"Yeah, I did," I said. "So you met with her after the movie?"
"No. She didn't show up. I went over to Eden Books and looked around for her, but I didn't see her. I came back and waited for her in front of the church for thirty minutes, then went to the shop. I thought she'd meet me there."
"What do you think she saw that freaked her out?" Nancy asked.
"I have no idea," said Dr. Ian Burch, PhD.
***
"You believe him?" asked Nancy, as we walked back across the park to the police station.
"As far as it goes," I said. "But he's not telling us everything."
"He's hiding something," said Dave. "I can always tell."
"No, you can't," said Nancy. "Ian was just showing off with that music stuff. Makes me want to slap him."
"I thought you took a class in music appreciation," I said, grinning. "You don't know about the organization of the House of Vichyssoise in 1328? Or the use of the bladderpipe as a medieval torture device?
"Blow it out your sackbut," said Nancy.
"Can you go through his whole phone?" I asked. "See what's there?"
"Yeah," said Nancy, "but I sincerely hope there aren't any naked pictures of that weasel on it. I don't think I could stand it."
Chapter 10
I was late getting back home and slept badly, having a lot on my mind, and knowing I had to be at church at ten o'clock the next morning. Still, the next morning I managed to get out of bed, finish a cup of coffee, and put on a tie before Meg informed me it was time to drive down the mountain. Nancy and Dave had agreed to go over to Flori Cabbage's apartment and look around first thing after breakfast. Police procedure dictated that we do our due diligence and there might be something to be gleaned. Besides, they were already in the habit of skipping church.
By the time I'd gotten my second cup of coffee in the parish hall and hightailed it up to the choir loft, the choir was beginning to assemble for our pre-service rehearsal.
"What can you tell us about Flori Cabbage?" said Mark Wells, never one to beat around the bush. "Ian's girlfriend."
"She's dead, for one thing," said Phil. "I heard it over at the Slab this morning."
"I know she's dead," said Mark. "That's why I asked."
"The matter is still under investigation," I said. "I can't talk about it. Besides, we have to rehearse."
"We could help, you know," said Marjorie. "Remember how we helped you solve the case of the murdered deacon last year?"
"No, I don't," I replied. I sat down on the organ bench and began to rifle through the pile of music I had stacked on the top of the console.
"Sorry I missed rehearsal on Wednesday," said Bob Solomon. "What are we singing?"
"The anthem is O For A Closer Walk With God by Stanford. O Taste and See for communion, and Psalm 34."
"I guess that Ian won't be here this morning," said Martha Hatteberg. "Maybe I can get my seat back."
As if on cue, out of the stairwell came Dr. Ian Burch, PhD. He spotted Tiff, gave her a little wave and beat Martha to her chair. The choir loft became suddenly quiet.
"Ian," said Meg after a long and awkward pause. "We're sorry for your loss."
Ian looked puzzled, then said, "Oh, you mean Flori Cabbage. Thank you. She was a good employee. She'll be difficult to replace." He turned to Tiff. "Might you be looking for part-time employment, Miss St. James?"
Tiff shot me a glance. There was a look of terror in her eyes.
"Let's go over the anthem," I said. "This is Vicar McTavish's first Sunday by himself, remember?"
"How could we forget?" mumbled Bev under her breath.
***
I played the prelude, then launched into the processional hymn precisely at eleven o'clock. The choir had gathered in the back of the church, the narthex. They'd go in two-by-two, following the crucifer into the nave and up to the chancel. Then they'd split, make the ninety degree turn, turn again a few feet later at the side aisles, and make their way back to the narthex in order to climb the stairs to the loft. The clergy, acolytes, Eucharistic Ministers, lay readers, and others involved in the service usually followed the choir in and remained up in the chancel stalls. Today, though, there would be no Eucharistic Ministers, or lay readers either, for that matter. Vicar Fearghus McTavish had made it plain that he would preside over the service by himself.
