The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

"Yeah," said Pete. "When it rains, it pours."

  We ate our fried chicken, finished the rest of our supper, then repaired to the living room. Meg filled our glasses with a nice Cabernet and we settled back into our chairs. Baxter had been relegated to the outdoors and was now sitting on the back deck peering at us through the plate glass window. Archimedes seemed to know when we had guests and had made himself scarce as usual.

  "Have you seen that possum over at Mildred's?" I asked Ruby. "I figured you would have shot it by now."

  "I was going to, but it had a collar on," said Ruby. "I swear. That Mildred Kibbler couldn't see a woodpecker tapping her on her nose. She's blind as a dang bat."

  "So it was a pet possum?" said Meg.

  "The possum's name is Possum Joe. He belongs to Penny Trice, who lives behind Mildred. He got out of his cage, disappeared, and Penny's been handing out flyers up and down the street. She's raised him from a pup."

  "Did she find him?"

  "He was sitting in Mildred's tree, pretty as you please. I reached up and plucked him out, then called Penny and she came and got him."

  "Glad you didn't shoot him," said Pete. "That would have been terrible. That is, unless there was some kind of stew involved."

  "Oh my gosh, Cynthia!" Meg said suddenly. "Don't you have play rehearsal tonight? I forgot all about it."

  "There's no rehearsal. Mr. Christopher is meeting with the board of directors. With Muffy gone, I think we're going to have to postpone it a few weeks. Maybe cancel it altogether. She had the lion's share of the dialogue."

  "Can't they get someone to step in?" Meg asked.

  "I guess they could," said Cynthia. "But no one's heart is really in it at this point."

  "Perhaps they could do a dramatized version of one of your stories?" Pete suggested. "How's the new one coming, by the way?"

  "Splendidly," I said. "In fact, since St. Patrick's Day is on Wednesday, I've incorporated a little bit of Ireland into the narrative."

  "Do tell," said Ruby with a laugh. "A reading, perhaps?"

  "I'd be happy to," I said.

  "Oh, no!" moaned Meg.

  I walked over to my desk and picked up the stack of papers that were accumulating beside the typewriter. "Chapter One," I said, then proceeded to catch everyone up on the story before including my latest.

  * * *

  "Don't eat us, Big," I said. "I know Pedro did you wrong, but it ain't the end of the world."

  "Yeah, it is," Big grunted sadly. "Apocalypto videre. I'm drownin' my sorrows in bonbons. We've only got a couple of months left."

  "That's what I heard," I said. "You know why we're here? Carrie Oakey is dead."

  The Big Brickle snorked another handful of bonbons. Bonbons were nothing to her. Big was known to gobble full-grown guinea pigs when she was in the mood, then wash them down with Diet Coke when she knew perfectly well that she shouldn't mix hairy products with artificial sweeteners.

  "It was only a matter of time," she said. "The leprechauns are on the move. They're all heading to Sarsaparilla for the Feast of St. Quetzalcoatl. In another week or so there won't be a boys choir in the country that can sing "Missa di Poli Woli Doodle," much less "Ecce Uvulare" on Ash Wednesday. Not that it'll matter much, one way or the other," she added depressedly.

  "So why would one of them winkles want to off Carrie Oakey?" I asked.

  The Big Brickle shrugged. "No reason I know of. She's the one who wanted the leprechauns out of the choirs anyway. Maybe she knew something I don't."

  "Maybe," agreed Pedro. "Thanks for not killing us, by the way."

  Big waved at us absently, her arm wattles catching the breeze and waggling like one of those inflatable advertising tube characters you see at pawn shops, all the while making that disgusting flapping sound that one of those toy push-ducks with the rubber feet makes when you scooch it across the kitchen floor.

  "So, what happens on the Feast of St. Quetzalcoatl?" Pedro said.

  "Well, the Mayan calendar runs out, for one thing," she answered.

  "Anything else?" I asked, setting my jaw and preparing for the worst, like that time in junior high when I was playing spin-the-bottle and the bottle pointed at Debbie who played clarinet in the band, but it really wasn't that bad, considering her mustache and all.

  "That's not enough?"

  "We don't buy into all that Mayan hooey," I said thinly. "What else?"

