The Soprano
Wore Falsettos
a Liturgical Mystery
by Mark Schweizer
The Soprano Wore Falsettos
A Liturgical Mystery
Copyright ©2006 by Mark Schweizer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by St. James Music Press
P.O. Box 249
Tryon, NC 28782
ISBN 0-9721211-6-1
Acknowledgments
Allison Brannon, Cathie and Ron Buck, Sandy Cavanah, Nancy Cooper, Karen and Ken Dougherty, Marty and Randy Hatteberg, Kristen Linduff, Mary Ann Martino, Rebecca Watts, Jane and Mark Wells and Donis Schweizer
Prelude
The wind sl ap pe d meinthem ug
“Dadgummit,” I yelled, smacking the return carriage bar on my typewriter in frustration. Baxter, sleeping on his rug in front of the fireplace, opened one canine eye and gave me a pitying look, but was otherwise uninterested. This typewriter was an antique, and I really shouldn’t have been smacking it around, but this was the third time in as many days that it had locked up on me. Sure, I could have used my iBook or any one of the three other computers in the house. I could have even probably found an antique typewriter on eBay or another on-line site, one that was in better shape. But there was another reason why I put up with this temperamental piece of archaic machinery.
This particular typewriter was Raymond Chandler’s 1939 Underwood No. 5 — the very one on which he wrote Farewell My Lovely, The High Window and The Lady in the Lake. When I bought the typewriter, it came with excellent documentation, complete with an actual page of the second draft of The High Window — a perfect match to the characteristics of this particular page mill. I had the page framed and hung it on the wall in my den.
“Problem, Hayden?” said Meg, obviously hearing my outburst. She came into the room, carrying a couple of bottles of Pete’s Wicked Ale. She plopped down on the overstuffed leather sofa — if one could use the word “plop” for the way a beautiful, fortyish woman, with black hair and gray eyes, who moved with the grace of a dancer — ended up reclining in front of the fireplace. I suppose it would be more accurate to say she “settled” on the sofa or perhaps she “lit” or even “ensconced herself the davenport thereupon.” However she did it, when I looked up from the infuriating apparatus that was thwarting my efforts at the next great detective story, there she was, sitting comfortably and offering me a beer.
“Come sit over here,” she said with a smile, patting the worn leather beside her. “Take a break. You’ve been working too hard lately.”
“I agree,” I said, messing with the hammers that had become wedged together. “But, I always think I work too hard.”
“Typewriter jammed again?”
“Yep. I’m going to send it back to Philadelphia and get Max to have a look at it. He worked his magic on the old girl when I bought her, but that was a couple of years ago.”
“A couple of years and three stories ago,” Meg said. “I’m not one to quash anyone’s dreams, especially yours, but your writing is not getting any better.”
“Well,” I said, “at least it’s not getting any worse.”
My ’40s-style detective stories were not without their critics, but writing them was the reason I’d bought the typewriter in the first place. Raymond Chandler was the best, in my opinion. There were those that favored Dashiell Hammett or Ross Macdonald, but for my money, Chandler was the master. Hard-boiled mysteries were the favorites of millions, and they just weren’t being cranked out anymore. That’s where I came in. My name is Hayden Konig. I’m a writer.
“You’re not a writer,” said Meg.
Okay. I’m not a writer. I’m a police chief in the Appalachian mountain town of St. Germaine, North Carolina. I could be a writer. That is, if I were any good, which I’m not. I’m pretty good at a couple of things though. I’m good at being a police chief, and I used to be good at being the organist and choirmaster at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church. That church job was part-time, and I’m currently taking a “leave of absence.” Police chief is full-time. Writing is on my own time. I fed a new piece of paper behind the roller and gave it one more try.
The wind slapped me in the m ug
“Nuts!” I said, yanking the paper out of the carriage.
“Maybe this is a sign from God,” said Meg, hopefully.
