The Baritone Wore Chiffon (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  I paused to make sure the two women were following everything. "Any questions so far?"

  Nancy was taking notes as fast as she could. Meg just shook her head and I could tell by her intent gaze that she was still with me.

  "Here's where it gets interesting," I said with a wolfish grin. "You remember that article that Pete put in the paper? St. Germaine Cop called to help in English murder investigation?"

  They both nodded.

  "It was picked up by the AP and appeared in several statewide papers. The next thing we knew, we had a new priest."

  "Huh?" said Nancy. "What has that got to do with anything?"

  "Bear with me. It gets complicated. I need to go back to the cabinet in the treasury of York Minster."

  "There were several items in the cabinet, but two important ones. The first is, of course, the missing diamond. A woman named Mrs. Howes left it to the Minster in 1927. Her friend, Lily Forepaugh, delivered the diamond and informed the Minster that she was carrying out Mrs. Howes' last request. The diamond and the offer of a chalice to set it in were accepted gratefully, although no reason for the gift was ever given. The second important item is the cross that Kris was clutching in her hand. At the time, we couldn't figure out why she had taken the cross. It didn't make any sense."

  "I'm jumping ahead now," I said. "Back to our interim priest."

  "We've got it so far," said Megan. Nancy nodded her affirmation.

  "Emil Barna was assigned by the bishop and very quickly if you recall."

  "I remember it was a shock to all of us. We thought Father Tony would be our priest until we had a permanent replacement," Meg said.

  "Father Barna appeared, seemingly out of the blue, and with him came his valet, Wenceslas Kaszas, the dwarf. I had a talk with Wenceslas. He's from an old circus family in Budapest, but the family stopped performing after World War I. The name of the circus was Der Kaszas Kaiserlicher Zirkus – the Kaszas Imperial Circus. They were very well known in Europe at the turn of the century."

  "Wenceslas came over to America from Hungary about two years ago and took a job as Father Barna's manservant. And here's an interesting tidbit. Emil Barna, Wenceslas, Jelly, and Kris Toth are all Hungarian. Maybe second or third generation, but all from the same region. And Peppermint the Clown, a.k.a. Joseph Meyer? Hungarian, as well."

  "Does that mean something?" asked Nancy.

  "Glad you asked," I said, as Noylene returned with our food. "Hang on a second. We don't want this to get cold."

  Noylene put our plates and drinks on the table and made an unobtrusive exit.

  "OK," said Meg. "Continue please."

  "We have to go back to 1918," I said, and took a bite of my Reuben. "Mnmphtn mpht…"

  "Don't talk with your mouth full," said Nancy.

  "Mmph," I mumbled, swallowing the corned beef and sauerkraut. "Sorry. 1918. The end of the Great War. The Kaszas Imperial Circus was engaged to play St. Petersburg. It was a command performance. But the train was rerouted instead to another city. After the performance, the Bolsheviks commandeer the train and wouldn't let it return to Budapest. The circus, without its wagons or other properties, went bankrupt, and the performers, those that make it out of Russia, found work with other troupes."

  "Are you ready?" I asked with a smug smile. Meg and Nancy both nodded.

  "The city the train was redirected to…the city where the Kaszas Imperial Circus gave its last performance…" I paused for effect. It was a theatrical moment.

  "OK, already!" snapped Nancy.

  "It was Yekaterinburg. July, 1918."

  "It wasn't!" said Megan, the hushed amazement evident in her voice.

  "It was!" I said, feeling self-satisfied by my tale.

  "What?" asked Nancy. "What's the deal?"

  "I can't believe it!" whispered Meg.

  "I know it. It's incredible."

  "C'mon!" said Nancy, her frustration evident. "Tell me what's going on!"

  "But that means…" started Meg.

  "Exactly!" I said.

  "Aaaargh!" said Nancy through gritted teeth.

  "Listen," I said to Meg. "Nancy's learning to speak Pirate."

