further out in the county. Two last-name Matthews. One Mathews with one ‘t.’ I’ll check on them all this afternoon.”
“It’s probably not them, but check anyway,” I said and picked up the note, holding it up to look at it. “It was a laser printer I think. A common font. Maybe New York or something in that family.”
Nancy nodded. “But what about the second two lines?”
O hark the herald angels sing;
The boy’s descent which lifted up the world.
“It’s a hymn, isn’t it?”
“Sort of. The first line is almost ‘Hark the herald angels sing,’ but not quite.”
“Is it in our hymnal?” Nancy asked.
“Yeah, in the Christmas section.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Dave, breaking in, “why someone would leave you some sort of cryptic note. Why not just tell you? And why all the mystery?”
I put the note back on the table and picked up a cruller, dunking it into my coffee before downing half the pastry in one majestic munch. I did however take time to swallow. I’m not a total Neanderthal.
“Well, we have a couple of choices. It could be that the murderer thinks he’s so much smarter than us that he wants to test our intellects by leaving obtuse clues.”
Dave was staying with me, doughnut for doughnut. “You think that’s it?”
“Nope. I think someone saw the murder or at least knows who did it. They can’t or don’t want to tell us directly. I don’t know why yet.”
Nancy interrupted, “So you think it’s actually a clue to the murderer?”
“I do. Mostly because it’s all we have right now. And someone had to know about the killing besides the murderer. It’s very rare that there’s only one person who’s involved. Yep,” I said, polishing off the other half of the cruller and washing it down with a gulp of coffee, “it’s a puzzle all right.”
• • •
That afternoon, Dave and I went over to Willie Boyd’s apartment. The landlord was waiting at the door for us.
“Can I move his stuff outta there?”
“Let us look around. We’ll let you know.”
Willie’s apartment consisted of one sixteen-by-sixteen room and a small bathroom. His furniture included a single bed, pushed against the wall, a kitchen table of sorts with one chair, and an old television set with rabbit ears sitting on a couple of concrete blocks. There was a beat-up microwave on the table and an old fabric-covered extension cord that had to be close to forty years old connecting it to an outlet. The kitchen, what there was of it, consisted of a sink and a small refrigerator, vintage early 60’s. The bed had no sheets or blankets, but rather was covered with an old sleeping bag that had been unzipped, opened up and spread across the mattress. The one pillow had no case and was covered in grease stains, presumably from Willie’s unwashed hair. There was a stack of newspapers piled to the side of the bed, the most recent from August—almost three months ago. Almost all of them were unread judging from their unopened condition.
“Doesn’ook like there’s anything here, boss,” said Dave. “Hardly any clothes, no personal effects.”
“Hmmm.” I was looking toward the counter in the kitchenette where there were two bottles of unopened wine. I went over, picked them up and looked at the labels. Quinta do Crasto and Quinta do Valle do Dora Maria , both 1999 vintages from Portugal.
“Now where do you suppose Willie would have gotten these?” I muttered to no one in particular.
Dave scratched his head.
“Well there haven’t been any reports of any wine thefts lately. Maybe he bought them.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll bet we find that these go for about twenty bucks a bottle. That’s more than Willie would spend on two week’s worth of hooch.”
We checked the rest of Willie’s room and, finding nothing we considered case-breaking, gave the landlord permission to clean it out. Of course, the wine went with us.
Chapter 8
Dear Choir:
I think that it is
“It’s probably not them, but check anyway,” I said and picked up the note, holding it up to look at it. “It was a laser printer I think. A common font. Maybe New York or something in that family.”
Nancy nodded. “But what about the second two lines?”
O hark the herald angels sing;
The boy’s descent which lifted up the world.
“It’s a hymn, isn’t it?”
“Sort of. The first line is almost ‘Hark the herald angels sing,’ but not quite.”
“Is it in our hymnal?” Nancy asked.
“Yeah, in the Christmas section.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Dave, breaking in, “why someone would leave you some sort of cryptic note. Why not just tell you? And why all the mystery?”
I put the note back on the table and picked up a cruller, dunking it into my coffee before downing half the pastry in one majestic munch. I did however take time to swallow. I’m not a total Neanderthal.
“Well, we have a couple of choices. It could be that the murderer thinks he’s so much smarter than us that he wants to test our intellects by leaving obtuse clues.”
Dave was staying with me, doughnut for doughnut. “You think that’s it?”
“Nope. I think someone saw the murder or at least knows who did it. They can’t or don’t want to tell us directly. I don’t know why yet.”
Nancy interrupted, “So you think it’s actually a clue to the murderer?”
“I do. Mostly because it’s all we have right now. And someone had to know about the killing besides the murderer. It’s very rare that there’s only one person who’s involved. Yep,” I said, polishing off the other half of the cruller and washing it down with a gulp of coffee, “it’s a puzzle all right.”
• • •
That afternoon, Dave and I went over to Willie Boyd’s apartment. The landlord was waiting at the door for us.
“Can I move his stuff outta there?”
“Let us look around. We’ll let you know.”
Willie’s apartment consisted of one sixteen-by-sixteen room and a small bathroom. His furniture included a single bed, pushed against the wall, a kitchen table of sorts with one chair, and an old television set with rabbit ears sitting on a couple of concrete blocks. There was a beat-up microwave on the table and an old fabric-covered extension cord that had to be close to forty years old connecting it to an outlet. The kitchen, what there was of it, consisted of a sink and a small refrigerator, vintage early 60’s. The bed had no sheets or blankets, but rather was covered with an old sleeping bag that had been unzipped, opened up and spread across the mattress. The one pillow had no case and was covered in grease stains, presumably from Willie’s unwashed hair. There was a stack of newspapers piled to the side of the bed, the most recent from August—almost three months ago. Almost all of them were unread judging from their unopened condition.
“Doesn’ook like there’s anything here, boss,” said Dave. “Hardly any clothes, no personal effects.”
“Hmmm.” I was looking toward the counter in the kitchenette where there were two bottles of unopened wine. I went over, picked them up and looked at the labels. Quinta do Crasto and Quinta do Valle do Dora Maria , both 1999 vintages from Portugal.
“Now where do you suppose Willie would have gotten these?” I muttered to no one in particular.
Dave scratched his head.
“Well there haven’t been any reports of any wine thefts lately. Maybe he bought them.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll bet we find that these go for about twenty bucks a bottle. That’s more than Willie would spend on two week’s worth of hooch.”
We checked the rest of Willie’s room and, finding nothing we considered case-breaking, gave the landlord permission to clean it out. Of course, the wine went with us.
Chapter 8
Dear Choir:
I think that it is
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