The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "Hayden!" said a voice from front of the shop. I recognized it and took a deep breath. It was Rob Brannon and I was still miffed.

  "I'm waiting for my soup order," he said, sitting down in an unoccupied chair. "Then I've got to walk the puppies."

  "I'll bet they're cute," said Meg. To Meg, all puppies were cute. "What kind are they?"

  "Actually, they're not puppies anymore. I just call them that as sort of a joke. Lucifer and Gabriel are guard dogs. Rottweilers to be exact."

  "Are they vicious?"

  "They are…well-trained," said Rob, choosing his words carefully.

  "Glad to hear it," I said.

  "What kind of soup did you get?" asked Megan, changing the subject.

  "Pumpkin. I've never had Pumpkin Soup." He turned his attention to me. "Did you ever hear anything about the dead fellow?"

  "He was murdered, but it was a long time ago. Probably nothing we can do at this point. I doubt the culprit is still alive."

  Rob seemed disappointed. "What about the condition of the body?"

  "Very strange. Kent didn't know what to make of it. He's doing some more tests. It started to decompose at a normal rate as soon as it arrived at the morgue."

  "Weird. By the way, Hayden, I heard about that cinnamon roll. Did you know it was being advertised on eBay?"

  "What?" I was genuinely shocked.

  "You might want to give it a look. The bidding is over four thousand dollars."

  "Four thousand dollars? For a cinnamon roll? Who's selling it?"

  "Just give it a look."

  Rob's number was called, and he got up and walked over to the counter to pick up his lunch.

  "You guys have a great day," he called over his shoulder.

  * * *

  After a delicious lunch, I went back to the station, walked into my office, closed the door, got onto the computer and went to the eBay site. I clicked on the search field and typed in "Immaculate Confection." Only one item was found. I clicked on it. There, on my computer screen, was a picture of the cinnamon roll in all its sanctified glory. It had been photographed on the altar of a church. It was an altar I recognized. I scanned the page. There had been eight bids starting at twenty-five dollars. The highest bid was now four thousand eight hundred sixty. I clicked on the bid history. Three of the eight bids were by the same person. The other five bidders were all different. I clicked back and scanned the page again. The on-line auction had a week to go, the bidding having started yesterday evening at 8:00 PM. I looked over to get the seller's information. His (or her) eBay seller name was Esterhazy. The item location was listed as North Carolina. I clicked on "seller information." There was none. This was the seller's first transaction. There was no feedback and he'd only been a member since the day the ad appeared. I clicked on "ID history." It listed the ID (Esterhazy), the effective date (yesterday) and a partially blocked out e-mail address. I clicked back, went to "ask the seller a question" and found I had to register to do so. I didn't bother. Instead, I got up, walked over to the door and opened it.

  "Nancy, could you come in here a second?"

  "Sure."

  When Nancy came in, I pointed her to the computer monitor. She sat down in my chair and read the screen quickly.

  "Esterhazy? What's up with that?"

  "It's a pretty thinly veiled attempt to point the finger at Yours Truly."

  "Why would it point to you?"

  "Prince Esterhazy was the benefactor of Haydn in the eighteenth century. Probably the most famous patron of the arts ever. Well, after the Medicis."

  "Hmmm," said Nancy. "Haydn, eh? I remember the name, now that you mention it. But how many people would know that? One in a hundred? Five hundred?"

  "Probably five hundred. It's obscure enough to make it sound like something I'd come up with, but easily figured out if the right person sees it. What do you think?"

  "You're right. It sounds just like you. Very droll and obtuse, but smug and just a bit too enamored of your cleverness."

  "Hey…" I said, "I think I'm offended."

  "I'm agreeing with you," said Nancy with a smile. "Who would know? If they saw it, that is?"

  "Meg would know. Rhiza. Maybe a couple of people in the choir. I probably mentioned Esterhazy at some point when we were doing the Little Organ Mass."

  "That's quite a few."

  "Yeah, but all the people I know tend to be interested in music. Esterhazy is pretty basic music history stuff."

  "Why would Pete know?"

  "He was a music major in college for a couple of semesters—saxophone and jazz. Anyway, find out who posted this, will you? And let me know as quickly as you can."

