Nancy had beaten me to the office and was checking the answering machine as I came in.
"Anything good?"
"Nope," she said. "A barking dog at three a.m. I actually got the call last night, but it was too cold to mess with."
"I agree. Are you going to the barn on Friday?"
"I have my long-johns ready."
"I won't be here. I'm off to Atlanta on Friday morning for a couple of days," I said. "There's a conference I'm supposed to attend. I'll be back on Saturday night."
"Hmmm," Nancy said. "You get to go to Atlanta. I get to sit in a barn in the freezing cold all night with 'Dave the Wonder Cop' waiting for cow-tippers. Yet, strangely, you make more money than me."
"Yes, but you have a bigger gun. The ways of law enforcement are weird and wonderful. Let's get over to The Slab and get some coffee. It's colder than a witch's nose in here."
"A witch's nose? Don't you mean a witch's ti…"
"Ah, ah," I said, interrupting her. "That could be construed as harassment."
"And me with a bigger gun."
•••
Meg met me for an early lunch at a new establishment that had opened downtown. The Ginger Cat was what I would describe as an upscale chowder bar catering to a wealthy and touristy clientele. In the rear of the store there was a small eatery featuring various soups and homemade breads, coupled with a shop in the front featuring local and regional arts and crafts. As I walked in, I noticed one of Ardine McCollough's quilts sporting a hefty price tag of four hundred fifty dollars.
"Morning, Hayden," said Annie. Annie Cooke lived in Boone but had opened The Ginger Cat in St. Germaine to take advantage of the slightly longer tourist season.
"Good morning, Annie. How's business?"
"Awful. I had to let one girl go last week. I told her to try back in the spring, but she'll probably find other work by then. You know my other girl, Cynthia Johnsson. She just wanted part-time work anyway, so I gave her a few weeks off. I guess it's this way for everyone this time of year."
"I'm afraid so," I said. "No crime though. That's a plus."
"For you maybe. I'll bet an interesting crime or two would help perk up business."
"Is Megan here yet?"
"Just came in." She nodded toward the tables in the back. "Mind the crowds," she added with more than a hint of sarcasm.
I made my way to the back and joined Meg at a table for two.
"We're probably going to be the only customers," she said, "so we have our choice of soup – French Onion or French Onion with bacon sprinkles."
"No kidding? Sprinkles? I'll have that."
"It's on the stove even as we chat. Care for a muffin?"
"Yes, please," I said, lifting one from the basket, taking care to keep my pinkie aloft in my most genteel manner.
"I hear you're doing a class on comparative religion for Wednesday night Institute. I can't decide whether to take your class or 'Finding Your Inner Clown' from Princess Foo-Foo."
"Wow. Word travels fast."
"So, the question I have for you is," she continued, ignoring my interruption, "why should I come to your class instead of searching diligently for my happy place?"
"Well, we're the only ones here. How 'bout if I show you where your happy place is right now?" I said, raising a rakish eyebrow.
"Stop that this minute. This is a civilized and proper luncheon."
"Well, I don't know which will be more entertaining," I said, taking a delicate nibble of my muffin. "But I called a couple of guest lecturers. This Wednesday we will be hosting Mr. Julian Mayberry from the Raelians followed by Brother Harley Ray Hammond from the Apostolic Four-Square Pentecostal Holiness Temple of God with Signs Following."
"Really? The Raelians? That sounds like much more fun than finding a clown, even an inner one. I do like a good circus though."
"I'm afraid that's what you're going to get."
•••
We met Karen Dougherty at the door of the Ginger Cat just as we were leaving. Karen was the St. Germaine doctor, semi-retired, with a full-time schedule.
"Hayden," she said with a smile. "Just the person I want to see!"
"I suggest the soup with sprinkles," I said, always happy to offer my culinary suggestions.
"Hi Meg. Soup with sprinkles? Is that on the menu?"
"Ignore him," Meg said. "He's full of himself today."
