The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Schweizer, Mark

  “Can they close any of these cases?” I asked.

  Nancy shook her head. “Nope. Ryan Jackson says they’ve got nothing substantial. No clear evidence at all. If they’d caught him, all they could do was question him and let him go.”

  “But they’re pretty sure?” said Pete.

  “Oh, they’re sure, all right. He was a seriously bad guy. They just couldn’t take him to trial.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “Says here he spent the last few years in Montana on a ranch that belongs to a dummy corporation on Grand Cayman. He was in Montana when the feebs lost track of him.”

  “That explains the clothes,” I said. “Real cowboy stuff.”

  “He liked cars,” said Nancy, now skimming the pages. “Owned a Maserati GranCabrio and an Audi R8 4.2. Also a Hummer. A big one.”

  Pete whistled. “Those ain’t cheap.”

  Nancy continued skimming. “Several off-shore accounts that the FBI knew about. Probably more that they didn’t. He bought a couple of original sketches by Gustav Klimt last year from Christie’s. 10k apiece. But, at that same auction a painting disappeared. Something called The Holy Family with the infant St. John the Baptist and two shepherds. Oil and tempera on a panel. Circa 1500. Valued at between five and eight hundred thousand. The winning bid was three hundred two thousand, but when the buyer went to pick it up, the painting was gone. Mr. LaGrassa was a person of interest, but he was nowhere to be found. He also had an affinity for antiquities.”

  “Man!” said Pete.

  “The thing is, there were many more expensive paintings at the auction.”

  “Opportunity?” I said. “Or maybe a buyer in hand.”

  “I’d say the latter,” said Nancy.

  “Okay,” I said, “cars, art, real estate, bank accounts...what else?”

  “Wine,” said Nancy, with a big smile. “He really loved wine. Expensive wine.”

  “That’s what he was doing at Old Man Frost’s!” said Pete. “He was trying to buy your wine.”

  “He obviously knew what it was,” I said. “And how much it was worth. I saw him trying to dial his cell phone in the middle of the auction, but he couldn’t get any service out there.”

  “It caught him by surprise, I bet,” said Nancy. “He didn’t expect to see something like that show up at an auction in the middle of the Appalachian mountains.”

  “And he didn’t have enough cash,” said Pete. “And couldn’t get it.”

  “Sounds right,” said Nancy. “I doubt they would have taken an out-of-town check for more than ten grand.”

  “Still doesn’t answer the most important thing,” I said.

  “What’s that?” said Pete.

  Pauli Girl appeared at the table with an arm-full of omelets, grits, baked apples, and a basket of biscuits. She set the plates down, one at a time, in front of each of us, the basket of biscuits in the middle of the table, a bowl of gravy beside it, re-filled all our coffee cups, and never spilled a drop. Then she smiled and whisked herself off to her next table.

  “What’s the most important thing?” asked Pete again, reaching for the bread.

  “How ’bout it, Nancy?” I asked, smiling. “You know the most important thing?”

  “Yep,” she said. “Easy.” She raised a forkful of steaming grits to her lips and gently blew across the top, cooling it enough to slide into her mouth. “Mmm,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. “I love grits!”

  “The important thing...” insisted Pete.

  Nancy looked at him. “Oh. Sorry. The important thing is, what was he doing in St. Germaine in the first place?”

  •••

  The choir loft was full for the first time since the dedication of our new church last May. Christmas always brought out the choir, it seemed. The bass section was populated by the regulars—Mark Wells, Bob Solomon, Fred May, Steve DeMoss, Phil Camp and Varmit LeMieux. Varmit didn’t really sing. He was just there to keep an eye on his wife, Muffy, a redhead who would have made even Liberace consider playing for the other team. Muffy had a signature look, which included dark leggings and very tight angora sweaters in a variety of shades. Muffy dreamed of being a country singer and couldn’t quite get the Loretta Lynn twang out of her rendition of O Holy Night, which she and Varmit lobbied for every Christmas Eve since they moved to town and joined the choir.

