The Baritone Wore Chiffon (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  She sashayed toward me, tossing the half-eaten sandwich over her shoulder. Then she put her arms around me and puckered up like a Melanie Griffith on "Free Collagen Day" at the Beverly Hills Nip 'n Tuck.

  "Take me," she panted, her bosom heaving like a sorority pledge on dollar beer night. I had to admit it. Rocki had a body like a brick rectory and a brain to match. But I wasn't buying it. I deftly executed a reverse suplex and tossed her onto the credenza.

  "I know your game Rocki," I said as she picked up her clothes and started to dress. "And it sure isn't chest...er...chess."

  "You're such a sexist," she huffed.

  The insult hit me like a very light, almost imperceptible feather. It wasn't true. I had been to the bishop's weekend retreat on tolerance in the workplace, and I had the bloodstained diploma to prove it. Granted, I had been dragged into the conference screeching like a gut-shot tenor, but once I was handcuffed to the radiator, I settled down and made the best of it. By Sunday night, I had a whole new perspective on liberated women. I now supported a woman's right to choose--either silicone or saline.

  •••

  With my recent trip behind me and my jet-lag fading like George Szell in the ninth, I was more than happy to kick my writing up a notch. I handed a couple of recent pages to Meg to peruse.

  "OK," admitted Megan. "I have to admit it. You're getting better. There are several sentences in here worthy of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest."

  "It's always been my dream to win the Grand Prize. It would be the crowning glory to an otherwise lackluster vitae. Maybe I'll send in a couple and see what happens."

  "I think you should. How's your hand? I know you can type, but can you play the organ?

  "Almost as good as new. No problem."

  "By the way, Karen called to see if you could do your reading next Tuesday. Is your story ready for the kids?"

  "Just about. A few finishing touches."

  "That's good because I told her you'd be happy to." She smiled a devilish smile.

  "Any news from church that I don't know about?"

  "The FOOSCHWAG is in full swing," said Megan. "I hope you're happy about that."

  " FOOSCHWAG?"

  "The Feng Shui Altar Guild. Jelly says it's our new acronym."

  "You're the one who told me to stay out of it. You said…"

  "I take it all back. I admit it. I was wrong."

  "Nice try. But I am content to keep Lent in my own way."

  "You know," said Megan, "you're acting like a fooschwag."

  "That may well be," I said, laughing and changing the subject. "How is the selection committee doing?"

  "There are two priests we're looking at. We didn't get a whole lot of resumés in, but there are two good ones. One of them is a woman." She waited for my reaction.

  "Fine with me."

  "Really? After the last one, I thought you'd be against it."

  "I'm not against women priests."

  "I'm glad you feel that way," Megan said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "Because she's the front runner at the moment. Some of the committee members are understandably hesitant."

  "Understandably. Why is she the front runner, if I may ask?"

  "Her background is in liturgics. She's older – in her early fifties I think. She's been a priest in several churches including being on staff at the National Cathedral. She taught briefly in one of the seminaries. I can't remember which one. And she has several books published."

  "Married?"

  "Widowed. Recently, I gather."

  "And why, pray tell, does she want to come to St. Germaine?"

  "Her parents live in Lenoir. They're both in their eighties, but still in pretty good health. She wants to be closer in case something happens."

  "How about the other one?"

  "He's about the same age. Fifty-two or three. He has a wife and two grown kids. Not as solid a resumé, but very personable. He's a wonderful speaker. He sent a videotape of one of his services and it was very impressive. The sermon was outstanding. He has a wonderful singing voice and can actually chant."

  "That would be a nice change. Even Tony wasn't very accurate in the chant department."

  "He's from Greensboro and is looking for a smaller parish."

  "Either one sounds fine."

  "We're interviewing the week after Easter. By the way – just so you know – Father Barna has thrown his hat into the ring as well. It seems he likes it here and thinks he'd be perfect for the job. We're getting a lot of pressure."

  "Does he have any support on the vestry?"

