The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  I had taken up with Francine after my last case. She

  was a nurse. I met her while I was visiting Marilyn in the hospital after the last bust-up. Who could tell? I might even be in love. All I knew for sure was that when-ever she spoke, I could swear that I heard bells--like she was a cement truck backing up.

  “What’ll it be, Shamus?” asked the waitress. I couldn’t remember her name, but then, I didn’t know many of them any more. Waitresses came and went at the P ’n P quicker than Methodists in a liquor store.

  “Give me a beer and a belt, Doll.”

  “Huh?”

  “Beer,” I sighed. “With a whiskey chaser.” It wasn’t even any fun ordering anymore.

  She snapped her gum like it was punctuation--a misplaced period at the beginning of a sentence or perhaps a colon, although a colon is generally used after a complete statement in order to introduce one or more directly related ideas, such as a series of directions, a list, or a quotation or other comment illustrating or explaining the statement, so it was more like a period.

  “We have Bud, Bud Light, Michelob, Coors, Coors Light, Killian’s, Schlitz, Lowenbrau and Miller Light. We have Dewar’s, Jim Beam, Maker’s, Dickel’s, and umm...” She paused in her litany. “I can’t remember,” she shrugged with a smile cute enough to shoot, stuff and hang over the fireplace. “I’ll have to go check.”

  “Never mind,” I growled under my breath. “Just bring me a Fuzzy Smurf. And one of those glow-in-the-dark swizzle-sticks.”

  “I’ll have one of those, too,” said a voice from over my shoulder.

  • • •

  “I see that you have your toy back,” said Meg.

  “I do,” I said. “It works great!”

  “I was afraid of that. How’s the new story coming?”

  “It’s so good, it’s almost writing itself.”

  “That’d be a nice change.”

  “Look,” I said, “for someone who doesn’t want to marry me, you sure are critical. You haven’t even read it yet.”

  “I’m just looking out for the literary community at large. But you make a good point. I shall refrain from criticizing until I’ve heard it.”

  “Shall I read it to you then?”

  “Yes. Yes, you shall.” She sat down on the sofa, placed her hands in her lap and looked at me expectantly. I raised my eyebrows and accepted the unspoken challenge. I read my opening paragraphs in my best dramatic voice, paying extra attention to some particularly well-written prose that I thought showed off my best work — my opening sentence, the part about the gum-snapping and the cute smile. This was good stuff. I could tell.

  “Is that it?” Meg asked.

  “So far. What do you think?”

  “It’s growing on me.”

  “It is?”

  “Actually, yes. I hate to say it, but it is. I do not detest it.”

  “You don’t?” I was amazed.

  “Nope. I can definitely say that it doesn’t disgust me.”

  High praise.

  • • •

  She walked past the table, her dress clinging to her torso like paint on the nose cone of a B-17 Flying Fortress, a blond bombshell with more curves than an 48/M reverse-panel throttle bracket assembly.

  “Hi there,” she purred, her engines dropping to idle as she lowered her flaps and glided into the booth. “My name is Memphis. Memphis Belle.”

  “Of course it is, Kitten,” I said, taking a puff on my cheroot and tipping my hat back to enjoy the view. “Now, how can I help you?”

  Chapter 2

  Worship committee meetings at the church happened on Tuesday mornings and, when I was employed there, I tried to miss as many as I could. But, when feeling guilty, or when things were so slow down at the station that I couldn’t find any other work to do, I would dutifully make my way to the downtown square and into the offices of St. Barnabas, where I would present myself as a ritual sacrifice at the altar of the committee meeting. Although I hadn’t been the organist at St. Barnabas since November, Father George had asked me to come in on this particular Tuesday in late March. It was one of those mornings that could take your breath away, as crisp and snappish as a librarian, with the sun filtering through the budding leaves of the hardwoods. The ever-present scent of the pine and fir trees that were prevalent along Main Street was carried across the town on a light breeze. I hadn’t worn a coat this morning, but was beginning to rethink that decision. I hadn’t asked Father George exactly why he wanted me to come to the worship meeting, but it was a slow morning, and I was, after all, still a member of the church. Besides that, Meg had asked me to go.

  Father George Eastman was the rector of St. Barnabas, beginning his ministry in St. Germaine almost a year ago. He’d come just after Easter last year, and now it was the middle of the next Lenten season with Easter looming large again. The church had muddled through the holiday seasons without me, and Epiphany had come and gone. Foremost on everyone’s minds and tongues was the little matter of the St. Barnabas financial windfall. It was the five-hundred pound gorilla in the room.

  St. Barnabas Church in St. Germaine, North Carolina, had been the unexpected recipient of an unusually large sum of money. It seems that, due to a bank error and some underhanded financial finagling of funds back in the 1930’s by the bank’s president, Northwestern Bank owed the church over thirty million dollars. St. Barnabas, not wanting to seem too greedy, had agreed to settle the matter to the tune of sixteen million, paid over four years. There was plenty of discussion about how that money could best be used, and everyone had his own ideas.

