The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "Nah. You forget that I'm a professional," I said, remembering my recent conversation with Rob. "I can read people. There's no way he's going to be on the vestry. He's not the type."

  "You certainly are sure of yourself," Meg said.

  "I'm almost always right."

  "Would you care to make a wager?"

  "I certainly would. What are the stakes?"

  "Well," she said, biting her lower lip. "If you win—which we both know you will because you are, after all, a professional—then I will go with you to Seattle next summer and sit through the entire Wagner Ring Cycle."

  I could feel my eyes growing wide.

  "Really? What's the flip side?"

  "If I win—which we both know I won't because I'm only a woman and couldn't possibly convince a single, good-looking lawyer to be on the vestry—then you have to do whatever I ask you to do. No complaining."

  "Is this a ploy to get me to marry you?"

  "Nothing to do with marriage," Megan said. "Cross my heart. I just don't know what I want you to do yet."

  "I don't know. A wager with unidentified stakes? Sounds fishy to me."

  "What about this then? If I have to go to Seattle for a week, then you have to go wherever I say. Not to exceed five days."

  "Still a bit vague. Will you be coming with me?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not. But, if you're chicken, I understand."

  "It's a bet," I said. "Seattle, here we come."

  "You can't tell him I'm going to ask. That wouldn't be fair."

  "Oh, shoot!" I said, suddenly remembering my other quasi-appointment. "I knew there was something else I was supposed to do this morning! The lawyer in question is coming by to look through those papers we found with the body. I'd better run."

  "Don't you tell him! I mean it!"

  "I won't say a word. Thanks for lunch."

  * * *

  I found Rob back at the station. He was sitting at my desk with a stack of papers in front of him and an empty accordion folder off to the side.

  "Find anything interesting?" I asked, my irritation just under the surface, but certainly palpable.

  "Oh, hello, Chief," said Rob with a disarming smile, then, seeing my expression, added, "Nancy just stepped out for a moment. She was in here with me till about three minutes ago."

  As if on cue, Nancy walked up behind me.

  "Sorry, boss," she whispered. "I had to go to the bathroom. Pete came in with Mr. Brannon here and made it clear that he wanted this guy,"—she nodded toward Rob—"to go through the Gifford file."

  I nodded and smiled at Nancy who was obviously as irked as I at the intrusion.

  "Thanks, Nancy. I'll take it from here."

  I turned back to Rob who was busy putting the sheaf of papers back into the folder.

  "Find anything interesting?" I repeated.

  "Well," Rob said looking down at his notes, "there are two sets of mortgage papers. Unsigned. I don't know if they were refiled, but I suspect they were. Once Lester disappeared, these folks would have started again with his replacement. In the old days, you knew your banker. He knew you and your family and his assessment of your ability to pay back the loan carried a lot of weight. There's the letter to Wilmer Griggs detailing his delinquency and noting the foreclosure date on his farm. There is a ledger with about thirty short-term loan accounts including payments and interest. Nothing over five hundred dollars though. And nothing in arrears. Except for Mr. Griggs, Lester seemed to have quite a good record of making and collecting his loans."

  "Wouldn't foreclosing on the farm be advantageous to the bank?"

  "Not in the 30's. Coming out of the Great Depression, the last thing a bank wanted was a farm that wasn't making any money."

  "Good point."

  Rob closed the folder and secured it with a large elastic band. He laid it on the desk.

  "Maybe you can find something that I missed."

  "I doubt it. I can't imagine that the murderer left any kind of a clue in the folder. Still, we have to go through it."

  "Well, call me if I can help," he said, shouldering past me, giving Nancy a nod and disappearing out the front door.

  "Harumph," I grunted under my breath.

  Chapter 7

  "Get me Toby on the phone," I called to Marilyn, Ace Secretary, as I breezed into the office the next morning. My evening with Alice had left me feeling as chipper as the deluxe floor model at Mr. Mulch.

  "Toby who?" asked Marilyn, not looking up from the clattering keys of her typewriter.

  "Toby Taps. That's who."

