The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (32 page)

Pete had declined to pay D'Artagnan the fifty dollars for finding the BVMCR. He said it had been irrevocably ruined, mainly because Moosey had taken yet another bite out of it, choosing not to believe D'Artagnan when he said that it tasted awful. Pete still had several hundred coffee mugs, but he had given all of his Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll t-shirts and sweatshirts to the local shelter for a nice tax deduction. Pete tried in vain to create another "miracle", but it was not to be.

Brother Hogmany McTavish found another chicken and began training it. According to his website, he was planning a revival in Myrtle Beach in February. I sent him an e-mail and his reply assured me that the chicken would be ready.

Megan and I, after several lengthy discussions, had decided to table my proposal. Not that she thought I was unbalanced, or so she said, but because we were so good the way we were. To tell the truth, I was a little relieved.

* * *

I kicked back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk. I lit up a stogy.

"Marilyn," I called. "Shiver your pins in here, will you?"

Marilyn hopped in like the Easter Bunny of Golgotha, still recovering from the loss of two frostbitten toes courtesy of Mr. Fridgidaire.

"Did I pick the hymns for next week yet?"

"No sir," she said, as demurely as a piece of angel food cake at a Unitarian bake-sale.

"How about 'Whispering Hope?'"

"'Whispering Hope? ' Never heard of it."

"Put it down anyway, Doll, and see if you can find a copy."

* * *

Rob Brannon, after the evidence was presented to him and his lawyer, had pled guilty to manslaughter, rather than go on trial for first-degree murder. It was his contention that the pit-bull was meant to be a practical joke—the last line of the hymn—but he was selling what no one was buying and he knew it. He was sentenced to fifteen years and would probably serve seven of those. It became clear to everyone in St. Germaine that he was also responsible (but never charged) for the other crimes that happened during those two weeks—the theft of the Immaculate Confection, Gwen's window, the dead sheep on Bev's lawn, Davis Boothe's car, the burnt cross, and the call to Father Tony—and I was offered apologies by all concerned.

Nancy had already been scheduled to speak at the North Carolina Justice Academy, her alma mater, for the upcoming seminar on Cold Case Investigations. She was also hopeful about a spot on the program at the US Law Enforcement Conference in DC, but that wasn't until late May and she hadn't heard anything yet. One of her two articles had been accepted by the
Journal of Economic Crime Management
and would be published in June. She was very excited.

St. Barnabas was contacted by the Northwestern Bank and told that, according to their attorneys, the bond was original, actionable, had never been cashed, and all the papers that Rob Brannon had submitted were in order. Rob, being guilty of criminal fraud, having changed the letter sent to the vestry by Randall Stamps, not to mention the manslaughter plea, had no further claim to the money. St. Barnabas agreed to a settlement of $16,000,000. They would be receiving four annual installments beginning in May, but the bank was kind enough to advance them the ten thousand dollars they needed to replace the furnace and buy a new marble top for the altar. Billy Hixon, the new Senior Warden, said it was the least they could do.

* * *

"That's another case you solved without getting paid," said Marilyn.

"Yeah, but we got the bad guys. Plus I've got all these pictures I can sell to the daily rags." I lit another stogy. "How about a cup of java, Marilyn? And pour one for yourself."

* * *

"The church would
really
like for you to come back," Meg said, sipping her glass of wine and reclining on my leather sofa. "The congregation misses you, the choir misses you, and Mrs. Carmody isn't exactly Virgil Fox."

"Yeah, Father George has called a couple of times. I might go back in a couple of weeks. I'm thinking about doing an arrangement of the Corelli
Christmas Concerto
."

"Opus 6, Number 8?"

"Now how did you know that?"

"I had the Pastorale played at my wedding," said Meg. "What kind of an arrangement?"

"I'm thinking that I can write choral parts to go with the strings. I'm going to spell the title with K's.
The Korelli Kristmas Kantata.
Like it?"

"Good idea. Terrible title."

* * *

Marilyn limped back in like a three-legged Chernobyl walking catfish.

"Pretty good writing, eh?" I asked her.

"I've seen better." Marilyn was getting back to her old self. "Your syntax is lousy, your metaphors are mediocre, your illustrations are juvenile, your similes are mindless, your dialogue is trite and uninteresting and your plot creaks like a broken shutter in an October wind."

"I told you you'd use it," he said, chuckling, his overcoat pulled high and tight around his chin. "Your plot creaks like a broken shutter in an October wind. Great stuff." Then he pulled down the brim of his hat, puffed once on his pipe and disappeared in a swirl of odorless smoke.