The Hour of Death Page 11

  “Where did you hear it?”

  “Parish council.”

  Father Selwyn might have more information, she thought to herself. Again she desperately wanted to whip out her notebook and take a few notes, but she had written MURDER across the front of the purple notebook and it looked a bit off-putting.

  “And now that Tiffany has died …” She left the sentence open, hoping George might feel inspired to fill in with the rest of parish council gossip.

  “So you can bet, Mr. Geddings there inherits the whole shebang now that his sister is dead. May she rest in peace.”

  Sister Agatha tried to look casual, but a sudden death in the middle of an estate fight where the murder victim had been a major beneficiary was just too much to take calmly. She needed to get back to Father Selwyn and ask him what he knew about Kendrick Geddings. She turned to leave and then realized that George was still talking to her.

  “I was asking what you were wanting? Checking out a book?” he held up his scanner, his eyes questioning.

  “Oh. I was checking in about the food drive. For Father Selwyn.” The smallest of scalp tingling. Maybe there was hope for her ethics yet. “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad. I collected from the Brysons across the street. Three times I stopped by, and finally they were home. And you know what they gave me? Three tins of beets. Can you believe it? That is not what I call Christian generosity.”

  “Well, every little bit helps.” Although Sister Agatha was always annoyed at the many tins of beets and creamed corn they received at the food pantry. And half of those tins were dented.

  George leaned forward and said in a low voice, “But I did figure out where that young Mrs. Bryson goes of an evening.” He gave a wicked grin. “Want to know?”

  All of her training as a nun screamed no and all of her training as an amateur detective screamed yes. She said a quick prayer for forgiveness and croaked, “Tell me.”

  “The Bump and Grind out on the A7. Saw that red Volvo the young wife drives in the parking lot. Twice now. On my way to the Tesco, of course.”

  Sister Agatha knew the Bump and Grind to be the locals’ nickname for a bar off the highway. She wasn’t sure of its real name because absolutely no one called it by its real name. It was known for seedy country music and cheap drinks. Not exactly a place the sisters would frequent. They preferred the much more tasteful and quiet Saints and Sinners Pub in Pryderi. And even then, just for the occasional Sunday brunch.

  “Only one reason to my mind why a mother of four would be going to the Bump and Grind.” George gave her a knowing glance.

  “What would that be?”

  “To meet someone, of course.”

  Sister Agatha said nothing, but personally she had to agree. Although the thought of it made her sad. She needed to find out exactly who Vonda Bryson was meeting. And was that where she was on the night of the murder? As she left the library she realized that Inspector Rupert McFarland was right. If you stop talking and start listening, you really will eventually hear something interesting.

  * * *

  Sister Agatha settled into her desk in the attic library and glanced out the window. The moon was rising above the apple orchard. Friday night at the end of a long day. She needed to work through her notebook and figure out what was what. Inspector Rupert McFarland always said that a good detective kept up with the paperwork—Don’t let your notebook go to seed, he would emphatically repeat, or you’ll find yourself a day late and a dollar short. The whole investigation felt like a complete jumble of information at this point, with nothing pointing to a killer. She decided just to work through each suspect one at a time.

  Vonda Bryson. She was lying about her alibi and had been spotted engaged in behavior that was questionable perhaps, but not murderous. Going to a local bar—for whatever reason—did not make her a killer. However, it made her suspicious. And it could explain why she wasn’t able to provide a truthful alibi. Who would admit to a nun that they were at the Bump and Grind on the same night her husband was out of town and kids at a sleepover? It didn’t take a detective to figure that one out. But perhaps the manager of the bar would be willing to verify Vonda’s whereabouts on the night of the murder, and then she could take her off the suspect list. Sister Agatha hoped so. She like Vonda and hated the thought that she might be the one who had killed Tiffany.