  She shrugged. "Some. You know how it works. He takes people out to lunch and asks for their advice. They feel important."

  "I take it you don't approve?"

  "It's the quickest way to split a church. I've seen it happen before."

  "Well," I said. "Enough is enough. Maybe I can help."

  •••

  I found Wenceslas at the church the next morning. He was coming out of Emil Barna's office as I made my way past Marilyn's desk.

  "Good morning, Wenceslas," I said as cheerfully as I could.

  "And a good morning to you sir," he said with a slight bow.

  "I wonder if I could have a few words with you?"

  "Of course," he replied. "Let us get some coffee and talk."

  We walked into the empty parish hall where a pot of coffee was always waiting, poured ourselves a couple of cups and walked over to a table. Wenceslas produced a cushion, seemingly out of thin air, which he put on the chair before climbing up. I sat down across from him.

  "I have a few questions for you, if you don't mind."

  Wenceslas nodded, but his eyes narrowed.

  I got right to it. "Did you happen to know the clown that was killed on Sunday?"

  "Am I suspected of this killing?"

  "I'm just trying to get all the facts," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  Wenceslas sighed and put his hands in his lap.

  "I knew him, yes. He was a friend of Emil's. I knew him from the time I was the valet to Emil in Raleigh. He was called Joseph Meyer."

  I nodded and took a sip of coffee. "You were out of the country last week?"

  "I made a trip to Hungary. It was family business."

  "When did you return?"

  "On Saturday night. I arrived at my home at eleven in the evening. I was very tired and went to sleep."

  "So you weren't here for the Clown Eucharist."

  Wenceslas looked disgusted. "I was not. I do not like clowns." Then, considering his last statement, added, "But I do not wish to kill them."

  "Yes, I can understand that. A mime, perhaps, but not a clown."

  Wenceslas relaxed and laughed. "Yes, a mime, perhaps."

  "How was Budapest?"

  "I flew to Budapest, but I am not from there. I am from the town of Szentendre. That is where I went."

  "Well then, how was Szentendre?" I asked. "I've never heard of it. What's it like?"

  "It is beautiful." He smiled and looked every bit like a diminutive Santa Claus. His eyes twinkled as he described the winding roads, colorful houses and narrow back-alleys. "There are seven steeples," he said, holding up seven fingers, "and more museums than you can count. And the Danube…ah, the Danube…" His voice trailed off as if he was being transported. "When I was a boy, we would perform on the banks of the Danube." Suddenly he snapped back to the present.

  "You would enjoy Szentendre," he said, still smiling.

  "I've never been to Hungary. It sounds as though it would be worth a trip, though."

  "Be careful," said Wenceslas. "You might never want to return."

  "You were a performer then?"

  "In my younger days."

  "A street performer?"

  Wenceslas sat up straight and looked indignant. "The Kaszas family has entertained the crowned heads of Europe since Napoleon! Street performers! Bah!" Then he shook his head. "But socialism changed everything. I was ten when the war came."

  "Di
d that put an end to the family business?" I asked.

  "It was over much earlier," he admitted. "Before I was born. The Great War was the finish. Hungary chose the wrong side, you see."

  "Ah yes," I nodded. "Hungary was an ally of Germany."

  "Yes. It was too bad. The Kaszas family's last great performance was at the end of the war. A command performance. But, even by that time, many family members had come to America. Even my grandmother."

  "Is Emil from Hungary as well?" I asked.

  Suddenly Wenceslas was on his guard. "He is an American. I am Hungarian."

  "When did you come over?"

  "I arrived in this country two years ago. I am not a citizen. I have work papers."

  "A green card."

  "Yes."

  "Why come to America?" I asked.

  "It was a family matter."

  "You have family over here?"

  "I did, yes. They are gone now."

  I got up and extended my hand. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your talking with me. And I hope to see your home sometime in the near future."

  "Take your lady friend," he said, smiling. "You will fall in love all over again."

