Death in the Choir (7 page)

“Oh, I didn’t think of that. But you didn’t mean what
you said about my singing, did you?”

“Of course not! Your voice is beautiful.” Then Francesca
saw him draw Patricia near and give her a long, lingering kiss on the lips.

She had seen enough. She felt a quick stab of remorse
and guilt as she moved away from the window. Then she headed into the kitchen
to pour another glass of wine, nearly colliding with Thomas White. He laughed
and gave her a very sensuous blue-eyed look.

He’s
not very tall, but
that’s OK,
Francesca thought.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry, Mrs.
Bibbo
?”

“Uh, I was going outside for some fresh air, but I think
it’s starting to rain.”

He looked her over appraisingly from head to toe. “You
sure look pretty tonight. Did you do something different to your hair?”

“Just some highlights.” She was pleased that he’d
noticed. “Thanks.”

A moment later, a slightly disheveled-looking Randall
and Patricia walked back into the house. When he saw them, Thomas called out,
“Hope there isn’t a storm on the way.” They looked at him quizzically.

When Father John ambled over to ask Thomas about his
graduate studies, Francesca excused herself and headed to the bathroom to touch
up her makeup. To get there, she had to go through the master bedroom. As she
reached out to open the bathroom door, she felt someone grab her from behind.

“Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, and then realized who it
was. “What are you doing?” she cried out as Randall embraced her. Then she
started to laugh.
I’ve had too much to
drink.

“Waiting for you, of course.” He switched off the light.

He pulled her against him so tightly, she was sure he
could feel her heart trying to jump out of her chest. He kissed her, a long,
hungry kiss, and she felt her willpower dissolving. She leaned against him,
letting out a little sigh like someone devouring chocolate ice cream after a
long diet.
Girl, get a grip
, she
warned herself.

“I really want to be with you again soon.” And then he
lightly stroked her earlobe, as if he knew it happened to be one of her most
intense erogenous zones. “Alone.”

At that moment, the lights flickered on and there stood
Lily in the doorway.

“Well, excuse
me
,”
she said in a tone of voice that could have instantly turned water into ice. “I
had no idea this room was occupied. Don’t let me disturb you two...love birds.”

Randall drew back from Francesca as if he had just
learned she had a contagious disease. He straightened the front of his shirt
and looked guilty. “I think I’ve had way too much to drink…”

Lily smiled in a way that mystified Francesca and then
exited the room.

Well,
thanks a lot
, Francesca thought, angered by the implication that
alcohol had motivated his kiss, rather than affection.

He must have noticed her expression. “Look, don’t
misunderstand me. I just don’t want to …well, I want to be a gentleman with
you, that’s all.”

She wanted to believe him. “It’s alright. Let’s just
forget it.”

He took her hand. “I don’t want to forget it, Francesca.
Look, I’m no saint. I’m going to level with you. I was outside with Patricia earlier,
and I kissed her. Not because I’m attracted to her, but because I was trying to
make amends for what I said about her singing earlier. That was wrong, and I
know it. But you’re special to me. You really are.”

She remained silent. She didn’t know what to say.
I hope he means it.

Now he smiled at her.
Those dimples again
. “Are you angry with me? Are you going to quit
your job as choir assistant?”

“Of course not.”
Let’s
change the topic,
she thought.
Talk
about something safe like work.
“But you really haven’t given me much work
to do so far.”

He straightened his tie. “You’re right, but I do have a
big assignment for you. If you’ll go in my office, you’ll find all kinds of
papers in the desk drawers. Everything is terribly disorganized. Old programs,
invoices, you name it. I’m famous for throwing stuff in drawers and forgetting
about it. You can take everything home with you, and organize it there.”

He took her hand gently. “Would you be interested in
putting some order in my life?”

How
can I say no? Here’s a man who needs me. Isn’t that what I miss so much about
Dean?

“Yes, of course, Randall, I’ll be happy to.”

Now he hugged her, but the feeling wasn’t romantic.
There was almost desperation in the embrace. When he drew back, there seemed to
be moisture glistening in his eyes.

“Francesca, some day I want to tell you more about my
life. I haven’t been…exactly an angel…but I’ve been trying to change.”

“Don’t worry about it, Randall. We all have stuff we
wish we hadn’t done.”

“You’re the best, Francesca. You’re really a godsend.
And I think we’re going to make quite a team.”

It was midnight when the party started breaking up.
Francesca had stopped drinking at 10 because she knew she’d be driving home. As
people were straggling out into the night, Molly whispered, “Randall looks
soused. Maybe you could drive him home?”

“Sure, let me get my purse.” But by the time Francesca
returned, Randall had already slipped out. They saw his car pulling out of the
driveway.

When Francesca left the party about a half hour later,
something told her to drive by his house to check up on him. She knew from the
choir list that his house was about a mile away from Molly’s. It was one of the
refurbished 1940s cottages that were becoming very popular in Decatur. As she slowed
down, she could see that the lights in his house were off and his car was
parked in the driveway.
All is well,
she thought, and then she felt a distinct temptation to ring the doorbell.
Why not? Would that be so wrong?

Then she noticed another car out front. A sparkling
white Mercedes -- Patricia’s.
It looks
like Romeo has found his Juliet. Why was I stupid enough to believe
anything he said
? She drove home,
scrubbed off all her make-up, and put on her pajamas. Then she climbed into bed
with Tubs.

“It’s you and me, boy, and it’s a good thing you’re not
a human being. Some of us just can’t be trusted.”
 

