Death in the Choir (8 page)

The officer was olive-complexioned with hair and eyes
the color of espresso.
I’ll bet he’s
Italian,
Francesca thought.

“May God have mercy on his soul!” Father William fished
in his pants pocket for his Rosary beads. “What happened?”

“He was found in his home three days ago by a member of
St. Rita’s choir.” The detective’s eyes swept over the three people standing
before him, resting an extra second on Francesca.

“Were any of you at the choir party?” He reached into
his pocket and extracted a pen and small notebook.

“I was,” Francesca volunteered.
He has sexy eyes.
Then her conscience elbowed its way into her
thoughts.
At a time like this, you’re
noticing his looks?

“And you are?” He looked her up and down quickly.

“Francesca
Bibbo
. I’m in the
choir – and I’m… I was… Randall’s assistant.”

“Miss
Bibbo
, did you notice
anything unusual about Mr. Ivy the night of the party?”

She looked down at the carpet, noting that Spot had
chewed a small hole in the edge.

What
do I say? That I was falling for him? That I didn’t know if I could trust him
or not?

“Not really, except that he was drinking quite a bit.
When he left the party, it was about midnight, and Molly – she was the hostess
– wanted me to drive him home. But he got away too quickly, so I couldn’t.” For
some reason she didn’t want to admit that she’d followed him home later.

The detective took some notes. He had strong-looking
hands with a nice sprinkling of fur on the fingers.
Quite masculine.

“You said you were his assistant. What exactly do you
do?”

She felt herself blushing for no reason, as she thought
about Rebecca’s little jokes about overtime. “Mostly help him with clerical
stuff, like buying sheet music, keeping track of attendance. And I have a big
box of his stuff at home that he wanted me to organize.”

This seemed to pique the investigator’s interest. “Well,
we may want to take a look at his office at some point and maybe the contents
of that box. Would you mind giving me your address and phone number?”

I’d
love to! Please, God, let him be single!

“Not at all.”
She
wrote the information on an index card and gave it to him.

He smiled in an officious way, but his next question
startled her. “Thank you, Miss, or is it
Mrs
.
Bibbo
?”

“I’m a widow. I still go by Mrs.”

Next he turned to Father John, giving him a brief
once-over while turning over a new page in the notebook. Father extended his
hand.

“I’m Father John Riley, the pastor, and I was also at
the party.”

“Mr., uh, Father Riley, did you notice anything out of
the ordinary about Mr. Ivy that night?”
 

“We didn’t get a chance to speak.” Father John tweaked
his collar, which had begun chafing him.

“And how would you describe your relationship with him?
Did you know Mr. Ivy well?”

“Uh, well, he was the choir director, so of course we
spoke frequently, about the musical selections and so on.”

Then Father John noticed Father William running his
fingers nervously over the Rosary beads, his lips moving in silent prayers.
Father John didn’t want to let the younger man down.
 

“There is something else. Randall and I had a
disagreement recently. You see, he wanted me, or rather the church, to purchase
a new organ. He was very displeased with the one we already have. He had asked
me many times. Well, I lost my temper. I told him, more or less, to either
accept the situation or, uh, or leave.”

“So you threatened to fire him?”

“Well, yes, you could say that. But really he was a fine
musician and I wouldn’t have...” his voice trailed off.

The officer questioned Father William for a few moments
and then left.

* *
*

Francesca noticed that the church was filled to capacity
for Randall’s funeral, since he was well known by most of the parishioners.
Margaret Hennessy had arranged for the director from a church downtown to lead
the choir in a few traditional funeral pieces. Fortunately, there was the
blessed absence of “On Eagle’s Wings,” which Randall had made fun of at
numerous
 
rehearsals (“Every time I hear
it, I want to clip the wings on that blasted bird.”) Lily Santiago sang a gorgeous
solo rendition of “O Divine Redeemer” that had nearly everyone in the church
teary-eyed, especially when she sang the words, “Grant me pardon, and remember
not my sin.” Francesca saw Lily leaving the church in tears when the song was
over.

Francesca also learned from Margaret that Randall had no
siblings, and his parents were deceased. Still, in the front pew, usually
reserved for family members, there was someone who caught Francesca’s eye. She
looked very young, maybe 20, and she was Lily’s height. After Mass, Francesca
walked over to the young woman.

