Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines

by Mark Schweizer

  “That sounds okay to me,” said Sheila. “I don’t know about this knight thing though.”

  “So we’re going Catholic?” asked Tiff. “My mom isn’t going to like that one bit. She’s a Southern Baptist. She’s got enough of a problem with me singing with you Whiskeypalians.”

  “Aw, c’mon,” laughed Bert. “We don’t drink whiskey that much.”

  “Speak for yourself,” muttered Marjorie.

  “I’m sure we’re not going Catholic,” said Meg. “Just slanting a little toward that part of our heritage.” She looked at her paper again. “There’s also some historical stuff here about the Oxford Movement in 1833 and the Caroline Divines in the seventeenth century.”

  “Feel free to skip that part,” said Bob Solomon.

  “Do we have to start chantin’ the rosary? That’s what I wanna know,” said Goldi Fawn. “I ain’t gonna chant the rosary!”

  Meg shrugged and looked over at me.

  “I’m sure you don’t,” I said, “and even if it does sneak into the service now and then, it’s nothing to worry about.” Then I added, “I think you’ll all enjoy this experience. You’ll all be glad to know that the choir will be singing the Psalm. We haven’t done that for going on two years.”

  General nods of agreement across the choir.

  “Father Dressler likes good music. He likes high mass. Acolytes, crucifers. Benny Dawkins will be back in business. We’re going back to snooty.”

  More smiles and nods.

  “How ‘bout me singing with my CD accompaniment?” asked Goldi Fawn, a sad resignation evident in her voice. “I just bought all new tracks, but now I guess that’s out.” Goldi Fawn had been lobbying hard since Christmas to get her “Special Music” placed in the communion slot. As long as I was riding the pine, she knew that wasn’t going to happen, but since I’d been taking a break, she figured she had a good shot at it. With Kimberly Walnut “in charge” for the past three weeks, Goldi figured it was only a matter of time.

  “Nope,” I said. “No CD accompaniments. We’re also going to Rite One.”

  There were general groans across the choir. The language and liturgy of Rite One, as compared with our usual Rite Two, was much more formal. More than that, the music that we knew for Rite One wasn’t especially popular with the choir.

  “I expect,” I said, “that once the Chevalier starts rehearsing, you all will be doing communion and mass settings by the great composers, Mozart, Palestrina, Stanford, and the like.”

  “We can’t learn all that stuff,” said Marjorie. “Too many black notes. As you know, I’m not usually prejudiced, but I like my notes white.”

  “No more congregational singing?” asked Bev.

  “Well, hymns, certainly,” I said. “Probably not the mass settings.”

  “Who hired this priest anyway?” Mark Wells said.

  “He’s just our interim,” said Fred May, his voice full of its usual optimism. Fred was an upbeat, glass-half-full kind of guy. “It’ll do us good to get a new perspective on worship. Anyway, you were on the committee that picked him.”

  “Huh,” said Mark. “I must have missed that meeting.”

  * * *

  We learned the Psalm for Sunday, went through the anthems for the next two weeks including Hassler’s Come, Sing Unto the Lord, Surely the Light is Sweet by Carson Cooman, and Roland Martin’s setting of the George Herbert poem, Love Bade Me Welcome. All very different, all lovely. It was good to be back with these folks making music. We worked on Love Bade Me Welcome last fall but hadn’t polished it before Advent rolled around and it had been shelved in favor of more seasonal choices. Now the choir picked it back up quickly. I had thought that they could do the piece after the Chevalier arrived, but changed my mind once I head them sing it, and rescheduled the anthem for communion this Sunday. The two other pieces were familiar to the choir and brushing them up wasn’t going be a problem. We worked on some notes and phrasing, and I ranted about diction for a few minutes, the usual stuff choir directors do, and when we sang through it again forty minutes later, it was ready to go.

  “Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,” sang the choir.

  “I love this,” said Rhiza, when we’d finished. “How come we didn’t sing it before Christmas?”

  “We didn’t sing it nearly this well, as you may recall.”