“I’m sending the typewriter off tomorrow. Federal Express. I’ll bet I can have it back by the weekend.”
“Isn’t that a bit expensive?” asked Meg, always concerned about cost, although expenditures didn’t really bother me any more. I had made a boatload of money about five years ago selling an invention to the phone company. Meg, my investment counselor, as well as my significant other, had parlayed that windfall into such a tidy sum that I really didn’t even have to work, much less worry about how much FedEx was going to charge me to send my typewriter to Philadelphia.
“Price is no object!” I crowed. “I’m rich as a televangelist with my own 900 number.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Meg, getting up with a laugh, “and try this beer. It’s really good. By the way, I’m fixing sandwiches for supper. Brie and bacon.” She got to her feet.
“An excellent choice.”
Baxter, our Burmese Mountain dog, suspected that Meg might offer him a treat, so he bounded to his feet and followed her back into the kitchen.
I tried the beer. Meg was right. It was good. I settled onto the comfortable, down-filled cushions, lit up a highly illegal Cuban cigar — a Romeo Y Julieta, smuggled into the country by an unnamed youth on a Guatemalan Mission trip — and clicked the remote control that brought the music of Bela Fleck and the Flecktones into the room. I had built this house soon after I’d struck it rich. The den, where I was sitting, was constructed of an 1842 log cabin, twenty by twenty, with a loft. The rest of the rather large house was built to complement the cabin, but it was this room that gave me the most pleasure. There was an elk head above the fireplace. In the corner stood a full-sized stuffed buffalo that Meg had given me for Christmas a couple of years ago. There were a few thousand books and CDs, my writing desk, a WAVE sound system, the typewriter, the couch and an old leather armchair. Just right for a bachelor, I thought, even though being single was a situation that I had recently tried to remedy.
I had asked Meg to marry me last spring, and we’d tabled the proposal. She still hadn’t given me a definite answer though, preferring, I had to infer, to live in town with her mother. After her divorce, she’d moved to St. Germaine to take care of Ruby in her declining years — years which, by all accounts, weren’t declining very rapidly at all. Ruby was in great health and spirits and glad for Meg’s company. I didn’t live in town, but about twenty miles out on a couple hundred acres up in the mountains. It was a lovely drive, but I had to admit that it was rather remote.
I took another sip of the cold brew and had almost decided to try to write my story on the iBook until my typewriter was back. Nah, I thought. It wouldn’t work. There was something special about putting my fingers on the same keys that Raymond Chandler had used to write those immortal words:
“ Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off.”
But it would have to wait.
Chapter 1
“Have you decided yet?” I asked, taking a bite of the Brie and bacon sandwich. “It’s been quite a while since I asked, you know.”
Meg no
dded and swallowed. “Four months, seventeen days.”
“Ah, you noticed.”
“I wanted to remember what day you asked me, just in case I decided to say yes. It would be like a mini-anniversary.”
“Just another date for me to remember?”
“Yes. And to get me a present.”
“Well?” I asked.
“Well what?”
“What might your answer be?” I asked sweetly and acting as unconcerned as I possibly could.
“Nope,” said Meg, sounding as indifferent as I.
“Nope?”
“No, thank you, Detective Hayden Konig. I don’t wish to marry you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
I had met Meg Farthing five years ago when she had first moved to St. Germaine. I’d always accused her of setting up our first date by driving through town at sixty-five miles per hour, an allegation she strenuously denied. I pulled her over, made her get out of the car, and, after looking at her legs (and in the finest tradition of policemen everywhere) gave her a stern warning — a warning which she remembers as mainly consisting of smiling and mumbling incoherently like a thirteen-year-old adolescent. Shortly after our first meeting, she joined me for an evening of knockwurst and Bach, and the rest is history. Meg was the town beauty, as far as I was concerned — black, shoulder-length hair, blue-gray eyes and a figure that would make the Pope consider Lutheranism. Smart and beautiful — just my type — which is why I was sure she was going to jump at my marriage proposal.
