The Alto Wore Tweed (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  “How are you, Amber?” I was trying to get a friendly conversation started. I didn’t like the way this day was turning out and Amber wasn’t taking the bait. She did, however, reach out and take half of my sandwich. For a personal trainer, Amber Dawn ate like a racehorse.

  Denver’s eyes flashed toward the door and I knew that Isabel had arrived. I could have smelled her coming-- wisteria, gin and cheap cigars, my favorite combination.

  I looked up and there she was, six-feet-five-inches of hard right angles. She wore two shades of red that she had obviously selected to match her eyes. Her dark red hair hung to her shoulders in long, damp tendrils, gently swaying in the faint breeze of the ceiling fan like the legs of a couple of Spanish spiders doing the Tango D’Amore beneath her hat.

  “Now that we’re all here,” growled Isabel, standing in the doorway, “we can get down to business.”

  “That’s it?” said Meg, incredulously. “The ‘Tango D’Amore?’ Well, at least you have them all in the same room.”

  • • •

  The next morning, before I left for town, I put a freshly deceased mouse on the window sill. I didn’t want my little friend to go hungry and, truth be told, I liked to see him perching there. If I could entice him to come around now and then, all the better. One thing I wasn’t short of, living in the woods, was mice. I cleaned out the mousetraps in the barn every morning and tossed the tiny corpses off the back deck for the wildlife. I didn’t catch too many—two or three a week in the summer, more in the winter, but I decided to save them in the freezer. Even though I had written on the top of the coffee can in big letters “DEAD MICE,” I made a mental note to tell Meg about it. Otherwise, I’d be picking up frozen rodents all over the kitchen. I also decided keep a couple of thawed ones in the vegetable crisper in a baggie. They’d make for easier digestion. I knew I’d better mention that to Meg as well.

  I had recorded a cassette tape of Moosey’s newly-composed song so he could learn it quickly. It was my experience that kids could learn anything if you put it on a tape and let them hear it a couple of times. And Moosey was smart. He might not know what was going on, but he’d be great as “The Penguin of Bethlehem.” On my way into work, I dropped off a brand new boom box with the tape already loaded on the McCollough’s front porch along with the words to the song and a note explaining what Moosey’s part was in this program. The note also informed Ardine that the CD player was Moosey’s reward for such hard and diligent work, thus insuring that Ardine would drill the song into Moosey’s head until he had it cold. A pretty good deal, I thought. A singer and a teacher, all for $29.95 at Wal-Mart.

  I was going to stop by Meg’s house for some breakfast. Her mother was cooking waffles and once I got wind of it, I went fishing for an invitation like an angler on the first day of trout season.

  “I can’t meet you for coffee,” Meg said when I called her earlier. “Mother’s making breakfast for me.”

  “Hmmm. What’s she fixing?” I asked, beginning my finagle.

  “Oh, just waffles and scrambled eggs. And maybe some country ham.”

  “Oh, well...”

  “She has some blackberries to go on the waffles. You know, to go with that fresh hand-whipped cream and hot maple syrup.”

  I tried to sound very hungry by smacking my lips. “Well, I’ll probably just try to get a stale bagel over at the gas station. It’s going to be a busy day. I’d meet you for lunch, but I don’t think I’ll even have time to eat,” I sighed.

  “Oops, I’ve got to get the biscuits out of the oven or they won’t taste very good with this homemade gravy. And stop drooling into the phone. You’re invited.”

  “I’ll be right over. One stop.”

  “Pick up some coffee ’cause we’re out. See you in a bit.”

  “Two stops then. Bye.”

  • • •

  I picked up a bag of coffee at The Slab but declined Pete’s invitation for breakfast. I nodded “hello” to Rhiza and Malcolm, who were breakfasting at the corner table, before scooting out the door.

  “Sorry, I have another date,” I said, getting out the door quickly.

  “See you later,” I yelled as the door closed behind me.

