The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "Find out where he's doing his time, and schedule us an appointment with him," I told Nancy. "I've got a meeting over at the church. I'll be back in about thirty minutes."

  "Don't your meetings take four or five hours?" asked Nancy with a snarky smile.

  "Half an hour," I growled. "Maybe sooner. Dave come in this morning yet?"

  "Nope."

  ***

  "Today is All Saints' Day, November 1st," sniffed Bev. "We're celebrating it this Sunday. It's one month 'til Advent starts. We ought to have at least one staff meeting before Christmas, don't you think?"

  "You guys can have as many meetings as you like," I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee from the carafe that Marilyn had thoughtfully put on the table. "In fact, I affirm your meetings."

  "Can you tell us anything about poor Flori Cabbage?" asked Joyce Cooper.

  I shook my head. "I really can't. I will tell you, for what it's worth, that we think she was killed elsewhere and then dragged into the hay maze."

  "Terrible thing," said Joyce.

  "Speaking of terrible," said Kimberly Walnut, "do you know when Vicar McTavish is coming in? I needed to ask him something about Sunday's service, but I can never seem to catch him."

  Bev shook her head. "Vicar McTavish is only here on Sundays. He's working up on Grandfather Mountain."

  "Oh, brother!" said Kimberly. "By the way, can we get Clarence to clean the children's bathroom upstairs once in a while? It's like a pig sty up there! You'd think that a janitor would know his job!"

  "Sexton," Bev said with a weary sigh. "Clarence is a sexton."

  "What was it the vicar said to the kids during the Children's Moment last Sunday?" asked Joyce. "I've never seen them so quiet."

  "They wouldn't tell me," huffed Kimberly Walnut. "The only information I could wheedle out of one of them was that the Father said that they mustn't ever tell what he told them. It was a secret and did they know what a secret was?"

  "Apparently, they do," I said with a smile.

  "I asked one of the parents, but they couldn't get anything, either. And here's something else..."

  "I've got to get back to work," I interrupted. "Anything I should know about the service on Sunday?"

  "Just the normal 1928 All Saints' liturgy with a throwback, 19th century Scottish Calvinist priest," said Bev. "Should be interesting. What are we singing?"

  "We're doing the Puccini Requiem."

  "The whole thing?" asked Joyce.

  "It's not a requiem mass. Just an anthem, but very nice. We'll do it during the offertory."

  "The bulletin's almost finished," said Marilyn. "It's in the office if anyone wants to see it. I'm still waiting for the list of the dearly departed." She looked at me, then smiled and said, "Hayden's already sent his stuff in."

  "Don't forget that we have the Congregational Enlivener here on Sunday," said Kimberly Walnut. "He'll be meeting with the Sunday School classes and telling us why our church is so... well... boring. Then we'll be handing out the Spirit Sticks for the kids to use during the service. The vestry is all on board."

  "Has your Congregational Enlivener actually been to one of our services?" I asked.

  "No," said Kimberly Walnut, "but I told him how boring they are. Up, down, up, down, sing this old hymn, sing that boring Psalm, read the scripture, recite some old creed... It's the same thing every Sunday. I tried to clear all this with Vicar McTavish..."

  Bev bit her lip. "Kimberly, I'd like to see you after the meeting," she said sweetly.

  Kimberly Walnut didn't take the hint. "Anyway," she continued, "our Enlivener will be interjecting some fun elements into the service. We've decided that they should be a surprise."

  "This should work well, what with us using the '28 Prayer Book and everything," I said as I stood to leave. "The vicar will love it."

  "Now, about Advent," continued Kimberly Walnut. "There are several of us that think St. Barnabas should really do away with it entirely. A lot of churches are doing just that, you know. If we had Christmas carols for the whole month of December instead of those gloomy Advent hymns, it'd put everyone in a great holiday mood!"

  I made for the door. "I'll see you guys later."

  Bev caught up to me just down the hall. "She's got to go!" she hissed. "But I can't fire her! The vestry voted that there will be no personnel changes until we get a permanent rector. She knows it and has been biding her time. Not only that, but now she has a couple of vocal supporters."

  "Then I guess we'd better enliven them," I said. "What's the worst that can happen?"

