Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines (14 page)

“Huh?” I managed, but the were all scurrying for the exit.

“I told them all you were paying for lunch,” Diana said, the last to leave.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m happy to pay for lunch. I was hoping to get a little constructive criticism from the group.”

“I’m sure that our criticism wouldn’t sway your style one way or the other,” Diana said over her shoulder as she headed quickly for the front door. It swung open, then closed, and I heard laughter on the sidewalk in front of the Bear and Brew. Mocking laughter.

Chapter 17

Gwen Jackson lent Bud three live traps and gave him instruction on their use. Gwen, the town vet, kept traps like these handy behind her office, just in case. Baited with a radish, the groundhogs stood no chance, and by Saturday night, we’d trapped seven, three of them cubs. Gwen had informed us that a young groundhog is a cub or a kit, rather than a pup.

Moosey was happy to take one of the cubs home and begin its training as part of Moosey’s Menagerie. Gwen took the other six and informed us that they’d be relocated. I called Harm Pooter and told him that he was free to camp out at the house and take care of whatever groundhogs were left. He was agreeable and promised a groundhog free zone by Monday morning.

* * *

Kent called me on Saturday.

“Whatever the poison was that killed the women, it wasn’t succinylcholine,” he said.

“Yeah, that’d be too easy,” I said.

“It really would have been. You can only get succinylcholine if you’re licensed to practice medicine. They keep track of that stuff.”

“But, alas,” I said.

“Alas,” repeated Kent. “I don’t know if it makes any difference, but Crystal had leukemia. I just got the blood work back this morning. Early stages. She might not have even been aware of the diagnosis yet.”

* * *

“Dr. Alison Jaeger is lying,” said Nancy. We were meeting at Holy Grounds coffee shop for an afternoon espresso and update. “You told me she said that she only knew one of the victims.”

“Crystal Latimore. She indicated that Crystal had been a patient a few years ago, but she hadn’t seen her for a while.”

“I went by the three houses like you asked and picked up the mail. If you’re going to lie, you should probably make sure your billing department doesn’t send out monthly statements.” Nancy handed me two envelopes, one addressed to Darla Kildair, and one addressed to Amy Ventura. The one addressed to Darla had her old address showing through the clear window of the envelope. There was a yellow, forwarding address sticker slapped catty-cornered over the window sending the envelope to Darla’s new address underneath the Gun Emporium. They had been opened by Nancy. I took out the one addressed to Amy and saw that she had a balance of one hundred twenty-three dollars. There was no itemizing, just a balance due. Probably a copay or part of her deductible. Darla’s statement was itemized for a flu shot, and blood work, but she only owed ninety-six dollars. I looked at the photo I took of the contents of her medicine chest and guess what?”

“Alison Jaeger is the prescribing physician on the bottle of Premarin.”

“Exactly right,” Nancy said. “Why would she lie about knowing them?”

I ran the conversation back through my head, then said, “She might not have. She said she knew Crystal Latimore, then asked me for the other two names. She never actually said she didn’t know them.”

“She didn’t say that she did,” said Nancy.

“True enough,” I said. “I assumed that she didn’t know them.”

“Either way something’s not right.”

“I’ve have that same feeling,” I said. “Like we’re missing something.”

Chapter 18

The dead make good clients; I mean they rarely complain; they don’t drink your gin; they don’t try to sell you Mary Kay Pore Minimizing Lotion to make their monthly nut; they’re quiet for the most part except when the gas escapes, and really, who hasn’t that happened to; no, as a whole, your graveyard stiff is just about the ideal mark. The problem is getting paid.

“Found ‘em,” said Pedro, as he finished rifling through Anne Dante’s purse. “Six credit cards. That should keep us going through the weekend anyway.”

“Holly Tosis is going to try to scuttle the St. Groundlemas movement,” I said. “I don’t know whose side we’re on here.”

“If Anne Dante came to you for help, and she was after the whistle-pig’s paws, I’d put her on the side of the St. Groundleites.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I got no pig in this fight, whistling, flying, or otherwise, but you don’t plug a dame in my office and think you’re getting away with it.”

* * *

I woke on Sunday morning to the smell of coffee. It was early, and Meg wasn’t beside me in the bed, but Meg was usually up before me anyway, the weekends being no exception. I trundled into the kitchen, filled my mug with coffee and looked out the window at a foot of snow on the ground. That’s the thing about snow: it sneaks up on you, not like a big thunderstorm that announces its presence every few minutes, but like a thief in the night.

Baxter, lying on his belly in front of the cold fireplace in the adjacent room, looked up at me as if he might want to go outside, then thought better of it and hid his muzzle under one big paw. Meg came in through the kitchen door with a load of firewood in her arms.

“Good morning!” she said brightly when she saw me. “Here, give me a hand, will you?”

