Death in the Choir Read online

  “Mmm?” Francesca’s mouth was too full of muffin to say much else.

  “I think you’ve figured out that Candy is my daughter, haven’t you?”

  Francesca didn’t know if she should feign surprise or just admit the truth. Since her mouth was too full to do much feigning, she nodded, and then felt a slow blush creeping into her cheeks.

  “How did you know?” she asked, although it sounded more like: “Mow did do doh?” thanks to the muffin.

  Lily picked up a perfectly ironed cloth napkin and touched it to her lips. “Oh, Candy said she saw you in the restaurant when you were out with that police officer. She thought you were eavesdropping on us.”

  “Eavesdropping! I was just standing by the cashier, and you both were talking so loud, I couldn’t help but hear.”

  Lily said nothing while refilling their coffee cups.

  “In any event, there’s a lot more to the story. You see, Randall and I were married for only three years. It was a very unhappy marriage, to put it mildly. He started cheating on me after the first year, and it just went from bad to worse. He was always very apologetic when I found out, and he would promise it would never happen again.”

  Lily toyed absently with her muffin, while Francesca chewed quietly and listened.

  “It’s like the alcoholic who promises he’ll get on the wagon tomorrow. Tomorrow just never comes. We had Candy at the end of the first year we were married. I made up my mind I’d do whatever it took to keep the marriage intact.” She sighed. “So I stayed with him two more years and pretended everything was fine.”

  Just then, a snow-white miniature poodle entered the room. The dog had little pink ribbons attached to the fur on its ears, plus toenails that looked freshly painted. Lily scooped up the little dog and gave it a kiss on its pristine head.

  “This is Snowflake.” Her tone softened just a bit.

  Francesca gave the dog a gentle pat on the head. She could tell this was a dog that would never shed, bark out of turn, or eat someone’s boxer shorts. This was a Martha Stewart dog.

  “You can probably imagine how hard it was.” Lily readjusted the dog’s hair bows. “I was constantly suspicious of him. And my self-esteem was pretty low. I guess on some level I figured he wouldn’t have been such a playboy if I had been a better wife.”

  Francesca sipped her coffee thoughtfully, uncertain of how to respond. Then she realized she didn’t have to say anything; Lily was so intent on unraveling her tale that she didn’t need input from her audience.

  “When it became too much for me to take, I divorced him. He moved to Decatur a few years later to start a new life, and I only heard from him occasionally. I had the definite impression he didn’t really change his wild ways. But I never bad-mouthed him in front of Candy. You see, I wanted her to grow up admiring her father.”

  Lily’s ploy seems to have worked, Francesca mused. Candy had seemed fairly star-struck when talking about Randall.

  Lily put Snowflake on the floor, and the dog curled up on the spotless white carpet and fell asleep.

  “Then, ironically enough, my singing career brought me and Candy to Decatur. When I joined St. Rita’s about five years ago, I felt right at home.” She made a little grimace. “But he wasn’t the choir director then — and you can imagine my surprise when he was hired.”

  Her mouth was set in a determined way. “I decided not to let him ruin our lives. I liked the church and the choir, so I wasn’t about to leave.”

  Francesca helped herself to a second muffin. Delicious and a lot healthier than donuts, I’m sure, she told her conscience.

  “Well, he and I had a long talk. We both wanted to put the past behind us, so we decided not to tell everyone about our former relationship. As for Candy, he’d never been much of a father to her, so the three of us just agreed to keep the whole thing quiet.”

  A little flicker of distaste shot over her face. “I guess we were all living one big lie,” she said bitterly. “A few months ago, I started dating someone else. I really felt there was a chance for a future with this guy. Then, out of the blue, Randall started coming on to me again, just like in the early days when we were dating. Told me he’d changed his ways and wanted me back.”

  Lily let out a big sigh, and Snowflake opened an eye and stared at her. “He said what I wanted to hear. How he’d really matured and changed — and he wanted us to remarry.”

