The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  The back door of Eden Books opened and Nancy came striding out with Georgia right behind her.

  "Are you kidding me?" said Nancy, her shoulders sagging as she saw the boy in front of us.

  "That's what the Chief said," said Dave sadly. "His exact words."

  "Oh my!" said Georgia. "Oh no! This is terrible!"

  "Georgia," I said, "would you mind terribly going back inside and calling the paramedics?"

  "I already ..." started Nancy, then stopped as she caught my eye.

  "Georgia?" I said again. She was frozen in place, staring at the body. Then at the mention of her name, she seemed to snap out of her daze and regain her senses.

  "Of course. Of course, I will." She returned to the back door of the bookshop and tugged on it, but it had locked behind her. With a huff of frustration, she walked past us and the garbage truck to make her way around the block.

  "And, Georgia," Nancy called after her, "don't tell anyone about this just yet."

  "I won't," she answered, and disappeared.

  "I already dialed the EMTs," said Nancy, once Georgia had cleared the alley. "They're on the way."

  "I figured," I said, as I squatted down beside the boy to take a closer look. "Odd clothes for a kid."

  "Yeah," agreed Dave, resting on his haunches beside me.

  "Can I go?" asked Otto. "I gotta lot of garbage to pick up and I'm already behind."

  "Yeah," I answered. "Leave this one, though." I pointed to the dumpster just behind the truck. "Come and get it tomorrow."

  "Will do," said Otto, and climbed into the cab. A moment later, the truck rumbled off and we were left alone in the alley.

  "This is no kid," I said, once Otto had left.

  Nancy bent down and joined Dave and me in a closer inspection. I pulled the jet-black hair which was hanging over the face of the corpse back behind his ears — easy to do since the length was a good four inches beyond his shoulders. Although the person resting with his back against the wall was diminutive, once we could see his face clearly it was obvious that his age was more advanced than what we believed at first glance. He had a hooked nose, deep-set eyes, a dark, ruddy complexion, and the lined countenance of a middle-aged man. His cheeks were scarred with pock marks, acne scars maybe, or something worse.

  "An Indian," said Dave. "Cherokee, I'll bet."

  "Native American," corrected Nancy. "He's tiny. Can't be more than five feet tall. I wouldn't know if he's a Cherokee, though."

  "It's a good chance," I said. "Cherokee is only a couple of hours away."

  Cherokee, North Carolina, is about an hour west of Asheville. Once a tourist destination on the Great Smoky Mountain Parkway, now the town is better known for its casino. Like most of the Indian reservations in the country, the Cherokee tribe had decided to cast its fortune in with a gambling operation and open a series of casinos. Cherokee was a relatively small town, but the boundary of the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Nation comprised over fifty thousand acres.

  "I don't see any blood," said Nancy.

  "Be hard to see with these black clothes," I said. "Maybe some pooling underneath. We'll wait 'til the ambulance gets here to move him, then send him over to Kent." I looked over toward the dumpster. "See that?" I said. "Somebody's gotta go through the garbage."

  I looked at Dave, Nancy looked at Dave and Dave looked at the dumpster.

  "Aw, man," he said.

  I said, "I'm just glad this isn't a kid."

  "Hang on," said Nancy, studying the man's face. "Look at this."

  She pulled the sleek hair farther away from his face, revealing the man's forehead. There, right between his eyes, was the unmistakable shape of a cross.

  Ash Wednesday.

  * * *

  After we'd gone through the pockets of the victim and come up empty, the EMTs loaded him into the ambulance and took him down the mountain to Boone to be delivered to Dr. Kent Murphee, Watauga County's medical examiner. I'd already called Kent and, it being a slow day, he was waiting to get started.

  "What do you think?" asked Nancy. "Murdered?"

  "Hard to think he wasn't," I replied. "He probably didn't wander into this alley, sit down behind the dumpster, and have a heart attack."

  "Probably not," Nancy agreed.

  "What about this garbage?" Dave said, eyeing the yellow dumpster. "Are you guys going to help or what?"

