ChoirMaster Read online

  Contents

  Novels by Michael Craft

  Introduction

  Critical acclaim

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Title page

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  PART TWO

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART THREE

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  About the author

  Novels by Michael Craft

  Rehearsing

  Flight Dreams

  Eye Contact

  Body Language

  Name Games

  Boy Toy

  Desert Autumn

  Hot Spot

  Desert Winter

  Desert Spring

  Bitch Slap

  Desert Summer

  The MacGuffin

  Inside Dumont

  FlabberGassed

  ChoirMaster

  www.michaelcraft.com

  Introduction

  ChoirMaster

  Mister Puss Mystery #2 by Michael Craft

  A marriage of convenience. A crisis of faith. A talking cat.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  In idyllic little Dumont, Wisconsin, the historic but financially troubled St. Alban’s Episcopal Church has a new rector who plans to turn things around, a woman named Joyce Hibbard. Local architect Marson Miles puts two and two together and figures out that Mother Hibbard’s husband is none other than his long-ago college friend, Curtis Hibbard, who is now a prominent New York attorney. And unless Marson is mistaken, Curtis and Joyce must have a marriage of convenience.

  Mother Hibbard wants to build a fabulous new church to replace the crumbling St. Alban’s. Local philanthropist Mary Questman wants her friend Marson to design it. And Mother Hibbard’s husband really wants the hunky young choir director, David Lovell. But then, in a god-awful development, someone turns up dead.

  It was murder, all right, and suspects abound. Once again, Marson’s dashing husband, Brody Norris, steps into the role of amateur sleuth and sidekick to Sheriff Thomas Simms. And once again, Brody himself gets a bit of help—from Mary Questman’s exotic cat, a chatty Abyssinian named Mister Puss.

  Critical acclaim

  Advance praise for ChoirMaster

  Mister Puss Mystery #2

  “Craft’s prose, with its affectionate digs at gossipy Episcopal parishes and affluent gay culture, is cheery in a way that keeps the novel from ever getting too dark, even with the murderous subject matter … Compellingly odd … this cozy setting with its nosy inhabitants makes for a lovely place to spend a few hours trying to figure out whodunit and why. A satisfying mystery, pleasantly told.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “ChoirMaster: A Mister Puss Mystery pairs a talking cat’s tale with a crisis that circles around marriage, faith, and a troubled Wisconsin church. The narration moves between perspectives and incorporates different character perceptions and experiences, creating a fluid, multifaceted story … Readers looking for a murder mystery that goes beyond a whodunit to probe the hearts, minds, and lives of small-town residents will relish the realistic setting, diverse characters, and quirky cat profiled in ChoirMaster … An intriguing, fast-paced story … a satisfying series addition standing nicely on its own four paws.”

  — D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer,

  Midwest Book Review

  Critical acclaim for FlabberGassed

  Mister Puss Mystery #1

  “What an elegant mystery. What an absurd idea made irresistible and almost mystical at the hands of a gifted writer. A talking cat? Yes … Mister Puss. The best cat in all of modern fiction.”

  — Ulysses Dietz,

  Backlot Gay Book Forum

  “Crisp, lively prose … colorful cast of characters … a well-drawn setting, perfect for an exuberant murder mystery … delightfully offbeat.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “The new ‘Mister Puss’ mystery series opens with one of the most intriguing introductions seen in the mystery genre … FlabberGassed is quirky, original, and a delightful read.”

  — D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer,

  Midwest Book Review

  “Craft’s return to the genre of gay mysteries is handled masterfully … At turns humorous, sexy, and even poignant, FlabberGassed is an entertaining read with a likeable protagonist, a tranquil town disrupted by a chilling crime, a colorful cast of characters, and a snarky cat; what’s not to like?”

  — Keith John Glaeske,

  Out in Print

  “Dumont could very well become as beloved by its fans as St. Mary Mead and Cabot Cove. Fans of offbeat ambiance, animal-centric tales, and unforced diversity will find much to enjoy in FlabberGassed.”

  — Kristopher Zgorski,

  BOLO Books Review

  “As a reader, I don’t usually reach for a cozy. My tastes run dark, usually procedurals, thrillers, and noir. That being said, I gave myself over to Craft’s delightful prose and warm wit, finding myself charmed by this quirky and insightful mystery … The mystery is engrossing chiefly because of Craft’s sensitivity to character.”