  Big shrugged. "No one knows."

  "Except the winkles," I said.

  "Except the winkles," the Big Brickle agreed.

  * * *

  "My, but that was ... writing," said Ruby, searching for an appropriate word.

  "Arm wattles?" said Cynthia. "Astonishing."

  "I've never heard anything like it," agreed Pete.

  "I told you," said Meg. "I told you."

  Chapter 22

  "Let's go over this stuff," I said. "This is not coincidence. The two Indians, for example, Jango Watie and George Sequoyah."

  Nancy, Dave, and I were sitting in the police station on Tuesday morning. We hadn't seen the two men since Sunday, but that didn't mean they weren't around. We'd finally gotten a picture of Jango Watie and I'd identified him as the big fellow I'd seen in the church on Sunday morning. The Cherokee police had warned us about the two. Dangerous.

  "We've got a dead Cherokee named Johnny Talltrees," said Nancy. "Killed in the alley behind the bookstore, or killed somewhere else and left there. According to Sequoyah, he also worked for the casino in Cherokee."

  "Murder for sure?" asked Dave.

  "Manslaughter, anyway," I said. "He was tased and his heart stopped. Whoever did it might not have meant to kill him, but they hit him between the eyes. Maybe because he was so short."

  "Then panicked and dumped the body by the dumpster," suggested Nancy. "I can see it."

  "It's a thought," I said, then continued. "Rahab is kidnapped, then the ransom paid, and the boy returned. Connection?"

  "Probably," said Nancy.

  "I agree," said Dave, "but what is it?"

  "Don't know yet. We do think that the kidnapper acted alone, right?"

  "And might be a woman," added Nancy. "I don't see these Indian guys doing it. Someone took care of that little guy. Dressed him in a hat. Gave him a carrot."

  "Right," I said. "Sunday morning, Jango Watie and George Sequoyah show up. Two collection guys from the Friendly Gaming Club in Cherokee, which, by all accounts, is anything but friendly. An hour later Muffy LeMieux is electrocuted. Terry can't find anything amiss other than a faulty ground. An accident?"

  "Maybe," said Nancy. "Maybe not."

  "Then, yesterday morning, Varmit comes in here looking to get the death certificate."

  "Man," said Dave, "he didn't even wait 'til she was cold. You think he's after some life insurance?"

  "That's the only reason I can think of," I said. "Be good to know how much life insurance, if any, Varmit had on her."

  Nancy jotted the information down in her pad.

  "Also be good to know who exactly our Indian friends were looking for on Sunday morning."

  "You think they might have killed Muffy?" asked Dave. "You know, as a warning, or something."

  "How long were they down front before you saw them?" asked Nancy.

  "I don't know," I said. "Joyce called me down when she spotted them. I can't imagine how they would have known that Muffy would be dipping her hand in the water, though, even if one of them had the where-with-all to rig the amp. First off, that baptismal font is kept covered and the wooden lid is heavy. It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment theatrical move. She'd staged the whole thing, all the way from the prayer she was saying between verses to dipping her hand into the water and letting it roll off her fingers."

  "Are we now operating under the assumption that Muffy was murdered?" asked Nancy. "And that the kidnapping and the other killing are somehow related?"

  "That'd be my bet."

  "Did Varmit have the know-how to rig that amplifier?" Dave asked. "He
wasn't an electrician."

  "I expect he was competent. He was wiring the set for the Little Theater production."

  "You saw him?" asked Nancy.

  "No, I didn't. But I heard Muffy call out 'It works, sweetie' to someone working on the wiring behind the set. Unless she had another sweetie, I'm guessing that was Varmit."

  "Ooo," said Dave, appreciably.

  "Let's find out about that life insurance, if there is any. A call to the Friendly Gaming Club might be in order. I wonder if they know Varmit LeMieux."

  * * *

  Muffy LeMieux was due to be buried in Greensboro in the family plot. The funeral would be on Thursday morning at Second Baptist Church, Muffy's home congregation. This information was tweeted at me by Bev. At least, I think it was tweeted. It popped up on my phone, anyway. It was Meg who set up my Tweety account, so I can't be sure."

