“Morning, Hayden,” called Elaine Hixon. The Altar Guild had things well in hand, flowers and baby’s breath in abundance, placed artistically among the fir garlands and pine boughs.
Billy, having finished with the mums in the front flower beds, was now directing the hanging of our new Advent wreath.
“Two years ago today,” said Billy, looking up at Elaine’s greeting and seeing me come down the aisle.
“I remember,” I said.
“Elaine reminded me this morning. I’d sort of forgotten. It doesn’t seem like two years have gone by since the church burned to the ground.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “But I’m looking forward to our first Christmas back.”
We’d consecrated our new building last May, eighteen months after the fire. St. Barnabas had been rebuilt to look almost identical to the 1904 structure that had been lost. The changes that had been made were improvements to the structure and the infrastructure—things most people wouldn’t notice unless they looked closely, or were in the know. Even the windows had been reproduced as faithfully as possible. One of the improvements the building committee had planned for was the hanging of this huge Advent wreath. The wreath was eight feet in diameter and constructed of welded steel, painted a dark red and covered with greenery. The four candles that jutted from the candle holders, located equidistant around the edge of the wreath, were oversized as well—three purple candles and one rose-colored, all about eighteen inches tall and as big around as the thick end of a baseball bat. The wreath would hang from a cable, eighteen feet above the floor, that had been attached to a winch in the ceiling and was controlled by a locked switch in the pulpit. The wreath could be slowly lowered and raised and the candles lit and extinguished for every service during Advent, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the two Sundays before Epiphany. The whole effect would be rather spectacular.
“The tree looks great,” I said, looking at the ten-foot-tall blue spruce sparkling in the corner of the chancel.
Our “Jesse Tree” had been set up behind the baptismal font and was covered with small white lights. The Jesse Tree looked, to the casual observer, almost exactly like a Christmas tree. But, as good Episcopalians, we knew instinctively that it was just plain wrong to acknowledge any part of Christmas before December 24th at the earliest, so we did what any self-respecting religious organization would do under similar circumstances: we gave the Christmas tree a different name and pretended we put it up for Advent. As long as no one asked any questions, we were fine. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” That was our Advent motto. Well, that and “Come, Lord Jesus.”
Of course, there was still the internal struggle between the Chrismonites and the Jessetonians, each sect vying for control over the ornamentation of said evergreen. Both factions advocated the use of Christian symbols for decoration, but the Chrismonites were staunch supporters of the tried and true white Styrofoam cutouts decorated with gold beads and bric-a-brac. The Jessetonians held for more natural adornments: fruit, small stuffed birds, and organic ornaments made by the children. The two groups would watch each other carefully through narrowed eyes until the Second Sunday of Advent, the traditional “decking of the Jesse Tree,” neither making a move, but numbering their foes and marshaling their forces for the showdown, i.e., the vestry meeting on the second Thursday of December. It was there the final decision would be made, and God have mercy on us all.
“How strong is that wire?” asked Gaylen, looking askance at the wreath, now rotating slowly two feet above the floor. Our priest was a very attractive woman in her late fifties, tall and slender with white hair that rested gently on her shoulders, and an easy smile.
“It’s airline cable,” said Billy. “Eighth-inch. It’ll hold fourteen hundred pounds.”
“And how much does that thing weigh?” asked Gaylen.
“Two hundred. Maybe two-fifty,” said Billy. “Don’t worry. It’ll give you a lot of warning before it snaps.”
“That’s very comforting,” said Gaylen, with a light shudder.
“Luckily, I’ll be in the choir loft,” I said. “And even if people are kneeling for communion, they’re still a good ten feet away. You, on the other hand, have to traipse back and forth between the altar and the rail. It’s you, and the Eucharistic Ministers, that have to worry.”
“And our new deacon.”
Elaine, Bev, Billy, Mr. Christopher, myself, and the rest of the Altar Guild all stopped dead and looked at her.
“Deacon?” said Bev.
