The Alto Wore Tweed (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  “She started screaming ‘He’s back, He’s back.’ Then she climbed right out of the sunroof and jumped out of the car.”

  “Excuse me?” Nancy stopped writing, raised an eyebrow and looked Carlton in the face.

  “She thought it was the Rapture,” Carlton continued, shaking his head. “You know, like in those Left Behind books. She thought Jesus was going to lift her up into the sky. Look, I was trying to slow down, but she wouldn’t wait till I stopped.”

  “Why would she think it was the Rapture?” I asked.

  “We passed a half-dozen naked people floating into the air and then she saw Jesus.”

  “She saw Jesus?” Nancy asked, pen poised over the paper but seemingly unable to take any notes.

  “Well,” said Carlton, gesturing toward the pickup truck, “anyway, she saw Arlen.”

  Arlen Pearl was dressed in a white sheet leaning against his old pickup. He was in his mid-thirties I’d guess, but I didn’t know for sure. He had shoulder length blonde hair and a beard but, in my opinion, he didn’t bear much resemblance to Jesus. Maybe he looked holier from the passenger seat of a car traveling down Old Chambers at forty miles an hour. I gestured him over to the Honda. He came down the road toward us, a hangdog look on his face.

  “I shore am sorry, Carlton. I never meant for nothin’ like this to happen.”

  Carlton shook his head in the affirmative but didn’t say anything.

  “Arlen, what on earth happened?” I asked. “Why are you wearing a sheet? Is there a Klan meeting somewhere I should know about?”

  “There ain’t no Klan meetin’,” he said, shaking his head. “I was goin’ to Jimmy Horton’s bachelor party. We was s’posed to dress in togas.” He stopped.

  “And?” I said, trying not to sound impatient. Arlen was straight out of the hollers of North Carolina and would get around to his story in his own time. He had never been in trouble as far as I knew and the only legal advice I ever gave to Arlen was that “if you get married in Western North Carolina and later divorced in West Virginia, remember—she is still legally your sister.” He didn’t see the humor in it.

  Arlen shrugged, and sighed audibly. “OK. I bought eight sex dolls from a catalog and filled them up with helium. They were decorations for Jimmy’s party. I was taking them to town in my truck when the tarp came loose. All eight of them took off into the air.”

  I glanced at Nancy. She looked as though she couldn’t even blink much less take notes.

  “Then what?” I asked. I was getting a little tired of trying to pull the story out of Arlen.

  “I stopped the truck by the side of the road and I was shouting at the dolls ‘Come back here.’ I guess my arms were up in the air like this,” he said, lifting his hands toward the heavens. “I just wanted them to come back. Sheesh. They cost almost thirty dollars apiece. I was going to sell them to the guys after the party. Then Carlton comes racin’ by and Darlene jumps out of the sunroof.”

  Arlen stopped talking and paused for a moment. “That’s it. I never ’spected nothin’ like this to happen.”

  Carlton looked up. “She just loved Jesus so much. And I was going too fast to stop.”

  “I know she loved him, Carlton.” I said.

  Carlton looked off into the distance. “The last thing I said to her was I thought she smelled like wisteria.” He looked at me with a sad smile. “I read it in a book.”

  “They all smell like that,” said Arlen. “It’s this perfume they put on.”

  Nancy and I walked back to her car.

  “Is that the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of?” she asked.

  “Nah. There was a guy in Los Angeles a couple of years ago who drowned in his bathtub while he was trying to learn to walk on water.”

  “Huh?”

  “Seems like he slipped on a bar of soap and knocked himself out when he cracked his head. His wife found him about an hour later.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “But it’s a good story.”

  • • •

  Over a week had passed since Willie Boyd was found and we were still waiting for the lab report to come back from Chapel Hill. I had an appointment with Herself and the vestry at four o’clock to get some official information about the sexual harassment complaint that Loraine had lodged against Willie.