The choir members completed their trek and were filing into the loft just as I was improvising an introduction to the last stanza. I glanced down into the nave just as Benny Dawkins came into my view. He was about halfway down the aisle, leading the priest in.
Benny Dawkins was our champion thurifer, easily one of the best smokin'-joes in the history of the genre. There were those who held, with good reason, that he was the best the world had ever seen. Once Benny had won every thurifer competition and title there was to win, he retired from competition and turned pro. Now he travelled to all the major venues—Notre Dame in Paris, St. Peter's in Rome, St. John the Divine in New York, and the Hagia Sophia Church in Istanbul, among many others—and exhibited his gifts with a virtuosity that made worshippers weep to see it. Many other thurifers had switched to the hypoallergenic incense due to the outcry among those in the congregation suffering with allergies, but Benny poo-pooed the practice, preferring to blend his own special mixture that was both aromatic and delightful. The smoke didn't burn anyone's eyes and, amazingly enough, created a sense of well-being, was rumored to cure headaches and caused head colds to briefly abate. Benny kept his mixture a well-guarded secret, sharing it only, rumor had it, with his protégé, nine-year-old Addie Buss. Benny had told me that the smoke of his special blend was much heavier than the smoke from regular incense and thus made it more easily manipulated. I took him at his word, as did anyone else who witnessed his thuriblific offerings. As Benny reached the crossing, his swinging and smoldering pot increased its speed until it became a blur. Addie, who was carrying the incense boat, stayed close to Benny's side, never wavering, as the thurible whizzed by her head at dizzying speed. When it finally slowed, Benny moved up the steps to cense the altar and left in his wake a life-sized depiction of Michelangelo's Pieta. The white smoke actually hung in the air and for a few breathtaking and reverent moments, mimicked the shimmering Carrara marble and the perfection of Michelangelo's vision. There was a gasp of appreciation from the congregation.
Vicar McTavish had taken another route in his procession to the chancel, going around Benny's artistry to the right, then stopping in front of his chair. He faced the altar, but didn't sit.
I was watching, of course, to see what Benny would come up with, managing the last verse of A Mighty Fortress Is Our God easily from memory. We didn't do much for Reformation Sunday here at St. Barnabas, but a musical nod toward one of our spiritual forebears, Martin Luther, wasn't out of order.
In most churches, it was the practice for the thurifer to hand the thurible to the priest for the censing of the altar. Benny had always done it, and the priest made no move to deny him the chore. I'd seen him do it dozens of times, but it was still fascinating and beautiful to watch. While Addie stood to the side, Benny circled the altar making small movements with the thurible in a counterclockwise direction (resulting in an exquisite collection of interlocking smoke rings) until he reached the west side of the altar, facing east. He then made three sets of triple swings towards east, and continued around the altar to his original position. Having finished censing the altar, and with the entire chancel now obscured by smoke, Benny retreated to his own chair, hung his thurible on its hook as the hymn ended, and remained standing for the opening sentences.
Vicar McTavish turned to face the congregation, lifted his arms to the heavens and spoke in a thundering voice:
"O God, who didst call thy servant Queen Margaret to an earthly throne that she might advance thy heavenly kingdom, and didst endue her with zeal for thy Church and charity towards thy people. Mercifully grant that we who commemorate her example may be fruitful in good works, and a
ttain to the glorious fellowship of thy Saints; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."
"Queen Margaret?" said Meg.
"Maybe it's her feast day," whispered Bev. "Or maybe she's the patron saint of St. Drinstan's parish in Old Muke."
"Old Muke?" said Sheila in a hushed tone. "What did I miss?"
"Hear what our Lord Jesus Christ saith," said Vicar McTavish. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets."
"Oops," said Bev. "Gotta pay attention. Time to sing."
I played the Gloria, and the congregation and choir sang, if not lustily and with good courage as John Wesley decreed, at least energetically and only slightly behind the beat.
