Death in the Choir Page 3

  “Wonderful coffee, but I can’t stay long. I’m on my way to my other job.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Well, as much as I’d like to devote myself full-time to music, the pay at the church is rather abysmal, so I have to wear another hat – a very dull one, I’m afraid. I’m a CPA.”

  “Ah, but that means you probably can balance your checkbook, which is more than I can do,” she laughed.

  There was a moment of silence as they both sipped their coffee.

  “Not to change the subject, but I overheard some of your discussion with Father John last night, although you were still talking with him when I left. How did it turn out?”

  “Hopeless, I’m afraid. The man just won’t listen to reason.”

  As he took another good-sized bite from a cream-cheese croissant, she noticed how much he seemed to relish his food. She felt herself blushing as an uninvited image danced through her mind: She and Randall feeding each other chunks of wedding cake, laughing as they licked frosting off each other’s fingers.

  “Unless the organ has a complete breakdown and is declared officially dead, Father John refuses to come up with the money for a new one.” Randall polished off the croissant and reached for another one.

  Her mouth full, she made a small sympathetic murmur. Thank God he can’t read my mind, she thought, feeling ashamed of her romantic impulses.

  “Father John had the audacity to suggest that I start looking around for possible donors to raise money for a new organ. Can you imagine?”

  Francesca blinked. It did seem rather unlikely that a choir director would also be expected to be a fundraiser. But the parish had some very wealthy members. It was possible that Father John saw Randall as someone likely to get their financial support.

  “I’m sure you can do it, though,” she said enthusiastically.

  Randall just smiled. “I have to confess I have an ulterior motive to my visit this morning. I’d like to leave you a list of the sheet music to purchase during the next few months. You can get the money to cover the purchases from the church secretary.” He hesitated. “That is, if you’re still interested in being my assistant.”

  The sunlight glinted off his blonde hair in a most interesting way. His skin is flawless, she thought somewhat enviously. And he has such nice big shoulders.

  “So are you?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m still interested.” Boy, am I ever, she thought, and could feel more blood flooding into her face. He probably thinks I have the flu or something.

  “I’ll leave you the list and the key to my office.” He snapped open the briefcase on the floor beside him. “But I have to warn you: It’s a real mess in there. When you look up ‘pack rat’ in the dictionary, you’ll see my picture.”

  He handed her the key and the list. “Just keep track of your time, and you’ll be paid at the end of the month.” He frowned now. “Oh, yes, is $12 an hour too pitiful? That was Father John’s best offer.”

  “It’s fine, really. After all, it’s not rocket science. More coffee?”

  He checked his watch. “I wish I could, but I have to get to work. But would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  She hesitated. It was the old instinct of a married woman, she realized. Well, here it is, my first date in two years.

  “I’d love to.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven. We’ll go to the new Italian restaurant on the square — if that sounds good to you?”

  “Perfect.”

  Tubs had been lurking quietly beneath the table and chose that precise moment to make his move. With an unusual spryness, the old cat lunged for Randall’s ankle, took a quick nip, and then withdrew into the corner of the room.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Francesca nearly overturned her cup. “He’s never done anything like that before. Bad cat, Tubs! Randall, are you OK?”

  Randall bent over and surveyed the damage. Francesca noted with horror that the slacks looked expensive and brand-new.

  “Don’t worry,” he said evenly, although his eyes had an angry glint. “Just a small rip in the fabric. No blood.”

  He stood up and picked up his briefcase. “Thanks for the coffee, Francesca. And I’m glad you’ve agreed to help me out with the choir. I think we’ll work well together.”

  Was it her imagination or did he give her an especially meaningful look as he said that? You need a reality check, she told herself ruefully. You’re imagining things. After Randall left, she polished off another croissant, promising herself she’d walk an extra mile that afternoon to work it off. Tubs, evidently pleased with himself for his successful attack on the intruder, begged for a saucer of cream.

  Here I am rewarding misdeeds, she thought as she heeded his wishes. I’d be a terrible mom.