  "And very well too. She speaks it almost as well as you."

  "Aaaargh!" I said, answering the charge in perfect Bucaneese, "me thinks it not so, me hearty." I turned my attention back to Nancy and switched to conventional English. "Here's the thing, Nancy. In July of 1918, Nicholas II, the Czar of Russia, and his entire family were assassinated by the Bolsheviks. They had been sent into exile to a city in the Ural mountains. That city was Yekaterinburg."

  "Holy smokes!" said Nancy. "Nicholas and Alexandra? Anastasia? That Nicholas II?"

  "The very same."

  "Then the cross that was in Kris Toth's hand when she was killed must have something to do with all this. But what's the connection?"

  I nodded and continued. "Mrs. Howes, who gave the diamond to the Minster…"

  Nancy and Meg both looked at me now, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  "…Was a bareback rider for the Howes-Cushing and later, The Barnum and Bailey Circus. She was the second wife of Seth Howes, the owner, but she came to the states long before 1918. Her stage name was Madam Howes. Her maiden name was Belle Kaszas."

  Chapter 18

  I walked out of the police station and into the cold night air, the wind playing with my collar like a cheap floozy at a piano bar. I lit up a stogie, hoping it would take the chill off. It did. I reviewed my facts.

  There had been a murder. Canon Shannon Cannon had been killed by a poison collar meant for the bishop. The bishop wanted me to find out who did it and put the kibosh on the hit; or so said his personal trainer, Rocki Pilates, a woman with a lot to hide and not many clothes to hide it in. She had more angles than Pythagoras. And there were other players as well.

  Lilith Hammerschmidt, professional leper, and her singing snake, Rolf. Lilith wanted the bishop to put his stamp on the diocesan merger, a merger that would guarantee Race Rankle, ex-priest, the money to fund his leper colony--a boondoggle if ever I heard one. But now Race was dead and so was Lilith's dream of becoming the head maid in a high-rise leper-condo that was permanently unclean.

  Uncle Winky, a killer clown with an agenda. The bishop was bringing a resolution to the convention dissolving the Ministry of Clowns. But I knew something that Uncle Winky didn't. The bishop was a Closet-Clown. He'd mimed his way up and down Fourth Street for years hiding behind a beret, a black and white striped shirt and enough make-up to clog the drain in Tammy Faye's gold-plated sink.

  And then there was Kit, Girl-Friday; cute in the way that a Pomeranian was cute when he wasn't treating your leg like he was a congressman and your leg was paying the taxes. She'd proved her worth, and I was going to keep her around.

  With the merger quashed, the only problems left were the clowns. And I'd take care of that.

  "Kit!" I called. "It's time to pay a visit to the circus."

  •••

  The next morning I borrowed Meg's Lexus and was on my way to Raleigh to talk to Kris Toth's mother. I could have taken my old pick-up, but after forty years, it was showing its age. Even though it was a three-hour drive, I was pretty sure I could make it there and back before choir rehearsal. I had a long rehearsal planned. We needed to practice for Maundy Thursday, the Good Friday service that the men were singing, and our Easter Morning service. As I drove down the mountains, I took pleasure in the scenery and contemplated which of the yearly services I enjoyed the most. I found the Maundy Thursday service to be very moving and it was one of my favorites, but Easter morning was probably first on my list, followed by Christmas Eve. Then Maundy Thursday. Definitely third, I thought.

  Four trombones and the organ, a somber and majestic combination, would accompany Thursday's service. The Good Friday service was chanted unaccompanied by our "Monk's Choir," i.e. all the men that were available at noon. Our Easter music included selections from Messiah and the traditional Easter hymns of St. B
arnabas, hymns I didn't dare change. For those folks who only showed up once or twice a year, those hymns were important.

  These services had been planned for months – months before Father Barna had arrived – and the vestry had made it clear to him that he was not to make any changes without their say-so. I hadn't heard any rumblings, so I was hopeful – although not entirely convinced.

