The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) (7 page)

***

Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, turned out to be one heck of a countertenor and navigated the exposed alto part in the anthem with ease. When we completed the final cadence, everyone turned to him in amazement, then burst out in a cacophony of appreciation and delight. Ian was obviously embarrassed, but gratified at the approbation and honked his thanks. We went through the Psalm and our short communion anthem, a lovely piece titled
When Rooks Fly Homeward
by Arthur Baynon that was one of Gaylen Weatherall's favorites and what would be the choir's musical farewell to a good and much-loved priest. Then the choir made for the sacristy to put on their vestments and take their places for the processional hymn.

The first part of the service went fairly smoothly. Gaylen announced her plans to leave us for the verdant hills of Northern California, but almost everyone had already heard the news. The grapevine of St. Barnabas was nothing if not effective. She said goodbye to the children during the Children's Moment, introduced her replacement, Vicar Fearghus McTavish from St. Drinstan's parish in Old Muke, Scotland, and incorporated her impending departure nicely into her sermon. The only slightly strange business was the obdurate and grim presence of the priest. He stood, ramrod straight, off to the side of the altar, and didn't move at all after he'd assumed his place. He was even more imposing in his clerical garb than he was in his tartans, looking imperial in a long black cassock with two white preaching tabs. We sang the anthem at the offertory and it went splendidly. Ian did a yeoman's job with the alto part and Rebecca, having a section leader she could depend on, followed with fearlessness.

We sang the Doxology and waited for the prayer. Gaylen was at the altar holding both offering plates aloft obviously waiting for Vicar McTavish to bless the gifts. After what seemed an interminable silence, he turned and faced the congregation. Then he raised his arms toward the heavens and prayed, in a tremendous bass voice:

"O most omnipotent, wrathful, and unforgiving Father. Sanctify these unwarranted mercies to us, the lowliest of miserable sinners. Let thy distress at our wanton grievousness be our distress, let thy anguish be our anguish. Make thy servants bow the knee to thy terrible majesty and grovel in the dust like the worms we are."

Meg looked at me, her eyes wide. Every other member of the choir was staring at the Scottish vicar.

"Holy smokes," muttered Bev. "Worms? We are in for it!"

"Turn our rancorous hearts from wickedness," continued McTavish. "Beat our carnal desires and lascivious thoughts from us as with a three-pronged flailing stick and blind us, yea Lord, even as thy servant Samson was blinded with white hot spikes driven into his eyes—yea even this, almighty and pitiless Father, to forfend the wanton blandishments of worldly things and turn our feckless endeavors toward thy continued glory. Amen."

"Amen," muttered the stunned congregation, most of them unable to get the image of white-hot spikes out of their minds.

Vicar McTavish growled. His lips were coated with flecks of foam as he seemed to contemplate, with a certain degree of satisfaction, the prospect of the members of his flock being spit roasted over the eternal bonfire. Then he clasped his hands together, then turned back and faced the communion table. He didn't move again until the clergy recessed during the last hymn. He certainly didn't take communion.

Chapter 5

I was still working the phones when the door to the office flung open and there she was, her hair whipping around her head like the tail of a horsefly-crazed pony--a beautiful pony named Tessie that my sister got as a Christmas present the same year I got a clock-radio, not that I'm bitter or anything--and that brings us back to the weather girl Tessie who was now standing in the doorway, not looking like a pony at all, but when she spoke, did turn out to be a little hoarse.

"Urgh," she croaked through lips that were as thin as her rain-soaked silk dress, her profile, her resumé, and her probable reason for coming to me. She sauntered across the floor like Saunterella, the sauntering siren of Sauntyville, and didn't really need to speak; her wet dress clinging to each delicious curve said it all: "I'm a beautiful but vacuous weather girl whose evil stepmother was just killed by vampire-hunting Methodist assassins," or maybe, "Do you know a good dry-cleaner?"

"I need help," she finally squawked in a voice that had failed to endear her to over fifteen men in three years. "My name's Tessie. Tessie Turra."

"I know who you are, Doll-face, and we all need help," I said, stuffing cotton in my ears, lighting up a stogie, and eyeing Tessie's assets--assets which, as far as I could see, and I could see plenty, did not include a checkbook. "You need help, I need help, even the Archbishop needs help. Why come to me?"

"I heard you were the best Liturgy Detective on the block. That, and that you might cut a girl a break if she didn't have the dough."

I looked at her. "Yeah? And?"

"My evil stepmother..."

"I know all about it. What else?"

She looked at me like a cow just before it's milked, horror and betrayal in her soft, brown eyes. "My sister's undead. She's been unmurdered and I think I'm next!"

I wasn't unsurprised.

"Undead?" said Meg.

"I'm taking advantage of all the vampire stories that are so hot at the moment. Vampires are very in. Georgia's having one of the authors do a signing at Eden Books."

"Ooo, that's a good plan," said Meg, with no little bit of sarcasm. "You'll enrapture all those teens that love a badly written, church music vampire mystery."

"Mock me if you will. I am secure in my aesthetic."

"I think that Halloween music is getting to you. What's playing?"

"Guess."

"I guess Holst. Something from
The Planets
."

I looked up at her from the typewriter. "You're exactly right. That was
Mars, the Bringer of War
."

She gave me a smile that made my socks tingle.

"You're getting pretty adept at this classical music stuff," I said, "but that was easy." I reached for my CD remote, clicked it, and the music changed abruptly. "How about this one?" I asked.