* *
*

The next morning, she awakened at eight and had to rush
around getting dressed to get to the rectory by nine. Tubs watched her as she
dressed, as if fearful she might forget to feed him. But just before she
scurried out the door, she up-ended an entire can of tuna into his bowl.

The phone was already ringing as she took her seat at
the little desk in the foyer of the rectory. The priests lived upstairs, while
the downstairs area contained the kitchen, plus a few offices. “What time are
the Sunday masses?” the caller wanted to know. Then a new mother called to sign
up for baptism classes, and an unidentified parishioner called to register his
complaint about how chilly the church had been last Sunday. “Isn’t anyone
paying the heating bills?”

When the first wave of phone calls subsided, Francesca
wandered down the hall and stopped in Margaret Hennessy’s office. Margaret, the
director of education, wasn’t coming in today, but her office door was open.
There was the usual big glass jar of candies on her desk. Margaret was pencil
thin and didn’t indulge in candy, but she kept the jar full for others.
A nice ministry,
Francesca reflected.

Mmmmmm
, Milky Way bars.
She
put a few in her jeans pocket and started heading back to her desk, but then
she decided to stop by Randall’s office.

I’m
going to forget all about last night and all the romantic stuff he said to me.
I’m going to be his assistant and nothing more. I’m not going to act like a
jealous idiot just because he has a thing for Patricia.

She unlocked the door and went in. She remembered his
description of how disorganized he was.
He
wasn’t kidding.
There were stacks of papers and music books on his desk,
plus old church bulletins, old programs from past Christmases, pencils and pens
strewn every which way, and sticky notes with dates and times scribbled on them
posted on the desk top. On the sunny windowsill a single African violet plant
had birthed a tiny white flower.
I’ll bet
Margaret Hennessy waters it.

It was difficult opening the desk drawers because they
were stuffed to capacity. She decided to take everything out and start from
scratch in organizing things. She found a very large, empty cardboard box in
the corner of the office and upended folders, papers, and musical scores into
it. She put the box on the floor and pushed it down the hall, since it was too
large to carry.
I’ll take it home with me
and bring everything back in a few days.

Just then, the phone began ringing.

“Francesca, it’s me, Patricia,” a voice on the other end
wailed. But it didn’t sound like Patricia at all.

“Oh, it’s too horrible, I just can’t, I can’t take
it...”

Another line started ringing. “Hold on, Patricia, I have
another call. I’ll be right back. St. Rita’s,” she said to the other caller.
“Please hold.”
  

“No, ma’am, I won’t hold. This is Jack Davis, and I’ve
been a member of the church now for 20 years. But I have to say I’ve never
before heard a sermon about the rules about genuflecting and I just don’t
understand why we have to be subjected to...”

She did something that she had never done before. She
hung up on him, promising herself that if he called back, she’d explain there
had been an emergency.

“Patricia? Are you still there? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s just horrible. I went by Randall’s house this
morning and rang his bell, but he didn’t come to the door. His car was outside,
so I was worried something might be wrong. He was awfully drunk last night, you
know.”

“Well, I went around to the back door and it was open,
so I went in.” Patricia started sobbing again. “I don’t know how to say this,”
she wailed. “But Randall’s dead.”

Dead! A wave of nausea swept through Francesca as she
felt herself reliving some of the shock she’d experienced two years ago when
she’d learned about Dean’s death over the phone.

“Oh, dear Lord! What happened?”

“I don’t know. He was on the couch. I thought he was
sleeping, but when I tried to get him to wake up, he didn’t. And he was, oh,
God, he was so cold.” She broke down again.

“Patricia, where are you now?”

“I got so frightened that I left and came home.”

“You have to call the police. Dial 911 and report his
death. Do you understand?”

“Yes, OK, I will,” Patricia sobbed, and then hung up.

“AAAGGH!” Francesca dropped the phone. Something hot and
fuzzy was slobbering all over her feet. She jumped from the chair and looked
downward, her heart beating so fast she thought she was having a coronary.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy! Spot!”

The big mutt beamed at her, his tongue dangling from his
mouth.

* *
*

A short while later, Father John made his way slowly
down the stairs. He had a vicious headache, the result of downing too many
glasses of wine last night. He nearly tripped over Spot, stretched out on the
kitchen floor, gnawing on a shoe. The priest poured himself a glass of water,
then lit a cigarette and took a long, blissful drag. Then he saw Francesca
entering the kitchen, looking much worse than he felt.

“What is wrong, my dear?”

“Oh, Father, something terrible has happened. Patricia
Noble went to Randall’s house this morning and found him.” Her voice faltered.
“Found him dead.”

Father John could feel the blood draining from his face.
He stubbed out the cigarette and sat down, while also pulling out a chair for
Francesca.

“Dead? What do you mean? What happened? And, here, sit
down, you look like you need a chair.”

“I don’t know what happened, Father. Patricia said she
couldn’t wake him up.”

* *
*

A few days later, while Francesca was sorting the mail
in Margaret Hennessy’s office, the front doorbell to the rectory rang. She
heard Father William answering it.
 

“Police?” she heard him say. “What is this all about?” He
had returned from visiting his parents in Valdosta only a few minutes ago, and
no one had filled him in on Randall’s death.

Francesca quickly returned to her desk in the foyer,
where Father William was talking to a rather attractive man. Father John was
standing by her desk, fiddling with a pencil.

“I’m Investigator
Viscardi
with the Decatur Police Department,” the man said. “I’m here about Randall Ivy.
I’m questioning anyone who might have some knowledge about Mr. Ivy’s death.”