  After lunch, she began preparing a tray of brownies for the Choir Chicks’ meeting. She followed a newspaper recipe that promised to produce the deadliest, richest, moistest dessert ever. And I’m not substituting any of that non-fat stuff for the high-test either, she vowed, as she put the butter and chocolate in the microwave. Even though she watched her weight obsessively, she’d learned that it was better to allow herself occasional high-fat treats than to eat the fat-free stuff, which only stimulated her sweet tooth.

  The day went quickly. She dashed to the grocery store to stock up on wine for the meeting and pick up more food for Tubs. Pausing at the cosmetics section, she couldn’t resist buying two lipsticks for her dinner with Randall. She had to smile at the flowery titles: “Purple Passion” and “Exquisite Embrace.”

  Well, I guess they wouldn’t sell many products if they were called “Lifetime Commitment,” but that’s what I’m longing for.

  And then she saw the image of Dean’s face in her mind, and she whispered a little prayer for him.

  *

  Rebecca Goodman arrived at seven sharp. She was carrying a shriveled-up quiche that reminded Francesca of a museum artifact, although she would never in a million years share her opinion with her friend, who was very hesitant about trying new recipes.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t look much like the picture in the magazine.” Rebecca placed the quiche on the cocktail table in the living room. Then, giving Francesca a quick peck on the cheek, she plopped down on the couch.

  “Look, before the rest of the gang arrives, I have something to tell you.”

  Francesca poured each of them a glass of Chardonnay and then sat in the rocking chair opposite Rebecca. “I’m all ears.”

  “Well, two things. First of all, you probably won’t be too thrilled to hear this, but somehow Patricia’s invited herself to tonight’s meeting.”

  Francesca winced and took a sip of her wine. Sadly, Patricia had an overblown ego and enjoyed flaunting her wealthy lifestyle. She wasn’t popular in the choir where she fancied herself the lead soprano, despite all evidence to the contrary.

  Still, I know Jesus loves her, and I should be kinder to her, Francesca thought. Didn’t He say, “Love one another as I have loved you?”

  “Well, we’ll make the best of it, I suppose,” Francesca replied. I’m going to avoid being rude to her, I really am, she promised God mentally.

  “The other piece of information is quite juicy, and I wanted to tell you before Patricia gets here.” Rebecca took a sip of wine and picked Tubs up from the floor, where he had been looking longingly at her.

  “Rumor has it that Father John has enlisted Randall to drum up a big sum of money to cover the cost of a new organ. He refuses to take the money out of the usual church coffers.”

  Rebecca paused for dramatic effect, while settling the old cat on her lap.

  “The best part is that Randall evidently dropped by Patricia’s house last night after choir practice. He’s acting very interested in her – at least to hear her tell it. But I suspect our choir director is no fool. I think he’s after Patricia’s money.”

  Francesca’s spirits sagged. I hope Randall doesn’t think I’m a wealthy widow with money to bu
rn. Then she glanced around the living room, which was furnished with a faded rug and a 20-year old couch, its fabric patched in numerous places. I probably have nothing to worry about.

  Now she felt confused. She didn’t want to broadcast the news that Randall had asked her out, but she also hated to hide the truth from Rebecca, who had been a good friend to her after Dean’s death. Oh, the heck with it, everyone will know soon enough anyway.

  “Guess what? Our choir director asked yours truly to dinner tomorrow night.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Oh, I, uh,” she stuttered. “That’s wonderful.” She looked embarrassed. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply he’s only after women’s money…”

  Francesca got up from the chair impulsively to give her friend a quick hug. “I know you didn’t. And, don’t worry, if he tries to get me to write a check, you can bet it’ll be our very last date!”

  The doorbell rang. It was Shirley Evans, her cheeks a plum color from the chilly evening, carrying a fruit-and-cheese tray and a bottle of Merlot. She was wearing white corduroy pants and a big fluffy yellow sweatshirt. After putting the tray on the table and handing the wine to Francesca, she took a moment to pet Tubs, ensconced on Rebecca’s lap. Then she gave Francesca and Rebecca quick kisses and settled on the couch.