  — John Copenhaver,

  Lambda Literary Review

  Copyright

  CHOIRMASTER. Copyright © 2019 by Michael Craft.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews. Query by email to [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. The characters in this story come from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Design and typography: M.C. Johnson

  Cover images: Adobe Stock

  Author’s photo: TimCourtneyPhotography.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Craft, Michael, 1950–

  ChoirMaster : a Mister Puss mystery / Michael Craft

  ISBN: 978-0-578-52330-9 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-0-578-52375-0 (paperback)

  ASIN: B07V5ZK8SH (this ebook edition)

  BISAC subject headings:

  FIC011000 Fiction / LGBT / Gay

  FIC022110 Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Cozy / Cats & Dogs

  FIC022100 Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Amateur Sleuth

  First hardcover, paperback, and ebook editions: October 2019

  Questover Press

  QP1901-E

  Epigraph

  Gregorian Cat Chants

  Soft, atonal trope

  mere whiskers of sound

  float eerie through hallways

  fill spaces in rooms

  meaningful vibration

  in a low register

  felt as well as heard

  by the man the cat trained.

  — Lynn DeTurk

  Title page

  PART ONE

  Mother Hibbard’s Husband

  Mister Puss sneezed.

  In the upstairs bedroom of the grand old house on Prairie Street, Mary Questman dabbed behind her ears with a crystal perfume stopper, holding it by its decorative pair of frosty, kissing doves. She then returned the stopper to the antique Lalique flacon that contained her L’Air du Tem
ps—her fragrance of choice for nearly half a century. Tapping the dauber into the bottle, nice and snug, she turned to the cat who sat on her dressing table, framed by a shaft of late-morning sunlight that angled across the room through tall, lacy curtains.

  A svelte Abyssinian with a regal bearing and a silky coat of deep auburn, Mister Puss followed Mary’s every movement with his golden, almond-shaped eyes. Mary leaned her head close to the cat’s snout, close enough to hear the first rumblings of his purr. The downy fur of his chin brushed toward Mary’s ear as she told him, “You’ve been sneezing quite a lot lately.”

  You’ve been laying it on thick lately.

  “I have?” she asked with a note of concern. The dainty stool on which she sat creaked beneath her as she backed off a few inches.

  Her concern did not stem from hearing a voice emerge from the cat’s purr—heavens, no. It had been about a year since that fine spring morning when, as if out of nowhere, Mister Puss had appeared on her back porch, stepped inside through the screen door, and entered not only Mary’s home but also her life. Within an hour of his arrival, Mary first heard the voice, or thought she did, when the cat lulled her into a drowsy state, like a waking trance, with his purr thundering near her ear. Was she amazed? Certainly. Skeptical? Of course. But with the passing of days, then weeks, Mary became so accustomed to communicating with Mister Puss that she ceased to wonder—or even care—if there might be a more rational explanation for what she was hearing.

  Today, therefore, at the dressing table in her bedroom, Mary was not concerned in the least about hearing her cat speak. Rather, she was concerned about what he had said. His admonition regarding her perfume—that she had been “laying it on thick”—made her worry that her years were catching up with her, that she was growing absent-minded, that her senses were failing, that she could no longer properly sniff when enough L’Air du Temps was enough.

  A lady never lies; she was just past seventy. Just a tad. Not so old, not really, not these days. In fact, she’d felt reborn a few years back when Quincy Questman, her wealthy husband of forty-odd years, had died, freeing her from his shadow and allowing her to march forward and build a life of her own, a fulfilling new life defined by the arts and literature and philanthropy. Why, she had barely set forth into this rousing new era of mature vibrancy, so there was simply no useful purpose in fretting that she was losing her marbles.

  Except, she’d been gassing her cat. Mister Puss stared at her, looking a bit forlorn, blinking a gummy film from his eyes, as if in the throes of hay fever.

  “I’m sorry,” Mary cooed. She touched a fingertip to her tongue, then rubbed the dab of spit behind both ears, rinsing away some of the perfume. “There now,” she said, touching the cat’s nose with her moist finger, “is that better?”

  Mister Puss stretched his barbed tongue to taste the velvety pad of his nose. Bug-eyed—he looked as if he might gag—he hopped down to the floor.

  Oblivious to the cat’s distress, Mary pushed her stool back from the dressing table and stood to check herself in the mirror.

  She looked fine. More than fine, she thought. Her nubby silk suit, dusty blue, worn with a matching pair of suede Ferragamo kitten heels, was perfect for a ladies’ luncheon in early May at the Dumont Country Club. Her book club met there on the second Tuesday of each month, and today they had more to discuss than their usual critique of the latest best-seller. They were in the final stages of planning for their first group excursion, a full week down in Chicago, where they would attend a famed writers’ festival featuring scores of big-name authors in a whirlwind schedule of readings, signings, and book chat. It would be heaven.

