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Choir Loft Murder

By Karen Randau

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Walking hand-in-hand toward the sanctuary with her fiancé, Frankie silently practiced the alto part for the July 4th production their Rawlins, Wyoming church was putting on. Quint’s jaw-length, sandy hair fluttered the way Frankie liked when he quick-stepped ahead of her to grab the handle. The sight caused her to forget all about harmonies.

With a sweeping gesture, he swung the door open and allowed his lips to graze her cheek. “My lady.” He laughed as he placed a hand on her lower back and nudged her inside.

Her heart was so full she thought it might burst when she kissed the sexy stubble on his chin. As she slid past him, she glanced toward the opposite end of the sanctuary and stopped in her tracks. “Whoa.” She stepped aside so Quint could come up beside her.

One of the first sopranos stood in the far corner of the choir loft, on the stage behind the pulpit. Facing the wall, she held a cell phone to her ear, her free arm swinging wildly. “I’m telling you for the last time to leave me alone! If you ever bother me again—” She turned around when she heard them, and her dark hair spilled across her face. She angrily gestured for them to leave.

Frankie felt sorry for whoever was getting a piece of Sarah’s mind; it wasn’t a pretty sight. The robust thirty-five-year-old woman’s face was so red it made the scar on her cheek prominent despite layers of makeup. Frankie wasn’t sure Sarah’s cell phone would stand up to the woman’s white-knuckle grip or that her teeth wouldn’t shatter under the grinding she was subjecting them to.

Sarah pointed at the door with such fury that Quint took Frankie’s hand and backed out of the building.

“That is one hot-tempered woman.” Quint shook his head and gave a harrumph.

As always, his Texas drawl triggered a warm feeling in Frankie. Given what they’d just witnessed, she tried not to smile as she basked in the pleasure of his deep voice.

As Frankie fiddled with the hem of the camp shirt she wore over her tank top, Quint whispered, “I’m not surprised her husband left her.” He looked both ways and behind him before leaning down to give Frankie a proper good-bye kiss.

She smiled up at him while brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. “Everyone knows we’re engaged. Even pastors are allowed to kiss the people they’re about to marry.”

“Habit, I guess. My mom frowned on public displays of affection. Texas thing. Anyway, my red-headed, blue-eyed beauty, I’ll be in my office when you’re done.” He looked back at the door. “Good luck in there.” He waved and headed toward the side entrance.

“I’ll just stand here until reinforcements arrive.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered loudly, “I love you.”

He blew her a kiss before disappearing around the corner.

“You two are so cute.” Frankie was startled as Mrs. Williams approached behind her. “I’m so glad I introduced you at the harvest dance last fall.”

Frankie tamped down the temptation to remind Mrs. Williams that she met Quint when he bought the ranch next to hers thirty miles outside of town. She’d already done it twice. She was about to thank Mrs. Williams for calling them a cute couple when the sanctuary door crashed open.

Sarah ran out with her fists tight. “Where is he?”

“Who, dear?” Mrs. Williams held one hand to her chest and fanned her face with the other. Frankie knew Mrs. Williams considered Sarah competition for the role she’d previously held — the only choir member able to hit the high notes. She had owned that spot for decades and didn’t hesitate to show how much Sarah annoyed her.

“Quint!” Sarah glared at Frankie, then turned to search the parking lot.

“It’s Pastor Quint, dear.” Sarcasm dripped from Mrs. Williams’s voice, making her sound every one of her sixty-five years. Her eyes sparkled as she curled her lips into a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Where is he?” Sarah faced Frankie, standing too close for comfort.

“He’ll be around after practice.” Frankie hoped the woman would calm down after showing off her operatic voice for the next hour. She sensed people were beginning to gather behind her and wished someone would come to her rescue.

Sarah stepped toward Quint’s shiny new blue pickup, but the choir director stopped her when he pushed to the front of the crowd, his black-rimmed glasses sliding down his sweaty nose. “Why are we standing in the summer sun?” He nudged the glasses back, ran a hand through what hair he had left, and pushed a breath through his teeth. “Anyone not in their chair in the next two minutes will not be in the July 4th production. We only have two weeks left to prepare.”
Sarah huffed out her frustration at not finding Quint, but she followed the other singers inside.

The group went through a few exercises to warm up their vocal cords before practicing two hymns for the Sunday service.

When they got to the Star-Spangled Banner, the director said, “This song is written in the key of C, but a lot of people sing it in B flat to lower the highest note.” He smiled at Sarah, who nodded politely. “With Sarah here, I believe we can do it in C. Sarah, you take the high G, and Mrs. Williams, you slide on down to second soprano at that point.”

Mrs. Williams tsked. “Fine.” She turned a tight-lipped smile toward Sarah.

Someone cracked open the side door usually used by the choir. Frankie caught a brief glimpse of something shiny, but she was too preoccupied to pay attention. Instead, she watched Sarah with awe while the music reached a crescendo. Sarah flawlessly executed the high note. Her voice was beautiful, her eyes closed, and her face so relaxed it revealed a woman in her happy place.

Then her voice went flat before stopping altogether, blood gushing around a dart in her neck and spraying Mrs. Williams. Sarah landed with a thud at Mrs. Williams’s feet, gasping for breath, staring at the ceiling.

When the dart whooshed out from where it was lodged in Sarah’s neck, Frankie took off her camp shirt and rushed to Sarah to apply pressure to the wound. “Hang in there, Sarah. We’ll get an ambulance here as fast as we can.” She looked around. “Who’s calling 9-1-1?”

The choir director raised his hand and pointed at his phone.

