The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

  The Treble Wore Trouble

  A Liturgical Mystery

  by Mark Schweizer

  The Treble Wore Trouble

  A Liturgical Mystery

  Copyright ©2012 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

  SJMP|books

  www.sjmpbooks.com

  P.O. Box 249

  Tryon, NC 28782

  Acknowledgements

  Nancy Cooper, Betsy Goree, Beverly Easterling,

  Kristen Linduff, Beth McCoy, Patricia Nakamura, Donis Schweizer,

  Liz Schweizer, Richard Shephard, and Holly D. Wallace

  Sing Me to Heaven

  Music by Daniel Gawthrop, Poem by Jane Griner

  used by permission

  Prelude

  Three thousand miles away, Marsha suddenly woke to the sound of beetles scurrying and the smell of sewage and couldn't help thinking that, if she had only gone to choir practice instead of that Beth Moore Bible Study, none of this would be happening: the First Methodist youth group wouldn't have been eaten by cannibals, and she wouldn't be left with only seven toes or be locked in a Peruvian jail with a large, unhygienic woman named Adelgonda who liked having her feet rubbed.

  * * *

  "The difference between a good writer and a bad writer is merely the distance of a few participles."

  "You don't say," said Meg, glancing up from the book she was reading.

  "I'm absolutely convinced," I said.

  Meg was curled up on the overstuffed leather sofa in front of the fireplace, her legs tucked under her. It was where she might be found on any given evening after the dishes had been washed, the dog fed and she'd finished watching her daily DVR recording of Worldwide Exchange. The program came on at four in the morning and featured in-depth coverage of business and investment issues, something that Meg, as a financial advisor, was keenly interested in. I, on the other hand, was not. I enjoyed watching a football game, or the NCAA basketball tournament, or even one of those home renovation shows, but sitting through an hour of financial information every day was tantamount to torture.

  When I asked why she didn't get up at four to watch the program live, Meg rolled her eyes. "Oh, puh-lease," she'd groaned. "There's nothing happening at four in the morning that's going to affect anything that I do. I just like to keep up." So, unless I had other pressing business, as soon as Meg settled in with her book, I sat down at my typewriter and tried to tickle the muse.

  "Hayden Konig," Meg said, peering over the pages and doing her best impression of a schoolmarm, "do you even know what a participle is?"

  "No," I said, "but I could look it up."

  "I think you should."

  Sitting at the typewriter, I immediately decided that I couldn't be bothered. I put my fingers onto the keys and felt a gentle warmth emanating up through my hands. Imagination? Perhaps. But, as far as I was concerned, writing was more than inflated pronouns, furtive oxymorons, and grumpy infinitives. Writing was magic, and, although the magicians were many, my favorite had an historical link to this particular machine.

  Raymond Chandler.

  Raymond Chandler was my literary hero. A giant in the 1940s, he, along with Dashiell Hammett, embodied the hard-boiled fiction writer. Chandler was good. No, he was the best, and Philip Marlowe was his character — a wisecracking, hard drinking, tough private eye with a contemplative, more philosophical side. A man who loves women and enjoys poetry, but wouldn't think twice about jamming a roscoe in some sap's button and squirtin' metal.

  "Would you like a glass of wine?" asked Meg. "I'm getting one for myself." She'd unfolded herself from the sofa and set her book down on the coffee table.

  "No wine, thanks, but will you bring me a beer?" I asked.

  "I certainly will. Any preference?"

  "Nope. Surprise me."

  Meg and I have been married for three and a half years. Before that, we'd been an exclusive item since she moved into town nine years ago. She is a few years younger than I, and, according to almost everyone in our little burg of St. Germaine, North Carolina, I "married up." They would get no argument from me.

  Mrs. Megan Konig, née Farthing, had been married once before, and so was one union ahead of me. I hadn't planned on marrying at all — not being one of those unmarried men who was "resigned" to bachelorhood, but one of those who enjoyed it. I'd had the freedom to do what I wanted. I lived in a log cabin on a couple hundred acres. I was rich, thanks to an invention I'd come up with that had nothing to do with my actual job — a job, by the way, that I loved. Life was good.

