Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed (19 page)

“Hang on. Let’s not despair. We know what the anagram means. We just have to figure out the rest of the clue.” I was trying to be as hopeful as possible, but in reality, I had no idea what the verse had to do with the murder, if anything. We might be on the totally wrong track, but I didn’t want to say as much after such hard work. So, I said the next best thing.

“Let’s have a sandwich.”

Chapter 13

“
Now that we
’
re all here,” growled Isabel, standing in the doorway, “we can get down to business.” Her voice was low, low as my Apple Computer stock options.

“
You know what we want, don
’
t
‘
cha?” Denver asked absently. She had put down the shotgun and her attention was focused on the three hymnals she was deftly juggling. She was good. I had to admit it.

Yes, I knew what they wanted. Denver Tweed, Amber Dawn and Isabel Gerhardt. Separately, three gals you wouldn
’
t mind seeing dancing the Lambada in your neighbor
’
s Sunday school class. Together, they formed the Emmaus Gang--and were three of the most wanted women in the history of the Episcopate. They needed the goods on the Bishop. Blackmail was their only prospect to make it off of his Ten Most Wanted List, and I had just what they wanted.

“
You might as well just give it to us and we
’
ll be on our way,” said Isabel, taking a cigar from off my desk and lighting it up.

“
I doubt it. You
’
ll have to kill me. Otherwise you
’
d be afraid that I
’
d squeal like last year
’
s Easter entree.” I lit another stogie myself, matching her puff for puff.

“
We don
’
t have to kill him, do we?” chirped Amber in alarm. “I really kinda like him.” She lit a cigar too, her peepers blinking like baby blue Christmas tree lights.

Isabel sneered. “Like a gold ring in a pig
’
s snout is a beautiful woman without good sense.”

“
What?” squeaked Amber confusedly, but thrusting out her chest like the photo-finish of a zeppelin race at the prospect of being called “beautiful” by anyone.

“
Proverbs 11:22,” quoted Isabel smugly as Denver lit up the last cigar in the box, making the atmosphere in my office the ecological equivalent of Los Angeles in June.

“
I was just wondering, Isabel,” I said, trying to draw her into a theological discussion. “Does the pig snout refer to a literal pig snout, or is the author taking a metaphoric view and using the pig snout to represent the unclean noses of all the heathen races?”

“
Don
’
t start with me,” Isabel grunted. “Just give me the papers we want and we
’
ll be on our way.”

I didn
’
t believe her for a second.

• • •

I had a couple of calls to make. The first was to the Norcostco Costume Company in Atlanta. I had them send a penguin costume to St. Barnabas and charge it to the rector’s discretionary account. I didn’t have Moosey’s exact size, but I was pretty sure I was close. The second was to Pete Moss.

“Hi Pete. Did you get the crèche situation straightened out?”

“Nope. These idiots both want to put up a living nativity and there’s no stopping them. The Rotary Club has the lot on Main and 13th on the south side. The Kiwanis Club is a block down on the north side. It’s going to be a zoo. Literally.”

“Maybe,” I contemplated, “but just maybe there’s room in this crazy, mixed-up world for two nativity scenes. Why can’t we all just get along?”

“Shut up, Hayden.”

• • •

I picked Moosey up at school on Tuesday and took him by the church to practice the penguin song. Late afternoons were perfect for rehearsing and it’s the time when I get all my practicing done. The church was generally deserted and today was no exception. I thought it might be a little spooky for someone who wasn’t used to a great silent church, but Moosey walked down the aisle, stood proudly on the steps of the nave and sang through his song with organ accompaniment just like a champ, never missing a word.

“Moosey, that was great!” I yelled down to him from the choir loft as he was taking the bow we had practiced.

“Can we do it again?” he called back, the thrill of performance still in his eager face.

“You bet. But once more should probably do it.”

We went through it a second time, which is two times more than Herself ever rehearsed anything. When the song was finished, Moosey took his bow and came racing up the stairs to the choir loft.

“Your costume will be here tomorrow,” I told him, as I shut down the beast.

“Is it a good costume?”

“The best penguin costume they had.”

“Momma doesn’t think I should be sangin’ this song in church, ya know,” Moosey said, happily munching on a Zagnut bar I had slipped him as a reward.

“It’ll be fine. You’re doing a great job.”

“I like to sing, all right. I shore do.”

• • •

Before taking Moosey home for the evening, I stopped by the church office to deliver the hymn numbers for Sunday. Moosey was finishing up his candy bar just as Mother Ryan’s door opened and Rhiza Walker exited her office, closing the door behind her. It didn’t take a detective to tell she had been crying.

“Oh, hello, Hayden,” she sniffed, rather formally I thought, as she dabbed at her nose with a tissue.

“Hi, Rhiza. You OK?”

“I guess. I have to go.”

Her lilting squeak was gone, replaced by a sadder, older timbre. She was out the office door before I could say anything else. I hoped there wasn’t anything wrong between her and Malcolm. I liked them both.

