The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Schweizer, Mark

  And crabbiness was still in full force.

  * * *

  "Ian," I said, as soon as the Sunday service was over. "I wonder if you might lend your expertise in the musicological department. I need someone to do a little research."

  In addition to Dr. Ian Burch's talent in the countertenor department, he had put his terminal degree in music history to some practical use as well. Dr. Burch owned and operated the Appalachian Music Shoppe in downtown St. Germaine. The shop was a small store that specialized in reproductions of Medieval and Renaissance instruments: crumhorns, sackbuts, rauschpfeifes, hurdy-gurdies, and the like. He didn't have a big walk-in business, but he did brisk internet sales to schools, madrigal groups, and other parties that found the wurstfaggot (or sausage-bassoon) somehow irresistible.

  Ian's small dark eyes lit up and he smiled at me through uneven teeth. "Happy to help. Of course you realize that my specialty is the composers of the Burgundian School."

  "Yeah," I said. "Not that. I need you to find out about Elle de Fournier. Her style seems to be rooted in the modernist movement active in Paris in the '20s and '30s. I couldn't find her online, but she's an accomplished composer. There must be something about her somewhere."

  Ian looked thoughtful for a moment. "I have some people I can call," he said. "Obviously, I have bibliographic sources that you can only guess at. I'll find out."

  "That'd be great, Ian. Thanks."

  Chapter 6

  On Monday morning, I found Mattie Lou Entriken, Wynette Winslow, and Marjorie in the kitchen of the church, diligently making sandwiches to take to the Salvation Army kitchen in Boone. This was something that they did every Thursday afternoon without fail. If they were here on a Monday, something was up.

  "Just came in for a cup of coffee," I said, waving my empty mug. "What are you lovely ladies doing here?" I walked over to the Bunn coffee machine and poured myself a cup of Community Dark Roast, the church's coffee of choice.

  "The Salvation Army called this morning," said Wynette. "They're running out of food every day now."

  "It's the cold weather," said Mattie Lou. "Lord knows, I hate making these sandwiches, but it's Christmastime."

  I gestured toward Marjorie with my coffee cup. "What are you doing here, Marjorie? As I recall, you're having an all-out skirmish with the Salvation Army."

  "That was last year," said Marjorie, not the least bit defensive. "It's just that they wouldn't let me ring the little bell."

  "That wasn't the Salvation Army, dear," said Wynette, spreading some pimento cheese on a piece of white bread. "That was those nudists over at Camp Possumtickle. They were collecting for their Toys for Nekkid Children drive or some such thing. They didn't even have a bell. Just a red plastic bucket."

  "Huh?" said Marjorie. "Really? You sure? I thought they were Salvation Army. They had clothes on. And Santa hats. One of 'em had a tambourine."

  "Pretty sure," said Wynette. "And you have to wear clothes outside the Kmart. It's a state law."

  "Yep," agreed Mattie Lou. "State law. I read it in the paper."

  "Well, dang!" said Marjorie. "I didn't know they were nudists."

  "I'm sure it was all for a good cause," I said. "While I have all you ladies here, I have some questions I'd like to ask you."

  "Are you gonna interrogate us?" asked Mattie Lou. "Do I need my lawyer?"

  I laughed. "This is not an official inquiry. I'm just looking for information."

  "Okay, then," said Wynette. "Shoot." She put down her spreading knife and wiped her hands on her apron.

  "Yeah, shoot," added Marjorie.

  Wynette Winslow and Mattie Lou Entriken, both now in their late seventies, had been friends since childhood, and had been members of the church since they were born. They were the two saintly matriarchs of St. Barnabas. As far as they were concerned, Marjorie Plimpton was a Johnny-come-lately, having joined the church when she was seventeen and only being a member for sixty-two years.

  "Okay," I said. "What do you remember about Christmas Eve, 1942?"

  "What?" said Wynette. "1942? I can't remember what I had for lunch last Tuesday!"

  Marjorie gave a cackle.