  "Yeah," said Nancy. "I'll help."

  "Me, too," I said.

  Two hours later we were sifting through the entire contents spread in piles across the ground. Georgia had made a couple of visits, and Pete had shown up once, bringing us some coffee. He'd gotten the word from Noylene, who'd heard it from Darla, who'd come out the back door to dump yesterday's hair clippings while the ambulance was still there, but Pete didn't stay, once he'd discovered that we were sorting garbage.

  Not finding anything that might be remotely connected to our Native American friend, we shoveled everything back into the dumpster and walked back across the park to the station to see if there had been any reports of Ash Wednesday rioting and looting. Nothing on the answering machine, but Nancy, after listening intently, informed me that the rabid possum had been spotted again, this time in Mildred Kibbler's oak tree, but never mind now, because when Mildred went back out to poke at it with a broom stick, the creature had disappeared.

  "Why don't you call her back and tell her to call Ruby next time?" I suggested. "She'll take care of that possum."

  "I already told Mildred to do just that," said Nancy, "but apparently she's not on speaking terms with Ruby. Something about a dead tree that fell into her back yard. I went and looked, but there was no tree."

  "That happened fifteen years ago," I said. "Longtime grudge. Anyway, that possum's not rabid. Just friendly, and possibly hungry."

  "I know it," said Nancy. "If it were rabid, and it had been exhibiting symptoms the first time Mildred called, it'd be dead by now. She keeps feeding it garbage, so it'll stick around."

  I got Dave started on the dead body paperwork and tried to summon up some enthusiasm for composing a new mass. Nothing. I called Kent Murphee and made an appointment for after lunch.

  Chapter 8

  The Ginger Cat was everything that the Slab Café was not, catering mainly to the uppercrusty sort of tourists that liked their delicate sandwiches made out of ingredients that would terrify most mountain folk. Capers, for instance, look way too similar to rabbit droppings to ever be put on a plate of lettuce and called "Fennel and Caper Pastiche."

  Meg was saving me a seat. Bev Greene was sitting beside her. I spotted them near the back when I came in, waved, and took a moment to hang my coat on the rack by the front door before making my way past the little store that made up the front half of the restaurant. Anne Cooke, the proprietress, had locally-made jams, jellies, quilts, knickknacks, geegaws, and gimcracks just waiting for the tourist with a few extra bucks burning a hole in his or her pocket. Mr. Christopher met me halfway to the table.

  "Good afternoon, Sheriff," he said. "I believe you'll be dining with Miss Meg?" He extended an arm in the direction of the table. His other arm was bent at the correct angle and had a white, starched dishtowel draped over it.

  "Indeed I am. Thank you kindly," I answered.

  "Any news on the deceased visitor in the alley?"

  "Does everyone know?" I asked.

  Mr. Christopher nodded in the affirmative. "Pretty much," he said.

  Mr. Christopher Lloyd was the current head waiter at the Ginger Cat. He had owned the premiere home design business in Watauga County for a number of years, being both an excellent floral arranger and a decorator. This was back before cable TV had all the home shows and Mr. Christopher was the man to hire if you needed some help furbishing or festooning. He was also in demand as a wedding planner, covering everything from flowers to music to receptions — soup to nuts as it were. This all came crashing down quite tragically.

  Mr. Christopher had given all this up to become a TV star on H
GTV. His show, The Fourteen Layers of Style, was supposed to be a big hit. He sold his business to his arch-rival, Dukota Squeeque, owner of Squeekie's, and poised himself to become a millionaire celebrity designer. It didn't work out.

  Unfortunately Mr. Christopher had a thing for one of the cameramen, and they'd left a camera on in the studio one night after the shooting had finished. Entertainment TV somehow ended up with the tape and even HGTV couldn't keep him on the air, even though the ratings had been more than promising. So after four episodes Mr. Christopher found himself unemployed and unemployable. He was told by his agent that these things pass, and to just be patient for a couple of years. Hard to do when you've just bought a new house with a mountain gorge view and a late-model Jaguar. His wedding gigs were picking up, though, and he'd found work at the Ginger Cat to tide him over. As industrious people often do, he'd made himself indispensable to Anne, not only helping with the service aspect of the operation, but also creating new dishes, designing the menus, finding local sources of fresh produce, decorating — whatever it took. Now, a couple of years after his TV fiasco, there were also murmurings around town of a new cable deal.