  At two o'clock, Nancy and I met up at the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop for an afternoon espresso. She'd been doing some legwork on the casino connection. I'd been chasing down Varmit's insurance agent. It wasn't too tough. As part owner of a flourishing enterprise in St. Germaine, i.e., Blueridge Furs, his business license had the name of the liability insurance carrier. A couple of calls later and I was talking with Fiona Babcock of Babcock Insurance. Yes, they had insurance, Feona assured me. Yes, there were "key-man" life insurance policies on both Muffy and Varmit LeMieux, but she wasn't able to provide any other details. Another call to Judge Adams for a warrant and I had the information I was after.

  Kylie brought our order to the table. Nancy had chosen one in the back, but it didn't matter. At two o'clock, we were the only ones in the place.

  "Warming up," said Kylie. "Be spring soon."

  "Feels like it," said Nancy, offering her a small smile, but nothing else. Kylie took the hint and disappeared into the kitchen.

  "What did you find out?" said Nancy, taking a sip of the black, syrupy coffee.

  "We were right about the insurance policy," I said. "Babcock Insurance is carrying a half-million dollar key-man policy on both Muffy and Varmit."

  "What's a key-man policy?"

  "It's insurance that compensates the business for financial losses arising from the death or extended incapacity of the member of the business specified on the policy. It's generally taken on an essential member. So, if that person dies, the business can either liquidate or have time to find a replacement."

  "And Muffy was essential to the business?"

  "Well, after Varmit and she bought Blueridge Furs from Roderick Bateman, I guess they're the ones who've been running it."

  "Let me understand," said Nancy. "Blueridge Furs gets the half-million."

  "Yep."

  "And according to the business license, Blueridge Furs is now Varmit LeMieux?"

  "Yep. No other partners, according to the license on file."

  "Interesting," said Nancy. "I talked with the 'comptroller' at the Friendly Gaming Club. Comptroller. What a joke!"

  "Did he offer any insight?" I asked.

  "He did indeed," said Nancy. "He didn't even require a warrant. It seems that Mr. LeMieux owes the Friendly Gaming Club seventy-five thousand dollars."

  "The exact amount of Rahab's ransom."

  "Indeed," said Nancy. "So now we know why the Indians are in town and who they wanted to see."

  "So why didn't Varmit just pay them the seventy-five grand? No need to kill Muffy for the insurance."

  "He owes somebody else as well?"

  "Maybe," I said, "but now I'm wondering about Blueridge Furs' financial position in this economy. It could be that they're in trouble."

  "It could be," agreed Nancy. "Let's find out."

  * * *

  "Any word on the plight of the good reverend?" said Bev. I'd stopped by the new offices of Greene and Farthing, Financial Counseling. Meg had chosen her maiden name for the new business. The office was just off the square, behind the library in a small house that had been, in recent memory, a dentist's office, a TV repair store, and a pottery shop. Bev was cleaning and there was still a lot of work to do before they'd be up and running.

  "I talked with Judge Adams a couple of hours ago on another matter, but he said that he wasn't inclined to let this go. She'll have her hearing late this afternoon, then bail will be set, and she'll be back home by dinner."

  "Shame," said Bev absently, then, "Look at this mess! Once we get this all cleaned up, we still have to get the contractors in, take down a couple of walls, redo the bathroom and the kitchen. Paint, carpet, signs, computers, desks ... Who would have thought it'd be so hard?"

  "Me, that's who!"

  Bev laughed. "No sweat. This is going to be great. I can't wait to get started."

  "Have we, umm, bought this building?" I asked nervously.

  "Not yet," said Bev. "We're closing next week, I think. That ball's in Meg's court."

  * * *

  Stacey Lindsay was in her office when I arrived at St. Germaine Federal Bank. I'd called ahead for an appointment. She stood as I walked in and offered her hand.

  "Hayden, good to see you again."

  "Thanks," I said. "You, too."

  "I checked on the Blueridge Furs account after you called, and normally I couldn't even speak with you about it, but since it's a matter of public record there won't be a problem."

  "Public record?" I said.

  "Their bankruptcy. Chapter 11. It was filed two weeks ago."

  "Isn't that supposed to be in the paper?"

  "No, not necessarily. Sometimes, if a reporter goes through all the recorded court documents, they'll find it and do a story. Most times not. Can you imagine what The Tattler would do with this?"