  "I remember that year very well," said Mattie Lou, her smile fading. "I remember because I had to spend the whole school year and the next with my grandparents in Raleigh. Papa was sent home from the Navy because he had tuberculosis. Momma took him to New Mexico to get better. I was just fourteen." Her voice dropped. "He died anyway. July 22, 1943."

  "I'm sorry, dear," said Wynette, putting a hand on Mattie Lou's shoulder.

  Mattie Lou placed her hand on top of Wynette's and gave her a sad smile. "I still think about him."

  "Sure you do," said Wynette.

  "That was during the war, right?" asked Marjorie.

  "It was," I said. "The year after Pearl Harbor. I'm trying to find out about a Christmas piece that was sung here at St. Barnabas on Christmas Eve that year. The world premiere of a cantata."

  "I hadn't moved to St. Germaine yet," said Marjorie. "I joined the choir as soon as we moved to town, but that was in 1945. The year after the war."

  "I wasn't in the choir," said Wynette, "but my mother was. She wouldn't let me join because she said I had my father's tin ear." She laughed. "I didn't even know what that meant till years later. She was right, though."

  "Ah, well," I said. "I thought it might be worth a try. All the bulletins were lost in the fire. You three were my only hope."

  "Hang on, now," said Wynette, "I didn't say I didn't remember 1942. I just can't remember last Tuesday. Now that you mention that Christmas cantata, I do recall the hubbub."

  "Really?" My hopes went up. "What kind of hubbub?"

  "Well," said Wynette, "I was fourteen that year, the same as Mattie Lou." She beetled her brow and looked thoughtful. "It seems to me that there was a big to-do made over the composer. It was a woman, wasn't it?"

  "Yes," I said. "A woman named Elle de Fournier."

  Wynette shook her head. "I don't remember the name and I don't think I knew her. She might have been a local girl, but if she was, I never heard of her, before or since."

  "So, probably not a local," I said, my detective sense tingling. I pulled a pen out of my pocket and jotted the new fact onto a paper napkin that was lying on the counter.

  Mattie Lou gave me the look. "A napkin? Oh, really, detective. Where's your notebook?"

  "Don't give me any grief," I said. "I'm collecting clues and formulating hypotheses. There may be more information to be gleaned."

  "Probably not," said Wynette. "Anyway, it didn't happen."

  "What didn't happen?"

  "The Christmas cantata. I remember that part very well. It was Christmas Eve and Mother came home from rehearsal crying. Then she and my father went into the parlor, closed the door, and didn't come out for about an hour. I remember because the Christmas ham burned and I got in trouble for not taking it out of the oven in time. My sister and I had our ears pressed against the parlor door the whole time trying to hear what was going on."

  "Did you ever find out why she was crying?"

  "They never told us. We just ate our burnt ham, hung up our stockings, and went to bed early. Well, early for Christmas Eve. That was the only time growing up that we skipped the midnight mass at St. Barnabas."

  "So," I said, trying to get Wynette's story straight in my head, "the Christmas cantata wasn't performed?"

  "Nope," said Wynette. "I don't believe it was. Not that year, anyway."

  I looked over at Mattie Lou. She shrugged and went back to spreading pimento cheese across the faces of her half-made sandwiches. "Like I said, I wasn't here."

  "Anything else?" I asked Wynette. "Anything at all?"

  She shook her head. "That's it. But if I think of anything, I'll give you a call."

  "I wonder if those nudies need someone to ring their bell this year?" said Marjorie.

  Chapter 7

  She'd joined the Episcopal choir the third week that she had
been in St. Germaine. She'd been invited by Mary Alice Sterling, whom she had met downtown on one cool September afternoon. The choir had made her feel very welcome, much more welcome than her new, extended family, and she made friends very quickly. The choir director, a limpid man named Stan Dearman, had been deliriously happy to have a soprano that could read music, not to mention a choir member in possession of such a clear, bell-like voice. When, in the course of conversation, Mary Alice found out that she was a composer as well, and, in fact, had studied with Nadia Boulanger herself, her friend spilled the beans to Mr. Dearman, even though she'd been sworn to secrecy.

