Death in the Choir Page 2

  A little extra money for Christmas certainly couldn’t hurt, she thought. And as his assistant I could work closely with him and get to know him better.

  “Well, what do you say?”

  He has dimples. How strange that I didn’t notice them before.

  “It sounds interesting – and I could use some extra Christmas money.” She felt her cheeks growing warmer as two completely unexpected images suddenly flashed through her mind out of nowhere: the two of them, wrapped in a delicious embrace; the two of them, standing before the altar to take their vows.

  She began stuffing her sheet music into her folder to avoid his eyes. “When do I start?”

  “I’ll give you a call later in the week and we can get together. I have your phone number on the choir list.”

  Now Randall seemed very officious as he stood up. “Unfortunately, the pay isn’t fabulous, but it’s dictated by the pastor, as is everything else.”

  He looked pained, but he didn’t really have to go into the details with her. Everyone in the choir was well aware of the long history of misunderstandings that existed between the pastor and the last three choir directors. Father John Riley had been at the helm for seven years, and he was well-loved by the congregation for his upbeat sermons and dry wit. But he had a definite temper, and sometimes the people who worked closely with him felt its sting.

  The last choir director, enraged by the pastor’s meddling in the day-to-day details of the choir, had stormed out of the church one day during the early morning Mass, never returning. He had gone on to become a world-renowned organist, and there were still days when people in the choir would reminisce about the quality of the musical selections he had chosen.

  There had been a mad scramble to replace him, and Randall had been hired. Although she knew most people thought he didn’t have the same skill set as his predecessor, he was known for working hard to select traditional music and for keeping the choir motivated. Now history seemed to be repeating itself with the pastor.

  “You probably know this beastly thing is on its last legs.” Randall straightened up a stack of hymnals while shooting the aged organ a dark look.

  “One of these days it’s going to die a foul death right during Mass. Of course, I’ve told Father John innumerable times, but he doesn’t want to spend the money to buy a new one, so we have to keep adding patches here and there. I swear I’m tempted to sneak into church late one night and put the thing out of its misery by hacking it to death with an axe.”

  He gave her another of his disarming smiles, dimples and all.

  “Well, enough of my problems. We’d better call it a night. I’ll get in touch with you soon.”

  Picking up her music folder and her purse, Francesca genuflected in the direction of the tabernacle. For just a moment, her eyes glanced lovingly at the serene statue of St. Joseph, her favorite saint. She loved the Blessed Virgin Mary dearly, but there was something about St. Joseph that intrigued her.

  She wished there were a prayer like the “Hail Mary” to honor the man who surely had helped Mary give birth to the Christ Child in that lonely stable in Bethlehem. She had always pictured Joseph as being the first to hold the babe and look into His eyes.

  Now, as she opened the back door of the church vestibule to step outside, she saw a dark figure coming up the steps. Although Decatur was relatively safe, there was always the chance of a street person coming up to ask for money, and they made her nervous when she was alone. Startled and suddenly fearful, she pulled her purse toward her and drew back. Then she realized it was the pastor, and greeted him warmly.

  “How are you tonight, Father John?”

  The priest’s dark hair was in disarray, standing up in tufts around his ears. Once again, she thought of horns.

  “Just fine, my dear, and you?”

  She smiled in response. I wonder if he remembers my name. She’d been a parishioner for six years, but it was a very large congregation and he wasn’t good with names. Now she watched as Father John Riley opened the door to the church, genuflected, and went in. It was then that she realized she had forgotten to light a votive candle for her husband, as she did every week after rehearsal. She quietly returned to the front of the church, lit the candle, and then kneeled down to pray. But as the conversation at the back of the church started heating up, she had trouble concentrating.

  “I’m concerned the organ is going to break down during our Christmas Eve performance,” she heard Randall say. “It’s really on its last legs.”

  She heard the pastor’s reply. “We have to be good stewards of the congregation’s money. I can’t see spending thousands and thousands on an organ when there are so many other needs.”

