“We’re going to keep you overnight,” he said. “Just in case.”
I blinked and looked around the small examining cubicle walled off from the others in the area by sheets of hospital-green linen. I’d just dragged myself into a sitting position on the table when Meg arrived. She pulled the dividing sheet to one side and peeked in; then, seeing I was sitting up, came in and touched me lightly on the side of the head where my hair had been shorn and several stitches were angrily visible against the pale scalp.
“Ouch,” I said. “Don’t touch.”
“I didn’t, you baby,” she said with a gentle smile. “I’m certainly relieved you’re okay. Luckily, Nancy told me you were fine before she said anything else. She said, ‘He’s fine and Gaylen’s okay, but there’s been a wreck.’”
“Well, fine is a bit of a stretch.”
“You’re not dead,” said Meg. “You need to get your arm set, but they can’t do anything about your collarbone.”
I nodded. “The doctor filled me in. Simple fracture. Six weeks in a cast and a sling for the clavicle. How’s Gaylen?”
“She’s out of surgery and she’ll be good as new in a couple months. I didn’t get a report on the extent of her injuries. She’ll be here a few days, though. You guys want to share a room?”
“Absolutely not.”
•••
Pete Moss and Cynthia Johnsson came into my room at about nine o’clock in the evening, breaking all the rules, including the ones about visiting hours and smuggling cigars and beer in to patients. I declined the cigar, but was more than happy to have the beer and the company. Meg, who had been at the hospital all day, had gone out to get a cup of coffee.
“A visit from the mayor?” I said. “Now that’s something. How come you didn’t wear your belly-dancing outfit? That would have cheered me up more than Pete here.”
“Last time I wore it, I caused quite a commotion in the cardiac ward,” said Cynthia. “I promised not to do it again.”
“Going home tomorrow?” asked Pete.
“Yeah. There wasn’t really any reason to stay except I got conked on the noggin. That, plus they wanted to watch me run around the halls in one of these open-in-the-back hospital gowns.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” said Cynthia with a smirk. “Those nurses are lusting in their hearts.”
“How’s your priest friend?” asked Pete.
“I saw her a couple of hours ago. She’ll be okay, but she’s pretty banged up. Her right hand is fractured in several places. The surgeon had to put a few pins in. She has a separated shoulder, a couple of broken ribs, a busted nose and two black eyes.” I thought for a moment. “Oh, yeah. Her jaw was broken, too. It’s wired shut. I think that’s it.”
“What about her spleen?” said Pete. “Whenever someone gets in a car wreck on TV, they lose a spleen.”
“Spleen’s okay,” I answered.
“Well, there’s a relief,” said Cynthia rather sarcastically, then looked puzzled. “I’m not even sure where my spleen is.”
“Right around your liver somewhere,” Pete said, poking around at his midsection. “It’s all right there together. Spleen, liver, sweetbreads, kidneys, chitlins...all the major food organs. Hey! How’s she going to preach if her jaw’s wired shut?”
“That’s a good question,” I said. “Maybe we can forego the sermons for a few weeks.”
“I might even come back to church,” said Pete.
“But, more to the point,” said Cynthia, “how are you going to play the organ with that arm in a cast?”
Meg opened the door and came into the room.
“Hi, Meg,” said Cynthia. “We were just asking Hayden how he was going to play the organ with one hand tied behind his back. Care for a beer?”
“No thanks,” said Meg. She raised her Styrofoam cup. “I just got some bad coffee from the nurses’ station.” She looked at Pete, who was busy wetting the tip of his cigar by spinning it in his mouth. “Don’t you dare!” she hissed. “There are smoke alarms all over this building. You may not light that thing in here!”
Pete put on a crestfallen expression and returned the cigar to his jacket pocket. “Well,” he said, “how are you going to play the organ?”
“We were discussing the very thing before Meg’s coffee break,” I said. “And I have no idea. I’ll just have to take another leave of absence.”
“You will not!” said Meg emphatically. “I’m the Senior Warden now and I’m not going through that again. I have a few thoughts on the matter, some people to call. I’ll see what I can come up with when I get home tonight.”