  "So Blueridge Furs is out of business?"

  "Oh, no," said Stacey. "Not yet, anyway. When a business is unable to service its debt or pay its creditors, the business or its creditors can file with a federal bankruptcy court for protection under either Chapter 7 or Chapter 11."

  "What's the difference?" I asked.

  "In Chapter 7, the business ceases operations, a trustee sells all of its assets and then distributes the proceeds to its creditors. Any residual amount is then returned to the owners of the company. In Chapter 11, the debtor remains in control of the business operations as what we call a 'debtor in possession.' Of course, he's subject to the oversight and jurisdiction of the court."

  "And how is it that you found out?"

  "The bank was notified as soon as Blueridge Furs filed with the bankruptcy court. We hold a note on the property."

  "So Varmit hasn't been making payments?" I said.

  Stacey flipped through some documents resting in front of her, then settled on one and read for a moment before answering. "He's only a couple of months behind, and he's been making some minimal payments. We might not have said anything except that he has a balloon payment due on the first of April. It's a big one. A little over a hundred twenty-seven thousand dollars.

  "So filing Chapter 11 bankruptcy was preemptive," I said.

  "Yes, I believe it was. That doesn't mean that the debt is wiped out, mind you. Just that he has time to reorganize and come up with a plan suitable with both us and the court."

  "What if he has other creditors?"

  Stacey shook her head. "He doesn't. Not that this filing applies to, anyway. The bank is the only creditor listed."

  "Thanks," I said, standing up to leave. Stacey had another customer pacing impatiently in front of her office door.

  "No problem," said Stacey. She stood up to shake my hand again. "Like I said, it's all public record."

  I opened the door to leave, then turned back. "Hey, do you know an electrician named Terry?"

  Chapter 23

  "Can you help us out?" asked Pedro, showing a lot of cojones, considering he was begging a favor from a jilted Amazon with enough attitude to put the squeeze on us (not to mention our cojones), but not literally showing them, because that would just be disgusting.

  "Sure. No skin off my nose," s
aid Big, peeling a big piece of skin off her nose. She lumbered over to her desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a winkle, kicking and screeching. He was wearing a little, pointy, green hat, knee breeches, a brown coat, and shoes with buckles.

  "Man," said Pedro, "talk about your stereotypes."

  "Shut your yap!" screeched the leprechaun in fury. "She makes me wear this getup!"

  "Cute," I said to the Brickle. "Will he help us?"

  "He has to," said Big. "I sprinkled some salt on his tail."

  "She did it to me, too," muttered Pedro, suppressing a grin at the memory. "And a little cinnamon."

  "Them's the rules," said Big, "and he knows it. He either has to give me his pot of gold or serve me for a year. A winkle isn't going to give up the gold."

  "Not at sixteen hundred dollars an ounce," grumbled the leprechaun.

  "He used to sing with St. Bart's, the American Boychoir, the National Cathedral, who knows where else? ..."

  "I was a soloist!" hissed the winkle. "A treble soloist! And you stick me in a drawer. Pah!"

  "What's his name?" Pedro asked.

  The Big Brickle smiled for the first time. "Fluffernutter O'Brannigan."

  "Keeeee!" screeched the leprechaun at the mention of his name.

  "Maybe we'll just call you Fluffy," I said.

  "Pah!" said Fluffy with as much venom as he could muster, dressed in knee-pants. "I curse you and all your ilk. The leprechaun's curse!"

  "Save it for Darby O'Gill," I said.

  "Harken to me, Fluffernutter O'Brannigan," chanted the Big Brickle, "I hereby commend your servitude to Pedro LaFleur," she wiggled a wattle at the winkle, "with all the rights and privileges therefore appertaining, etcetera, etcetera."

  "Pah!"

  "This treble is gonna be trouble, if I have any sooth to say," prognosticated Pedro, forebodingly.

  I nodded and fondled my gat.

  * * *

  Choir rehearsal on Wednesday night started slowly. The group came into the loft in relative silence, found their seats, and started thumbing through their music. Usually there was much jollity and fellowship to be enjoyed and it was tough for me to get them all focused. This evening, though, they were under a cloud, and allowably so.