  ***

  "Guess what?" said Nancy as I entered the station.

  "I can't imagine," I said. "Where the heck is Dave?"

  "Where do you think?" said Nancy.

  "Well, he's not at home," I said. "I drove by his place on the way in. His car is gone."

  "Right," said Nancy with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. "And you call yourself a detective."

  "Oh," I said. "Wilkesboro."

  "He called and said he'd be here by lunch. Meanwhile, there's other news. I called the Avery-Mitchell Correctional Institution in Spruce Pine to schedule an interview with Robert Brannon."

  "Yeah?"

  "I couldn't get one. Know why?"

  "He's out, isn't he?" I said.

  "Yep. Paroled last month. He did four years of a fifteen year sentence. They're out of space, Rob was a model prisoner, and manslaughter was a lesser offense, so he was paroled out of there."

  "Did you call his parole officer?"

  "I did," said Nancy. "Brannon checked in the first week, but the parole officer hasn't heard from him since then. The guy is so busy that he hasn't even scheduled any appointments with Rob yet."

  "Oh, great. Does he have Rob Brannon's address? A phone number?"

  "Got the address," said Nancy. "It's an apartment in Newland. I talked to the manager. Brannon paid three months in advance. The manager hasn't seen him for a couple of weeks. There's a phone number, too, but no answer. I'll send Dave up there to check it out, but I'm betting he's not there."

  I tapped absently on the desk, my mind racing.

  "Well, that explains Flori Cabbage spotting her old boyfriend," I said. "But what's he doing in Watauga County?"

  "Remember at his sentencing hearing?" said Nancy. "He said he'd get even with St. Barnabas. Not just you. The whole church."

  I nodded. "Let's say he did have something to do with murdering Flori Cabbage. Why? Why after four years?"

  "It can't be coincidence," said Nancy, shaking her head. "I just don't know."

  "I need a Reuben sandwich," I said. "Sauerkraut always helps me think."

  ***

  Seventeen minutes later, Noylene Fabergé-Dupont-McTavish was setting a plate down in front of me. On this plate rested the champion sandwich of all time, the Reuben. Winner of the 1956 International Sandwich Exposition, it purportedly had a much longer history, having been simultaneously invented in 1914 by Arnold Reuben, owner of Reuben's Restaurant and Delicatessen in New York, by Reuben Kulakofsky, a wholesale grocer in Omaha, Nebraska, and by William Hamerly, a New York accountant and bachelor cook, who named it after Arnold Reuben. Whoever it was that came up with the recipe—corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Thousand Island dressing on rye bread—was a bona fide American hero in my book and should have his own holiday, a plot in the Arlington cemetery, and possibly have his likeness (or one of the sandwich) issued on a postage stamp. Certainly, U.S. Postal Service and other government employees around the country would embrace this idea. What was one more holiday?

  "You sure you don't want anything?" Noylene asked Nancy.

  "Maybe just some onion rings," said Nancy, now that the scent of deep-fried breaded onions was wafting from my plate. "Onion rings and a sweet tea."

  Brother Hog was sitting at the counter, bouncing little Rahab on his knee and digging into a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

  "Afternoon, Brother Hog," I said. "Your brother is quite a preach
er. Must run in the family."

  "Fearghus? Yes, I suppose he is, although he embraces a different interpretation of the scriptures than I do. Still, it takes all kinds to get through to people, doesn't it?"

  "I suppose it does," I said, tickling Rahab under his chubby chin. "How's that little nipper doing today?"

  "Doing great," said Hog. "He'll be a year old in a month or so. You know, I wonder if he might be walking by now if we hadn’t snipped off his tail when he was circumcised."

  "Good point," I said. "Although little Rahab will probably be glad you did when he gets to kindergarten. There're not too many kids walking around with tails these days. You know, I've read that baby kangaroos use their tails to learn how to walk. I think that's true of many caudated bipeds."

  "Interesting," said Brother Hog, with a bob of his head. Noylene, overhearing, rolled her eyes.

  "Is he preaching yet?" asked Nancy. "I read about this little baby preacher in Iowa. Right now he's just preaching to the family pigs, but they seem to be quite amenable to the Gospel. In a year or so his daddy's going to take him on the circuit."