We finished singing and the collect of the day was read. Then, those following along in the bulletin read the direction, "The children may come to the chancel steps for the Children's Moment." Eager parents pushed their preschool children out into the aisle, but—unlike when Gaylen Weatherall invited the children forward in loving, maternal tones and they fairly danced up the aisle to be with her—these children remained frozen in their spots, their eyes locked on the figure before them.
Towering on the top step and dressed in his long black cassock with white preaching tabs was the vicar. He growled from deep in his throat, a low growl that we could hear in the choir loft even though his mouth never opened. Then with arms extended, his hands like claws at the end of massive iron rods, he opened his mouth to speak.
"Suffer the little children to come to me," he said slowly, in a voice like ancient oak.
"The key word here," muttered Bev, "being suffer."
"How does he make his voice do that?" whispered Muffy. "How does he make it go all anointy and stuff? He sounds like a cross between Sean Connery and James Earl Jones."
Vicar McTavish turned and slowly walked back to his chair, and the children, mesmerized, traipsed methodically up the aisle, followed him behind the altar, and circled around him in silence. He bent from the waist until his head was at the level of their little faces, then whispered to them for three full minutes. The congregation leaned forward in their pews, and the choir in their chairs, but all we could hear was a sub-audible mumbling.
"He doesn't understand the dynamics of the Children's Moment," I whispered to Meg. "It's not for the children. It's so the adults will have some entertainment. He needs to ask them leading questions so the little tykes will give hilarious answers and we can all have a good chuckle."
"Hush!" said Meg, her eyes glued on the cluster of kids behind the altar.
His talk finished, the priest straightened and gestured for the children to leave. They dutifully obeyed, filing silently back down the aisle, through the church filled with stunned parents, older kids, and others wondering what they'd just missed, and out into the narthex where they were met by an incredulous Kimberly Walnut.
"I wonder what he said to them," whispered Rebecca. "Whatever it was, I'd like to know. I'd tell them the same thing during story time at the library."
***
The scriptures were read and it was time for the sermon. Fearghus McTavish climbed into the pulpit and looked across the congregation with unwavering severity in his ice-blue eyes.
"The Word of God says," he snarled, "that a virtuous woman is a crown to her husband: but she that maketh him ashamed is as rottenness in his bones."
"What?" gasped Martha. "I doubt it! I've gone to twenty-seven Women's Bible Studies, and we never read that."
"Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on Hell where the screams of the undead shall pierce the sinner like a sword. Where the lamentations of the damned are without end. For their black hearts are ripped asunder and cast into the pit of everlasting fire."
"Proverbs," I said with a nod. "Can't go wrong with the Book of Proverbs."
The congregation sat, stunned, their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide, as the vicar painted them a twenty-minute vision of the fiery depths of Hell that they wouldn't soon forget, the road to which, by all accounts, would be lined with wanton women and lascivious libertines.
He narrowed his gaze and managed the smallest of self-satisfied smiles. "We are maggots and wretches, cullions and blackguards, caitiffs and poltroons, and all of us wholly dependent on the grace of the Almighty." His voice rose to a thunderclap and he pointed a finger quavering with rage across the congregation. "Confess your sins," he roared, then dropped his voice to a low growl, "and turn from your degradation."
"I confess," muttered Marjorie in terror. "I'm a poltroon."
The parishioners sat spellbound and silence reigned as the priest surveyed the crowd.
"God... is... not... mocked!" he finished.
***
I was playing the postlude and the choir had departed the loft in favor of coffee in the parish hall. I played the last few chords, turned off the organ and looked up to see the worried face of Ian Burch, PhD, staring at me over the console.
"Umm..." he started.
"Something to tell me?" I asked. "As police chief. I'm not taking confessions of a personal nature."
"Well... I wonder if you think that someone who might have been looking for Flori Cabbage might find those texts she was sending me. Or vice-versa. I mean, since Lieutenant Parsky had no problem, someone else could probably do it just as easily."
"Probably," I agreed. I didn't know for sure, but it sounded plausible to me.
"Flori Cabbage told me that she'd seen her old boyfriend in town yesterday morning. The one from Charlotte."