"I wanted to talk to you anyway," said Karen. "I'm heading up a school program, and we're getting local authors to read to the kids."
"Oh, God no," Megan gasped.
"So I was wondering if you had anything appropriate for, let's say, middle school English students, that you could read to them."
"Something I've written myself?" I asked, my excitement rising.
"That would be the idea."
"You don't know what you're saying," said Meg.
"Would it have to be published?"
"Ideally," said Karen. "But not necessarily."
"I don't have anything published yet, but I do have a rather good detective story I'm working on. It could be a pre-publication reading. A world premiere!"
"And could you bring that old typewriter in?" asked Karen. "And some of Chandler's books? They'd really get a kick out of it."
"Why, I'd love to," I said as Meg looked on in horror. "When am I scheduled?"
"In a few weeks. I'll let you know. Right now I'm just lining everyone up. I'm trying to get hold of Jan Karon, but I have to go through her agent. She's right up there in Blowing Rock."
"You're not really going to inflict your story on the English class are you? Could you be so cruel?" Meg asked as we left Dr. Dougherty to her soup.
"It will be a good experience for them."
"In what way?"
"Perhaps I'll inspire a few of them and they'll decide on a career in the literary arts."
"Or psychiatry."
Chapter 8
The circus was dark; not sinister dark, although I suppose it was, but theatrical dark; that is, closed for the evening, which was why it was also dark when we arrived.
Lilith motioned me into the elephant ring. I went in slow--as slow as a Piggly Wiggly checker on Double Coupon Friday. She walked behind me with her gun in one hand and her snake in the other. The snake had stopped singing, and I was fresh out of hamsters.
"You know," began Megan, looking through some pages I had stacked on the desk just beside the lamp. "Just because you happen to have Raymond Chandler's typewriter doesn't mean you have to use it. It could sit nicely on a pedestal in the foyer – sort of like a shrine. Other mystery writers could come and pay homage to it. Maybe type quick notes to their mothers."
"But think of the stories that would be lost to the world," I said, the keys clacking in rhythm to an early Leadbelly recording.
"I prefer to think of the children," said Meg, "and the unborn generations that may read this accidentally and be unduly affected by your prose. Just because you own a gun doesn't mean you have to shoot people."
"An unfair metaphor. Or is it a simile?"
"Maybe it's a dangling participle. Either way, you need to stop – before someone gets hurt.
All geniuses had their critics. I ignored the insult and kept typing.
"Take a right at the broken trapeze," she said.
"OK, Lilith," I said, "but remember that there are people who will look for me when I don't show up in the morning. Now, what's your game?" I lit up a stogie.
"Why can't you love me? I know I'm a leper, but lepers have feelings, too."
"Not in their extremities, Lilith. And anyway, I'm seeing someone." Sure I was lying. Lying like a dead possum, or one pretending to be, but I wasn't going to try to romance my way out of this one. When I counted up all the lips in the room, I came up with five including the snake; and the snake had two.
"Who is she?" she said using venomous overtones, overtones that made Rolf pucker up expectantly. "Some soprano I suppose. You were always a sucker for a nice pair of
lungs in a push-up choir robe." She waved the gun in my direction, gave Rolf a kiss on the snout and waited for my answer.
"Her name is Rocki. Rocki Pilates."
"The bishop's personal trainer?"
I was surprised. "You know her?"
"Who doesn't? She skates around plenty. She's not what you need, you know. She won't treat you right."
"No one treats me right."
•••
"Guess what?" Meg was not really in a "guess what" mood, so her "guess what?" was not so much a question as an introduction to her next comment.
"I met her today and, believe it or not, she's worse than he is."
"'Her' being?"
"Jelly Barna."
"Jelly Barna?"
Meg crossed her arms and continued in exasperation.
"The priest's wife."
"Her name is Jelly Barna?"
"Listen, will you. This is serious."