  Ben Holden. Could it have been Ben who kidnapped Vincent van Gogh? Sister Agatha shivered just thinking about it. There was no evidence that it was Ben. The stack of crates didn’t prove anything. Anyone could have grabbed one of the crates and used it. The whole dognapping incident was unnerving and had set the abbey on tenterhooks. Sister Agatha was convinced it was related to the murder, although she had to admit she had no idea how. But one thing she decided that she did know: it wasn’t Ben. She drew a line through his name. He was officially off her list.

  Millicent Pritchard. Sister Agatha liked the young woman—she seemed horribly shy and insecure to her. However, she thought, leaning back, shy and insecure wasn’t Lucy’s opinion of Millicent. Lucy viewed her as a highly competent artist and an interesting person. It seemed as though when standing on the beach with her easel, she was a different person than when she was in the village. Why? And what connection had she had to Tiffany? Had she admired her as an accomplished artist? Did she reach out to Tiffany and was rebuffed by her? Tiffany would not necessarily have chosen someone like Millicent as a friend unless there was something in it for her. Perhaps Millicent somehow stroked Tiffany’s ego. So why lie about it? Sister Agatha made a note to find out exactly where Millicent was on the night of the murder.

  Emeric Scoville. According to Bevan Penrose, Emeric was at the church at the same time the murder took place. Although, because he was all the way up in the choir loft with the organ going full blast, he might not have been aware of anything going on in the parish hall. So why did he lie about being there? Did he simply freak out when questioned by the constable? Sister Agatha knew that when questioned some people do simply lose it even if they are perfectly innocent. Or did the church organist have something to hide? She wrote in the purple notebook next to Emeric’s name: lying and at the crime scene the night of the murder.

  Kendrick Geddings. Interesting. There was absolutely nothing to link him to the murder. However, any detective worth her salt would add him to her suspect list. Engaged in an estate dispute over what appeared to be a huge sum of money and then the only other beneficiary ends up dead. Leaves for another country the morning after his sister’s murder. Sister Agatha underlined his name in her notebook and added, “Ask Father Selwyn.”

  She tossed her Sharpie onto the desktop. Nothing really made sense. Lots of mild lying and a smattering of questionable behavior. Nothing pointed directly to murder. But then, in a murder investigation nothing ever did, until the end, and the end only came when enough hard evidence had been uncovered. Right now she was short on hard evidence but long on speculation and intrigue, and everyone knew that speculation and intrigue never solved anything.

  Sister Agatha sighed. It was late. Time to pack it in. Evensong seemed like a long time ago and the nuns rose early. She needed to get to bed. Opening her top desk drawer, she slid in the purple detective’s notebook. That was when she saw it—a single piece of paper, folded. She picked it up and scanned it. It was an article reprinted from the Los Angeles Times. The headline across the top read “The Big-eyed Children: Epic Art Fraud.” Art fraud?

  Forgetting her fatigue, Sister Agatha sat up straight and began to quickly read the article. She read with increasing interest the story of Margaret Keane and her husband who posed as the “real” artist. His wife did all the painting while he took the credit, along with all the money and fame. The really disturbing part of the story was that he imprisoned her in a sort of “art slavery,” holding her captive by the use of seclusion and fear.

  Sister Agatha finished the one-page article and sat back. Someone had come up to the library, opened her des
k drawer, and put the copy of the article inside. Who and why? She slipped it back into the drawer, then thought better of it. Folding the print-out twice, she slid it into the purple notebook and put the notebook back into her jumper pocket.

  As she left the library that night, for the first time ever, Sister Agatha looked over her shoulder before turning off the light. Someone had been in her desk and left her a message. In every crime, the murderer brings something in and he takes something out. She closed the door and hurried down the stairs.

  Chapter Seven

  “She’s a lounge singer at the Bump and Grind. Works Friday nights.” Sister Agatha looked around Father Selwyn’s study and breathed deeply. She had come into the village on an early Monday morning to check in with Father, but also to pick up supplies for the cheese production. It had been a frantic and exhausting weekend of cheese making at the abbey, with only a few hours off for prayer and meals. Here, things were peaceful. The electric fire burned in the grate. Sunlight was streaming through the stained-glass window, making patterned squares of color on the carpet. Someday she really was going to ask him about the cinnamon.

