The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  Chapter 5

  I was about three minutes behind Nancy when I left the station, but her lead had increased to about ten minutes by the time I drove up to the Haggarty trailer. I would have beaten her in the winter; my ’62 Chevy pickup truck making pretty good time on these mountain roads. In the winter, Nancy drove a little Nissan whose four-cylinder engine could barely make it up her driveway. When the snow was off the roads, though, Nancy took to her motorcycle, a Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide. She was the fastest thing in Watauga County on these mountain roads.

  Nancy was already inside. I could see her through the screen door with her pad out, taking notes. I walked up to the door and pulled it open, surveying the inside of the small living room. There was an old couch, a lamp, and a big-screen TV that served as a display for all kinds of religious objets d’art — everything from a Virgin Mary TV antenna to a prayer cloth blessed by Reverend Ike himself. But it was Little Bubba, as the designers say, that was the focal point of the décor. He was sitting in a blue recliner, the footstool flipped out, the chair pushed slightly back. He had half a cookie in one hand and a remote control in the other. There were scraps of paper scattered around the chair. His eyes were open and so was his mouth. I had seen dead folks before, and this was one of them.

  “He’s dead, ain’t he?” said Ruthie, asking for confirmation. “Nancy said he was.”

  “I believe so,” I said. “Did you tell Nancy what happened?”

  “Sort of,” Ruthie answered.

  “Well, if you don’t mind, could you tell it again so I can hear it?”

  Ruthie nodded and took a long breath.

  “Little Bubba hadn’t been back here for a few days. I guess he was staying with his girlfriend up in Sugar Grove. So anyway, he comes back, and I’m in the kitchen making Easter cookies for church.”

  “Easter cookies?” Nancy asked.

  “You know. Shaped like bunnies and eggs and such. So anyway, I had this idea to make one shaped like Jesus on the cross. It turned out pretty well, so I made enough for the whole Sunday School class. I thought we’d decorate them at our party this Sunday. Look here. I’ve got red-hots for the blood and all colors of sparkles.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “Then I wrote up all these devotions to wrap around the cookies. I thought we could keep these by our beds and read the devotions while we nibbled on the cookies. I get very hungry while I’m talking to Jesus.”

  “So, what happened?” Nancy asked.

  “Little Bubba came in and took the whole platter while I was in the bathroom. He plopped down in his chair and started eating. He just threw the devotions on the floor. Look there,” she said, pointing at the half-eaten cookie in his hand. “That’s the last one left.”

  “So what did you do?” I asked.

  “I yelled at him and told him to get out. He said he wasn’t going anywhere and to shut up before he shut me up for good. So I hit him.”

  “You hit him?”

  “Yep. I hit him with the skillet. Two hands.”

  I walked over behind the chair and looked at the back of Little Bubba’s head. I heard the ambulance drive up outside.

  “You certainly did hit him,” I agreed. “And maybe more than once.”

  “Maybe,” said Ruthie. “Do I have to go with you?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  “He shouldn’t have eaten those cookies. I get very hungry while I’m talking to Jesus.”

  • • •

  “Well, that’s as much excitement as we’ve had for a few months,” said Pete.

  “And thanks to brilliant police work, the culprit has been apprehended and is safely in the Watauga County penal system,” I added.

  “Yes. Brilliant indeed. It’s a shame that all the criminals in our fair city don’t call the police department to report their crime and wait in their homes to be arrested.”

  I chose to ignore him. “Where’s Noylene? I need to get something to eat.”

  “Over at her shop. She’s opening up in about a month. I think she’s going to call it Noylene’s, even though I tried to talk her out of it.”

  Noylene Fabergé was Pete’s head waitress, albeit “head waitress” was strictly an honorary post. He had given her the title so he wouldn’t have to give her a raise, but Noylene had finally graduated from Beauty Correspondence School and was ready to open her own shop. She was now a licensed beautician.

  “Anyway,” said Pete, “Collette’s in the kitchen. She’ll be out shortly. I thought you’d taken to eating lunch over at The Ginger Cat.”