  I traveled the familiar, winding highway and reached I-40 in a little over an hour. Two hours later I was pulling into the driveway of Mrs. Margot Toth.

  •••

  "Mrs. Toth, I'm so sorry for your loss." I was sitting on a yellow sofa with clear plastic seat covers in the middle of a green shag jungle. It was a scene from the 70s, complete with a Formica kitchen table which originally had been bought for $79.95 including the chairs, but was now probably worth a fortune. Mrs. Toth was a sturdy woman, not much over five feet tall, with black hair tied into a tight bun. She had a no-nonsense look that, coupled with her arched Roman nose and thin, hard lips, gave the impression of a school matron of whom you would not wish to run afoul. She was wearing an apron over her plain cotton black dress and was continually drying her hands even though they obviously weren't wet. I had seen grief before, and hers was still fresh.

  "You're that man from the newspaper," she said, staring at me intently. Her accent was slightly foreign, but not distracting, the clipped European accent of someone who had lived in America for a long while.

  "Yes, ma'am, I am." She had obviously seen the article that had appeared in the paper. "I'm looking into your daughter's death."

  She nodded. "I do not know how I can help you. She was very happy to get the scholarship and to be singing with the choir. She sent me a recording."

  "I wonder if you know anyone named Kaszas."

  She waited a moment, as if judging what I already knew before she answered.

  "Yes, I do. Wenceslas Kaszas. We are Hungarian. The community in this area is not large, but it is not small either. We all meet regularly, and we sometimes have services in Magyar at St. Elizabeth's Church. Wenceslas Kaszas would be a hard person to miss."

  "Yes, he certainly would. I ask because there may be a connection between Wenceslas and York Minster that I'm trying to piece together."

  "I do not know anything," she said very slowly, enunciating each word. With that sentence, her eyes narrowed and her lips grew thinner than I thought possible, almost disappearing altogether. I knew from experience that this part of the interview was over.

  "Is Kris buried here in Raleigh?" I asked, changing the subject.

  "Yes," Mrs. Toth replied, sadness pervading her voice "Yes, she is."

  "Just one more thing. Did they send back Kris's effects? Her belongings?"

  "They sent them back with the body. I gave them all to her cousin. She asked to have them. I was just going to throw them away. I do not want any of them here." Her head dropped, and tears ran down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away. "I am going back to Hungary."

  She looked up and nodded toward the fireplace mantle. "That came in the post yesterday," she said, gesturing to an old book with a well-worn leather cover. "The note said that it was her prayerbook."

  "May I see it? I collect antique prayerbooks and hymnals."

  "You may have it. It is not a prayerbook to me. It is a curse."

  I got off the couch, walked over to the mantle and picked up the book. It was a clean copy of the 1662 edition, probably printed in the late eighteenth century and included the Psalms. It was a nice book to have, of course, but wouldn't be usable in a modern service. I had three or four like it back in St. Germaine.

  "It will have an honored place in my collection. At least let me pay you for it," I offered, but she waved me off.

  "It is part of the curse. This family lives under a curse." She wiped her eyes for the first time with her apron. "If that is all…" she said, indicating that my visit was at an end.

  "May I use your bathroom?" I asked. "It's a long trip back."

  She nodded and pointed down the hall. "It is the first door on the right."

  I walked down the hall, visited the facilities and was washing my hands when I happened to glance at a family picture on the wall above the vanity. Although there were at least twenty people in the photograph, there were a few familiar faces. I looked closer and recognized Margot Toth. Beside her was probably Kris, but I couldn't tell for sure. The face looked the same, but the beard was gone and she was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. But the easiest face to pick out was Wenceslas. He was standing front and center like the patriarch of a dynasty.

  •••

  I made a quick side trip to the Chapel Hill police station since I was in the area and chatted with Detective Mike Branson, an old friend of mine.