  It was during the church-wide dustup in late October that I had resigned as church organist and choir director. There were hard feelings all around, and although I was asked back repeatedly, I thought it best to take some time off. Meg, in a sympathetic gesture, had stopped singing in the choir, as did a number of others — or so I had heard through the St. B. grapevine. Meg still attended services, was on the vestry and involved in all manner of activities. I hadn’t been back. The church held a meeting in November and determined that they would give me six months to decide if I wanted to remain in the position. “Take your time,” they said. “And if you need a couple more months to make up your mind, just let us know.” Father George found an organist to take over while I considered my options — a Mrs. Agnes Day. She was from St. Germaine and had been the keyboard player at one of the Catholic churches in Banner Elk before she retired about five years earlier. She was a nurse by trade, having worked for a plastic surgeon in Boone for a number of years, and then at the Watauga Medical Center. I think she’d been fired from the hospital, but that might have just been a rumor. I had heard she was now working in town. Home health care.

  “Her name is Agnes Day?” I asked with a laugh when I found out who was replacing me. “Really?” Marilyn just smirked.

  For the first time since I could remember, I hadn’t had the pressure of Christmas hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. Meg and I took her mother, Ruby, down to Asheville and spent Christmas Eve through New Year’s at the Grove Park Inn. We went to Christmas Eve services at the Cathedral and had an all-around great time.

  “Good morning, Hayden,” said Marilyn, the long-suffering church secretary, as I walked into the meeting room. “Want some gossip?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, handing Marilyn a cup of coffee and taking a sip of my own.

  I picked up my own coffee at The Ginger Cat on my way to the church and one for Marilyn as well. She’d given me a heads-up. Father George had taken to making the coffee for the morning meetings at the church. We’d been used to getting Community Coffee, shipped to us from Louisiana, but the good reverend had decided that it was too expensive. Now he personally went to the Food Mart and bought the cheapest generic brand he could find. He definitely didn’t have the taste buds the rest of us did. It was weak as a baby squirrel and about the same color. He’d drink his two cups and the rest would be thrown away at about noon. The real
coffee drinkers now had to walk across the square and pay for their cup of cheer.

  “Squeal,” I said.

  “You know Benny Dawkins?”

  “Sure,” I said. Benny was the thurifer at St. Barnabas. The best incense-swinger around. “What about him?”

  “He’s suing the organist. Umm…substitute organist,” she corrected. “Agnes Day.”

  I’m sure I looked surprised. Marilyn continued.

  “It seems he brought his great-grandfather’s old violin for her to look at and give him some advice on selling it.”

  “Did she?”

  “Did she ever. She bought it from him for eight hundred dollars.”

  “That sounds like a good deal,” I said. “Most old violins aren’t even worth that.”

  “This one was,” said Marilyn, “and more. A whole lot more. I don’t know how much, but Benny was very upset. Anyway, she sold it in New York and he’s suing her.”

  “I don’t think he’ll win,” I said.

  “That’s what Logan told him, too, but he doesn’t care.”

  “So, Logan wouldn’t take the case?”

  “Nope. Benny found a lawyer in Asheville, though. Some guy that advertises on TV.”

  “Hi there,” said Beverly Greene, walking in to the room and cutting our conversation short. “I’m so glad you’re back. Did you get me one of those, too?” She pointed to my coffee.

  “I’m not back,” I said. “I just came for the meeting. And sorry about the coffee. I only had two hands.”

  “I have some coffee here,” said Father George, the next into the room. He was juggling a carafe and his stack of meeting papers.

  “Umm…no thanks,” said Bev. “I forgot that I already had two cups this morning.”

  The rest of the folks made their way into the room in the next few minutes. Bev was the new Parish Administrator. It was a part-time position that she’d taken over at the beginning of January. Even after Rob Brannon, Father George’s first choice for P.A., had been arrested for murder and fraud, Father George was still convinced he needed an administrator. He didn’t like conflict and like most folks who don’t like conflict, he couldn’t bring himself to be put in that position. He could make the call; he just didn’t want to be the hatchet man. He’d sooner go in for a root canal than have to fire someone. He also didn’t want to be responsible for making any financial decisions. The rector had a discretionary fund, but he didn’t have to answer to anyone for that. Everything else he wanted out of his purview. When he interviewed Bev for the job, after she mentioned that she wouldn’t mind giving it a try, he asked her if she would have a problem disciplining a member of the staff or telling a volunteer that his or her talents might be better used elsewhere.

  “Hell, no,” she said.

  “Let’s say that the sexton steals something from my desk when he’s cleaning up.”

  “I’d fire his sorry butt,” she said, then added demurely, “with your permission, of course.”

  So now, as Parish Administrator, Bev was in charge of writing the checks (although she didn’t keep the books), scheduling the building, and all other various and sundry chores that fell under her “job description.” One of them was to come to the worship committee meetings. The books had been kept, since the dark ages, by Randall Stamps, an ancient bean counter who had come to a grisly end last fall. Now they were sent to an accounting agency. Beverly was still in charge of collecting pledges, however, and making sure they were kept current by gentle reminders.