  “Red or white wine?” Francesca asked.

  “Whatever’s open.”

  Francesca was pouring a glass of Chardonnay for Shirley just as the doorbell rang again. Glancing outside, she spotted a glistening white Mercedes parked in the driveway behind her somewhat ancient Honda.

  “Let me get that for you.” Shirley jumped up from the couch. As she opened the front door, she let out a little startled cry. Coming up behind Shirley, Francesca could see Patricia Noble, perfectly made up and dressed to the nines in a black silky sweater, black pants, and leather boots. Her hair framed her face in some flawless, expensive haircut.

  “Patricia, I uh…” Shirley looked at Francesca for further instructions.

  “Patricia is joining us tonight, isn’t that nice?” Francesca announced. “Come on in, Patricia, and make yourself at home.”

  Patricia bustled in, carrying a large Saran-wrapped covered tray of lavish-looking hors d’oeuvres. “I bought these at the new gourmet shop downtown. I hate to be bothered with any kind of kitchen duty, if you know what I mean.”

  Sitting down in the rocking chair Francesca had just vacated, Patricia glanced at Tubs, who seemed to return her gaze inscrutably.

  “What’s the cat’s name?”

  “Tubs,” Francesca said.

  “I’m not much of a cat person.” Patricia paused to adjust one of her earrings while looking at him in a clinical way. At that precise moment, Tubs launched an enthusiastic flea hunt on his back. “They seem so cold and distant.”

  Francesca didn’t say a word as she poured Patricia a glass of wine. Much to her chagrin, Tubs now managed to leap gracelessly from the couch, so he could show off for company. Pulling a dirty, chewed sock filled with catnip from beneath the coffee table, he began shoving his face into it like a drug addict. Rebecca and Shirley giggled at his performance, while Patricia gazed around the room as if she were surveying the “before” photo in a home-renovation magazine.

  This time the doorbell didn’t ring. Molly Flowers simply pushed open the partially ajar door and made her entrance. Nearly 50, Molly was a cradle Catholic like the rest of the group, but she prided herself on being what she called “progressive.” A staunch feminist, she was constantly railing about the Church’s policies on celibacy and women in the priesthood, and she often annoyed the other, more traditional members of the group.

  However, Molly was the kind of person who would do anything for a friend, so the other women put up with her diatribes. A nurse in labor and delivery, she had a voice that revealed her roots in Destin, Florida. As she was fond of reminding the group, it was also called “The Redneck Riviera” because so many Southerners vacationed there. Placing a bowl of salsa and a tray of chips on the table, Molly did what appeared to be an exaggerated double take when she saw Patricia.

  “Well, fancy seein’ you here!”

  “I’d meant to join this group sooner, but I’ve been too busy until tonight.” Patricia speared an hors d’oeuvre.

  “Doin’ a lot of shoppin’ these days, Patricia?” Molly seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I spent the entire day at Phipps.”

  Of course, it would be Phipps, Francesca groaned inwardly. It was one of Atlanta’s trendier malls, made popular by the city’s many wealthy residents who apparently had discovered life’s ultimate meaning in recreational shopping.

  Molly opened another bottle of wine and poured herself a glass.

  “I need this.” She settled down on a cushion on the hearth. “I’ve had quite the day. We delivered five babies in a row.”

  “I know what you mean.” Patricia was examining her wine glass, and Francesca hoped it didn’t have any smudges on it. “I spent nearly three hours this afternoon trying to find a purse to match this outfit.” She tenderly caressed a small velvet bag dangling from her arm as if it were a sacred relic.

  “Well, we all have our crosses to bear,” Molly drawled, offering Tubs a crumb of cheese, which he wolfed down greedily.

  As the women started helping themselves to the array of food on the coffee table, Francesca reminded them that freshly baked brownies awaited them for dessert.

  “Oh, none for me, I’m dieting.” Patricia’s voice had a whiney edge.

  “What on earth for?” Molly exclaimed. “Sugar, you look like a good wind might blow you over.”

