The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "The accident report is in the paper?"

  "Not all of it. Here's what it says. 'Newly elected Senior Warden of St. Barnabas is pharmacist Jed Pierce of St. Germaine. Mr. Pierce may seem a strange choice to head the Episcopal congregation given the fact that he escaped a felony indictment for vehicular manslaughter in 1982 when evidence of intoxication was misplaced by the police.'"

  "Why would they print such a thing?"

  "You tell me."

  "I didn't have anything to do with it," I said. "You have my word."

  "I don't believe you. You're the only one that knew about the accident. You stole the cinnamon roll. You're talking to a ghost. You probably shot out the windows of Gwen Jackson's house…"

  "I certainly did not," I said calmly. "Why don't you call the paper and ask them who called?"

  "I did. It was an 'anonymous tip.' They said they checked it out and it turned out to be true."

  "It wasn't me."

  "Yeah, sure. Anyway, I thought you should know that I'm resigning from the vestry," he said, slamming down the phone.

  * * *

  Nancy and I met Kent Murphee in the nave of the church. He came walking down the aisle, carrying a black case the size of a shoebox. We were waiting for him, as he requested, by the altar.

  "Good morning," said Kent. "Bring your flashlights?"

  "You certainly seem to be in a good mood this morning," said Nancy, still nursing a hot cup of coffee she'd brought with her from the office. I held a couple of Maglites aloft in answer to Kent's inquiry.

  "I have some good news," said Kent. "I may have solved the riddle."

  Nancy and I watched as Kent put his case on the floor, opened it and pulled out a handheld black electronic device about the same size as a large calculator.

  "What is it?" asked Nancy.

  Kent just smiled and clicked a button on the side, making the dials jump momentarily with the power surge. "I borrowed it from the geology department at the university. It's a Geiger counter."

  He walked around the nave, playing with the knobs until we could all hear a steady click coming from the box. Then he made his way toward us. The clicks gradually increased in speed until the box was rattling like hail on a tin roof.

  "We're radioactive?" asked Nancy.

  "Not you," said Kent, pointing the Geiger counter towards the altar. "This. Specifically, the top."

  "Marble isn't radioactive," I said.

  Kent turned the machine off and set it down. "Help me take the back off of this thing."

  We removed the back, and Kent turned the Geiger counter on and held it inside the altar. The speed of the clicks increased to machine gun status.

  "That's roughly 1400 CPM—clicks per minute—which is how these counters measure radiation. It's a pretty basic instrument, consisting of the Geiger-Mueller tube, a visual readout in milliroentgens per hour and an audio click. Each radioactive particle makes a click as it travels through the tube. I took the readings yesterday and then had the lab at the university analyze them."

  "And the verdict?" I asked.

  "Thorite."

  "Never heard of it," said Nancy. "I've heard of uranium. Cobalt." She paused. "Radium. That's about it."

  "Thorite is about three times as abundant as uranium and about as plentiful as lead," explained Kent. "The principal use is for something called the Welsbach mantle—you know, the part of a gas lantern that glows when it's heated by the flame. The Welsbach mantle is particularly efficient. Thorite is also used in making glass, specifically for high quality camera lenses. As far as being a useful mineral, it's estimated that there's more energy available from thorite than in both uranium and fossil fuels combined. We just haven't explored the technology yet."

  "Interesting," I said, "but how does this pertain to us?"

  Kent pointed at the marble top of the altar.

  "See these brownish-black streaks in the marble? That's the thorite."

  "I thought that was marble as well," I said. "Just a different color."

  "It's polished, but you can tell the difference in the crystals if you look closely." Kent had a magnifying glass out now and was pointing to the two different minerals. "On the top of the altar, you can't feel the difference because of the finish. It feels like wax to me, but I don't know. Underneath, though, you can run your fingers across the black streaks and feel the dissimilarity. Also, look at the streaks compared to the marble. There are crystals present. They're almost opaque."

  Nancy and I were under the altar, flashlights in hand, following Kent's explanation as best we could.

  "Okay," I said. "So it's thorite. It's radioactive. What else?"

  "It's highly radioactive. And if you look here," Kent shone his flashlight onto the bottom of the slab, "you'll see that the black streaks are much more prevalent than they are on the top. So much so, that the inside of the altar is getting quite a dose of radiation."

  "And that means…?" asked Nancy.

  "That our friend, Lester Gifford, was pretty well irradiated as soon as he was put in there. Remember when I told you about accidental preservation after death?"

  "Yeah," I said. "A body can be buried in a hot, dry area and not decompose at a normal rate."

  "Or in a frigid area, or even in a peat bog if the conditions are right. But there's one other way," said Kent.

  "Radiation," said Nancy.

  "Exactly," said Kent. "And as soon as we took him out, he began to decay."

  "How much radiation is this slab giving off?" I asked.

  "Quite a bit—and more off the bottom than the top. Much more. As I said before, the top has been sealed with something, so that inhibits the particles even further. The techies at the lab say the radiation is probably nothing to worry about since exposure to parishioners is limited to a couple of hours a week and, even then, mainly just the priests, but you guys might want to think seriously about replacing the top."