  Marilyn stopped clattering and peered at me over her half-glasses, her eyes appearing to be half-full, or maybe half-empty. depending on your perspective.

  "Toby Taps?" she said through pursed lips. "I thought he was retired."

  "He's retired," I said. "But not that retired."

  "I don't have his number," said Marilyn as offhandedly as Captain Hook and just as seemingly uninterested as he would have been had he--Captain Hook--been sitting where Marilyn now sat; although typing would be much more difficult, seeing that he couldn't use standard touch-typing technique, having only five fingers and one hook.

  "Sure you do, Cupcake. I know you're still seeing him."

  Marilyn shrugged and adjusted her glasses, raising and lowering the lenses like the opaque third eyelid of a very pretty crocodile.

  "Off and on."

  "Well, pretend you're on, and get him for me, will ya?"

  "He doesn't like you, you know."

  "No one does, Doll-face."

  * * *

  The house was dark. It was six in the evening and this being mid-October, the sun was already an hour gone. I had turned out the lights, fixed myself a sandwich and gotten one of the two remaining Malheur Black Chocolate beers out of the fridge, vowing to myself to save the last for a special occasion.

  I shared my house with two pets. There was Baxter, of course. I had gotten him for Meg as a Christmas present, but he had moved in with me as soon as he outgrew Meg's house. My other pet, or rather, part-time lodger, was an owl we had named Archimedes. He had shown up on my windowsill last year and I had begun feeding him the mice that had been foolish enough to try for the cheese in my traps. Eventually he became accustomed to the house. Now came and went at will by way of the automatic window I had installed.

  Baxter was in his usual place—asleep in front of the fire. Archimedes had already left for the evening. He tended to leave the house at dusk or just after. Owls are, by nature, creatures of the night and although I still supplemented Archimedes' diet with frozen rodents, he still covered the mountains from dusk till dawn. Occasionally, he'd be gone for a few days or even a week. Then one morning I'd find him sitting on top of the stuffed buffalo in the den, preening his feathers.

  The den of my house was actually a log cabin first built in 1842 by, if the authentication certificate was correct, Daniel Boone's granddaughter. In fact, Daniel may have actually stayed in this very cabin. At least, that's what I liked to imagine. It wasn't the only reason I bought the cabin, but it was a good story—and I always liked a good story. I found the cabin in eastern Kentucky and had the logs taken down, numbered, trucked down to my two hundred acres, and reassembled before building the rest of my house around the old structure. The den was two stories with a loft. Twenty feet by twenty feet was about average for a cabin in those days. A census report from 1880 shows eight people were living in it.

  I settled into my writing chair and flipped on the banker's light, the only illumination save for the fire. I had the evening to myself—Megan was home with her mother in St. Germaine—and as I lit one of my Romeo y Julietta Cubans, I pondered briefly whether I'd want to give all this up and tie the knot. It was something I'd have to approach carefully.

  I sat back, punched the button on the Wave remote and heard the first strains of Gorecki's Symphony Number 3. Gorecki's symphony had become immensely popular when it was first recorded in 1993, selling well over a million copies
. In the classical world that's almost unheard of, especially for a contemporary composer. I had the recording—it was one of the "features-of-the-month" from the record company I subscribe to—but I was enough of a musical snob not to listen to it. Even though Meg recommended it highly, I certainly was not going to be drawn into listening to something so trendy. I had filed it away, unopened and forgotten, until this evening. I had been flipping through the CDs, looking for something mystical and Catholic, both to suit my mood and recent events. A recording of Gregorian Chant just would not do. It was too early in the year for Christmas music. A requiem was out of the question. So I settled on Gorecki—The Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, for soprano and orchestra . This evening seemed a good time to hear it. It was dark and cold outside. I would be listening to it simply out of professional curiosity. And besides, I thought, it would be a good time to knock out a couple of exceedingly bad chapters of my latest opus.

