The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  “Well, I mean really.”

  “But I’m not as young as I used to be. Forty-seven next month. I guess I’m due for some nipping and tucking.”

  “Rhiza, I ask you this as your friend and as someone who looks at you, albeit from a distance, with lust in his heart. Please, do not do it.”

  “Well, not yet anyway,” she said, with a smile.

  “Is that all?” I asked. “That hardly seems like enough evidence.”

  “No. There’s also the usual stuff. Lying about his whereabouts, money missing out of the accounts. He thinks I don’t know, but I found the password to his accounts years ago. I used to check them every couple weeks or so.”

  “Have you checked them lately?”

  “Not for about a month, but over the past couple of years, there’s been about a hundred thousand or so taken out.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s a lot.”

  “It’s not that I mind so much. I know why he married me. Don’t forget. I was the other woman. But, you know, I’ve been with him for ten years now. I love him I guess, but I think it’s about over. You remember his fling with Loraine Ryan?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “The Reverend Mother Ryan. That was a mess.”

  “Well, he still sees her, I think. She’s up near Greensboro somewhere.”

  “She was defrocked, as I recall.”

  “Yes, she was,” Rhiza said. “But she opened a counseling office. Last year, he decided he didn’t trust me to be faithful to him, so we decided to arrange a post-nuptial agreement.”

  “You agreed to that?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Rhiza, holding out her coffee cup for a refill. “I’m sure it was Loraine’s idea, and I have no intention of being unfaithful to Malcolm. Sex is just sex. I can take it or leave it, and if it’s going to cost me a few million dollars, I’ll leave it.” She sighed. “It’s just sad.”

  “It is sad,” I agreed.

  • • •

  As I drove up to the station, the snow was still falling — big wet flakes that stuck to whatever they touched.

  “Any new suspects today?” asked Nancy, as I walked in.

  “I don’t think so. How many do we have now? Five?”

  “Five.”

  “Make it six,” I said. “I talked to Dr. Camelback’s office this morning.”

  “The plastic surgeon?”

  “Yep. Did you know you could get a voice-lift?”

  “Umm…no, I didn’t,” said Nancy. “What is it?”

  “It’s a procedure whereby the plastic surgeon tightens your vocal folds, thus making your voice sound less old than it really is.”

  “Okay. What has that got to do with us?”

  “Marilyn heard Agnes Day ask Renee how her voice-lift was working out. Agnes Day used to be the office nurse for Dr. Camelback, and she recognized Renee from one of her visits. Now, I couldn’t get any info out of Dr. Camelback’s current nurse, but I’m betting that Renee had that voice lift done and doesn’t especially want anyone to know about it.”

  “Who would care?”

  “You haven’t met many operatic sopranos have you?” I asked. “Having a voice-lift would be the professional death-knell if anyone found out. It would be like using steroids if you were a baseball player.”

  “Well, that never happens.”

  “You get the point.”

  “I get the point. So,” Nancy said, “you’d think she’d kill to keep that secret?’

  “Well, it’s embarrassing, certainly. But, if it were me, I wouldn’t kill anyone. Then again, I’m not a soprano.”

  “I’ll put her on the list. That’s six then.”

  “Can we count any of them out?” I asked. “Do any of them have alibis?”

  “Let’s see,” said Nancy, pulling out her pad. “I don’t know about Renee Tatton yet, but at the time of the murder, Annette Passaglio was in the parish hall. She had gone in for coffee.”

  “I didn’t see her, and I was there,” I said. “She might have gone in earlier than we did, but she certainly could have gone back upstairs.”

  “Russ Stafford says he was out at the Clifftops. No witnesses. Benny Dawkins was at the service that morning. You remember. He was swinging the incense pot. He says he put the pot back in the sacristy after the service and went home. He lives alone. No one saw him after the service, and no one saw him leave.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Ruthie Haggarty made her bail and got out of jail at about eight on Sunday morning. I talked to her neighbors. She didn’t go home. She told me that she did, but changed her mind when I asked her why her neighbors never saw her car. Then she remembered that she went shopping in Boone.”