  “I know why exactly,” said Elaine. “We were working on it when that crazy Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh was having her affair with the yoga guy. It threw us all into a tizzy.”

  “Yes, that was it,” agreed Meg. “Remember? Rosemary quoted the poem during the sermon right after she confessed her sin to the congregation and announced she was leaving after Christmas. We couldn’t sing it after that.”

  “Well, I’m glad it hasn’t been tainted by that woman,” said Elaine venomously. “And, while we’re on the subject, why on earth would she make a big production of confessing to the congregation anyway? Where is her sense of decorum? She should have just packed up and left in the middle of the night like any normal hussy.”

  “Some people just need the attention,” said Marjorie.

  “Oh, she was plenty shrewd,” said Mark Wells. “Since she confessed and asked our forgiveness, we didn’t feel like we could fire her sorry butt, not right before Christmas. She bought herself another month’s salary and time to go find herself a job at the Walmart store.”

  Martha jumped in. “You remember the Fourth of July weekend that she decided to decorate the altar with American flags and fireworks? Then Kimberly Walnut nudged that string of black cats into the altar candle during communion and the whole thing went up like … well … like the Fourth of July?”

  “That was hilarious!” said Bob Solomon. “Best communion service ever!”

  “It was not!” said Bev. “We had to call the fire department. It cost several hundred dollars just to clean up the mess, not to mention the altar cloth that was ruined!” Bev was still fuming. The altar cloth had been given to St. Barnabas by her grandmother and was one of the few things that had escaped the great fire that claimed the church just a few years ago. Luckily, it had been at the dry cleaners when the church burned. This time, though, dry cleaning wouldn’t help.

  “Roman candles,” laughed Bob, unmindful of Bev’s wrath. “Spinners, a couple of sparkling fountains. It was great!”

  “Well,” growled Bev, “I’d like to stick one of those Roman candles right up … “

  “How about the Trampoline Mass?” hooted Randy. “Who ever thought that was a good idea?”

  “And the liturgical dancers during Holy Week?” said Georgia.

  “Liturgical dancers are quite common,” I said. “Sometimes it can be a very meaningful …”

  “Tap dancers?” said Georgia. “Tapping to Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater during the stripping of the altar?”

  “They were wearing purple outfits, at least,” offered Meg.

  “These things happen,” I said, interrupting the stream of derision aimed at Mother P, “and I’m sure we’re all very sorry for any bad feelings, but it’s time to press on. Move ahead. Besides, we need to look at this service music. We haven’t sung it for a few years.”

  Chapter 14

  “His name is what?” said Meg.

  “Gallus,” I said. “His name is Gallus Dressler. He never introduced himself other than ‘Father Dressler’ so I went ahead and asked him. He informed me that was the name he took when he entered the priesthood. I don’t know his given name.”

  “I guess it wasn’t in the bulletin, was it?” said Bev. “It was on his C.V.”

  “I didn’t see it,” answered Meg. “I would have remembered that.”

  “Gallus. That’s Latin, isn’t it?” asked Ruby.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “He’s probably leaning more toward Rome than he led the search committee to believe. Not that I mind.”

  “Doesn’t gallus mean ‘chicken’?” asked Ruby.

  “I looked it up,” I said, “a
nd it means ‘comb.’ Hence the common chicken is the gallus domesticus. I don’t know why he’d choose to be named after a chicken. The composer, Jacob Handl was sometimes known as Gallus, maybe because Handl is a derivative of Hahn, German for rooster.”

  “Well, he’s our chicken now,” said Meg. “As an interim anyway. Maybe the committee will find someone permanent in a hurry.”

  I’d been invited over to Ruby’s house for lunch, an invitation I always took advantage of. Meg was already here, and she’d brought Bev since they’d been working this morning over at the financial counseling office. I was used to being the only male invited to these soirees and although I was happy to answer questions when posed, mostly I had learned to shut up and eat. These questions were usually posed at the beginning of the meal so that the ladies could get down to some serious gossip without feeling that I had to be included.