Gaylen sighed heavily. “Bishop O’Connell asked if I’d take him on. I told him I would. It’s only for six months. He passed his General Ordination Exams, graduated from seminary, and was ordained as a deacon. Now he has to do hands-on parish training under the guidance of an experienced priest. That’s me.”
“When’s he coming?” asked Bev.
“He’ll be here next week. Wednesday, I think. His other assignment fell through. That church couldn’t manage his salary.”
“Hmm,” said Bev. “And do we have to pay him?”
“Well, it’s not that much,” said Gaylen. “Eight thousand for the six-months, plus a housing allowance.” She shrugged. “Sorry. There wasn’t much I could do. Everyone in the diocese knows St. Barnabas’ financial situation.”
St. Barnabas’ financial situation could be summed up thusly: we had a new church building, a new pipe organ, no debt, a few income properties, and fifteen million dollars in the bank—more or less. The large amount of cash was due to a seventy-five-year-old bond that, through many a hook and crook, had finally been awarded to the church with all attached interest. Then there was last summer’s windfall of the uncut diamonds found in the excavation of the new building. Another mere two hundred thousand, but as Ruby, Meg’s mother, pointed out, “every little bit helps.”
“Well,” said Elaine, a look of apprehension crossing her face, “I guess we’re stuck then. And besides, what harm can a deacon do?”
Chapter 2
Old Man Frost, as he was known to almost all the residents of St. Germaine, had been born a Catholic. He’d met Beulah Polk, the third daughter of a dour Southern Baptist preacher, at an ice cream social in 1948. After expressing his interest in courting the fair maid, Hiram Frost was invited to Sunday dinner at the Polk house, where he was strongly encouraged, during a stern heart-to-heart with the Reverend Polk, to disavow the Catholic faith and all its idolatrous trappings, accept Jesus into his heart, and be baptized in the river in accordance with the scriptures.
Hiram, not really a religious person to begin with, had no problem with the decision. Beulah was voluptuous, and, as any eighteen-year-old male knows, lust trumps religion nine times out of ten. He and Beulah were married after a short courtship (shorter than the good Reverend Polk might have foreseen), and the first of their six children was born six months later.
Although Hiram was only perfunctorily devout, Beulah took her beliefs very seriously. All the children were raised in the faith, which was, truth be told, quite a bit stricter in the 1950s and ’60s than it is today: no dancing, no movies, no tobacco, no pants on women, no skinny dipping in the creek, and definitely no alcoholic consumption in any of its diabolical forms.
It was interesting therefore, when I accompanied Nancy to the auction of the Frost homestead, to see, sitting among Hiram’s possessions dotting the front yard, the octogenarian’s collection of shot glasses, Elvis records, and meerschaum pipes.
Beulah had died five years ago after a long illness. Hiram not only survived his wife, but also survived three of his children. The remaining three hadn’t been back to St. Germaine for thirty years and, according to Diana Terry, who’d been helping Hiram with his shopping, had no desire to see the old man ever again.
Hiram refinanced his farm to pay for his wife’s medical care. It was a bargain, said the loan officer: no money down, a minimal monthly payment with hardly any interest, then a balloon payment four long years down the road. When that came due, Hiram
could simply refinance with the bank at another low, low rate and everything would be just fine. It didn’t work out that way.
The bank had foreclosed on Hiram’s farm three weeks ago. Nancy and Dave, in accordance with the court order, had come out to the farm and removed Hiram from the premises. They drove him to the Ridgecrest Senior Care Center in Boone and checked him in. He died the next day.
The bank padlocked every door and window and put the farm and all of its contents up for auction. Diana knew nothing about it until the bank had already foreclosed and Old Man Frost was lying in state at Swallow’s Funeral Home. It turned out that Hiram had been tossing the bank notices into the potbellied stove.
Now everything on the property, including the old clapboard house, was being sold to the highest bidder on the front steps of the homestead by Highland Auctions.
The auction had been going on for quite a while by the time we drove up. Bob Montenegro was a good auctioneer and had already sold Hiram’s car (a 1974 Gremlin), a box of tools, several pieces of furniture, and the potbellied stove. Nancy and I stood in the back and watched the people as well as the proceedings. Looking over the crowd, it seemed as if we knew almost everyone.
