The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  “Aaarrrgh!” shouted the congregation.

  “Arrrgh and aye, aye!” echoed the choir.

  “Awwwwk!” screeched Reefer.

  • • •

  Father Owen’s sermon was a good one, incorporating the analogy of the ship on turbulent waters as a metaphor for the church. He threw in Thomas’ doubt and Peter’s failure to trust Jesus during the storm for good measure.

  “Now we be takin’ a portion o’ your ill-gotten booty,” said Father Owen in one of the most succinct “offertory sentences” I’d ever heard. “Let the pillagin’ commence!”

  The offertory solo would be sung by Brad Jefferson, a college voice student at Mars Hill College. Brad had a lovely baritone voice, and his parents had volunteered him after hearing his Senior Recital earlier in the semester. His performance had included a song by John Ireland on a famous John Mansfield poem entitled Sea Fever. We had rehearsed it on Wednesday, and I was pretty sure this morning’s rendition would be just as gratifying.

  Brad, a blonde, strapping young man, stood on the steps of the nave, surrounded by pirates, dressed in an old fashioned navy shirt with blue and white horizontal stripes, black trousers and a red neckerchief.

  “He looks just like Billy Budd,” whispered Meg.

  “Yes, he does,” agreed Ruby. “If I were forty years younger…”

  “Mother!” hissed Meg.

  I must go down to the seas again,

  to the lonely sea and the sky,

  And all I ask is a tall ship

  and a star to steer her by,

  And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song

  and the white sail’s shaking,

  And a grey mist on the sea’s face,

  and a grey dawn breaking.

  It’s a nice song and Brad did a great job. The ushers, or bos’ns, as they were being called, stopped passing the plates after the first three lines, turned around and stood transfixed through the remainder of the three stanzas. This left me, at the end of the song, with some improvising to do, to get the plates passed and the booty collected, but I didn’t mind.

  “That was wonderful,” said Meg. “How come we never do that song at St. Barnabas?”

  “It’s not a religious piece,” I said. “But it sure was appropriate for this service.”

  “Yar,” said Mark, from the choir loft. “That chanty be so beautiful, it brung a tear to me wooden eye.”

  “Yar, yar,” answered the choir. “It were beauty itself.”

  “Awwwwk,” said Reefer, snapping another walnut shell.

  • • •

  The Sanctus — Holy, Holy, Holy Lord — was sung to the tune of What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor? and was led with vigor and verve by the Pirate Choir, swinging swords, muskets and more than a few flagons. If any of the singers got lost, they simply threw in a few arrrghs and jumped back in when they could. The congregation wasn’t being shy either, and the church shivered its timbers with the sound.

  “On th’ night he be handed o’er t’ sufferin’ an’ Davy Jones’ locker,” said Father Owen, “our Lord Jesus Christ took the hardtack; an’ when he had beat the weevils out, he give thanks t’ ye, broke it, gave it t’ his maties, an’ said, ‘Take and be eatin’. This be me Body, which be gi’en fer ye. Do this fer th’ remembrance o’ me.’”

  “Arrrgh,” muttered the crowd. “Aye, he did that fer us.”

  “After mess he took th’ cup o’ grog; an’ when he had given thanks, he gave it t’ them, an’ said, ‘Be drinkin’ this, all o’ ye: This be me Blood o’ th’ new Covenant, which be shed fer ye an’ fer many fer th’ forgiveness o’ sins. When ever ye be drinkin’ do this fer th’ remembrance o’ me.’ Tharfore, we proclaim th’ mystery o’ faith!”

  “Christ has sank t’ Davy Jones’ locker!” said the crowd. “Christ be risen! Christ will come again!”

  “The congregation is really into this,” said Meg. “Just listen to them. This is much better than the Clown Eucharist.”

  “Arrrgh,” I replied, with a nod. “And why not? The entire church is built like a boat. Upside down, I grant you, but look up. The word nave is derived from the Latin navis, a ship, probably an early reference to the ship of St. Peter or Noah’s Ark. In Gothic, as well as Romanesque churches, the sanctuary — the place where people gathered to worship — was built to resemble the vaulted keel shape of an inverted ship.”

