Read Death in the Choir Online

Authors: Lorraine V. Murray

Death in the Choir (3 page)

BOOK: Death in the Choir
12.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“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.

“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 burn.
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.

BOOK: Death in the Choir
12.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

La mansión embrujada by Mary Stewart
Waterborne by Katherine Irons
Gaia's Secret by Barbara Kloss
Smugglers' Summer by Carola Dunn
Hollow Earth by John Barrowman, Carole E. Barrowman
The Privileges by Jonathan Dee