The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  I huffed up to the front door, stopped and bent over, my hands on my knees, trying unsuccessfully to catch my breath. Baxter had his nose on the doorjamb, just waiting for a gap that he could exploit and shove his bulk through, heading into the house. Not looking up, I turned the knob and felt, rather than saw, Baxter bolt into the front hallway. Several minutes later my wind returned and I stood up, took my shoes off outside (something that never happened pre-Meg), and carried them back to the bedroom. I opened the back door, tossed the muddy shoes in a heap on the deck, peeled off my clothes and went into the bathroom to shower.

  Chapter 4

  I climbed into my truck and pointed it toward town. It was a ten mile drive that usually took about twenty minutes. The only thing in the truck that could be considered new was the stereo system. I turned it on and the sound of one of Handel's coronation anthems, The King Shall Rejoice, filled the cab. The choir had given me this and a few other CDs as a Christmas gift, and I was working my way through them. The piece for choir and orchestra that I was listening to was written for the crowning of George II. It was my second favorite of Handel's coronation anthems, but the one with the best final movement. The double fugue — two melodies simultaneously played against each other right from the start — ended in a three minute Alleluia section that was to be played while the king was being crowned. Very impressive.

  My truck rattled its way down the mountain roads and, as the final Alleluias sounded, I pulled into my parking place beside the police station. A Saturday in St. Germaine, in early March, was generally what we in the law-enforcement profession called "dull." There were no tourists to speak of. The skiers, if there were any left, had headed up to Sugar Mountain, or maybe Beech, but with the temperature climbing I thought the number of folks choosing to brave the slopes might be slimming.

  I parked the truck and went into the police station. It was on the square, next to the Town Hall and just across one of the side streets from the Slab Café. Dave was sitting behind the counter, busy typing on the old Dell computer, either filling out the monthly reports we needed to file with the state to keep some of our funding intact or updating his Facebook page. It was hard to tell with Dave. Still, he always got the reports finished on time, and neither Nancy nor I had any desire to tackle them. So however Dave managed his time was fine with us.

  "Donuts?" I asked, as I came in.

  He looked up. "In your office, boss," he said. "I stopped by the Piggly Wiggly about an hour ago. Amelia threw in a few extras 'cause they were made yesterday."

  "I hope you ate those old ones," I said. "I've been waiting all morning for a fresh bear claw."

  "Already finished those old ones off. There's nothing better than a free, day-old donut." Dave smacked his lips and hit a button on his computer keyboard. The printer lit up and started putting out paper.

  "The monthlies," Dave said. "Our hard copies. I've already filed the electronic ones. And you'll be happy to know that I did buy some bear claws."

  The SGPD reports needed to be filed by the 21st of each month for the month previous. Not a problem. Dave had them done with hours to spare.

  "Thanks," I said. "And thanks for doing the reports. Anything of a constabulary nature afoot?"

  "Not a thing," said Dave. "No calls and no messages."

  Dave was dressed, as usual, in his pressed khaki trousers and a light blue button-down oxford shirt, covered with an argyle sweater vest. His tan jacket was hanging on the freestanding coatrack beside the front door. Dave didn't carry a gun, but had a badge somewhere in his desk that he might be able to find, if pressed.

  "Anything on a rabid possum at Mildred Kibbler's house?"

  "I read about that," said Dave. "But she hasn't called. If she sees it again, I suspect we'll get a 911."

  "I told Meg I'd check."

  "Oh, yeah," said Dave. "That's next door to Ruby, isn't it?"

  I nodded and went into my office. There on the desk was the box of donuts. I opened it.

  "Dave," I called. "Here on my desk seems to be a large, supposedly full, box of donuts. A dozen in fact, if the label is to be believed. Plus the extras that Amelia tossed in."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yet, when I open this box, there is but half a bear claw left."

  "Well, yeah," said Dave. "But it's a fresh one. You're lucky I saw your truck coming around the square. Otherwise ..."

  "I don't know how you keep your schoolgirl figure," I said, my disgust apparent. "I run fifteen miles a day and have to wear expando-pants. You sit behind a desk, eat donuts by the hundreds, and never gain an ounce."

  "It's a gift," said Dave. "Like my unassuming good looks."

