Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines

  The Cantor

  Wore Crinolines

  A Liturgical Mystery

  by Mark Schweizer

  SJMPbooks

  The Cantor Wore Crinolines

  A Liturgical Mystery

  Copyright ©2013 by Mark Schweizer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by

  SJMPbooks

  P.O. Box 249

  Tryon, NC 28782

  ISBN 978-0-9844846-7-6

  Prelude

  “What’s with the sport coat?” asked Meg. “I thought you were going into town for a meeting. You never wear a sport coat except on Sundays.”

  “It is a meeting, sure enough,” I answered. “It’s the monthly meeting of the Blue Hill Bookworms. I thought I should look professional since I am, after all, the featured author.”

  “The featured what?”

  “You heard me,” I said smugly. “My literary prowess has garnered me an invitation to the most exclusive book club in three counties.”

  “I’ll say,” said Meg. “Mother tried to get in a few years ago. They made her submit her reading list for the past two years, and then informed her that her disposition towards romantic fiction was too pedestrian.”

  “Why haven’t you tried to join?” I asked.

  “Oh, I wanted to. They even asked me to apply. But I just couldn’t do it after they blackballed Mother.”

  Meg was relaxing in front of the fire in her usual after-supper position on the overstuffed leather sofa. Her legs were tucked up underneath her and she had a book in her hand. Undoubtably something the Blue Hill Bookworms would have approved of, Molliere, or Edith Warton, or some such unreadable thing. She eyed me with that look reserved for someone who has snuck a cheesecake into the house during Lent.

  “And, pray tell, why are you, Hayden Konig, the featured author?” she asked, then arched an eyebrow. “You certainly have not written a book, and your short detective stories, although mildly amusing to a certain undiscerning audience, are definitely not the stuff of fine literature. In point of fact, they are the antithesis of fine literature. The worst of the worst. You have won awards for how bad they are.”

  “Perhaps the Intelligentsia of St. Germaine has discovered the layers of deep meaning lurking in my prose.”

  Meg laughed.

  “They asked you to bring the typewriter, didn’t they?” she said with a giggle.

  “Well, yes. How did you know?”

  “It’s my fault,” said Meg. “I admit it. I was talking with Diana and she told be the Bookworms were reading a mystery novel as a lark. Something to let their brains recover between Finnegans Wake by James Joyce and something or other by Virginia Woolf.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “I might have mentioned that you had Raymond Chandler’s actual typewriter, you being an eccentric millionaire detective story writer of a sort.”

  “So you think that they have invited me just to see the typewriter?” I walked over to my desk, sat down, and looked lovingly at the machine in front of me. It was a 1939 Underwood No. 5.

  “It did occur to me,” said Meg.

  “Well, they did ask to me read some of my best stuff,” I said.

  “Which means, your worst stuff.”

  The Underwood No. 5 had been the most popular typewriter in the world, but this was not just any Underwood No. 5. This particular typewriter had been owed by Raymond Chandler, the noir detective writer, and used to write his first four books. I’d found it listed at an on-line auction and paid a hefty price to buy it, have it refurbished, and delivered to my mountain cabin ten miles outside of St. Germaine. Now it sat on the desk in the den, basking in the glow of the green shaded banker’s lamp, and was tasked with channeling enough of Raymond Chandler’s muse to make my efforts seem worthwhile.

  “As you mentioned,” I said, “I do have several sentences that have won actual awards.”

  “Awards for bad writing,” said Meg. She took a sip of wine, uncurled her legs, and set the book down on the cushion next to her. “Not the same thing, but let’s hear them anyway.” She gave me a smile that warmed me to my toes. Her black hair, pulled back in a loose pony tail, framed a face with high cheekbones, mischievous blue-gray eyes and a delicious smile. That she could have been a model for a lingerie catalog was my good fortune. That she chose to be an accountant and a first-rate financial advisor was my good fortune as well.

  “I’ve typed them out,” I said, looking at the old, typewritten words dancing across the sheet of 20 lb. bond still curled the platen. There was something about seeing the actual words that gave me a thrill. I chose one of my better, award-winning sentences and read:

  She’d been strangled with a rosary: not a run-of-the-mill rosary like you might get at a Catholic bookstore where Hail Marys are two for a quarter and indulgences are included on the back flap of the May issue of “Nuns and Roses” magazine, but a fancy heirloom rosary with pearls, rubies, and a solid gold cross, a rosary with attitude, the kind of rosary that said, “Get your Jehovah’s Witness butt off my front porch.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Meg. “I remember that one fondly. Another?”

  Although Brandi had been named Valedictorian and the outfit for her outdoor speech carefully chosen to prove that beauty and brains could indeed mix, standing in the sudden downpour she quickly regretted her choice of attire, her sodden T-shirt now valiantly engaging in the titanic struggle between the tensile strength of cotton and Newton’s first law of motion.

  Meg giggled at that one. It was the most I could hope for, I decided. We’d been married for five years and I agreed with every one else when they said that she was easily the best thing that had ever happened to me. Baxter, lying next to the fire lifted his head at the sound, then decided that no one was offering him anything to eat, and laid his shaggy head back on his rug with as big a sigh as a Mountain Dog could muster.