  She paused and refilled their coffee cups. “I wanted Randall, so I broke up with the guy I was dating.”

  Now she fiddled nervously with the cloth napkin on her lap. “It wasn’t long before Randall started down the same old path again.” She uttered the next words as if reciting a litany: “Pursuits, conquests, deception, regrets.”

  Francesca hoped she didn’t have a guilty look on her face. I guess I was one of the pursuits, and Lily probably thinks I was a conquest too.

  “Now that I look back, I think what Randall wanted all along was to be sure I didn’t get involved with anyone else.”

  Lily really has a lot of reasons to hate him. It sounds like he treated her like dirt. “Were you one of the women who visited him after the party that night?” She figured it was time for her to wade into Lily’s stream of consciousness.

  Lily looked startled: “Women? I thought Patricia was the only one?”

  “Well, I don’t know how accurate this piece of information is, but one of his neighbors said she saw two women visiting him that night.”

  Lily glanced at her well-manicured fingernails. “More coffee?” She lifted the silver pot. Its thin spout exhaled a delicate sliver of steam.

  “Sure.” Lily’s stalling for time.

  “I didn’t go to see him that night,” Lily said. “I was so fed up with him after the party, I just went home.” Her voice quavered. “I wish I had gone, though, because maybe I could have prevented him from…from…”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth and looked as if she would cry. “You see, Francesca, despite all our arguments and all his running around, I still loved him. I never stopped.”

  Lily idly plucked a faded petal from a peach-colored rose in the crystal vase on the coffee table. As she did, four other petals suddenly took a nosedive.

  I wonder if she’s telling the truth, Francesca mused. After all, as a professional singer, Lily is trained in projecting a wide range of emotions at will. But maybe I’m being overly suspicious.

  Lily cleared her throat nervously. “There’s something I want to ask you. Do you have his love letters and his journal?” Her eyes indicated that she knew the answer.

  “Love letters and journal?” Francesca hoped she sounded innocent. If Lily can read expressions, then mine is shouting “Yes, I do.”

  “When we were on good terms, Randall mentioned that his latest flame had sent him numerous love letters. And Randall was a pack rat, so I know he would have kept them. I also know he kept a journal.”

  Lily paused. “But when I looked through his house, they were gone.”

  Francesca took elaborate care in folding the napkin and placing it back on the table.

  “Why would you think I might have them?”

  “Well, I know you had access to his office. And Candy mentioned that you had a box of his stuff.” Here she shot Francesca an accusing look.

  What’s the point of hiding anything? “I did find the letters and his journal in his office. I’m sure he didn’t realize they were there, and I would have given them to him immediately if he…he were still alive. But I didn’t want to give them to Candy because I wasn’t sure he would want her to have them. Plus, they could have had some important evidence in them.”

  “Evidence?” Lily put down the coffee cup with such force that Francesca was surprised it didn’t shatter. “What do you mean?”

  Might as well drop the bombshell. “I’ve had this very uncomfortable feeling, right from the start, that Randall’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  Lily stared at her with an expression Francesca couldn
’t quite place. Fear? Worry?

  “I think someone killed him,” Francesca said evenly.

  Lily’s hand shot up to her mouth, and her eyes seemed to double in size. She reached down and picked up the little dog, holding it against her like a teddy bear.

  Either she’s a wonderful actress, Francesca thought, or she’s really never considered this possibility.

  “Killed?” Lily gasped. “No, that’s impossible. No one would do something like that to him.” She nervously stroked Snowflake.

  “He was depressed,” Lily continued. “And he was drunk and had the medicine handy.” She wet her lips nervously. “He’d tried it before.”

  “Oh?” This was news to Francesca, and she was definitely interested in hearing more. If what Lily was saying was true, then maybe it really was time to take Tony’s advice and consider the case closed.

  “Yes, he attempted suicide before,” Lily repeated, as if answering the look of disbelief in Francesca’s eyes. “Years ago. He drank too much wine and downed a bottle of antidepressants. I got there in time and took him to a hospital. He had his stomach pumped.”