  “On Sunday morning?”

  “That’s what I thought, too. She says she spent the morning in Wal-Mart, but didn’t buy anything.”

  “She’s lying. No one goes to Wal-Mart and doesn’t buy anything. Does the store have any surveillance tapes?”

  “Nope. It’s been too long. They record over them if they don’t need them.”

  “Figures,” I said.

  “I can’t find Kenny Frazier anywhere. No one’s seen him since Saturday.”

  “How many is that? Six? And we can’t rule anyone out.”

  “That’s everyone,” said Nancy. “So far.”

  • • •

  I had sworn off staff meetings, but I made an exception on Thursday afternoon. I thought it might be advantageous to know what was going to happen during the upcoming services, and Father George had called a meeting for everyone who was involved.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he began. “I’m sure that your participation will help make our worship during Holy Week meaningful for everyone.” We all smiled politely and nodded our heads.

  “Now Brenda needs to fill us in on a few last-minute details.”

  Brenda was carrying quite a sheaf of papers, all stapled neatly in separate stacks, and bulletins for everyone, all which were handed out in short order. When everyone had received his or her handouts, she pulled out her clipboard and began.

  “Let’s begin with tonight’s service,” she said, flipping through her pages. “It’s pretty straightforward. We’re doing a dramatic reading of the Passion. All you readers make sure you read over your passages beforehand. Bob? There’s been a change. You’ll have to read Pilate’s part as well as Peter’s. Chuck can’t be here.” She looked over at me. “Unless Hayden wants to do it.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, still looking over the bulletin. “I’ve got enough to worry about.”

  “Fine,” said Brenda, in her huffity, put-upon voice. “Then Bob will have to do it.”

  “Bob’s not here,” said Georgia.

  “I called him a month ago. He said he was coming.”

  “That may well be,” replied Georgia, “but he’s not here.”

  “I’ll deal with it later,” said Brenda. “Let’s talk about the rest of the service. After the dramatic reading of the Gospel, we’re going to have a foot-washing service.”

  “Foot-washing?” I said. “Will you actually be the one washing the feet?”

  “No,” said Brenda.

  “Oh, Father George, then,” I said.

  “No,” said Father George.

  “We went back to the original intent of the service of foot-washing,” Brenda explained. “As you know, in Biblical times, it was important for travelers to have their feet washed when entering a house. They wore sandals and the roads were very dusty, so the servants would wash the guests’ feet.”

  “I remember,” I said. “Making Jesus’ act of washing his disciples’ feet all the more significant. It’s a very moving experience, both for the clergy, who assumes the role of the servant, and the person for whom it is done.”

  “Well, I’m not very comfortable with that,” said Father George. “And neither is Brenda. We didn’t think that many people would come up to get their feet washed and quite frankly, with that outbreak of toe-nail fungus
that’s been on the television every five minutes, it’s probably very dangerous.”

  “That’s a commercial for Lamisil, not a news report. I doubt that toe-nail fungus has reached epidemic proportions in Watauga County.”

  “It really doesn’t matter,” Brenda explained. “You see, Hayden, since we now have modern footwear, paved roads, and cars, it’s no longer important for people to have their feet washed after traveling. We’ve decided to update the service.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  She continued. “We’ll be using the traditional liturgy, but instead of washing people’s feet, we’re going to shine their shoes.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  Father George jumped in. “They will have, metaphorically speaking, gotten dust on their shoes on their way to the gathering of the faithful.”

  “So you two are going to shine all our shoes?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “We could hardly do that. There wouldn’t be time. When people come up for communion, they’ll take the bread and wine, then move off to either side where we will have two stations set up.”

  “Stations?” I asked, still not comprehending.