  Father Selwyn poured hot water into the teapot and the fragrant aroma of Glengettie drifted up. A jumble of fishing tackle, sinkers, and fishing flies lay on the little table. On top of it all were Father Selwyn’s sermon notes. He often tied flies while pondering that week’s lectionary.

  “You’re kidding!” Father Selwyn said. “I thought you were sure she was meeting someone there? Which surprised me a little. Though it happens more often than you think.”

  “I assumed that was what she was doing. But then I thought about it. A romantic dalliance just didn’t seem like Vonda. How would anyone with four small children have time for an affair?” Sister Agatha didn’t know how anyone with four children would even find time to take a shower. “I went on the website just to do a little research and there she was. Vonda may not know this, but she’s on the Bump and Grind Facebook page. A photo of her standing at the microphone. Lots of jet-black hair, a sequined top, really belting it out. Someone should peg her for the church choir.” Sister Agatha poured out two cups of tea. She added extra cream and sugar. They both needed it, in her opinion.

  “Vonda Bryson. A lounge singer at the Bump and Grind!” Father Selwyn shook his head. Taking the teacup from her, he sat back in the wingback chair.

  “I figure it must be some kind of middle-aged mom sort of thing.”

  “Well, good for her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s harmless and maybe she needs it. I mean, she’s barely forty years old and she has four boys and a husband who’s never home.”

  “Her stage name is Jasmine. So probably if you go there to see her, you’ll have no idea it’s Vonda Bryson, vice-chair of the WI.”

  “Well, we all need to let loose occasionally. I fly-fish. You write murder mysteries.”

  “I think that’s a little different, don’t you? I mean Vonda puts on a red sequined dress, a black wig, and belts out country songs while her husband thinks she’s at the church doing committee work.”

  “Harmless. And if I were home all day with four children under the age of ten I might be a lounge singer at night too.” Father Selwyn paused. “Or something like that anyway.”

  “I’m not judging her. In fact, I wouldn’t mind catching Vonda’s act if Reverend Mother wouldn’t mind. Unfortunately, she’s very particular about where the convent minivan is parked, and the Bump and Grind might not reach her high standards.”

  “So Vonda is off your suspect list if she was at the Bump and Grind Friday night?” Father Selwyn picked up his tea and looked at her over the brim.

  Sister Agatha sighed. “Afraid so. Which leaves me down a suspect with no clear prospects for the murder.” She stirred her tea and took a slow sip. “What do you know about Kendrick Geddings?” she asked. “I’ve heard that he and Tiffany were in a huge argument over their late mother’s estate.”

  “Well, yes. Parish gossip.”

  “What are people saying?”

  “That Tiffany wanted more than her fair share. But I don’t know that there was any truth to it. Although …”

  “Although what?”

  “Well, in my experience, family members can be ugly following a death. Always about the estate, the inheritance. And they are often individuals you would never expect to act in such an … an ungracious way.”

  “Is Kendrick being ungracious?” Ungracious wasn’t exactly murderous.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “But then, what does he have to be ungracious about? The only other person named in the will is dead. Think about it. Inheritance is certainly a motive for murder.”

  “But did Kendrick have the means to get into the church and kill someone? It sounds a little preposterous.” Father Selwyn took another sip of tea and, picking up a small remote, made the electric fire kick out moreheat. Sister Agatha noticed that he also made it crackle a bit louder. She shook her head. Technology.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” she said. “Ask him.”

  “Ask him what? If he killed his sister?”

  “No. Ask him where he was on Friday night.” Sister Agatha paused. “I know he flew to Kenya the next morning. But Tiffany was killed around ten PM Friday night. That would give someone plenty of time to get to the airport in Cardiff. The only tricky part is to get an alibi without offending him or letting him know that you want an alibi.”

