The Hour of Death Page 3

  “Um … Friday nights sometimes. Sometimes Saturday mornings. Sometimes both. Depends on my schedule.”

  “Did you come by last night with flowers?”

  “Yes … I did. But … I didn’t bring the Advent wreaths, just the altar flowers. So I’m back today. With the wreaths.”

  “Did you notice anything at the church last night? Perhaps in the parish hall?”

  “No … I just went upstairs and put the flowers on the altar like always.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” Father Selwyn cut in, shooting Sister Agatha a sharp glance and gesturing to the wingback chair on the other side of the fireplace.

  “Thank you, but I need to get back to the shop. Should I just put the wreaths in the sanctuary?”

  “If you could. I think that would be fine.” Father Selwyn was still standing, though he had released Millicent’s plump hand. “Oh, wait. The Altar Guild wanted me to ask you something. What was it?” He searched the deep pockets of his cassock and, pulling out a yellow sticky note, read aloud. “No more red and gold. Wrong color for Advent.” Father Selwyn looked at Millicent. “The color of Advent is purple—the color of penitence.”

  “Interesting. There aren’t that many purple flowers available in the winter,” Millicent said. She appeared thoughtful for a moment. “I guess there are, if you think about it. We grow a few in the hothouse. Canterbury bells, heliotrope, wolfsbane, dianthus.” She paused. “It feels a little weird to me that you should be penitent before Christmas.” Sister Agatha watched her even more closely.

  “Well,” Father Selwyn said. Sister Agatha could tell he was warming up to a teaching moment. There was nothing Father Selwyn liked better than to launch into a discussion of ecclesiology. “We are both penitent and joyful as we await …”

  “Isn’t wolfsbane poisonous?” Sister Agatha said, cutting Father Selwyn off.

  “Sure, if you eat it,” Millicent replied. “But lots of plants are poisonous if you eat them. By the way, do you know what will happen to the painting that Tiffany had entered in the show?”

  An interesting question, Sister Agatha thought. She watched Millicent carefully as Father Selwyn explained that the painting was missing. Millicent seemed noticeably surprised.

  “Did someone steal it?”

  “We don’t know,” Father Selwyn said. “Anyway, it’s gone.”

  “You liked Tiffany’s art?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Of course,” Millicent said, her voice suddenly a bit stronger. “She’s quite talented.”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “Me? Why do you ask?”

  “There is a fleck of gold paint on the sleeve of your sweater.” Very Sherlock Holmes of me. She experienced a tiny trace of smugness. Even a bit Agatha Christie.

  Humility was not Sister Agatha’s strong suit, and she took a quiet pride in the fact that she carried her literary hero’s name. Although her actual name had been inspired by Saint Agatha of Sicily, a reputable Christian martyr in her own right—Sister Agatha now found herself equally inspired by Agatha Christie, a saint of the sleuthing and writing world. She doubted the Vatican would ever recognize her, though.

  “What?” Millicent pulled at the sleeve of the slightly frayed brown cardigan that she had layered over a yellow turtleneck. “Oh. Yes, well, this used to be Tiffany’s sweater. She sometimes gave me her things when she was done with them. So, I suppose this was one of her painting sweaters.” She hesitated, as though she had more to say. But then she opened the door to leave. “I’ll put the wreaths in the sanctuary. And no more red and gold.” With that she slipped out and closed the door behind her.

  Father Selwyn handed Sister Agatha the photos from the printer. “Millicent is an old soul,” he said. “Shy, but very kind.”

  Sister Agatha spread the three photos across the table. She wished she could have taken a few more, but Constable Barnes was annoyed enough that she was even in the parish hall.

  She leaned back and looked carefully at the first one—a snapshot of the empty space on the wall above Tiffany’s head, the spot where her entry painting had hung. According to Treven, who was supplying the cheese and wine for the reception, the committee had finished setting up for the show. Every empty space on the walls held a painting—except one. The place directly above Tiffany’s slouched and dead body was noticeably empty. “So where is the painting?” she asked Father Selwyn.

  “Maybe she hadn’t hung it yet?”

  “I doubt it. The entire parish hall is set up with all the paintings that were entered. And if Tiffany was in the parish hall at ten PM last night and the Art Show judging was to start this morning, I really doubt that her painting wasn’t already on display.”