  “Well, if you must know, I’ve gained two pounds this year and I don’t want to keep on gaining.” She looked meaningfully at the plump Rebecca, who was filling her plate with finger sandwiches. “It’s so easy to just let oneself go.”

  Patricia chewed on a grape and took a small sip of wine. “And you know when you have a new man in your life, well…”

  All the munching sounds came to a dead halt. Romantic news was always considered an excellent topic of conversation at Choir Chicks’ meetings.

  “Do tell,” said Shirley. “Anyone we know?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Randall and I had a late dinner last night. It was very nice. We went to that new Italian restaurant in the Square.”

  What a fool I am, Francesca thought sadly. Randall probably has a bevy of women he takes to the same restaurant. The waitresses no doubt have a good laugh whenever he comes in with a new one.

  “Well, what’s he like on a date?” Molly prodded.

  “Very cultured, very much a gentleman.” Patricia paused to adjust a gold link on her charm bracelet. A wave of her perfume wafted across the room. Expensive, thought Francesca.

  “So, is it serious?” Rebecca cast a knowing look at Francesca.

  “Oh, it’s too early to tell.” Patricia dabbed her carefully painted lips with a napkin. “We had a lovely time, but that was it. We didn’t, er, well, there was nothing…” Her voice trailed off delicately.

  “So he didn’t put the moves on you, huh?” Molly leaned in to re-fill her plate.

  Patricia looked pained. “No, of course not. But I did get a chance to tell him that I expect to have a solo now and again. After all, I’ve been taking voice lessons for the past five years.”

  “And?” prompted Shirley. “Did he agree?”

  “Yes, he did. He said he felt that someone of my musical caliber deserves more recognition.” Patricia impaled a piece of kiwi fruit on her toothpick. “He plans to give me a solo for Christmas Eve.”

  Francesca didn’t dare look at the other women. She suspected they might be on the verge of a major giggling attack. I bet he’s buttering up Patricia for a contribution to the organ fund.

  Patricia brushed one of Tubs’ stray hairs from her skirt. “He said something rather perplexing though.”

  The other women gave her their full attention.


  “He was pretty steamed about Father John. He said that if Father continued showing him so much disrespect, he might just walk out and let Father handle the Christmas Eve music. But that’s not all.”

  The room was silent except for the sound of Tubs purring as he gnawed on the catnip sock.

  “Evidently they had quite a blow up recently. And Randall told me that if Father John doesn’t change his attitude, he might not be pastor of St. Rita’s much longer.”

  “What on earth would make him say that?” Molly hiked her eyebrows up so far her forehead seemed to vanish.

  Patricia blotted her lips delicately with her napkin. “Randall wants to get the parishioners to sign a petition complaining about Father John. He wants to send it to the Archbishop.”

  “What would anyone complain about?” Rebecca’s face mirrored the surprise of the other women.

  “He told me there’s a group that wants the church renovated. But Father John thinks it’s a waste of money, so he’s been dragging his feet. And Randall also said there are some people who feel Father John should do something about Father William’s homilies.”

  Francesca sighed. Dear Father William, she thought. He was the young associate pastor of St. Rita’s, and she liked him very much. However, he had inadvertently made a reputation for himself by delivering sermons that invoked the wrath of a huge number of parishioners on a regular basis.

  “Well, I wouldn’t sign any petition,” Molly said firmly. “That’s over the edge.”

  “I agree.” Patricia sipped her wine. “I think Father John is very nice and quite competent.” Then she fingered a gold filigree earring in one of her pink, seashell-shaped ears. “And rather sexy.”

  Chapter 3

  Father John Riley groaned as he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Five a.m. and it was dark outside, and all he could think about was having a cigarette. The craving welled up in him with the force of a demon.

  Now I know how it must feel to be possessed, he thought. Maybe I should call in an exorcist.

  Ever since the doctor had told him to stop smoking, Father John’s spirits had been spiraling downward. He’d managed to survive a whole week but then had broken down and sneaked a smoke yesterday morning. It had been delicious, but the guilt he felt afterwards made him wonder if it’d been worth it.