“You’re not staying?” I asked.
“And where am I supposed to sleep?” asked Meg.
“This bed’s big enough,” I suggested, sliding across the starched sheet until I was next to one of the bed-rails. “You could...”
“Forget it, Mister. No hospital canoodling.” She looked over at Pete and Cynthia and smiled sweetly. “That’s Rule 57.”
“Subsection C,” I sighed.
“You guys sure ended up with a lot of rules once you got married,” said Pete. “Me and Cynthia, we’ve got no rules. Anything goes.”
Cynthia just looked at him, her eyebrows raised.
“Well,” said Pete, “except for...umm...and...oh, never mind.”
Chapter 6
On Friday morning, I checked out of the hospital as soon as the doctor made his rounds at 7:15 and gave me the thumbs-up. Meg picked me up and we headed back to St. Germaine, where my truck was patiently waiting in front of the police station. It was a cold morning, crisp and clear, with none of the fog that had been part of the cause of the previous day’s troubles. Meg had Christmas music on the stereo. She went for the Christmas music right after Walmart did—Halloween, at the latest. At least (to my relief) she’d had the good taste to raid my CD collection and wasn’t listening to the Mantovani Orchestra play their greatest holiday hits. I recognized the unmistakable strains of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker.
“Did you come up with any great ideas?” I asked, as we drove down the highway. “Organ-wise, that is?”
“Maybe,” Meg answered. “I’m waiting for a call back from my friend Edna.”
“Edna?”
“Uh-huh.” Meg was smiling like the Cheshire cat. “Edna Terra-Pocks.”
“Edna Terra from Lenoir?”
“That’s her. She said she remembered you very well.”
I shrugged. “We went to school together. The organist community isn’t exactly large. I probably know, or know about, every good organist within a hundred miles.”
“So you think she’s good?”
I shrugged again. “I suppose so, but I haven’t heard her play for years. It seems to me that she got a Master’s degree from Yale after she finished at UNC. She plays at a big Methodist church in Lenoir. Part-time, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Not any more, she doesn’t.”
“And how do you know this?” I asked.
“Edna’s a client of mine. Well, the family is. Pocks Furniture. Ring a bell?”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I remember that now. Edna Terra. The richest little girl in Chapel Hill. She married Bill Pocks, III.”
“Well, I know her from her charity woman’s group. I’m helping them with their investments. The Lenoir Hottie-Totties. Isn’t that cute?”
“Darling,” I said.
Anyway,” said Meg, “she’s in charge of their program that provides transportation for the elderly when they need a ride. You know, like to the doctor, or the drugstore or something. All the girls take turns volunteering and Edna coordinates the whole thing. They call it the ‘Home Mini-bus Volun-Totties.’”
“Huh,” I grunted. “Very cute. Edna was always into cute.”
“I met her down at Myrtle Beach when I was doing that seminar last year. We had a lot in common. You, for instance.”
“Now, wait a minute!” I said. “I don’t know what she told you, but she and I never...�
�
“Relax,” laughed Meg. “Just the fact that we knew you was the common thread. Well, that she knew you, and I married you.”
I let out a slow breath.
“Anyway, I was chatting with Edna a couple of weeks ago. It seems that Edna doesn’t play for the Methodist church any longer. The new minister has decided to go in a different direction. I believe she said there is talk of firing the choir and hiring a country band.”
“So she’s between organ gigs, as it were.”
“As it were.”
“And she’s going to step in for me.”
“Well, that’s the plan.”
“Great. So I’m off the hook.”
“Not even close. Edna can play the organ, but you’re going to direct the choir.” She looked over at me. “And choose the music.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I said rapidly, shaking my head. “Bad idea.”
“It’s a great idea and you know it,” said Meg defensively. “You know what the choir can do and how to get them to sound good. Edna can play the organ until you get the use of your arm back.”
“I’m not going to win this, am I?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“No, dear, I don’t think you are.”
“Just through the Christmas season, then,” I said, hoping to strike a deal.