  I gave Meg a kiss on the cheek and pulled out the chair next to her. Bev was sitting across the table. I didn't know what to expect. Tears, maybe?

  "Sorry to hear the news from the church," I said. "How are you doing?"

  "Oh, I'm fine," said Bev. "And we have news as well, but first tell us about the dead guy."

  "There's not much to tell yet. He appears to be middle-aged. Looks to be an American Indian, but there was no identification, and we didn't see any obvious cause of death. He did have a sign of the cross on his forehead."

  "Ashes?" said Meg. "Like from a church service?"

  "Looked like it to me," I answered.

  "Then he didn't get it done here," said Bev. "Mother P decided that she didn't want to have the Imposition of Ashes at the morning service." There was no keeping the bitterness out of her voice. "Too much trouble, I guess." She brightened. "Anyway, I have a new job."

  "Doing what?"

  "Working with Meg. I'm the new secretary for her downtown office."

  "Partner," corrected Meg. "You're the new partner."

  "You have a downtown office?" I asked Meg, confused. "Do I know you? Have we met? My name's Hayden."

  Bev laughed and said, "We just finalized the plan. It's good. It's an investment counseling service, mostly for old folks who can't afford one, or don't know where to go, or what to do with the assets they have. But we'll also show young people just starting out how to set up IRAs, investment accounts, that sort of thing."

  "Free, of course," added Meg.

  "Of course," I said.

  Mr. Christopher showed up at my arm and looked down at me expectantly. He didn't say anything. That would be too obvious. The ladies were sipping tea. Something exotic and un-pronounceable, no doubt.

  "Coffee," I said.

  "We have twenty-seven kinds of coffee, sir. May I surprise you?"

  "You may." He disappeared and I turned back to the conversation.

  "I've been wanting to do this for a while," said Meg. "It'll be fun. We'll set up a non-profit organization, rent an office, and work one or two mornings a week."

  "And you know all this stuff?" I asked Bev.

  "Not yet," she admitted. "But I can learn fairly quickly."

  "We'll do a couple of week-long seminars," Meg said. "I'll walk her through. Most of it is pretty basic, but there are some tax laws we need to keep current on."

  "Sounds like you guys have a plan," I said. "Who's funding this endeavor?"

  "Why, you are, my sweet," said Meg.

  "Excellent. I shall expect monthly reports."

  I wasn't in the least worried. Meg had grown the family fortune by a substantial amount in the last two years and we were in no danger of financial exigency. "I presume this will all be tax deductible?" I asked.

  "Of course," said Meg. "Now to the matters at hand." She narrowed her eyes. "St. Barnabas."

  Just then Annette Passaglio appeared at the table. "Hayden," she said breathlessly, "sorry to interrupt, but we just heard about the dead boy found behind the restaurant."

  "Hi, Annette. He wasn't a boy, first of all, and second, we have matters well in hand, so please do what you can to squelch the rumors before they get out of control."

  "Really? I heard he was a boy." Annette was old money in St. Germaine, and her husband was an orthodontist in Boone. Once her children had grown and moved out of the house, she'd become a reporter for the St. Germaine Tattler, our semiweekly equivalent of the hometown newspaper, specializing in who was in visiting for the weekend, school awards, local history, local for-sale ads, and the like. A dead man in the alley adjacent to the square might be big news, especially if there was foul play involved, and Annette fancied herself to be the Geraldo Rivera of St. Germaine.

  "No, not a boy," I said. "Closer to forty probably. He may have just suffered a heart attack. We don't know who he was or why he was in the alley. We'll know more this afternoon and I'll be sure to let the newspaper know. Right now we're doing everything we can."

  "Including sitting down to a nice lunch?" Annette said sweetly.