  • • •

  The breakfast was every bit as good as I anticipated. Megan’s mother, Ruby, was an excellent cook and I suspected that Meg was helping out as well. As a culinary tag-team, they couldn’t be beat.

  “Dee-licious,” I said, settling back in my chair and wishing I had had the good sense to wear sweat-pants—or at least some old-man jeans with an elastic waist band. “You two are pretty good at word games. I need some help.”

  “How would you know we’re good at word games? You never play with us,” said Ruby pointedly, starting the dishes.

  “Well, that’s because I hate word games,” I said as Meg punched me in the leg under the table. “I’m no good at that stuff. But I need someone to figure out an anagram. ”

  I had Ruby’s interest now. Meg’s, too.

  “What anagram?” Meg asked.

  “Our clue,” I said. “Geoffrey called last night. He thinks it’s an anagram and I’m betting he’s right.”

  “Do you have it with you?” Ruby asked, leaving the dishes and coming over to the table.

  “I do indeed,” I replied, and pulled out a piece of paper from my breast pocket.

  O hark the herald angels sing;

  The boy’s descent which lifted up the world.

  “Where’s the first line?” asked Meg. “The part about Matthew?”

  “We don’t think it’s part of the anagram. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

  “Why don’t we get the Scrabble game out and lay out the letters,” said Ruby, getting up and going to the hall closet.

  “My thought exactly.”

  We laid the tiles on the table, spelled out the clue and came up a few letters short.

  “We’re going to need five more h’s,” Meg said. “I’ll cut up some paper.”

  “I’ve got to get over to the station. Let me know if you come up with anything.”

  “We’ll work on it,” muttered Ruby, already rearranging the letters on the table into various words. “Is there anything specific we should be looking for?”

  “We think it’s a clue to the murder. That’s all I can tell you about it. Thanks for a lovely breakfast.” I closed the front door behind me leaving the two women huddled over the table..

  I arrived at the office about ten minutes later, just in time to hear Dave’s end of the conversation on the phone.

  “What do you mean, no parade? Listen, Marta, we’ve had it on the schedule all year. Kiwanis Club Christmas Parade, December eighteenth. No, you didn’t do the parade last year. It was two years ago. Last year Kiwanis did the Living Crèche. Yes, I know it was well-received. Well,” said Dave, wrapping up his futile conversation, “you’re going to have to tell Pete.”

  “What’s up?” I asked, knowing the answer was going to be bad news.

  “The Kiwanis Club isn’t going to sponsor the Christmas parade this year. They want to do the Living Crèche.”

  “Isn’t it the Rotary’s turn for the crèche.”

  “According to us and Bob Solomon it is. They’ve already built a new scene, arranged for all new costumes and hired Seymour Krebbs’ camel.”

  “A camel. That’s pretty good.”

  Dave went on, “Marta says that the Kiwanis Club got permission from the Rotary to do their crèche again because it was such a big hit last year. You know, with the petting zoo for the kids and the llamas and all.”

  “I never did understand how a South American animal made it all the way to Bethlehem.”

  “Probably on a boat. Anyway, Bob says he didn’t agree to anything with Marta and it’s the Kiwanis Club’s turn to host the parade. Apparently, the Rotarians really spent a bundle to outdo the Kiwanians’ crèche from last year.”

  “Sheesh. Does Pete know?” I asked, shaking my head and heading into
my office.

  “No. I told Marta to call him, but I don’t think she will till it’s too late to do anything about it. He’ll have to hear it from you.”

  “It’s already too late to do anything about it. Have there been any parade committee meetings?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Is anyone expecting to be in it? You know, bands, floats, stuff like that?”

  Dave looked at his information from last year’s parade and flipped through the papers. “Nope. They would have had to send in an entrance fee by November 10th. No one sent any information out, so no one sent in a fee.”

  “That’s that, then. At least no one will be mad. Maybe it will all just disappear,” I said. But I doubted it.

