The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "There's another key stapled onto one of the back boards," said one of the air cargo men. "Just in case, I guess."

  "Should we open it up?" I asked. "I'd like to get a look at her."

  "Nah," said Pete. "She seems healthy enough. Let's wait 'til we get her home. I'd hate to have a six thousand dollar pig run off and get hit by a plane or something."

  "Six thousand!" exclaimed another cargo man. "Man, I'll bet that's one tasty pig."

  "She'd better be," I said.

  Chapter 12

  We drove up to Pete's house after a long trip home. We'd managed to get behind a farm truck whose top speed was thirty-five miles an hour for almost all of the trip back along Highway 321. The passing opportunities were few and far between and my old truck didn't have that burst of speed that drivers of more modern vehicles equipped with fuel injectors were used to, especially when traveling uphill. So it was close to eleven thirty when we arrived in St. Germaine.

  I'd given Meg a call when we were a few miles out, and when I pulled the truck into Pete's drive, Meg, Nancy, and Dave were all waiting for us.

  "How come you didn't call me?" asked Nancy when Pete and I disembarked. "I have a stake in that pig, too, you know."

  "Someone has to watch the town," I said. "Besides, we haven't even unlocked the crate and looked at her yet. We didn't want her to go running off."

  "Can we lift her off the truck?" asked Dave. "How much does she weigh?"

  "Bill of lading says one hundred and eighty pounds," said Pete. "That's pig and crate combined. She's probably one fifty. Four of us should be able to get that crate off the truck."

  "Let's do it," said Nancy.

  We dropped the tailgate and slipped the crate to the edge, then lifted it off the truck and set it on the ground. Dave dropped his corner a little early and the crate hit the gravel with a bump. The pig oinked.

  "Let's take the crate back to the pen," said Pete. "Then we can let her out and she can explore her new digs."

  "Do you have a wagon, Pete?" asked Meg.

  Pete gave Meg a quizzical look for a moment, then nodded and said, "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Don't know why I didn't think of it before."

  The wagon that Pete had was a utility wagon, a green and yellow heavy duty model that Cynthia used for gardening. We wrestled the wooden box up onto the bed, then Dave took the handle and dragged the load around the side of the house with Nancy and Pete supplying the stabilizing influence. Meg and I followed, and a few moments later we lifted the crate off the wagon and positioned it to let our truffle pig run into the pen. The lock came off, the door swung open and our six thousand dollar investment came trundling out onto the grass.

  "That is one weird-looking pig," said Dave.

  "She's a full-blooded Mangalitsa," said Pete. "The only remaining long-haired breed of pig in the world. She's a swallow-belly."

  "What's that mean?" asked Meg.

  "Swallow-belly? That's the color. It means she's got a blonde belly and feet, with a dark body."

  "I think she's quite fetching," said Nancy.

  The pig started snorting around the pen, gobbling up old acorns as she found them. There were plenty since a large oak tree stood just outside the fence. Our pig was hefty. She was covered with gray curly hair not unlike that of a sheep. She had large ears, a low slung belly, large jowls, and a relatively short snout. Her tail was straight and long and had a tuft of hair on the end. She looked more like a wild boar than a domestic pig. A gray, furry, wild boar.

  "The breed is originally from Hungary," said Pete. "They're coming back into favor as eating pigs. They have more fat than modern pigs. The meat supposedly tastes delicious."

  "Better and better," said Nancy, "if the truffle thing doesn't work out."

  "How big will she get?" asked Dave. "I mean, is she full grown?"

  "Nah. She'll get up to three or four hundred pounds if we let her eat like a pig, so to speak," said Pete. "But we want to keep her lean and hungry."

  The pig found the water trough and was slurping her fill. There was a pan with some pig chow next to the water, but the animal was happy to quench its thirst before diving into the yellow meal.

  "Does she have a name yet?" asked Meg.

  "How about Snouty," suggested Dave.

  "You see, Dave," said Nancy, "this is why you'll never have a pet."

  "I have a fish," said Dave. "Her name is Swimmy."