  * * *

  I heard the tap, tap, tap coming down the hall toward my office, tiny rhythmic clicks synchronized to elephantine footfalls like the castanets of a Sumo Flamenco dancer. Then I saw him. He filled the doorway like banana pudding forced into a crème-filled donut, all the way to the edges and oozing though the keyhole. He was bigger than the last time I had seen him, but then I remembered that Toby Taps had a lifetime pass to the Hungry Hippo All-You-Can-Eat Buffet courtesy of a little problem he had taken care of for the owner. A little problem called an ex-wife. Not that she had been "ex" when Toby had been hired. But she certainly was "ex" now. Ex-tinguished, that is.

  "Ise hoid youse was lookin' for me."

  "Youse hoid correctly," I said.

  Three things about Toby. First, he was always dressed in a black sharkskin suit, black shirt, black silk tie, a red carnation in the lapel and a black top hat sitting on his head. He was stylish. Second, he always wore tapshoes. It was his trademark. When you heard the tapshoes, you knew you were in trouble. Toby never wanted to sneak up on anyone. He wanted you to know he was coming. And third--Toby Taps had a beautiful tenor voice, small and crystalline. I had heard him sing "Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schoen" from The Magic Flute on more than one occasion. It was his favorite aria--the only one he knew--and he sang it at the funeral of every one of his assignments. Toby thought it was a grand gesture and although neither he nor anyone else knew what the words meant, no one said "no" to Toby Taps.

  * * *

  I clicked the return lever on the old typewriter and re-read what I had just written. Genius! I swung my chair around and picked up my sandwich. Then, in spite of myself, I started paying attention to the music. It's an occupational hazard. Usually I can put on some Leon Redbone or Elvis Costello or even Lyle Lovett and type away to my heart's content. It's music to type by. You can hum along to the songs—even sing them if you know the words. This recording was different. I didn't know yet if I liked it or not, but it was one of those works that commanded my attention.

  I finished my sandwich and turned off the desk light. Then I took my beer over to my leather chair, put another log on the fire and settled in, cigar in hand, to listen to the recording. And, to be fair, I started it over.

  The symphony begins very softly with the basses, then cellos, and then slowly progresses through the orchestra in what one critic called a "canon of despair." It is of the genre labeled "mystic minimalism." Not my cup of tea, but I could see why Meg liked it. The beginning was quite beautiful. I closed my eyes. I might have dozed off.

  "So how's my old typewriter holding up?"

  I opened my eyes and there he was…again…sitting in my desk chair, his pipe smoking vaguely—although I didn't notice the smell of pipe tobacco—his eyes bright behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

  "The typewriter's good," I said, staring.

  "You know, sometimes I used a blue ribbon. Just for fun."

  "I didn't know."

  "So how's the story coming?"

  "Okay, I guess. I've got some really first-rate prose ready for the Bulwer-Lytton Contest. I'd really like to win it this year."

  He clicked on the desk light. "You know this is pretty good bad writing," he said, flipping through the pages on the desk next to the typewriter.

  "Well," I said with a modest shrug. "Thanks."

  "But your plot creaks like a broken shutter in an October wind."

  "Hey, that's good. Can I use that?"

  "I'm sure you will."

  * * *

  I woke up with a start. The Gorecki CD seemed to be stuck and my cigar had fallen into my lap, burning a hole in my sweater. As I patted out the smoldering ash, the symphony reached its final chord and I realized that the CD hadn't been stuck at all and that I had been hearing the same three-chord progression for the past five minutes. I vowed then and there to never again listen to minimalistic music with a lit cigar in my mouth. Then I looked at Baxter. He was standing up, the hair on his back bristling, his gaze firmly directed at my desk, and a low, almost inaudible growl in his throat. I walked over to the desk. It was different than I had left it. The papers beside the typewriter were ruffled and out of order.

  And the light was on.

  Chapter 8

  "You should have seen it! It was so cool," said Moosey.

  I had driven up to Ardine McCollough's place on Saturday morning to pick up a couple of apple pies that she had made for me.