  I drove up to St. Barnabas with the Mozart Coronation Mass blaring on the stereo and the windows rolled down. We were having a snap of Indian Summer and I was enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. I pulled into the parking lot just as Malcolm Walker and his wife, Rhiza, were getting out of his jade-colored Beemer. Malcolm, the Senior Warden, was in charge of the vestry, the church’s financial dealings, and had his finger on the pulse of St. Barnabas. Rhiza was also on the vestry and a member of the Altar Guild, but she didn’t say much during the meetings. She always voted with Malcolm, much to the chagrin of some of the other members, but I knew that there was more substantive gray matter behind Rhiza’s beautiful blue eyes than she wanted anyone to believe. Malcolm was a retired bankeand had handled my accounts before Meg moved to town. He was a conservative, silk-turtleneck-and-cashmere-blazer kind of guy. I liked him.

  Rhiza was Malcolm’s second wife. Her maiden name was Golden and she was his secretary for about four months before his divorce was finalized. Some parishioners more unkind than I might call her a trophy wife. She was blonde, seemed just a tad ditsy and was definitely what I would consider “eye-candy” although I would never voice such an opinion. His first wife, whom I also knew well, ended up with quite a settlement, a tennis pro named Rock Singleton and a condo in Myrtle Beach. Malcolm wasn’t hurting either. About five years ago, he took some time to show me several banks in the Cayman Islands where I could keep a little mad money if I needed to. I’m pretty sure he had first hand experience with those bankers.

  Malcolm steered me in the right direction when I had my Great Idea. Everyone has a Great Idea somewhere in the back of his brain. Mine just happened to pan out. My Great Idea was a device that hooked to your phone, much like a caller ID. What it did was to automatically track your long-distance, display your carrier, the cost of your call in cents per minute, the total cost of the current call, and a running total of your long distance phone bill on a per-month basis.

  We worked out the mechanics, went through the legal process to require the long-distance carriers to release the billing information on demand, applied for a patent, built a prototype and were ready to go into production when I received a certified letter from one of the Baby Bells. They were willing to pay me close to two million dollars for the patent. Looking back, I might have made more by selling the device, but it never pays to be greedy. Malcolm said to take the cash—the phone companies would’ve tied it up in court so long that I never would’ve gotten it marketed. I suspect Malcolm made quite a chunk of change himself for giving me that advice. I had no problem with that and Malcolm and I are still good friends. Strangely enough, I have yet to see the device on the market but my stocks and investments did real well for a couple of years.

  “Hi, Malcolm,” I said, as the last strains of the Credo melted away. I turned off the truck and opened the door, stepping out into a glorious late October afternoon.

  “Hayden,” Malcolm greeted me.

  “Hi, Rhiza,” I said, being polite, but loving to hear her Marilyn Monroe-type voice, a voice which defied all laws of physics by being both squeaky and husky at the same time—a voice which she had cultivated so long and so well that it would be a shame not to let her use it—especially on me.

  “Hello, Hayden,” she said, smiling, and dropping a quick wink on me from her upstage eye so Malcolm couldn’t catch it.

  I almost laughed, but managed to change it at the last second to a cross between a cough and a throat-clearing. Rhiza was quite a flirt, but Malcolm was in no danger from me. His net worth exceeded mine ten times over. Not that Rhiza was only interested in money.

  Other members of the
vestry were arriving. Billy Hixon, the Junior Warden, drove up in his white lawn maintenance truck. He owned and operated a pretty successful lawn service and the rest of the vestry figured that if they elected Billy Junior Wden, he’d mow the lawn and keep the grounds up at no charge. They were wrong. Oh, he did the job, all right—at his normal rate plus ten percent, which he gave back to the church as his tithe.

  Carol Sterling, the granddaughter of the famous mayor, had been on the vestry off and on since I’d been at the church. Annette Passaglio, Katherine Barr, George Romanski, Logan Askew, my own Meg Farthing and about six others. It was a homogenous club. All white, all mid-to upper class. How many Episcopalians does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to mix the martinis and the other to call the electrician.

  We met in the parish hall. I started the meeting, since I hadn’t given the agenda to anyone except Malcolm.

