The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) (20 page)

"Little Rahab's not ready just yet," said Brother Hog. "Won't be long, though. He's already been rebuking the unclean spirit of diaper rash."

Chapter 15

Ten little bats fluttered down into the coffins and transmogrified into the Vampire Amish with little poofs of smoke, sort of like a leaf-blower with some bad gas, the same leaf-blower you told yourself you'd empty out before putting it away last October but never did so the gas went bad, like that, but not as loud. I looked at Tessie just in time to see her expensively capped fangs extend over her meager but lovely TV lips.

"Vampires," said Pedro with a shrug, then turned his attention to Tessie. "I suppose your sister isn't even in trouble?"

"Not only that," chuckled Tessie. "I don't even have a sister."

"What do you want with us, then?" I said.

"You have certain skills we need," said Lapke. He looked at me like the vampire rat that had all the Blut-Käse and knew just how to eat it. "You probably don't recognize me, since you thought I was dead."

His accent disappeared and suddenly, everything became as clear as a very clean windshield right after it's been cleaned by one of those guys waiting at the stoplight that you really don't want to clean your windshield, but he does it anyway and then you slide a dollar out of the top of your window out of guilt and he cusses you for the cheap skinflint that you are, but you didn't want him to clean it in the first place and who asked him and why doesn't he get a real job so you drive away with a clear conscience, just as clear as your windshield.

It was Race. Father Race Rankle. I had watched him die, or thought I had, in my office, poisoned by Lilith Hammerschmidt after Race had squelched her dream of being the upstairs maid at a high-rise leper colony that was permanently unclean.

"Oh, I was dead all right," said Father Rankle, obviously reading my thought-bubble narrative. "Undead to be exact."

***

Our short All Saints' service was uneventful. Vicar McTavish had declined to preside, having pressing business at Grandfather Mountain, so we made do with a couple of hymns, scripture readings, and prayers. When we were finished, the choir members who were present (and who comprised most of the congregation) dutifully made their way up the steps to the choir loft.

"Better and better," said Muffy LeMieux, perusing my latest chapter. "I think you've really got something going here. I just love the Amish vampires. I can just picture them in their little outfits with their little hats and beards. They're so cute!"

"Don't encourage him," said Meg. "A man that flattereth his neighbor spreadeth a net for his feet."

"Huh?" I said.

Meg held her iPad up. "Proverbs 29:5-6. 'In the transgression of a bad writer there is a snare: but the righteous one doth sing and rejoice.'"

"Methinks you may be editorializing," I said.

"Well, I really hate vampires."

"Here's my favorite proverb," said Mark Wells. "'Do not eat anything you find already dead. You may give it to an alien.'"

"
What?
" exclaimed Tiff. "Why would anyone eat anything they found already dead?" She'd vacated her usual seat and moved forward a row to sit next to Martha in anticipation of Dr. Ian Burch's arrival. All the altos had.

"Who are these aliens you speak of?" asked Randy from the tenor section. "I thought the Bible says that there aren't any aliens."

I sighed.

"What about Jonah?" said Rebecca. "Remember when Hayden proved that Jonah was in the belly of a spaceship for three days? Those were probably aliens. Or else ancient Egyptians with spaceships."

"I did no such thing," I said. "Now let's look at the Puccini
Requiem
. We'll plan to sing it at the offertory, but I don't really know what's going to happen on Sunday, because Kimberly Walnut has a Congregational Enlivener coming to the service."

"I heard about that," said Sheila. "Is it true they're passing out Spirit Sticks?"

"To the kids," Bev said. "Just to the kids."

"What do you do with a Spirit Stick?" asked Steve. "Isn't that some sort of pep-rally thing?"

"A pep-rally for Jesus," said Bev with a heavy sigh. "That's just great."

"I saw the sticks," said Elaine. "They were in the office. The box said they were 'Boomwhackers,' whatever those are."

"Yes," I said. "I hate to interrupt, but we should really look at this anthem..."

"I know what Boomwhackers are," said Tiff. "We have to use them in our elementary ed music classes. They're plastic tubes you bang on things or hit with mallets. They make sort of a hollow sound, but they're tuned to the musical scale."

"Better and better," said Bev.

"You see," I continued, "Mr. Puccini didn't write an entire requiem, he just..."

"HONNNNK!" went Dr. Ian Burch's nose as it announced his arrival, followed by a nasal, "Sorry I'm late. Has anyone seen Tiff?" He spotted her a second later, frowned, and glared at Martha as if the new seating arrangements were her fault. "What's going on here?" he sputtered.

"Hi, Ian," I said. "We were just getting started. I put Tiff up here in with Martha in the front row because I thought the blend would be better."

"It certainly will not!" said Ian emphatically. "In point of fact, in a monograph by François de Baptiste in 1456..."

"That's an excellent point!" I said. "So after the introduction, everyone is in unison at measure six..."

"You know what I heard?" said Phil. "I heard that we were having that crazy civet cat coffee for coffee hour after the service on Sunday. Kimmy Jo Jameson donated it for the All Saints' Day celebration. It's like twenty bucks a cup!"

"Where did you hear that?" Bob Solomon asked.

"Mattie Lou Entriken told me. She and Wynette had to sign for it. We're also having coffee cakes, tortes, cannolis... the works! All courtesy of Yardborough's bakery."

