobe of my brain, occasionally peeking out to taunt my medulla oblongata. Or maybe my hippocampus? I’d have to ask Karen about that.

•••

“
Shall we go out to lunch?” asked Meg. I met her in the fellowship hall where the St. Barnabas coffee hour was in full swing, but not before I’d made a quick stop in the church office.

“
I’m hungry,” I admitted, “but I can’t yet. I’ve got to go and check something. I could use your help.”

“
Sure. What are we checking?”

“
Deacon Mushrat’s last sermon.”

“
He never got to the sermon. He was killed during the hymn,” said Meg.

“
Not Wednesday.” I held up a CD. “Last Sunday. I have a recording of the whole service. I think I know what we’re listening for.”

“
How about if we get some sandwiches?” suggested Meg. “Then we can work in your office.”

•••

Meg and I sat in the police station and unwrapped the two Reuben sandwiches we’d purloined from the Slab. Corned beef and sauerkraut on rye bread, Russian dressing and Swiss cheese—the perfect combination of ingredients, in my humble opinion.

I put the CD in the stereo and hit the play button. Our service recordings didn’t have any tracks—they were one continuous sound file, so I held down the fast-forward button and zipped ahead to the sermon.

“
The Holy Spirit has convicted me to preach on another subject,” said the voice of Deacon Mushrat. “Hear now the awesome Word of the Lord from the Book of Malachi.”

“
Is this it?” asked Meg.

“
This is it,” I said. “Listen now.” I took a big bite of my Reuben.

“
I the LORD do not change, so you, O descendants of Jacob, are not destroyed.”