The Choir Loft Murders: A Beryl's Cove Mystery

By Janet McCanless

They are back, that delightful bunch of folks from coastal North Carolina, in this, the last of the series of Beryls Cove mysteries.

Steve and Suzanne Thomas are in their mountain retreat, when someone is killing the choir master and choir members of the local congregational church of Ridgeville. Because the first murder occurred in the Nest O Rest Lodge, just up the path from the Thomas home, naturally, our heroes are going to be involved. Steve's best friend, from Navy days is visiting his sisters lodge, and is called upon to help with the investigation, and add his own special insights and zaniness to the proceedings.

When two more murder victims show up, the plot thickens, with a twist that sends the town reeling. Gregg and Steve need all the help they can get.

When the hometown gang from the Cove show up for the 4th of July festivities, more adventure ensues when they end up stranded late at night on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Things are never quite settled, even when our two amateur sleuths return home, there is unfinished business and some shady dealings afoot!

Come along for this final, raucous adventure with the two best amateur detectives the old North State ever saw. Laugh and cry along with the citizens of Beryls Cove, and of course, Elvis and that donut munching bulldog, Dawg are here to add their own special touch to the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477292082

Janet McCanless

Janet (Jan) McCanless is a retired school teacher, and has been a freelance writer and columnist for over 20 years. Her first compilation of writings won the Mother Vine Award for best short stories of 2013, and she has recaptured that magic in this volume of collected stories and humorous writings that covers a 10 year period, Tire Patch Cookies are Good for the Soul. She has written a 6 volume mystery series of Beryl's Cove books, and is presently working on a new series, with her first volume due in early 2014. Considered one of the premier Southern Humorists, she resides in rural North Carolina with her husband of 48 years, and is the mother of 3, and grandmother of 9. Don't hold that against her though, and come along for an enjoyable visit with Jan, her assorted relatives and life experiences.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by Janet McCanless. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/10/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9209-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9208-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921951

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue I

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Two

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Dedication

To John, Laura, and Charlene

Authors note

The Choir Loft Murders is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons alive or dead is unintentional, except where granted.

PROLOGUE I

Spring rains in North Carolina can be awesome, particularly in the mountains. What was coming down now was drenching; the ground through the forests of the Blue Ridge was soggy, bogs and swamp conditions abounded throughout the area, as rain teemed through the trees and made the creeks overflow their banks. Early spring blossoms of Trillium and Jack in the Pulpit were beaten down to the ground, and steam rose off the ground as temperatures rose throughout the day.

The man walking on the sometimes path was disheveled and wet clear to his skin. A two day growth of beard clung to his face, which now dripped perspiration as he maneuvered over fallen limbs and tried to keep his footing on the soggy, wet leaves. Breathing heavily, he stopped every so often to rest, eyes darting in all directions, always watching for any signs of life in the forest.

He knew he was close to his prey now, he could hear an occasional car or truck as it passed above him on the Blue Ridge Parkway. He would stop, listen, and when he was sure it was clear once again, he would step out, away from the shelter of vines or a tree, and continue on.

The man would occasionally see a small cabin, or house, not yet occupied by it’s summer residents, and after peering inside to make sure it was abandoned, he would travel on. He was close now, slowing, he waited for his breathing to return to normal, and brushing himself off as best he could, he ran a hand through his hair, and stepped out of the woods, onto the path leading up to the lodge, He hoped he was on time, he hoped his prey was there, waiting, anticipating, wondering if an assailant is out there intending to carry out revenge.

Walking up the length of the path, the man saw that there was a slight break in the clouds. After two days of unrelenting rain, clear skies would give him the edge he needed to carry out his plan. Looking skyward, he squinted into what should have been the sun, only to see more rolling, black clouds. But, there was a definite thinning of the clouds over to the west, towards Tennessee, and hopefully, by mid afternoon, the rain would stop. The man was giddy in anticipation as he approached the back entrance of the lodge. His luck held, there was no one about, and peering over some shrubbery into the great room of the lodge, he saw several people sitting about the room. There was a fire in the fireplace, and one man, the man he was looking for, sat in a corner by himself reading a newspaper. No one was around him, and the few people engaged in conversation did not seem to even notice the lone guest in the corner.