  “Good luck with that. And I think you’re barking up the wrong tree with Kendrick. What else do you have? Anything?”

  Sister Agatha filled him in on the mysterious article that appeared in her top desk drawer.

  “Good heavens! Who do you think put it there?”

  “It has to be someone with access to the abbey, but I’ve asked all the sisters and they say they didn’t do it. And anyway, if one of them wanted me to read an article, they would have just given it to me, not hidden it in my desk. The only other person who would have access to the library is Ben Holden, and I can’t imagine he would sneak around leaving things in my desk. And he would never open my desk drawer. He’s very discreet.”

  Father Selwyn shook his head. “I have no idea.” He picked the article up off the coffee table where Sister Agatha had left it. “I remember this scandal. She did all the work and the husband took the credit. And no doubt the money.”

  There was a knock at the door and Lewis Colwyn stepped in. Sister Agatha was a little surprised by his demeanor. His hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in several days and his eyes were bloodshot. Had Lewis been sick? A terrible cold had been going around. Whatever it was, the middle-aged teacher, a favorite at the school and church, certainly wasn’t his usual put-together self.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Father Selwyn,” Lewis said. “But I need to get into the kitchen and I seem to have lost my key.” It was only then that he seemed to realize that Sister Agatha was even in the room. He nodded abruptly to her.

  “Good to see you, Lewis. I’ve been enjoying your gardening blog—and I don’t even really like plants. Unless they’re chopped up and tossed in a bowl.”

  “Glad to hear someone’s reading it,” he said. “Bevan’s gone home for the day and he’s the only one who hands out keys. So unless you can give me yours, I can’t get into the kitchen.”

  “Well, I can’t give you mine because I may need it.” Father Selwyn stood up and opened his top desk drawer. “However, I should have an extra.”

  “Thanks,” Lewis said, nearly grabbing the key as Father Selwyn handed it over to him.

  “Everything OK?” Father Selwyn asked.

  “Yes, of course. I just wanted to clean that floor before anyone comes in.” Lewis pulled the door shut behind him.

  “It’s just that everything has gotten weird—a dog is kidnapped, a mysterious article is left in my desk, a respected mom and church lady is moonlighting as a lounge singer, another young woman is a brilliant arti
st but denies it. And worst of all, a woman is dead and I can’t figure out who killed her. Or even how she died.” Sister Agatha stood up and looked around for her mittens. “I have to figure this out. And soon. But right now, Reverend Mother wants all of us at the abbey to deliver our annual Christmas gift to the residents at the Pryderi Care Center.”

  “What are you giving them this year, more knitted prayer shawls?”

  “No, this year Sister Gwenydd headed up the committee and we have gone … a little more … shall I say, contemporary.”

  “Oh?” Father Selwyn sat up.

  “We pooled our money and got them a giant flat-screen TV for the recreation room. And a year’s subscription to Netflix, Brit box, and Hulu.”

  * * *

  Sister Agatha left St. Anselm’s and finished her shopping, buying two packages of rennet and several culture starters. The nuns ordered their cheese-making supplies through Let-Us-Eat-Vegan, which was more than glad to stock anything for the abbey. Stuffing everything into her book bag, she began the climb to Church Lane. As she left the village behind her, she couldn’t help feeling as if the investigation had ground to a halt and that she was leaving the murder behind as well.

  Vonda was no longer a person of interest. So that was one suspect off of her list. The dognapping was frightening, but she had no idea who could have done it. Millicent was lying about being an artist and was in the church the night of the murder, but that hardly made her the murderer. Emeric Scoville had lied about being in the church at the time of the murder. Or maybe not. The organist was well known for losing track of the time when he was practicing, and it could actually be that he really didn’t hear anything up in the choir loft. She really needed to interview him. Emeric was so busy, like any church organist right before Christmas, that he was almost impossible to find. She made a mental note to stop by choir practice the next night.