  That Mary Alice! What kind of friend would betray such a trust? Yet for all her indignant airs, she was inwardly pleased, and even more pleased when Mr. Dearman asked her if she might have composed anything that they could sing for Christmas.

  Why, yes, she'd fibbed. A short cantata actually. It would be a world premiere. Did he think the choir would be up for such an opportunity? She might even get Mademoiselle to send a letter of congratulations to the choir. Mr. Dearman expressed his excitement, but was skeptical. Could she really get a letter from Nadia Boulanger? Could we have the newspaper publish it? Oh, I think so, she replied. Mademoiselle came over to America just before the war started and is currently residing in Massachusetts. I have her address.

  And so the deal was sealed.

  Now she had to write it.

  * * *

  The painfully frigid temperatures we'd been experiencing in the mountains had abated, and the Slab Café was full. If the Slab was any indication, St. Germaine would be full of shoppers by ten o'clock. Meg had procured a table by the front window and was waiting for me when I came in. The police department had a reserved table in the back, or so we liked to think, but when space ran out, Pete or Noylene, either one, was quick to grab Nancy's "reserved" sign and toss it behind the counter. Paying customers outranked the PD.

  "I already ordered for you," said Meg. "Pete wants to turn these tables over and make up for lost revenue."

  "Fine with me. I'm in a hurry, anyway." I pulled out a chair and sat down. "What am I having?"

  "Well, since Manuel is back in the kitchen, I thought you'd like the special. Cheese Grits Mexicano."

  "Sounds great." I waved an empty coffee cup at Noylene. She made a face at me, then pointed at Pauli Girl who took the hint and made her way over to the table, stopping to fill a couple of empty cups en route.

  "Y'all need some coffee?" she said when she got to our table.

  "Absolutely," I said, holding my cup aloft. "How was your semester?"

  "Pretty good," Pauli Girl said. "Nursing's hard, but I like it. Right now I'm working on my LPN degree, but I think I might go ahead and become a Registered Nurse."

  "That's wonderful," said Meg. "Have you gotten any practical experience?"

  Pauli Girl nodded. "When I'm not here, I'm volunteering over at Sunridge Assisted Living. The nurses have me working with an old woman. I'm like her...well...helper."

  "Her caregiver?" said Meg.

  "Yeah, like that." Pauli Girl smiled at her. Pauli Girl McCollough was the prettiest girl in three states. She'd always been beautiful and had been fending off the heartsick boys in Watauga County for several years. She was determined, though, to leave the haunts and hollers where she grew up and she viewed education as her way out. It was a dream that Meg and I were happy to fund, even though Pauli Girl had saved every penny that she made since she started waiting tables when she was fourteen.

  "What's her name?" asked Meg.

  "Bessie Baker," said Pauli Girl. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And just between us, she is mean as a snake! She used to be a teacher."

  "English teacher," said Pete. He walked up to the table and put two orders of Cheese Grits Mexicano on the table. "I'm gonna need a caregiver, too, if this keeps up," he said. "Look there." He pointed toward the door and I saw that, in the five minutes since I had come in, a line had formed at the front of the café and now people were lining up in front of the window and down the block.

  "Wow," I said. "The thermometer still hasn't risen above the freezing mark."

  "Yeah, but the sun is shining, and Rosa and Cynthia are out there handing out hot chocolate."

  "When did Rosa start back?" I asked. Rosa Zumaya was Manuel's wife, a short, plump, middle-aged Mexican woman with a smile as wide as she was.

  "Yesterday," Pete said. "Didn't need her last week. We didn't have any customers."

  "You have them now," said Meg, "so quit complaining!"

  "I'll try to cut back," said Pete with a grin. "I may be getting my Christmas spirit back. I'm feeling sort of...I don't know...charitable."

  "Hang on," said Pauli Girl. "How'd you know Miss Baker was an English teacher?"

  "I had her for English," said Pete. "We all did, back before St. Germaine High School closed and everyone moved to the new county school. She was a monster. 'Baker the Grade Shaker.' That's what we called her. She was tough as a boiled owl."

  "She's still tough," admitted Pauli Girl. "And rather difficult."