  The tenors were anchored by Marjorie Plimpton and Randy Hatteberg. We had another tenor as well, Burt Coley, but he was employed by the Boone Police Department and took weekend duty whenever he could. He usually only showed up at Christmas and Easter. Marjorie was considering dropping to the bass section as soon as she drank her way into a low A.

  Altos were plentiful at St. Barnabas. In fact, the Back Row Altos (BRAs) had formed their own militant feminist organization. In response, the Front Row Alto Union (FRAUs) had decided to band together into their own coalition, but they just didn’t have the political clout that their back row counterparts had garnered. The BRA organization was “by invitation only.” Very exclusive. Elaine Hixon had considered dropping out of the soprano section just to join, but she couldn’t get in. Her application was rejected. “She’s way too nice,” said Martha Hatteberg, one of the dissenting voters.

  Altogether we had ten altos on the roll and an equal number of sopranos. If everyone showed up, the choir loft was packed with twenty-eight singers. This rarely happened, but it happened tonight.

  “What’s this stuff about a slug?” said Marjorie, reading my latest masterpiece. “I hate slugs!”

  “Me, too,” agreed Muffy. “And what about the under-dwarves?”

  “I only have one typing hand. I do what I can. Meg suggested I start a new children’s book series starring Sophie Slug.”

  “Don’t you try to pin this on me,” said Meg. “I didn’t write it, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I kinda like it,” said Rebecca, one of the BRAs. “It has a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Edna Terra-Pocks from the organ console. “Has this got something to do with choral music?”

  “Nope,” said Georgia. “I think it’s about a slug.”

  “Right.” I said. “So here’s the plan. This Sunday we’re singing the Redford Rejoice in the Lord Alway at the offertory and Thom Pavlechko’s Panis Angelicus during communion.”

  “Not very Christmassy,” said Edna. “What about Silent Night? I have a great arrangement!”

  “We’re still in Advent, Edna,” I said.

  Edna rolled her eyes and addressed the choir. “Well, this Sunday I’ve got a wonderful toccata for the prelude anyway. Y’all will love it! It’s got so many notes, I have to wear my sports bra to play it!”

  “Great,” I sighed. “That’s great. Anyway, we’ve got a lot to look at. Don’t forget that we’re singing the eleven o’clock service on Christmas Eve.”

  “How about Muffy singing O Holy Night?” called Varmit from the back row.

  “Of course!” Edna called back good-naturedly. “What key would you like it in?”

  I glared at Meg, but she suddenly pretended to be interested in a dynamic marking she’d previously missed.

  “Key of D,” said Muffy. “At least I think it’s D. Which one has the high A?”

  “That’s D, all right,” said Edna. “I can’t wait to hear you!”

  “I have an even higher high A than last year,” bragged Muffy. “At least, that’s what my vocal coach says.”

  Chapter 14

  It wasn’t emotion that made Sophie’s lower lip tremble as she beheld the LDS Tabernacle on Temple Square, the seat of her faith and the final harbor of her pilgrimage, but as she felt her carefully-positioned Oprah wig begin to ooze off the side of her head and her eye-stalks droop like Tiger Woods’ putter, it was the realization that, when her Uncle Alosquisious warned her against this odyssey saying she was “too tender” and that her “heart would melt,” Uncle Al wasn’t being at all figurative, but literal, since her destin
ation had been Salt Lake City and she was, after all, a slug.

  From: “Sophie Slug: A Mormon’s Journey”

  •••

  “I rather like it,” said Joyce, with a twinkling laugh. “It’s got everything: drama, love, alliteration, poetry, religion, heartbreak, topical humor... and do I detect a hint of nutmeg?”

  “That’s just your Weihnachtsgeist,” I said. “Your Christmas Spirit. We all smell nutmeg this time of year.”

  “How about an illustrator for your one-sentence books?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need a good one,” said Bev as she walked into the meeting room carrying a full mug of coffee in one hand and a carafe in the other. She set them both on the table. “I could do it. All he needs is someone who can draw a puddle with a couple of eyeballs floating in it. How hard can that be?”

  “You’re forgetting about the scenery,” I said. “Salzburg Castle by night, the Alps, sea birds, ocean vistas, the Tabernacle. All very picturesque.”