"OK," I said. "What's up?"
Meg sat down at the table. "Jelly Barna has been appointed the head of the Altar Guild by her husband. It's her 'gift.' So, as the head of the Altar Guild, she has taken it upon herself to call Christopher Lloyd in Boone."
"Mr. Christopher? The wedding coordinator?"
"It seems," she continued, "that Mr. Christopher is an expert in Feng Shui and will be advising us on the placement of furniture, the colors we should be using, and the arrangement of the flow of positive energy within the church. We will now be known as the Feng Shui Altar Guild and Jelly Barna is planning on using our church as a model throughout the diocese. They even have a web-site up already. It has her picture on it."
"And me still in the middle of Lent."
"You have to do something."
"Nope. I'm staying out of it. Till Easter anyway."
"We may be ruined by then."
"Well, do what you can to hold the heathens at bay," I said. "I'm getting another beer."
•••
"Any word when you might be able to make it over?" It was Hugh on the phone.
"How about a week from Monday?" I said. "I have a Clown Eucharist to play."
"A what?"
"A Clown Eucharist. Surely they have them in all the great cathedrals of England."
"You're not serious? We do have a fellow who goes around to churches dressed as a clown. He's quite popular. I can't remember his name."
"Oh, but I am serious. Lent is just too darn grim and we need to find our Inner Clown."
"Well, don't tell the clergy over here. The next thing you know…"
"I'll keep it our dark and terrible secret. How's the investigation coming?" I asked.
"I think they've forgotten about it. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. Now that the furor has died down, and since he, er...she was an American, we've all mostly put the unpleasantness behind us. Except for the little matter of the diamond."
"What about insurance?"
"That's the reason I'm calling. The Ecclesiastical Insurance Group was going to have to pay the Minster about 1.3 million pounds. I spoke with one of the agents and he indicated that since the video cameras were turned off and the other security measures disengaged, that there was a good chance that they would not pay."
"Ouch."
"That being the case, the Dean and Chapter have decided to offer a reward for the return of the diamond. Ten thousand pounds sterling."
"Ten thousand pounds." I mentally did the math. "That's better than fifteen thousand dollars."
"Closer to seventeen. Interested?"
"Why yes I am. What about you?"
"I'm employed by the Minster and therefore not eligible. There are another couple of privately funded fellows nosing around though."
"I'll bet. I'm guessing then that the next trip won't be on the Minster's tab."
"Nope. Sorry. All yours."
"OK, but I'm not going back to flying coach."
•••
"Welcome to this program of the Lenten Institute," I said to the fifteen or so people gathered in the upstairs Adult Sunday School room. "If you're looking for the 'Finding Your Inner Clown' class, it's in the sanctuary."
There were a few sniggers from the back of the room, coming mostly, I suspected, from choir members who were looking for somewhere to land before choir practice began. We generally had a church-wide supper every Wednesday during Advent and Lent, followed by a brief program. Choir practice was last on the agenda, with everything finishing up around 8:30 or so.
"The program this evening is on Comparative Religions, and to that end I've called two of my friends from Asheville to be presenters this evening. Our first guest is Mr. Julian Mayberry from the Raelian Center of Appalachia."
Mr. Mayberry stood as I read off the card he had handed me earlier.
"The Raelian Revolution, the world's largest UFO related, non-profit, religious organization, has over 60,000 members in 90 countries. The Raelians are working towards building the first embassy to welcome people from space while sweeping the world with a fearlessly individualistic philosophy of non-conformism."
"Mr. Mayberry," I said. "Why don't you tell us about your views and how you came to the Raelian religion."
Julian Mayberry took the floor. He was a slightly built man, balding with old-fashioned, horn-rimmed glasses. His real name was Will Purser, and he was on the theater faculty at Lees-McRae College in Banner Elk. I only hoped he'd done his homework.
Julian Mayberry, a.k.a. Will Purser, pulled a three by five index card from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat and began to read nervously.