Meg thought for a moment. "
The Witch's Ride
from
Hansel and Gretel
."

I clicked again. She listened, then said, "
Mephisto Waltz No. 1
. Franz Liszt."

"Huh?... what?... you?..."

Meg smiled again and patted me on the cheek, then walked out of the room. I stared for a moment in bewilderment, then turned my attention back to the typewriter.

"Unmurdered, eh?"

"What else would you call it?" she whimpered wanly yet piteously. "She walks the streets all night long wearing shapeless black dresses and biting the necks of Methodists. That's why they're out to get her."

I'd heard of these abominations. We all had. Methodists... No, wait a second. I mean the Vampire Amish. I'd thought they were just a rumor--scuttlebutt thrown around by the Mennonite Red Cross to discredit the annual Amish Scouts' Cookie Sale. Now it seemed as though we were up to our necks in them. Our long, sweet, swanlike necks.

I grabbed my gun and her hand. "C'mon, toots. I know a guy who knows a guy."

***

On Wednesday morning Sterling Park was bustling. I'd stopped by the Holy Grounds coffee shop on my way into town and gotten a large cup of unpronounceable coffee made with the droppings of a civet cat on the recommendation of Kylie Moffit, our local barista. It was on sale for $9.95 per cup, but for the rarest coffee in the world, Kylie assured me, the price was quite a bargain. It was usually double that. She had received a big order and there was some left over. "That's why we're letting it go so cheap," she explained. "The order is for a special event, but the customer told us we were free to keep what was left over after he had what he needed. Nice, eh?"

Cheap or not, at ten bucks a cup, I didn't dare put any cream or sugar in it as was my custom. I was bound and determined to drink it straight up.

I sat down on a park bench, hoping to enjoy my midweek morning splurge as well as the wonderful late October weather and the activity in the park that characterized small town life here in the Appalachians. Our little burg was gearing up for the St. Germaine Halloween Carnival, and Cynthia Johnsson, in her capacity as mayor, was busy overseeing the installation of booths, games, and events that would comprise Saturday's festivities.

The carnival was the idea of the Kiwanis Club when it became apparent that the Rotary Club had a death grip on the town Christmas activities this year. Usually the Christmas parade and the Christmas Crèche—our "Living Nativity"—alternated between the two civic organizations, each club trying to outdo the other. Unfortunately, in late September, Beaver Jergenson's climate-controlled horse barn had burned down, and Beaver's barn was where the Kiwanis Club stored their Amish-built stable, costumes, manger, lighting equipment, and the rest of their Nativity paraphernalia. So, although it was the Kiwanians' turn to host the Christmas Crèche, it didn't look as though they had enough time to rebuild, revamp, refit, and make it all happen by Thanksgiving. Their stable had been beautiful, a mini-chalet straight from the front of a Swiss postcard that featured carved corbels and brackets, a gabled and thatched roof, exposed beams, painted gingerbread moulding and several balconies; they had been on the cover of
Our State
magazine, for heaven's sake, and they weren't about to take a step backward. If Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus had been in the Kiwanians' stable on that first Christmas, they'd have had to use their American Express card to tip the concierge for directions to Egypt.

When Beaver's barn burned down, the members of the Rotary Club had happily volunteered their own crèche, but made it clear that they weren't about to give up their rights to the parade. It was then that the Kiwanis Club brought forth their new idea of a Halloween Carnival, an idea that was quickly embraced by the town council, five of them being Kiwanians, and only four comprising the dissenting Rotarians. That all the proceeds raised from these civic endeavors went to benefit a common scholarship fund that was administered by the Friends of the Library made no difference. It was the competition that mattered.

Cynthia plopped down beside me with an exhausted huff.

"Good morning, Madam Mayor," I said. "How are things?"

"Oh, fine, I guess," said Cynthia. "What're you drinking?"

Cynthia's query was of a professional nature. She not only worked at the Slab, but also at the other two restaurants in town—the Ginger Cat, our expensive, boutique eatery with an unintelligible menu featuring such delicacies as roasted plantain and wood-fired caper sandwiches topped with plum duff couli—and the Bear and Brew, chiefly known for good pizza and twenty-two micro brews on tap. In addition, Cynthia sometimes worked the counter at Holy Grounds, but being one of the two professional waitresses in town, found that she didn't make enough tips at the coffee shop to make it worth her while.

"I think they call it Cat Crap coffee," I said, making a face. "I haven't made up my mind about it yet."

Cynthia laughed. "Kopi Luwak," she said. "Made from partially digested beans that have been redeposited on the fertile earth by the Asian palm civet cat. It's been called the world's finest coffee. I think it's an acquired taste."

"Ten bucks a cup."

"Well," said Cynthia, "you can afford it."

Cynthia was quite a looker, even though now well into her forties. Along with her part-time job as mayor and her full-time waitressing profession, she also found time for her passion: belly dancing. She said it kept her in shape and Pete Moss was happy to agree.

"How's the carnival shaping up?" I asked.

"Pretty well, I think. Booths are starting to go up and we have a lot of interest. The Kiwanis Club is in charge, of course, but the Rotary Club has a ring-toss game with big-ticket prizes."

I took a sip of coffee and tried to decide if it was any better than the seventy-five cent cup of coffee at the Slab.

"Halloween isn't until next Tuesday," I said.