“I’m Francesca
Bibbo
, and I
was Randall’s choir assistant. I don’t think we’ve met?”

There was a shy smile and the offer of a limp little
hand. “No, I haven’t been here before. I’m Candy.”

“It’s so terrible about Randall.” Francesca grasped the
girl’s hand lightly, noting how thin she was. “He was a wonderful musician and
the whole choir will miss him dearly.”

Candy touched a handkerchief delicately to her eyes. The
tip of her nose was red, but it didn’t detract from her beauty.

“Yes, Daddy always loved to play music.”

Francesca hoped the shock she was feeling wasn’t too
obvious on her face. “Oh, he was your...your father? I didn’t realize. I’m so
very sorry for your loss.”

“He didn’t tell most people about me unless he knew them
really well. It’s kind of strange, I know. He and my mom got divorced when I
was a baby. I grew up with my mom in Miami, so I only saw him about once a
year. I moved to Decatur not too long ago, hoping we could get to know each
other better, but now...”

“Candy, I have a large box of your father’s papers from
his office that he wanted me to organize. I haven’t had a chance to go through
them yet, but it is possible there could be something there you might want.
Photos or letters or something like that.”

Francesca scribbled her name and phone number on a piece
of paper and gave it to the girl. “Why don’t you give me a call when you have a
chance? Maybe we can get together.”

Candy
took the paper and tucked it away in a tiny black purse. She sniffed and then
smiled. “I would like that.”

Tubs had managed to climb up on a dining room chair.
There, he was watching the squirrels scouring the front yard for the bread
crumbs Francesca had put out for the birds. Every so often, the old cat would
let out a little cry of interest and twitch his tail, as if he were watching a
particularly captivating action movie.

Francesca sat across from him in her bathrobe, sipping a
cup of coffee and mulling over the story about Randall’s death in the morning
paper. The paper reported there had been no signs of a struggle or forced entry
into his house. The autopsy revealed that Randall had evidently taken an
overdose of a prescription drug for
insomnia.
The death was ruled a suicide, even
though no note was found.

As Francesca glanced outside, a single leaf winged its
way to the ground like a little yellow bird. It was another snazzy fall day in
Decatur with the trees decked out in fanciful colors, and somehow this made the
fact of Randall’s death seem even more tragic. Something about the police’s
conclusion bothered her. She didn’t doubt the accuracy of the autopsy report,
but she had trouble with the notion that Randall had killed himself.

When
he kissed me at the party, and when he talked to me, he didn’t act like someone
who would kill himself a few hours later.
Then one of her inner voices
chimed in.
People are unpredictable.
But why didn’t he leave a note?
she
countered.
Maybe,
the voice answered,
because he was inebriated. And most drunk
people aren’t going to get a pen and paper and write a letter.

She thought about this as she fixed herself a bowl of
cereal.
Was it possible that the overdose
had been accidental? But Randall was an intelligent man. Surely he would know
how dangerous it was to combine pills with booze.

As she sat lost in thought, she heard Tubs making a
peculiar noise. Looking outside, she saw her neighbor’s dog depositing a
generous pile of manure near her front path. Just as he was lifting his leg to
take aim for the birdbath, she put down her spoon and rushed to the front door.

“Go away, Bainbridge! Bad dog!” But the animal, an
unkempt German shepherd, simply stared at her. Then she heard her next-door
neighbor calling for him.

“Here, Bainbridge, here boy!” The dog scratched at his
disheveled ears before deciding to amble home. Myra Findley, her neighbor, had
proudly introduced her to the dog a few months ago.

“We don’t need a security system at our house,” Myra had
bragged, as the dog peered at Francesca through yellowish eyes. Bainbridge, it
turned out, was a trained attack dog. And Myra was so proud of this fact that
she had shared with Francesca the secret words and gesture that would
supposedly trigger an attack response in the dog.

“But he’s as gentle as a lamb around the kids,” Myra had
gushed.

Good
thing,
Francesca had thought,
because Myra has five little kids.
Despite Myra’s assurances, it
had made Francesca nervous knowing the dog was wandering around loose in the
neighborhood.