  Meg asked me, “Did the contractor show up this morning?”

  “Bright and early, and Bud was there to meet him. Apparently, we also have plumbing problems, specifically to do with the septic tank.”

  “Roots in the lines?” said Meg. “It’s an old house.”

  “I hope that’s all it is. Anyway, the septic tank guy is coming out this afternoon. Harm Pooter. I used him when I built the cabin.”

  “Any news on the dead women?” asked Bev.

  “Nothing new. I’ll hear something from Kent today I expect. The other two bodies are probably thawed by now.”

  “Would you like your gallus domesticus salad on a sandwich or just on a plate?” said Ruby. “You can get your own chips. They’re on the counter.”

  “Sandwich please,” I answered.

  “You know,” said Ruby, sitting down beside me at the kitchen table once I’d gotten my glass of tea and found my chair, “there’s something funny going on.”

  “To what hilarity are you referring?” I said.

  “To the murder hilarity, which is not hilarity at all,” said Ruby, giving me a stern look.

  “Right,” I agreed. “What’s the funny part?”

  Meg and Bev joined us at the table and Meg placed my plate in front of me. Chicken salad on dark rye with a little mayo, chips, and a pickle. Perfect!

  “The funny part is this,” said Ruby. “You know the Blue Hill Bookworms?”

  “The book club? Yeah. Meg told me about them.”

  “Did she tell you how they blackballed me?” asked Ruby.

  I shrugged. “She did mention how they found your choice of literature a little too … um … shall we say, ‘prosaic,’ for their taste.”

  “Bourgeois is the word they used,” said Ruby. “All because of a few romance novels that were in my reading list. I could have left them off, but I was trying to be honest and show my ‘lighter’ side.”

  “I think it’s just awful,” said Meg. “Those snobs!”

  “Oh, I wasn’t the only one they snubbed,” continued Ruby. “There was Wynette Winslow, Roweena Purvis, Annette Passaglio … hmm … maybe a couple of others. They only entertain new members once a year — in February.”

  “Very exclusive,” I said.

  Ruby rolled her eyes. “Anyway, the Blue Hill Bookworms have a website and a blog. Annette showed me. They post about books they’re reading and write tremendously dull reviews about even duller books. Apparently anyone can get on and read, although you’re not allowed to post or comment unless you’re a member.”

  I nodded understanding since my mouth was full, and managed a grunt.

  “So, since I’d been refused membership, I decided to log-on and see what high and mighty tome the Bookworms are reading and if it was any good.”

  I swallowed and said, “Just to keep pace with the local literary illuminati.”

  “Exactly,” said Ruby. “So I went to their blog and it turns out that they’re reading trash.”

  “Trash?” said Meg. “What kind of trash?”

  “Well, not trash exactly, but certainly not high art. They finished Madam Bovary just after Christmas and their next big meeting isn’t until next month. I guess they don’t meet in January. They’ve decided to start Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead in February. I’ve read it. I’m not a big fan.”

  “That probably wouldn’t be considered ‘trash’ though,” said Bev.

  “No, it wouldn’t. But in between, to ‘cleanse the palate’ as the website says, they’re reading a murder mystery. It’s called See Your Shadow by Kitty Holly. It’s just fluff. A cozy. I’m sorry I called it trash. It’s not trashy. Not like that Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  “Mother!” said Meg. “You read that?”

  “Well, of course I did, dear” said Ruby. “It was a bestseller after all. Anyway, I downloaded the murder mystery on my Kindle since it was only a dollar and read it yesterday afternoon. You know, just to keep up with those book-snobs.”

  “Okay,” I said, having no idea where this was going.

  Ruby continued. “It seems that there are four separate murders in this mystery. The victims are all women. A publicist, a lawyer, a hair dresser, and a minister.”

  That got my attention.

  “The bodies are all discovered in closets. They’re all sitting up, hands in their laps, and they’re all wearing nice clothes. Church clothes. It turns out that they were all in the same prayer group, but we don’t find that out until the end.”

