The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  "Daddy gave me that knife when I was a knee-high," she said. "Mother-of-pearl handle. Taught me how to whittle. I couldn't give it to D'Artagnan. That boy would have cut his thumb off with it. I was thinking Rahab might like it someday. For just a little sprout, he's clever with his hands."

  I took the chair next to her. Hog sat down across from me. Noylene finished copying the serial number from the bill in her hand, placed it in a stack to her left, and took a new bill from the pile in front of her.

  "Thought you gave up smoking," I said.

  "Yeah, well, I've taken it back up," Noylene said.

  "Want me to help with this?" Not waiting for an answer, I reached for another pad on the table.

  She took a long drag. "Sure," she finally answered, then blew a puff of blue smoke up into the ceiling fan.

  * * *

  An hour later, we'd finished. I looked at my watch. 1:28. "Want me to stick around?" I asked.

  "We'll call you," said Hog. "Soon as we hear from the scum that took our boy."

  Noylene was bundling the bills back into fifty-bill stacks using thick rubber bands that had been piled up in the middle of the table. Fifteen stacks. The entire amount would fit in a small plastic grocery bag and wouldn't even weigh two pounds.

  "Not to be nosey," I said, "and this is just for the sake of the investigation, but how much could you two have come up with if you had to? Cash, I mean."

  "Why do you want to know?" asked Noylene, her eyes narrow.

  "If the kidnappers asked for a specific amount, maybe they knew how much you had on hand."

  Noylene looked over at Hog and he nodded. "Makes sense," he said. "This is just between us?"

  "Of course."

  "This about taps us in the cash-on-hand department. There's more in a few banks around the area, but it would take us a day to round it up. And we have some gold ... "

  I held up a hand to stop him. "That'll do. Can you think of anyone who might have known or found out how much y'all had on hand?"

  Noylene shook her head. Hog looked thoughtful, then said, "Nope."

  "We don't tell our business," Noylene said. "Don't talk about it, don't cogitate, don't speculate."

  "I get it," I said, "but it sounds as though someone found out."

  * * *

  I left the property and took some time driving the roads that fringed Quail Ridge. There weren't many, and I didn't see anything that might be considered out of the ordinary. Feeling dumb as a stump and saying a silent prayer for Rahab, I went back to town.

  Chapter 15

  "Meg's called three times," said Nancy. She was sitting at her computer, monitoring Noylene's phone. Dave was sitting at the other desk chair, the one that might fall over backwards if you leaned the wrong way.

  "I've been out of range," I said. I shrugged off my jacket and laid it on the counter.

  "No, your ringer is off," said Nancy.

  "How do you know?"

  "Check it," she said.

  I pulled out my phone, looked at it, then surreptitiously clicked the mute button back to ring.

  "Nope, it's fine," I said.

  "Slyly done," said Nancy. "You know, you should be a spy or something."

  "Any news on Rahab?" asked Dave.

  "No contact since I left the trailer. I helped them finish copying the serial numbers. That was about forty-five minutes ago. I was hoping the kidnapper would call while I was there. No luck."

  "Maybe they're watching the place," said Nancy. "Could do it from almost anywhere up there. You know, the note said don't contact the police. Maybe they saw your truck."

  "Maybe," I conceded. "I doubt it, though. We think it's just one person and, if we're right, they're going to have their hands full with a two year old."

  "Call Meg back, will you?" said Nancy.

  "I'll do it right now."

  But I didn't. The door to the station opened and Muffy LeMieux came in, her light green angora sweater in full bloom.

  "Hi, Muffy," I said, forgetting about the phone call.

  "Hi, Muffy," echoed Dave.

  "Aren't you cold in that outfit?" asked Nancy, when she saw her.

  "Oh, no," said Muffy, then added, "Well, these stretch pants are a little chilly."

  "You look wonderful," gushed Dave, then realized what he sounded like, and said in a serious tone, "I mean, that sweater really suits you, Miss LeMieux."

  "Thanks, Dave. You're a real sweetie!" Muffy squeaked, then turned her attention to me. "Hayden, can I talk to you for just a minute? You know, alone?"

