The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  * * *

  "I hear that you're a Liturgy Detective," she said, "and I need help."

  Her eyes were limpid pools, her nose was a limpid sausage, her ears were limpid cartilaginous extrusions. I nibbled on one in anticipation.

  "Everyone needs help, Sweetheart," I purruped. "But it'll cost you."

  "Two hundred a day plus expenses," she said, dropping two C-notes on the desk. "That's what your ad says."

  "That's about right." I settled back in my chair, tucked the cash inside my shorts, and chomped down on my cig. I remembered that ad. Marilyn talked me into placing it in the local rag when business got so bad we were charging the roaches rent.

  "Okay," I said. "What's the chisel?"

  "I have a baby naming company called 'Bible Babies.' We supply new and interesting Biblical baby names for upscale, desperate parents who want something unique yet presumptuous."

  My eyes went as crazy as Michelle Bachman and Rick Perry's love-child. "Go on," I said, eyeing the sausage.

  "I mean, there are plenty of Joshuas, Jacobs, Jordans, Rachels, and Elizabeths. But where are the Dalmatias, or the Gomers, or Doeg the Edomites?"

  "Dunno," I said, thinking about lunch.

  "There are over sixty thousand Biblical names," said Carrie, "and today's busy parent needs help to navigate through that mine field. Most of the parents think that their baby's Biblical name means 'Beloved of God,' or maybe 'Gift of the Lord.' But you have to be careful. For instance, 'Courtney' literally means 'Yahweh's Mud Pie,' but what parent wants that on a decoupaged plaque? With 'Bible Babies,' they get a lifetime warranty."

  "How about Nergalsharezer?" I said, my mind wandering to a prom-date I once had. "What does that mean?"

  "Don't be horning in," she warned, then continued. "All of a sudden, we get a notice from the Attorney General that all the Biblical names have been copyrighted."

  "©?" I asked in surprise.

  "And now we have a cease and desist order." She reached inside her purse, pulled out a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. I recognized the stationery. It came from the Bishop.

  * * *

  Nice, I thought. Nice.

  Chapter 6

  Fat Tuesday: the only holiday for the horizontally challenged. It was the day before Ash Wednesday and therefore (traditionally) a day of excess. Mardi Gras parades — the best ones — were held on Fat Tuesday. Drinking and debauching are the orders of the day as we gird our loins for forty days of fasting and prayer. Fasting and prayer have mostly fallen by the wayside, but the drinking and debauching have certainly been embraced, insofar as Mardi Gras goes.

  In the church we've managed to avoid the imputation of "fatness" by announcing that we choose to celebrate "Shrove Tuesday" instead: "shrove" from the verb "shrive," meaning "to grant absolution." A pancake on Shrove Tuesday would taste as sweet and make you just as fat. We eat pancakes just before Lent begins because, as severe and high-minded Christians, we eschew sugar, fat, flour, and eggs, items whose consumption is traditionally restricted during the penitential season, and so, ingest them in abundance on the day before. Sort of like a "last meal." One last sugar high.

  All this is historical trivia and has nothing whatsoever to do with what we actually do or why we do it. Serving pancakes in the parish hall at St. Barnabas on the Tuesday before Lent is done to raise money for the youth mission trip to Costa Rica. I suspect that most churches have the same or a similar agenda. I myself choose to eat pancakes all the way through Lent, but that never stopped me from eating them on Fat Tuesday ... I mean Shrove Tuesday ... as well.

  The pancake meal began at four in the afternoon and continued until six, catering to whoever happened to walk in. The event had been advertised, and since it had been an annual tradition for a number of years, was well attended. Single folks, married folks, old and young, parents with their children, whether they were parishioners or not, all enjoyed a great pancake supper for the price of a donation. And people tended to be generous.

  I chose a seat next to Bev Greene. She waved me over as soon as I cleared the line with my paper plate stacked with three pancakes. On the table was a bowl of yellow not-quite-butter and a bottle of Aunt Jemima maple syrup. Coffee was also being supplied, and the coffee was good — Community Coffee from Louisiana. We had it shipped in.

  "How are you this evening?" I asked Bev, as I took my seat.