  Francesca mulled over this piece of information. It would be easy to conclude that because he had tried it once and failed, therefore this time had really been suicide. But she had studied enough logical propositions during her philosophy days to know this conclusion might be false.

  Lily began pacing now. The question about the love letters lingered in the air like smoke from a grease fire.

  “Where are they? Where are the letters and the journal now?”

  “I gave them to Tony Viscardi, the investigator you saw me with at the restaurant.”

  “Mierda!” Lily reverted to Spanish in her anger. Perspiration had broken out on her face. “How could you do that? How could you?”

  Lily continued pacing nervously, while Snowflake glanced at Francesca and let out a little growl. “Why couldn’t you just keep your nose out of our business? Those were personal things, and you had no right to take them. You had no right to give them to anyone.” She clenched her fists. “Oh, I’m just furious!”

  Now I’m really in it knee deep, Francesca thought. Maybe I should have expected this temper tantrum.

  “Why are they so important to you?” she asked.

  “Because I believe they have information in them that I never want my daughter to know about her father, that’s why. And I wanted to destroy them.”

  “What kind of information?”

  Lily laughed, but it sounded more like one of Snowflake’s growls. “Do you really think I’m going to tell you that? Why should I trust you?”

  Francesca decided it was time to exit. She placed the china cup and saucer carefully back on the silver tray. Then she stood up, moving as far away from Snowflake as possible.

  “Well, it’s been lovely, Lily, but I have to go. I, er, I have another appointment.”

  Lily simply stood there glaring at her as she left. Definitely not a Martha Stewart farewell, Francesca thought, hurrying down the well-kept path to her car.

  *

  As she drove home, she mulled over the things she had learned. Lily and Randall had shared a very stormy past filled with recriminations and broken promises. And Lily had somehow managed to paint a pretty rosy picture of the man to their daughter. But what if Randall had become such a bother to Lily that in a moment of anger she had decided to end the whole charade?

  Lily could have written those letters herself. And now she’s afraid that information about their stormy relationship will leak out. Information that might somehow link her to the crime, as well as tarnish Candy’s radiant image of her dad.

  Still deep in thought, Francesca decided to stop at a nearby shopping center to pick up some pizza for lunch. Instead of getting a whole pizza, I’ll just get two slices. This way, I won’t be tempted to overeat.

  Her plan was to eat lunch at home, but the hot pizza was so tempting, she started devouring a slice on the way to her car. She stopped briefly in the parking lot and tossed a paper napkin into the trash bin.

  “HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY” a woman’s voice chortled as the trash can lid opened. Oh, no, talking trash cans. I just hope the toilet bowl industry doesn’t jump on the bandwagon.

  As she was climbing into her car, she spotted a familiar figure standing by a small boutique. The woman was staring at a black velvet evening dress in the window. It was Patricia weighted down with numerous bags and shoeboxes, evidence of a serious shopping spree. Francesca hailed her and walked over. I hope I don’t have pizza smudges on my face.

  “Oh, Francesca! You’ll never believe what I found.”

  Patricia unearthed a chunky glittering bracelet from one of the bags and held it up for Francesca to admire. “Isn’t it just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? It was very pricey, but you know what Oprah always says.”

  “Uh, actually, no, I don’t think I do.” Here it comes, the prosperity gospel according to Oprah Winfrey.

  “Why, she always says that we should treat ourselves because we are worth it! We deserve to have the best. Haven’t you ever heard that philosophy?”

  “Well, I guess if you can afford it…”

  Patricia winced. “Oh, Francesca, don’t you see? If you treat yourself to nice things, the universe will smile on you, and you will be given even nicer things.” She cradled the bracelet in her hands. “By the way, I think you have a pizza smudge on your face.”

  “Let me show you the earrings I also found.” Patricia juggled her bags awkwardly.