“Hmm. How about until the fourth Sunday after Epiphany?”
“Second,” I countered.
“Third,” said Meg.
“Okay. Deal.” I thought for a moment. “Hey, wait a minute. That’s six weeks from now. I’ll be out of this cast by then.”
“Yep,” said Meg. “Then you can have your job back.”
•••
Meg dropped me off at the Slab with an admonition to be at the emergency worship meeting at noon. I’d decided that breakfast at the hospital didn’t really appeal to my epicurean cravings and walked into the eatery with all intentions of ordering Pete’s Special Breakfast Extravaganza complete with pancakes, chicken-fried steak, eggs and gravy. I wouldn’t be able to do any two-handed eating, my left arm being in both a cast and a sling, but I’d manage.
Pete waved me over to his table. Being the owner, he felt his job was to sit and drink coffee for most of the morning, only helping out when he had to. Cynthia and Noylene were both scurrying, taking care of a full complement of customers.
“Morning! How’s the arm?”
“Still broken,” I said.
Noylene walked over, smiled, and filled the coffee mug in front of me. “I heard about your accident,” she said. “Sure am glad you’re okay.”
I smiled back at her. “Just a busted wing. I’ll have Pete’s Special Breakfast Extravaganza, please.”
Noylene nodded. “You want the full special or the half?”
“Full. Pancakes, steak, scrambled eggs...the works.”
“Got it,” said Noylene, writing on her pad. She tore off the sheet and walked it back to the kitchen.
The old cowbell on the glass door of the Slab Café clanked in two regulars, Nancy and Dave, coming in off the street. They were both bundled against the cold morning, having donned scarves and heavy coats before setting out. Meg had brought my old coat with her when she picked me up at the hospital. My good coat hadn’t made it out of the emergency room in one piece.
“How’s Gaylen doing?” asked Nancy, unwinding her scarf and sloughing off her coat before sitting.
“She’ll be all right,” I said.
“What happened exactly?” asked Dave. “You remember what caused the wreck?”
“As I recall,” I said, “Gaylen was driving when some baby skunks and their mama decided to cross the road.”
“And she didn’t want her car to stink,” said Dave with a grin, “so she hit the tree instead.”
“It was a reflex,” I said. “She tapped the brakes and we caught a patch of black ice.”
“What happened to the scoodle of skunks?” asked Noylene, suddenly reappearing with a coffee pot. “I jes’ love little baby skunks.”
“Scoodle?” I said.
“That’s what you call skunks,” said Noylene. “A scoodle.”
“Nah,” said Pete. “It’s a skein of skunks. Or if there are more than five, you call them a skank.”
“You’re both wrong,” I said. “It’s a surfeit of skunks. Anyway, the skunks are all fine, I believe.”
Nancy’s cell phone rang and she flipped it open. “Skunk department,” she said.
“Nancy forwarded the office phone,” Dave told Pete. “That way we can eat breakfast all day.”
The cowbell rang again as three more customers came into the restaurant. Noylene gave an audible sigh.
“Cheer up,” said Dave. “You know what they say. Every time you hear a bell, another angel gets its wings.”
“What they don’t tell you,” said Pete, “is that every time a mouse trap snaps, an angel bursts into flames.”
“We’ll be right there,” said Nancy, closing her phone. She took a slurp of coffee. “Time to go,” she said, standing and reaching for her coat. “We’ve got a floater in the lake.”
Chapter 7
Lake Tannenbaum was just outside the St. Germaine city limits and surrounded on three sides by the Mountainview Cemetery. It was a small mountain lake, just a couple of acres, spring fed and ice cold, even in the summer. The small dock, just visible from the road winding through the monuments, jutted about eight feet into the water and was flanked by “No Swimming” signs on either side. We parked on the pavement behind an old white Ford Bronco and made our way down to the edge of the lake. I recognized Pam Rutledge as she waved to us from the dock.
“I was visiting Mom,” she said, once we’d gotten down to the shore. “After I put the flowers on her grave, I came down to the lake. It’s peaceful and I had a few minutes before I needed to be at work.”