  "Haven't seen you in a while," he said, shaking my hand over his desk. "You skipped the Atlanta conference last month."

  "Yeah. Something came up. I couldn't get down there. Was it any good?"

  "Mostly more of the same. A good networking opportunity though."

  "Wish I could have made it."

  "Anyway," he said, "What can I do for you?"

  "I called down a few weeks ago about an investigation I was working on. The vic's name was Joseph Meyers. I wondered if you guys had come up with anything. He was from Chapel Hill, but we couldn't find any next of kin to notify."

  "Was it a murder?" Mike asked.

  "We don't know for sure. It might have been a series of unfortunate events."

  "Let me check. Grab a cup of coffee. I'll be right back."

  I poured myself a cup of bad coffee and busied myself reading all of Mike's commendations hanging on the wall. He was back a moment later, followed by a much more attractive officer wearing a uniform.

  "Here's the file. Joanie's been collecting the stuff that's come in. She can answer your questions if anyone can." He handed it to me and I sat back down, opening the manila folder and flipping through the pages. Some of these I had already seen.

  "Couldn't find a next-of-kin?" I asked.

  "Nope," said Joanie. "We went through his house. Nothing. We did find some medical records. They're in the back there. We asked the doctor, but Meyers didn't list anyone to contact in case of emergency. The doctor was a referral from a psychiatrist. We talked to him also. Same result."

  "Emphysema," I said, skimming the doctor's report. "We found that."

  "It was bad. He also was overweight, had a hole in his lung, a slight heart arrhythmia and was subject to severe panic attacks that totally incapacitated him. An altogether unhealthy fellow. The psychiatrist had prescribed Valium. The medical doc wanted him to cut down on the dosage. Is this any help?"

  "I think it is. Did you talk to the psychiatrist?"

  "Yep," said Joanie.

  "Were these attacks brought on by anything in particular? Crowds? Performing? Did the psychiatrist say anything about stage-fright?"

  "All of the above plus some," said Joanie. "The panic attacks didn't show up until a couple of years ago. He didn't have any money that we could locate – no savings accounts, no retirement– so he had to keep working. Here's the kicker. Meyer even developed a fear of clowns, if you can believe that."

  "Imagine that." I shook my head. Peppermint had a fear of clowns.

  "That wasn't the worst. The worst was ophiciophobia. I remember that one because I have it too. Probably not as bad as he did."

  "And that is…?" I asked, looking up from the report.

  "The fear of snakes."

  •••

  I called Dr. Dougherty from my car on my way home later that afternoon.

  "Hi Karen. In your role as an esteemed medical professional, could you give me some information?"

  "If I can."

  "Aldactone," I said. "I hope I'm pronouncing it right."

  "You are. It's the brand name for spironolactone. It used to be a drug for high blood pressure, but it's not prescribed much anymore. There may be other applications. Hang on a minute."
<
br />   Karen came back on a few moments later. "I thought I remembered something else. Spironolactone is now mainly prescribed to block testosterone, especially in women. It's quite effective at controlling excessive hair growth – the medical term is hirsutism – but the doses are much higher than for high blood pressure. It's also a diuretic, so you have be careful to drink plenty of water."

  "I remember that part. I was taking it for high blood pressure about ten years ago."

  "Ever heard of hirsutism?"

  "Strangely enough I have. Thanks for your help."

  "No problem. I'll talk to you later."

  •••

  "Wonderful news!" said Georgia, as soon as I showed up at the church. "The FOOSCHWAG has been disbanded! The vestry has decided that Feng Shui is not an appropriate direction for St. Barnabas to be heading in."

  "Really? And it only took them six weeks to decide this?"

  "Jelly is livid, but tomorrow the movers are coming to return everything to normal."

  "No kidding?"

  "Pews, altar, paraments…everything," said Georgia, barely able to contain her delight. "And about time, too."

  "What about Father Barna's application for the position? Any word on that?"