  "I vote to name her Truffles," said Meg. "It's what she does, and she looks like a Truffles."

  "Too confusing," said Pete. "What if I said, 'Where did we put Truffles?' Would we mean the pig or the funguses?"

  Nancy laughed. "Really? Where did we put Truffles?"

  "How about Portia then?" Meg suggested. "Or Phoebe?"

  "Portia from The Merchant of Venice?" said Pete.

  "Shakespeare's always good," said Meg.

  "The quality of mercy is not strained," I said. "It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes."

  "Huh?" said Dave.

  "Portia to Shylock," I said. "Last act, I believe, if I remember my high school drama class."

  "Okay, Portia then," said Pete. "Unless you have any other quotes by women with pig names that you can remember."

  "How about 'I modeled my looks on the town tramp.' Dolly Parton."

  "Portia it is," said Nancy.

  "Oink," said Portia.

  * * *

  The Beautifery was situated between the Bear and Brew and Eden Books on the north side of the square. I was on my way to see Georgia at the bookstore when I spotted Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle busily administering beauty to a customer seated at her station in the front window of the beauty shop. Doing my sworn duty as choir director, I opened the door and went in.

  "You see, honey," Goldi was saying to Lucille Murdock, "throughout the Bible — both Old and New Testaments — the number twelve is a prominent number. The twelve Disciples, the twelve sons of Jacob, the twelve layers of precious stones in the foundation of heaven or the New Jerusalem. Astrology has the twelve signs of the zodiac, and there are twelve houses to a horoscope, or, as we astrologers call it, a star chart."

  Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle was a Christian astrologer and saw it as her gift to help people understand what the stars had to say to them. She had many scriptures to back up her claims, each of them written on a Post-it note and thumb-tacked to the walls around her station. She had a constellation map on the wall and a Jesus fish on her hair dryer. "A woman's hair is her crowning glory," Goldi Fawn would say to whoever would listen. "First Corinthians 11:15. My first duty is to the hair. Then, if someone wants her stars done, I'm happy to read them while she gets her nails buffed. It's only five dollars more. Most Christian astrologers charge twice that much."

  Lucille Murdock was ninety years old and, although now an Episcopalian, grew up in a Baptist church and was dubious of Goldi Fawn's doctrines. She did, though, like the way Goldi Fawn did hair. She was sitting in the styling chair, her hair covered with pieces of what looked like tin foil. I saw a piece of flowered fabric peeking out from under the apron that covered her from neck to knees. Her hands were folded in her lap and her froggy eyes blinked at me from behind big, thick glasses that looked like fishbowls. She gave me a wan smile when she saw me and fluttered her fingers in greeting.

  "Hi, Goldi Fawn," I said. "I just dropped in to say that we missed you at choir practice last evening."

  "Thanks, Hayden. Sorry I didn't make it. I got tied up with a dye job that went bad. Noylene and me both had to pull out all our tricks to save that one. I was afraid for a while that we were going to lose her."

  "She came through all right?" Lucille asked nervously.

  "Oh, sure," said Goldi Fawn, as she rolled another piece of foil onto Lucille's scalp and slathered it with some lamp black. "Of course, some of that hair may fall out after a while. We had to use a lot of chemicals. Never fear. It'll probably all grow back."

 
"I just wanted to say hello. Is Noylene in the back?"

  "Nope. She hasn't come in yet. She sometimes doesn't schedule appointments 'til the afternoon. She's a woman of leisure, that's what she is. Darla's in the back if you want a quickie."

  That caught me by surprise. "A quickie?"

  "A quick cut," said Goldi Fawn. "A walk-in."

  "Oh," I said. "No, thanks. I'm good."

  "You coming to the play next week?" Goldi asked. "I'm in it, you know, so I'll miss rehearsal next Wednesday, too. I'm playing the elderly heiress, Miss Sadie Baxter."

  "I believe we already have our tickets," I lied.