  I stuffed what was left of the pastry into my mouth. Almonds, apples, and frosting in a deep-fried fritter that was still warm. Delicious, but none too filling.

  "I'm going to the Slab," I announced. "Gotta get some breakfast."

  "I'll just finish up here," answered Dave. "Then I'm done for the day. Okay with you?"

  "Okay," I said. "Have a good weekend. You heading over to see Collette?"

  Dave smiled. "Yessir. It's about an hour drive down to Wilkesboro. I'll be back on Monday morning."

  Dave and Collette Bowers had become an item again after Collette had shown up in town after a hiatus of a few years. They had been engaged before that, but Dave's age-old infatuation with Nancy, resulting in a dalliance that Collette found out about just before the wedding, ended that betrothal in a flurry of anguished carnage. When Collette found out about Dave's betrayal, she proceeded to destroy the interior of the Slab Café where she was employed as a waitress, culminating the episode by almost killing her soon-to-be ex-fiancé with a sugar shaker. After the breakup, Collette found a fundamentalist church and, following the church's founding Biblical principle of "name it, claim it," decided to "name" Dave and "claim" him as her anointed helpmate. It didn't work out that time either. After disappearing the night of the St. Barnabas fire, Collette showed up a third time, this time dressed in Vampire Gothic complete with black leather, blood jewelry, and spiderweb tattoos. Christian fundamentalist to vampire — quite a change for a shy girl from Hickory. Dave was intrigued and, although Collette didn't make the trip back to St. Germaine very often, he was happy to visit her in Wilkesboro.

  And, of course, Nancy had given up on Dave.

  * * *

  The cowbell hanging on the door of the Slab banged against the glass door and announced my arrival. The restaurant wasn't full, but there were two busy tables and a man sitting at the counter wearing insulated bib overalls. I didn't recognize the counter guy, but the folks at the tables I knew well.

  "Good morning, Chief," called Len Purvis, when he saw me. His wife, Roweena, acknowledged me and waved, but didn't extend a greeting due to her mouthful of scrambled eggs. Seated next to Len was Gwen Jackson, their neighbor and the town veterinarian. "Morning, Hayden," she said, in between sips of coffee.

  The other table was occupied by Billy Hixon and two of his landscaping crew, Randy and Lester Kleinpeter. Randy and Lester were brothers who had grown up in St. Germaine. They had worked for Billy all through high school during the summer breaks and on Saturdays. When they graduated, Billy hired them full-time since it was clear that they wouldn't be attending college. Both of them were chowing down on eggs, bacon, grits, baked apples, biscuits, gravy, and whatever else Pete had in the kitchen. They were big boys with big appetites, and since the boss was paying they didn't mind having a good meal.

  Billy, on the other hand, was watching his weight. This was information that his wife, Elaine, shared with me last Wednesday at choir rehearsal. Billy, never a small man, was under doctor's orders to lose thirty pounds. Elaine had indicated that, if the past few days were any indication, this was not going to be a pleasant few months. Billy was looking at a plate that had a stalk of celery on it. That was all. A stalk of celery. He wasn't eating it, just looking at it in disgust.

  "This is stupid," Billy said as I walked up. "Look at this thing."
He picked up the stalk and waggled it at me.

  "Why don't you dip it in this gravy?" suggested Randy. He pushed the bowl of thick brown sludge across the table.

  Billy growled.

  Billy Hixon's Lawn Service, in addition to having a lot of small, personal accounts, also had several large annual accounts that funded the company through the winter months. He was responsible for the grounds of St. Barnabas. The rumor was that he charged the church the usual rate plus ten percent, then gave the percentage back to the church as his tithe. I didn't know for sure. Billy also took care of Mountainview Cemetery, St. Germain's oldest and most beloved garden of eternal rest; the Bellefontaine Cemetery, known locally as Wormy Acres, due to the founder of the enterprise being Woodrow "Wormy" DuPont; Sterling Park; and Camp Daystar, our Christian nudist camp, to name but a few. Although December, January, and February were slow, the yearly contracts kept the money coming in, and once March arrived (whether it was still winter or not) the crews were in full force. There were leaves to dispose of, lawn thatching to do, fertilizer to spread, plant nurseries to contact, equipment to sharpen and refurbish — any number of things.