  “Puddles,” said Bev, pulling out a chair and settling behind her steaming cup. “Puddles and eyeballs. Where is everyone?”

  “Gaylen’s not coming to any worship meetings till after Christmas,” I said. “I dropped by her house this morning and chatted with her. She gave me her proxy.”

  “I’ll bet she did,” said Bev.

  Elaine and Marilyn walked into the meeting room with their empty coffee cups and wasted no time filling them. Elaine had brought me a cup as well and I gratefully took the last of the coffee from the carafe. Marilyn sat at the head of the table and readied her notebook for whatever notes she might need to make. Then she smiled demurely, cupped her coffee in both hands and silently sipped the hot beverage, peering at everyone from behind her round spectacles.

  Kimberly Walnut and Donald Mushrat came in next, looking extremely guilty for two people who had nothing much to be guilty about. I’m a detective and trained to notice these things, but these two were as obvious as a tattoo on a Lutheran.

  “You two look like you’ve been holding hands in the bathroom,” said Bev.

  Kimberly Walnut’s face went beet-red and she sat down quickly, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Deacon Mushrat found the other empty chair, but, except looking vaguely uncomfortable, didn’t seem to be nearly as rattled as our Director of Christian Formation.

  “Right,” said Bev. “Let’s get started.”

  “What about my prayer?” said Deacon Mushrat. “I’d like to open with a prayer.”

  “I expect you’ve got plenty to confess,” mumbled Elaine.

  “I’ll do it,” Bev said, clasping her hands on the table. “Bless the work of our hands, Dear Lord. Amen.”

  “I didn’t even have time to bow my head,” complained the deacon.

  “Gotta be quick when Bev prays,” said Elaine.

  “Humph,” grunted Deacon Mushrat, then asked, “Do we have anything special for this Sunday?”

  “Nope,” said Joyce. “Nothing special. It’s a regular service. The Third Sunday of Advent. Gaylen will be back to celebrate the Eucharist. I’m sure we’re all looking forward to her return.”

  Deacon Mushrat yawned.

  “Don’t forget the Christmas parade tomorrow,” said Elaine. “Two o’clock. The youth group will be selling hot chocolate out on the steps. Proceeds go to the youth mission trip fund.”

  “Money changers in the temple,” said the deacon with a sneer. “I may mention it in my sermon on Sunday.”

  “Oh, give it a rest,” muttered Marilyn.

  “What time are our Christmas Eve services?” Mushrat asked. “I presume I’ll have to get my sermons ready.”

  “Five o’clock and eleven,” said Bev. “The one at five is a family service. You’ll have to tell the Christmas Story. No sermon.”

  “No sermon? On Christmas Eve?” Deacon Mushrat was incredulous.

  “You can preach at the eleven o’clock service. Twelve minutes. There will be three hundred people here for communion. We’d like to get finished before one in the morning.”

  “I have to preach what the Holy Spirit leads me to preach,” said Mushrat. “Twelve minutes or forty.”

  “Twelve,” said Bev. “Practice in front of a mirror.”

  Deacon Mushrat sniffed. “We’ll see,” he said. “By the way, I had seven people come to my Wednesday night series on Malachi. We had an awesome prayer meeting for the leadership of St. Barnabas afterwards.”

  “How nice,” said Elaine, sweetness oozing from every pore. “I would have come, but I had choir practice.”

  “Me, too,” said Joyce, even though she didn’t. She shot me a quick, apologetic look.

  “And since I’m going to be here for six months,” said the deacon, “I’d like to continue my Wednesday night Bible studies. In fact, when the new year starts, I’d like to begin leading my awesome, Biblical weight loss program.”

  “What?” said Joyce, not sure she’d heard correctly.

  “Many people want to get in shape at the beginning of the new year,” said Mushrat. “What better way to do it than through Biblically-based teaching? I call it Jehobics: God’s answer for losing weight and feeling great!”

  “What?” said Joyce again.

  “We’re going to take back the health and wealth the devil has stolen. We shouldn’t make our members go to the ‘world’ to lose weight. They don’t need Jenny Craig. They need Jesus! And we need to give them an awesome opportunity right here at St. Barnabas.”