  "Hang on!" barked Nancy, typing furiously on her computer keyboard. "Noylene's phone is ringing!"

  Dave and I quickly huddled over her shoulder and peered at the monitor.

  "Someone answered it," said Nancy. Her fingers flew over the keys. "The call's coming from a cell phone," she said, scrolling down the page, looking at screen after screen quicker than I could make heads or tales out of any of it. "Dammit! No GPS chip. Must be one of those cheap, disposable ones."

  "Can we listen in?" I asked.

  Nancy hit a button and Hog's voice came across the computer speakers. "Yessir, I have the money. Let me talk to Rahab."

  "I'm recording the call," hissed Nancy.

  A moment later a baby's voice came jabbering across the lines. I couldn't make out anything he said, but apparently Hog was satisfied and gave a nine digit number to the caller.

  "Oh, jeeze!" I said. "Did Hog just give the kidnapper a cell number?"

  "Sounded like it," Nancy agreed. "Wait. They've hung up."

  "Bring up the recording," I said.

  Nancy hit a few keys, then we heard a voice, a male voice, say, "Hogmanay McTavish, do you know why I'm calling you?"

  "Yes."

  "Give me your cell phone number."

  "Not yet. I want to talk to my boy."

  "You have the money?"

  "Yessir, I have the money. Let me talk to Rahab."

  A pause, then some baby talk, then Brother Hog repeating the nine digit number, then a click.

  "Call them back," I said, but Nancy was already dialing. "Tell them to wait for us until we get there."

  Nancy listened for a few moments. "No answer," she finally said.

  "Oh, my God!" said Muffy, her mouth open in a little "o." "Is this a kidnapping?"

  "Muffy," I said, "not a word to anyone."

  "Of course not!"

  "Let's go, Nancy," I said, pulling my jacket back on. "Dave, wait here. Call if you hear anything."

  On the fast trip up to Quail Ridge, Nancy said, "That was a man's voice."

  "Sounded like it to me, too," I said. "We'll listen to it again when we get back. Could have been a woman with a low range. Obviously, whoever it was would try to disguise their voice."

  "Yeah. Especially if it was someone in town we might recognize."

  We were back up at the property in fifteen minutes. I swung into the entrance, spraying gravel in all directions, then floored the old Chevy up the rutted driveway. When we were in view of the trailer, we could see that Noylene's truck was gone.

  I skidded to a stop, and Nancy and I were both out of the cab and up the steps in two shakes. Nancy banged on the door with the flat of her hand. No answer. She banged again, hard.

  "Noylene," I called. "Answer the door!"

  We heard footsteps, then the door opened and Noylene looked out at us with red-rimmed eyes.

  "Where's Hog?" I asked.

  "He went to get our boy back."

  "You know where he went, Noylene?" Nancy said.

  "No, not exactly. Whoever it was called his cell and said for him to start driving. They'd call him again and give him directions."

  "And he took the money with him?" Nancy asked.

  "Yes, he did," said Noylene. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. "Said I wasn't to come. Just Hog."

  I said, "I'm sure everything will work out fine. May we come in and wait with you?"

&nb
sp; Noylene stepped back away from the door and we went in. The house was the same as I'd left it, except for the dining room table. The cash was gone and the three yellow legal pads were stacked and pushed to the far edge.

  "Y'all want some lemonade?" Noylene asked.

  "I'll have some," said Nancy.

  "No, thanks," I said, then pulled out my phone to call Meg. Voicemail again. I didn't leave a message.

  "We'll take those legal pads, okay?" I asked, nodding toward the table. "We can put those serial numbers in the system and hopefully catch someone spending one of those bills."

  "Sure, I guess." Noylene disappeared into the kitchen. We went into the living room and sat down, Nancy on the long sofa, me in Hog's recliner.

  My phone rang and it was Meg. "I'm over at Noylene's," I told her. "Hog's taken the ransom money and gone to get Rahab. He didn't wait for us."

  "Call me," she said. "Call me as soon as you know anything."

  "I will."