  Meg nodded, looking up at the roof.

  “Alleluia! Christ our Passover be sacrificed fer us!” said Father Owen in a thunderous voice. He brought his hook down into a small, round loaf of bread with a resounding THUNK! Then he hoisted it above his head. “Tharfore let us keep the feast! And all the people replied…”

  “Aaarrrgh!” cheered the congregation.

  “Arrrgh and aye, aye!” answered the choir.

  It was at that moment that Reefer chose to speak for the first time in eight months.

  “Reefer want a cracker!” he cackled, leaping off Mark’s shoulder in a flurry of feathers and stretching his wings to their full five-foot span. In two beats he had cleared the choir, soared gracefully over the communion table, snatched the loaf off a surprised Father Owen’s upraised hook and headed for the open rafters.

  “Yar,” said Mark, shaking his head. “I been afraid this would happen.”

  “Did you see that?” Meg asked.

  “Did I ever!” replied Ruby. “That was great! Do you think he’ll bring it back?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Meg. “He’s already pulling it apart and eating it.”

  I looked up. Meg was right. Reefer had the loaf in one claw and was tearing pieces off with his beak. Crumbs rained down on the congregation like manna from heaven.

  “Reefer want a cracker,” he screeched again, pulling off another chunk and gobbling it down.

  “The gifts o’ God fer the people o’ God,” said Father Owen, picking up a second loaf and watching Reefer carefully lest he make another unadvertised swoop. “Take them in rememberin’ that Christ sank t’ Davy Jones’ Locker fer ye, an’ feed on th’ Lad in yer hearts by faith, wi’ thanksgivin’.”

  “Give us a swig!” screeched Reefer. “Make it a double.” The choir, unable to keep their buckaniacal glee contained any longer, let out a roar of laughter.

  “I never taught him that,” said Mark Wells. “It must have been the guy before me. That guy was a bartender.”

  The crowd, mostly giggling and keeping a sharp eye toward the rafters in case Reefer had any more surprises in store, stood to make their way forward to take communion. I began to play a quiet meditation on Shenandoah at the same time Meg and Ruby got up and followed the choir up to the communion rail.

  “Great knockers!” screeched Reefer.

  “Can’t be arguin’ wi’ that, me buxom beauties,” muttered Mark, under his breath, as the rest of the pirates were trying desperately, yet unsuccessfully, to control their mirth.

  “To whose knockers was the parrot referring?” asked Ruby, politely. “Meg’s or mine?”

  “Mother!” said Meg. “Obviously, mine.”

  “Knowin’ Reefer, it’d be one of each,” said Mark, looking up. “He’ll be comin’ down when he’s finished ’is grub.” Crumbs were still raining down on pew number three, but the occupants had found a safer port. “At least, he always has before.”

  “Damn the torpedos!” shrieked Reefer. “Blow me down a rathole! Awwwwk!” The pirate communicants were now in hysterics.

  “How many phrases do you think he knows?” asked Meg.

  Mark shrugged. “I have no idea. I been thinkin’ he didn’t know nary a one. He must like it here.”

  The choir finished up at the rail and headed back to the loft.The rest of the congregation made their way forward, eye patches dutifully donned and a green plastic parakeet firmly pinned to each person’s left shoulder.

  “Yar,” said Mark. “Look at ‘em all. It do me heart good. This be the finest churchin’ we seen since we had a run a t’ white whal
e, says I. I just hope that young Reefer thar don’t have no more colorful phrases that he care to be sharin’.”

  “Yar, yar,” said the choir.

  “Yar,” said Meg and Ruby, both of them nodding in agreement.

  “Awwwwk!” clacked Reefer, loudly, from the rafters. He dropped what was left of the bread, soared down to the choir loft, and landed heavily on Mark’s outstretched arm. Then he took the proffered walnut, hopped up to his astonished owner’s shoulder, cracked the walnet open and gobbled it down. “The gifts of God for the people of God,” he said.