"She tell you his name?"
"No, she wouldn't tell me."
"Did she have reason to be afraid of him?"
Ian shrugged. "I don't really know, but she was acting strangely. I was thinking maybe that's why she said she was still scared yesterday afternoon." Ian put his face in his hands and mumbled through his fingers. "What if he was the one who killed her? I could be next."
"So, why didn't you tell us this last night?"
"I was scared," said Ian Burch, terror not far from his voice. "If he murdered Flori Cabbage, he wouldn't think twice about killing me as well. What if he reads those texts on her phone? What if he killed her because she knew something? He might think that she told me something and now I'm talking to the police. Can you give me protection?"
"Nope. I doubt he'll bother you. Tell you what. We'll make sure we stop by the shop every few hours for the next couple of days. At least when we're on duty. You have a burglar alarm?"
Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, shook his head.
"I'd get one."
Chapter 11
Lapke Baklava reached down, took Tessie's delicate fingers in his hand and nibbled on her knuckles in a gesture so intimate that the dead rat in the corner blushed.
"My family requires that I marry a wirgin," he smarmed oilily. "Are you a wirgin?"
"I think so," gulluped Tessie. "What's a wirgin?"
"Never mind that," said Pedro, with a stern yet resolute nod. "Lapke here tells me that the Amish Vampires are onto the Doctrine of Transubstantiation. Once they discovered that little gem, they started converting to Catholicism so fast that the Pope couldn't cook the wafers fast enough."
"What about the crosses?" I asked. "And the holy water? Aren't vampires allergic or something?"
"It's a problem," admitted Lapke, sipping his Bloody Mary. "That's why they're after the Methodists. A cross with a flame in the middle doesn't seem to affect them. And there's no holy water to worry about."
Pedro nodded gravely and solemnly, somehow retaining the air of sternness and resolutivation of his previous nod. "If they can get the Methodist bishops to approve the Doctrine of Transubstantiation at the next annual conference, the Vampire Amish will move to Methodism like Angelina Jolie into a Pillow-Lips franchise."
"Not to mention that Methodists ha
ve been garlic-free since 1998," I said. "You remember the incident at the Council of Arugula with the Cloven Tongues of Fire appetizers?"
Pedro nodded again, this time grimly and seriously, still without losing any of the gravenicity, solemnation, sternitivity, or resolutionness of his prior head-bobbings.
"Cloven Tongues of Fire appetizers," he said. "Garlic and jalapeños. Nasty business."
***
The Slab had its share of afternoon customers on Sunday, but they mostly consisted of the late church crowd, so by two o'clock, it was Meg, Pete, Cynthia, and I and the remnant of New Fellowship Baptist's Older Adult Sunday School Class who were finishing up their meals. The weekend leaf-gawkers had journeyed back to their own haunts.
Meg and I had eaten lunch at the Ginger Cat after church, but had come over to the Slab for dessert after failing to make sense out of a menu that featured Tambo-Tambong, a concoction that our waitress informed us was sort of hot Filipino fruit soup, and Gooseberry Pudding with Chantilly Cream. All of a sudden, Noylene's homemade apple pie sounded especially good. It was.
"How was church?" asked Cynthia. "This was the first one for your new priest, wasn't it?"
"It was," I said. "I thought it went well."
"What?" said Meg. She gave me a withering look, then turned to address Cynthia's question. "It was awful. He did a twenty-minute sermon on Hell..."
"Which was very compelling," I interrupted, "if not informative."
"Based on some obscure text from the Book of Proverbs," she continued, ignoring me. "He scared Marjorie to death. Then he did a Children's Moment that we couldn't even hear. He didn't take communion at all. He put all the leftover elements back into the tabernacle."
"That's the Reserved Sacrament," I said, taking a big bite of my apple pie.
"What's that?" asked Pete.
"During the week, the Reserved Sacrament is taken to the sick, hospitalized, and housebound so that they may receive Holy Communion as an extension of the Sunday worship."
The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 10
