The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) (5 page)

"That's quite a grudge," I said.

Noylene wagged a finger at me. "I'm sorry," she continued, "but when something's in your cart, it's your own rightful property unless you put it back on the shelf or leave the store for any reason. That's the law. Says so in the Constitution."

Pete nodded his agreement. "I'm no Constitutional scholar, but I believe she's right."

"Oh, that was just the beginning," said Noylene, her eyes brightening just a bit. "We been at it grammar and prongs ever since."

"We are defined by our enemies," I said.

Noylene looked puzzled, then glanced toward the front door as she heard the cowbell clank. "I guess. Anyway, here's Cynthia. She's picking up my shift."

We looked toward the door and saw Cynthia Johnsson making her way through the crowd gathered at the entrance of the café.

"Thanks for the pancakes, Noylene," said Dave. "You're a peach!"

Noylene accorded him a wan smile, tossed her apron into a laundry basket behind the counter, and disappeared through the kitchen. My phone buzzed and I took it out and looked at it. A text from Meg.

"You know how to text?" said Nancy. "When did this happen?"

"I don't really know how to text, but I know how to read. They're two different and mutually exclusive skill sets. See?"

I held the phone up so Nancy could see it.

"I just pick the phone up and read it. It's amazing."

"But you can't actually
send
a text?" asked Dave.

"I guess I could if I wanted to," I replied, "but why bother? I just pick up the phone and call."

"Maybe the person on the other end doesn't want to talk to you," said Cynthia. She now had her apron on and was filling coffee cups around the table. "With a text, you can say a few quick words and be done. You don't have to chat about the weather and such. You can get off the phone quick."

"I do that now," I said.

"It's true," agreed Nancy. "He does. No chitchat. So what did Meg want?"

"See, that's another thing. As soon as your phone dings, everyone wants to know what someone wants."

"Ooo," said Nancy, blowing across the top of her coffee and then taking a slurp. "Touchy."

I sighed. "I'm supposed to meet her and Bev and Gaylen at the church. Right now. Big meeting."

"Not good news I'll bet," said Pete.

"No sir," I said. "I suspect not."

Chapter 3

St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, the oldest church in St. Germaine, was founded in 1846. It has an unusual history including two devastating fires and some genuine miracles. The first of these (both the fire and the miracle) happened in January of 1899. When the parishioners showed up for services on that icy winter morning, they found their church building in smoldering ruins. They were shocked and saddened, of course, but this shock soon gave way to wonder and then to praise as the congregants gathered around the altar of St. Barnabas—an altar that should have been destroyed in the fire, but had instead been discovered outside the church in the snow, all the communion elements in place. The consensus of those looking upon the miracle was that the heavy altar had been transported outside the inferno by angels. The marble top of the table had been replaced a few years ago, but that didn't seem to bother anyone. The legend of the angelic intervention was gospel in our part of the country.

The second church building was constructed in the early 1900s. It was a beautiful stone and wood church built on a familiar design. The nave, or main body of the church, was in the shape of a cross. The transepts, near the front formed the arms of the cross. The high altar (after having survived the fire) was placed on the dais in the front, a smaller Mary altar in a transept, with the choir and the pipe organ in the back balcony. The steps to the choir loft were in the narthex, the entrance to the church. The sacristy, where the clergy put on their vestments and where communion was prepared, was behind the front wall. Two invisible doors in the paneling behind the altar offered access to the sacristy from the nave. It wasn’t a large structure. Seating was limited to about two hundred fifty.

That building burned to the ground at Thanksgiving three years ago.

I exited the Slab Café, crossed the street and made my way across Sterling Park, loose leaves rustling underfoot with every step. The dark red doors of St. Barnabas were standing open, as was our tradition in good weather at least, a welcoming gesture to all those tourists who found themselves milling around St. Germaine and in need of a brief respite.

There were two miracles that occurred on the fateful Thanksgiving weekend that St. Barnabas burned. First and most importantly, no one was hurt despite the fact that the church had been full of people attending a Thanksgiving pageant. Added to that, there was no other damage to the town of St. Germaine, even though the church sat on the town square in close proximity to many other structures. This was thanks, in large part, to the St. Germaine Volunteer Fire Department. They couldn't save the church—that much was clear to everyone watching—but they could try to contain the fire, and contain it they did with a mix of heroics, teamwork, and many muttered prayers.

The second miracle was the one that the town still talks about, at least those folks who believe in angels.

On the morning after the fire, it was discovered that while everyone was occupied with the chaos that was raging on the town square, the altar of St. Barnabas—the holy table that had been part of the fabric of the church since 1842—had been moved from the burning building into the park across the street. When the congregation gathered together in the frosty morning air, intent on having a service of thanksgiving, they found the altar, upright and unscathed amongst the brightly colored leaves, the communion bread and the wine sitting on the marble top.

The rebuilding took nineteen months and the new building looked almost exactly like the old. The dilapidated old house on the lot behind the church, left to St. Barnabas when the owner died, had been torn down and the lot turned into a garden, a lovely addition that had been landscaped to take advantage of the mature maples, oaks, poplars, and dogwoods that, in summer, formed a canopy across the almost-one-acre lot, and in autumn, afforded as colorful a view behind the church as Sterling Park did in front.

I entered the church through the side door and heard voices coming from Gaylen Weatherall's office almost immediately. Marilyn, the church secretary, was sitting glumly at her desk, pretending to push some papers around. She nodded toward the adjoining office and I knocked on the door jamb, then entered when Gaylen motioned me in.