  Ardine McCollough lived with her three kids in a mobile home up near the Pine Valley Christmas Tree Farm where she worked. She was a single mother and struggled to make ends meet. I helped her out occasionally with groceries and clothes for the children, but she was a proud woman and had informed me early on in no uncertain terms that she didn't take charity. Every time I took the McCollough family anything, the gift was reciprocated. I had taken Bud, the oldest, a couple of my old-—but still good—sweaters. I was getting a couple of pies in exchange.

  Ardine's husband was abusive when he lived with them. No one had seen him for several years and no one asked where he was. He was one of those people that were never missed once they disappeared. In fact, the entire town breathed a sigh of relief when he stopped frequenting the local establishments. The only interest he ever took in the three children, other than knocking them around, was to name them—which he did—after his only friends. Beer. Bud was fifteen. His sister, Pauli Girl, was twelve. The almost-seven year old was a gregarious little boy named Moose-head. Moosey for short.

  Moosey met me at the truck, and, as soon as I stepped out of the cab, he started frisking me with practiced ease, looking for the candy bar I always brought with me on my visits.

  "You should have seen it," he repeated.

  "Seen what?" I asked. Moosey had found the Mars bar in my coat pocket and was already unwrapping it.

  "The Scripture Chicken!" said Moosey, jamming about half of the candy bar into his mouth.

  "Did you go to the tent service last night?"

  "Mmou mnbeb weeb mmoomd," said Moosey, his mouth now full of chocolate.

  "I'll wait," I said. "Why don't you swallow first?"

  Moosey chewed as fast as he could and gulped down the first half of his candy bar.

  "You bet we went," he said with a gulp. "We was on the front row. You shoulda seen that chicken."

  I looked up and noticed that Ardine had come out onto the front stoop of her trailer. She looked like a woman who had lived a hard life. Looking at her, anyone might guess her age at fifty or so judging from the premature lines etched into her face. She was probably about twenty years younger than that. Ardine was thin, kept her hair pulled back, rarely wore makeup and had a habit of crossing her arms in front of her that gave her a look of perpetual distrust.

  "Brother Hog," said Moosey, "…that was his name, swear to God…put this chicken on top of this giant Bible and the chicken started scratching around and then started peckin' at one of the pages and Brother Hog had a man read where the chicken was peckin' and then said he was going to preach on what the Holy Spirit had told the chicken to
pick." I was impressed. Moosey got the whole sentence out in one breath.

  "He let us pet the chicken afterwards," said Moosey. "He said that she was a holy chicken and that we shouldn't pull her feathers. Her name is Binny Hen." Moosey started on the other half of the Mars bar.

  "That sounds like great fun," I said as I walked up to Ardine.

  "It was pretty good," said Ardine in her flat voice. "I liked the sermon better than the chicken, but I guess that if that's how the Lord chooses to speak through Brother Hog, I don't guess I can fault the Almighty for it."

  "The chicken really picked out the scripture?"

  "Far as I could tell. And I was sittin' right up there. That chicken started scratchin' at them pages, and then, after some pages had been turned, she started peckin'. That's when Brother Hog says 'The Holy Spirit has shown Binny Hen our scripture for this evening. Brother Gene shall now read it, and then I shall preach on it.' And he did."

  "What scripture was it?"

  "It was Second Corinthians. The Love Chapter."

  "That was a good choice by the chicken."

  "It was the Holy Spirit," said Ardine with finality. "And there were five people saved and three rededications."

  "I'm glad it was a success. Are you going back tonight?"

  "Yep. And takin' the kids, too. Brother Hog's gonna let 'em take up the offering tonight."

  "Sounds like a fun evening."

  "Nothin' fun about it," said Ardine, opening the door and holding it for me to enter. "This is God's work."

  * * *

  "You saw who?" asked Meg. We were sitting in a booth at the Slab having a late lunch. The crowd of bun-lookers had slimmed for the time being.

  "You know, I hesitate to even bring this up," I said. "I may have been dreaming. I'm pretty sure I dozed off during that Gorecki piece you've been after me to listen to."

  "Did you like it?"

  "The symphony or the ghost?"

  "Well, the symphony. We're both pretty sure you were dreaming about the ghost."