  "I'll let them know," I said.

  "This will look great in my report," said Nancy with a grin. "A body kept incorruptible by accidental radiation. Just great!"

  * * *

  It was almost three o'clock, the appointed hour, when I drove up to the Mountainview Cemetery for the long-delayed interment of Lester Gifford. He had died, by our reckoning, in 1937, and now, sixty-seven years later, he'd finally be laid to rest. It was a beautiful afternoon—the air was perfectly still, highlighting that rare autumn mixture of coolness and warmth. The perceived temperature depended chiefly on whether you happened to be standing in the shade of one of the pine trees hovering over the graves on the outskirts of the cemetery, or whether you had chosen to bask in the last vestiges of St. Germain's Indian Summer.

  The crowd, and it turned out to be a sizable one, was gathering. Although the funeral hadn't been officially advertised, word had spread through the St. Barnabas congregation and many of the parishioners had come to pay their respects to someone who, however unwillingly, had been a part of their fellowship for so many years. Nancy and Meg were standing, one row back, on the sunny side of the grave as were most, but not all, of the attendees. The few that had chosen to watch from the shadows of the pines were huddled in their coats and stuffing their hands deep into their pockets. They had a better view, but, in my opinion, the vantage point wasn't worth the chill. Kent obviously disagreed. He was there, next to the graveside, clad only in a tweed jacket and shivering like a leaf. Next to him was JJ, who, unlike Kent, had bundled up in her winter togs and was obviously quite comfortable. Pete and Noylene, both of whom had taken the designated hour off work, were beside JJ, but were currently rethinking their position and shimmying toward the sunlight. On the sunny side, nearest the grave, stood Bev, Elaine and Billy Hixon and Georgia. Behind them were about fifty other folks, all of whom I recognized from St. Barnabas. Malcolm and Rhiza Walker were there, as well as most of the choir and the vestry. Rob Brannon was not. As I walked up to join Meg, she nodded toward the back of the crowd, and when I turned to look, I was surprised
to see Brother Hog standing by himself, behind the other congregants.

  Father George opened his prayer book and took a step toward the head of the coffin. A stiff breeze suddenly came up, sending a shiver through the entire crowd—even those on the sunlit side—carrying with it the unmistakable scent of North Carolina pines mixed with approaching rain.

  "I am Resurrection and I am Life, says the Lord," recited Father George. "Whoever has faith in me shall have life, even though he die. And everyone who has life, and has committed himself to me in faith, shall not die forever."

  The prayer book service unfolded as usual, but was strangely unsettling. As soon as the opening sentences were read by Father George, the sun, which had begun the service as a beacon of warmth, moved behind a dark cloud; a cloud that had been unnoticed until its presence caused a premature twilight to cover the cemetery and the temperature to drop ten degrees in a matter of moments. An unexpected thunderstorm, coming out of nowhere, was common in the mountains—especially in October—but arriving at the exact moment of Lester's burial was unnerving to everyone present. Having no reason to expect any bad weather and, I suspected, in an effort to save a few bucks, Swallow's Mortuary had dispensed with the tent that should have covered the grave and the coffin. Mr. Swallow, a tall, thin man that I had never seen unless he was dressed in his black suit, was shifting from one foot to the other in obvious anticipation of the impending storm.

  "The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ according to John," said Father George, now hurrying his words and cutting to the chase.

  The rumble of thunder that began miles away, rolled slowly across the mountain, taking a full minute to reach us before dying away in the distance. We all exchanged uneasy glances. If this was the thunderstorm we had every right to expect, it was best to get away from the pine trees and under shelter fairly soon. The wind had picked up as well and with it came the distinct whiff of ozone that is the portent of imminent lightning.

  Father George was moving at a good clip and leaving out what he could.

  "Father of all, we pray to you for Lester, and for all those whom we love but see no longer. Grant to them eternal rest. Let light perpetual shine upon them. May his soul and the souls of all the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace."

  "Amen," said the crowd, quickly.

  Mr. Swallow and one of his men moved to the coffin and lowered it into the grave.

  "In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our Lester, and we commit his body to the ground," said Father George. Bev, Elaine and Georgia each stepped forward in turn, bent down, took a handful of dirt, and tossed it on the coffin.

  "Our Father…" began Father George.

  "Who art in heaven…" continued the crowd.

  As soon as the Lord's Prayer had begun, the impending storm subsided. For how long was anyone's guess, but for the moment, at least, the wind stopped, and the sun, a moment ago covered by the massive black clouds billowing above us, managed to find a hole in the canopy and force its way through.

  Father George sounded relieved as he gave his benediction. "The God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, the great Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every good work to do His will, working in you that which is well-pleasing in His sight; through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever."

  "Amen," said the crowd just as the sun disappeared again and the heavens opened in an October gusher. Instinctively, at the last "Amen," we all ran for our cars, leaving Mr. Swallow and his helper to the mercy of the weather. A few moments later, as I looked back at the grave through my windshield, I could see them both, barely visible in the torrential downpour and semi-darkness, standing beside the mound of what must now be mud—Mr. Swallow in an awkward position, holding an umbrella over his helper as the man struggled with a shovel, trying his best to fill the hole. I sighed, pulled on the all-weather jacket, gloves and boots I kept in the truck, put on my old fedora, got a shovel out of the back, and went to help.