  “Well, I’ll be a peg-legged porcupine,” said Mark. “He learned it after all.”

  “Great knockers!” squawked Reefer, and followed his outburst with a loud wolf-whistle.

  “I think he likes me better,” said Ruby.

  “Mother! Really!” huffed Meg.

  Chapter 25

  I couldn’t put Miss Bulimia Forsythe out of business. That much was clear. She hadn’t really done anything illegal, but I’d make sure the Liturgical Color Bill never made it out of committee. I still had friends in high places and more than enough dirt on all of them to make the pork dinner they were all looking forward to seem like a plate of undercooked buzzard a-la-mode with turnip toppings.

  Bulimia had already made millions on her book sales and another million or so on her line of custom falsettos. She’d bow out gracefully. Of course, “Naves by Raoul” would be out of business, but I didn’t much care. There was plenty of interior decorating work out there for a couple of androgynous mincers with good connections. Who knows? They might even get their own TV show.

  I walked down to Bishop’s Towers, opened the glass doors, walked right up to the Right Reverend Sherman and slugged him in the mush.

  “I’m calling the police,” he mumbled through what was left of his teeth.

  “Do that, Padre,” I answered, “and then we’ll all sit down and explain your part in Memphis Belle’s murder.”

  He turned white. “It was a suicide.”

  I slugged him again just for meanness.

  “You called her and buzzed me up. But she’d already been dead for a couple of hours.”

  “She made me do it! She said she’d kill me.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Memphis?”

  “No,” he said, shaking like a robin laying goose eggs. “That nurse.”

  • • •

  Your second story is up on the mystery blog,” said Nancy. “I saw it last night. Pretty cool. First The Alto Wore Tweed and now The Baritone Wore Chiffon.”

  “Thanks. The Tenor Wore Tapshoes should be up next week, and I’ve got to get this one finished to complete the quartet. Another couple of chapters should do it.”

  “By the way, we just got a call from the State Department. They’re faxing the picture of Olga Spaulding in a couple of minutes. Any guess as to who it is?”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Yep,” said Nancy. “Me, too. Want to put a little wager on it?”

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself. Do you know anything I don’t?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Dinner at the Hunter’s Club. Here, write your pick on a piece of paper and put it in your pocket. I’ll do the same.”

  We barely had time to scribble our choices when the fax machine beeped and started spitting out a piece of paper.

  “Okay,” said Nancy, “don’t bother putting it in your pocket and don’t look yet. Who have you got?”

  I opened my paper and showed it to her. “Renee Tatton,” I said. “How about you?”

  Nancy opened her paper and tossed it on the desk. “Same person. Renee Tatton. Great minds think alike, I guess.”

  “Well, let’s confirm our brilliant detective work and go get some breakfast.” I went over to the fax machine and picked up the paper that had just come in from the State Department. Printed on the fax was a copy of the inside of a passport. The name said Olga Spaulding, but the picture was someone we knew by a different moniker.

  “Should I pick up Renee after breakfast?” asked Nancy. “You know, for a little chat.”

  “You can, if you want,” I answered, “but maybe we should talk to this person instead.” I handed the fax to Nancy.

  “Holy Moses!”

  “Holy Moses, indeed,” I said, taking the fax back from Nancy and studying it again. Looking back at me from the piece of paper was St. Germaine’s head librarian, Rebecca Watts.

  • • •

  Nancy and I walked over to the library.

  “Do we have any reason to think that Rebecca Watts would want to kill Agnes Day?” I asked.

  “None that I’ve come up with. It seems like everyone in town had a gripe against her though.”

  “But not Rebecca.”

  “No. Not Rebecca,” Nancy said.

  “Then let’s just ask her,” I said.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We entered the library and made our way up to the desk. Rebecca looked up from her work as we approached, smiled and pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose with one finger.

