The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

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The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 18

by Mark Schweizer


  "What's the news about the play?" I asked. "Anyone know?"

  "Cancelled," said Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle, sadness written on her face. She'd been the last soprano to come in. "I talked to Mr. Christopher. He says that there's no way to do artistic justice to Welcome to Mitford without Muffy. I even offered to take the lead role, but he's already taking the sets down and moving them somewhere else."

  "Well, let's go ahead and rehearse our music for Sunday," I said.

  We sang through our anthem, When Jesus Left His Father's Throne, but didn't bother with the Missa di Poli Woli Doodle. No one seemed in the mood. After we were finished, we all sat in silence for a moment.

  "You know who would have liked this story?" said Marjorie, waving my latest missive in the air. "Muffy, that's who."

  "She really would have," added Tiff St. James. "She told me that she was Irish. This is St. Patrick's Day after all."

  "You could tell that she was Irish by her hair," said Martha. "She was a lot of fun."

  "She loved unicorns," said Goldi Fawn. "Leprechauns, too, I'll bet."

  "I liked her sweaters," said Mark Wells. That brought a laugh.

  "I can't make it to her funeral," said Elaine. "I feel like I really should go, but I'm behind at work."

  "Well, it's in Greensboro," said Meg. "At eleven o'clock. That's a two-hour drive one way. Most of us can't make it."

  "Hey!" said Randy Hatteberg, "What happened to Mother P? I heard she was arrested."

  "She was arrested," I said, "for violation of The Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act."

  "Are you kidding?" exclaimed Burt Coley. "Everyone knows about that. I figured that the church had a permit. If that eagle was pre-1940, they're not hard to get."

  "That eagle," I said, "wasn't even pre-February."

  "Oh, man," said Burt, shaking his head. As a police officer in Boone, he knew the penalties. "That's not good. Who'd she draw?"

  "Judge Adams," I answered.

  "Oh, man!" he said again.

  "She had her hearing yesterday," said Meg. "The trial date was set for May and her bail was set at one hundred thousand dollars. Cash bond."

  "Are you serious?" said Fred May. "For having a stuffed bald eagle?"

  "That's the maximum fine," I said, "for a first offense at least. It's federal court, not district. Judge Adams says he wants to send a message. Apparently the game wardens have found carcasses of three bald eagles with their tail feathers removed in the past few months. They'd all been shot."

  "Did Mother P make her bail?" Fred asked.

  "She had to come up with ten percent. The bond agent came up with the rest. She's no flight risk, so, to answer your question, yes, she did. She was released last night."

  "My word," said Bev. "What a mess."

  "Indeed," added Rhiza Walker. The rest of the choir made mumbling affirmations of agreement, then silence again.

  "I wish there was something we could do for Muffy," Elaine finally said. "You know. Just us."

  "Well," I said. "I thought maybe we'd sing something." I could see a few smiles. "Look in the back of your folders. This is the piece that we sang at last year's 9/11 Remembrance Service over at Sand Creek Methodist. "

  Smiles, broader now, as the choir flipped to the back of their folders. Muffy had made a big deal out of this choral number when we'd sung it last fall. It was the last Sunday afternoon before Mother P had arrived. Sing Me to Heaven was a piece that wasn't exactly liturgical, but would be just right for Muffy's sendoff. The fellow that composed it, Dan Gawthrop, was a friend of mine, and lived right up the road. Muffy had found out, somehow gotten his phone number and cajoled him into coming to our performance. Then she'd gotten him to autograph everyone's copy.

  "Let's try it," I said. I gave a chord and played the opening melody line. The choir blended their voices as if they remembered the piece, something that this choir often failed to do.

  In my heart's sequestered chambers lie truths

  stripped of poets' gloss

  Words alone are vain and vacant, and my heart is mute

  In response to aching silence,

  memory summons half-heard voices

  And my soul finds primal eloquence, and wraps me in song

  If you would comfort me, sing me a lullaby

  If you would win my heart, sing me a love song

  If you would mourn me and bring me to God, sing me a requiem, sing me to Heaven

  The chords were rich and lush and our voices moved as if another spirit were present. I'd stopped waving my arms somewhere on the first page. I wasn't conducting. We were just singing.