  •••

  "Did you see this?" Nancy said, pointing to an article in the paper.

  "I haven't had time to read the paper," I said.

  "Louisiana," she said, prefacing the story. "A policeman pulled over a Pontiac Grand Am outside Monroe. When he walked up, he noticed something amiss. He ordered them out of the car, and when they climbed out, they were all naked. Eight of them. Eight naked Pentecostals."

  "That can't have been pretty. What was their story?" I asked.

  "It seems that they believed the Second Coming was imminent. They thought their clothes were possessed, so they threw them out of the car around Alexandria."

  "I've often felt the same way."

  "So what do you think?"

  "I think the Grand Am is a swell car. Any news from the crime lab?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. They swabbed every surface in the sacristy. They found traces of blood on one of the corners of the counter. He probably hit his head on the way down."

  "So," I said, pausing a moment to think. "An accident?"

  "Could be. But your dwarf is still unaccounted for. He arrived home Saturday night late. He wasn't at the service and no one saw him until about two in the afternoon on Sunday."

  "Let's suppose that Wenceslas did want to kill him. I don't think the facts bear it out."

  Nancy stopped perusing the paper and gave me her attention.

  "Those urns have a nice edge to them. If he used one of them to knock the clown senseless before sticking the balloon down his throat, how did he reach Peppermint's head? There wasn't a stool or a chair in the sacristy. I doubt that he could have climbed onto the counter. Peppermint wasn't a small guy – about six feet tall I'd say. So unless, Wenceslas snuck up on him carrying a ladder and then taking it out afterward – a scenario which I find highly unlikely – I don't see how he could have done it."

  "Not to mention that there wasn't any blood on the urns," Nancy added. "What if he had a long stick? Or a bat?"

  "Maybe. But it was a cut on his head. Not blunt force trauma. Nope. I don't think it was the dwarf."

  •••

  The FOOSCHWAG was in full swing when I showed up at St. Barnabas on Saturday afternoon. Meg wasn't in attendance, but I saw Mr. Christopher mincing down the center aisle. He was shouting at the fifteen or so volunteers.

  "Stop! It's time to take a Luo Pan reading!"

  Mr. Christopher stopped in the middle of the church where the nave intersected with the transepts, pulled a chart out of his fanny pack and started humming. The others soon mimicked his humming.

  "The Luo Pan is a compass," he said, stopping suddenly. "It not only tells us the direction, but investigates the energy of each direction."

  The FOOSCHWAG gathered around him, eagerly trying to see the Luo Pan at work.

  Mr. Christopher then walked around the church amid the hushed whispers of his admirers. Finally returning to the center of the church, he pulled another chart from his pack, unfolded it and studied it for a long minute.

  "The information found in the Luo Pan is condensed into the Bagua. The Bagua represents the journey of life and it will tells us what we need to know." The FOOSCHWAG held its collective breath.

  "There!" he said and pointed to the West transept. "That is where the energy is flowing from. It is the home of the rabbit. The altar must therefore be placed…" He looked around as if deciding, then pointed the opposite direction. "There!" he cried. "In the house of the monkey!"

  The FOOSCHWAG applauded.

  "What about the rooster," I asked from the balcony when the adulation had died down. "I thought we didn't want to offend the rooster."

  Jelly Barna looked up at me with contempt. Mr. Christopher decided to ignore me and continue with the new arrangements.

  "Let's move the altar over there," he said, pointing to the East transept. We have to rearrange all the pews as well. Everything must point to the East."

  I watched for a few more minutes, knowing that they'd have a bit of trouble with the altar. It had a marble top and probably weighed close to four hundred pounds. Unless they had a Feng Shui moving company stashed out back, they'd be at it for a while.

  "The altar cloth, paraments and stoles must be changed as well," said Jelly. "I've had bright yellow ones made." She smiled at Mr. Christopher and he nodded his approval.

