The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "How about this?" he said. "Here's the first verse. You can sing it to the tune of Amazing Grace, but you have to throw in an extra note to make it fit."

  O Lord who doth make all things new.

  We pray with faith emerging.

  Just tell us what we ought to do

  And grant us thy re-virging.

  "That's pretty good," said Noylene, scribbling away.

  "That's not good," I said. "It's awful. I put it right up there with Crown Him You Many Clowns."

  "Another masterpiece," said Pete, "even though I didn't write that one. Here's the second verse."

  When in temptation's path we're found,

  And feel our lust upsurging,

  Give us the strength to turn around,

  And grant us thy re-virging.

  I laughed out loud. Noylene bit her lip and tried to keep up, her pencil flying over the paper.

  "Okay, genius. I've got one," I said. "I think this says it all."

  When we have drunken far too much

  And find ourselves regurging,

  Just tell us when we've had enough,

  And grant us thy re-virging.

  Pete and I laughed like we were back in college again, and I felt much better even though I was still wet and muddy. I hoped, only halfheartedly, that Noylene would lose the hymn before the service.

  Chapter 19

  I had questions--questions with no answers, answers with no questions and a few queries with a lot of other posers thrown in.

  First on my list was "Who killed Candy Blather?" I had no answer, but if I could come up with one, I'd make my monthly nut with room to spare.

  Every other question was just oatmeal on the carpet. Who was Rosebud? What was the hymn that Candy wouldn't include? What would Piggy be eating next? Where or who was Jimmy Leggs? Why was Kelly trying to hire Marilyn? What kind of underwear did Starrbuck Espresso wear and why was Alice calling me at all hours?

  "Kit," I called. "I got questions."

  "Well, answer them," she yelled back. "That's why you're the detective."

  "Yes. Sound advice from a professional Girl-Friday."

  "Why don't you work backwards? Last question first."

  "Okay," I said. "Why is Alice calling me at all hours?"

  "Because she wants to know what you know. It's certainly not your good looks and charm," Kit said.

  "OK, next question. What kind of underwear does Starr Espresso wear?"

  "Sounds like you need to do a little research, boss," grinned Kit.

  * * *

  I drove slowly down Main Street on Saturday morning, looking for Megan, following her mother's inclination that she had headed into town. I didn't find Meg, but I did happen upon a most unusual pair walking through Sterling Park. D'Artagnan Faberge and Moosey looked less like Mutt and Jeff and more like a giant alien parrot creature with his chickadee sidekick. I rolled down my window and gave them a yell.

  "Hey you guys! Come here a second will you?"

  Moosey recognized my truck right away and scampered over. D'Artagnan took his time, walking with as much cool as he could muster, his hands pushed deep into his pockets.

  "Hayden!" Moosey said. "Me and D'Artagnan are searching for the Blessed Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll. He's gonna pay me two bucks when we find it."

  "A princely sum," I said, "but why weren't you in school yesterday?"

  "Aw, who told?"

  "Never mind. You do it again and I'll tell your mother. Then you know what'll happen."

  "Yessir," said Moosey. "I won't do it no more." Then he brightened as D'Artagnan strolled up. "Look at our shoes! They're exactly the same!" Moosey held his foot up as high as he could manage without falling over. He was wearing his bright orange high-top tennis shoes—the ones I had bought for him when he had played the Penguin of Bethlehem. I looked at D'Artagnan's shoes. They were the same, though a size fifteen.

  "Did you know that D'Artagnan was named after a famous Mouseketeer?" said Moosey.

  "Musketeer," muttered D'Artagnan through the strands of his wispy mustache.

  "I remember reading that," I said. "Have you guys had any luck in finding the Immaculate Confection?

  "Most folks think that you stole it," said D'Artagnan, matter-of-factly.

  "I assure you I did not."

  "We already know that," exclaimed Moosey. "We almost know who did it."

  "Hush up, Moosey," said D'Artagnan.

  "Care to let me in on it?" I asked.

  "Not yet," said D'Artagnan. "All ya'll will know soon enough."