“Nope. I like things the way they are,” said Meg. “And so do you. Marriage might just get in the way. If we leave things the way they are, you could leave the toilet seat up if you wanted. You wouldn’t have to make the bed. You could sit around in your underwear all day.”
“But, I don’t leave the toilet seat up,” I said, a bit defensively. “Or the other stuff.”
“But, you could,” said Meg.
“But, I don’t.”
“And you’d better not, if you ever want me to come over,” Meg said. “Also, let’s say you wanted to go out with some floozy. If we were married, you couldn’t.”
“I don’t want to.”
“But, you still could.”
“But, I wouldn’t,” I said halfheartedly.
“I know, but you still could.”
“Okay,” I said, with a sigh. “I could.”
“But you’d better not,” said Meg.
“So, we’re not going to get married?” I said.
“No. But you can still get me a present if you want.”
• • •
I walked into The Slab Café early on Friday morning. The Slab was on Main Street, just on the corner of the city square. It was an old fashioned café, complete with big black and white tiles on the floor, red tablecloths, four red-vinyl upholstered stools at the counter, and two waitresses that kept things running.
Nancy Parsky and Dave Vance were sitting at our regular table. Nancy is the other full-time officer at the St. Germaine PD. Dave works for us part-time. He answers phones, fills out reports and used to have a thing for Nancy. I say “used to” because lately, much to Nancy’s consternation, he’s been seen on the arm of Collette, one of the waitresses at The Slab. Nancy was peeved to say the least, but to my mind, she didn’t have much of a beef. She’d never given Dave the time of day before Collette showed interest, and she still didn’t. However, whenever I pointed this out to Nancy, she’d get miffed, and I didn’t want her miffed. Nancy miffed was not good. So, being the chief and always trying to keep the peace, when she snarled, I’d taken to nodding understandingly and clicking my tongue in mock sympathy.
“What can I get you, Hon?” said Noylene, the other waitress, as she walked up to the table and poured me a cup of coffee as soon as I was seated.
“Just coffee this morning,” I said.
“You on a diet, boss?” asked Nancy. She had ordered a short stack of pancakes with a side order of bacon.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “I have three pairs of work pants, and they’re still good. I don’t want to have to buy new ones just because I got too fat.”
“You don’t mind if we eat though, right?” said Dave, talking around the half a biscuit in his mouth.
“No, you guys go ahead. I’ll just sit here and watch.”
“Hey,” said Nancy. “Did you hear about the winning Powerball ticket? It was sold over in Elk Mills.”
“Really?” said Dave. “That’s only about twenty miles from here.”
“Right across the Tennessee border,” added Nancy. “How come North Carolina doesn’t have a lottery?”
“We do. The governor just signed it into law,” I said. “We should have it up and running by next summer.”
Pete came up to the table, carrying a platter of waffles.
“Did you hear about the Powerball ticket?” We all nodded. “Anyway,” he said, “I got a new Belgian Waffle machine and some special batter from a new supplier in Maine. Try some of these oat-maple waffles with black walnut syrup. You won’t believe how good they are.”
Pete Moss was the owner of The Slab, the mayor of St. Germaine and my old college roommate. In fact, he was the one who landed me this “cushy job,” as he called it. It wasn’t that cushy, but it wasn’t bad. Pete had been my roommate in college when we were both undergraduate music majors. We’d lost touch for a while when I’d gone on and gotten a masters degree in composition. Then, after consulting the job market for composers, I went back and got another degree in criminology.
“Sorry, Pete,” said Nancy. “Hayden’s on a diet. We’ll eat them though. They look absolutely dee-licious.”
“Yeah,” chimed in Dave, “it’s a shame to let these go to waste.” Dave turned to me with a grin. “Get it, boss? Go to waste? Go to waist?”
