Free The Soprano Wore Falsettos by Mark Schweizer Page A

will play it back exactly as it was recorded? All the stops and wrong notes and everything?” asked Georgia.
    “Everything.”
    “When did that get installed?”
    “A couple of years ago,” I said. “I bought it and had it put in so I could hear how the organ sounded out in the church. Just to check myself. A practice tool, mostly.”
    “But you could record a postlude or something, and we could play it back later?”
    “Sure. I did it a couple of times.” I turned to Meg. “Remember when I got that call half-way through communion? You just put the disk in for the hymn and the postlude, punched the ‘play’ button and the service never missed a beat.”
    “You recorded the music for every service in advance?” Elaine asked.
    “No,” I said. “Just an emergency hymn and an emergency postlude. Father George and I had a signal worked out. If I had to leave before the end of the service, we’d skip the middle hymn if we hadn’t already sung it, announce the last hymn as Be Thou My Vision and finish up. Communion would be silent, but that didn’t really bother anyone.”
    “Hey, can we go downstairs?” said Georgia. “This is creeping me out. I mean, just look at her. Aren’t we being disrespectful?”
    “Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m used to it. You can go on down if you want.” Georgia just shrugged.
    “I still don’t get it,” said Elaine. “So what happened?”
    “Agnes Day was recording her improvisation. When she got hit, her foot kicked the zimbelstern on and her hand fell on the playback button. Look here. The MIDI played back everything she’d recorded along with the notes that her body and left arm were playing as they rested on the keys.”
    “So when it finished…” Elaine nodded, finally understanding.
    “The recorder simply played it back over and over. Until we came up and turned it off.”
    “How long do you think it took before she died?” asked Georgia, edging slowly toward the stairs.
    “I can’t tell for sure. Like I said before, it could have been ten minutes, maybe more. Meg and I were in the parish hall for almost twenty.”
    We were all quiet for a moment.
    “If only she hadn’t been such a bad organist,” said Elaine, sadly. “We might have saved her.”

    • • •

    Nancy arrived at the church a matter of minutes after I had called her. Dave was right behind her. The ambulance was on the way.
    “You ladies stay up here for a little while,” I said. “Dave, you go wait for the ambulance and send them up here with a gurney. Hopefully, most of the congregation has gone home, and we won’t have to explain any of this until tomorrow. Is Father George still here?”
    “He didn’t even stay for coffee,” Georgia said. “He had a couple of hospital visits to make, and he wanted to see the ball game this afternoon.”
    “Fine. We’ll tell him later. Nancy? Let’s you and I have a look around before the EMTs get here.”

    • • •

    I explained the series of events to Nancy as we quickly searched the choir loft. It didn’t take long to find the murder weapon — a C3 handbell that I remembered being used to give a pitch for the Psalm. It was heavy — about four pounds — and had noticeable blood on the finish. The killer hadn’t even tried to clean it off, just set it back on the shelf by the organ.
    The organ console was clean, nothing out of the ordinary at all. I took off the pedal board, and we looked under the organ. It was clean as well.
    I called Elaine and Georgia over. “Did either of you hear a handbell clang during Agnes Day’s recessional? Maybe a dull thud, following by a ringing sound?”
    “Who could tell?” said Georgia. “All I heard was just a bunch of wrong notes.”
    “I might have heard it,” said Elaine. “No,” she decided. “I guess not. Not that I remember anyway.”
    “Any idea who might have wanted to kill her?” asked Nancy.
    “Anyone who heard her play,” answered Georgia.

Chapter 8

    “Did you talk to