Page 17

Stopping in her tracks in the entryway to St. Michael’s, Jenna stood listening to the somber and familiar melody.

“Is that...?” Jake began, and Jenna nodded. Frank grunted softly, his face furrowing in concern.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “It’s the melody of the hymn that I sang for you. I’ve never heard it except in my dream.”

Together, they turned toward the adjoining Parish Hall to find out who was playing the piano. As they approached the doorway, a woman’s voice joined the piano, adding familiar words to the tune:

“In shadows deep, the secrets keep,

Through courage, truth we strive to reap …”

Jake said softly, “And those are the words that you sang, too.”

They stepped through the open door of the Parish Hall, where Jenna recognized the piano player as David Cavanaugh, the church organist. He and the singer, Sister Agnes Kendrick, were both long-time residents, well-known in town.

A muscular man in his 80s, David hunched over the piano, his agile fingers moving across the keys with an unsettling intensity that belied his age. Beside him stood Sister Agnes, a frail figure of about 80, her quavering soprano voice lending an ethereal quality to the hymn as it filled the room.

David played with a fervor, obviously familiar with the piece. Beside him, the Sister in her vestments added a calm dignity to their performance as she sang:

“In dreams they stir, in whispers speak,

Guiding the lost, the brave, the meek.”

Jenna and her companions stood in the back of the Parish Hall, listening as the melody that had haunted her dreams filled the air. As the last verse faded into a delicate silence, Jenna turned her focus to David Cavanaugh. She had often found him a peculiar sort of fellow, though not in any threatening way. Right now, she thought he seemed to be playing not for an audience, but for something unseen, a presence only he could sense.

The nun and the organist repeated the hymn, then ended it. Sister Agnes, standing close to David Cavanaugh as he lifted his hands from the piano keys, let out a sigh that seemed laden with years of memories.

“Oh, how long it’s been since that hymn graced these walls!” she murmured. “What made you think to play it just now?”

David turned toward the elderly nun, his expression distant, as if he were recalling a memory.

“I’m not sure,” he said, his voice barely rising above the hush that had befallen the hall. “It’s as if it came to me like a whisper from the past.”

Jenna stepped forward.

“That’s a beautiful hymn,” she commented. “Where did it come from?”

For a moment, it appeared as though David might not answer. Then, with a slight nod as though acknowledging the hymn’s significance, he looked directly at Jenna.

“My father, George Cavanaugh, composed it many years ago,” he revealed, his voice holding a pride that seemed almost reluctant.

“George Cavanaugh was our organist back in his day,” Sister Agnes told them. “But he was also much more than that. He was a master engineer and inventor—the artist who crafted our carillon. Installed it himself in 1935.”

A spark of interest ignited within Jenna. She noted the date silently, mentally cataloging it alongside the timeline of their investigation. If the carillon played any part in the enigma within this church’s bones, George Cavanaugh had just become a significant figure.

“Was he from around here?” Jenna asked.

“Born and raised,” Sister Agnes replied, her smile one of remembrance. “And he gave so much of himself to this church... to his music. And he was a wonderful teacher, too—piano and voice. I was fortunate enough to be one of his students. He was patient, kind. His love for music was infectious.”

But as the words left her lips, they were chased by a cloud that crossed her face, dimming the warmth in her eyes.

“Yet, in his final years,” Sister Agnes said, the lightness fading from her tone, “he changed completely. It was after the carillon was automated, and then... after Rachel...”

David Cavanaugh stiffed at the mention of the name Rachel. He stood up abruptly, the bench screeching on the wooden floor, breaking the spell.

“I... I have things to do at home,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with an urgency that belied his calm demeanor.

Jenna watched him closely, noting the slight tremor in his hands as he gathered sheets of music, stuffing them into a leather-bound folder.

“David, I’m sorry,” Sister Agnes said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her.”

“Think nothing of it, Sister Agnes,” David said in a tight voice.

He didn’t say another word as he hurried past them, his footsteps quick and deliberate, leaving behind a bewilderment that settled heavily upon the room.

Jake and Frank exchanged a glance, their expressions mirroring Jenna’s own confusion.

Sister Agnes watched after David’s retreating figure, her face etched with concern. “Oh, dear,” she said, her voice tinged with regret. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Rachel. Poor David.”

Frank nodded sadly. “Rachel was David’s sister, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

The nun’s eyes were distant, and Jenna sensed the layers of history that clung to St. Michael’s.

“Sister, please tell us everything you can,” Jenna replied, her tone gentle yet firm. “About both George Cavanaugh and Rachel. It might help us solve these murders.”

Sister Agnes nodded, the lines around her eyes deepening with the weight of years. She settled into a nearby chair and began to explain what had befallen the organist who had designed the carillon.

“George Cavanaugh was a remarkable man,” she began, her voice soft but clear. “But two tragedies haunted him late in life. Back in 1950, Kip Selves from the electronics shop took it upon himself to update our church carillon with an automated system.” Her slender hands lifted slightly, as if to hold back the years. “George was heartbroken.”