  She completed her prayers and stood up, hurrying quickly down the aisle and out the back door. The two men were so engrossed in conversation that neither one seemed to notice her.

  Randall’s voice was rising. “Father, what do I have to do to make my point about this ungodly piece of junk? Sacrifice myself by committing Hari Kari right here on top of it?”

  She was already out of the church, so she didn’t hear Father John’s reply.

  Chapter 2

  As Dean’s snoring reached a crescendo, Francesca awoke with a start. She sleepily glanced over at the bedside clock – eight a.m. Then she stretched her hand out to stroke Dean’s hair. He had the loveliest thick hair, the color of semisweet chocolate, with little gray patches she loved to tease him about.

  She was just about to whisper, “Dean, stop snoring!” as she had done a hundred times before, but as her hand touched the pillow, she came to full consciousness. There was no one there. Dean had been dead two years and still she could be tricked by memory into believing he was sleeping beside her.

  Rivulets of hot tears coursed down her cheeks and turned cold as they trickled into her ears. I’m not going to start the day this way. I just can’t. The mourning period is over. Dean would want me to get on with my life. It was the familiar litany she’d recited ever since receiving the phone call two years ago telling her that her husband had been killed in a car accident on his way home from work. They had just celebrated their 15th wedding anniversary.

  She had met Dean at the University of Florida in Gainesville, when she was majoring in philosophy and he was studying mathematics. She had dated a series of men who were intent on avoiding commitment, and had been extremely wary when this good-looking, intelligent man had shown up in her life. He seemed too good to be true. On their first date, they had talked for hours, and Francesca had found herself stunned by how much they shared in common. Like her, he had been a fat child; like her, he had been raised by a school-teacher mom. Best of all, he was eager to get married and start a family.

  After they married, he went on to get a graduate degree in computer science and then landed a well-paying job. Francesca had soon discovered that a philosophy degree wasn’t worth much in the marketplace, so she had reluctantly entered the public relations field. He had been born in Gainesville, and she had grown up in Miami, and they had yearned to live in Florida after graduation, but Dean’s career had brought them to Georgia.

  She had been raised a strict Catholic in a household that traced its Italian Catholic roots for many generations back. Still, when she went to college and majored in philosophy with a minor in psychology, she suddenly found all her beliefs challenged and shaken. Before long, she had become what the nuns had warned her about: a fallen-away Catholic. Dean had been baptized in the Methodist church, but had little interest in religion, at least in the early years of their marriage.

  Then, one day, out of the blue, Francesca surprised herself and everyone who knew her by returning to the Catholic Church. She told her friends that something – someone? – had been tugging at her, and she had given in to that strong, mysterious impulse.

  Much to her delight, Dean had expressed interest in learning about the Church, and had persevered through nearly a year of instruction before being confirmed during an Easter vigi
l at St. Rita’s. It had touched her deeply that he had taken Joseph as his confirmation name, since he knew Joseph was her favorite saint.

  Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and looked toward the foot of the bed, where something warm and furry was pressed against her legs. It was Tubs. He was the one snoring, she thought. Pure white except for a tail with raccoon stripes and a black patch on his back shaped like Africa, the old fellow had taken up residence in her bed shortly after Dean’s death. And she had not had the heart to insist that he sleep in his cat bed in the hall.

  When she leaned down and petted Tubs tenderly on his head, the slanted green eyes opened and the snoring transformed itself into a deep, rumbling purr. She didn’t quite trust people who complained that cats were aloof. It seemed to her that cats mirrored their owners’ emotions. She cherished Tubs, and he lavishly returned her love by dissolving into ecstatic fits of purring whenever he saw her.

  “Hey, Tubs.” She scratched lightly behind the raggedy ears. “It’s time to get up.”

