The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Schweizer, Mark

  “Please.”

  “Oh, just one more thing,” said the jeweler, taking another box from under the counter. “I liked the necklace so much, that I took the liberty of having a pair of earrings made to match.” He held up his hands apologetically. “Now, I know you didn’t order them, and if you don’t want them, I’m sure someone else in town will be happy to take them off my hands...”

  He opened the second box. The matching earrings—diamonds dangling in the same gold filigree that held the cameo—winked up at me from the black velvet cushion.

  “You sly dog,” I said with a grin. “You’re making me look better and better.”

  Mr. Schrecker smiled right back. “Now, about Meg’s birthday...”

  •••

  “It’s not a match,” said Nancy. “The bullet I fired from your Glock doesn’t match the other two.”

  “So someone switched the barrels,” I said.

  “Sure did,” said Nancy. “And whoever it was switched them before the first murder. Before Sal LaGrassa was shot.”

  “But probably after the shooter had decided that Sal LaGrassa had to go.”

  “So she could pin it on you?” said Nancy.

  “At the very least, to throw a monkey wrench into the investigation. Especially if the FBI got involved. Luckily, they didn’t.”

  “Yep,” said Nancy.

  “By the way, Merry Christmas! Here’s your present.” I handed Nancy an envelope.

  A smile split Nancy’s face. “Thanks, boss. What is it, a couple of lottery tickets?” She tore open the end of the envelope, pulled out a sheet of paper and took a moment to read it. Then she gasped, threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss right on the lips.

  “Lieutenant Parsky!” I said, not able to hide my smile.

  “When is this for?” Nancy asked, excitedly rereading the sheet of paper.

  “You leave the fifteenth of January. Two plane tickets and paid vacations to Belize. The resort is all-inclusive, so you can have a blast for ten days. I expect you back tanned and well-rested.”

  “I’ll need a new bathing suit,” said Nancy. “And who on earth do I take with me?”

  “Take whoever you want,” I said. “You have a couple weeks to decide. Meg said I should make it a vacation for two. She said you’d have more fun if you took someone with you.”

  “Well,” said Nancy, now at a loss for words. “Umm. Thanks.”

  “Back to the case at hand,” I said. “Who knew that the gun was under the organ bench?”

  Nancy snorted. “Who didn’t?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I guess. So, let’s go back to the auction, this time tossing out the possibility of coincidences.”

  “Okay,” said Nancy.

  “Let’s say that we were right, and that the wine was Sal LaGrassa’s to start with.”

  “By hook or by crook,” said Nancy. “He probably stole it.”

  “Probably. LaGrassa got an email from his contact, or partner, or whoever, saying that his wine was going to be auctioned and that he’d better get back here to bid on it if he wanted it.”

  “Right. The email that Donald Mushrat pasted into the Malachi reading.”

  “His partner couldn’t do it, or didn’t want to, because that’s not her persona in the town and she’s keeping a low profile. Someone buying three expensive cases of wine would attract some local interest to say the least.”

  “Especially if she spent a few thousand dollars,” agreed Nancy.

  “She might have gotten it for a couple of hundred dollars and gone unnoticed, but you never know what’s going to happen at an auction.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “So Sal LaGrassa loses the bid and he’s pretty hot. A quarter million bucks—gone. He’s mad as hell at his partner. The question is, what would have been LaGrassa’s next move, having lost that bid, keeping in mind that he’s a thief and a killer for hire?”

  Nancy took a deep breath. “He would have found out exactly who you are and where you live. He’d have gone out to your house, shot you, shot Meg, taken the wine back, as well as whatever else he could find that was easy to carry, and burned down your cabin.”

  “Pretty harsh, but that’s what I was thinking, too,” I said.

  “It would have been like shooting fish in a barrel,” said Nancy.

  “Hey! I am not without certain skills, you know.”

  “Think about it,” said Nancy. “Sal shows up at your cabin. You know he was the guy who was bidding against you at the auction. He obviously wanted the wine. You figure he came over to make you an offer, probably for quite a bit more than you paid for it.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “You invite him in to hear what he has to say and blam!”