  "I'm sorry," I said to Billy. "That's a pretty awful-looking breakfast."

  "Oh, I've already had breakfast," he said. "Elaine made it for me before I left this morning. A boiled egg and half a grapefruit."

  "Coffee?" I asked.

  "Prune juice."

  I shuddered. Noylene came over to the table with a plate of pancakes and set them down in front of Lester.

  "You share these with your brother," Noylene said. "I ain't bringing you no more."

  "Mmmph," grunted Lester, his mouth full. Randy reached across the table, skewered two of the pancakes with his fork, and dragged them to his own plate. Lester grabbed the syrup and smothered the remaining flapjacks in maple sweetness, then passed the bottle across to Randy, who was slathering butter in between the golden disks.

  "Those boys can eat," observed Noylene.

  Billy sighed, dipped his celery in the gravy, and took a bite. It didn't crunch.

  The cowbell on the front door clanged again and I looked up to see Brother Hog waddle in with little Rahab in his arms.

  Rahab Archibald Fabergé-Dupont was two years old. To be more precise, two years and three months. According to my sources, i.e. Meg, the age of any baby over three months old, but under two years, is designated in months; Little Prissy is seventeen months old. Bobby Clyde is twenty-one months old. After the age of two, the division goes to half-years. This keeps up until age ten or so. Beyond that, a yearly milepost is sufficient until the age of forty. Then, whichever decade the person currently haunts is close enough, as in "Meg is 40ish." So Rahab was two, going on two and a half.

  Rahab is the precocious (and some might say "insufferable") offspring of Noylene Fabergé-Dupont-McTavish and the Rev. Dr. Hogmanay McTavish, known to his friends as "Brother Hog." The boy is lacking the McTavish hyphenation at the end of his surname for the simple reason that Noylene and Brother Hog weren't married at the time of little Rahab's birth. They were married now, but Noylene hadn't gotten around to changing the birth certificate.

  Brother Hog had always been suspect of his son's forename. Yes, it was both Biblical and Old Testament, but Rahab was a female prostitute in the book of Joshua. Noylene had named the child in the hospital and thought the name sounded exotic. An exotic name for an exotic baby. Rahab, you see, had been born with a tail — a caudal appendage, the obstetrician called it. Not common, but it sometimes happens, and the doctors usually take care of it right away. Noylene wasn't so sure. Maybe this was a sign from God. Maybe little Rahab should keep his tail until he reached an age where he could decide for himself whether he wanted it or not. In the end, Noylene agreed to let the doc snip the little rascal's rudder. Once the surgeon offered Noylene a two-for-one tail snip/circumcision deal, she was on board. Noylene never could resist a bargain.

  Brother Hog was a born-again preacher, first and last. He had spent most of his professional life in an evangelist's tent, but had also taken a turn as the pastor of New Fellowship Baptist Church here in town. He had grown more rotund since he'd first set up his tent in Sterling Park several years ago, but one thing hadn't changed: his trademark hairstyle. It was a coiffure fancied by TV preachers, used-furniture salesmen, and the insane. To call this particular hairdo a "comb-over" would do it a gross injustice. Brother Hog's crowning glory manifested its entire expanse from the right side of his scalp. The gray hair swooped up and around his brow, circled his head once, then twice, then terminated in a cluster of sprigs glued down with half a can of hairspray. Noylene, now being married to Brother Hog and having firsthand knowledge, affirmed that, unwound and unglued, the lonely tress was about two feet long.

  After resigning his ministry at New Fellowship Baptist when Rahab was born — Hog's name on the birth certificate identifying him as the father hastened his departure — he went back to seasonal evangelizing in the spring and the fall. This was more Hog's style. As a full-time tent evangelist, he'd been on the road fifty weeks a year. It was a pace he no longer wished to keep and since he was now Noylene's husband, he didn't have to.

  Noylene was quite the entrepreneur. A self-made woman, she had little education but made up for it in drive, determination, and gumption that was unmatched by anyone I knew. Along with being one of the professional waitresses in town, a few years earlier she'd opened Noylene's Beautifery, An Oasis of Beauty, taking advantage of her God-given talent of granting beauty to others less fortunate than herself. Pete, then the mayor, had been skeptical about the name of the salon. He thought the tourists might not appreciate the down-home flavor. I'd had a different view.