“Yes, very clever, Dave,” I said. “You’re a regular Henny Youngman.”
“Who?” asked Nancy.
“Take my wife...please. Oh, never mind. Give me some of those waffles. I’ll start this diet tomorrow.”
“Hey,” said Noylene, wandering up to the table looking for unfilled coffee cups and, spotting a couple of them, remedying their half-empty status. “Did Dave just tell a joke?”
“Not much of one,” muttered Nancy.
“I’ll bet Collette would have liked it,” I said, unable to keep myself from throwing a little kerosene on Nancy’s smoldering irritation. She answered me with a low growl that I wasn’t even sure I had heard until I felt the kick under the table.
“Collette’s off today,” said Pete in all innocence. “In fact, I think she went down to Hickory for a couple of days. She’s not on the schedule again until Monday.”
“She’s visiting her mother,” said Dave.
“Glad to hear it,” muttered Nancy. “Maybe we can get some work done.”
The waffles disappeared quickly, and, since I was officially off my diet for the day, I ordered some grits, bacon and a couple of eggs as well.
“I thought about going on a diet myself,” said Pete, “but then I made a brilliant discovery. Have you tried expando-pants? They’re great!”
“What are expando-pants?” asked Nancy.
“They’ve got these gussets or something on the side,” said Pete. He got up and unbuckled his belt. “Look here.” He pulled the waistband of his seemingly normal khakis out far enough to drop a dictionary down his shorts. “They expand up to three inches.”
“Wow,” said Nancy, “just what the world needs. Maternity pants for men.”
“I’m never going back,” said Pete. “I’ve seen the future, and it’s wearing expando-pants.”
“I can’t do it, Pete,” I said, finishing up my coffee. “I may actually have to take up exercise.”
“Don’t do anything drastic. Exercise can kill you. I heard about this one guy…”
“Hey,” interjected Nancy, always happy to interrupt a conversation that she wasn’t interested in.
“Did I hear that your typewriter was broken?”
“It was, but I sent it off to Philadelphia. It’ll be back this afternoon,” I answered. “Have no fear. I’ll be writing again very soon.”
“Who’s Henny Youngman?” asked Dave.
“Try to keep up, Dave,” said Nancy.
• • •
The FedEx delivery guy had walked into the police station at 2:10 p.m. I know because Dave had dutifully logged him in and accepted the package. I opened the box in my office, lifted out the twenty pound typewriter, put a piece of copier paper behind the roller and clicked it into position. I didn’t generally use copier paper because I didn’t want to cheapen the experience. This was, after all, Raymond Chandler’s typewriter. I had started using a 42 lb. bond that I ordered from California — a specialty paper that had been carried by the same stationery company since 1928. But that paper was at home, and I was itching to give the typewriter a try. I typed:
The Soprano Wore Falsettos
Chapter 1
It worked just like new.
• • •
The wind slapped me in the mug like a petulant chippy; then it threw its drink in my face, kissed me hard on the mouth, slapped me again, kissed me once more, showed me a good time, stole my wallet and banged open the door of the Possum ’n Peasel just as I walked up--it was one heck of a wind, and I oughta know.
I was meeting someone. Someone who didn’t want to be seen going to the office of a gumshoe. It was all the same to me. I wasn’t picking up the tab. I’m an L.D.--Liturgical Detective duly licensed by the Episcopal diocese of North Carolina and answerable directly to the bishop. At least that’s what it said on my card. But, I thought as I lit a stogy and dropped into my booth, a little moonlighting on the side never hurt. The Possum ’n Peasel was still my favorite dive on the West Side even though the new management was now offering an embarrassment of drinks with names like “Fuzzy Smurf” and “Butterfly Kisses.” The late owner, a crusty old coot named Stumpy, wouldn’t have put up with it, and I had to admit that the only “butterfly kiss” I wanted to see was a butterfly kissing the windshield of my flivver on my way home from Francine’s.
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