What
if one day he snaps and lunges for me while I’m out filling the bird feeder?
But
she had made a real effort to befriend the dog, hoping to win him over. Dog
biscuits and an occasional rawhide bone were the offerings she left Bainbridge
on her front porch. The result, she now realized, was that the dog felt so
comfortable around her, he considered her front yard part of his territory.

Glancing back at the newspaper, she suddenly remembered
the box that she had stashed in her back study.
It’s time to organize the stuff. Even if Randall doesn’t need it
anymore, there could be things in there that the church needs, like invoices
and old receipts. And there could be photos that his daughter would want.

She poured another cup of coffee and headed into her
study to begin the task. As she upended the box onto the floor, she realized
that Randall must have been a true pack rat. There were old phone messages,
restaurant receipts, and even envelopes from bills that apparently had been
paid. She sighed as she realized how large a task this would be.

First
things first. I’ll put anything personal in one pile and church stuff in the
other. Church bills in one pile, and programs in another
.
And stuff that is clearly trash in another.
As she sorted through the materials, she found a small notebook marked simply
“R’s recipes.” She smiled as she placed it in the personal pile.
I didn’t even know he liked to cook.

And then she unearthed something that really surprised
her. Tucked away among church bulletins and handwritten lists of musical
selections was a stack of letters bound with a loop of string.

I
wonder if these might be letters from Candy.

She untied the string and began to read the first few
letters. They were written in black ink in a very elaborate, somewhat
old-fashioned handwriting with plenty of flourishes. None were signed, nor were
they dated. And someone, she deduced, after reading for a few minutes,
certainly had been enamored of Randall.

“I’ve never known greater joy than when we are
together,” the author wrote. “My Darling, you make me feel cherished, reborn,
and so special.” There followed some detailed, almost X-rated descriptions
involving the words “ecstasy” and “faint.”
 

This
was evidently quite a lurid twosome.
But when she glanced over one
of the more recent letters, it sounded like the poor woman was despairing of
the relationship.

“I’m ready to give up everyone else for you and live
with you, but you have to be ready to make a commitment to me as well. I can’t
wait for you forever, as much as I love you.”

I wonder
who wrote these. Could it be Patricia? Somehow, I can’t imagine her baring her
heart like this, but I don’t know her that well. And, dear Lord, what do I do
now? Do I give these to the police or not? Obviously Randall didn’t know these
letters were in his desk. He must have wanted to keep them a secret. But if I
don’t give them to the police, is that withholding evidence? And what about
Candy? Would he have wanted her to see these or not? Oh, what do I do?

The phone rang. “Hi, Mrs.
Bibbo
,
how are you?” The voice on the other end was very young and tentative.

“This is Candy Ivy, Randall’s daughter. From the
funeral, remember?”

“Oh, yes, of course! How are you doing?” As she spoke,
she found herself stashing the letters between some books on her shelves.
I’ll figure out what to do about them later.

There was a sniff on the other end of the line. “I guess
I’m OK. I wondered if you’d like to drop by for a cup of coffee. I’m staying at
my dad’s place.”

“I’d love to come by. When’s a good time?”

“Any time this morning. I’m just hanging out.”

“And the address is?” Francesca asked in a tone that she
hoped sounded genuine. Somehow she didn’t want Candy to know she already knew
where Randall lived.

After hanging up the phone, Francesca dressed in black
jeans, a white cotton sweater, and a new pair of suede boots. As she was
heading to her car, she forgot about Bainbridge’s earlier visit and managed to
step smack dab into the fresh pile of dog poop. Her new boots were ruined.
Furious, she went back inside and changed her shoes, making a mental note to
complain to Myra about the dog’s behavior.

* *
*

Francesca felt strangely nervous as she pulled into the
driveway behind Randall’s car. Somehow she expected him to throw open the front
door and greet her. He would hug her and then assure her that his death had all
been a big joke. But it was Candy who opened the door. She was wearing a pair
of skin-tight faded jeans with rips in the knees, plus a sweatshirt with a
slogan that proclaimed, “Use me, re-use me, and throw me out.” Francesca was
relieved to discover there were some pointers about recycling in the fine
print.
 