"The Raelians were founded," he read in a quavering voice, "in 1973 by our father, Rael. He teaches us that aliens told the story of the Bible to ancient man, but because they were so primitive, they worshipped the aliens as gods also. How does Rael know this?"
He looked around the room as if expecting an answer, but everyone was sitting stock still, their mouths hanging open.
"Because the aliens told him, of course!" He let out a high pitched little squeal of joy that I took to be a laugh.
Julian Mayberry was nothing like the Will I knew. Will was a serious, confident man with a moderated, low-pitched voice, inclined to smiling for no apparent reason, and slow and deliberate in his speech. Julian, in contrast, was a nervous, twittering fellow that reminded me, more than anyone else, of Don Knotts in his heyday. Perhaps that's the character Will was drawing from – Julian's fictitious last name being Mayberry.
Julian continued, "The aliens also told him that we were created using DNA from scientists from another world and that they'll be needing an embassy when they land in Quebec. We have about half the money raised to fund the building of the embassy."
"Now you know, Mr. Mayberry," I said, true to the script, "that we are Episcopalian and find all this sort of far-fetched. Is there anything Biblically based about the Raelian Religion?"
"I'm glad you asked. I can prove quite conclusively that aliens are at work in the Biblical writings."
"Really?"
"In Matthew, I think," he said, putting the first card in his side pocket and pulling another from the inside of his jacket. "No, John. Here it is. John 10:16. 'I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen.' Here Jesus is obviously talking about aliens."
"In that particular passage," I said, "we feel that he's talking about the Gentiles."
"That's one interpretation, I suppose," he said sullenly. "What about this then?"
He pulled yet another card from his jacket.
"In the Old Testament, it says that Gepetto was swallowed by a whale."
"By a great fish, actually," I said. "And I believe it was Jonah."
"Fine! By a great fish then. The point is that if Jonah was in the belly of a great fish for three days and nights, he would suffocate."
"I concede the point," I said.
"Not only that," he said, flipping his card over and quickly scanning the second side, presumably to get his facts right. "Jo
nah says in verse six, 'I went down and saw the bottoms of the mountains...' Now how could Jonah possibly see the bottoms of the mountains if he was inside the fish? Unless…" He paused, looking smugly around the room.
"Unless," he squeaked excitedly. "Unless the FISH HAD WINDOWS! You see, it couldn’t really be a fish at all, but something that Jonah, in his limited experience with extra-terrestrial beings, took to be a fish, but was, in reality, a spaceship. Possibly Egyptian."
Most of the class had caught on by this time and were giggling loudly. The few remaining folks, still oblivious to the ruse, were trying to hush them up in a useless effort to remain polite to our guest.
Julian pulled out yet another card and continued.
"Obviously the Old Testament contains many direct references to aliens. In fact, the word 'alien' occurs no fewer than one hundred seven times in the New International Version alone."
"One reason that these strange and wondrous beings may be hesitant to come forward now is found in Exodus 12:48. 'An alien living among you who wants to celebrate the Lord's Passover must have all the males in his household circumcised.' We of the Raelian religion feel that circumcising aliens would not be in our best interest. And any alien that has been circumcised by mistake should be duly compensated. To that end, we have begun a movement to re-grow our foreskins for implantation to the aliens when they arrive."
This was greeted with howls of laughter as Brother Julian adjusted his glasses.
"What's going on up here?" said a stern voice belonging to Father Barna. He had just left the other workshop to check on my progress.
"We're finding our inner clown," said Meg, wiping tears from her eyes.
•••
The priest left with a scowl on his face. It was a good probability that Princess Foo-Foo was having a lot less fun than we were.
"Our next guest," I continued, "is Brother Harley Ray Hammond from the Apostolic Four-Square Pentecostal Holiness Temple of God with Signs Following. Brother Harley Ray?"
"Aw crap," came a voice from the back of the room.
Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon Page 6