Chapter 1
On
Groundhog Day when Robespierre, my Maine Coon cat, jumped from his place on the
window seat, one thought popped into my head. Company. Who? After
following him to the kitchen, I watched him push his bulky, brown and black
body through the hinged opening at the bottom of the door. Moments later I
peered down the dimly lit stairwell. Robespierre had sprawled in the center of
the third step and blocked my visitor’s progress.
“Good
grief, Katherine, I hope he’s not planning to bite me again.” Edward Potter,
pastor of St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church, glared at the cat. His voice had
risen from tenor to soprano. “Whatever do you feed him? He’s ever so much
bigger than Bitsy.”
The
temptation to say my pet fed on pastors was strong. I refrained and fought to
control a grin that threatened to blossom. Teasing Edward usually results in a
lecture delivered in an indignant voice.
With an
air of disdain, Robiesperre stretched. His back rippled in a way I envy. Then
he slithered around my guest.
When
Edward reached the top of the steps, he turned and peered at the cat. “He’s
becoming more brazen.”
“Only
toward selected guests. He ignores most people.” I turned my head and Edward
brushed my cheek with his lips.
My pastor
is a dapper little man with an ear for gossip and a penchant for turning even
the slightest event into a fiesta or a disaster. He’s astute about church
politics. The coffers at St. Stephen’s are filled through his ability to cosset
and cajole the elderly population of the church, mainly wealthy women. I
partially fit the category, being sixty-five, and while not rich, I’m at least
comfortable.
When he
entered the sunlit kitchen, the expression on his face announced a problem. He
walked into the living room. Unlike most of my guests, he considered chats at
the kitchen table for commoners. In the living room, he perched on the edge of
a Queen Anne chair, purchased years ago before antiques became the rage. In the
past twenty years, stores selling every manner of old things have spread
plague-like in the business district of the Hudson River
village where I live.
“You’re
tense. How about a cup of mint tea?”
“Not all
the tranquilizers in the world will calm me. It’s a disaster, a complete and
utter tragedy.” His hands fluttered. The words rolled out like a sermon
promising hell and damnation. “How will we maintain the quality of the services?
Easter will be a disaster.”
My
forehead wrinkled. What in the world had stirred him into this state? The last
time had been when one of the altar boys had spilled the communion wine. Had
there been a fire at the church? A flood? A plague? The strident fire whistles of
town had been silent for days. What had occurred? Knowing a full and dramatic
scene would develop, I wanted mint tea.
“I’ll heat
the water. Then you can tell me about this tragedy.” The blend I chose is my
all-purpose remedy, calming nerves and stimulating the mind, bringing alertness
or sleep.
After a
retreat to the kitchen, I filled the kettle and stuffed a silver ball with an
assortment of dried mint leaves. While the water boiled, I assembled the pottery
mugs, sugar and spoons on a wooden tray.
“Why will
Easter be a problem?” I set the tray on a Duncan Phyfe table.
“We may
have to cancel the season.” He patted his thinning light brown hair.
I
swallowed a laugh. “How can we cancel one of the main reasons for St. Stephen’s
existence?”
“Are you
making fun of me?” His voice rose in pitch. “I’m absolutely serious.” He
accepted a mug. “Mary’s husband has been transferred. It’s a disaster.”
I mentally
sorted through all the Marys in the congregation and tried to decide which
one’s leaving would cause Edward to fall apart. Who had triggered the word of
the day? On another level, the need to giggle soared. Perched on the edge of
the chair and holding a tea cup with both hands, Edward looked like a child.
“There are
about twenty Marys at St. Stephen’s. Which one do you mean?”
“Mary
Hobbs, our organist. What will our services be like without the organ and the
choir? Katherine, you have to help us until we find a replacement.”
Twenty
years ago I resigned my position as organist at St. Stephen’s. My husband’s
sudden death had left me with a son to raise and enough money to cover three
years of expenses. Once I finished my nursing course, my Sunday schedule had
passed out of my control.
“Don’t you
think I’m a bit old for the job?”
Edward
sighed. “I knew you would say that. I have a list of people who are willing to
play, but none of them want to direct the choir. Could you at least try?”
“What have
you done about finding Mary’s replacement?”
“I’ve
called the Organists’ Guild. They’ll list us in their newsletter. I’ve sent
notices to several colleges within commuting distance, but I really don’t want
a student. Our music program is something to be proud of and I dread losing our
reputation.”
Pride, I
thought. “Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned from this.”
“Perhaps,
perhaps, but we must have music.” He put the mug on the tray. “I’d like you to
head the search committee. People respect your musical judgment.”