Billy Hixon had packed up the box of tools he’d just purchased and was carrying it to his truck.
Diana Terry, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a worn barn jacket, was looking at Mrs. Frost’s collection of hats. In addition to helping some of the elderly with their shopping and other chores, Diana volunteered at the library, at one of the thrift shops in Boone, and for all the Summer Bible Schools in town. She didn’t have a full-time job and was rumored to be an ex-nun, although she always answered any and all inquiries about her previous profession with a sly smile. Far from being a stereotypical old, grumpy ex-sister, Diana was in her early forties and very attractive. It was Pete’s considered opinion that, as a smokin’ hot nun, she’d been hit on by a randy cardinal and ended up with a big settlement (and a non-disclosure agreement) from the Catholic church. I didn’t disagree.
Skeeter Donalson was chatting loudly with Arlen Pearl and pointing to an old guitar with no strings. Annie Cooke had taken a break from her duties at the Ginger Cat. Several choir members were there and saluted us with a wave before turning their attention back to the auctioneer. Calvin Denton, editor of The St. Germaine Tattler, had run a full-page ad advertising the sale, and so, when we arrived, there were probably two hundred people gathered on the front lawn.
Bob had just brought down his gavel on an antique Leica camera, selling it for the princely sum of nine dollars. Hiram Frost’s collection of shot glasses was next.
“A collection of thirty shot glasses,” said Bob into his portable microphone. “We’re going to sell these as a lot. Do I have a bid of twenty-five dollars?”
No takers.
“Ten dollars then. Do I have ten?”
Still no takers.
“Five? Do I have five?”
“Two dollars,” yelled Arlen.
“Two dollars. I have two dollars. Do I have three?” Bob went into his patter, but two dollars was as good as he could do and Arlen was soon the proud owner of thirty shot glasses.
“I can sell ’em on Ebay for two or three bucks apiece,” Arlen whispered to me as he walked by. “I’m gonna make a fortune!”
We watched as the auctioneer made his way through some silverware, pots and pans, a stuffed boar’s head, and the guitar that Skeeter managed to procure for $14.50.
“Lot 37,” called Bob. “Three cases of wine. Vintage 1998. A little dusty, but I’m sure it’s still delicious.”
“What was Old Man Frost doing with three cases of wine?” I said.
“Not to mention shot glasses,” said Nancy. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised to see fifty years of vintage Playboys show up in a cardboard box.”
“He would have gotten rid of something like that,” I said.
“He didn’t have time,” said Nancy. “Dave and I frog-marched him right out of there. That’s what the judge ordered.”
“We’re selling these bottles as a lot,” said Bob. “We don’t have all day, so you’re bidding on all three cases.”
“Ten bucks,” called Skeeter, not giving Bob a chance to start up before jumping in. Thirty-six bottles of wine for ten dollars was a deal that even Skeeter couldn’t pass up.
“Hang on,” said Bob, holding up one of the bottles. “I’m not done yet. This here says Chateau Petrus. And it’s aged for over ten years! It’s Italian.”
“You need any wine?” asked Nancy.
I shook my head. “Nah. I’ve got a cellarful. Bud keeps me hooked up.”
Bud McCollough was the eldest son of the McCollough clan and had a gift for wine snobbery that was only surpassed by his actual knowledge of the vineyard arts. He was a voracious reader and his encyclopedic knowledge of wine and wine lore was augmented by the finest nose and taste buds in the state. At eighteen, Bud still wasn’t old enough to actually buy the wine, but that didn’t stop him from posting a wine blog and offering suggestions when asked. I was surprised, though, when I felt a tug on my arm, and turned to find Bud standing behind me.
“Hi, Bud. You home for Thanksgiving?”
“Yep. I have another couple weeks till Christmas break. Listen, you want to form a partnership?”
“What’s up?”
“I have a bid of ten dollars,” said Bob, over his microphone. I saw Skeeter give Arlen a high-five.
“Tell you later. Bid on this,” whispered Bud. “I’ll tell you when to stop.” He disappeared into the crowd.