  Touch in me all love and passion, pain and pleasure

  Touch in me grief and comfort, love and passion,

  pain and pleasure

  Sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem

  Love me, comfort me, bring me to God.

  Sing me a love song, sing me to Heaven.

  We finished the piece and the last chord echoed through the resonant building. There weren't many dry eyes, and I'd noticed that Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, had carried most of the alto part through the last half of the song, as the rest of the altos were gulping. As the sound died away, and silence returned, we heard an "Ahem" at the choir loft door. Standing there, framed in the light from the stairwell, was Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh. Mother P. Tears were running down her face.

  "I had no idea," she said, then choked up. She gained control of herself a moment later and said, "Thank you for that. Do you think we could pray together?"

  We all bowed our heads. The choir members reached for one another's hands without looking at each other, linking themselves in an unspoken bond, no one saying a word.

  "O most merciful Savior," said Mother P, "into your hands we commend your servant Muffy." She took a deep, audible breath, as if to compose herself, then continued. "We humbly beseech you to welcome her, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen."

  "Amen," said the choir.

  Silence again, heads still bowed, then Bev said, "Our Father, who art in heaven," and the choir joined in. We finished, stood there for a long moment, and then the choir began to file out of the loft and down the stairs. Not a word was said.

  Rosemary gave everyone a hug as they departed and soon she and I were the only ones remaining.

  "I had no idea," she said again, then wiped some remaining tears from her face.

  I looked at her. Her face was lined and she seemed older.

  "Thanks for posting my bail," she said with a sigh. "I suppose you told the choir?"

  "Nope. Not even Meg."

  She cocked her head and studied me with a quizzical look. "I had no idea that this music could be so ... so ..."

  "Yeah," I said with a smile. "We could have sung Eagle's Wings, I guess."

  Rosemary smirked and then gave a small chuckle. "Don't be ridiculous." She hugged me and, not knowing what to do with my hands, I sort of hugged her back, just using my fingers. Then she said, "Would you have the choir sing that piece on Sunday morning for the congregation?"

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "It's not an appropriate anthem," I said.

  She looked into my face, then down from the balcony over the empty church. "You'll have to help me, you know," she said. "I'm new at this."

  "I'm happy to do it," I said.

  Chapter 24

  A sky the color of rotten eggplant hung low over the town as the rain splattered down like raisins sprinkled on the oatmeal of humanity by an angry God.

  "Get me outta this weather," groused the leprechaun.

  "Shaddap," said Pedro, then turned to me. "Don't I remember some rule about not getting your winkle wet?"

  "Nah," I said. "That's them wicked witches you're thinking about. You want to kill a leprechaun, you have to roll him in a tortilla and cover him
in chipotle."

  We were in Sarsaparilla, Mexico, a little town that just about lived up to its motto: Este lema está en español.

  "Where to?" Pedro asked the winkle.

  "Try the church," was the grumpy answer.

  "This one?" I asked, looking up at a mud-covered building with a bell tower. "Santa Hortensia Vaca Cara?"

  "Pah!" said Fluffernutter. "How many churches do you see? It's the only one built over Mayan ruins. Besides, St. Hortense the Cow-Faced was born in Ireland."

  "I doubt it," said Pedro. "I heard that you leprechauns lie like pixies."

  "Nah, that's them mermaids you're thinking about," said the winkle. "Leprechauns are bound by Faerie Law never to tell a lie."

  "Yeah?" I said. "Well today is the Feast of St. Quetzalcoatl, 2012. The end of the Mayan calendar. What's going to happen?"

  "I can't lie, but I don't have to tell you, either. You must guess!" laughed Fluffernutter O'Brannigan, doing a little dance.