  * * *

  Georgia — I was told when I went into Eden Books — was across the square at St. Barnabas. I exited the bookshop and cut across the park. I crossed the lawn, walked past the white wooden gazebo, past the statue of Harrison Sterling, and as I neared the church I saw Georgia come out of the red front doors. She didn't look happy.

  "Georgia!" I called out, giving her a wave. She spotted me, returned the wave and crossed the street to meet me.

  "What's up?" she said. "Do you have news on the guy in the alley?"

  "Nope," I said with a shrug. "I thought you wanted to talk to me. That's what your message said on my voice mail."

  Georgia looked at me in mock-disgust. "Hayden, that message was from last week sometime. I had a question about the setup for the Ash Wednesday service."

  "Oh ... everything seemed to go fine."

  "Kimberly Walnut couldn't find the palms from last year. You know where she got the ashes?"

  "Nope."

  "She burnt a couple of Palm Sunday bulletins on the kitchen stove. Said that was close enough."

  I laughed. "We thought she might have tried the crematorium."

  "Don't give her any ideas. Now," said Georgia in a serious voice, "let's talk about the altar guild."

  "It's not in my preview," I said.

  "Purview," said Georgia. "Doesn't matter. You have to help."

  "What's Rosemary done now?"

  Georgia took a deep breath. "Mother P ..." She paused and gave me a long look. "Hey, you don't call her Mother P."

  "Can't do it."

  Georgia gave me a smirk. "Rosemary has decided that during Lent she herself will be in charge of decorating the altar. Mr. Christopher has agreed to help her along with a couple of others. They don't want flowers or plants. Rather, it is her plan to use objects that will enhance the congregation's appreciation of her sermons."

  "Sort of like a 'theme' altar," I said.

  "Exactly," said Georgia. "Now what are we going to do about it?"

  Another test. Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.

  "Not my preview."

  * * *

  That afternoon I went into the church to practice. I planned to play the Bach Little Fugue in D minor at the end of the service, a short piece, only about two minutes long, but one I needed to play through a few times. Also on the practice schedule was my prelude, Johann Adam Reincken's By the Waters of Babylon (another Baroque favorite), and the hymns for Sunday. I'd picked the hymns and they were of a sombre nature. It was Lent, after all. The way things were going, I had a feeling that I wouldn't be picking the hymns for too much longer. Maybe, I thought, I could also come up with an idea for the mass I had been "commissioned" to write.

  I went in the front doors and up the steps to the choir loft without going through the double doors that divided the nave from the narthex. I was surprised, therefore, to see Varmit LeMieux and Bear Niederman down front, busy putting up a large projection screen off to one side of the chancel steps, just above the hymn board. The screen looked to be about ten feet across and five high. I sighed heavily, decided to ignore them and concentrate on my work.

  I'd started on the second hymn when Varmit appeared at the top of the stairs. I stopped playing and looked over at him.

  "Could you give us a hand?" he asked. "We need someone to hold the other side of the screen while Bear puts the screws in."

  "Sorry, Varmit," I said. "I haven't got time right now. How about Rosemary or Kimberly Walnut? It can't be that heavy."

  "Nah, it's not. I can get one of them. You were just handy."

  "I can't do it just now. How's Muffy's solo going? Have you guys rehearsed yet?"

  "I've got the mic hooked up. She doesn't want to use one of those wraparound headphone mics and we don't have a wireless handheld, so she's going to have to use the one with the cord. It won't matter. She's great! You know, ever since she's been in this play, her stage presence is just awesome. I hooked the CD player up to the sound system, so all I've got to do is start the track and my baby'll be stylin' to Eagle's Wings. She's even working with an acting coach."

  "That sounds fine, Varmit," I said.

  "Muffy went to the Costco in Winston-Salem this morning. Mother P sent her over to get some stuff to decorate the altar during Lent, so we haven't tried it yet."

  "Why are you putting the screen up? I mean, if Muffy's singing a solo."

  "It's for next week," said Varmit. "We're not going to use it yet. Mother P thought it'd be a good idea to let everyone see the screen and get used to it for a week before we start putting the words to the choruses up there. She says she wants to get the congregation out of their comfort zone."