Jenna nodded, understanding the gravity of such a change for a man devoted to his craft. The carillon, with its array of bells, had been George’s creation, an extension of his very soul, and automation must have seemed an affront not just to his artistry but to his identity. The towering instrument he had installed now echoed with a mechanical precision devoid of human touch.

“Music was a living thing to him,” Sister Agnes continued, “breathed into existence by the musician’s passion. To see it reduced to gears and timers... it wounded him deeply.”

As she dwelled on this first tragedy, Sister Agnes’s face shifted. “But,” she said, her voice now trembling, “it was ten years later when we all felt the earth shatter beneath us. Rachel—David’s older sister—vanished without leaving a single trace behind.”

Sister Agnes sighed deeply.

“George and David...” she whispered, the pain of the memory evident. “They were never the same. A part of them disappeared with Rachel that day. It changed this place, too, forever marked it with her absence. She was a wonderful singer, you see—a soprano. The heart and soul of the choir, you might even say. And that hymn of her father’s—it was always her favorite. George died in 1965, I believe.”

With an inward shiver, Jenna recalled the coroner’s findings, the estimated date of death for the second skeletal remains discovered in the church—around 1960, the same year when Rachel disappeared. And she remembered the high, sweet voice of the choir-robed woman she saw in her dream. She saw the same realization dawn in her companions’ eyes, the connection snapping into place with an almost audible click.

Jenna leaned forward, her hands clasped together as Frank shifted the topic with a deliberate change in his timbre.

“Sister Agnes,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of years and authority, “could you tell us about the night in ‘89 when the carillon started playing on its own?”

The elderly nun’s eyes widened slightly, her gaze unfocused for a moment as if she were sifting through decades of memories.

“Odd that you should mention that,” she murmured. “I haven’t thought about that for years. Yes, that was quite an unsettling experience. I remember it vividly. It was well past midnight, and the whole town could hear the carillon. At first, it just sputtered out a few notes. But then it started playing the Angelus, all by itself.”

“Was there ever any mechanical explanation found?” Frank pressed, his gray eyes keen.

Sister Agnes shook her head, her white wimple shifting slightly with the movement. “No, nothing conclusive,” she replied. “A repairman from Kip’s shop examined it the next day but found no faults. It was as if the bells had a mind of their own that night. We simply couldn’t explain it.”

Jenna noted the unsettled flicker in Sister Agnes’s otherwise serene demeanor. The incident wasn’t just a technical anomaly; it had left its mark on the community’s collective psyche.

Then Sister Agnes stood, her movements slow but certain.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my duties,” she said, offering a solemn nod toward each of them. “I’ll be right here in the church if you need me. Good day, Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins, Mr. Doyle. May God guide your investigation.”

As the nun exited the Parish Hall, Jenna turned to Jake and Frank. Their huddle was instinctive, shoulders almost touching as they convened in a tight circle, their voices a low rumble against the high ceilings of the hall.

“Rachel’s disappearance lines up with the timeline of the first victim,” Jenna stated. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

“If she is our Jane Doe,” Jake added, “it means we’re dealing with more than just cold cases. We’re unearthing a legacy of grief that’s been buried in this church for generations.”

“And David Cavanaugh is an important piece of the puzzle,” Frank added. “He’s tethered to this church, and he knows the carillon like the back of his hand. Who knows what else he might know?”

“Or might have done?” Jake added.

“His reaction today was … off,” Jenna agreed. “There’s something about David that doesn’t sit right with me. It’s like he’s guarding a secret of some kind.”

The air between the three of them was electric, charged with the gravity of these new revelations.

“We need to look into David’s past,” Jake said firmly. “And his father, George. There’s more to their story, something we’re not seeing. The carillon, the hymns—they’re pieces of a puzzle. If we find out what those pieces mean, we might just see the whole picture.”

“Let’s keep digging,” Jenna agreed. “We owe it to the victims and to this town to uncover the truth.”

Frank’s face, weathered by years of service and concern, mirrored Jenna’s troubled expression.

“Jenna,” he cautioned, his voice a gravelly note of reason, “we’ve got to tread carefully. Suspicion is one thing, but we need concrete evidence before pointing fingers.”

His gray eyes implored her to temper her instincts with the methodical approach that had served them well in past investigations.

“Agreed,” she said. “Now let’s check in with Colonel Spelling.”

With a collective nod of agreement, they exited the Parish Hall into the main part of the church. Jenna’s steps echoed on the wooden floor, breaking the silence they left behind. The melody of the hymn lingered in the air, a haunting refrain that seemed to watch them depart, carrying with it the secrets of St. Michael’s Church.

She had a deep foreboding that evil hidden in St. Michael’s wasn’t ended—that something dark still lingered in this church. And, of course, there was still a third body to be found—a body that neither she nor her companions could tell anybody about. Was Spelling and his team going to find it on their own? If not, how would it ever come to light?

Jenna knew only one thing—that if they failed to solve this case, more lives might be at stake.