  “That could be true. Or … it just wasn’t hung up yet. Or she had taken it down for some reason.”

  “But if she had taken it down or not yet hung it, then it should be in the parish hall.” She made a note to check the Pryderi News website for a photo of the winning painting from last year.

  Father Selwyn leaned in to look at the other photos. Sister Agatha had taken a photo of the teacup lying on its side at Tiffany’s feet. Another photo was a straight shot of Tiffany slumped against the wall.

  “Well, if she did have a heart attack, she could have easily been drinking tea and dropped it as she fell. One could imagine that she grabbed her chest and fell backward against the wall and then slid down,” Sister Agatha said, checking her cocktail napkin of notes.

  “There’s no tea stain on the floor.”

  “Maybe she had just finished her tea and the cup was empty.” Sister Agatha thought for a moment. “Or someone cleaned it up.”

  “But if someone cleaned it up, why would they leave the cup on the floor?”

  “I wish I could dust the cup for fingerprints. Although it’s not like I have access to the national fingerprint base.” Again, she thought, the disadvantage to amateur sleuthing compared to professional detective work. Sometimes it was a bit of a cross to bear.

  “Did Constable Barnes take the teacup with him as evidence?” Father Selwyn asked.

  “No. Actually, I took it.” To Father Selwyn’s raised eyebrows, she defended herself. “He isn’t collecting evidence because, in his mind, Tiffany died of natural causes. You heard him. Not even an autopsy.”

  Father Selwyn looked thoughtful as he concentrated on the photo of Tiffany lying slouched against the wall. “You can imagine her standing there, admiring her painting—or pondering where it was, if it had already disappeared—and then drinking the tea. Empty cup. Gripped by pain. Falling to the floor.”

  “Except the body was half sitting up slouched against the wall. Under the empty spot where her painting was.”

  “True. You would think that if you had a heart attack, you would kind of crumple down in the spot you were in, not move to the wall, lean against it, and then slide down. On the other hand, maybe you would. Maybe it came on slowly.”

  “Do heart attacks come on slowly?” Sister Agatha regretted not asking Dr. Beese for more information. “I’m thinking that this was a murder.” She capped her Sharpie.

  “What? So you think someone killed Tiffany Reese and stole her painting but first made her a cup of tea?” He leaned back in his chair. “Seems a bit far-fetched.”

  “If I could just rule out a few things, it would help. And some suspects might surface in the meantime.” At the word suspect, Sister Agatha noticed that a look of slight hesitation crossed Father Selwyn’s face, the tiniest crinkling of his brow. She waited, wondering if he had something to say.

  Father Selwyn sat up and placed his empty teacup into the saucer. He stared at it for a moment, his lips in a thin line. “Well, don’t take this too seriously. But at the deacons’ meeting two nights ago I heard one of the women joke … or at least I thought it was a joke.” He stopped as though he couldn’t bring himself to say what he had heard. Sister Agatha waited.

  “Well, anyway, Vonda Bryson is vice-chair of the WI and chai
r of our funeral dinner committee at St. Anselm. And she said … in a joking voice, mind you … that she looked forward to the day she could do Tiffany’s funeral dinner.”

  Sister Agatha wrote “Vonda Bryson” on the remaining bit of cocktail napkin. “Anything else?” she asked, slipping the napkin between the pages of Murder on the Orient Express.

  “Well, I hate to admit it, but we all laughed when she said it. I mean … I didn’t exactly. Laugh, that is. But I certainly smiled.”

  “Does Vonda Bryson have a grudge against Tiffany?”

  “Not that I know of. But as vice-chair she had to work side-by-side with Tiffany and that could make anyone a little stressed.”

  They both turned as Bevan Penrose knocked on the door frame and stepped in. “I need to tell you something, Father,” he said quickly, looking from one to the other. “Perhaps you too, Sister. About last night.”

  Bevan picked up the empty plate from the coffee table. Sister Agatha noticed that he was forever cleaning up after Father Selwyn. The young administrative assistant was often seen following Father Selwyn around the church, gathering up dropped liturgical stoles, stray psalters, and the occasional fishing lure. The vicar was a zealous fly fisher.