  “For heaven’s sakes, Hayden,” said Elaine, with a smirk. “Get with the program. Two stations of electric shoe polishers.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I understand perfectly. Electric shoe polishers.”

  “It’s much more relevant to today’s society,” Brenda said defensively.

  “I’m sure it will be very special to many people who need their shoes shined,” I said.

  “No need to be so condescending,” said Elaine, trying to raise my ecclesiastical ire. “We’re all looking forward to the service.”

  Elaine could make all the snide comments she wanted. I wasn’t going to rise to the bait. I turned back to Brenda. “You’ll want me to play during communion, right?”

  “Yes,” said Brenda, “and also during the Nailing Service after the choir sings.” I looked at her blankly.

  “I gave Agnes Day the song I wanted the choir to sing during the nailing service,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I’m sure you rehearsed it last night. Feel the Nails?”

  “Actually, we had to change that one,” I said, with an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t know anything about a Nailing Service.”

  “Look at your bulletin,” she said in exasperation. “See these post-it-notes?” She pointed to a lavender note stuck inside the front page. “After the stripping of the altar, we’re going to write down our sins.”

  “All of them?” I asked, as I peeled the two by two-inch note off the bulletin. “On this?”

  She ignored me. “Then we’re going to take them up to the altar and nail them to the big wooden cross.”

  “Nail them to the cross?”

  “Everyone that wants to.”

  “Do we have enough nails?” I asked. Elaine stifled a giggle. “No, really,” I said. “That’s a lot of people. It’s going to take a while.”

  “We thought of that,” said Father George, proudly. “That’s why we have a nail-gun.”

  Chapter 15

  I called the coppers and told them what I knew. Not everything, of course, just enough to get me out of the door and back on the street. They thought it might be suicide, but then, they were being paid by the city, and it didn’t do them any good to think too hard. The coroner said she’d been dead for a couple of hours.

  Pedro met me at the corner. He had heard about Memphis. News traveled fast in the district.

  “C’mon,” he said. “I know a new place. We’ll go and get a drink.”

  • • •

  “Will you be handing out the story-so-far to the choir?” Meg asked.

  “Yep. I must keep my public happy.”

  We were down in the workroom of St. Barnabas where the copy machine was housed. I was copying a few pages of my music to avoid page turns, and I had put my latest opus on the machine as well. The story wasn’t finished yet, but it was far enough along to make for good reading. Or so I thought.

  “When is this one going up on the blog?” Meg asked. “What’s it called again?”

  “The Usual Suspects. The Alto Wore Tweed should be up next week. Then I’ll be famous.”

  “What about your other efforts?” Meg asked.

  “The Baritone Wore Chiffon comes out the first week of May. The Tenor Wore Tapshoes in June. This one in August. I’ve already signed the contract.”

  “You get paid for this?”

  “Actually, no. Not exactly.”

  “What? You get a T-shirt or a coffee mug or something?”

  “Well…no.”

  “Wait a minute…you don’t pay them, do you?”

  “Umm…” I said. “Not much. It’s more of a contribution, really.”

  “A lot?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not a lot. Certainly not a lot. Besides, my work will be read by literally millions of people.”

  Meg’s eyebrows went up.

  “Okay, thousands. I’m sure it’s thousands. Maybe even hundreds. And, as you know, I’m tuning up for the Bulwer-Lytton Competition in June. I think I have a real shot this year.”

  “You’re tuning up to write the world’s worst sentence?”

  “We athletes need to keep up our training.”

  • • •

  The service started at six. I played the prelude and then followed along in the bulletin. There was a hymn — Seek Ye First The Kingdom Of God — that I thought was an odd choice for a Holy Week service, but then, I was just the reserve backup substitute organist, and it was my job to play ’em, not comment on ’em. We sang the Kyrie, heard the Old Testament reading and chanted Psalm 78. Then we skipped the Epistle in favor of the dramatic Passion Gospel, which was going pretty smoothly until the Apostle Peter was due to speak. Then there was silence.