  "Let me just tell you," said Bev, grimly.

  "Uh-oh," I muttered.

  "You know what a 'blended' service is, right?"

  "Yes, I do," I said.

  "Get ready then. You're about to get one."

  I sighed.

  Bev was our Parish Administrator. Some time ago, the church voted to hire an administrator to free up the rector for more priestly duties. No rector since then had argued the need, since it was no skin off their nose and work that they didn't have to do. The administrator was in charge of writing checks (although she didn't keep the books), scheduling, handling all personnel issues (at the behest of the rector), and all sundry chores that fell under the job description as "other duties as required."

  "Mother P has decided that the season of Lent might be a good time to experiment with alternate forms of worship. You know, I'm not sure I want to do this anymore."

  "It's only for six Sundays," I said. "A finite period. Six Sundays and done."

  "Really? That's how you think it will go? Six Sundays and done?"

  I shook my head, rethinking my proposed Lenten discipline of ecclesiastical détente. Could this be a test?

  "Nope," I said. "I don't believe that's how it will go."

  "We're having a meeting in the morning. A staff meeting. I wish you would come."

  "Yeah, okay. What time?"

  "I'm going in to see her at nine. The full staff meeting is at nine-thirty."

  "I'll be there, but I'm not sure I can do anything. It's her call."

  Bev smiled. "You're intimidating. You reek of snoot."

  "I could shower," I suggested.

  * * *

  I'd avoided staff meetings, worship meetings, vestry meetings, and almost every other meeting I could think up an excuse to get out of after our last rector left to become bishop of Northern California. Since I was on the staff, I suppose I was invited to attend, with or without prior notice. Mother P — Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh — was surprised to see me come in. Her eyes widened for a moment, then she said, "Hayden, so glad you could make it this morning." She was sitting at the head of the table in the conference room. To her right was Kimberly Walnut, the Director of Christian Formation. Kimberly had been at St. Barnabas for a few years, and her ideas for improving the church service had barely been held in check by Bev after Gaylen departed. Kimberly owed more of her worship proclivities to the Methodist denomination she grew up in than the Episcopal denomination that had hired her. Her style was not, as we Anglicans are fond of saying, "high church." She wanted to feel things, she said, and feel them deeply.

  There was no love lost between Kimberly Walnut and Bev, but Bev had been under orders from the vestry not to fire anyone in the absence of a permanent priest. Once Mother P came on board, Kimberly Walnut found an ally on whom she could rely.

  On Mother P's left was Herb Cohosh, her husband and a full-fledged Lutheran pastor. Joyce Cooper had taken the job of treasurer last year but still served on the Worship Committee. She sat next to Herb. Marilyn, the church secretary, came in and sat down next to me at the other end.

  "We might as well get started," said Mother P.

  "Where's Bev?" asked Joyce. "I just saw her a few minutes ago."

  "Bev resigned this morning," Mother P said, with just a hint of sadness. "We'll miss her leadership. I'll miss her leadership. But we must press on." She brightened. "I'll meet with the vestry this week and we'll look at our long-term plan. It may be that we no longer need a Parish Administrator. In the meantime, Joyce, as treasurer you can easily write the checks. We'll just need to get the signature card change
d. Herb has agreed, with the support of the vestry, to help out when we need another priest. He's still a Lutheran, but, as you all know, we're in full communion with the Evangelical Lutheran Church."

  Herb nodded happily. Mother P continued, "Herb's is strictly a volunteer position and he's indicated that he's happy to help. Kimberly will still be in charge of the Sunday School curriculum and our Wednesday night programming, but she'll now also be in charge of the scheduling of the building. Hayden is in charge of the music. Nothing could be simpler."

  No one said anything.

  "I know what you're all thinking," said Mother P, "and you'll get the story from Bev soon enough, I expect. I did not fire her, nor give her any cause to leave. We sat down this morning and had a frank and earnest discussion about the role of a Parish Administrator, and Bev was forthcoming about her concerns about changes I've made since I've gotten here ... and will continue to make. That's my job as your rector."

  Silence.