  * * *

  An hour later we heard the little Toyota truck backfiring up the driveway. Noylene ran to the door, flung it open, and practically flew down the steps and into the driveway. A few moments later, before the truck had even fully stopped, she yanked the passenger door open, pulled little Rahab from his car seat, and began smothering him with kisses. He babbled happily and used both his hands to pull Noylene's hair.

  Hog got out of the truck and smiled at Noylene, then at us, obviously proud of himself.

  "You should have waited for us," said Nancy. "We might have caught the kidnappers if you'd waited."

  "Couldn't chance it," said Hog. "But now that Rahab's back, you go ahead and catch them."

  "At least find out who they are," said Noylene. "I'd like to speak with them." Her face was hard.

  "You didn't see them?" I asked Hog.

  "Nope. I dropped the sack of money in the middle of Turtle Branch Road like he told me."

  "You had phone service?" I asked. "The whole time?"

  Hog looked thoughtful. "Yes. Yes, I did. Never lost it, not even once, and I was on the phone with him the whole time."

  Nancy and I looked at each other. "Must have plotted it out pretty carefully," she said to me, then to Hog, "Who's your phone service provider? I lose my connection up here all the time."

  "Carolina West Wireless."

  Nancy pulled out a pad from her breast pocket and jotted the information down. Noylene carried Rahab up the steps, onto the porch, and into the house, all the while talking softly into his ear.

  "Tell us the rest," I said to Hog.

  "Like I told you, I dropped the sack of money in the middle of Turtle Branch Road just where he told me to. There's hardly anybody that drives that road. It's a cut through. No houses on it."

  "He?" said Nancy. "You sure it was a he?"

  "It was a man, I think. Maybe not, but I think it was. So I dropped the bag and he told me to drive real slow and I would see Rahab sitting by the road in about a half mile."

  "And he was?" I asked.

  "Yes," said Hog, now with a tired smile. "He was tied to a tree, sitting on a blanket, and chewing on a carrot. He even had a little stocking cap on. The rope wasn't tight around him, but he couldn't just walk away. Took a couple of minutes to untie him. The rope's in the back of the truck, if you want it. The blanket and the hat, too. None of that's ours."

  "Thanks," I said. "We'll take it all. I sure am glad you got Rahab back safe and sound."

  "Me, too," said Hog. "Now you guys find out who did this. Rahab and I have a tent revival scheduled for next week at the campground in Valle Crucis. I don't want to have to worry about someone kidnapping him again."

  * * *

  On the way home Nancy said, "What do you think? A man?"

  "My gut says it's a woman," I said. "Everything about it says female from the planning on down to the blanket and the stocking hat." I paused, then said, "Still, there could be two of them working together."

  Nancy squinched an eye at me. "I don't think so. Plus, we still have the Talltrees case on our plate. Who uses a taser? A man?"

  "No," I said.

  Chapter 16

  I'd heard the rumors. Carrie Oakey was going to shut down the Society for the Betterment of Choirs. The SBC had a dirty secret that had been kept by the Anglican Boys choirs for the better part of a century. Leprechauns. Leprechauns masquerading as boy sopranos. With their high, peepy voices and their creepy little fingers, they could go undetected for decades as long as they kept moving. After a few years in one place, it was a dye job, some liposuction, a quick shave, and a new pair of short pants, and they were off to a competing choir, a sack of coins and a gold watch for their trouble. The only time the choir director had to worry was when St. Paddy's Day fell on a Sunday.

  The baby name grift was to keep me busy, out of the loop, while Carrie Oakey moved in and cleaned them out. And since I would be busy investigating the bishop, he wouldn't be able to call me in. But why now? Then it hit me like a cantaloupe thrown from an interstate overpass: the leprechauns were tied to the Mayan calendar just as surely as St. Lucy was the patron saint of optometrists, what with her eyeballs on that plate and everything, and 2012 was the end. The end of everything.