  Also present at the meeting were Brenda Marshall and Joyce Cooper. Brenda was the St. Barnabas Christian Education director. She hadn’t been a popular appointment with many of the old guard Episcopalians, being, as far as anyone could tell by her freely-spouted, touchy-feely theology, a Uni-luther-presby-metho-lopian. She had never even attended an Anglican church before being hired by the previous priest, something she alluded to frequently with a certain amount of pride. Bev was just itching to fire her, and she’d actually thought that Brenda was the reason that Father George had hired her — to bring down the ax. Privately, Bev had confided to me that it was going to be tough to get rid of Brenda. She’d been there over a year, she hadn’t actually done anything wrong and there would have to be a very good reason for her dismissal. Brenda had seen the writing on the wall and was already hinting at lawsuits having to do with the previous priest. Bev didn’t know if she was bluffing or not.

  Georgia Wester, one of my good friends, had been on the worship committee when I left last October, but she had rotated off in January and had been replaced by Joyce Cooper, a member of the Altar Guild.

  “Good morning, everyone,” said Father George, bringing the meeting to order. “And I’m sure we’d all like to say ‘thanks’ to Hayden for coming.” He addressed me. “I’d really like your input on our services even though you’re technically on leave.”

  The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

  “I brought some coffee, if anyone would like any,” said Father George, pushing the carafe into the center of the table.

  “No thanks,” said Bev.

  “I’m trying to cut down,” said Brenda.

  “I already have some,” I said.

  “Me too,” added Marilyn.

  “I think I’m allergic,” said Joyce. I snorted, but managed to turn it into a cough. Joyce, sitting next to me, whispered out of the side of her mouth, “It’s all I could think of.”

  Father George, shuffling through his papers, didn’t seem to notice.

  “As you are all aware,” he continued, “Easter is three weeks away.” He turned to me. “We’ve already made plans for Holy Week.”

  “Of course,” I said, with a genuine smile.

  “But, feel free to make whatever suggestions you’d like. We’ll try to incorporate them if we can.”

  “I probably won’t,” I said. “I’m sure that whatever you’ve decided to do during worship services will be meaningful and appropriate.” I meant it. Really. In the days before my sabbatical, I had been very involved in planning the services, but now that I wasn’t actually attending St. Barnabas, I was having a hard time generating any concern. If I was going to be asked for my opinion, I probably couldn’t keep quiet, but I was sure going to try. Less stress, I told myself.

  “How’re we doing on the Maundy Thursday service?” Father George asked.

  “I think I have it about finished,” said Brenda.

  I froze, the coffee cup just touching my lips, as an icy feeling crept up my spine; in spite of myself, I looked over at Marilyn. She was avoiding my gaze, fighting to keep a smile off her lips.

  “I went over all the material Father George gave me,” Brenda said to me, in that wonderful tone of voice with which she used to terrify children, “and so, when designing the service, I used the traditions of the Episcopal Church as well as incorporating some other denominational material and several ideas of my own.”

  The worship committee looked over at me.

  “I’m sure it will be wonderful,” I said, sweetly. “Sometimes it’s a really good idea to design your own services. People will find it very meaningful.” It was a sarcastic comment, but I did my best to kept all the disparagement out of my voice. If the words hadn’t come out of my very own mouth, I might have thought I actually meant them. Marilyn, across the table, was not fooled. She was losing her battle and had started to chew on her tongue.

  “George,” I said. “Seriously. You know, you don’t really have to ‘design’ services. It’s been done. They’re right there in the prayer book.”

  “Oh, I know, Hayden, but I thought that Brenda needed the experience of planning the Maundy Thursday service. I gave her all the literature as well as the prayer book. It’ll be fine.”

  “That’s great,” I said, with a big smile.

  Chapter 3

  “You married?” she asked, sipping her drink with the slurping sound of a dentist’s vacuum, the one that hangs on your lip like a giant fishhook and hoo
vers up your spit before it overruns and dribbles onto your bib.

  “Nope.”

  “Seeing anyone?” I liked a woman that got right to the point.

  “Now and then,” I said. I tried to think of Francine, but my mind kept leapfrogging like a Greek sailor back to the vision in front of me. I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself.

  She shrugged. “Well, maybe we can get together some-time. You know, off the books.”

  I nodded, trying to maintain eye contact.

  “Anyway,” she said with a smile, “I’m from the bishop.”

  “The bishop?” I frowned. I knew all of the bishop’s gals, and Memphis Belle wasn’t one of them.

  “Not your bishop. The Presiding Bishop.”

  “Ah,” I said with a nod. “The Presiding Bishop.” The fog was clearing. My bishop had quite a stable, but this filly was something special. The Presiding Bishop was the bishop’s bishop. The king bishop, if you will. And, as the saying goes, it is good to be the king.

  Memphis Belle and I spent the rest of the afternoon up at my place, engaged in a steamy theological discourse about the American view of eschatology and dispensational pre-millennialism.

  Nah. Not really.

  • • •

  “This is just awful,” said Meg, joining me at my table at The Ginger Cat.

  “I thought you said you didn’t hate it.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your writing, which is not especially awful. Just moderately awful.”

  “What then?” I asked.

  “I just got appointed to a church committee.”

  “It’s a bad one?”