  “I tell you I don’t know him,” said Brenda, finally breaking the lull by denying Jesus in her lowest voice. Obviously, Bob hadn’t shown up. I guessed that Pilate would be a low alto as well. I wasn’t disappointed.

  “Are you the King of the Jews?” Brenda growled, when Pilate’s line came up.

  “Yes, it is as you say,” replied Father George.

  Brenda hadn’t given herself a part in the drama, there being very few roles for women in the Passion Gospel. In fact, much to her dismay, the only woman that she was able to cast was Lynn Askew as the narrator. Now that Brenda had a part to play, however, it was apparent that she was going to make the most of it.

  “What shall I do, then, with the one you call the King of the Jews?” Brenda asked the congregation, her voice rising. “WHAT SHALL I DO?”

  “Crucify him?” the congregation muttered, following along in their programs, but not quite into the spirit of the narrative and apparently, not quite sure exactly what to do with the King of the Jews.

  “Why? What crime has he committed?” Brenda called out, her voice climbing.

  “But they shouted all the louder…” said Lynn, trying to match Brenda’s enthusiasm, yet tempered by a genteel southerner’s restraint.

  “Crucify him?” mumbled the congregation, still unsure of their stature as a mob.

  Lynn continued narrating. “Wanting to satisfy the crowd, Pilate released Barabbas to them.”

  “The rabble could have used a little rehearsal,” said Meg, under her breath.

  “I notice that you didn’t yell ‘Crucify him,’” whispered Georgia.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t yell in church,” said Meg, sweetly. “You didn’t yell either.”

  “I had a tickle in my throat,” said Georgia.

  “I think that Marjorie yelled,” said Bev, looking over to the tenor section. “At least once.”

  “I think that’s because she fell out of her chair and woke up,” Meg said.

  “Be quiet,” I whispered, “and stand up for the next hymn.”

  • • •

  “The gifts of God for the people of God,” said Father Geo
rge. “Take them in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on Him in your hearts by faith, with thanksgiving.”

  “This story’s pretty good, and by that I mean really bad,” said Rebecca as she stood up to go downstairs. “You might just win this year.” I smiled and nodded. This was high praise from a librarian.

  “Are you going down for communion?” whispered Meg.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Tonight, I’ll just play. I’ll come back tomorrow when the electric shoe polishers are finished whirring.”

  Our anthem during the offertory had gone very well, and Brenda had given the congregation instruction and their spiritual motivation for having their shoes polished. I looked down from the balcony before I began my variations on Herzliebster Jesu. There were two ushers standing like soldiers behind the electric shoe polishers in case anyone needed help, but Elaine had told me that the shoe polishers were automatic. You just put your foot under the black, fuzzy roller, triggered the switch, and the apparatus went into action. I could play a couple of stanzas before I had to pay attention to the score, so I kept shifting my gaze back and forth between the front of the church and the music that was in front of me. As was our custom, the whole choir had gone downstairs to receive communion first, before heading back to the choir loft to lead the post-communion hymn.

  I immediately saw that there were a couple of major flaws in Brenda’s plan. Firstly, the electric shoe polishers were not silent. They sounded like two high-powered hair dryers. It was pointless for me to play anything with all that racket going on, and by the end of stanza two, I pushed the organ up to warp five.

  Secondly, there was really no option for people not to have their shoes shined. They received communion, stood up, and were herded automatically into the shoe-shining line.

  Thirdly (and this was unfortunate), there was no way for anyone to tell when his or her shoes were finished. The polisher kept going as long as there was a shoe underneath it, so, where as communion usually takes all of thirty seconds per person, shoe shining took a minute or more. Before long, the line wound all the way around the church, and I could now hear the shoe-ushers shouting and herding the customers over the noise. But I was just the reserve backup substitute organist, and I launched into another variation with gusto.