  “What is it?” Sister Agatha said.

  “It’s just that the church wasn’t empty last night. Emeric was here practicing till late.” Emeric Scoville was St. Anselm’s organist. A music teacher at the village school, he often came by late to practice for the service on Sunday. Sister Agatha pulled the cocktail napkin out of the paperback and smoothed out the wrinkles. She uncapped her Sharpie. There was just enough room to write “ES” in the left-hand corner.

  “The Constable called me a minute ago. He wants a list of everyone who has a key to the church.”

  Sister Agatha looked up. Perhaps Constable Barnes was taking a leaf out of her book and doing a little detective work after all.

  “I told him most of the village have a key to Saint Anselm. Anyway, he said he talked with Emeric and Emeric told him that he left the church at eight o’clock, when he was done practicing the organ.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “No. I’m sure of it. I rode by on my bike.” Bevan picked up another used teacup, this time from on top of a stack of fly-fishing journals on Father Selwyn’s desk. “I feel kind of bad, because when the constable told me that, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to get Emeric in trouble. But he was definitely in the choir loft practicing the organ.”

  “What time did you go by on your bike?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Nine-thirty or so. And the place was dark as pitch downstairs, but there was a light in the choir-loft window and I could hear Emeric—Lift Up Your Heads, Ye Mighty Gates.”

  Sister Agatha nodded. Another absolutely favorite Advent hymn. “You’re sure it was Emeric?”

  “Who else would it be? And anyway, I saw that little scooter he rides parked at the side door. It was Emeric, all right.”

  “Did you see anything or anyone else?” Father Selwyn asked.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Would you say Emeric was playing loud or soft?” Sister Agatha folded the cocktail napkin and glanced around for an actual piece of paper. Father Selwyn handed her an order of worship from the previous Sunday’s service. She wrote in the margins. Choir loft. 9:30 PM. Organist or really good imposter?

  “Oh, he was belting it out. You know how he likes to hammer down on the keys.” Normally soft-spoken and reticent, when Emeric slipped on his organ shoes and took his place behind the console, he turned into a force to be reckoned with.

  “So if there was a commotion of any sort in the parish hall, he wouldn’t have heard it. Or at least might not have … if he was playing at the exact same time,” Sister Agatha said.

  “So why did he lie when the constable asked him if he was at the church that night?” Bevan asked.

  Father Selwyn leaned forward, cutting them both off. “I’ll talk with him. See what he says.”

  “One more thing. Lewis Colwyn called. His ‘Gardens-All-Year’ was supposed to meet tonight in the parlor. But he’s had to cancel. His wife’s ill.”

  “Gardening? In the parlor?” Father Selwyn said, his eyebrows raised.

  “They don’t really garden. They talk about gardening. And look at seed catalogs.”

  “Sister Matilda never misses. And I guess Lewis Colwyn is the Saint Francis of gardening,” Sister Agatha said.

  She was always a little puzzled by hardcore gardeners like Sister Matilda who spent the long winter evenings in the warming room and, while her sisters knitted, read, and watched Netflix, pored over seed catalogs. She even had her own gardening blog, titled I Come to the Garden. She and Lewis Colwyn were gardening soulmates and could often be found digging flower beds or weeding either at the church or on the abbey grounds. Lewis, who taught botany at the village school, was very involved at St. Anselm’s.

  Sister Agatha cast a sharp look at Father Selwyn as the door clicked shut behind Bevan. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Vonda Bryson makes a joke about Tiffany’s funeral. Emeric Scoville lies to the police.”

  “Makes you wonder what?”

  “Foul play. Murder.” She shook her head. She thought of Father Selwyn as her crime-solving sidekick. But sometimes his refusal to see murder even when it was staring him in the face was exasperating.

  “Why not wait and see what Constable Barnes comes up with?”

  “Waiting for Constable Barnes is like waiting for the Second Coming. I might stop by and talk with Vonda Bryson, though.”

  “I’m sure she was joking.”