  "It's up to fifty-five hundred," Nancy said.

  "Sheesh."

  Chapter 12

  "Seems to me you've written yourself into a corner," said Meg.

  "How so?"

  "Well, let's see. You have six main characters not counting the detective—Starr, Candy, Alice, Piggy, Toby Taps and Harry Leggs."

  "Jimmy Leggs."

  "Whatever. Starr is dead. That leaves five. Toby didn't do it. Toby says Piggy didn't do it. Alice is a fed. Candy is the sister of the deceased. That leaves Harry Leggs."

  "Jimmy."

  "Yeah, yeah. So where's the mystery? You definitely need some more characters."

  "Aha! You forgot about Marilyn. Also Kit, the Girl-Friday."

  "They didn't do it."

  "You're probably right. I'll have to mull this one over a bit."

  "Maybe Skinny could come and visit his brother Harry."

  "No. No, he could not."

  "What about cousin Bo?"

  "Out!"

  * * *

  I put the word out for Jimmy Leggs--not that I had much of a chance. Hunting Jimmy was going to be about as easy as Jonah finding that white whale. My only hope was that he would find me.

  I headed to the Powder Puff Room at the No-Tel Hotel where I figured Piggy Wilson was holding court. He was in his usual place, a table in the back by the men's room door. Piggy was bigger than four regular-sized men, although probably only two championship pigs, and most of his five hundred pounds hung over the edges of his steel-reinforced seat like an extra helping of mozzarella oozing over the side of the pizza pan.

  "Sit," he grunted, chomping down on an ear of corn. "We needs to talk."

  I sat down across from Piggy's toadies and ordered a beer.

  "What was the message, Piggy?" I asked.

  "What message?"

  "Toby Taps says that Candy Blather's murder was a message. A message to you."

  "That tap-dancin' fool talks too much," Piggy oinked. "There wasn't no message."

  * * *

  "I didn't take it, Pete," I said.

  "Yeah. I know. I just wish I could figure out who did. Eight thousand bucks. That's a lot of money."

  "Have you cooked up another one yet?"

  Pete nodded, then gave a yell. "Hey Noylene! Bring that pan of cinnamon rolls out here, will you."

  "I'll be out in a minute," came the response from the kitchen.

  I had come in early to tell Pete about the eBay auction, but he'd already found out about it.

  "This takes the charge up to grand larceny, doesn't it?" asked Pete. "I mean, if the bun's worth eight thousand dollars, maybe I can collect on my insurance policy."

  "That's an interesting point. I don't think the insurance company would go for it though. They'll probably only pay out on the actual cost of the roll. That is, unless you took out an eight thousand dollar rider."

  "Of course not. Who knew it was going to be worth eight thousand dollars?"

  "I'm not even sure we can make grand larceny stick. Maybe breaking and entering, although there wasn't really any break-in. Maybe malicious mischief, although they didn't maliciously mess the place up. Maybe petty theft although it's probably a stretch."

  "I could sue them though," said Pete, hopefully.

  "You could definitely sue them. At least for what the
roll sells for plus emotional distress, loss of business income…any number of things."

  "Excellent."

  "That is, if you can find out who's selling it. And if they still have the money."

  The door of the Slab opened and Nancy walked in. "I've got some news."

  "You found out who's got the BVMCR?" Pete asked.

  "BVMCR?"

  "Blessed Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll."

  "No clue. The techie at eBay says the only information about the seller they can tell me is his e-mail address—impossible to trace since it goes to one of those free internet mailboxes. He wouldn't give me any other information. I say 'impossible to trace.' It's not, of course, and if we had some high-powered computers and a really good hacker, we could probably trace it right down to his computer. Although, if I had stolen it," she said with a shrug, "I'd just use a computer in the library. We can get some more information from eBay, but we're going to need all kinds of warrants. Federal, too. Not just state. They're going to make us jump through all the hoops. Even then, the information is probably false. We may never find out who it is."

  "I'm not sure it's going to be worth the trouble, Pete." I said.

  "The one thing I did do," said Nancy, "was put a stop on the auction. I faxed eBay a police report stating that the item in question was indeed stolen. They cancelled the auction until further notice."

