Free Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines by Mark Schweizer

Pete. “The puppet-master.”
    “I’ll mention that to Cynthia when I see her.”
    “Don’t you dare.” Pete finished his beer and headed to the kitchen for another. “Now spill it. What’s the dope?”
    “The grapevine is right, as usual” I called after him. “Three dead bodies. Nancy, Dave and I spent all afternoon going through the houses. We didn’t find anything.”
    Pete came back into the living room. “You know who they all are?”
    “Yes, we do,” I said. “You’d better write this down for Cynthia. You’re never going to remember it.”
    “Well, gimme a sheet of paper. I’ll take some notes.”
    “There’s one on the desk and a pen in the drawer.”
    I waited for Pete settle onto the sofa again, this time with pen and paper in hand. He picked a book up off the coffee table to write on.
    “Darla Kildair, Amy Ventura, and Crystal Latimore,” I said.
    “Amy? You’re kidding!” said Pete, his shoulders slumping. “Oh, man. Really? Amy Ventura?”
    “All middle-aged women, all single and living alone we think. Darla was well known in St. Germaine since she worked at Noylene’s Beautifery for a number of years, then opened her own shop. Amy Ventura didn’t live here, but worked for the town council. She also had clients in Boone and other places. Crystal Latimore lived in Linville and Helen Pigeon knew her from church. She did have a St. Germaine Library card. I don’t know what she did for a living. Not yet.”
    “So, they had no connection that you know of,” Pete said scribbling away.
    I smiled. “Pete, you sound like a detective. Or maybe a reporter.”
    “Just getting the facts right. Cynthia is going to grill me like a pork chop when I get home.”
    “We know there’s a connection. There’s obviously a connection. We just don’t know what it is yet. We also don’t know how they died and won’t until Kent gets hold of them tomorrow morning. I suspect they were all put in the houses around the same time, but maybe not. We’ve had freezing weather for weeks and they could have been there since before Christmas or anytime after.”
    Pete quit taking notes and brightened. “You know, this probably puts us back on top.”
    “How so?”
    “We haven’t had any murders for almost two years. Now three right in a row. I’ll bet we get our title as “Murder Capital of North Carolina” back again.
    “We certainly will not,” I said. “North Carolina had about five hundred homicides last year, most of those in the cities.”
    “ Per capita , I mean,” said Pete. “I’ll bet we’re up there per capita .”
    “I doubt it. Besides, I’m not sure that’s an advertising slogan we want to use. St. Germaine — Come for the shopping, Stay for your funeral.”
    “Well, maybe not,” conceded Pete. “It wouldn’t fit on the sign anyway.”

Chapter 9
     
    I got to the station at eight o’clock on Monday morning determined to spend the day doing my best detecting. Three dead bodies was not something we wanted on our plates for very long. St. Germaine had had a spate of murders during the past ten years, but to our credit, and unlike the big cities with higher crime rates, none of our murders went unsolved.
    I was the first one to arrive. Nancy usually checked in around eight-thirty. Dave, on donut patrol, was probably down at Bun in the Oven bakery right now talking Diana Evarts out of a dozen day-old crullers. As far as Nancy and I could tell, Dave lived on donuts during the week. I put on the coffee pot, and had just settled into the chair in my office when I heard the front door open and the accompanying buzzer go off.
    “Hayden?” called a familiar voice. Georgia Wester’s voice.
    “In here,” I called back, getting to my feet. “Coming.”
    Georgia Wester owned Eden Books on the Square. She was also in the choir at St. Barnabas and, more importantly, the newly elected Senior Warden.
    “Father Dressler would like to see you when you have a few minutes,” she