  "Little Rahab's not ready just yet," said Brother Hog. "Won't be long, though. He's already been rebuking the unclean spirit of diaper rash."

  Chapter 15

  Ten little bats fluttered down into the coffins and transmogrified into the Vampire Amish with little poofs of smoke, sort of like a leaf-blower with some bad gas, the same leaf-blower you told yourself you'd empty out before putting it away last October but never did so the gas went bad, like that, but not as loud. I looked at Tessie just in time to see her expensively capped fangs extend over her meager but lovely TV lips.

  "Vampires," said Pedro with a shrug, then turned his attention to Tessie. "I suppose your sister isn't even in trouble?"

  "Not only that," chuckled Tessie. "I don't even have a sister."

  "What do you want with us, then?" I said.

  "You have certain skills we need," said Lapke. He looked at me like the vampire rat that had all the Blut-Käse and knew just how to eat it. "You probably don't recognize me, since you thought I was dead."

  His accent disappeared and suddenly, everything became as clear as a very clean windshield right after it's been cleaned by one of those guys waiting at the stoplight that you really don't want to clean your windshield, but he does it anyway and then you slide a dollar out of the top of your window out of guilt and he cusses you for the cheap skinflint that you are, but you didn't want him to clean it in the first place and who asked him and why doesn't he get a real job so you drive away with a clear conscience, just as clear as your windshield.

  It was Race. Father Race Rankle. I had watched him die, or thought I had, in my office, poisoned by Lilith Hammerschmidt after Race had squelched her dream of being the upstairs maid at a high-rise leper colony that was permanently unclean.

  "Oh, I was dead all right," said Father Rankle, obviously reading my thought-bubble narrative. "Undead to be exact."

  ***

  Our short All Saints' service was uneventful. Vicar McTavish had declined to preside, having pressing business at Grandfather Mountain, so we made do with a couple of hymns, scripture readings, and prayers. When we were finished, the choir members who were present (and who comprised most of the congregation) dutifully made their way up the steps to the choir loft.

  "Better and better," said Muffy LeMieux, perusing my latest chapter. "I think you've really got something going here. I just love the Amish vampires. I can just picture them in their little outfits with their little hats and beards. They're so cute!"

  "Don't encourage him," said Meg. "A man that flattereth his neighbor spreadeth a net for his feet."

  "Huh?" I said.

  Meg held her iPad up. "Proverbs 29:5-6. 'In the transgression of a bad writer there is a snare: but the righteous one doth sing and rejoice.'"

  "Methinks you may be editorializing," I said.

  "Well, I really hate vampires."

  "Here's my favorite proverb," said Mark Wells. "'Do not eat anything you find already dead. You may give it to an alien.'"

  "What?" exclaimed Tiff. "Why would anyone eat anything they found already dead?" She'd vacated her usual seat and moved forward a row to sit next to Martha in anticipation of Dr. Ian Burch's arrival. All the altos had.

  "Who are these aliens you speak of?" asked Randy from the tenor section. "I thought the Bible says that there aren't any aliens."

  I sighed.

  "What about Jonah?" said Rebecca. "Remember when Hayden proved that Jonah was in the belly of a spaceship for three days? Those were probably aliens. Or else ancient Egyptians with spaceships."

  "I did no such thing," I said. "Now let's look at the Puccini Requiem. We'll plan to sing it at the offertory, but I don't really know what's going to happen on Sunday, because Kimberly Walnut has a Congregational Enlivener coming to the service."

  "I heard about that," said Sheila. "Is it true they're passing out Spirit Sticks?"

  "To the kids," Bev said. "Just to the kids."

  "What do you do with a Spirit Stick?" asked Steve. "Isn't that some sort of pep-rally thing?"

  "A pep-rally for Jesus," said Bev with a heavy sigh. "That's just great."

  "I saw the sticks," said Elaine. "They were in the office. The box said they were 'Boomwhackers,' whatever those are."

  "Yes," I said. "I hate to interrupt, but we should really look at this anthem..."