  "Anyway, I'm sorry she felt the need to leave." Another pause. "I've invited the rest of the Worship Committee to come in just a few minutes. We need to think about the services through Lent and Holy Week. Let me get us some coffee." She got up and left the room followed closely by Herb.

  "I guess she's letting us comment without her being here," said Joyce.

  "I never thought we needed an administrator, anyway," said Kimberly Walnut.

  "What do you think, Hayden?" Joyce asked.

  "We certainly did need an administrator while we didn't have a full-time priest and Bev was good at keeping everything running smoothly. Rosemary's right, though. If she wants to do Bev's work, the transition probably won't be difficult." Well done, I thought. That wasn't too hard.

  Mother P opened the door and came back into the conference room carrying two coffee carafes. Herb followed with a metal painted tray of coffee cups, a bowl of sugar and non-sugar packets, some spoons, and some of that white powdered creamer. Behind Herb was Elaine Hixon, Billy's wife. Shea Maxwell and Wynette Winslow brought up the rear.

  "I've asked Fred May to be on this committee, since he's the Senior Warden," said Mother P, "but he can't meet with us during the day. We might decide to have a few meetings in the evening. We'll just have to see how that works." She looked around the room. "By the way, in my meeting with Bev, I asked her to join the Worship Committee since that is where her gifts lay, and she agreed, but declined, understandably, to attend this morning. She'll be here for the next one."

  I poured myself a cup of coffee, then one for Marilyn. The other carafe was making its way around the table during these announcements.

  "I've been wondering," said Mother P, "if the season of Lent might be a good time to experiment with some alternate forms of worship."

  It wasn't a question.

  "It seems like a good time, a new beginning, the start of a new season. I wonder if a 'blended' service might work and serve to bring back some of the people who find traditional worship a little too stodgy. Maybe even bring in some new folks."

  Again, it wasn't a question. Everyone looked at me.

  "I couldn't say one way or the other," I said. "We've never had a 'blended' service since I've been here. We've tried a lot of things, make no mistake: a Clown Eucharist, puppets, spirit sticks, shoe polishing, liturgical dance, musicals, you name it."

  Mother P seemed to consider this.

  I said, "If I may ask — and I mean this in the unsnarkiest way — what is it exactly that you want to do?

  This was a test, of that I was sure. An Ash Wednesday test. Blessed is the man that endures temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord has promised to them that love him.

  "We want to blend the traditional and the contemporary," said Mother P, obviously ready for this question. "We'd like to have your choral music along with something in a 'Praise and Worship' style. No drum kits or guitars or anything like that yet, but I have some choruses that I brought from my previous parish and I've already signed us up for a CCLI license." She looked around the table. "I can't believe we've never had one. Every church does."

  I gave her my second nicest smile, not failing to notice the reference to "your choral music," and the equally surreptitious "No drums or guitars yet." Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any. Forty days and nights. And to think I could have gone with giving up cigars.

  "What's a CCLI License?" asked Joyce.

  "It's a church copyright thing," answered Mother P. "It allows us to make copies of music for the congregation. Songbooks and things like that."

  "Oh," said Joyce.

  Mother P said, "Hayden?"

  "Well," I said, choosing my words carefully, "choruses are not my favorite means of musical expression, but what would you like me to do?"

  "First of all, I'm thinking we could use some new service music."

  "I agree," I said. "You know there are some settings in the hymnal that we haven't done for several years ..."

  "I was thinking," interrupted Mother P, "that you might write us something new. You're quite a composer and that anthem last Sunday was just beautiful."

  This caught me by surprise.

  "The Transfiguration, right? I was very moved."

  "It was gorgeous," added Joyce.

  "And fun to sing," added Elaine.

  " Well ... thanks."

  "You know, I heard something at another parish — a setting of the mass using English folk tunes."

  "The English Folk Song Mass?" I said. "We have copies upstairs."

  "No," said Mother P. "I meant that maybe you could compose us our own sort of thing. A setting just for St. Barnabas."

  I thought for a moment, then said, almost to myself, "You know, there's plenty of historical precedent. In the Renaissance, the 'parody mass' — that's what it's called — was very popular. Composers used entire sections of other people's melodic compositions to compose their own masses." I was relishing my brief foray into the role of music history teacher. "Palestrina alone wrote some fifty-odd examples."

