Death in the Choir (10 page)

“I’m
sure you will be, dear.”

Francesca had never seen this particular waitress before
in the Italian restaurant.
She definitely
wasn’t working the night I was here with Randall.
The girl, who looked
about 18, sported a shaved head with her one remaining lock of hair dyed
chartreuse. She also wore a silver ring in one nostril, and had an array of
colorful tattoos snaking up her bare arms and encircling her neck.
 

Francesca noticed Tony looking at the girl quizzically.
How will the next generation outdo this one?
she wondered.
Maybe, 20 years from
now, kids will be nailing spikes through their heads. Of course, in my youth, I
was prancing around in teeny-weeny bikinis and miniskirts and smoking
cigarettes, and I turned out fine – I think.
 

“What’ll ya’ll have?” the girl drawled dully.

“Why don’t you tell us about your specials?” Tony asked
politely.

While the waitress glumly recited the list, Francesca
took a sidelong look at Tony. He was every bit as handsome as she had remembered.
Her eyes rested briefly on the ring finger of his left hand. His hands were
well-tanned, but there was no telltale white mark like you might expect on the
finger of a man who’d removed his wedding band for the evening.
But maybe he doesn’t wear a ring at all.

The waitress, yawning widely, took their orders and
disappeared into the kitchen. Suddenly, Tony reached across the table and took
Francesca’s hand. “You look lovely tonight.”

When he touched her hand, a shock of surprising energy
jolted through her. She wondered if he’d felt it too.
What’s happening to me,
if
even a simple touch is enough to make
me
melt?
It’s been a long time since
you’ve had a really romantic evening
, one of her mental voices warned,
so be careful.

Then he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and her heart
began racing. The nagging little voice whispered:
He’s handsome, sexy, and he’s employed, which means he’s too good to be
true.

She wondered if he could feel her pulse pounding in her
hand. “Tony, do you have...family in the area? I mean, are you from Decatur
originally?”

He gently released her hand. “I was born in Elmhurst,
New York, but my parents moved down to Decatur when I was seven. So I guess I’m
almost a native.”

What
lovely eyes he has. And good strong eyebrows. Very masculine.

He paused as the waitress arrived with a bottle of
Chianti and two glasses. After a short struggle, the girl managed to uncork the
bottle and pour them each a glass. She’d added a large wad of gum to her mouth,
giving the impression of a cow chewing its cud, nose ring and all.

After they toasted, Tony continued. “My parents passed
away about ten years ago, but I have two sisters in Florida, plus some nieces
and nephews.” He took a sip of wine.

“I never married. I dated a woman for five years, and I
thought we were going to tie the knot, but it just didn’t work out. The kind of
work I do, the whole homicide thing, well, it’s hard on relationships. It’s not
the kind of job you leave at the office.” He sighed. “The worst part is that if
you’re not careful, you can lose faith in humanity.”

So he
really is unattached.
She was tempted to pinch herself to be
sure she wasn’t dreaming, given the dearth of available heterosexual males in
the metro-Atlanta area. She hoped she didn’t look too ecstatic.

“But enough about me,” he said. “Tell me something about
yourself.”

“Well, I’m a Miami girl at heart. That’s where I grew
up, and I had hoped to live there after college – I went to the University of
Florida – but, well, my husband’s job brought us to Georgia.”

“College, huh? Now I’m impressed. After high school, I
went straight into the police academy and then started working. But I always
wanted to get a degree. So what did you major in?”

“Philosophy -- something totally impractical, but it
fascinated me at the time.”

Just then, she glanced across the restaurant and saw two
familiar figures huddled together in one of the booths.
That looks like Candy
.
And
the other woman is definitely Lily. I wonder what they’re doing here together.

He refilled their glasses. “What made you choose that
major?”

“I think I was searching for something -- life’s bigger
meaning. It’s strange because in a way I already had many answers from
childhood. You see, I was raised Catholic but sort of got off track in
college.”

“Well, we have that in common,” he said. “I went to
Catholic schools from day one all the way through high school, but…” His voice
trailed off and he fidgeted with his glass.

“Something happened?” she asked.

“Well, it’s nothing too original. At some point, I just
stopped going to Mass, much to my mother’s horror. But I still think of myself
as Catholic, and, well, who knows? I might start going again one of these
days.”

She didn’t say anything, but she felt a deep sense of
relief that he wasn’t a diehard atheist.
Maybe
he’ll start going to church with me.

“Did you ever find it?”
Tony asked as the waitress brought their salads.

“Find what?”

“Life’s meaning.”

She laughed.
“Yes,
I’m pretty sure I did, but it wasn’t in any of my college books.”

As they began eating their salads, she found her eyes
returning now and again to the two women, who were deeply engrossed in
conversation and apparently unaware of her. When the waitress brought the
entrees, Francesca brought up Randall’s death.

“I read in the paper that he’d taken an overdose, but I
found myself wondering what he washed it down with.”

Tony took a roll from the basket and buttered it, as if
he were stalling for time. Was it her imagination or did he look uncomfortable?
Maybe he’s not supposed to discuss the
case.

She went on: “You see, I went out with Randall once, and
I was just starting to work as his assistant. I didn’t know him extremely well,
but something about the whole suicide angle doesn’t seem right to me.”

Tony smiled. “You did say you majored in philosophy,
right, not psychology?”

“True, but I minored in psychology. I guess I took just
enough courses to be dangerous. I love to know what makes people tick.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in my telling you,”
Tony said. “The details, according to the medical examiner’s report, are pretty
straightforward. It seems Randall had three generous shots of Scotch and a few
cups of coffee too.”