Meg was sitting in one of the fabric-covered wingback chairs facing Gaylen's desk, drinking a cup of coffee, the picture of calm. Bev Greene, the parish administrator, was in the other wingback, close enough to the big desk to drum her fingers across the dark mahogany. There were four folding chairs set up in the office behind the two upholstered ones, but the other three people besides myself—Billy and Elaine Hixon and Carol Sterling—chose not to sit. The air of resignation was palpable.

"Well," started Gaylen, "I guess we all know why we're here."

No answer. I glanced at Elaine. She looked as though someone was about to punch her.

"I've been elected to be the Bishop of the Diocese of Northern California."

"Aw, crap!" said Billy. "I knew it."

"I asked them to hold off on the announcement until I informed the parish."

"Well, the cat's out of the bag now," I said.

A puzzled look crossed Gaylen's face.

"Meg sent me a text while I was at the Slab informing me of the meeting," I explained. "I'm afraid that conclusions were jumped to. By now, the word is on the street."

"Can't you keep your texts to yourself?" asked Bev.

I raised my hands. "It wasn't my fault. The phone dinged."

Meg graciously changed the subject. "When do you leave?" she asked Gaylen.

"This will be my last Sunday," said Gaylen. "I'm not going to drag this out since we've all gone through this before. I'm welcome to start my new position as soon as I want."

"Oh, that's just great," said Carol. "What are we going to do for a priest? All Saints' Sunday is coming up and Advent is right around the corner."

"I shall not leave you comfortless," said Gaylen with a smile. "Everything is planned through Christmas. You'll be happy to know we already found a supply priest. He's waiting in the parish hall to meet everyone."

"Anyone we know?" asked Bev.

"I don't think so," said Gaylen. "Although I understand that he has family in the area. Maybe a brother. He's a priest in Scotland, here on a three-month sabbatical. His diocese in Aberdeen wants to plant a sister church near Grandfather Mountain. There's quite a Scottish heritage up this way, you know. He'll be moving here full-time when the diocese gets the church up and running."

"So he's starting a new church from scratch?" asked Billy.

"That's the plan," said Gaylen. "A Scottish Episcopal church. Until then, he's certainly willing to act as a supply priest for St. Barnabas. At least for the next three months, or until the search committee can fill the position."

"How did you find him?" asked Bev.

"It was almost like a miracle," answered Gaylen with a smile. "The very day I found out I'd been elected bishop, he knocked on my door and introduced himself and told me he'd love to stand in if ever I was unavailable. He had his Scottish Episcopal ordination papers in his hand. A quick call to Bishop O’Connell and it was a done deal."

"Hang on," I said. "He has a brother in town?"

"I believe so," said Gaylen, puzzling for a moment. "I think it must be a brother."

"Well," said Billy. "Let's go meet this fellow."

"What's his name?" Meg asked, suddenly wary.

"Fearghus McTavish," said Gaylen. "He's a colorful character. I think you'll all get along just fine. He's got a wonderful Scottish brogue and he wears a kilt."

Meg lost her color and looked over at me. "Oh my," she managed. "Well, I guess... for a little while..."

"You know him?" asked Gaylen, suddenly concerned.

"No," I said. "But I think we might know his brother."

***

Fearghus McTavish stood at attention in front of the fireplace. His hands were clasped behind his back and his neck bulged with muscles that seemed to belie his current profession as a minister of the gospel. Most priests that I knew boasted a less formidable physique.

"Maybe that's not Hog's brother," whispered Meg as we gaped, astonished, at the massive figure standing before us. "Doesn't look anything like him."

Hogmanay McTavish, known to us as Brother Hog, was a corpulent man, a short and plump tent-evangelist with one defining feature: one of the finest "comb-overs" that any of us had ever seen. His one long strand of silver hair sprouted behind one ear, swung across his brow, circled his head once, then twice, then terminated in the middle of his tufted nest, fastened to his bald pate with a piece of toupee tape.

The man in front of us bore no resemblance to Hog whatsoever, being over six feet tall, muscular, hairy, and built like a professional wrestler. He was wearing a kilt—shades of red, light blue, and black plaid—in what I assumed was the traditional McTavish tartan. His kilt-hose, heavy woolen socks that stretched over his massive calves, were shades of gray and had the nubby look of handmade apparel. He was wearing a navy jacket over a starched white shirt and a striped regimental tie. The coat tugged against the bulk of his shoulders. I knew the look. A cheap, off-the-rack wool blazer for a physique that was anything but off-the-rack. His hair was thick, coppery-red, and cut short, and he sported a close-cropped beard and a huge imperial mustache. He had the ruddy complexion of a redhead and a hard edge in his green eyes that glowered at us from under eyebrows that looked like ginger-colored ferrets. He tried to give us what might have passed for a smile, although it was difficult to tell, his yellow, gap-toothed attempt being mostly hidden by his walrus whiskers. The effect was rather staggering. Staggering and terrifying. This was a man who obviously had little occasion to smile and the allowance, once made, disappeared quickly from his visage.

"I'd like to introduce Father McTavish..." started Gaylen.

"Vicar," corrected the Scotsman in a heavy brogue that rattled out of his mouth through clenched teeth. "I am a minister of the Gospel, not some primate's bootlicker. I prefer to be called Vicar."