"You know who liked coffee," said Ian Burch, sadly and almost to himself. "Flori Cabbage. Flori Cabbage liked coffee."

"I've seen it advertised over at Holy Grounds," said Rebecca. "Kylie Moffit says it's the world's finest coffee, but I never bought any. It's way too expensive. I'd certainly try it."

"I don't even like coffee," said Sheila, "and I'm going to try it."

"I had a taste once," said Muffy. "It's called Kopi Luwak. The cat eats the beans and poops 'em back out. It was good I guess, but I kept thinking I tasted a little litter-box flavor."

"I'm sure we'll all be happy to give it a try," I said. "Now then, following along, at measure twenty-nine..."

"Here it is!" Marjorie sang out, waving a pew Bible aloft. "Proverbs 31:6. 'Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish.'"

"What are you talking about?" said Dr. Ian Burch, PhD.

"Try to keep up, Ian," said Marjorie patiently. "We're discussing the Proverbs. I think it's fair to say that this is a scripture that can speak to all of us. Now, let us pray..."

***

Thursday morning dawned cold and gray. I had a feeling leaf season was over. There were still a few colors left on the trees to be sure, but when the forecasted weather front came over the mountains, it was only a matter of days before the rain would beat the remaining foliage into soggy submission. It was one of those mornings when running was going to be a chore, and although I'd been diligent over the past few weeks, I was now thinking seriously about buying a treadmill. Still, Baxter enjoyed the run and as long as it wasn't raining buckets, I decided that the two mile jog down the road and back was worth the effort. Two miles for me, about sixteen for Baxter by the time he'd finished with every squirrel, groundhog, and rabbit within sniffing distance.

I got back to the house just as the drizzle started. Baxter decided that a little rain never bothered a dog of his stature and took off to the river after a family of beavers that had been taunting him since July. I walked into the kitchen and kissed Meg on top of her head. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea, her particular favorite, and reading the latest issue of
Harper's
magazine.

"Good morning," I said. "Coffee?"

"Already made. Have any revelations while you were running?"

"Yep. I did." I got the coffee pot and poured myself a mugful, and sat down opposite Meg. She was beautiful in the morning. She was beautiful anytime, but in her robe, with her black hair tousled and her face scrubbed, she took my breath away.

"Well?" She closed her magazine, picked up her tea with both hands, and blew across the cup. Her gray eyes danced across the table top and she accorded me her full attention.

"Here's the thing," I said. "Where'd he get the pumpkin?"

A look of confusion crossed her face. "Where'd who get what pumpkin?"

"Where did the guy who killed Flori Cabbage get the pumpkin that he stuck on her head after he killed her? There weren't any pumpkins in the hay maze. There weren't any pumpkins available in town at all. Roger at the Pig never ordered any. The only place he could have gotten one..."

"Was at the carnival," said Meg. "Of course! The DaNGLs were selling pumpkins. They were doing pumpkin carving at their booth."

"Right. But this pumpkin wasn't carved. He didn't have time to carve it, or maybe didn't want her face seen through the gaps. He just drew a face on it with magic marker."

"Then cut the bottom out and stuck it on her head," said Meg.

"So if Flori Cabbage was killed between 5:30 and six, or there about, the carnival would have been shutting down. The pumpkin was probably an afterthought, meant to confuse anyone who found her into thinking she was part of the spooky decor. Maybe give the killer a couple of hours head start. Maybe give him time to search her house."

"The carnival was closing up," said Meg, "so whoever it was that got it was probably the last person at the booth. I mean, who would buy a pumpkin at the end of a Halloween celebration?"

"Exactly."

"One of the DaNGLs might remember who that was," said Meg.

"Maybe," I said. "But I sure don't want to go out to Camp Possumtickle."

"Camp Daystar," Meg corrected.

"Yeah. Wanna come with me?"

"No, thank you!"

***

The clouds had come in low and they hung in the hollers of the mountains like the smoke that gave the range its name. I drove my old truck carefully around the curves, the fog appearing and disappearing depending on the bend in the road. The rain was still spitting and my wipers were clicking almost in time with the recording of Beethoven's Second that I had in the CD player. The leaves would start dropping in bushel baskets as soon as the rain started in earnest. The merchants in the region had all been hoping for one more good weekend, but it wasn't to be. The next influx of visitors into our little town would be Thanksgiving weekend and would continue through Christmas.

A flock of wild turkeys, eight or nine in all, skipped across the road in front of me and I tapped on the brakes to slow my speed. A car passed me in the opposite direction and I flashed my headlights, a signal for the driver to turn on his own. I checked my rear-view mirror. He did. Beethoven's symphony went into the second movement, one of my favorites. Ten minutes long, it is one of Beethoven's most enjoyable symphonic slow movements and perfect for driving in the mountains. I'd have to treat Meg to this one, I decided.

I pulled into the town square just as the double-reed quartet was beginning their side-slapping Austrian
scherzo
in the third movement. Nancy was standing in the road outside the station leaning into a car window. I pulled into my parking spot and got out of the car just as she finished up, waved at the driver, and hustled into the station out of the nasty weather.

"What a miserable day," she said. "That guy was lost. He was looking for Banner Elk."

"I'll bet he's glad he found you, then. Most folks would have sent him straight to 184. I'll bet you pointed him toward that shortcut up Old Chambers."