  Because Tubs’ arthritis was so bad, it was hard for him to leap from the bed, so she picked him up and deposited him gently on the floor. He made a beeline for the kitchen and stood expectantly by his food bowl, meowing like a lost kitten. After she had quickly brushed her teeth and washed her face, she poured a generous helping of dry food into his bowl. But he just stood there, gazing at her hopefully, so she shrugged and opened a can of wet food, his favorite smelly concoction. She mixed everything together and placed the bowl back on the floor.

  The phone rang precisely at 8:45. Heading into the living room, she heard the faint sounds of gobbling emanating from the kitchen.

  “Hello?” she said cautiously. If she heard a suspicious click and then a tentative “Mrs. Bibbo?” she’d know it was a salesperson — and she usually hung up at that point.

  But it was a familiar voice. “Hey, I hope it’s not too early to call,” Rebecca Goodman said.

  “Not at all. I’ve been up for a while. You alright?”

  “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine.” Rebecca dropped her volume a bit. She was taking a break from the fifth-grade class she taught at St. Rita’s school.

  “I can’t talk long. The little darlings are watching a film about retroviruses. I just wanted to check with you about our Choir Chicks’ meeting. Are we still on for seven tonight?”

  “Seven it is.”

  A few months ago, Francesca had invited three other women from the choir – Rebecca Goodman, Shirley Evans, and Molly Flowers – to her home for drinks and snacks. The tenors had jokingly dubbed the gathering the “Choir Chicks” — and the title seemed to stick. Despite being a male, Tubs had been designated the president, and he was the eager recipient of cheese tidbits at the meetings.

  “I’m going to try a new quiche recipe,” Rebecca enthused. “It’s made with non-fat cheese and a non-fat milk substitute, so it shouldn’t be too fattening.”

  “Sounds good,” Francesca said automatically, although she had an aversion to non-fat products. It was probably because her mom had used them so liberally when she was growing up in a futile effort to help her lose weight.

  “So how did last night go?” Rebecca’s voice was dripping with curiosity.

  “Oh, you mean the talk with Randall? Well, nothing to report yet. He just asked me to be his choir assistant.”

  “His assistant.” Rebecca’s voice feigned a husky sexiness. “Woo, girl! What are you going to assist him with?”

  “Oh, you know, really sexy things like buying sheet music and organizing it.”

  Suddenly there was the sound of screaming and thuds at the other end of the line.

  “Oops, I have to go,” Rebecca interjected. “The natives are getting restless. See you tonight!”

  While Tubs began a long, involved process of washing his face and ears, Francesca brewed a pot of coffee and sat at the dining room table, gazing out the window. It was a truly smashing day in Chelsea Heights, the very hilly area in Decatur where Francesca lived.

  The oaks and maples were dressed festively in their fall regalia of orange, yellow, and red. A robin was sipping water from the birdbath out front, and a squirrel was dragging along a piece of stale biscuit that she’d put outside yesterday.

  It’s so beautiful, she thought, just a little sadly. No matter how much she tried to banish them from her mind, it seemed every season brought memories of Dean flooding back in.

  It had not been a perfect marriage, far from it. They had definitely locked horns on a number of issues. But they had been good friends, and she missed the comfortable intimacy they had shared. She could tell him every fear, insecurity, doubt, and worry that plagued her. He had been a really good listener and had a way of reassuring her, no matter how anxious she had been: “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Somehow, when he said it, she believed it.

  “Alright,” she announced to Tubs. “No blues for me today.”

  Tubs paused from his whisker washing to stare at her meaningfully. She noticed he had licked his bowl to a high gloss, and she knew he was probably pining for seconds.

  “You want more?”

  He gave a little meow, and she obediently ladled more food into his bowl. It was true that he was overweight, and some people might put a cat like him on a diet. However, she felt that he deserved a few pleasures, and the vet, who was overweight herself, had never suggested that his eating habits were unhealthy.

  Francesca poured herself a bowl of cereal and a second cup of coffee, and then resumed her spot by the window, where she could do some serious neighbor-watching. At that moment, the train gave a loud hoot as it approached the crossing on Coventry Road three blocks away, and a chorus of neighborhood dogs let loose with some mournful howls.