  * * *

  "I suppose that Varmit's down in Greensboro?" Nancy said. "The funeral's at eleven, I hear."

  "Yep," I said. "I called him last night when I got home and told him to come in and talk with us when he got back. He said that he'd be back late this afternoon, but I don't really expect to see him until tomorrow."

  "If then," said Nancy. "Are you going to Greensboro?"

  "No. Rosemary and Herb are going. Some other folks from the congregation are taking the church van. I think that Martha Hatteberg is even skipping her Bible Study to take a carload of choir members."

  "That's good," said Nancy. "Any sign of the Indians?"

  "I haven't seen them since Sunday morning, nor heard any reports. You?"

  "Nothing," replied Nancy. "I guess we wait on Varmit, then. He's our only suspect, as far as I can tell."

  "Yeah," I said. "There're still a couple of things that bother me, though."

  "Like why did he kidnap Rahab if he was going to kill Muffy anyway? The half-million would more than cover his debt to the casino and his bankruptcy besides."

  "Like that," I said.

  * * *

  A police presence at a tent revival in Valle Crucis was certainly not called for. Even if it was, it was certainly not in our jurisdictional scope to provide it. Still, Noylene had cornered me in the Slab and made me promise to be there. She couldn't be there due to a conflicting date with the Carolina Neighborly Commission on Beauty, of which she was the chairperson. CarNCOB (as it was known) was a self-appointed group of Watauga County beauty stylists whose mission it was to inform the people who they felt needed their services as to their deficiencies. This was accomplished, in the most part, by standing outside the Walmart Supercenters and handing out "tickets" to the store's unfortunate customers. These tickets cited the offending shoppers concerning their transgression, and gave them a 50% discount at any one of the sixteen beauty and stylist shops to which the members of CaRNCOB belonged: one time, void where prohibited, good on a Tuesday from nine to eleven, by appointment only, color not included. Walmart did not care for the generosity bestowed upon its shoppers by the Commission, and more than that had summoned the police on several occasions. This meeting, called by Noylene, was to set up a more clandestine way of entering Walmart — maybe involving disguises or else hiring girl scouts — in order to present the more heinous of the offenders with said tickets.

  Truth be told, I would be at Brother Hog's revival anyway. Baby Evangelists don't come around every day.

  It happened, then, that on Thursday evening, Meg and I traveled the twenty miles or so to Valle Crucis in the late afternoon. We stopped in at the Mast General Store and did a little shopping, then found a nice place for a bite to eat, and finally made our way out to the meeting place.

  Hog's old tent had been set up at the Valle Crucis Conference Center, and we could see at once that Brother Hog had lost none of his sparkle during his two-year hiatus from the tent revival circuit. The blinking, yellow arrow on the four-by-six-foot portable marquee standing perpendicular to the entrance of the Conference Center pointed the way, proclaiming in large, illuminated, clip-on letters, "Bro. Hogmanay McTavish's Gospel Tent Revival." I'd forgotten that Brother Hog had a following in these parts, and, when word had spread across the mountains of his return to preaching the Word of God and that his son was joining him, the faithful and the lost alike poured out of the hills.

  We'd arrived early, around six, and the tent was still empty, most of the visitors choosing to have their supper picnic on the grounds before the service. It was like a tailgate party sans alcoholic beverages. There were cars everywhere, people were plopped into fold-up camp chairs, tables were set up and loaded with food, everything from fried chicken to prosciutto roll-ups. Sweet tea seemed to be the drink of choice and we were offered many a cup as we wandered through the fair-like atmosphere. Several ladies were handing out tracts and Meg politely took them whenever they were offered.

  "Look at this one," Meg whispered, handing me one titled The Passover Plot. She was busy thumbing through Here Comes the Judge.

  "Thanks," I said. "Look at this crowd, will you?"

  "How many do you think?" asked Meg.

  "Three or four hundred at least, and there's still an hour 'til show time."