  “Blam?”

  “Blam,” said Nancy, pointing a finger gun at me and dropping her thumb.

  “Exactly,” I said. “So why didn’t he do just that?”

  Nancy thought for a second. “No reason except one. His partner shot him.”

  “In the forehead,” I said. “And he never saw it coming. Caught him completely by surprise. Next question. Why did she shoot him?”

  “He threatened her?” said Nancy.

  “No doubt. But I expect he’d threatened her before. If his plan of action was to get his wine back, she shouldn’t have been afraid for her life.”

  “Ah,” said Nancy. “But she was afraid for yours.”

  “Maybe. But I’m the heat. The fuzz. The man.”

  “The fuzz?” said Nancy with a smile. “You’re the fuzz?”

  “You bet. Extremely fuzzy. But there’s another answer.”

  “Meg,” said Nancy.

  “Meg,” I said. “She’s friends with Meg.” I paused and thought for a moment. “That’s probably not the whole story. And let’s not tell Meg about any of this just yet.”

  “Agreed,” said Nancy. “And if it’s any consolation, rest assured that I would have avenged both of your horrific deaths.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  •••

  The Mouldy Cheese Madrigal has an interesting history. I’d vowed, early in my St. Barnabas career, never to perform any anthem in church that attempted to rhyme any word with “Jesus.” This avowal came after we’d been forced to sing (at the behest of a Philistine bishop) an installation anthem by an unnamed composer that began, “Here’s to Jesus, the one who frees us.” The composer went on to attempt many other such rhymes in the course of the verses, including: “release us,” “sees us,” “tease us” and, of course, my personal favorite, “squeeze us.” It was then that I’d sworn my oath. The choir dubbed the dictum the “Jesus-Squeezus” rule and it had been in play ever since.

  Except on Christmas Eve.

  Many years after that bishop had gone on to greener pastures, I amused myself one Christmas by penning a holiday madrigal. Eric Routley, an authority with keen insight, wit, grace and style, always held that a good English carol contained a reference to a mouldy cheese. Taking his advice to heart, my madrigal contains the following lines spoken by the shepherds:

  What offering can we bring

  to give this little king?

  A coat of fur to warm him,

  And a little lamb to charm him.

  Some milk and mouldy cheeses,

  We give to the Holy Jesus.

  Fa la la la la la.

  Rhyming “Holy Jesus” with “mouldy cheeses” was a stroke of genius. Generally, the “fa la la’s,” were followed by “ha ha ha’s”—at least in our choir. But even so, the Mouldy Cheese Madrigal had become a Christmas Eve standard.

  We finished it up with hardly a snicker; evidence, in my mind at least, that anything too stupid to be said can easily be sung. We sang some carols and listened to Edna Terra-Pocks rattle around some French Noëls that made my ears bleed. Then Muffy got up to sing her big solo. Varmit was on the back row, beaming.

  “She’s got it memorized,” he said proudly to Bob Solomon, w
ho was sitting beside him in the bass section.

  “We all do,” said Bob.

  The church was only half full at 10:45. On Christmas Eve, people wandered in from their parties, dinners, and celebrations anywhere from half past ten until the service started at eleven o’clock. It was an informal time; some people chatted, some sat and listened to the music, some spent their time in silence, reflecting on the miracle of the birth of Jesus Christ. It was relaxed; it was special; it was the way we celebrated the Nativity.

  This being our custom, there was naturally some talking downstairs in the church when Muffy stood to sing. Varmit frowned.

  “Why don’t they shut up?” he said to no one in particular.

  “This is the pre-game show,” said Fred. “We’re just here to provide some background music. Folks will listen if they want.”

  “That ain’t right!” insisted Varmit, but Edna Terra-Pocks had started her introduction.

  “Hang on,” Varmit whispered across the choir at Muffy. “Don’t start yet. They ain’t listening!”

  Muffy glanced back at him, a confused look taking the place of her confident performer’s countenance. She was standing at the front of the balcony, her hands clasped in front of her. She had no music, having memorized all three verses at the behest of Edna. She turned back to the congregation, unsure of the best course of action.