  She saw the young mother across the street, dressed in a trendy business suit and pointy heels, strapping her wailing three-month-old baby in his car seat. She knew the little guy was being dropped off at a daycare center while the mom went to work. Even tiny kids are on nine-to-five schedules these days. I know it’s not politically correct, but I think daycare is a shame. She’d been the child of a working mom and could still remember how she had resented babysitters, especially a particularly grouchy one named Mrs. Snapper.

  Since she and Dean had not had children themselves, his death had left her all alone in their three-bedroom house. Well-meaning friends had advised her to sell it and had also encouraged her to keep her job at the university. “Being busy will be good for you” was the usual advice. But she loved their home, and the idea of selling it was very unsettling. After all, Dean had left his imprint everywhere, in the hardwood floors and ceiling fans he’d added, and in the grape vines he had planted outside. And after so many years of being imprisoned in an office, quitting her job had given her as much joy as she imagined Lazarus surely experienced when he was called back from the grave.

  Some mornings she volunteered to answer phones in St. Rita’s rectory, and other days she visited elderly shut-ins. She also kept up the vegetable garden in their front yard and tended roses in the side yard. She didn’t miss the frantic pace of the workplace. She loved taking her time in the mornings and not having to join the huge stream of cars heading to work on the crowded highways.

  The phone rang an hour later. This time she let the answering machine pick up the call.

  “Good morning, Francesca, it’s Randall. Are you there?”

  She nearly tripped over Tubs in her rush to pick up the phone.

  “Randall, how are you?” She was suddenly deeply grateful that she wasn’t living in the future, when phones would no doubt come equipped with video screens. She wouldn’t want Randall to see her in her baggy pajamas patterned in a black-and-white Guernsey-cow print.

  “Just fine. I’m a few miles from your house. I know this is short notice, but would it be alright if I dropped by?”

  “Give me fifteen minutes to get dressed. I’ll put some more coffee on, too.”

  “I’ll give you twenty. See you soon.
”

  While Tubs stared at her in what she thought of as feline disbelief, she sprinted through the living room, gathering up magazines, two apple cores, a pile of clean laundry, and three half-empty coffee cups. Next she ran into the bathroom and stripped off her pajamas. Deodorant, bath powder, bra, panties, jeans, and sweater. A little eye make-up and foundation, a touch of lipstick. She quickly gathered her hair up into a pony tail. Five minutes to go. Back into the kitchen she ran, nearly flattening Tubs, to prepare a fresh pot of coffee.

  When the doorbell rang, the scent of coffee was filling the house. She’d had time to put on her little pearl earrings and the slightest touch of cologne. She hoped he would think this was how she always looked each morning. Opening the door, she was pleasantly surprised by how dapper Randall seemed. Impeccably dressed and with every golden hair in place, he was carrying his brief case in one hand and a bakery box in the other.

  “Good morning! You look lovely.” Then he handed her the box. “A few pastries from that new French bakery in the Square.”

  Francesca thanked him and led him into the dining room. She peered into the box of assorted croissants and muffins, noting with approval the delicate buttery smudges on the waxed paper.

  “There goes my diet,” she joked.

  “You don’t need to diet. You’re fine as you are.” He sat down at the dining room table, placing the briefcase near him on the floor.

  Even if he’s lying, I’ll take the compliment. She put down placemats and napkins, poured them each a cup of coffee, and arranged the croissants and muffins on a platter. Meanwhile, Tubs had positioned himself beneath the table near Randall’s feet, and he was gazing up at him.

  “Nice cat,” Randall said absently, touching Tubs’ head. But for some reason, Tubs shrank back, his fur puffing out ominously.

  “That’s strange.” Francesca took a sip of coffee and then selected a croissant from the platter. “He’s usually a lot friendlier.”

  Helping himself to a croissant, Randall picked up a napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.