“I also see the ring,” the chief said. “But I suspect that’s not what you mean. I’m sure in due time Horace can figure out if it’s a ruby or a garnet or just a piece of glass. For now, let him get on with processing the crime scene. I want to hear from you exactly what happened here tonight.”
The chief and I left the crypt and sat just outside on a weathered concrete bench. Horace bustled past us, heading for the parking lot. The chief fished out his notebook, flipped it open, and attached a little clip-on book light to it. He paused to pull out his cell phone and call Debbie Ann.
“I want the files on a cold case,” he said. “The Van der Lynden robbery case … late eighties, I think. Thanks.”
I didn’t exclaim “aha!” or anything—just sat quietly, trying to look like the sort of trustworthy and discreet person you’d want to discuss your cold cases with.
“Take it from the top.” His pen was poised over the notebook.
Maybe later.
“Okay,” I said aloud. “So this was one of my nights to fill in for Robyn until all this evening’s scheduled events were over and I could lock up. I got here at seven P.M.”
Horace hurried back with his forensic kit in hand and disappeared inside. While he was doing his examination of the crime scene, I filled the chief in on my evening. I’d texted Michael frequently while at the church with the sort of snarky comments that helped make my job bearable. The time stamps on my texts let me reconstruct a rough sequence of events. A text at 8:46 confirmed that by that time the Office Committee had finished folding, stuffing, and sealing the latest newsletter and the members had gone home, while the Altar Guild was long gone. The choir director had finished a powwow with the organist and a soloist at nine sharp, and the Food Ministry Committee had wrapped up at 9:14. The vestry didn’t adjourn its latest stormy meeting until 10:15, and the twelve-step group members didn’t leave until 10:25.
“Lord, what a hotbed of activity,” the chief said. “Of course, it’s much the same at New Life Baptist, I suppose, but I mostly hear about the choir.” Not surprising, since his wife, Minerva Burke, was the choir’s director.
“So from 10:25 until five or ten minutes before I called 911 I was going through the whole building,” I continued. “Locking doors. Turning off lights. Testing window latches. Checking that all the faucets were off. Doing a few bits of housekeeping that couldn’t wait, like unstopping a toilet in the downstairs women’s bathroom and wiping up spilled sugar in the kitchen. Making sure no one was lingering anywhere.”
“Was the parking lot empty?”
“Except for the church minivan, which usually lives here,” I said.
“And your car.”
“No, Mother gave me a ride in,” I said. “I was going to drive the van home so I could take it in for service in the morning. So far Osgood Shiffley has been able to keep the old wreck running.”
“Interesting.” The chief scribbled.
“You mean because anyone familiar with how things work here at Trinity would assume everyone had gone home?”
“Unless you had a lot of lights on.”
“It’s my job to turn lights off, not go around leaving them on. The church wasn’t completely dark, but there would only have been a couple of lights on. Mainly Robyn’s office and wherever I was in my rounds. I spent rather a long time downstairs unstopping that toilet and then cleaning up after myself.”
“How long?”
I pondered. The chief waited patiently with his pencil poised over his notebook.
“At least half an hour,” I said. “The plunger didn’t work, so I had to use the snake, and of course there was the cleanup. And there’s no window in the bathroom, so I bet the church looked deserted.”
The chief nodded and scribbled some more.
“There’s also the question of how Mr. Hagley got here, if his car wasn’t in the parking lot,” the chief said.
“That’s right,” I said. “He usually drove himself. He has a dark blue sedan.”
“We’ve already put out a BOLO on it. Go on—you were checking the whole church.”
“Anyway I had just gotten back to Robyn’s office to collect Nimitz when I heard a pounding noise.”
“Nimitz?” the chief looked puzzled.
“Larry Baker’s toucan,” I explained. “Robyn is watching the bird while Larry’s deployed overseas. At least she was until they put her on bed rest. I was going to take the wretched bird home where he’d be easier to manage. But when I heard the noise I went to look out a back window.”
“And determined that the noise was coming from the crypt,” the chief said.
“Columbarium, technically,” I said. “Not that most of us at Trinity don’t call it the crypt, but we try not to in front of Robyn or Mother or the half-dozen sticklers who get touchy about it.”