  * * *

  An hour later, I slogged into the Slab, feeling and looking like a drowned rat. I was covered in mud from my boots to my waist, but my shirt was relatively clean. I'd left my jacket in the back of the truck, hoping the rain would wash some of the mud off of it on my way home.

  "Stay to fill in the hole?" asked Pete.

  "Yeah. I felt bad leaving it."

  Pete nodded and pulled a dishtowel from behind the counter. "Sit on this, will you? I'll get you a cup of coffee."

  "He don't need any more coffee," said Noylene. "It ain't good for you to drink all that coffee. I'll get you a cup of hot chocolate."

  "That'd be great."

  "You guys get it filled in?" Pete put the towel on the chair and I sat down on it.

  "Mostly," I said. "It was pretty muddy. They'll have to clean it up when it dries out a little."

  Noylene put a big mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of me. "Here you go."

  "Thanks, Noylene."

  "Did Meg know you were staying out there?" asked Pete.

  "I called her from my cell. She told me to be sure and take some vitamin C and a hot shower, but she declined to come back and help."

  "You going to the revival tonight?" interrupted Noylene. "I'm going to get revirginated."

  "Excuse me?" said Pete and I in unison.

  "You're getting what?" said Pete, recovering before I did. In my defense though, I was cold and wet and unprepared for this new religious wrinkle.

  "I'm getting revirginated," said Noylene with a smile. "God has forgiven me all my transgressions and He wants me to be a new creation in Him."

  "That's fine, Noylene," I said. "He certainly has and certainly does, but what's this about revirgination?"

  "If I'm a new creature and all my sins are washed away, why shouldn't I be a virgin again? A new creature is a virgin, right?""

  Pete looked at me as if I could answer this theological question.

  "It's like this, Noylene. Once you've done something, it can't be undone. You can certainly be forgiven for it and that's what God does for us and what we do for each other. But you can't un-ring the bell."

  "You mean that if I murder Pete here…"

  "Hey, wait just a minute," said Pete.

  "...it can't be wiped clean?" finished Noylene without missing a beat.

  "You certainly can be forgiven for the sin…"

  "Not by me," said Pete. He reached for a menu, turned it over and started writing.

  "But, he's still dead," I said. "It doesn't mean you didn't do it. "

  "Brother Hog says it does. He says that in God's eyes, it's like we never did it."

  "I think he meant that you've been absolved of the transgression—that Jesus has paid for your sins. Look at it this way," I explained. "I come into the Slab and order breakfast. Then Nancy comes in later and pays for it. You still have the receipt. Just because Nancy paid the bill doesn't mean I never ate breakfast.

  "You never do pay for breakfast," said Pete.

  "That's right," said Noylene, thoughtfully. "And I never even write you up a ticket. So it's like you never even had breakfast."

  "Yeah," grinned Pete.

  "Okay. Sorry. That was a bad example."

  "And if you never had breakfast, it's like you were a breakfast virgin," said Pete.

  "No," I said, putting up my hands. "Wait a minute. That's not it at all."

  "That's what Brother Hog said. He said we could be forgiven our sexual indiscretions and…and… armadillos…"

  "Peccadillos," I corrected.

  "Yeah, that. And we could all be pure," continued Noylene. "Brother Hog says that if the Pope can say you've never been married, even after ten years and fifteen kids, then there's no reason that we can't all be virgins again."

  "Well now, that's a good point," interjected Pete, still writing. "The Catholic Church has been grantin
g annulments for years. Just depends on who you know and how much money you have."

  "That's not exactly true," I said. "Hey, wait a minute. Who's all?"

  "Just a few of the girls. I'm not namin' any names. It's a private ceremony after the regular service."

  "Anyone I know?"

  "None of your business."

  "But, Noylene," I said in exasperation. "You have a thirty-year-old son."

  "Yeah, but the way he was conceived ain't nothin' to write to Billy Graham about. I ain't proud of it."

  "Besides," Pete said. "If Noylene is a virgin again, then D'Artagnan is an immaculate conception. If that's the situation, I can put him in a pie case and not worry about the BVMCR."

  "I suppose so," I said as I saw Noylene try to puzzle her way out of this new observation on her trip back to the kitchen. "How's the search for the roll going, by the way?"

  "Well, that skinny sucker is eating me out of business little by little even though I only give him breakfast. He's taken up with Moosey, too. I saw them walking down the street together this morning."

  "Oh no."

  "I'm sure it's fine. Moosey was just showing him around town."

  "He's supposed to be in school."

  "Oh yeah. I forgot about that," said Pete, putting his pencil down and turning his attention back to Noylene.

  "Hey Noylene," he called, "are they singing any revirgination hymns during the service? I've got one for you."

  "Let me get a better pencil," said Noylene, making her way back to the table. "I'll write it down and give it to Brother Hog tonight."

  I rolled my eyes. I knew that the minute Pete had heard about the Ceremony of Revirgination, his brain had clicked into "irreverent mode."