  “Hi guys. What’s up? By the way, Hayden, that Pirate service was fabulous! When are we going to do it at St. Barnabas?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, with a shrug. I looked around the library. It was empty. “We have a couple of questions for you, Rebecca. It’s about Agnes Day’s murder.”

  “Terrible business,” Rebecca said. “How can I help?”

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “We got some DNA off the handbell that was used to kill Agnes Day. One of the samples came back with a positive ID.”

  Rebecca bit her lower lip and waited for the bad news.

  “Olga Spaulding.”

  “Terrible name, isn’t it?” said Rebecca, accompanying her answer with an embarrassed smile and a shrug of her own.

  Nancy smiled. “Yeah,” she agreed.

  “You need an explanation, don’t you?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” I said.

  “Okay,” Rebecca said, “but I’m giving you the short version. I worked for the State Department until two years ago. Then I retired, changed my name for security reasons and moved to St. Germaine.”

  “Witness protection?” asked Nancy.

  “Not exactly. But I did have to drop out of sight. You can check all this with the FBI if you have to, but then I’d probably have to move again.”

  “No need for that,” I said. “It’s our secret. What about the bell? Did you pick it up? Maybe on the day that Agnes Day was killed? That would have been Palm Sunday.”

  Rebecca thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yep. I handed the bell to Fred right before the Psalm. He was on the other side of the organ. I picked it up by the handle and gave it to him.”

  “Did he hand it back when he was finished?”

  Rebecca thought again. “No,” she said. “No, he didn’t, because I had moved. He gave it to someone else I suppose or maybe put it back himself.”

  “Okay, then,” I said, with a smile. “We just needed to check.”

  “You know,” said Rebecca, “I wasn’t kidding. If this gets out, I’ll have to relocate. And I really like it here.”

  “You aren’t a contract killer for the AGO, are you?” asked Nancy. “You know, trained to kill bad organists in seventeen different ways?”

  “AGO?”

  “American Guild of Organists,” I answered. “It’s a terrorist group, actually.

  “If I was, would I have left my DNA on the murder weapon? Nope. I was a secretary in the Egyptian consulate. But I can make a killer basboosa,” Rebecca laughed. “That’s an Egyptian cake, by the way.”

  “Your secret is safe with us,” I said. Nancy nodded in agreement.

  “What do you think?” Nancy asked, as we walked back to the office, by way of The Slab Café.

  “I think…Belgian Waffles.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  • • �
�

  Our waffles were good, the coffee was good, the service was good, and Nancy had stopped growling at Collette.

  “I’m actually glad she and Dave are getting married,” Nancy said. “Maybe it will give him some ambition.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so,” I said, mixing maple syrup with the quickly melting butter sitting atop my scrumptious repast. “Dave’s got a trust fund. I don’t even think he has to work. He just does it for something to do.”

  “That’d be nice,” said Nancy. “Seems like I’m the only one who has to actually work for a living around here.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s tough.”

  “Speaking of never working again,” said Nancy, just before a forkful of waffles disappeared into her mouth. She nodded toward the door. Walking into The Slab, and headed for our table, was Rhiza Walker.

  “Hello, Rhiza,” I said, standing up and pulling out a chair. “Join us, won’t you?”

  “Wow,” said Nancy, swallowing. “I’ve seen him stand up and offer a chair to only one other person in the ten years that I’ve known him. And that’s because he thought he was going to get lucky.”

  “I did get lucky,” I said. “And speaking of lucky, we certainly are lucky to have this lovely multi-millionaire joining us here at the Café du Slab.”

  “Oh, stop it,” said Rhiza, “I’ve been a millionaire for years. Order me some of those waffles, will you?”

  I nodded to Collette who was doing her best not to hover, but she’d never been in the same room with a Powerball winner before. She scurried into the kitchen.

  “I guess you’ll have to move to the Riviera or somewhere to escape all the publicity,” Nancy said.

  “Nah,” replied Rhiza. “It’s not that bad. We got a bunch of calls from salesmen early on, but Malcolm knows how to handle them. Mostly, the furor has died down.”