  • • •

  I called Pete and gave him the scoop on the parade. To paraphrase his immediate utterance, rendering it inoffensive to human ears and allowing it to float harmlessly into the stratosphere, knocking down a few birds that might be passing by, but generally doing no permanent damage: “We are not amused.” Actually Pete is one of the only people I know that can say a thirteen-word sentence using nothing but expletives. It’s an art really. He works in profanity the way another artist might work in watercolors, each word carrying various hues and subtleties not available to the casual curser. His work in the field of gerunds alone would make him a legend in any seaport on the east coast.

  I held the phone away from my ear as Pete voiced his displeasure at the situation and took the opportunity to loudly emphasize a number of details concerning the Kiwanian’s common ancestry and the moral character of all their sisters and mothers.

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, I dropped by the Farthing residence to see how mother and daughter were faring on the word games.

  “Come on in. We’ve got a couple of things worked out,” Meg said opening the door. Her dark hair was tousled and pulled back. She was wearing jeans and one of my old sweatshirts. She looked ravishing.

  I went into the kitchen and saw the Scrabble tiles still spread across the table, words placed hither and yon, but with no discernible pattern that I could see.

  “There’s a lot of letters,” said Ruby. “You could make almost anything out of them. Here’s one for instance.”

  She wants to sing Bill Gaither tunes.

  Choked chef hardly plowed the herd.

  How’s that?” Med added.

  “Pretty bad,” I said. “I like the part about the Bill Gaither tunes, though.”

  Meg was digging through her stack of papers. “Here’s one.”

  Ring thanks. God real. He heals.

  When rested, bathed, clothed, I putt softly.

  I started looking through the papers on the table and read several anagrams that really meant nothing that I could see.

  Bad newsletters deduct the filthy photo

  Hello, earth-shaking gardens

  This filthy snow troubles hat depth

  detected large longer handshake

  “Hmmm, interesting, but I don’t recognize anything usable,” I said. “What about this? We think that the first line. ‘I saw who did it. It’s him. It’s Matthew,’ is part of the clue and that Matthew is the gospel and ‘it’s him’ refers to a hymn, right?” I asked the two ladies, now watching me intently and nodding in the affirmative.

  “Then, that being the case,” I continued, “maybe the anagram is a hymn title, which would narrow our search considerably.”

  “I’ll get the hymnal,” said Meg.

  “And I’ll pour the coffee,” added Ruby, getting up and quickly returning with three mugs, which she placed on the table amongst the scattered Scrabble tiles. I always appreciated a coffee mug.

  Meg returned with two copies of The Hymnal 1982, and I recognized the inscription on the front of each: “Property of St. Barnabas Church.” She looked a little sheepish as she handed one to her mother.

  “I’m just borrowing them. You aren’t going to arrest me, are you?”

  “Not today, my dear,” I said sipping my coffee.

  “We should probably start with the Christmas section,” Ruby suggested. “The anagram seems pretty Christmasy to me. The first Christmas hymn is number 77. I think this will go pretty fast. Once we rule a hymn out, we can go on to the next one.”

  “Great idea,” said Meg, opening her own book. “I’ll take 78.”

  Thirty-eight minutes later, while rummaging around the refrigerator for sandwich fixin’s, I heard Ruby cry out, “Bingo! I’ve got it!”

  “That was quick,” I said, munching on a dill pickle and pulling out some leftovers.

  Meg looked over at Ruby’s paper. “I was on 93, so it must be 94.”

  Ruby nodded and pointed to the anagram, then to her scribblings.

  O hark the herald angels sing;

  The boy’s descent which lifted up the world.

  While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

  all seated on the ground.

  “You have to admit it’s good,” I said.

  Meg was already coming back into the room with a Bible.

  “Let’s see. Hymn 94. Matthew 9:4.” She thumbed through the pages quickly. “And Jesus, knowing their thoughts said, ‘Why are you thinking evil in your hearts?’” She pondered the scripture for a moment. “Well, that doesn’t help a bit, does it?”