  "If it's not worth anything to the thief, he might bring it back," I suggested.

  "I doubt it," said Nancy. "He probably won't get any more money than what's already been offered, but he has the e-mail addresses of the people that have already bid on it. He could contact those bidders directly. Even move to another on-line auction. We'd never know."

  "Here's the first batch," said Noylene, appearing at the table with a cookie sheet on which rested eight misshapen buns.

  "Hmmm," I said, studying the cookie sheet carefully. "Not so good. This one here sort of looks like a car accident victim."

  "Oh, man," said Nancy. "That's disturbing. They don't even look like cinnamon rolls. I sure wouldn't eat one."

  "I sort of tried to form her face in the dough before I cooked it. It didn't work though," said Pete.

  I nodded and took the car accident roll. "I see that. Maybe she was a miracle after all."

  "Told you," said Noylene.

  * * *

  I met Meg and her mother, Ruby, at the police station at six o'clock. It was a short walk over to Brother Hog's tent and the service wasn't until six-thirty, but we wanted to get a good seat. Other folks had the same idea and we ended up sitting about halfway back. The tent held about three hundred chairs and it looked as though Brother Hog would need every one of them.

  The musical entertainment for the evening was the choir from the Sinking Pond Baptist Church. It was made up of three basses, one seventy-two year old tenor who was introduced by their director as Edith, six altos and five sopranos. The electronic organ was an addition I hadn't seen yesterday. The choir began with Come to the Church in the Wildwood, moved on to There is a Mansion, and finished their pre-game show with Rescue the Perishing.

  "They aren't bad," said Meg.

  "Nope. That banjo really spices things up."

  "I like a banjo," said Ruby. "It makes me smile."

  "Me too," I said.

  Brother Hog had taken the stage.

  "Brothers and sisters," he began, "welcome to Brother Hogmanay McTavish's Gospel Tent Revival."

  * * *

  As the service unfolded, prayers were humbly offered, the Holy Spirit was invoked, an offering was taken, and then, finally, the moment had come that I, as well as the rest of the congregation, had been waiting for. Brother Hog reached behind the table and picked up the biggest chicken I had ever seen.

  "I'll bet that chicken weighs every bit of twenty pounds," Meg said in a hushed voice.

  "I don't think so. Probably closer to twelve. It's a Jersey Giant," whispered Ruby. "We had them when I was growing up. They get real big and they're very smart. For a chicken, that is. It looks a lot bigger because its feathers are all ruffled up."

  The rest of the crowd was murmuring in anticipation. When the chicken was placed on the table, I noticed that the folks still in their chairs—that is, the folks in the first ten rows or so—had, by craning their necks, added an extra three inches to their collective height. The ones in the back were standing, and the ones in the very back stood on their chairs.

  "This is Binny Hen, the Scripture Chicken," Brother Hog said into his microphone. "Binny will choose the scripture that I will preach on this evening, but always remember, the Holy Ghost works through any instrument of faith and it's God's Word that will be proclaimed this night."

  With those words, Brother Hog placed Binny on the table just behind the massive Bible. The crowd grew quiet and watched in amazement as the preacher opened the Bible about half way and stepped back from the table. Binny Hen jumped up onto the pages. As large as she was, the huge Bible dwarfed her. Binny looked around with her quick, chicken-like movements and then started scratching at the leaves. She kicked back page after page—sometimes turning only one, sometimes more than one. As she stood on each newly turned page, she looked down on it, tilted her head left and right, as if considering each verse before offering an occasional cluck and resuming her quest. The crowd was silent in anticipation. Binny certainly took her time in the spotlight. She continued her search for six or seven minutes and gave every indication that she was studying the scriptures, looking diligently for just the right text. Finally she stopped scratching, cocked her head twice, looked at the page she stood on with first one golden eye and then the other, opened her wings and gave a great clucking noise. Then she put her head down and started pecking.

  "Binny Hen has chosen the scripture," Brother Hog cried. "Let the Word of God be read!"