  “I can’t do it anymore. The soup is good on Thursdays, but there are only so many watercress and blueberry duck finger sandwiches you can eat.”

  Collette came strolling up. “What’ll it be, Chief?”

  “Reuben sandwich,” I said, my mouth beginning to water. “Fries and coleslaw. And don’t skimp on the corned beef.”

  “You’ll find the fixings in the walk-in,” said Pete. “The recipe’s hanging on the salad fridge.”

  “I’ve made them before,” said Collette. “I remember.”

  A Reuben sandwich wasn’t on the menu, but Pete kept the corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and Russian dressing on hand for special orders.

  “There should be a couple of beers in the walk-in as well,” Pete called after her. “Bring those out, too, will you?”

  “Are you allowed to serve beer?” I asked.

  “If the cops don’t catch me.”

  “You should be okay. I’m pretty busy today,” I said. “Hey, did you hear about Kenny Frasier?”

  “Nope,” said Pete.

  “He’d been given a prescription for medical marijuana by some quack doctor back in 1985. So last month, he calls the FBI and asks them if he can get another one. He tells them that his prescription expires in a few months, and he’d like to keep growing his crop. He says that the doctor told him that the prescription was good for twenty years.”

  “I always wondered how Kenny could afford a new truck every November. I figured he was stealing tobacco out of the barns,” said Pete, as our beers arrived. “What did the feds do?”

  “Well, they got his phone number and his address, and they told him that they’d bring his prescription right over.”

  “I’ll bet they did. Was medical marijuana ever legal in North Carolina?”

  “From ’79 to ’87,” I said. “I had to look it up. Anyway, the feds showed up at Kenny’s farm, and guess what? He had a whole field of the stuff growing behind his barn. You believe that?” I laughed. “He’d been raising and selling about a thousand pounds a year for the past twenty years. He told the feds that he only used what he needed and sold the rest to other medicinal users.”

  “How did he distribute it?”

  “He used to sell it mail order through some group of medical users in California. Now he sells it over the Internet. He’s got a guy on the west coast that packages it up for him and ships it from out there.”

  “Amazing,” said Pete. “A real entrepreneur.”

  “Well, not any more,” I said. “Ah, here comes lunch.” I picked up the corner of the rye bread to peer inside. The ingredients were all there and looked to be in correct proportion. All was right with the world.

  “Hey,” said Pete, “what kind of pants are those?”

  “Regular pants,” I said. “Nonexpanding.”

  “You’ll come around. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Is Bud working today?” I asked, through a mouthful of fries. “I need a recommendation for a nice, reasonably-priced Chablis.”

  “Yeah,” said Pete, getting up. “I’ll get him. This soldier’s dead anyway.” He picked up his empty beer bottle and headed back to the kitchen.

  I was two bites into the sandwich when Bud came out. Bud McCollough was Ardine’s oldest son. He was fifteen years old and had gotten a job at The Slab washing dishes and doing odd jobs, but his passion was wine. He’d been studying it for years. Ardine had
two other kids as well as Bud. Her husband, PeeDee, in his paternal wisdom, had named them all after beers. In addition to Bud, there was his thirteen-year-old sister, Pauli Girl, and the youngest boy, Moose-Head, who was seven. We all did him a favor and called him “Moosey.”

  “Hi, Bud,” I said, when he walked up to the table. “Listen, I need something good for Saturday night. I was thinking of a Chablis.”

  “What’s on the menu?” asked Bud.

  “Grilled salmon with capers, couscous, spinach salad, maybe cheesecake for dessert.”

  “Appetizers?” asked Bud.

  “I think so, but I don’t know what. Meg is bringing them, and I think I heard talk of mushrooms.”

  “Okay,” said Bud. “Here’s what you need to do. Got a pencil?” He waited while I dug one out of my pocket and grabbed a napkin to write on.