  “I’m sure the Bookworms will enjoy hearing your past efforts,” she said. “But isn’t it about time you started on a new story?”

  “I was just thinking about that this afternoon as I was typing these up.”

  “And what did you decide?”

  “Well, I was having trouble coming up with a plot.”

  “That,” Meg enjoined, “has never stopped you before.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “So I jumped right in, and guess what?”

  “My guess would be that you had no problem whatsoever coming up with a so-called plot, preposterous characters, and a ridiculous title.”

  “Your guess would be correct,” I said.

  I pulled the paper containing my finest work out of the typewriter, stuck it in my computer bag and replaced it with a different, half-filled page from the top drawer. At the top was what I knew my fans longed to see.

  The Cantor Wore Crinolines

  Brilliant!

  Chapter 1

  The Slab Café was bustling, and customers were not an easy thing to come up with on a cold Saturday in the middle of January. December, sure. Everyone was out and about at Christmas time, especially in St. Germaine, a town just made for Christmas. With its downtown trees and shops all decorated and lit up like a Nashville Holiday Special, its churches, choirs, schools, and various groups trying to outdo each other in the name of good cheer, and its fifteen hundred citizens all sweetness and light from Thanksgiving to Christmas Day, by the time December
26 rolled around, it was over. Way over. Twelve Days of Christmas? Forget about it. Epiphany would get a nod from the Episcopalians at St. Barnabas, then everyone would settle into the doldrums of winter.

  Yes, a bustling day in mid January was as rare as squirrel eggs.

  The reason for the activity on this particular morning, as everyone knew, was an auction. At ten o’clock, on the front steps of the courthouse, three properties within walking distance of downtown St. Germaine, would be offered for sale. These three houses had been forfeited to the city for nonpayment of taxes. Tax sales didn’t happen often in St. Germaine, but when they did, and the properties offered to the highest bidder, the event garnered a big crowd. Of course, in addition to the purchase price, the new owners were required to pay the lien on the property, but there was no reserve price. Theoretically, anyone could buy a house for the opening bid of one dollar.

  This had never happened.

  Property close to the town center generally went for a premium. That three houses were for sale on the courthouse steps on the same Saturday was unheard of, but these had all been bought by the same out-of-town investment company just before the housing crash. Now that company was out of business — bankrupt, apparently — and had defaulted on its tax obligations.

  Hence all the hubbub.

  Meg and I managed to get our usual seat at the back of the Slab thanks to Nancy, who had showed up early and staked it out. Three university students had apparently tried to poach the other end of the six-top, but Nancy flashed her badge, told them that the table was reserved for official police business, and informed them that Holy Grounds, the coffee house down the street, had free WiFi. They were happy with that news and all left, heads down, texting on their smart phones.

  “Thanks for running my customers off,” said Pete, making a face and wiping his hands on his apron as he walked up to the table. “I might have made two or three dollars off those kids by the time they’d had their third pot of coffee. One of ‘em might have even ordered a bagel or something.”

  “Much better to have professional people hogging the table,” Nancy said.

  “But with you guys,” continued Pete, his face brightening with sarcasm, “I’ll end up losing about twenty bucks. You drink coffee by the gallon, eat everything in sight, and never pay your bill.”

  “You never give us a bill,” Meg said, in her nicest voice. “That’s why we come here for breakfast.”

  “Don’t forget,” I added, “we do give you police protection and all of our good will.”

  “It’s true,” said Pete, then lowered his voice. “Don’t get the country ham. I’m going to switch suppliers. The last two shipments weren’t that good. I’ve heard some good things about the ham over in Western Kentucky. I’m going to give it a try.”

  “I don’t know how you guys can eat that stuff,” sniffed Nancy. “It’s too dang salty. You’re all going to stroke out.”

  “There was a time,” chided Meg, “that you loved it.”

  “That time is past,” said Nancy.

  Nancy Parsky was second banana on the St. Germaine police force. She’d been courted for first banana status at police forces all around western North Carolina, but had declined each offer preferring, she said, to stay where she was. In St. Germaine, I was the first banana, the Banana Alpha, the Banana-in-Chief.

  “Glad you saved me a seat,” said Dave, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “Have you guys ordered? I’ll have some country ham, three eggs over easy, grits, biscuits and gravy, and a short stack. Gimme some sugar-free syrup though. I’m on a diet.”

  Third banana was Dave. Dave Vance worked chiefly in the police station manning the phone and filling out reports. He seemed content with his part-time status, meager paycheck, and substantial trust fund. Dave had a badge, but didn’t carry a gun. Nancy did carry a gun and had her Glock holstered on her hip. Of the three of us, she was the one that looked like a cop. Starched brown on tan uniform, badge and name tag, no nonsense attitude. You didn’t mess with Nancy. I had a badge somewhere. Maybe in the office. Glove compartment? I couldn’t remember. I did know where my pistol was. I kept it in the organ bench at the church.