  "Fair enough. Good luck, then. By the way, have you seen Meg?"

  "She's over at the post office," said Moosey.

  "Thanks," I said. "And no more skipping school."

  "No sir. I won't."

  * * *

  Meg had decided to accompany her mother to Saturday night's tent meeting. She had invited me as well, but I declined. I did acquiesce to meet them both for the potluck supper following the service, a potluck featuring peach pies courtesy of Ruby and sautéed portabello mushrooms in garlic from the kitchen of Megan Farthing. Brother Hog had tables ready to set up in the tent as soon as the chairs were cleared away, so Meg told me to meet them at the tent at 7:30 for supper. They'd do their best to save me a place.

  I appeared promptly at the designated time and looked around the tent for Meg and Ruby. I spotted them near the back at a table with Noylene, D'Artagnan, Ardine, Moosey and Pauli Girl. The eighth seat was saved for me.

  "Hi there," I said. "Did you get me a plate of food?"

  "Right here," said Meg, gesturing to the extra plate in front of her place. "Come and sit down."

  I sat down in between Noylene and Meg and put the plate that Meg had garnered for me in front of my place. "How did the service go last night, Noylene? Did you get…you know?"

  "I certainly did," said Noylene, "and I feel just awesome."

  "Awesome, eh? Did you guys sing Pete's hymn?"

  "I wanted to, but we didn't have time."

  "That's a shame."

  "What are you two talking about?" asked Meg.

  "I'll tell you later," whispered Noylene.

  "And how was the service tonight?" I asked of no one in particular.

  "It was fine," said Meg.

  "Great!" said Moosey. "Binny Hen was just great."

  "It was a good service," said Pearl. "This dinner is good, too."

  "I didn't go to the service," said D'Artagnan. "I was busy cookin'."

  "I didn't know you could cook, boy," said Noylene. "When did you learn how to do that?"

  "Ain't nothin' to it," said D'Artagnan. "Just gotta have something to cook and a big skillet full of hog lard."

  "What did you bring, Noylene?" asked Meg, taking a bite of fried chicken.

  "I brought my three-bean salad," said Noylene. "A potluck isn't a potluck without some three-bean salad. How about you D'Artagnan?"

  "I brought that fried chicken," he said, pointing to the big plate in the middle of our table.

  "Aren't you supposed to put the plate of food on the big table so everyone can have a taste?" I asked.

  "Sorry," said D'Artagnan. "I got here late.

  "Well, it sure is good," said Meg.

  "I agree," I said. "Maybe the best I've ever had."

  "It should be," said D'Artagnan through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "It's the freshest fried chicken you're ever likely to eat."

  The whole table froze. Even Moosey and Pauli Girl stopped in mid-forkful. Only D'Artagnan kept eating.

  "What do you mean, son?" said Noylene.

  "I mean that chicken was poultry on the hoof about an hour ago."

  We all looked at him in horror.

  "What?" he said, putting down his fork. "That chicken didn't belong to nobody. She was just out scratchin' behind the tent. Free range, you know? And, I might add, she was the biggest chicken I ever saw."

  "Oh my God," said Ardine, putting the chicken leg back on the plate. "Oh my God."

>   "What?" said D'Artagnan.

  "You cooked Binny Hen! That's what!" hissed Noylene. "Now what're you gonna do?"

  "Who's Binny Hen?" asked D'Artagnan.

  "Brother Hog's Scripture Chicken. You cooked her! She was ordained!"

  "Didn't know he had a Scripture Chicken," said D'Artagnan with a shrug. "Nothin' we can do about it now anyway." He reached over to the plate of chicken and took another piece.

  "He has a point," I said, reaching across the table with my fork. "And this is really good fried chicken."

  "I just can't eat it," said Ardine.

  "Can I have your piece?" asked Moosey, passing his plate across the table to his mother.

  "Someone's going to have to tell Brother Hog," Meg said.

  "I'll tell him. I'm the one who did it," said D'Artagnan. "Anyone want any more?"

  "Well, I think I'd like a piece," said Ruby, ignoring the glare that Meg gave her—a look that would melt the congealed salad sitting uneaten on her plate.