  “Oh, my God!” whispered Bev.

  Meg looked at her mother, horrified.

  “I’m sorry,” Ruby said to me. “Meg gave me the particulars of the murders. I haven’t told anyone else.”

  “It’s common knowledge at this point,” I said. “I’m sure Helen Pigeon has given Annette an eyewitness account for the Tattler’s Friday edition.

  “The modus operandi is not exactly the same, of course,” said Ruby with a satisfied smile, but I do believe that those Blue Hill Bookworms might have some explaining to do.”

  * * *

  I met Nancy at the station and, once she got onto the website, we had the names of the Blue Hill Bookworms along with a brief autobiography of each. Thank you, social media. Nancy gleaned the information and condensed it. Most of it was probably useless, but it was somewhere to start.

  The Bookworms had eight active members.

  Rachel Barstow – home gardener, herbalist, sells at the Farmer’s Market; has quite a Pinterest following; historical mysteries, political satire, and existentialist fiction listed as favorites.

  Alison Jaeger – doctor; plays the piano; enjoys baking; has a wide, eclectic reading list.

  Stephanie Bilton – part-time personal assistant; married with children and pets including chickens, a dog, and ferrets; grows asparagus as a hobby; an excellent cook and frequently provides dinner for the group; favorite reading: metahistorical romance.

  Catherine Duncan – secretary in the music department at Appalachian State; married; sings in a community and church choir; aficionado of offbeat Latin American and Spanish novels.

  Sara Black – pharmacist; married with children; enjoys riding horses; favorite books: ergodic literature, especially Milorad Pavic’s Landscape Painted With Tea.

  Annabel Stratton – marital counselor; a member of the Sugar Mountain Cloggers, a clogging group that meets weekly for dances; enjoys Dickens and other Victorian fiction.

  Sarah Aspinall – personal injury lawyer; keeper of the Bookworms’ book list; compiles quizzes on the books they’ve read; prefers dark comedy and medical thrillers.

  Diana Evarts – baker; owner of Bun in the Oven Bakery; widow; part-time ASU history department thesis and dissertation proofreader; sings in the community choir with Catherine Duncan, likes Russian novels and biographies.

  I’d met all the members when they’d extended me the invitation to address their book club, but of the eight, I only really knew three of them. Diana, Sarah Black, and Catherine. Nancy knew those three as well, plus Rachel and Alison. The other three we didn’t know, but since Diana was right across the street at her bakery,
we decided to start there.

  Nancy reviewed her list as we walked across the park.

  “What the heck is ergodic literature?” she asked.

  “I have no earthly idea, and I’m a famous author.”

  Nancy ignored that comment. “Stephanie Bilton,” she said, tapping the name on the paper. “Who needs a personal assistant? Maybe some hotshot in a big city, but around here?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “We shall ask her. I’m also curious why anyone would grow asparagus as a hobby?”

  “Is this one of those clues where we find out that the flowers of the asparagus plant are poison if you pluck them just prior to pollination and this is the exact poison that killed the three ladies? Then I discover a surreptitious motive and save the day?”

  “I certainly hope so,” I said with a smile. “Then I take all the credit and we’ll be finished by lunch.”

  The bakery was on Main Street, two doors down from St. Barnabas. It had been a CPA’s office until Larry Wenger had retired last year. Then Diana Evarts had moved in and opened the bakery. Diana had been selling cupcakes out of her kitchen for a couple of years and had more business than she could handle. It was time for her to make the move to a permanent establishment. She rented the storefront from Pete Moss who had collected several downtown properties over the years. Pete also helped her out by finding good, used equipment including ovens, stoves, mixers, and anything else a bakery might need. Pete had connections.

  Diana not only made delicious cupcakes, but her menu now included donuts, breads, cookies, desserts of every kind, wedding and birthday cakes, and what ever else anyone might need or want from a baker. When she was settled in, she brought Jacki Flowers on board. Jacki specialized in cake decoration and immediately saw the advantage in the partnership. Now they were as busy as woodchucks in April.