  I didn't know the reader that Brother Hog had chosen for this evening, but he stood up and walked over to the Bible. He was a tall, thin man wearing a green sport coat, an orange tie and a pair of checkered trousers. Brother Hog picked up the chicken and held her aloft. The man looked hard at the text where Binny had been pecking.

  "If it were me, I'd want to preach on the scripture that says 'He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved,'" I whispered to Megan. "Mark 16. You know, the one with the snakes."

  "I'm sure you would," Meg said sarcastically. "Now hush."

  "Mark 16" the reader announced in a clear baritone. "Hear the word of the Lord."

  "Afterward he appeared unto the eleven as they sat at meat, and upbraided them with their unbelief and hardness of heart, because they believed not them which had seen him after he was risen. And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned. And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. So then after the Lord had spoken unto them, he was received up into heaven, and sat on the right hand of God. And they went forth, and preached everywhere, the Lord working with them, and confirming the word with signs following. Amen."

  "That's the one I would have picked," I said under my breath, but loud enough for Meg to hear. She looked at me with incredulity, amazement evident on her face.

  "How did you do that?' she whispered, suddenly suspicious.

  "Shhh. Later. I want to hear the sermon. There may be some snakes involved."

  * * *

  The sermon was forty minutes of old-time religion and unfortunately didn't include any snakes. The invitation that followed was given as the choir from Sinking Pond Baptist sang that old favorite, Softly and Tenderly. The banjo player had another commitment down at the Copper Kettle, so the choir was accompanied by the Hammond organ that Brother Hog had finagled in Boone for the price of an advertiseme
nt: a sign on the back of the organ proclaiming in large letters "Courtesy of the Cliff Hill Music Company." The tremolo kicked in as the congregation joined in on the chorus.

  "Come home, Come home,

  Ye who are weary come home…"

  There were a number of people moving forward with public decisions and Brother Hog waited for them at the front with open arms. Meg, Ruby and I snuck out the side of the tent. You're not supposed to leave during an invitation—it's considered bad form. But I had been to enough church for one night.

  * * *

  We stopped at the Slab for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, beating the crowd that Pete was expecting. Ever since the Scripture Chicken had made her appearance at the revival, Pete had been packed on Friday and Saturday nights after the service. There had been so many people that the Ginger Cat had been staying open as well.

  "I'll have a slice of Boston Cream Pie and a cup of coffee," I said to Noylene, taking off my coat and helping Ruby off with hers. Meg had her coat and scarf off before I could get around the table. Still, I managed to pull out both of their chairs, getting a few manner-points back.

  "Same for me," said Ruby.

  "Just coffee," said Meg. "Decaf." She turned to me. "Now, squeal, detective!"

  "What?" asked Ruby.

  "He knew what scripture the chicken was going to pick. In advance."

  "Now how could he know that?"

  "Yes, how indeed?" I asked innocently.

  "I don't know, but we're about to find out."

  "It was just a lucky guess," I said. "I can honestly say that it's what I would have chosen if I were a chicken."

  "I suspect so. The question is 'why would you have chosen it?'"

  "Maybe we'll know tomorrow night."

  "We're going back?"

  "Oh, yes. I wouldn't miss it."

  Chapter 13

  It was ingenious, when I thought about it. The chicken had been trained to scratch at the pages until it saw something that it wanted. Food. When I had first looked at the Bible, it had fallen open to the sixteenth chapter of Mark, mostly due to the kernel of corn, smashed almost flat, in the center of the page, acting like an edible bookmark. Binny Hen was after the corn. The other thing that I noticed was that, although this wasn't a red-letter edition—that is, the words of Jesus in red type—the reading that was delivered by Brother Hog's chosen assistant was in red. It was a brilliant psychological ploy. Once the chicken had picked the page, the reader's eye would go inevitably to the passage in red. Not only that, but the reader would, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, read the entire highlighted section rather than a specific scripture verse. I know I would have. I had confirmed my suspicions by flipping quickly through the New Testament checking for red highlighted passages. I found them. Mark 16, John 3, Acts 2, Romans 3, 6 and 8, II Corinthians 11, Ephesians 2. I didn't check everything, but I found enough to appreciate the genius of it. I surmised that Brother Hog must have had this Bible made, or altered, just for his revivals.