  "I know her," I said, "although I never had her for English. She was on the vestry at St. Barnabas when I was hired twenty years ago and she was ancient then." I took a sip of my coffee. "I believe she was the only dissenting vote."

  Meg giggled.

  "Then she made my life miserable for about five years. Complaints about the hymns, the anthems, the psalms. The organ was too loud, the service was too long, and why didn't we do Morning Prayer? She had a standing Monday morning appointment with Father Tony just to complain about the previous Sunday. He kept a notebook and gave it to me before he retired. Three hundred pages."

  "Only five years?" said Meg. "Why'd she stop?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe she just wore out. Maybe Father Tony told her to lay off."

  "Maybe she decided that you weren't going to get any better," suggested Pete.

  "She had a stroke," said Pauli Girl. "In 1992. It was in her chart. She recovered pretty well."

  "I've never seen her in church," said Meg. "At least I don't think so. I certainly don't know her."

  "Hey," I said. "I just had a thought. If Bessie Baker was living in St. Germaine at the time, maybe she used to sing in the choir. Even if she didn't, she might shed some light on what happened on Christmas Eve in 1942. Wynette didn't know much, but remembered that the cantata was cancelled at the last minute. They may have even cancelled the midnight service."

  "Are you talking about that music that Cynthia found?" Pete said.

  "Yep," I said. "We're singing it on Christmas Eve. The note Nancy found in the score said that it was premiered at St. Barnabas that Christmas, but now it seems that it never happened. Maybe Bessie Baker knows something." I turned to Pauli Girl. "How old is she?"

  "She's in her nineties."

  "She might have been what...late twenties? Early thirties?"

  "Probably," agreed Pauli Girl.

  "So, she might have been in the choir," I said, then had another thought. "How's her memory?"

  "Her short term memory isn't good," admitted Pauli Girl, "but you know what? She's good at remembering stuff that happened a long time ago."

  "She was a helluva teacher," said Pete. "We hated her when we were in school, but she was one of those teachers that, you know, when you're out in the world, you realize that, wow, you really actually learned something."

  "I had a few like that," admitted Meg. "You should send her a card or something and tell her what she meant to you."

  "Nah," said Pete. "Too touchy-feely. But you know, a bunch of us from the high school always get together after Christmas. Sort of a reunion. Maybe I'll suggest that a few of the girls go over to see the old bat. That should do it for my seasonal benevolence."

  "No, I don't think so," said Meg. "Your seasonal benevolence is just beginning. It's payback time. Remember when I did your taxes last year and saved you a pot-load of money and you said if there was anything
I ever wanted..."

  "I do not remember that," said Pete, going pale. "I definitely do not remember that."

  "I remember it quite well," I said.

  "Anyway," said Meg, "I'm the president of the choir, and you and Cynthia are going to come and sing on Christmas Eve. Not only that, you're coming to all the rehearsals and singing on Sunday mornings as well."

  Now it was my turn to go pale. I had heard Pete sing. Cynthia was fine, but Pete?

  "Wait a minute," I said. "Pete's extremely busy."

  "I am busy," said Pete. "Anyway, when I said that, I meant that I'd give you a pie or something. I have things to do. Important things. Like..." he struggled, panic evident in his eyes. "Like, I've got to go visit that old lady in the nursing home."

  Pauli Girl laughed out loud and headed for another table, coffee pot at the ready. "Nice try, Pete," she said.

  "No way out," said Meg. "You promised. I've already asked Cynthia and she said she's happy to come. Rehearsal is tonight at seven."

  * * *

  "I heard all y'all were looking for singers," said a voice from the top of the choir stairs. I looked up from where I was seated on the organ bench and saw Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle filling the doorway.

  "We're always glad to welcome new choir members," said Meg. "Are y'all a soprano or an alto?" Meg was using the singular y'all, as opposed to the collective all y'all. Y'all is also permissible as a collective pronoun, but once all y'all has been introduced into the conversation, it is simply good manners to follow suit.

  "I'm a soprano, I guess," said Goldi Fawn, maneuvering her heft past the occupied chairs of the tenor and bass sections. "I like to sing the tune."