  “As we all know,” I began, “Willie was murdered in our church a week ago Friday night. It’s my job, as the detective on the case, to ascertain the circumstances surrounding the crime and to try to discover who would have wanted to kill him.”

  I paused for effect. “The purpose of this meeting is for me to find out the substance of the sexual harassment charges that were filed against Willie.”

  All eyes turned at once to Mother Ryan as if expecting her to answer and the blood went from her neck straight to her gilded roots in about two seconds flat.

  “This has nothing to do with why he was killed,” she sputtered, her hands gripping the edge of the table.

  “Why don’t you let me decide,” I said. “And anyway, I don’t see how you could possibly know that.” I let the last sentence slide out of my mouth in my most implicatory manner.

  Malcolm rattled his papers conspicuously and spoke up immediately, looking down at his notes through the half-glasses sitting on the end of his nose.

  “On October fourth, Loraine Ryan came before this vestry and filed a formal complaint against William Boyd for sexual harassment. She said he had made advances toward her, left crude and lascivious notes on her desk, asked her out repeatedly and attempted to kiss her on two occasions. She declined to produce these notes, stating that they had been destroyed. It was the consensus of the vestry that I meet with Willie and hear his version of the events.

  “On October sixth, I had a meeting with Willie in which I asked him if these charges were true. He replied in the affirmative. I then informed him that if he continued this behavior, he would be terminated from this position. I made myself very clear and Willie indicated that there would be no more such trespasses.

  “On October seventh, I sent a letter to each vestry member informing them of the action I had taken. I then received a phone call from Loraine demanding that I terminate...um...relieve Willie immediately of all further responsibility at St. Barnabas. I declined to do so.

  “On October tenth, Willie was found dead in the choir loft. That’s all I have. Anyone else?”

  There wasn’t a sound. Then Rhiza piped up.

  “I think Willie was a fine man. It’s just a shame what happened to him.” She burst into tears and Malcolm put his arm around her.

  I looked at Herself. “Loraine, do you have anything to say?” I asked.

  “I do not,” she hissed.

  “Does anyone else have anything to add?”

  No one did. But the collective finger was clearly pointing at the rector du jour.

  • • •

  Meg and I stopped by The Slab for dinner on the way home. I was always on the lookout for the perfect Reuben sandwich and I had finally talked William Peter Moss, the owner, into making one to my specifications.

  Pete was twice divorced and not just coincidentally my old roommate from our sophomore year of college. In fact, Pete was one of the reasons I was in St. Germaine, a town I hadn’t heard of until I met two people from this little berg while in college. Both of them were instrumental in getting me to take the job with the police force fifteen years ago. Pete was a good jazz saxophone player and had done a brief stint in the Army Band before taking his honorable discharge, returning to his home in St. Germaine and deciding, against all reason, to take over the family business.

  Unfortunately for Pete, his given name, “William,” had been abandoned in high school when his middle name was discovered by an unknown prankster and broadcast across the campus via the student grapevine. Having a moniker like “Pete Moss” didn’t help his dating status, but eventually, like all humorous names—and I’m thinking here of a woman I happen to know in Asheville, Barb Dwyer—the people of St. Germaine became familiar with it and the joking became minimal. The new name stuck, and Pete Moss made his way to UNC where I, with just a few snickers, made his acquaintance.

  Pete hadn’t changed much since college. He had grown his ponytail back after his fling with Uncle Sam, although it was now graying and thinning on top, and he sported an occasional earring. He was partial to flowered Hawaiian shirts, jeans, sandals, and as far as I know, had not worn any underwear since we were roommates in 1975. This, at least, was his modus operandi in college, and I suspect that he remained true to his vision of a “truly free society” even throughout his army career. He used to favor recreational pharmaceuticals, but I’m sure that his indulgence is a thing of the past. I point that out to him often—as a friend and as a police officer.

  “Pete. I need a Reuben,” I called out as soon as I hit the door.

  “Got it covered.”

  “Rye bread?” I said.

  “Check,” he replied.

  I had gone over the litany of ingredients more times than I could remember.