  "I mean, if it's that good."

  Chapter 20

  I walked around the corner, heading for my favorite pub--the Possum 'n Peasel-- the rain bouncing off my hat with a plink-plink like someone playing a Bach invention on a three-note piano gone flat. Starr was waiting for me in a lime-green and black number that looked like she'd been spray-painted by a couple of graffiti artists and rolled in a dumpster full of sequins. If I was here to discern what kind of underwear Starr was wearing, I didn't have to discern very long. If there was any room for underwear between her skin and what passed for evening wear, it would have to be as thin as my list of suspects.

  "Starr, baby," I said, lighting up a stogy. "Lovely to see you again. Nice outfit."

  "Like it? I had it sprayed on this afternoon. It's the latest thing."

  "So, those really are your...?"

  "You bet they are mister," she said proudly. "These sequins are sort of prickly, though."

  "Let's take a seat, Starr."

  "Sorry. I can't sit down. It'd kill me."

  "Ah, right," I said. "Let's get a drink at the bar then."

  We walked up to the bar--me, shamelessly checking out her paint-job and she, doing her best to scuttle as gracefully as she could, mildly hampered by the fact that every time her thighs rubbed together, her sequins harmonized like a chorus of crickets singing the Duruflé Requiem, then popped off like it was molting season at a majorette convention.

  "I'll have a beer and a bump," I said to Stumpy.

  "I'll have a Chocolate Martini with just a jiggle of Kahlua," cooed Starr.

  "This here's a pub," said Stumpy, banging on the floor with his wooden peg-leg. "Not one of your Nancy-bars. Order a real drink."

  "A Kiwi Daiquiri?"

  "No."

  "A Purple Hooter?"

  "No."

  "An Apricot Squirt?"

  "No."

  "Give her a beer," I said. "And put it in a dirty glass."

  * * *

  "I like this installment," said Rebecca Watts on Sunday morning as we gathered for the service. "I used to be a majorette, you know."

  "Really? And did you twirl fire-batons as well as regular ones? I ask because Pentecost is only seven months away, and I'd like to start planning ahead."

  "Yes, fire-batons are no problem. Just tell me when to be here."

  "There will be no fire-batons," said Meg. "And I hope this literary exercise is almost over because it's starting to give me hives. Really! I mean it! Look here." She extended her arm.

  "I think that's just a mosquito bite," said Rebecca.

  * * *

  The service, on that particular Sunday, included readings from II Timothy and the Gospel of Luke as well as words of gloom and doom from Jeremiah and Psalm 84. The Gospel lesson was the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector, and the choir was going to highlight the reading of the gospel with Heinrich Schütz's dialogue and chorus. Randy Hatteberg and Bob Solomon were in the title roles and the choir was well prepared to end the argument with the words of Our Savior. The puppets, however, were going to be illustrating the Epistle Lesson—the second letter from Paul to Timothy in which he (Paul) proclaims, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." At least, that was the current plan.

  The Puppet-Moment had been scheduled right after the Psalm, so the kids hadn't even heard the Epistle lesson when Father George called them forth. They walked tentatively down the aisle—small and cunning creatures like those little dinosaurs that looked so cute, but then ate Wayne Knight in the first Jurassic Park movie.

  Brenda, a.k.a. Princess Foo-Foo, had taken her place behind the puppet stage along with Lynn Askew and JJ. I knew why JJ had volunteered. She was always ready for anything that looked like it might be reasonably entertaining.

  I had walked by the first through third grade Sunday School classroom on my way up to the choir loft and had heard the children getting prepped like witnesses getting ready to go before the grand jury.

  "Now, children," I had heard Princess Foo-Foo say, "we're going to have you come down for a Puppet-Moment during church."

  "I love puppets," said Moosey.

  "Moosey, you're not to say a word. Do you understand? Not one word, or I'll call your mother and tell her about you trying to push the altar candles up Robert's nose."

  "We were playing 'The Walrus of Bethlehem.'"