“Looks like a crypt to me—but thanks for the warning.” The chief stood and walked over to peer through the doorway. “Did you check the other room?” he asked.
“Other room?”
“Behind the door in the far wall.”
“It’s a fake,” I said—and inside I could hear Horace saying the same thing.
“They were thinking long-range when they built it,” I added. “Actually, Gothic George wanted the crypt to be three or four times as big, but a fiscally prudent vestry overruled him.”
“Gothic George?”
“The Reverend George Burwell Nelson Page,” I said. “Rector of Trinity at the time the crypt was built. Known as Gothic George for his taste in architecture—never met a gargoyle he didn’t like. Or so the story goes—it was all before my time.”
“And mine as well. How long ago was the cr—the columbarium built?”
“In the late forties,” I said. “Space in the graveyard was getting tight, and Gothic George thought cremation was going to be the answer. Turns out he wasn’t wrong—just a few decades ahead of his time. It’s still only about two-thirds full, although I suspect most of the vacant niches have been sold. And you can blame him for its crypt-like appearance. He really wanted to put it underneath the church—beneath the existing basement—but when the vestry saw the cost estimates they put their collective feet down.”
Just then my phone rang. I glanced at it and grimaced.
“It’s Robyn,” I said. “I don’t know whether she’s heard the news already or whether she’s just worried because I haven’t texted her to let her know I’ve gotten home safely. I should answer it.”
The chief nodded, and I pressed the button to answer.
“Hey, Robyn,” I said. “Can you hang on a sec?” I pressed the mute button and looked back at the chief. “I think we should tell her,” I said. “You know how gossip gets around in Caerphilly, and I think it’s better if she hears the news from me. Or you, if you prefer.”
He thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Tell her,” he said. “We’ll need her help unraveling this. Though I can probably wait until morning to talk to her at any length.”
I unmuted my phone and put it on speaker.
“Meg? Is something wrong?”
“You’re still lying down, right?”
“Of course I’m lying down. Don’t nag me; it’s not good for my blood pressure. What’s happening down there?”
“It’s Mr. Hagley.”
“Oh, dear. What’s he up to now?”
“He’s not up to anything,” I said. “He’s dead.”
A pause
“Oh, dear,” Robyn said. “I feel so guilty.”
“Guilty?” I echoed.
“I have had a great many uncharitable thoughts about him lately,” she said. “If only I’d known he was not long for this world.”
“The fact that he’s dead doesn’t mean he hasn’t been a complete jerk lately,” I said.
“Still, I hope he didn’t suffer too much,” Robyn said. “How did he die? Was it his heart?”
“He was murdered,” I said. “I found his body in the columbarium. Someone hit him over the head with a crowbar.”
“A crowbar?” Her normally low, calm voice rose to a squeak.
“Calm down,” I said. “Is there someone there with you?”
“Yes, Matt’s here. Oh, Meg—a crowbar?”
“Yes.” I decided if her husband was there, maybe it was the best time to break the rest of the bad news. “A crowbar with which someone also pried the front of Mrs. Hagley’s niche, and knocked her urn over.”
“That wretched man! He couldn’t be bothered to wait for the paperwork!”
“Paperwork?” I was relieved that annoyance at Mr. Hagley seemed to be displacing some of her distress.
The chief looked surprised.
“Mr. Hagley has been badgering me for weeks now about taking his wife’s ashes home. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve explained the proper procedure to him. It’s not as if I can just walk out to the crypt, pop the niche open, and hand him her urn. The last time he called me, he lost his temper and said if I didn’t give him his wife back he’d go out and fetch her himself. But I never thought he was serious. And why am I getting so worked up about that when the poor man’s dead now?”
“Calm down,” I said. “Talk it over with Matt, and tell him to bring you some of that herbal tea Rose Noire recommends.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m just sad that the poor misguided man has come to such a sorry end. I assume someone attacked him while he was trying to reclaim poor Dolores. You’ve called the police, I hope.”
“Chief Burke is sitting with me now.”
The chief pointed at the phone and held out his hand.
“And I think he’d like to talk to you.”