  Edna finished the four measure introduction and indicated to Muffy that she should start singing.

  “Don’t do it,” hissed Varmit.

  Muffy made up her mind in an instant, but her concentration was lacking.

  “O holy cooowww,” she sang.

  “Hahahahaha!” roared Marjorie, unable to contain herself.

  “Dammit!” said Muffy loudly, stamping her pretty foot and crossing her arms in front of her in a fit of pique. “We gotta start over!”

  Edna, unsure of what to do, kept playing, although she’d begun to hiccup in an effort to keep her own amusement in check.

  Muffy was furious. “We gotta start over!” she called to Edna again, this time louder, since she supposed that Edna hadn’t heard her the first time. Edna, finally unable to continue, stopped playing, managed to turn off the stops, and put her head down on the keyboard, her shoulders racked with laughter interspersed by hiccups.

  “Okay,” whispered Varmit. “Everyone’s listening now.”

  “Varmit,” Muffy growled through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna kick your kiester from here back to Virginia!”

  “Hahahaha!” howled Marjorie. “This is even better than waiting for that high A!”

  Most of the rest of the choir had fallen out of their chairs and were rolling on the floor of the loft holding their sides. Although they were doing their best to stifle their mirth, their snorts and gasps of merriment were, pretty much, being echoed in the congregation below.

  It took me about thirty seconds to wade through the bodies to the front of the loft and restore order.

  “Okay,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. “That was a very special Christmas gift, and one we won’t soon forget.” I looked over at Muffy, who was still furious. “You want another shot at it?” I asked.

  The anger on Muffy’s face dissipated in an instant and she brightened immediately. “Sure! Sure I do!”

  I pointed at Edna, who’d managed to compose herself, and she began the introduction again.

  “O Holy Naaht,” sang Muffy, with more than a hint of Loretta Lynn. “The stars are brightly shahning...”

  Chapter 33

  Christmas was over and things were getting back to normal in St. Germaine, at least as normal as we ever managed. There was still snow on the ground and the holiday lights were still up, but the crowds that flocked to our little village for shopping and that down-home atmosphere had dissipated considerably.

  “Okay,” I said, reaching across the table and stabbing a bite of Nancy’s egg-and-cheese breakfast casserole. “Another question arises. Why was the wine at the Frost farm in the first place? Hiram Frost lived by himself.”

  “Good point,” said Dave, also eyeing Nancy’s breakfast. “Can I try a bite of that, too?”

  “No,” said Nancy, moving her plate closer and guarding it with her forearm. “Order your own.” She turned her attention to the question at hand. “I’ve been thinking about that and I have no idea.”

  “Me, neither,” said Dave.

  “You know,” she added, “quite frankly, ever since we decided that she saved Meg’s and your life...” She shrugged. “I’m just not that interested in hunting her down.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But she shot the Mushrat. We’ve gotta get her.”

  “It’s our sworn duty,” said Dave.

  “Did you ever tell Meg?” Nancy asked. “That we think it’s one of her friends, I mean?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “More coffee?” said Pauli Girl, suddenly appearing beside Dave.

  “Yes, please,” said Dave. Nancy and I just pushed our cups across the red and white checkered, vinyl tablecloth.

  “We have to solve this thing before you leave on vacation,” I told Nancy. “Otherwise, you can’t go.”

  Nancy smiled. “Whatever,” she replied, but I didn’t think she was taking the threat seriously.

  Chapter 34

  The Lettuce Patch was an icebox -- it had to be to keep its clientele from desiccating and permanently becoming part of the moss-covered carpet. The tables were covered with dead leaves, fungus and decaying vegetables. Trails of slime crisscrossed the walls and floor like angry argyle wallpaper. I caught the unholy stench of osmosis. Yep. I knew it. This was a slug-bar. And they were everywhere.

  Annie Key gave me a hard shove from behind and I slid into the room, my feet slipping and sliding like the lead penguin at the Ice Capades.