  The adventure would begin in ten days, plenty of time for Mary to prepare for her departure, but she had already begun to assemble her vintage set of fine Hartmann luggage, originally made right there in Wisconsin by a Bavarian trunk maker. (Her late husband’s family, whose fortune was rooted in the area’s timber, was said to have connections to the Hartmanns dating back to the early 1900s, so the Questmans’ loyalty to the luggage brand never wavered.) Mary had set out nine or ten pieces of classic leather-and-tweed cases, duffels, and carry-ons—nothing with wheels, thank you. She wouldn’t need them all, but for now she wanted to weigh her options before the sorting and packing began.

  Mister Puss cruised the bedroom, sniffing the suitcases on the floor. Then he jumped onto the brocade settee where one of the smaller bags was propped open. He hopped inside and broke into a purr.

  “Now, what do you think you’re doing?” said Mary, pulling him out. She cradled him near her shoulder.

  Going somewhere?

  As Mary descended the wide walnut staircase of her gracious home and passed through the front entry hall, she smelled something familiar and tantalizing—and slightly pungent—wafting from the kitchen. Berta, her longtime housekeeper, had apparently finished her morning chores early because, when she did so, she often baked treats before heading home for the afternoon. Sometimes, she prepared lunch for Mary, but Mary would be lunching at the club today, so Berta was baking.

  Mary warbled, “Something smells wonderful,” as she waltzed into the kitchen.

  Berta turned from the sink, where she was scrubbing the steel bowl and wire whip from a rugged old stand mixer. “Your stash was running low, but now you’ll have something nice when you get back from your meeting.”

  “I think I’ll wait till tomorrow—when you can join me.”

  “Suit yourself. I won’t say no.” Berta returned to her task, clanging the bowl in the porcelain sink. Her knotty hands glowed red from the hot, sudsy water.

  Although Berta and Mary came from two different worlds, they had developed a deep bond over the decades, especially since Berta had joined Mary in widowhood. While Mary was a quintessential lady by virtue of her upbringing, deportment, and considerable means, Berta was a brusque, sturdy woman who knew the meaning of work and the challenges of a servant’s limited income. While Berta was some ten or fifteen years younger than Mary, she was wiser to the world. While Berta’s attire was as drab and undistinctive as her features, she had a sarcastic sense of humor that could match the jolly wit of the polished matron who employed her.

  But now, as both women began to contemplate the prospects of later life, they discovered a growing commonality that overtook their differences. Neither woman had children, and both had lost their husbands to lengthy illnesses. Although employed as a housekeeper, Berta had grown into the added roles of Mary’s caretaker and companion. And Mary, in turn, had found unexpected satisfaction in becoming Berta’s provider and protector. It worked, this patchwork sisterhood. Plus, Berta had introduced Mary to the occasional pleasures of pot, usually baked into afternoon treats.

  Berta asked over her shoulder, “How did His Majesty take the news?” The housekeeper had tolerated the arrival of Mister Puss, but she made little effort to conceal a certain resentment for having taken on extra duties as lackey to a cat.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.” Mary shambled over to the heavy oak kitchen table and sat. An enormous lamp of hobnail milk glass hung low over the round table and anchored the room, which had a homey appeal that contrasted with the studied elegance of the rest of the house. Mary added, “He asked if I was going somewhere.”

  Berta rolled her eyes. She and Mary had reached a respectful impasse regarding the plausibility of the cat’s speech. The housekeeper had given up questioning her employer’s claims of communicating with Mister Puss, but that didn’t put an end to the eye-rolling.

  Mary breathed a petite sigh. “I’m not sure how to tell him I’m leaving town for a week. And since you’re going with me, he can’t stay here at the house.”

  Berta reminded her, “Brody said he was happy to cat-sit.”

  Mary nodded. “Mister Puss does seem to like Brody.” With a chuckle, she added, “Everyone likes Brody.”

  Berta’s eyes slid to the open doorway from the front hall. “Well, speak of the devil. Good morning
, Your Majesty.”

  Having completed his inspection of Mary’s luggage, Mister Puss sauntered into the kitchen, ignoring Berta, sniffing in the direction of the oven. Though he had grown accustomed to the distinctive scent of marijuana, his scrunched face made it clear he still didn’t like it.

  Mary made a kissy sound and patted her knee, which summoned the cat to her side. Mister Puss leaned in and swept Mary’s ankles with the length of his body while Mary checked her purse for her keys.