  "Look on the bright side,” I'd told him. "With a name like Noylene’s Beautifery, she’ll either go out of business in two months, or it’ll become a bizarro, cutting-edge, cult-like styling salon that people will flock to. Noylene will be charging three or four hundred dollars a haircut. Either way, it’s win-win."

  We were both wrong. The Beautifery settled down into a successful, small-town beauty parlor. A year later, Noylene got a small business grant from the state to perfect her Dip-N-Tan, a contraption invented by her son, D'Artagnan, where her customers could hang from a bar and be slowly lowered by a winch into a vat of tanning fluid. It didn't take long before the women of St. Germaine (and some of the men) were walking around town, summer or winter, looking as though they had just returned from Rio de Janeiro. Above the vat, Noylene had placed a sign:

  I am dark, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem ...

  Song of Solomon 1:5

  Noylene felt that it was always good to have a Bible verse to fall back on. In fact, she had several verses from the eighteenth chapter of Leviticus that, taken together, explained why it had been perfectly acceptable for her to marry her cousin, Wormy DuPont. They were divorced now, chiefly due to Wormy's incarceration for the murder of Russ Stafford during a Bible School reenactment of the Stoning of Stephen. He'd grown jealous of Russ (playing the part of St. Stephen), whom he thought to be the father of Noylene's unborn baby, and took the occasion to pummel him to death with a rock. After his conviction, Noylene sold the cemetery, filed for divorce, had the baby, married Hog, and never visited Wormy, not even once. She'd made a pretty penny on the cemetery, and rumor had it that she'd also sold some mineral rights up on Quail Ridge where some diamonds had been found. Noylene had nothing to say about that.

  All things considered, the Rev. Dr. Hogmanay McTavish was happy being a kept man.

  "C'mere, baby," said Noylene, holding out both hands to take Rahab from her husband. Rahab hadn't been a small baby and now wasn't a small toddler. He was a pudgy fellow who owed more of his looks to Hog than to Noylene. The little guy reached across the gap and climbed into Noylene's arms. She grunted softly as the baby changed hands.

  Rahab's parents had been at odds about the youngster's immediate life goals, Noylene gravitating toward "potty-training," with Brother Ho
g leaning heavily in the direction of "Baby Evangelist." A Baby Evangelist, according to Hog, was a better draw even than a Scripture Chicken, Hog's last evangelical enticement. The Scripture Chicken had been trained to choose a scripture from an overlarge Bible resting on a table in the middle of the stage. Then, once the scripture had been "pecked," Brother Hog would preach his message. Hog had some favorite passages to be sure, and the bird generally picked those with the help of a little seed-corn. But, if the chicken varied from the script, Hog was good enough to massage almost any Biblical reading into fitting his sermon du jour. Bother Hog hadn't had a Scripture Chicken since the untimely demise of Binny Henn, his favorite, mistakenly eaten on the last night of one of his revivals. Hog had tried to train a couple of other chickens after that, but his heart just wasn't in it.

  Now, though, Brother Hogmanay McTavish had new fire and it stemmed from his son. It seemed as though Little Rahab was a natural with a microphone. Hog discovered this one day when Noylene was at work. He'd given Rahab an old microphone to play with to keep the boy quiet while he was watching a rerun of an old Oral Roberts crusade. Rahab, a gifted mimic, took the microphone, held it to his mouth, and strutted around the living room of the trailer screaming into it and waving his copy of Baby's First Old Testament. That his hollering was unintelligible made little difference to Hog. Unintelligible wasn't a problem. He knew opportunity when he saw it and immediately grasped how a toddler on a stage "preaching in unknown tongues" would be an even bigger attraction than his chicken. All Rahab needed was a glossolalian interpreter, and who better than his own father? Hog knew exactly what his own son was trying to say if only he could say it. Just then Pat Robertson, another TV preacher, came onto the screen and said, "There's someone watching who needs to get back into the ministry. This is a Word of Knowledge. God says that you need to get back out there and take your family with you." Well, it couldn't get much clearer than that. It was a sign, if ever there was one.