  Foo-Foo ignored him. "And none of the rest of you had better say anything either. Do I make myself clear?"

  I headed to the loft with a big grin on my face and donned an even bigger one as they were called forward; the dinosaur children now stalking the oblivious Director of Christian Ed. Leading the pack was Bernadette, followed by Moosey, Ashley, Robert, Christopher and a girl I didn't know. They gathered around the portable puppet stage—PVC pipes pushed together into a flimsy frame strewn with some dark blue material left over from the Christmas Pageant. They sat down and waited expectantly for the show to begin. Father George had moved beside the stage, possibly to facilitate the interaction, but more probably to exercise damage control if things got out of hand.

  Up popped a puppet. It was one of those Sesame Street type puppets dressed as an old man with gray hair and a mustache, half a body with a big head and one arm worked by a supporting rod. Old Man Puppet was followed by a lady puppet, if one could believe the red wig, and a younger female in golden Wagnerian pigtails. The children clapped politely.

  Princess Foo-Foo, obviously playing the part of the old man, spoke in a gravelly voice.

  "Good morning children. This morning we'd like to talk to you about working with diligence for the Lord in preparation for our final reward in heaven." The children nodded politely.

  Pigtails spoke next. It was JJ and she was reading from the script.

  "I'm going to describe something and I want you to raise your hand when you know what it is."

  The children nodded politely.

  "They're ready," said Father George in complete control. The members of the choir were leaning forward in their chairs with anticipation.

  "This thing," said Pigtails, "lives in trees and eats nuts."

  Silence.

  "Anyone know?"

  "Here's another hint," said Red Hair, alias Lynn. "It's gray and has a long bushy tail."

  Silence.

  "Raise your hands, children, when you know the answer," said Father George, a worried timbre creeping into his voice. Still nothing. They were perfect angels following previous orders.

  "Here's another hint," said Old Man Puppet. "He jumps from branch to branch."

  Silence.

  Old Man Puppet was running out of clues and was now deviating from the script. The entire congregation could all sense it and the anticipation was almost palpable.

  "He chatters when he's excited," said Old Man Puppet.

  "He flips his tail and has big teeth," interrupted Pigtails, trying to help.

  Silence.

  Followed by more silence.

>   "Bernadette" said Father George. "Do you know?" She shook her head side to side very slowly.

  It was obvious that the puppets couldn't continue without an answer. Their script depended on it and the cast was out of clues.

  "It's gray," summed up Father George, "has a long, bushy tail and big teeth…jumps from branch to branch and chatters when he's excited…"

  Finally, a tentative hand went up. It was Christopher. Everyone in the congregation breathed an audible sigh of relief. Father George pointed to him.

  "Well," said Christopher, as the congregation leaned forward to hear him, "I know the answer must be Jesus, but it sure sounds like a squirrel to me!"

  A roar went up from the church. JJ was the first to fall, literally howling with laughter. She had one hand inside Pigtails and the other working a rod with the puppet arm attached and hence, couldn't catch herself when her guffawing threw her totally off balance and into the PVC puppet stage. The stage came down over the children in a cascade of blue velveteen and plastic piping. Lynn tried to catch it, but overbalanced as well and collapsed—now as hysterical as JJ—on top of the pile, her hands still entangled in her own puppet. Neither one of them could manage to get up, or even get a breath, because every time they looked at each other, rolling in that velveteen ocean surrounded by diminutive arms, legs, and heads poking through the waves of material looking for all the world like the aftermath of Noah's flood, another roar went up from the two of them. The congregation was in convulsions as well. Even Father George had to sit down for a moment, fighting in vain the smile trying to cross his visage. Only Brenda, with a stern look on her face, remained upright, the last bastion of all things well-rehearsed.

  The congregation was still laughing as a couple of folks in the front two pews managed to get everyone untangled from the remains of the jumbled stage. Two of the ushers finally made it to the front and collected the conglomeration of plastic pipes, material and two lifeless puppets and carried the wreckage out the side door and into the chapel for restoration. The children, still on their best behavior, however rumpled from the experience, strolled in pairs back down the center aisle.