  "I know what Boomwhackers are," said Tiff. "We have to use them in our elementary ed music classes. They're plastic tubes you bang on things or hit with mallets. They make sort of a hollow sound, but they're tuned to the musical scale."

  "Better and better," said Bev.

  "You see," I continued, "Mr. Puccini didn't write an entire requiem, he just..."

  "HONNNNK!" went Dr. Ian Burch's nose as it announced his arrival, followed by a nasal, "Sorry I'm late. Has anyone seen Tiff?" He spotted her a second later, frowned, and glared at Martha as if the new seating arrangements were her fault. "What's going on here?" he sputtered.

  "Hi, Ian," I said. "We were just getting started. I put Tiff up here in with Martha in the front row because I thought the blend would be better."

  "It certainly will not!" said Ian emphatically. "In point of fact, in a monograph by François de Baptiste in 1456..."

  "That's an excellent point!" I said. "So after the introduction, everyone is in unison at measure six..."

  "You know what I heard?" said Phil. "I heard that we were having that crazy civet cat coffee for coffee hour after the service on Sunday. Kimmy Jo Jameson donated it for the All Saints' Day celebration. It's like twenty bucks a cup!"

  "Where did you hear that?" Bob Solomon asked.

  "Mattie Lou Entriken told me. She and Wynette had to sign for it. We're also having coffee cakes, tortes, cannolis... the works! All courtesy of Yardborough's bakery."

  "You know who liked coffee," said Ian Burch, sadly and almost to himself. "Flori Cabbage. Flori Cabbage liked coffee."

  "I've seen it advertised over at Holy Grounds," said Rebecca. "Kylie Moffit says it's the world's finest coffee, but I never bought any. It's way too expensive. I'd certainly try it."

  "I don't even like coffee," said Sheila, "and I'm going to try it."

  "I had a taste once," said Muffy. "It's called Kopi Luwak. The cat eats the beans and poops 'em back out. It was good I guess, but I kept thinking I tasted a little litter-box flavor."

  "I'm sure we'll all be happy to give it a try," I said. "Now then, following along, at measure twenty-nine..."

  "Here it is!" Marjorie sang out, waving a pew Bible aloft. "Proverbs 31:6. 'Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish.'"

  "What are you talking about?" said Dr. Ian Burch, PhD.

  "Try to keep up, Ian," said Marjorie patiently. "We're discussing the Proverbs. I think it's fair to say that this is a scripture that can speak to all of us. Now, let us pray..."

  ***

  Thurs
day morning dawned cold and gray. I had a feeling leaf season was over. There were still a few colors left on the trees to be sure, but when the forecasted weather front came over the mountains, it was only a matter of days before the rain would beat the remaining foliage into soggy submission. It was one of those mornings when running was going to be a chore, and although I'd been diligent over the past few weeks, I was now thinking seriously about buying a treadmill. Still, Baxter enjoyed the run and as long as it wasn't raining buckets, I decided that the two mile jog down the road and back was worth the effort. Two miles for me, about sixteen for Baxter by the time he'd finished with every squirrel, groundhog, and rabbit within sniffing distance.

  I got back to the house just as the drizzle started. Baxter decided that a little rain never bothered a dog of his stature and took off to the river after a family of beavers that had been taunting him since July. I walked into the kitchen and kissed Meg on top of her head. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea, her particular favorite, and reading the latest issue of Harper's magazine.

  "Good morning," I said. "Coffee?"

  "Already made. Have any revelations while you were running?"

  "Yep. I did." I got the coffee pot and poured myself a mugful, and sat down opposite Meg. She was beautiful in the morning. She was beautiful anytime, but in her robe, with her black hair tousled and her face scrubbed, she took my breath away.

  "Well?" She closed her magazine, picked up her tea with both hands, and blew across the cup. Her gray eyes danced across the table top and she accorded me her full attention.

  "Here's the thing," I said. "Where'd he get the pumpkin?"

  A look of confusion crossed her face. "Where'd who get what pumpkin?"

  "Where did the guy who killed Flori Cabbage get the pumpkin that he stuck on her head after he killed her? There weren't any pumpkins in the hay maze. There weren't any pumpkins available in town at all. Roger at the Pig never ordered any. The only place he could have gotten one..."