  Shopping must be women’s version of hunting, Francesca thought. And heaven knows I’m familiar with the sport: spotting the prey, bagging it, and then displaying it proudly.

  Suddenly one of Patricia’s bags fell from her arms and hit the pavement. Something made of glass broke and splattered liquid all over the sidewalk. An acrid aroma reached Francesca’s nostrils as she and Patricia attempted to clean up the broken glass. And then she caught a glimpse of the label on the bottle: a very expensive brand of Scotch.

  “I didn’t know you were a Scotch drinker,” Francesca commented.

  “Oh, not really, but I like to keep my liquor cabinet well-stocked. For guests, you know.”

  *

  Arriving home, she thought about the incident again. Patricia had seemed unusually flustered by what had happened. But maybe it’s because she’s a secret drinker and doesn’t want anyone to know. I’d better not start psychoanalyzing her.

  She was glad she had accepted the date with Thomas, even though part of her wished she were getting ready to see Tony. She found it somewhat odd how quickly she had bonded emotionally with Tony, and how attracted she was to him. But she also knew the dangers of becoming attached to a man she didn’t really know that well. She needed to divert her romantic energy. Going out with Thomas seemed a perfect solution to the problem of falling too quickly for Tony.

  As she was dressing, Tony called. “I think you’ll be pleased with my news. You won’t have to worry about any more threatening phone calls or visits from Scotty. We’ve arrested him for drug dealing.”

  “Oh?” She was somewhat startled, and just the slightest bit sad as well. It might be true that Scotty was a drug dealer, but he was young and there was something pathetic about him. No doubt he’d grow even harder and meaner behind bars. And she couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to his grandmother now.

  “We sent an undercover man to one of the places Brumble frequents regularly,” Tony continued. “It didn’t take long before Brumble approached the guy and tried to make a deal with him. Brumble’s dealing in some serious stuff – heroin and cocaine and pills.”

  “Well, it’s a relief to know he won’t be dropping by here any longer,” Francesca admitted.

  She could hear the smile in Tony’s voice. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  Then he asked about her day and Francesca told him about visiting Lily. She also told him about dropping by the shopping center. When she mentio
ned Patricia and the broken Scotch bottle, he laughed heartily.

  “Sounds like she doesn’t want people to know she’s drinking more than just a glass of white wine now and again.”

  “That’s probably it.”

  Tony invited her to dinner that night, but she had to turn him down because of her date with Thomas. She didn’t share the details, just that she was “busy.”

  “Well, maybe we can try again another night. Next time I’ll be sure to ask you earlier. Take care and I’ll talk to you soon.”

  She sighed as she hung up the phone. I’d rather be going out with Tony tonight.

  *

  Thomas and Francesca ended up at a small French restaurant on the square in downtown Decatur, two doors down from the Italian place. The waitress was a twentyish French woman who resembled the young Katherine Hepburn. She was so refined and elegantly made up that she made Francesca feel slightly out of place. In some ways, Francesca almost missed the waitress with the tattoos and nose ring. At least she didn’t put on airs.

  Thomas seemed familiar with the French dishes, and he recommended the salmon in butter and cream sauce very highly, so Francesca decided to try it. He also ordered a delicious Chardonnay, which she suspected was very expensive.

  The appetizers, clumps of crabmeat and asparagus drenched in butter sauce, were delicious, although the conversation was somewhat strained. Thomas liked to talk about classical music, and Francesca, whose tastes ran more to jazz and country-Western, didn’t know a lot of the pieces he was referring to. So she simply nodded her head pleasantly. After a while, she began to get a crick in her neck.

  Just as their entrees arrived, she looked up and saw something that doubled the ache in her neck almost instantly. It was Tony, looking dashing and desirable, and on his arm was none other than the stately Lily. She was adorned in a drop-dead beautiful, low-cut dress that left little to the imagination. Francesca’s first impulse was to hide. She tried to shift over in her seat so she’d be partially blocked from their view by Thomas. But it didn’t work. Lily and Tony hailed her and headed over to the table.