  “For the main course, I think you’ll want a Las Brisas Rueda. It’s a Spanish white from the central region of Spain. Las Brisas has a wide-open array of flowery and grassy aromas that almost attack the nose at first sniff. The taste is bright, fruity and filled with white peach, apricot, Granny Smith apples, grapefruit and just a hint of lime, but it’s got a touch of acidity that lets it really complement the salmon, especially if it’s grilled. I’d also recommend that you grill some yellow bell peppers, by the way. They’d set the Las Brisas off nicely. Got that?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How do you spell ‘Brisas’?”

  He ignored me. “For dessert, you’ll want a tawny port. Graham’s 20 Year Old is a good choice with cheesecake. But just a small glass —

  don’t overdo it — and serve it with coffee. It’s a true port; you know, from Portugal.” Bud got a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s wonderful: mixed aromas of cola, pecans, brown sugar, citrus peel and crème brûlée. It’s a bit shy at first, but then quite daring: spirited and charming, with an elegant nose.”

  “Got it.”

  Collette had wandered over to the table and was looking at Bud as though there were lobsters crawling out of his ears.

  “The appetizers are tricky, since we don’t know exactly what Miss Farthing is planning, but I’m going to go out on a limb and steer you toward a Luis Felipe Edwards Carmenere. Very earthy. We’re talking wet leaves, dirt, and maybe just a hint of tobacco.”

  “Sounds…lovely,” I said, probably sounding a little leery.

  “No, really,” Bud replied, full of sincerity. “It’s one of the new Chileans. Old wood and earth, blackberries, pepper. It reminds me of a dirty Merlot. A bit scouring on the back end, but with enough fruit and balance to pull it off. It’s great with mushrooms. I think you’ll like it a lot. Plus, it’s pretty cheap.”

  Got it,” I said again, finishing my notes. “Speaking of cheap, how much is this going to cost me?”

  “The port is the most expensive at eighteen bucks a bottle, but you’ll only need one. The other two are under ten, but depending on how many people you have, you may have to get several bottles.”

  “Great!” I said. “Now, where do I get it?”

  “You can call the Wine Market in Asheville. I think they’ll ship it up. You can have it tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Bud,” I said, handing him a ten dollar bill. “You know, if you ever want to go into business, I’ll be happy to set you up.”

  “I can’t until I’m twenty-one,” said Bud.

  “You can’t sell wine until you’re twenty-one. But you can certainly sell advice.”

  “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

  Collette watched Bud walk back to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “Well, paint me pink and call me Porkchop,” exclaimed Collette. “I never saw such a thing in all my life.”

  Chapter 6

  I was still thinking, something I do slowly and care-fully, so I won’t have to do it twice, when the door to my office banged open and in swished three men wearing neck scarves. They struck the traditional pose--elbows in, wrists out. I recognized decorators when I saw them.

  “Mornin’, boys,” I grunted. “What brings you to this side of town?”

  They were a stereotype waitin’ for a bus. The blonde California-boy was wearing a pink button-down tied up around his midriff. The Latin egg was draped in red leather, and the muscle was a huge black man with a shaved head and I didn’t want to know what else.

  “Do not toy wis us,” said the egg, in broken English with just a hint of a lisp. “It is WE who are in charge of the coloration project.”

  “Settle down boys,” I said. “Have a squirt of eel juice.” I pulled four glasses out of my top drawer, spit in them and wiped ‘em out with my used handkerchief. I watched the boys shudder as I poured myself a shot.

  “No sank you,” snarled the egg. “My name is Raoul.”

  “And who are your friends?”

  “Zese are my associates, Biff and D’Roger.”

  “D’Roger?”

  “DO NOT TOY WIS US!” screamed the egg, snapping open a six-inch blade.

  “Now don’t start anything, boys,” I said, reaching into the other drawer for my heater. “You’re just here to talk, right?”

  • • •

  “Remember when I said that I didn’t hate it?” asked Meg.

  “Yes,” I said. “That one comment has been my inspiration to continue.”