The waitress delivered the entrees to the table with a
big sigh. “Ya’ll need anything else?” Her expression clearly communicated her
deepest hope that they would make no further demands on her.

“We’re fine,” Tony said.

Francesca took a bite of the eggplant parmesan, which
was tender and delicious, almost as good as her own mother’s recipe. “Why would
someone planning to commit suicide make themselves a pot of coffee?” she
wondered aloud.
 

“We don’t know the actual sequence of events. He could
have made the coffee when he got back from the party. Then he might have had
the booze later.”

As they ate their meal, Francesca took occasional
glances at the two women across the restaurant. They seemed deep in
conversation, and she noticed some rather elaborate hand gestures from Lily,
who seemed to be driving home an important point to Candy.

The waitress plunked down the check on the table as soon
as Tony and Francesca had finished their entrees, and turned to walk away.

“We’d like dessert and coffee,” Tony said evenly, and
she stomped off, returning in moments with the dessert menu.

As they were getting ready to leave, Francesca noticed
that Lily and Candy were still having dessert. Their booth was located directly
behind the cashier’s station. The two women seemed deeply engrossed in their
conversation and apparently did not notice her, so, as Tony paid the check,
Francesca managed to catch a few tidbits of the rather loud discussion.

“You’ve got to find something constructive to do with
your time,” Lily said.

“What’s wrong with shopping and just hanging out?” Candy
countered.

“I said ‘constructive.’ I don’t want you wasting your
life.”

There was a pause. “Mom, tell me something: Why are the
things I like to do a waste of time, but anything you do is somehow valuable
and… and… constructive?”

That was all Francesca heard before she and Tony exited
the restaurant. But her curiosity was now at high ebb.
So Lily is Candy’s mom!
She did a quick flashback to the night of
the choir get-together. She recalled Lily’s reaction to seeing Randall kissing
her.
It’s starting to make more sense
now.

* *
*

Francesca awoke the next day feeling very chipper. Tony
had been a complete gentleman, stopping in for an after-dinner drink of
Benedictine and brandy at her house. He had scratched thoroughly under Tubs’
chin, eliciting a pleased rumbling sound from the old cat. That was it. No
attempt to put the moves on her, and it was just as well.

Before she had met Dean, she had made the mistake of
jumping into bed with a very attractive man she was very much in love with. She
had thought he was serious about her, and she had been extremely devastated the
next day when he had acted as if nothing had happened. The next week, he had
failed to call her for their usual date. She had been forced to face the
obvious fact, which was that she had made a huge blunder.
 

But the experience had taught her something. After
marrying Dean, she had realized that sex without the emotional warmth and
commitment of marriage was about as enjoyable as eating a gourmet meal out of
Styrofoam containers.

Yawning and rolling over in bed, she was momentarily
startled by the fuzzy warmth of Tubs, who had sneaked to the top of the bed
during the night. He let out a little warning meow as if to alert her. As she
lay in bed, the image of Lily and Candy kept nagging at her.

If
Lily is Candy’s mom, then why do they seem to be hiding the fact? And if
Randall and Lily had once been married, why had they kept their past a secret?
Something isn’t right here. I’m going to swing by Randall’s house and see Candy
again. Maybe I’ll bring her something from the box of stuff. Not the letters,
of course, but some item that she might want as a keepsake.

She riffled through the piles of stuff on her study
floor and came up with a perfect item: A few photographs of Randall with the
choir, taken about a year ago. An hour later, she parked in front of Randall’s
house and rang the doorbell. There was no answer, but the front door was
unlocked. She poked her head in and called out, “Anyone home?” No reply.

Then she gently eased open the door and stepped inside.
Candy might be out snaring another box
of donuts. Well, I’ll wait a few moments for
her.

She went into the kitchen and took a quick look around.
Dirty dishes were piled everywhere, along with greasy frying pans on the stove.
It looked like Candy was attempting to expand her cooking abilities beyond
instant coffee and had used nearly every utensil in the kitchen in the process.
There was a dishwasher, but it was also full to the brim.

Francesca noticed the doors to the big pantry in the
kitchen were open. The shelves were crowded with assorted spices, plus flour,
olive oil, a bag of onions, a few clusters of garlic, along with glass jars
filled with cereal, rice, and dried beans. But Randall had also devoted some
space in the pantry for a selection of alcoholic beverages. There was a wine
rack well-stocked with an assortment of imported wines.

What
am I looking for?
She stared at the wine rack. Then it hit her: This
was apparently where he kept his booze, but there were no bottles of hard
liquor at all. No bourbon, rum, vodka – and certainly no Scotch, which was what
he had drunk on the night he died.

Was Randall a Scotch drinker? She remembered the evening
they’d gone out together. He’d only had wine. And at Molly’s party, even though
there were bottles of the hard stuff on the drinks table, she’d seen Randall
concentrating on the wine.

Then
where had the Scotch come from on the night he died? Did someone visit him and
carry a bottle of Scotch along? And maybe encourage him to get even drunker
than he already was? Did that same someone put the sleeping pills in his drink?

Just then, she heard a car pull up outside.
Candy must be back.
Well, I’ll just give her the photos
and head out.
But when she peered out the window, it wasn’t Candy
she saw hurrying up the walkway. It was Lily. Her heart beating furiously,
Francesca followed her first instinct, which was to hide. She edged her way
into the pantry and shut the doors behind her.
I don’t think she’ll know it’s my car, so I’m safe on that score.

Then she heard Lily push open the front door and call
Candy’s name. Next she heard the sound of high-heeled footsteps as Lily entered
the living room.