  "Uh-huh," said Mother P, nodding and looking interested. "Why is it called a 'parody mass?'"

  "Oh, the term 'parody' has nothing to do with humor, in the modern sense of the word. In this case a better translation would be 'imitation mass.' Composers might use anything, even bawdy secular songs." I paused, then said, "Sure. Why not?"

  "Excellent!" said Mother P. "Not bawdy songs, though."

  "Of course not."

  "Something catchy. Something the congregation can latch on to. A tune they know."

  "Absolutely."

  Elaine and Joyce stared at me, their mouths slightly agape. Wynette had lost a good deal of color. Shea Maxwell and Kimberly Walnut looked like a couple of cats that just split a plate of canary.

  A knock sounded at the conference room door, it swung open and Dave Vance peered into the room.

  "Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but I need to see the Chief."

  Rosemary looked a bit put out but didn't say anything as I pushed my chair from the table, excused myself, and followed Dave into the hallway.

  "What's up?" I said in a low voice.

  "We've got a dead body," Dave whispered. "Looks like a youngster. A boy. Right across the park behind the Beautifery."

  "What!?" I said, then lowered my voice. "Are you kidding me?"

  "Otto found him when he was picking up the trash this morning. He was sitting down, propped up against the back wall by the dumpster. Nancy was in Boone, but she's already on her way back."

  "Hang on a sec." I stuck my head back inside the room. The Worship Committee had apparently decided to wait for my return and were all looking in my direction.

  "Sorry, gotta go."

  "This is an important meeting, Hayden," said Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh.

  I ignored her and followed Dave down the hall toward the exit.

  "What's so all-fired important?" I heard R
osemary ask in frustration. "We were just getting somewhere."

  "Probably just another dead body," said Elaine. "Nothing to worry about."

  Chapter 7

  The alley behind the Beautifery was devoid of any of the charm for which St. Germaine was renowned. It backed up to three establishments in addition to Noylene's Oasis of Beauty: the Ginger Cat, the Bear and Brew, and Eden Books. It was long and narrow and smelled vaguely of garbage — that rotten odor that pervades the proximity of metal dumpsters. Utility lines crossed overhead at every angle, taking power, internet, telephone, and cable TV into all the buildings on this end of the square. The cracked and worn asphalt was dotted with brown weeds poking through in numerous spots and no signs except an old, hand-lettered "No Parking" directive, painted on a board and hung on the whitewashed wall above the lone, yellow dumpster. Standing in the alley, surrounded by three walls and the entrance, one could see neither trees nor mountains. It might have been any sad alley in any city in the country. Even the birds stayed away.

  Dave and I entered from the back, walked around Otto's garbage pickup truck and saw him standing next to the dumpster. He hadn't emptied it yet, and although the large bin wasn't overflowing, it was full enough, being the only dumpster for all four businesses. The Beautifery and the bookstore probably didn't have much on a daily basis, but the Bear and Brew and the Ginger Cat more than made up the difference. We walked up to Otto and followed his gaze down the wall. Just as Dave had said, there, sitting on the ground, as though he were sleeping, was what appeared to be a teen-aged boy. His hands were in his lap, his eyes were closed, his long black hair dropped over his eyes and around his shoulders. His chin rested on his chest. I pulled his hair back off his neck and felt for a pulse. No need. His skin had a hard feel to it. He was stiff and cold as ice.

  The strangest thing about him was his dress. He was wearing a black sharkskin suit, a black shirt, and a black string tie with a rattlesnake head on the slider. Not a facsimile of a rattlesnake head — the actual head of a good-sized black rattler with the mouth open in mid-strike, the eyes glaring, and two predominant, inch-long fangs almost dripping venom. Each end of the string tie, resting in the middle of the boy's chest, was decorated with the rattles from the other end of two snakes. Eight or ten rattles at first glance, and each was maybe a couple of inches long. On his feet were black dress boots, the toe of one of them decorated with a silver tip. The other boot was unadorned. He had a skull ring with a turquoise stone on the middle finger of his right hand.