Perfect, the man thought to himself, as smiling, he edged his way over to where he knew the kitchen to be. Slowly, cautiously, he checked to make sure he was not spotted, and he stepped up to the back door, carefully turned the knob and looked inside. Empty, great. He tip toed over to the cart holding all the ingredients for a tasty morning tea, and spied the bagel on one of the dessert plates. Stealthily he removed the small, plastic baggie from his pocket, opened it, scattered the powder onto the bagel, which he then smoothed with his finger. Satisfied that all the powder had been rubbed into the bagel, he put the empty baggie back inside his trouser pocket and quietly slipped back outside, into the rain.

Barely drizzling now, the man hurriedly retraced his steps, back into the thick forest and continued on his way. In the distance, he heard a dog barking, but paid no intention and began to run once more, on his way out of the maze of trees.

PART ONE

RIDGEVILLE

CHAPTER ONE

Dawg had been brought in from the rain and Steve was attempting to dry him off in the kitchen. The small stump of a tail wiggled and the animal kept trying to lick Steve’s face as he was rubbed down with one of Suzanne’s best towels. Drying one paw at a time, at last he was done, and with a light swat to his rump, the bulldog sauntered off to the great room and the big fire his masters had going on this chilly Morning.

Elvis was already stretched out on a large hooked rug, and barely acknowledged Dawg when he harrumphed and sank to the floor. Soon, both pets were sound asleep, and too soon Suzanne caught Steve as he was about to toss her good towel into the hamper she kept beside the washer.

Steve Thomas, have you been using one of our good towels on that bulldog again? Crossing the room to her husband, she tousled his hair while removing the towel from his grasp. How many times do you have to be told, not my good towels? I keep some on the bottom shelf in here, she opened the bottom cabinet door so he could see the pile of assorted sheets and towels she kept just for the animals. These are what you use, not one of these white, monogrammed ones. Men, honestly!

Steve followed her out to the kitchen, and grabbing a couple mugs, he poured them each a cup of coffee, which they took into the great room.

Sorry darling, that the first few days in our summer retreat have been so wet, I know you’re anxious to get out in the yard and do some planting. Steve remarked, always with a smile for his adoring wife of 10 years now.

Draining her cup and placing it on the table in front of her, she patted him on the knee. S’ok, Steve, at least the furniture and appliances have come, and it’s given me an opportunity to get the house in order. Besides, look, she nodded towards the French doors that opened onto the patio, sun’s coming out, and I can get out this afternoon, and you, my dear, can put together that grill you bought. We’ve got to be ready for the 4-th, you know the whole gang from the Cove are coming up for our cookout.

Reaching over and patting Dawg on his big head, he rolled his eyes, in a feeble attempt to appear put upon by a wife he was crazy about. Ok, no rest for the weary, I guess.

The Blue Ridge Parkway stretched out in back of the Thomas’s summer house, and the state of North Carolina had recently paved the access road that ran from their front door up to the Parkway. In the front of their cottage that nestled cozily at 209 Fernway Drive, was a path that led for almost a half of a mile directly up to the patio of the Nest O Rest Inn, a charming lodge owned and operated by Jean and Roscoe Cline. Jean was the sister of Gregg Powell, Steve’s best friend from Navy days. The Clines and the Thomas’s spend a great deal of time together, now that they are summertime neighbors, with the Powell’s coming up as often as they are able from their home in Wisconsin.

On this day, as the rain finally cleared and the sun came out, Jean was sweeping off the patio, and her guests were beginning to mingle, some leaving for a hike through the woods, others taking off for the town of Ridgeville, and its numerous antique stores, others, simply milling about on the front porch or the back patio. It was Jeans habit to serve a tea break around 10 every morning, with high tea served at 4-PM. Her customers loved it, and the ones who stuck around to partake of the homemade goodies, were well rewarded by Jeans culinary skills.