The water, cold as it was, was still a good deal warmer than the air on this frigid morning, and steam drifted up off the surface of the lake like the backdrop of an Arthurian legend.
“You said there was a body?” asked Nancy, sticking her hands deep in her pockets.
“Right there.” Pam pointed down to the brown cattails bobbing lazily beside the old wooden planks. Sure enough, there, floating face down, was a man. Although we couldn’t yet see his face, I knew I’d seen him before. He was wearing a sheepskin coat, jeans, and cowboy boots. His brown hair drifted in the icy water and I had no doubt that, when we fished him out, he’d have a beard.
•••
Joe and Mike, our two EMTs, were not happy about having to go into the shallows and drag the body to shore even, after I pointed out that I myself had a broken arm, that Dave’s back was acting up, and that Nancy was a girl.
“It’s freezing,” complained Mike. “And I don’t have my waders.”
“Suck it up,” said Nancy. “I’d do it, but I’m a girl.”
“A girl who could kick both our butts and never break a nail,” muttered Mike.
“C’mon,” said Dave, giving him a gentle, good-hearted nudge on the shoulder. “Quit griping. It’s your job.”
“Sheesh,” said Joe, wading into the water and grabbing the man by his collar. “I’ll get him.”
He dragged the body across the weeds and up onto the shore, where Mike and Dave latched on and helped him pull the corpse up so we could get a good look at him. Once he was up on the grass, they rolled him over. I recognized him from the auction. Nancy checked his pockets but came up empty. No wallet, no identification, no cell phone, nothing.
I squatted down over the body and took a closer look. The man was older than I’d originally thought, maybe late thirties, and in good shape. His beard was well-trimmed and he wore contacts. One of them had floated out in the lake, revealing a clouded blue eye. The other eye, the one with the contact lens still applied, was brown. His nails were trimmed and he wore a plain gold ring on his right hand. His brown hair was long but neatly cut.
“Do you know him?” a
sked Joe.
“Not me,” said Dave.
“Nope,” said Nancy.
I shook my head and noticed something odd. One of his sideburns, just below his ear, had lifted away from the skin of his face. I reached down with my right hand, took hold of it, and slowly peeled away a false beard and mustache. It was a professional appliance, a theatrical configuration made of very fine mesh and what felt like human hair. The beard had been affixed to the man’s face with spirit gum.
“What on earth?” exclaimed Nancy.
“Why is he wearing a fake beard?” asked Dave. “You think he drowned? And if he did, what was he doing down here in the first place?”
“I don’t think he drowned,” I said, reaching down again and pulling the wet, matted hair away from his face. There, just above his eyebrows, in the center of his forehead, was a small hole. A bullet hole.
Chapter 8
Needless to say, I was late for the worship meeting. Meg gave me a withering look as I came in. Since Gaylen was in the hospital, Deacon Mushrat had apparently tried to take the reins, but had quickly been quelled in his efforts by Bev. Being the Parish Administrator, she had the final say when the priest wasn’t available.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, taking my seat. “Duty called.”
“We were just discussing our plans for Advent, now that you and Gaylen are down for the count,” said Bev. “Meg was saying that a friend of yours might be available to play the organ until you get out of that cast.”
“Edna Terra-Pocks,” said Meg. “Hayden went to school with her. She’s supposed to be quite good.”
“To be honest,” I said, “I haven’t heard her play for a number of years.”
“Well, we don’t seem to have much choice, do we?” said Deacon Mushrat with a shrug. “I guess we could use one of those CDs with the hymns on them.”
“She’ll do just fine,” said Bev quickly. Elaine and Joyce Cooper nodded.
“I spoke with Bishop O’Connell this morning,” Bev continued. “He’ll be here this Sunday, but he’s booked for the rest of Advent. Gaylen said she’d probably be feeling good enough to handle the services by that next Sunday. That’d be...” Bev checked her calendar, “the Third Sunday of Advent. She doesn’t want to have to preach, though. I guess Donald can preach the sermon.”
The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 5