  "On the other hand," I said, "maybe I'll have Nancy call the Watauga Democrat and make sure they have the story first."

  "Don't you dare!" hissed Annette. "I was just kidding! You call me immediately! No. Never mind. I'll call you!"

  Annette disappeared and was replaced by Mr. Christopher, who placed a steaming cup of black liquid in front of me. "Brazil Zinho Esperanza," he announced. "Crisp, rather than bright. An excellent choice for those who enjoy a quietly complex, medium-roasted coffee with natural sweetness and low acidity. No cream or sugar required. I shall be back momentarily to take your lunch selections."

  "Don't you just love this place?" said Meg.

  I tried a sip of the coffee. Mr. Christopher was right. No cream or sugar required. I dumped in a packet just for spite. Then added some cream.

  "So tell me what happened with the priest?" I asked Bev. "Rosemary?"

  "Nothing much. I voiced some displeasure over the way she'd decided to change things. She told me that she appreciated my input, but as I was only the Parish Administrator, the worship service was not in my preview. That's exactly the way she put it. 'Not in my preview.' I said, thanks very much, but I really didn't want to be Parish Administrator any longer and that was it."

  "She obviously meant to say 'purview,'" I said. "Or perhaps she meant to say 'sphere of influence,' or perhaps 'dominion.' To indicate that the worship service was 'not in your preview' would mean that ..."

  "Shut up, Hayden," growled Bev. "I know what she meant. Anyway, I was getting tired of it. That Kimberly Walnut was driving me crazy. Now I can just sing in the choir and gripe."

  "But you're on the Worship Committee," added Meg. "She put you on the Worship Committee."

  "I know," said Bev, raising her hands. "What's that about? Doesn't she know I'm going to be the fly in the ointment?"

  "You may have my proxy when I'm not there," I said.

  "Oh, good," said Bev, sarcasm apparent.

  Mr. Christopher appeared. "Are we ready to order? You'll be gratified to know that Pat Strother has come over from Blowing Rock for the week. She's the sous chef over at Chez Nous, but they're closed for renovations. Annie's trying her out." He lowered his voice. "Just between us, I think she's faaabulous! Maybe we can get her full-time."

  "I am gratified to know that," I said. "Deeply gratified."

  "What is the special, again?" Meg asked, pretending to glance at the menu. She was getting the special. We all knew it. Mr. Christopher took a long, patient breath.

  "Fresh salmon tartare with marinated cucumber and aged citrus vinegar. That's served with Maralumi milk chocolate parfait, a pear sphere, and cinnamon caramel for dessert."

  "I'll have that," said Meg, closing her menu decisively. "No chocolate, though. I've given it up for L
ent." She handed the menu to Mr. Christopher who turned to Bev. He didn't write anything down. No need.

  "I'll have the duck salad, please," said Bev. "And could you substitute the black truffle Carbonara sauce for the red-wine grape Mostarada dressing? And put it on the side?"

  "Certainly," said Mr. Christopher.

  "I'll have a fried egg sandwich," I said. "Extra ketchup."

  * * *

  Lunch was delicious, or so Meg and Bev exclaimed to each other over and over, almost between every forkful. My sandwich was good, too. Mr. Christopher dressed up the fried egg with home baked sourdough bread, a creamy mayonnaise sauce that tasted vaguely of horseradish and parsley, grated Manchego cheese, and something he called "rocket," more commonly known as "a bunch of nettles that the cook found growing in the ditch out back." The plate was garnished with charred octopus a la plancha, on a bed of watercress. Well, of course it was.

  "Tell us about this play we've been hearing about," said Meg, when Mr. Christopher came to whisk our plates away. "The Little Theater Production."

  Mr. Christopher struck his theatrical pose. "Welcome to Mitford," he said. "It's about the fictitious town of Mitford, North Carolina. One of your choir members, I believe, is playing the leading lady."

  "Muffy LeMieux," I said.

  "She's playing the character of Cynthia Coopersmith. I'm portraying Father Tim Kavanagh and directing. It's quite a large cast, thirteen men and ten women."