“And the
other members?” I’ve reached an age where I don’t have to like everyone and
avoiding those who annoy me has become a game. “A search committee is like a
family. I won’t spend time with people I dislike.”
“Beth
Logan. Judith and Martin Hanson. Ralph Greene. I believe that’s a good
balance.”
Beth is a
neighbor who is becoming a friend. For several years, we had worked together at
the hospital. Last winter when I broke my leg, we had renewed our acquaintance.
She volunteered to be my chauffeur on Sundays for church. I liked the young
widow and found her six-year-old son charming.
The Hansons
are also neighbors. There’s something strange about their relationship but
their fifteen-year-old daughter, Marcie, had been my piano student until she’d
grown beyond my ability to teach. With a sigh, I thought of Judith’s frenetic
energy and wondered how much I could tolerate.
The fourth
member, Ralph Greene, was a man with a superb baritone voice. Though he took
music seriously, he wouldn’t cause any problems unless the committee decided on
someone musically incompetent.
“Well?” Edward
asked.
“You have
a committee head.”
“Splendid.
We shall rise from the ashes.”
* * *
On
Thursday evening Beth arrived to drive me to choir practice. Though I drive
during the day, at night the lights of the oncoming cars blur and moth-like, I
head toward them.
“Ready?” Beth
asked. “You’ve got guts.”
“What
makes you say that?”
“Taking on
the committee and the choir. Last Thursday, when Mary made her announcement,
seven people expressed seven ideas of what the next Minister of Music should
do.”
“Good
thing I’m temporary.” I closed the door and followed her to a small green car.
Tonight a
pair of cloisonné combs held her blonde hair from her face. Her jeans fit
perfectly. Women in jeans that reveal more than they hide remind me of the past
summer and my tenant’s murder. Rachel had nearly destroyed my friends and my
family. My discovery of her body in the garden had triggered my protective
instincts and had forced me to find the killer.
Beth’s
blue ski jacket made her pastel coloring glow. I seldom wear blue. Earth tones
compliment the autumn shades the beautician adds to my hair.
When we
reached the church, Beth held the door for me. Judith Hanson popped out of the
reception room. “Tell her about the meeting, Beth. I’ll head upstairs and catch
a deep breath.”
In the
choir room, I ran my fingers over the keys of the Steinway and listened to
mellow tones as perfect as the day I donated the piano to the church. A music
folder lay on the bench with my name pasted on the cover. None of the pieces
seemed particularly complex. Mary had also listed the hymns for the rest of the
year.
At eight
the choir members drifted to seats set in a semi-circle in front of the piano. By
eight fifteen they were ready to begin. We ran through Sunday’s offerings and
several of the anthems for the weeks to follow.
Mary had
chosen a group of Bach motets for the Passion Sunday Evensong, but since I’d no
knowledge of the substitute organist’s ability, the music remained on the table
at the back of the choir room. There was no reason to push a person beyond
their ability.
When we
left to go to the church, Ralph Greene pulled me aside. He scowled. “You didn’t
start the Bach. We’ll never be ready if we don’t start the pieces soon.” His
deep voice filled the stairwell and the sound bounced off the stone walls of
the hall between the church and the addition that had been added long after the
church had been built.
“I’m not
prepared to attempt the Bach unless the organist is competent. In the morning,
I’ll speak to Edward about hiring a group for Evensong.”
“That
won’t do. The choir always does Passion Sunday. Our honor depends on keeping
traditions.”
The demand
in his voice amazed me. “There have been exceptions in the past.”
“It’s not
right.”
“Then the
committee has to act posthaste. Do you really think we can find a new organist
in less than two months? Did Beth tell you about the meeting?”
“What’s
the sense of meeting when there’s no one to discuss. Who needs to make a list
of qualifications? We need an organist who can maintain the high standards of
St. Stephen’s program. I can’t attend the meeting. It’s tax time and I don’t
have room in my schedule.” He opened the door into the sanctuary.
“Then
you’ll accept what we decide?” I ducked past him and slid into one of the pews
while he headed down the side aisle to the choir loft.
The rest
of the choir moved into place and the organist turned to wait for my signal. She
played the opening notes for each part and the group hummed on cue. The blended
voices filled the sanctuary and reverberated from the stone walls. The choir
sounded strong; the organist tentative. She had no trouble with the hymns but
fumbled through the anthems. Each wrong note she played caused me to grip the
back of the pew. Could Edward be persuaded to hire another temporary
accompanist?