  “Three inches of corned beef. And not that store-bought prepackaged corned beef that looks and tastes like reconstituted wallpaper either. Real corned beef, sliced to order.”

  “Check.”

  “Sauerkraut. Kosher.”

  “Check.”

  “Swiss cheese. Imported.”

  “Check.”

  “Thousand Island Dressing. Not Russian.”

  “Check.”

  Despite Pete’s best efforts at obtaining the correct ingredients, I finally resorted to making a monthly trip to an Asheville deli, buying the perfect corned brisket, a round of Baby Swiss cheese, and three gallons of homemade sauerkraut and keeping them in his walk-in. Then I could order a Reuben whenever I felt the urge. This was one of those times. It was my comfort food. Meg ordered a vegi-kabob on rice and I got a cheap bottle of Chianti to finish off the sumptuous repast.

  “What do you think?” she began, embracing the obvious topic of conversation.

  “Well, I’ve been in this business a long time,” I started philosophically.

  “Knock it off. What do you think?”

  “If she didn’t do it, she’s guilty of something. I don’t know what exactly, but as soon as I find out, you’ll be the first to know. That is, right after the bishop. May I have one of your onions?”

  “She did it,” Meg said. “I knew I didn’t like her.”

  As we finished our meal, the door of The Slab swung open and the cowbell that hung on the inside of the door heralded the arrival of Malcolm and Rhiza.

  “We just thought we’d stop in for a cup of coffee,” squeaked Rhiza in her husky voice. “May we join you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Pull up a chair.”

  Malcolm pulled a chair out for Rhiza and they sat down. Malcolm called to the waitress, “Two coffees, please.”

  Although Meg had never said anything, I had the feeling that she didn’t really care for Rhiza in the way that most women don’t care for wealthy men’s beautiful and slender second wives. But I could be wrong. She did say to Malcolm, “So, what do you think?”

  “I think Loraine is telling the truth,” Malcolm said, as his coffee arrived at the table.

  “Really,” I said, more as a statement than a question. I had thought that Malcolm didn’t really care for Mother Ryan. His defense of her was a bit of a surprise.


  “I don’t think she could have had anything to do with it,” said Rhiza.

  “So you say,” I said, drinking the last of the Chianti. “I’m not inclined to be as charitable.”

  We chatted with the Walkers for about ten minutes, then excused ourselves. I drove Meg back to the church to pick up her car.

  “Well, that was odd,” I said as soon as the car pulled away from the curb.

  “It’s almost as though they came to find us to tell us Herself was innocent. How strange is that?”

  “I don’t know what to make of it. That’s for sure,” I said, shaking my head and pulling into the church parking lot. “Can you come on over?”

  “I think so. Let me see what Mother’s doing and then I’ll be out. If I can’t make it, I’ll call you.

  “Thanks,” I said, giving her a kiss.

  I sat watching her until she was in her car and pulling out of the lot. Then I pointed my truck for home.

  Chapter 6

  Standing there, sauerkraut and Swiss cheese dripping down my chin and a shotgun pointed at my midsection by a demented alto, my mind raced to find a reason for my immediate predicament. Perhaps it had started with Isabel. Yes, that was it. It all became very clear.

  I had met her last year when she came by my office. I heard a knock at the door, looked up and quickly tried to pick my eyeballs back up off the desk. Her lips quivered as she stood in the doorway, her red hair drifting gently to her shoulders. “I want to join the choir,” she said in a voice so low it belonged in a Popeye cartoon, a cartoon starring Brutus, to whom she bore no resemblance other than her voice. “I’m a soprano.”

  I wasn’t taken in so easily. I’d been around the block a few times. I’ve heard sopranos before and this wasn’t one. I reached slowly into my top drawer for my bachelor’s degree. Others? Yes I had others, but I wasn’t ready to pull out the heavy artillery yet and there was no use showing all my virtues this early in the game.

  “I know what you have in that drawer,” she said nonchalantly as she postured her way into a soprano-esque pose. Her legs were long. So long they seemed to go clear up to her ears. I wondered where she bought her dresses. Legs-R-Us?