“It feels a little weird being here, if you know what I
mean,” Candy confided. With her hair pulled back in a pony tail and no make-up
on, she looked about twelve years old.

“Don’t sit on the couch, OK? That’s where, that’s where
he…where they found him – and I plan to get rid of it as soon as possible.”

“So you’re planning to stay in Decatur?” Francesca
settled into a plush armchair.

“Yeah, I think I will. It’s a pretty happening town.
Close to Atlanta with all those clubs and malls.”

I hope
she’s not one of the many people who worship at a mall instead of a church
.
Francesca had read somewhere that more people visited malls than churches these
days, and Atlanta was becoming the Vatican of consumerism.

“Would you like some coffee and donuts?” Candy asked.

“That’d be nice.”

When Candy got up and went into the kitchen, Francesca
felt her eyes drawn morbidly to the couch. She heard Candy rummaging around,
making the occasional crashing sound as she evidently located mugs and spoons.

“I hope you don’t mind instant. I’m not much of a cook.”
Candy entered the room carrying two mugs.

Francesca suppressed a smile. She had never thought of
freshly brewed coffee as a culinary specialty.

“Instant is fine.”

Candy went back into the kitchen and returned shortly
with a box of Dunkin’ Donuts.
 
As she
plopped the box down on the coffee table, Francesca’s couldn’t help but notice
that she seemed like a little girl playing house.

“My big weakness.” Candy picked up a chocolate-covered
pastry. “I hate
Krispy
Kremes
,
though. They’re like eating lard.”

“I never turn down donuts, no matter what the brand.”
Francesca was delighted to see a shy smile on Candy’s face.
The poor girl needs some cheering up.

Francesca
reached
into the box and extracted a donut heavily dusted with cinnamon. “You know, I
read somewhere that donuts have some kind of fat in them that is supposed to
cause cancer.” She took a big bite. “But I don’t worry about things like that
anymore. Not since doctors reported that dark chocolate and red wine are good
for us.”

Candy giggled. She had quickly polished off her first
donut and was working on her second.

“So what are your plans for the future?” Francesca
settled back in the chair.

With her mouth still full, Candy replied, “You know, at
first I thought I’d go to beauty school in Atlanta. I’ve always wanted to do
hair, but now I’m not sure. Dad didn’t leave me that much money really, but
it’s enough so I can probably just hang out for a few months and do absolutely
nothing.”

“Do you think you’d enjoy that?” Francesca was mentally
trying to talk herself out of a second donut.

Candy looked startled. Evidently it had never crossed
her mind that anyone might doubt that doing nothing would be the epitome of a
happy life.

“Oh, you know, I don’t mean
nothing
. I’d go to the mall and the movies. And there’s always TV.”

Francesca didn’t reply. If Candy’s dream of a good life
wasn’t a scathing indictment of the younger generation, she didn’t know what
was.
Oh, quit being so judgmental,
one of her voices chided her.
When you
were in your twenties, wasn’t your idea of happiness bumming around on the
beach and smoking an occasional joint? Guilty as charged,
she admitted.

“It must have been difficult growing up without your
father,” she said, changing the subject.

Candy poked idly around in the box and extracted a third
donut. “Oh, not really. You see, he and my mom didn’t get along. They divorced
before I really knew him that well.”

Candy dabbed at her chocolate-stained lips with a
napkin.

“He’s – he was – a very talented musician, you know, and
mom told me how important his career was to him.” There was a loud sniff. “Sometimes
family can just get in the way, you know. My mom always told me how proud I
should be to have such a great father.”

“Yes, he certainly was talented.” Francesca now decided
to put an end to her mental debate over whether or not to allow herself a
second donut.
It’s probably
psychologically harmful
to
always be denying oneself.
She reached
into the box.

“There were times I wished they’d stayed together.”
Candy licked a bit of chocolate from her fingers. “But my mom said it was for
the best. Mom used to get so mad at him when they were married. I think they
just had very different personalities. She told me once she was mad enough to
kill him.”

That’s
an interesting tidbit of information,
Francesca mused.
I wonder if Candy’s mom was angry at Randall
for two-timing her.

“And where is your mother now?”

Candy studied a small tattoo of a frog on her left arm
as if noticing it for the first time.

“My mom? Oh, she lives in Decatur too.”