Following up her cleaning, she returned to the kitchen and got the teacups out, arranged everything on the cart in front of her, and rolled it into the great room. Her guests, the Franklins, newlyweds from Raleigh, the Goodman’s, from Knoxville, Tennessee, and a Susan Aspen, a writer friend of Jeans, who came up from Greenville, South Carolina several times each season, to get atmosphere she says. One other guest was in the lodge this day, a man named John Gibson, who was the choir master at the local Ridgeville Congregational church. A local man of rigid habits, he came every day to Nest O Rest for the quiet and serene atmosphere, to read the local paper he was too frugal to buy for himself, and to partake of Jeans homemade pastries. He was a local man, and a regular visitor to the lodge. Seeing Jean roll her pastry cart into the room, he folded his newspaper and sauntered over to the table where she was placing the tea cups and desserts. Every morning, he’d take the bagel, never varying in his choice, and his tea of preference was Earl Grey. He took bagel and tea back to his corner chair and tucking a napkin under his chin, he spread the newspaper on the table beside him, stirred two lumps of sugar into his tea and cut the bagel in half. A creature of habits, he never chose any cream cheese or some of Jeans wonderful jams for it, he preferred his bagel plain, and his tea, sweet. Casually sipping his tea, he continued to read the paper, seemingly deep in concentration on one of the articles in it.

Jean approached John Gibson, how’s the bagel this morning John? She stood before him smiling and offering him a refill on his tea as she did so.

Smiling back at his hostess, Gibson extended his cup for a refill. Thanks, Jean, actually, I’m rather engrossed in this article about the upcoming arts festival for downtown, I haven’t tasted the bagel yet, but I know it’s delicious. He held up one finger to indicate he’d be tasting it immediately, and he took the bagel and bi ting into it, smiled at his hostess and nodded appreciatively.

Jean turned to her other guests and made her rounds across the room. The fire was dying out and Roscoe decided to let it go out, seeing as how the weather had cleared, and the air warmed up. He walked across the room to open the front door to the fresh air and sunshine, and was distracted by a gurgling sound coming from the direction of the corner chair, and Mr. Gibson, turning just in time to see John clutch his throat, gurgle, and fall over onto the floor.

Mrs. Franklin screamed, Mrs. Goodman looked away, Susan Aspen was writing furiously, and poor Roscoe stood staring over the lifeless body of John Gibson, local choirmaster of the congregational church of Ridgeville.

Someone call 911 Jean hollered as she raced toward the back door, out the kitchen she ran, and down the path to the Thomas house. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew if there had been a crime committed, she wanted the help of Steve and Suzanne Thomas, and the knowledge of crime solving that they brought to situations.

CHAPTER TWO

Running as fast as he could, Steve arrived at the Nest O Rest Lodge before the police, but he could hear the sirens in the distance, and knew they would be there soon.

He raced into the great room to find Roscoe bent over the figure of a man lying on the floor. Several other guests ware there at the same time, the women with heads turned away, the men, curiously staring at the prone victim.

What happened? He asked Roscoe. Jean was nearly hysterical when she banged on our front door. Checking the man for a pulse and breathing, Steve was careful not to touch the body otherwise, as the police car screeched to a stop just outside the front steps.

Roscoe was bereft, simply shaking his head and saying that John was alive one minute, and dead the next. He is dead? He asked.

Steve nodded yes, as one of Ridgeville’s finest all but pushed him aside in order to view the body. OK, somebody tell me what happened here.

It was impossible to understand any of them. The scene was complete chaos, and adding to the confusion, Suzanne had just raced into the room, breathless, and still with her dust cloth in her hand. She gave Steve and the Clines a questioning look, then held out her hand for the officer.

Officer, I’m Suzanne Thomas, a neighbor, and this is my husband Steve, said while putting her hand on Steve’s shoulder.