• • •

I had gotten used to seeing the owl sitting on the window sill each night as I returned from town so I was disappointed when I pulled up and my headlights failed to pick up his yellow eyes glowing in the dark. I went inside and dropped a CD of Charpentier’s
Midnight Mass for Christmas
on the Wave and got a San Miguel Dark out of the beer fridge. It was a Filipino beer, dark and rich and just right, I thought, for drinking while listening to music of the French Baroque and fixing a quick supper. Maybe I was just being a beer snob, but I liked to think of it as getting into the Christmas spirit.

I opened the window, lifted the screen and was getting the baggie of thawed mouse carcasses out of the refrigerator when, without a sound, the owl appeared at the window. As I watched, not moving, he stepped across the sill just as nicely as you please, shaking his white feathers as if tossing off the dampness of the evening and with his head moving independently of his body, took in the whole of the kitchen decor. Not knowing what else to do, as the creature tentatively strolled the counter, and not wanting to scare him into flying into the interior of the cabin, I opened the baggie and held out an ex-mouse, dangling it by its tail. I moved slowly forward but the owl didn’t react until I was within an arm’s reach. Then he tilted hi head about 45 degrees, opened his beak and took the mouse out of my hand. He hopped back onto the sill, the mouse still in his beak and leaped without a sound into the night. I closed the window behind him, wondering if this was going to be a nightly event or if he just liked the French Baroque.

• • •

The Wednesday evening service was in the bulletin as “The Christmas Crib.” I had, graciously I thought, volunteered to play the prelude, the postlude and congregational hymn. Also in the bulletin were the names of the participants. Herself was the narrator. There were two silent roles—Mary and Joseph—played by Gerry and Wilma Fleming, a new young couple in the church, a non-silent screaming baby Jesus role played by the Fleming’s five-month-old baby girl, and a total of six children, including Moosey, portraying the animals coming to the manger. I had made sure that Moosey was last on the program and also that Meg was there to help him with his costume and entrance.

I started off with an improvisation on
Joy to the World
and, as I finished up, was surprised to look down and see the church almost full. Mother Ryan must have done some advertising.

“We welcome you this evening to the manger at Bethlehem,” she began after she took her place at the lectern. “This is a new idea of mine to incorporate the children of St. Barnabas into our Christmas celebration.”

I snarled. We’d been doing this for years, but we called it the Christmas Pageant.

“And now let us journey to the manger and join with the children as they offer up their songs and poems to the holy child.”

The Flemings had taken their places, kneeling and wedging themselves inside the brown refrigerator carton stable before putting their baby into the newly constructed manger which, I hoped, was strong enough to hold a mad, wiggling twenty pounder. I had begun to play the first hymn,
Away In A Manger
, when baby Jesus let out his first wail.

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,

The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.

The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay,

The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay.

Each line of the hymn was punctuated by several solos from the baby section of the Holy Family Choir. Bev and Georgia were sitting up in the choir loft balcony, in their usual front-row seats, leaning over the rail and watching the festivities.

“I thought the baby Jesus was
asleep
in the hay,” Georgia quipped.

“Wait till they get to the part about ‘no crying he makes,’” said Beverly.

We finished the hymn, and not exactly quietly. Everyone, including me, was trying to drown out the sound of Baby Jesus’ vocalizations which, by this time, were stentorian in nature. The performance may have been the most robust version of
Away In A Maner
that has ever been my pleasure to accompany. By the last stanza, I was using the full organ, including trumpets and 32’ reeds, the wailing baby matching me decibel for decibel. Herself was beginning to seethe.

At the triumphant finish of the hymn, she was glaring up at me as if this complication was my fault, or at least something that I had control over. I shrugged at her in a very obvious, theatrical fashion, hoping that she would understand that this problem was not
my
fault and the fiasco thus far was totally on her shoulders. Thus far.

She walked over to Wilma and said something to her quietly. Previously looking as if she wanted to fall through the floor with embarrassment, Wilma now raised her head defiantly, picked up her screaming child wrapped in swaddling clothes, marched down the center aisle and out the front door, leaving her husband looking confused and not quite sure of his loyalties. Was he to follow his wife and baby out of the church or stay true to his theatrical character and play the role out to the bitter end? He stayed. I suspected that he would find out he had made the wrong choice when he got home.

Mother Ryan had never been known for her tact and I’m quite sure she had insulted both mother and child. When she suggested that Wilma take up her child and go, she probably meant for her to use the side exit, but it was not to be. You can’t insult a woman’s baby and then expect her to leave by the side door. And since she was leaving by the front door, I decided to “play her out” with a rousing number. The evening was shaping up splendidly.

Since Joseph, sans Mary, was still stuck in the refrigerator box with an empty manger, Mother Ryan walked into the congregation, pulled a teenaged girl from the front pew and led her up to the steps. The girl was confused at first, letting herself be led like a lamb to the slaughter, but then, realizing what the rector had in mind, pulled away, and went racing back, choosing the safety of her anonymous pew to the sure humiliation of nativic thespianism. All this to
Bring A Torch, Jeannette Isabella
set in a wonderful carnival-like toccata and improvised beautifully by
moi
. I hadn’t spent one entire summer of grad school as a theater organist in Minneapolis for nothing.

Mother Ryan, now short two Marys and one baby, went back to the lectern as I finished up the final grandiose chords.

“Holy smokes,” whispered Bev. “She’s mad.”

“I can see her jaw twitching from up
here
,” agreed Georgia, still whispering.