“One hundred dollars,” called another voice.
“I have one hundred dollars,” said Bob. “One hundred! Do I have two?”
“One-fifty,” I called.
“One-seventy,” called a third voice, a woman. It was Annie Cooke.
“Gol darnit!” said Skeeter.
“Two hundred dollars,” said Voice Two. I looked over at Annie. She shrugged and shot me a smile. Too rich.
I saw Bud walk unobtrusively by the case of wine and glance down at the open box then disappear into the crowd once more.
“Two hundred dollars!” called Bob. “Do I have two-fifty?” Bob had sensed an opening and decided to leap ahead with the bidding. “Thirty-six bottles of Eye-talian wine. That’s less than five bucks a bottle!”
“Two-fifty,” I called. Nancy looked over at me, a questioning look on her face.
“Three-hundred,” called Voice Two.
Bob looked over at the third bidder, but Annie shook her head. I saw Bud reappear on the skirt of the crowd. He gave me a nod.
I flashed a signal to Bob and he caught my meaning.
“Three-fifty! I have three-fifty from the Chief. Do I have four?”
“Four,” said the other bidder. The crowd had retreated just a bit, to make sure none of their gestures were misinterpreted as a bid. I could see the bidder, but didn’t recognize him. Someone from out of town. He was taller than most of the folks, maybe a shade over six feet, early thirties, with brown hair and a beard. He was wearing a western style sheepskin coat, jeans and cowboy boots. Expensive.
I looked for Bud, but he’d moved.
“Do I have four-fifty?” asked Bob, looking over at me.
I gave him the high sign and spotted Bud. He’d moved behind the other bidder so it would look as though I was eyeing the competition rather than getting signals from my own personal sommelier.
“One thousand dollars!” said the bidder. The crowd erupted with excitement and it took Bob a moment to calm everyone down.
“One thousand dollars!” said Bob. “Whoo-ee! That’s more money than I spend on wine in a year!”
Bud gave me another nod.
“And five hundred,” I called.
“What are you doing?” hissed Nancy, sounding alarmed. I ignored her.
“Two thousand,” called the other bidder. Bud nodded again.
“And five,” I called.
“Twenty-five hund
red dollars!” said Bob, not believing what he was hearing, but ever the professional. “Two thousand five hundred dollars! Do I have three?”
The other bidder had taken out his cell phone and was trying to dial a number. It was a forlorn hope. The cell service in this part of the county was almost nonexistent. After a moment, he flipped it shut and put it back in his pocket.
“Four thousand dollars,” he called. Now the assembly went quiet. Bob was quiet as well.
Bud, still behind the other bidder but well into the crowd, held up five fingers, closed his hand and put up another five. Had I seen right?
“Ten thousand dollars,” I said.
Chapter 3
It was a good ten miles from the police station in downtown St. Germaine up to my cabin, and, winding mountain roads being what they were, it took about half an hour to get there. I always enjoyed the drive.
My cabin began its life as an actual two-story log cabin and this structure still formed the nucleus of the house, but it had now been relegated to library status rather than sheltering the eleven people who had occupied the twenty by twenty foot home in the 1840s when it was built. The rest of my “cabin,” as it was known in town, was a study in mountain chic and a testament to what you can do with enough money. Set on two hundred mountain acres, it was home to Meg and me as well as Baxter, our oversized, overly-friendly canine companion, and a semi-tame barn owl named Archimedes, who came and went as he liked.
The leaves had long since changed from their summer green to autumn reds and golds, and then dropped, leaving the branches of the hardwoods stark and bare against the graying sky. Evening came on quickly in late November and, here in the Appalachians, by five o’clock dusk was upon us. As I crossed onto the property the lights of my old truck picked up two foxes dancing across the drive. I drove up the steep hill, crested the mountain and headed down into the valley, following a winding road that at every curve afforded distant views, in winter at least, of the house, glowing like a beacon in the smoky eventide. Judging from the amber glow and figuring the number of lights that might be needed to achieve such illumination, I knew Meg would be home. I might even get lucky in the supper department.
The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 2