  “So,” I said. “Jehobics. Great idea, Donald. You’re going to have to start it on the 13th, though. We’re going to have our usual Epiphany service on January 6th and it’s a Wednesday evening.”

  “Don’t forget our ‘Cocoon’ program,” said Kimberly Walnut. “Donald and I were just working on it. The kids will be here on Tuesday, the 5th.”

  “If Epiphany’s on a Wednesday, we should have a church-wide supper,” said Bev, still reeling from the Jehobics suggestion and trying to get back on track.

  “Pot-luck,” added Elaine. “I love a pot-luck supper.”

  “Absolutely. And as the highlight of the service—and I’m not kidding about this—we’re going to have the bones of one of the Three Kings on display.”

  Everyone looked at me like I had just suggested hiring a praise band for Sunday mornings.

  “The Three Kings, as in We Three Kings of Orient Are?” said Joyce.

  “The very same—but just one of them.”

  “Someone has their bones?” asked Marilyn.

  “Yep. They’ve been in Germany since the Middle Ages. They were originally kept in Constantinople, but moved to Milan in the fourth century. Then to Germany in 1164. In fact, the cathedral at Cologne was constructed to house the relics.”

  “You’re kidding, of course,” said Mushrat.

  “No, really. Here’s the deal...”

  It took me another fifteen minutes to explain and answer questions, but when we were finished everyone was very excited. Everyone except the deacon.

  “We should not condone the worship of bones,” he said. “The Lord hath said, ‘You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.’ Exodus 18.”

  “Exodus 20, actually,” I said.

  The deacon sniffed.

  “We’re not worshipping them,” said Joyce. “Sheesh!”

  “It’s a relic,” Elaine said. “Possibly a relic of one of the Three Kings. It’s...it’s archeology.”

  “It’s medieval idolatry,” said Deacon Mushrat. “Simple people were told by corrupt monks and priests that, if they prayed to the bones and gave money to the monasteries, they’d receive a miracle and be healed. Even if they weren’t sick, the monks would have them give their money to the church and pray to the bones in hopes of a better future and salvation.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Sounds like there’s a parallel here somewhere. Isn’t that w
hat televangelists do? Send in your thousand dollar seed-faith gift, I’ll send you an anointed vial of oil, and you can ask for whatever you want.”

  “It is nothing like what televangelists do,” said Mushrat, bristling. “Televangelists do the work of the Kingdom.”

  “I’m afraid I must agree with Donald...” started Kimberly Walnut, who’d been silent up to this point. “I’ve never even heard of Nantwich.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “It’s done. Gaylen already gave her okay and the contract’s been signed and faxed to England. Not only that, but I called Bishop O’Connell. He’d never heard of Nantwich either, but is happy to come to the service in full regalia. Put it on your calendars. Our Epiphany service on January 6th will follow a pot-luck dinner.” I looked around the table. “That sound about right?”

  “Yes,” said Elaine. “That sounds about right.”

  Chapter 15

  Saturday morning was cold and clear. It was a perfect day to find a Christmas tree, have lunch downtown and see the Christmas parade. Then home to decorate, drink hot mulled wine, and listen to a new recording I’d received from my classical CD subscription service featuring a Christmas oratorio by Gottfried August Homilius. I was anxious to listen to it, partly because Gottfried Homilius was a student of J.S. Bach, but mainly because I’d never heard of this particular oratorio. The Joy of the Shepherds Concerning the Birth of Jesus. The title sounded better in German.

  Baxter jumped up into the bed of the new truck and found a seat before Meg or I had reached the doors. He looked at us over the tailgate with an anticipation that made us both laugh out loud. Meg was bundled up in a sweater, a heavy winter coat, gloves, Ugg boots, a red scarf and matching knit cap—all color coordinated to make her the most stylish Christmas tree hunter in the county. I happened to be wearing a pair of khaki canvas insulated overalls and an old jacket that I could manage to fit around my cast. I had a hat as well, one that covered my ears. Not stylish at all, but warm. Very warm. If past Christmases were any indication, Meg would be the one picking out the tree and I’d be standing idly in the wind for the next hour while she carefully inspected each prospect.