After
rehearsal we adjourned to the reception room for coffee and heart-shaped
cookies in honor of St. Valentine, my temporary position, and the choir’s
monthly refreshment night.
I moved
from group to group to chat with old friends and new acquaintances. The choir
had divided into several cliques who acted like rivals for my attention. The
new choir director would need better than average skills in meshing the
dissenting factions.
The
largest and loudest of the groups clustered around Judith Hanson. She sat on
one of the brocade-covered chairs near the front windows and looked like a
queen on her throne. The majority of the group was male. No real surprise. At
one time or another, every male in the congregation, married or not, had
flirted with Judith. Each had held her attention until she decided to blow them
off with cruel remarks.
Her brown
eyes slant, giving her an almost Oriental look. Straight dark hair cut to
shoulder length added to the image. As she spoke, her hands moved in
exaggerated gestures. A constant flow of kinetic energy crackled as she stroked
the new tenor’s arm. He smiled.
Martin
ended the moment of seduction by handing her a cup of coffee. Bearded, balding
and overweight, he appeared to be a weak man, but beneath the surface lay a
nurturing kind of strength. Did he mother his daughter as well as he did his
wife?
Judith
looked up at him. From across the room, I saw resentment on her face and in her
body language. Her shoulders stiffened. Her mouth pulled into a tight line. Martin
whispered in her ear. She nodded.
“Beth,
Beth, darling,” Judith called. “Are you coming to the Pub with us?” Her shouted
invitation rose over the hum of conversation.
“I’m
taking Mrs. Miller home,” Beth said.
Judith
waved at me. “Come with us and get away from this stuffy crowd. I need a drink
before I perish. The well’s been dry too long.” Brittle laughter followed her
words.
“Another
time.”
“Beth?” Judith
asked.
“It’s late.
Marcie has school tomorrow. Your daughter’s so conscientious she won’t nap
while she’s watching Robby. I’ll send her home.”
Judith
rose. “Spoilsport. Don’t worry about Marcie. She’d welcome an excuse to cut
school. No music classes on Friday. If it weren’t for them, she’d be a drop-out.”
She put a hand on Beth’s shoulders. “Take Mrs. Miller home and join us.”
Beth
stiffened. “Maybe.”
“I’ll have
a drink waiting for you. Maybe you’ll find a man.” She rubbed against Martin. “Three
years since your husband’s death. I don’t know how you’ve survived. Men are
so...so...”
Beth’s
face flamed. She reached for her jacket. I put on my coat. Judith, Martin and
several other people strolled from the room.
Beth shook
her head. “I don’t know why I let her get to me.”
“She likes
to watch people squirm. Don’t let her hurt you.”
“It’s not
fair.” Beth grabbed her music folder. “She has a string of men. Maybe I hope
some of her allure will rub off.”
“Have you
ever watched a cat play with a mouse? That’s what she does. You don’t need her
friendship.”
Beth
sighed. “I’ve watched her drive people out of the choir with sneers and gossip.
I couldn’t handle that.”
“You’re
stronger than you think.”
“Not if I
lose my sitter by making her angry. Marcie’s at my house as much as she’s at
home. Judith’s wrong. Marcie’s making A’s and B’s in all her classes.”
Does even
her own daughter bear the brunt of her vicious tongue? I pushed open the heavy
oak door. I began to regret my decision to head the search committee. Who would
be Judith’s next victim?
“Judith,
are you coming?” Martin’s shout startled me.
“I’m
feeding the cat. I want to catch him and bring him home.”
Beth and I
paused at the head of the walk. Judith had crouched beside the privet hedge
that surrounded the garden between the church and the parish house that once
served as the manse. A gray cat hid in the bushes.
“You’re
allergic,” Martin said. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”
Judith dangled
something above the cat’s head. As he stretched, she raised her hand. “The
party won’t start until I arrive.” The cat snatched the food and vanished. Judith
rose.
“Your good
deed.” Sarcasm tinged my voice.
“I’ve
named him Shadow and I’m determined to catch him. Maybe a bit of catnip will do
the trick.” She smiled. “Beth, I will see you at the Pub.” A note of command
filled her voice.
During the
ride home, I thought about Judith and the cat. If Beth and I hadn’t appeared,
would she have teased the animal into a frenzy? Beth, Marcie, Martin, the cat. Who
next? How was Marcie handling her mother’s behavior?
“Do me a
favor.”
“Sure,” Beth
said.
“Tell
Marcie to stop by. I haven’t heard her play since Christmas.”
“I’ll tell
her when I get home.”
“Thanks.” If Judith’s attitude had tainted her
daughter, Martin should be told
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