  “I’ll be subtle. It’s not like I’m going to walk in and accuse her of murder.” Sister Agatha gathered the photos off the coffee table and slipped them into her book bag along with the ink-blotted napkin and paperback novel. She managed to pitch herself forward off the deep, squishy sofa and stood, straightening her red jumper. Sister Agatha had added leggings and fleece-lined hiking boots as well as the red jumper to her habit. The blue woolly hat replaced her usual veil and scapular.

  “You know you look a bit like that boy in A Christmas Story. The one whose mum gets him so bundled up he falls down in the snow and lies there like a turtle on its back.”

  “Do you think? Sister Callwen said I looked like one of Santa’s elves that got caught in a gale-force wind. I don’t know which is worse.”

  “A windblown elf in a habit. I like that.”

  “Anyway, I have my work cut out for me. I’ll start with Vonda. I have just enough time to slip over to her house before heading back to the abbey. It could have been an offhand remark meant in jest. But you know what Hercule Poirot would have said.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.” Father Selwyn took a sip of tea and looked longingly at the spot where the Welsh cake plate had been.

  “Sweep away all extraneous matter, and you will see the truth.”

  “Ah, yes. ‘And the truth shall make you free.’ ”

  She squashed the blue woolly hat down over her short gray hair. “Miss Marple? Murder at the Vicarage?”

  “No, Sister,” Father Selwyn said, shaking his head. “Jesus. The Gospel of John.”

  Chapter Two

  Walking up the flagstone path to the Bryson house, Sister Agatha felt a slight twinge of guilt for not being at the abbey where she should have been, working alongside her sisters. She quickly brushed off the guilt by reminding herself that a woman had possibly been murdered, and no one else seemed too interested in tracking down her killer. Except perhaps for Father Selwyn, who was generally on board with sleuthing or, as he put it, “making a few gentle inquiries.” Vonda probably hadn’t meant to announce that she looked forward to Tiffany’s funeral, but she clearly disliked Tiffany and had a lot of contact with her. If nothing else, interviewing Vonda Bryson was a place to start. So instead of heading straight back to the abbey, as she knew she probably should have done, she found herself standing on the front steps of the Bryson house.
<
br />   The large, comfortable two-story Victorian had cheerful curtains in the windows, shrubbery with colorful Christmas lights, and plastic toys in the front garden. Sister Agatha stepped over a skateboard on the front path to the door and smiled at a plastic doll buried to the waist in the frozen dirt of a flower bed. She had forgotten that Vonda had four boys in primary school. She paused for a moment before ringing the bell. She couldn’t just walk in and ask Vonda Bryson if she had killed Tiffany Reese. She would have to be subtle. Lead up to it somehow. What would Agatha Christie do? Miss Marple often used deception to get information out of a suspect. Appearing to be a housekeeper or a tourist, anything but a snooping, amateur detective.

  Sister Agatha pondered the idea of deception—a behavior certainly not recommended by the Book of Common Prayer, nor by Reverend Mother for that matter. On the other hand, desperate times call for desperate measures. Unable to settle on a good deception, she decided to leave room for the Holy Spirit and wait for inspiration to hit. She rang the doorbell.

  Vonda Bryson didn’t look anything like a vice-chair of the WI. Tall, in her late thirties with rumpled blond hair, she wore skinny jeans, an oversized man’s jumper, and trainers like the kind Sister Agatha wore to the gym. No lipstick or makeup. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she clutched a box of tissues to her chest. “Sister Agatha?” she said. “Come in. Please.”

  Sister Agatha took care to hide her surprise that Vonda knew her name and smiled as she stepped into the house. It turned out deception was unnecessary. At least, not anything that she had to create on her own. “It’s about the funeral dinner, isn’t it?” Vonda said immediately as she ushered Sister Agatha into a pleasant, cluttered living room. A thick brown carpet, sturdy furniture, a fire in the grate. On the fireplace mantelpiece was a row of birthday cards bearing cheerful words about turning forty years old. An Advent calendar, held down by a plastic dump truck, lay open on the coffee table. In the adjoining dining room, Sister Agatha could see a huge bouquet of yellow calla lilies in a vase on the table. Vonda quickly scooped up a towering pile of folded boy’s shirts and socks and dropped them into the largest hamper Sister Agatha had ever seen. “Here,” she said. “Please. Have a seat, Sister.”