  "Ah," I said. "If that's her plan, she's right on track."

  * * *

  "His name," said Nancy, "is Johnny Talltrees."

  "You're kidding," said Dave. "Talltrees?"

  "He was in the system?" I asked.

  "He's in the system, all right," said Nancy. "He has a rap sheet taller than he is. Assault, extortion, illegal selling of alcohol, racketeering, illegal gambling, drug possession, you name it. He did some time in north Georgia."

  "Where's he from?" I asked.

  "Cherokee. You were right about that. I also got an email from the Cherokee police. They have him down as extremely dangerous. He's known to carry a box cutter and a small caliber pistol. He'll also kick you with those silver-tipped boots."

  "Quite the little banty rooster," Dave said.

  "Someone caught him by surprise," I said. "So what was he doing around here?"

  Chapter 13

  Pedro LaFleur would be holding court at Buxtehooter's, a pipe-organ bar in the Village that collects the beautiful people the way Russell Crowe collects Precious Moments figurines. The beer-fräuleins, buxom, bewitching, and beautiful, were busy sloshing suds across the bar, singing Tyrolean Himmelfahrt carols, and playfully snapping each other's dirndl straps. The organist, a bird named Twelve-Fingered Teddy, was cutting loose on a Gottlieb Muffat toccata as the crowd started the two-step. I elbowed my way past a couple of passacaglia groupies, slugged a gink who was trying to pick a pocket, and pulled up a chair at Pedro's table.

  "You want some wine?" Pedro asked with a belch. "I'm laying off the beer. I heard it was fattening."

  "Sure," I said.

  Pedro was my right-hand man, a countertenor with high notes that would make Beverly Sills blush and a repartee that rivaled Sylvester Stallone's cocktail banter. He was mean as a bull snake, chewed coal tar instead of breath mints, and had a face like a snapping turtle wearing a goatee. He dribbled me a glass from a bottle of Rosé that poured pinkly, like a stream of urine five hours after eating a beet salad.

  "You want half of this beet salad?" he asked.

  "Nah. Listen, we got trouble."

  "Big trouble?" he interrogued.

  "Yeah. A dame just got shot in my office."

  "So what else is new? That happens every other Thursday."

  "This is different. It was ... Carrie Oakey."

  Pedro stopped eating his beets in mid-mastication and they fell from his lips like half-chewed pieces of raw liver. I didn't blame him. The mere mention of Carrie Oakey made my own head spin like a coconut when it's being spun by one of those island guys who spins cocon
uts for cruise ship tourists, the fine hairs of which (the coconut's, not the tourist's) were standing on end in fear, as if the coconut had been reading Stephen King.

  "You sure?" he said, his mouth half-full of beets, or half-empty, depending on one's personal philosophy. "Carrie Oakey is dead?"

  "Dead as that pet hamster I was keeping for you," deciding to break all the bad news at once.

  "What happened?" said Pedro, sadly.

  "Wet tail," I said, "and a bullet."

  * * *

  "How about a dramatic reading?" asked Meg. "You could do one for Mother P's Wednesday night Lenten program. You know, right before choir practice. They start next week."

  "I think they're doing a Bible study, if I'm not mistaken. Will you be in attendance?"

  "They are, and no, I shall not be in attendance. They're watching a video series and answering questions from a workbook. Not my cup of tea."

  "It's a new world," I said.

  "I'm sure they could make room for a well-known author such as yourself."

  "You are being sarcastic," I replied. "In point of fact, some of these chapters have found their way onto Al Gore's international interweb. I am becoming very well known in some circles."

  "Probably not circles I would brag about, if I were you," Meg warned. "Where are they showing up?"

  "Mostly on my Facebook page."

  "You have a Facebook page? When did this happen?"

  "This afternoon," I said smugly, "and I have three friends already. You're not the only interweb genius in this household."

  * * *

  "We gotta go see the Big Brickle," I said. "Brickle. That's the way in."

  Pedro nodded.