  I saw Pedro LaFleur lying in a mushroom patch behind a table in the corner, all trussed up with a couple of extra long bamboo shoots. I pulled my heater and let the Maître D’Limpet have it right in the pneumostome. Once, twice. He didn’t flinch, just blurgled a horrible, muculent laugh.

  “Won’t work, pard,” Pedro said sadly. “The bullets get sucked right in. I unloaded a whole clip at the cigarette girl and she slurped ‘em like they was oysters. And don’t bother aiming for their brains. They’re too small to hit.”

  I nodded and put the gat back in my sock. “What do you dirty snails want?” I said.

  All the slugs ground their tooth-like denticles angrily and wheezed in umbrage. If I knew one thing about slugs, I knew that they hated to be called snails.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” said Annie Key. She spun on her foot, pulled off her wig, and spit the false teeth out of her mouth. It was her. It was Sophie. Sophie Slugh.

  •••

  Gaylen Weatherall was presiding over the worship meeting, a meeting I agreed to attend, even though I’d done enough meetings at St. Barnabas in the last month to carry my meeting obligation deep into Lent.

  “I’d like to thank you all,” Gaylen said, “for your work in my absence. I know it’s been a very trying time.”

  Gaylen’s jaw was still wired shut and would be for another couple of weeks, but her arm was out of its sling, evidence that she wasn’t having too much trouble with her shoulder. Her ribs (according to Meg) were healing nicely and her two black eyes were unnoticeable under a light concealer. Her nose still had a bump in the bridge, but that might be there forever, or at least until she decided that the plastic surgeon should get a crack at it. Her right hand was in a cast, but the fiberglass ended at her wrist, unlike my own cast that traveled up way past my elbow.

  “Now, we have a couple of big events coming up,” she said. “Kimberly?”

  Kimberly Walnut picked up a sheaf of photocopied papers and started passing them around the table.

  “This is some information on our ‘Cocoon’ lock-in for the kids,” she explained. “This is a curriculum that I’ve written. I’m hoping to get it published later this year. As you
can see,” she pointed to a chart on the second page, “the children come at five o’clock on Tuesday afternoon. We’ll have an activity, then dinner, then a prayer time, then a children’s vespers service...”

  “How long does this Cocoon thing last?” asked Joyce Cooper, flipping through the pages.

  “It lasts from five o’clock on Tuesday until lunchtime on Wednesday,” said Kimberly Walnut. “The last thing we have before lunch is our big communion service.”

  “So they come in like worms,” I said. “They’re transformed and leave like butterflies.”

  “Caterpillars,” said Kimberly Walnut. “They come in like caterpillars. Not worms.” She tapped on her documents and said, very slowly to make sure we understood, “It’s in the curriculum.”

  “I am a worm and no man,” said Elaine. “I remember that from Bible drills.”

  “Caterpillar,” snapped Kimberly Walnut.

  “Maybe the kids could learn all the ‘worm’ scriptures, “ I said. “You know, God prepared a worm in the Book of Jonah. It smote a gourd, as I recall. Maybe the kids could decorate gourds. Also, the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.”

  “Caterpillars!”

  “Now, children,” said Gaylen.

  “Don’t the kids have school?” asked Joyce.

  Kimberly shook her head. “Wednesday is a teacher in-service day. It’s the perfect time. This gives the children something to look forward to right after Christmas, and the parents who work won’t have to be scrambling around trying to arrange day care.”

  “Well, they’ll still have to if we toss the kids out at lunchtime,” Joyce said.

  “Oh, no,” said Kimberly. “The program ends at lunch, but we’ll be happy to keep them until 3:30 if they need to stay.”

  “Very nice plan,” said Gaylen, giving Kimberly Walnut a smile. “And, of course, I’ll be here to help out. But I’m not staying the night.”

  Kimberly Walnut promptly forgot about worms and beamed.

  “Where are the kids going to sleep?” asked Bev.

  “We’re going to use the fellowship hall. Everyone will bring sleeping bags. I’ll be on a cot, but the children will just sleep on the floor.”