  * * *

  I kept thinking about the seventy-five thousand dollars as I drove into town on Saturday morning. It was Nancy's day off and Dave was working the station, but I thought I'd check in at least, then go over to St. Barnabas and practice a bit. I still had some work to do on the Reincken organ postlude and I had to come up with something for the service music. I'd told Rosemary that I was almost finished with it — no sense in panicking the priest unnecessarily — but couldn't get it into the bulletin for the congregation this quickly. We'd agreed that we'd let the choir sing it this coming Sunday, then have the congregation join in next week. All this, predicated on the assumption that I'd actually come up with something.

  During the season of Lent, we didn't sing our customary Gloria, but substituted a more penitent Kyrie instead.

  Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.

  Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

  The Sanctus remained, as did the music sung at the breaking of the bread, known as the "fraction anthem." This anthem changed from week to week and was generally only sung by the choir, our usual text being the Agnus Dei — Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. This being the case, I could get away with writing a Kyrie and a Sanctus for the congregation to sing, and then maybe a more elaborate Agnus Dei for the choir.

  As I drove down the mountain toward town, I slipped the recording I'd been listening to out of the CD player and replaced it with one featuring Leon Redbone, entitled On the Track. In my opinion Leon Redbone was a genius, a one-man folk-jazz enigma. I clicked through the tracks, landing on a favorite, Lulu's Back in Town. Four songs later I was pulling into my parking place in front of the police station, when the last song on the album came up and a familiar tune floated through the cab of the pickup. It was a tune I'd learned as a kid, sung in music class in elementary school, figured out how to play on the harmonica when I was eight, and harmonized around every campfire since I could remember. I froze and listened to Leon warble through the old classic. Divine inspiration? Oh, yes! I bowed my head and offered a prayer of thanks for illumination, then a prayer asking forgiveness for what I was about to compose.

  * * *

  Dave was in the office, reclining in his swivel chair, his feet resting on the desk, eating a vanilla donut stuffed with Bavarian creme, judging from the yellow pudding gracing his chin.

  "Morning, Boss," he said. "You want a donut? There're one or two left."

  I opened the white cardboard box sitting on the counter and viewed the remnants of multicolored sprinkles, smears of chocolate, apple filling, powdered sugar, and white and yellow creme. Also in the box was a plain cake donut, no glaze, no sugar. I picked it up.

  "This is it?" I asked.

&nb
sp; "I ordered a dozen assorted. That's how they get rid of those plain ones I think. No one likes 'em."

  I took a bite, then tossed it in the trash can. "Yeah," I said. "I can see that. I'll be at the Slab if you need me. After that, I'll be at the church."

  "Nothing happening here," said Dave. "I'll stick around 'til two or so, then I'm heading home."

  I left the station and crossed the side street, taking time to stop and wave to a couple of kids running through the park. It was still chilly, but the wind had stopped and the sun was out in full force. The Slab was just on the next corner and it was, as I expected it to be, full of customers. Saturday mornings were always good for a big breakfast crowd. I opened the glass door and the cowbell tied to the crossbar jangled my arrival. Pete had three waitresses hustling the food and drinks and so, content to watch over his empire, was sitting at our table in the back of the restaurant. Cynthia Johnsson, Pauli Girl McCollough and Rosa were scurrying to and fro with full and empty plates, baskets of biscuits, coffee pots, and menus. I hung my coat on the rack by the door and Pete waved me over as soon as he saw me.

  "Sit down," he said. "Have some breakfast."

  "Don't mind if I do."

  "I heard about Noylene and Hog's baby boy. I guess everybody has by now."

  The small town grapevine was nothing if not efficient. "What did you hear?" I asked.

  Pauli Girl was at my elbow a few seconds after I'd sat down, filling my coffee cup. Pauli Girl McCollough was the middle child of Ardine and PeeDee McCollough, although PeeDee had been absent for most of the children's lives. The word in the wind was that Ardine had taken care of the problem of an abusive husband in the way that many wives had in the long history of the mountain folk. It was not a scenario I cared to contemplate professionally, knowing full well that PeeDee had been perfectly happy getting drunk and beating not only his wife, but also his young children. I had heard, through the same St. Germaine grapevine, that Ardine took it when it was just her, but when her husband started on the kids, enough was enough.