Blood was soaking the shirt too fast. When all signs of life left Sarah’s eyes, Frankie left the shirt in place and stood. She pulled a cleansing wipe from the shelf at the back of the pulpit to clean her hands.

Mrs. Williams bawled in the high C range, and chaos broke out in the choir loft. The lead bass singer—who was also the county sheriff—checked Sarah’s pulse, under the spot where the dart had landed. “Someone get something to cover her.”

A man ran down the steps used by the choir to go behind the stage, and Frankie presumed he would find something that could be used and inform Quint of what happened. At the same time, Mrs. Williams ran toward the restroom in hopes of cleaning herself up.

Frankie finally tore her attention away from the blood spatter when she heard the sheriff using his phone while the choir director shepherded everyone to the back pews to wait for the police. It seemed surreal to watch as Sarah was covered with a tablecloth.

Frankie rushed to the restroom to finish rinsing the blood off her hands while Mrs. Williams continued bawling as she washed away as much blood as possible. “Take your time,” Frankie said. “I have to hurry back to the sanctuary to see what’s happening.”

Mrs. Williams nodded as Frankie darted away, emerging fifteen minutes later with the blood washed from her face, hands, and arms. Still shaking, she eased into the pew to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Frankie, joining the rest of the group silently staring at their shoes.

Frankie figured it was best to let Mrs. Williams discover on her own the reddish-brown splotches in her white hair rather than subject the group to another volley of high-pitched wails. The daisy-tipped pin at the top of the woman’s French twist was covered in blood. Her clothes and shoes were beyond saving.

As Quint escorted three Rawlins police officers into the sanctuary, Mrs. Williams grasped Frankie’s hand and wouldn’t let go. The choir was so quiet that Frankie could hear every word the officers and Quint exchanged.

Huddled in a tight circle at the bottom of the stage, one pointed to different areas of the room as he spoke. When they scattered, the youngest officer began snapping photos of the body and the surroundings. Quint and one of the other officers sat in a pew at the far back corner of the sanctuary.

Kirk — the third officer, who had recently befriended Quint and who Frankie had known since childhood — turned toward the choir to address them. He paused to wave at the arriving medical examiner and his young assistant.

Everyone watched the ME — a man in his late fifties — kneel beside Sarah’s body and reach under the covering to feel her neck and examine the dart. The ME declared to his assistant, “A dart penetrated the victim’s carotid artery.” There was no emotion in his voice.

“That takes skill,” said the assistant with awe.

“May I have your attention?” Kirk waited until everyone turned their eyes toward him. “Thank you. I understand how disturbing this must be for each of you, but we need to get statements from everyone separately. The pastor has agreed to let you all wait together in a separate room. I’ll accompany each person from there to a conference room. When we finish, you are free to go home, though we may contact you later for more information.”

He signaled to the younger officer to herd them to the Sunday school room. When everyone had taken a seat, he stood in front of the door with his arms across his chest while Kirk moved toward Mrs. Williams.

Mrs. Williams whimpered and clamped onto Frankie’s hand. “I can’t go in there and be interrogated by myself.”

Kirk knelt next to Mrs. Williams. “Ma’am, this isn’t meant to scare you. We want to make sure each person tells their own story rather than be influenced by another person.”

“No!” She threw her arms around Frankie’s neck, prompting Kirk to run a hand across his buzz cut and look to Frankie in a plea for help.

Rather than push the already-traumatized Mrs. Williams to the breaking point, Frankie suggested she and Mrs. Williams give their statements together. Kirk seemed relieved as he nodded.

“Why don’t you two go first,” he said.

Mrs. Williams sucked in a deep breath and stood, pulling Frankie with her. “This is kind of you, considering what my son—”

“Don’t. That’s in the past.”

Inside the conference room, the two women sat on one side of the shiny, rectangular table. Kirk sat opposite them and slid a box of tissues toward Mrs. Williams. Frankie tried to inch away, but the older woman wanted none of that. She kept a firm grip on Frankie’s arm.

“It was so awful.” Mrs. Williams hiccupped before continuing. “I’ll never forget her screech, or the smell of metal, or the blood drenching me.” Her chin quivered. “I need a shower.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kirk again looked to Frankie for help.

She cupped her hands over Mrs. Williams’s hands. “I’ll go to your house with you when we’re finished and stay with you until Quint comes to get me.”

“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Williams pulled out a tissue and dabbed her swollen eyes.

“Frankie, could you tell me what you saw?” Kirk had regained his professionalism as he poised a pen over a form.

She described what happened with Mrs. Williams occasionally inserting her view. Mostly, Mrs. Williams merely nodded and sucked in shuddering breaths while Frankie spoke. When they finished, Frankie suggested Mrs. Williams wait in her car while she let Quint know where to find her once he was finished with the officers.

“Bless you, dear. I’ll do that.” She walked away with slumped shoulders and a bowed head.

The scene she came upon in the sanctuary made Frankie sink into the nearest pew, her insides crumbling. Her fiancé was in handcuffs, and an officer was reading him his rights.

Quint saw her and spoke to the officer, who nodded and gestured to Frankie to join them.

“Take my truck and phone to your place, and we’ll get this misunderstanding sorted out later.”

Frankie took the keys and phone from the deputy and watched while he walked Quint to the cruiser, helping him into the back. She sprinted to the red Cadillac where Mrs. Williams sat in the passenger seat watching the scene, her mouth hanging open. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m not letting Quint get blamed for a crime he would never commit. You’ll have to drive your car. I’ll follow you in Quint’s truck and stay with you until you’re feeling better.” She would call the only attorney she knew on the way there.

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