  “I changed my mind. You now have a character named D’Roger, and you’re writing with a lisp. All bets are off. And let me ask you this,” she continued.

  “Okay, ask.”

  “You don’t have the choir any more, so you can’t be writing this story for them. Just who are you writing it for?”

  “I think you mean ‘to whom for am I writing it?’ But that’s okay. Don’t feel bad. I am, after all, a writer. Many people mix up who and whom.”

  “Answer the question,” she growled. It was a sexy growl. “Whom are you writing it for?”

  “Well, I may have a choir again someday,” I said. “But, to tell the truth, I just like to type on this old typewriter.”

  Meg relaxed. “Okay then. If that’s the reason, you go on ahead. I suppose it can’t hurt.”

  “Plus,” (and I was saving this news for last), “there’s a murder mystery blog that’s going to publish my collected works,” I said, “called The Usual Suspects. I already sent them the first three novelettes.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes! The first one is coming out next month.”

  • • •

  “Let’s call this meeting to order, please,” hollered Billy Hixon, simultaneously banging the silent microphone on the podium. “Is this stupid thing working?”

  For a church that averaged about eighty in worship, there was quite a turnout. Everyone who called him or herself a member of St. Barnabas had showed up for this parish meeting. There were about eighty chairs set out. The other two hundred people were standing around the periphery of the room.

  “Please, people,” said Billy, after someone walked to the front and showed him how to turn the mic on. “Let’s get started.”

  The crowd settled down, and Billy called on Father George to open the meeting with a prayer.

  “Is there a prayer for spending sixteen million dollars?” I asked Meg under my breath.

  “I think so. There’d better be.”

  It was a quick prayer that began by beseeching God, in His infinite wisdom, to leave us open to His will in all things and ended with an impatient muttering of amens sprinkled throughout the room.

  “It is the vestry’s decision,” said Father George, “and let me just say that I agree with it, that the disbursement of the funds recently acquired by St. Barnabas will be decided by a committee of six knowledgeable people. It is not a job for the vestry, and it certainly is not a job for the priest.”

  “Why not just invest the money, and we can use the interest to pay all of our bills?” asked Joe Wootten.

  “That’s a good question, Joe,” Father George said. “And we certainly may do
that with some of the money. But it is my feeling and the vestry concurs that making St. Barnabas a self-sustaining corporation would be a mistake in the life of the church. It is important for the people that are St. Barnabas to know that they are needed, that their gifts and their tithes are what sustain the church and that their talents are appreciated and invaluable. What would become of us if we decided that we were so rich that we didn’t need an Altar Guild? Why not hire someone to come in and fix the flowers every week? Or what if we decided that we were all too busy to bother to fix church suppers? It certainly would be easier to have every meal catered by the Hunter’s Club. Or why not have the choir replaced by a professional choral group?”

  “Hey...what a good idea,” I whispered, just prior to an elbow hitting my ribs.

  “The reason that we don’t do this is because St. Barnabas is its people,” he continued. “We are all connected and involved. It’s what makes this a wonderful place to be and to worship. We don’t want to change that.”

  “But shouldn’t we put a couple million away in case the furnace breaks again?” asked Rebecca Watts, to laughter from the crowd.

  “Well,” said Father George, as the laughter subsided, “the furnace has been replaced, and the physical plant is in good repair. I want you all to understand this. It is as important to the giver to be allowed to give, as it is to the church to be able to use the gift. We, as a congregation, need to give, and we are blessed in the giving.”

  He looked around the room. “How many of you would continue to tithe and give to St. Barnabas if you knew that there was sixteen million dollars in the bank and all of the bills were paid?”

  About half of the folks in the room put their hands up.

  “Now, remembering that I am, in fact, a priest and that you are in church,” he continued with a smile, “I ask you the same question again.”

  More laughter. Then, around the room, hands began to drop as people began to seriously consider the question.

  “What are we going to do then?” asked a woman, whom I had never seen in church before. “Just give it away?”