  "Standing room only, I guess," said Meg. "We'd better get a seat early."

  Brother Hog had a couple of revival tents. His smaller one would seat about three hundred. This one was larger. I estimated about five hundred chairs plus a stage that had a large pulpit, room for a local, gospel-music group, and his electronic organ. Hog had a 1964 Hammond B3 and that's what he liked. He told me that it had that old-fashioned "come-to-Jesus" sound. He was right. The Hammond B3 had a very distinctive flavor, its sounds mixed by sliding drawbars mounted above the two keyboards. Add a couple of Leslie rotating speakers and you had an organ that could bring the flocks into the fold quicker than a sermon on the last days.

  Contributing his reverent, jazz-gospel stylings to the service was Hog's old compatriot, Robert E. Lee. Robert E. was one of the best in the business, having provided the special music for the likes of the Letty Sisters, Bishop Daniel Nutt, the Amazing Ichthus and his Prophesying Fish, and The Chopping Team (lumberjacks with chainsaws and a Gospel message!). Like his namesake, Robert E. was a soldier, a Soldier for Christ, and when duty called Robert E. answered. This was duty.

  "Hey," said Meg, "there's Pete!" She waved across the field toward the tree line and Pete, seeing us, waved back. Then from behind an oak tree appeared Moosey and Bernadette. Moosey had hold of a leash and on the end of the leash, strapped into a nylon harness, was Portia the truffle pig. She was circling the large tree, rooting here and there.

  "They've got Portia with them," Meg said.

  "Let's go see how they're doing."

  "Fine with me. We've got a few minutes. I want to get a good seat."

  Pete was puffing on a cigar when we approached and didn't seem to be too concerned about what Portia was or was not digging up.

  "Hi, guys," he said. "Just thought we'd bring Portia out here for a quick dig."

  "Why here?" Meg asked. "If she finds something, you'd just have to give it to the Conference Center."

  "Not worried about it," said Pete, flicking a long ash into the leaves, then grinding it out with the toe of his shoe. "We're just giving her a little taste. Moosey and Bernadette have been coming by every day to see her and hounding me like crazy, but you know what? She really likes these kids. Seems to do just what they ask her. I wanted to give it a try, and Ardine's here anyway for the revival, so I don't have to take 'em home afterwards. They're going to stay for the show."

  "We heard that there's a baby preaching," said Moosey.

  "Yeah," said Bernadette. "The one with the tail."

  "He don't have a tail anymore," said Moosey. "They snipped it off when they snipped his wiener."

  Bernadette looked incredulous. "They snipped his wiener?"

  "'Course they did," said Moosey
, matter-of-factly, enjoying the upper hand for once. "Ma said it was a condiment."

  "Covenant," I corrected.

  "Right," agreed Moosey, then pulled Bernadette aside and whispered, "I'll tell you all about it later."

  "Has Portia found a truffle?" asked Meg.

  "I don't think so," said Pete. "But she's been digging around."

  "Let me ask you this, Pete," I said. "If Portia did find a truffle, how would you know? Do you know what a truffle looks like?"

  Pete considered the question for a moment, then said, "I know what they smell like."

  "Fair enough," I said. "Unfortunately, the only thing you'll get to smell is our pig's sweet, sweet, truffly breath after she gobbles them down."

  "You make a valid point. This evening I shall do some research on the internet and maybe print out a few pictures."

  "Once you know what they look like," I added, "the trick will be to get the truffle before she eats it."

  "I'm on it," Pete said, taking a long puff on his stogy.

  Chapter 25

  "No one's here," I said, staring up at a stained glass window depicting the patron saint of the church, Santa Hortensia Vaca Cara. A woman aptly named, I thought. Her face was as long as a country preacher's sermon on Nehemiah, which wouldn't have to be that long, but would seem like it. The patron saint's bovine visage was serene, though. Serene and udderly rapturous. Then I heard it: music that chilled me like a winter wind whipping through the ragged underpants of despair.

 

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