  “Pancakes sound good for me, too,” decided Meg. “In fact, I’ll have exactly what Dave ordered, but with turkey sausage instead of country ham. And I’d like my eggs poached. Just two, please.” Meg put a finger up to her chin and thought for a moment. “Maybe skip the pancakes. And no biscuits, just toast. Whole wheat, with some apple butter. And can you substitute fried potatoes for the grits?”

  “So exactly what Dave ordered …” said Pete.

  “Exactly,” said Meg. “Just those little changes. Oh, and a bran muffin.”

  “Ditto,” I said.

  “Ditto to what?” asked Pete in frustration.

  “Ditto to what Dave and Meg said.”

  “You know that I’m a registered health coach, Dave,” said Nancy. “I could arrest you for crimes against nutrition.

  “Maybe in New York,” Dave said with a smug grin. “Or California. Not here.”

  Pete Moss was the owner of the Slab Café, a landmark in St. Germaine. The Slab sat on the corner of the downtown square and catered to everyone that loved an old-fashioned downtown eatery. It had checkered red and white vinyl table cloths, a counter with several stools, a checkerboard floor and all the small town ambiance anyone could ask for. If you wanted a good breakfast, a piece of pie, all the local gossip, or a good Reuben sandwich, the Slab Café was where you came. Open from six a.m. till two o’clock Monday through Saturday. These hours of operation, however, changed with Pete’s whims.

  “Why don’t I just bring out everything we’ve got?” Pete snarled. We ignored him. He tended to get surly when he had to wait tables. I looked around. For a busy Saturday, the Slab seemed to be a couple of waitresses short.

  “You need to get your own coffee,” he said turning for the kitchen. “I’m busy.”

  I’d known Pete for a lot of years. He’d been my college roommate. After graduation, Pete did a stint in the Army then returned to St. Germaine, his hometown. I pursued a graduate degree in music, then one in Criminal Justice which led to my current job. Pete had been the mayor when he hired me. He wasn’t the mayor any more. That post was currently held by his “significant other,” Cynthia Johnsson.

  Besides being the mayor of St. Germaine and a professional waitress, Cynthia was also a belly dancer — a good one — and had a belly dancer’s figure. With her blonde hair and natural beauty, she was easily the best looking mayor in the state.

  That they hadn’t married in the seven years they’d been together wasn’t much of a surprise. Pete had been married a couple of times before. Cynthia, once. Pete was an aging hippie. Sure, Cynthia had finally talked him into cutting his hair, but he still had his earring, a vestige from the early ’80s. His Hawaiian shirts and sandals had given way over the past few years to warmer fare, sweatshirts and Old Friends slippers, at least during the bitterly cold months. He still embraced social causes but with a strong eye towards the bottom line.

  This had made him a good mayor and he’d stayed in the office for five terms, running mostly unopposed, and putting his stamp on the office and the town. Then he’d lost a close election to Cynthia and they’d been an item ever since.

  “Where’s Cynthia?” Meg asked. “I thought she’d be working on a day like this.”

  “She is working,” I said, look at my watch, “or will be in an hour. As mayor, she’s in charge of the auction. She’s probably over at city hall with the town clerk and the city attorney getting their ducks in a row.”

  “I’m going over in a bit since I’m the designated police presence,” said Nancy. “As soon as I’m finished.”

  “Well,” I said, “you look the most official, and you don’t mind shooting people. There’s going to be a lot of cash floating around.”

  With Cynthia out of pocket, Pauli Girl McCollough back in nursing school after the Christmas break, and Pete gr
umbling in the kitchen, the only wait staff left was Noylene Fabergé-Dupont and she was none too happy about it. Dave waved his empty coffee cup at her, then saw the look in her eyes and quickly reconsidered his position.

  “Anyone else want coffee?” he asked, getting to his feet. “I’ll bring the pot.”

  Chapter 2

  The courthouse was right in the middle of the block on the east side of the downtown square next to the police station. The steps in front ran from the large double doors down to the sidewalk and had been cordoned off. The people were gathered on the sidewalk, in the street, and the crowd overflowed into Sterling Park. Sterling Park, this time of year, was pretty bleak. The hardwoods that shaded the three acre park were bare. The holiday decorations were gone except for a dead Christmas wreath and a couple of strings of burnt out lights dangling from the top of the gazebo. On top of that, the gazebo hadn’t been painted for a couple of years and was sorely in need of a fresh coat. The grass was mostly sparse and brown. Even the snow had turned to gray slush. The hundred or so people treading what was left of the grass waiting for the auction to begin were quickly turning the lawn into a quagmire of muck. No one seemed worried about it. By spring, it’d be beautiful again.

  Cynthia was up at the top of the steps talking to Matthew Aaron, the city attorney. She had a clipboard and was busily writing. The town clerk, Monica Jones, was sitting at a small table off to the side completing some paper work. Nancy was standing beside her, arms folded, a no nonsense look on her face. Kathleen Carson was making her way through the crowd handing out flyers containing all the pertinent real estate facts. I looked at my copy.

  Three houses were listed, along with some basic information that anyone could find by doing an on-line search — address, square footage, zoning, encumbrances, previous purchase price, tax value — accompanied by a grainy black and white photocopy of the front of the house. I scanned the list quickly. No liens or mortgages on any of the houses. That was a surprise.