I unburdened her and took the split oak over to the fireplace. It didn’t take a minute to push a lit piece of pine fatwood underneath the oak and watch the fire blaze into being.

“I certainly didn’t expect snow,” she said. “The forecast was for a cold and clear weekend.”

“Well, they were half right. It’s cold.”

“Can we make it into church this morning?” Meg asked.

“Oh, sure. That’s no problem. The roads should be clear in an hour or so, and the four-wheel drive will take that truck just about anywhere.”

“Hmm,” said Meg. “It seems to me you’ve been stuck a few times though.”

“A few,” I admitted, “but never in a foot of snow.”

“Archimedes took off when I came out of the bedroom. I didn’t even have a chance to give him one of those chipmunks.”

I poured myself a mug of coffee. “He’ll probably find his own breakfast this morning. All those rabbit and mouse tracks will be easy to spot.”

We spent a leisurely few hours warming by the fire, watching the news, and getting dressed for church, then at 9:35 we bundled into the old truck and pointed it toward town. The ten miles usually took twenty minutes or so, but watching for ice and taking our time, we were there just in time to head up to the choir loft to prepare for the service.

As announced, Father Dressler had changed the service to Rite I, a formal service, but not as formal as he could go. I’d done a little research on Anglo-Catholics. Sometimes they went totally “off-book” and adopted the
Anglican Missal
as the prayer book of choice. As far as I could tell since I hadn’t seen a copy of the
Missal
, was that contained had three versions of the Eucharistic prayers: the one from the 1928
Book of Common Prayer
, the 1549 Canon as translated by Thomas Cranmer, and an English translation of the Roman Catholic Canon. All this remained to be seen. For now — Rite I. We’d used Rite I in the past during Lent so it wasn’t unfamiliar, but Mother Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh didn’t like Rite I and it had been several years since it had made an appearance in our liturgy.

I was already at the organ when the first of the choir members made their way up the steps and found their seats. Our usual plan was to put on our robes in the vesting room back by the sacristy, then head up to the loft, warm up, go quickly through the music, hit some trouble spots if there were any, and then get relaxed and get ready for the prelude. In the days before Mother P, the choir would go down the stairs and process with the crucifer, acolytes, and priest during the opening hymn, make their way around the sides of the sanctuary and back up the stairs to the loft leaving the clergy and extras at the front to perform their tasks. Since Mother P despised ceremony, she had done away with the processional, the cross had remained stationary in the front, candles were lighted before the service started, and the clergy casually walked to the front during the hymn, stopping to chat and shake hands as they walked. Many of the choir didn’t even bother to put robes on. Today was different.

Everyone had managed to find their robes and we’d already gone through the Psalm and the anthem when Father Dressler appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in his long black cassock with red band cincture, and a beretta with a red ball on top. I saw him come up, but was in the middle of giving directions as to a particular musical phrase when
…

“A-
HEM
,” he said, not discretely at all. I stopped speaking and all heads turned to look at him.

“As you know,” he said, “we’re going to be processing this morning. I’ve already given instructions to the acolytes and the crucifer. Sadly, we won’t be having incense, but that will soon change.”

The choir looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“The acolytes and the crucifer will be adults this morning, since I haven’t had time to train any young people, but that will change as well.”

No comment.

“I’d like everyone to genuflect as they approach the altar. Does everyone know what I’m speaking of?”

“Sure,” said Mark Wells. “Stop, give a quick nod, and move on.”

“No,” said Father Dressler. “Absolutely not. Stop,
go to one knee
, bow your head, cross yourself, then rise and continue in procession. If you need help kneeling or rising, there will be an usher there to assist. Kimberly Walnut and I shall remain kneeling in prayer for approximately thirty seconds. Then I shall ascend to the altar and offer the opening sentences.

The choir looked at him in stunned silence.

“That’s probably going to take an extra four or five minutes,” I said.

“Yes. That’s why you need to plan your hymn interludes accordingly.”

“Ah,” I said. “It’s a good thing you gave me a little warning.”

He ignored the comment. “Everything else should be straight forward. I don’t want to change too much of the service right away. We’ll let the congregation adjust.” He disappeared down the stairs to don his liturgical finery.

The entire choir looked over at Marjorie in expectation. She’d been a member of the St. Barnabas choir for almost sixty years and had seen a lot. She wasn’t shy about expressing her opinion.

“We did some of that stuff back in the fifties,” she said. “I had enough of it then! I’ll tell you what: I’ll walk down the aisle, give a wink to the acolyte, and smack the first usher that lays a hand on me.”

“I’m walking behind Marjorie,” said Georgia.

“Me, too,“said Rhiza, followed by general hubbub in the choir. Meg looked at me with desperation in her eyes. I gave a halfhearted smile and shrugged.

“Just a moment,” Meg said loudly, getting everyone’s attention, then lowered her voice. “We might as well do what he wants and see how it goes. As your president, I’m calling on you to do your duty as choir members.”

“Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a mile,” said Marjorie. “First thing you know we’ll be “Hail Mary-ing” all over the church. Hail Mary, full-of-grace, Hail Mary, fair-of-face, something something placenta.”

“Placenta?” asked Goldi Fawn. “What on earth are you talking about?

I interrupted the discussion. “Anyone who doesn’t want to genuflect can stay up here,” I said, “but if you decide to go, that means you don’t have a problem with kneeling in front of the altar as you process.”

“It’s not that I have a problem, with kneeling,” said Elaine. “I have a problem with getting back up.”

“Ushers will be there to help,” Meg said, but Elaine shook her head doubtfully.

“I don’t know about this, either,” said Mark Wells, “but I’ll try anything once. I’ve got this new hip though, so if I go down and don’t come back up, tell Jane I love her and that I spent the insurance money on beer.”

* * *

The service, including a nine minute processional hymn thanks to a lengthy improvisation between stanzas three and four, went fairly well. Since I was busy playing, I couldn’t tell how many of the choir members needed help getting up after genuflecting. Meg indicated that not as many needed help as thought they would.

The congregation seemed to enjoy hearing the Psalm sung by the choir, and if they were put off by the somewhat unfamiliar
Trisagion
,
Sanctus,
and
Agnus Dei
, they didn’t show it. Our two anthems went well, and the other three hymns were fairly familiar and John Wesley would have been happy to hear them sung “lustily and with good courage.”

However, during the announcements, which Father Dressler made just before the Passing of the Peace, I was surprised to hear the following:

“I’d like to announce our Candlemas Service a week from Wednesday at five o’clock. This will include a Solemn Evensong and Benediction which the choir will sing and we hope that all of you will be in attendance for this important Feast Day.”

“Huh?” said Goldi Fawn, somewhat alarmed, and many others looked up, like startled deer. “We’re singing what?”

“For those of you who aren’t familiar with Candlemas,” continued Father Dressler, “the date is established as forty days after Christmas. Under Mosaic law as found in the Torah, a mother who had given birth to a man-child was considered unclean for seven days: moreover she was to remain for three and thirty days ‘in the blood of her purification.’ Candlemas therefore corresponds to the day on which Mary, according to Jewish law, would have attended a ceremony of ritual purification according to the twelfth book of Leviticus. The Gospel of Luke relates that Mary was purified according to the religious law, followed by Jesus’ presentation in the Jerusalem temple. Forty days after the Nativity is February 2nd and it is on this day that we shall celebrate our first Solemn Evensong together.”

“What?” said Martha. “February 2nd is Groundhog Day. I’ve never heard of Candlemas.”

“That’s because you didn’t spend three and thirty days in the blood of your purification,” said Randy, sarcastically. “You sure know all about Mother’s Day, though.”

“You bought me a
bowling ball
,” snarled Martha. “A bowling ball for Mother’s Day!”

“You’re lucky I got you anything,” said Randy, throwing up his hands and beginning the argument anew. “You’re not
my
mother!”

“I’m the mother of your children! That should count for more than a bowling ball.”

“It was on sale,” Randy said, explaining his position to Steve DeMoss. “I thought she might like to take up bowling. She’s always saying she never gets out.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Steve said. “I got Sheila a chainsaw one year for her birthday and never heard the end of it.”

“Did you hear
that
?” said Sheila. “A chainsaw! I’d take a bowling ball any day. Or even a toaster.”

“I got a toaster one year for Christmas,” said Elaine in disgust. “An engraved toaster. ‘To Elaine from Billy,’ it said. The next year I got a set of steak knives.”

Meg sidled up to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “The peace of the Lord be with you,” she cooed. “I hope you’re taking notes.”

* * *

Everyone was coming out of the church after having been “refreshed in the faith” at the coffee fellowship that concluded the morning’s activities. Meg and I were thinking seriously about lunch, our choices being limited if we were determined to stay in town, but boundless if we decided to venture out from our little burg. We chose the latter, walked across Sterling Park to the police station where we’d left Meg’s Lexus, and had started to climb in when Moosey and Bernadette puttered up in the golf-cart. With a top speed of twenty-five miles per hour, I wasn’t too worried about the golf cart driving around town. Bud McCollough had been driving into town since he had been old enough to reach the pedals of the family truck — probably twelve or so. This sort of thing happened a lot in the hills and we turned a blind eye. We checked on him when we saw him in town, warned him to be careful, but never stopped him. His family needed him to drive and he did.

“Good morning, Moosey,” said Meg. “Bernadette. I didn’t see you two in church today.”

Moosey looked sheepish. Bernadette tossed her golden locks, flashed Meg her smile, recently enhanced by braces, and said, “Good morning, Miz Konig. I’ve decided to go by ‘Bernie’ from now on.”

“Bernie,” said Meg and clapped her hands. “That’s just
lovely!
”