  "Colors are nothing more than vibrations," said Mr. Christopher. "Yellow will add to the Yang energy. Purple is the Yin. It's a bad color for the monkey."

  I left on that note, heading back to the house and what I hoped was a peaceful Saturday afternoon.

  •••

  Sunday morning was chaos. The processional had to be rerouted because the center aisle was now full of pews. The FOOSCHWAG hadn't been able to move the altar – at least on such short notice and with no moving equipment – so they had hidden it with a bamboo privacy screen and set up the elements for communion on a folding table they had brought in from the parish hall. Covering the table was an obviously handcrafted, bright yellow altar cloth with appliquéd chickens. Behind the table was the "water feature," a five-foot high fountain that, due to some plumbing problems, was spurting water only sporadically and making a noise like an intermittent whoopee cushion.

  Although Jelly and Mr. Christopher were trying to direct traffic, the congregation was very confused; most of them were milling about when the service started. After all, many of them had sat in the same pew for generations and the rest of the parishioners certainly weren't prepared for the rearrangement. Wenceslas, clad in his black velvet verger's outfit, ostrich plume aloft, kept trying to point the acolytes and readers to their positions. They were, however, as lost as the congregation. Father Barna and his two attendants couldn't get through the crowd so the two boys finally dropped his train and retreated. This caused the priest to trip over his poultry-covered cope until, in disgust, he slung it over his shoulder like a Roman Senator. The choir, with no room to process, simply came up the stairs to the loft.

  "Are those chickens?" Rebecca asked, pointing to the decorated paraments.

  "We're in the house of the monkey," Megan answered in a whisper loud enough for the entire choir to hear. "But we don't want to offend the rooster."

  "This is insane," said Elaine. "How long can we keep this up?"

  "There's an emergency vestry meeting right after church," said Meg. "Maybe we can put a stop to this."

  "Let us worship the Lord in the beauty of His sanctuary," Father Barna called out.

  "Fffrrrraaaap," said the fountain.

  Instead of replying with the printed response, the entire congregation started laughing.

  "I'm feeling pretty tranquil," said Marjorie, pulling her flask out of the hymnal rack. "This Fing-Schwing stuff must be workin'."

  "That's the chi you're feeling," said Bob S
olomon from the back row.

  "It ain't the chi," said Marjorie, taking a swig.

  Chapter 13

  "It was Race," Rocki said as she opened the door on her way out. "He put me up to it." The door slammed shut quicker than a white man's application to the University of Michigan law school.

  I knew Race. Father Race Rankle. We had a past of course. He was an old college buddy. We once opened and ran a very profitable Liturgical Charm School for beauty pageant contestants although we had to close up shop after a particularly bad fire-baton incident. I had told him to cut down on the hairspray, but he wouldn't listen. That poor girl's hair went up like Bananas Foster at a Pentecost breakfast. If the next girl's talent hadn't been gargling communion grape juice while singing "I Come To The Garden," we could have had a real disaster. Luckily she was able to spit enough juice on the other girl's head to quash the flames. But that was ancient history.

  •••

  Rhiza and Malcolm Walker had invited Megan and me out to supper on Sunday night. Although they'd been separated since Christmas, Rhiza had decided to give Malcolm another chance because he said he still loved her, he agreed to go to marriage counseling and he was the richest man in four counties. I knew this because she called me and asked my advice. Rhiza and I went way back.

  "How was the meeting?" I asked Malcolm and Meg over the second glass of wine.

  Malcolm was the Senior Warden and Meg was on the vestry. Rhiza had been on the vestry last year but her term had ended in December.

  Malcolm shook his head. "I called the bishop last week and told him what was going on. He was…" Malcolm paused. "Unsympathetic. It seems that the Christmas incident is still fresh in the minds of the diocesan offices. Until we call a new priest, we have to keep this one."

  "Can you rein him in?" Rhiza asked.

  "Not really," said Malcolm.

  "Not only that," interrupted Meg, "but you wouldn't believe the support for his application. It's about a third of the vestry."