  “Hang on. Let’s not despair. We know what the anagram means. We just have to figure out the rest of the clue.” I was trying to be as hopeful as possible, but in reality, I had no idea what the verse had to do with the murder, if anything. We might be on the totally wrong track, but I didn’t want to say as much after such hard work. So, I said the next best thing.

  “Let’s have a sandwich.”

  Chapter 13

  “Now that we’re all here,” growled Isabel, standing in the doorway, “we can get down to business.” Her voice was low, low as my Apple Computer stock options.

  “You know what we want, don’t ‘cha?” Denver asked absently. She had put down the shotgun and her attention was focused on the three hymnals she was deftly juggling. She was good. I had to admit it.

  Yes, I knew what they wanted. Denver Tweed, Amber Dawn and Isabel Gerhardt. Separately, three gals you wouldn’t mind seeing dancing the Lambada in your neighbor’s Sunday school class. Together, they formed the Emmaus Gang--and were three of the most wanted women in the history of the Episcopate. They needed the goods on the Bishop. Blackmail was their only prospect to make it off of his Ten Most Wanted List, and I had just what they wanted.

  “You might as well just give it to us and we’ll be on our way,” said Isabel, taking a cigar from off my desk and lighting it up.

  “I doubt it. You’ll have to kill me. Otherwise you’d be afraid that I’d squeal like last year’s Easter entree.” I lit another stogie myself, matching her puff for puff.

  “We don’t have to kill him, do we?” chirped Amber in alarm. “I really kinda like him.” She lit a cigar too, her peepers blinking like baby blue Christmas tree lights.

  Isabel sneered. “Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman without good sense.”

  “What?” squeaked Amber confusedly, but thrusting out her chest like the photo-finish of a zeppelin race at the prospect of being called “beautiful” by anyone.

  “Proverbs 11:22,” quoted Isabel smugly as Denver lit up the last cigar in the box, making the atmosphere in my office the ecological equivalent of Los Angeles in June.

  “I was just wondering, Isabel,” I said, trying to draw her into a theological discussion. “Does the pig snout refer to a literal pig snout, or is the author taking a metaphoric view and using the pig snout to represent the unclean noses of all the heathen races?”

  “Don’t start with me,” Isabel grunted. “Just give me the papers we want and we’ll be on our way.”

  I didn’t believe her for a second.

  • • •

  I had a couple of calls to make. The first was to the Norcostc
o Costume Company in Atlanta. I had them send a penguin costume to St. Barnabas and charge it to the rector’s discretionary account. I didn’t have Moosey’s exact size, but I was pretty sure I was close. The second was to Pete Moss.

  “Hi Pete. Did you get the crèche situation straightened out?”

  “Nope. These idiots both want to put up a living nativity and there’s no stopping them. The Rotary Club has the lot on Main and 13th on the south side. The Kiwanis Club is a block down on the north side. It’s going to be a zoo. Literally.”

  “Maybe,” I contemplated, “but just maybe there’s room in this crazy, mixed-up world for two nativity scenes. Why can’t we all just get along?”

  “Shut up, Hayden.”

  • • •

  I picked Moosey up at school on Tuesday and took him by the church to practice the penguin song. Late afternoons were perfect for rehearsing and it’s the time when I get all my practicing done. The church was generally deserted and today was no exception. I thought it might be a little spooky for someone who wasn’t used to a great silent church, but Moosey walked down the aisle, stood proudly on the steps of the nave and sang through his song with organ accompaniment just like a champ, never missing a word.

  “Moosey, that was great!” I yelled down to him from the choir loft as he was taking the bow we had practiced.

  “Can we do it again?” he called back, the thrill of performance still in his eager face.

  “You bet. But once more should probably do it.”

  We went through it a second time, which is two times more than Herself ever rehearsed anything. When the song was finished, Moosey took his bow and came racing up the stairs to the choir loft.

  “Your costume will be here tomorrow,” I told him, as I shut down the beast.