  But life was even better now. Now I had all those things and a beautiful wife besides. I watched as she walked to the kitchen. Baxter, our tricolored Mountain Dog, dutifully got up from his rug in front of the fire and followed her, hoping, I supposed, that maybe Meg had forgotten that she'd just fed him and would therefore offer him another piece of leftover duck with blueberry glaze. It was a forlorn hope, but one that Baxter never failed to exhibit. If Meg headed to the kitchen, the big dog was on her heels, tail wagging in optimistic expectation. I heard the rattling of bottles as Meg rooted around in the fridge, the sound of the door closing, the clink of a wine glass, and a few moments later, Meg was coming back into the living room with a glass of red wine in one hand and a bottle of BottleTree Blonde in the other. Baxter followed at a respectable distance, his tail now low, flagging his disappointment. He made his way back to his rug, sniffed it once or twice to make sure no other dog had sneaked into the house and usurped it while he was otherwise occupied, then stretched out and settled back into his torpor. It was the blazing fireplace that sent him snoring. It did the same thing to me. Keeping a fire going in early March was a given here in the mountains of North Carolina. Although we'd had the occasional warmish day in February foreshadowing an early spring, this year, like most, there was still snow on the ground.

  Meg set my beer on the desk beside the typewriter and went back to her comfortable perch on the sofa. She was the prettiest woman in three counties. Shoulder-length black hair framed a face with high cheekbones, a beautiful smile, and dancing blue-gray eyes. As for her figure, well, with the possible exception of Cynthia Johnsson, the mayor of St. Germaine and an expert belly dancer, Meg would be far and away the favorite in any "over-forty" beauty competition in the state. Cynthia might win the talent competition, with her belly dancing and all, but Meg would garner extra points during the personal interview. Whenever Pete Moss (Cynthia's significant other) and I argued the point, Cynthia and Meg insisted that we're both sexist pigs. Still, a pig knows what a pig knows.

  "Thank you very much," I said, taking a sip of the amber brew.

  "You're very welcome. Did you look up 'participle' yet?"

  "No. I'm much too busy. What are you reading?"

  She held up the book so I could see the cover, a cover I knew well. "It's your copy of The Big Sleep."

  "My Raymond Chandler, first edition, hardback copy signed by the author with mint condition book jacket?" I asked nervously.

  "No," said Meg with a laugh. "Your cheap, non-signed, 1978 Books-A-Million facsimile copy."

  "Whew," I said, letting out my breath in relief. "That was close. How do you like it?"

  "I like it," said Meg. "I've seen the movie, of course. The book is better." She tapped a finger on her chin, pondering for a moment. "You know, I can see where you come by some of your phraseology
in your own so-called writing."

  I fairly blushed with pride. "Yes, Raymond and I are as alike, yet unalike, as two dissimilar peas in a pod."

  "Exactly what I'm talking about," said Meg.

  In addition to owning several volumes of signed first editions by Raymond Chandler, I was also typing on the very typewriter that he used to write the book that Meg was reading for the first time. I had bought this 1939 Underwood No. 5 through an on-line auction. After a thorough refurbishment, it worked like new. If hard-pressed to conjure the spirit of Mr. Chandler, I could also don his own grey fedora, circa 1952. These literary procurements, as cool as they were, were the purchases of a law enforcement professional with too much disposable income. Meg's words, not mine. Since she'd taken charge of our investment portfolio, our assets had steadily grown, despite the down market. She never complained when I had these flights of belletristic fancy and spent a few thousand dollars here or there.

  "Listen to this," said Meg, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Here's an example. A case of false teeth hung on the mustard-colored wall like a fuse box in a screen porch."

  "Nice," I said, with a smile.

  "Nice?" said Meg. "What does that sentence even mean? Who would hang a case of false teeth on the wall? And since when do false teeth come by the case? Wouldn't someone get a 'set' of teeth? Even in 1939?"

  "It's all about context," I insisted.

  "Okay, I see your point," Meg agreed, "but a case of false teeth? It sounds like something that came right out of your liturgical mysteries."

  "Don't worry," I mumbled, "it will."

  Baxter let out a gentle woof in his sleep and his hind legs twitched as if he were dreaming about chasing one of the deer that frequented the pastures in which he was fond of running. Meg reached a leg over to where he was lying and scratched his belly with her foot. He immediately rolled onto his back and gave a happy groan but never opened his eyes.

  I might be worried about Meg's criticism if writing were my career. Luckily, it isn't. As I mentioned before, I'm a law enforcement professional. Police chief of St. Germaine, North Carolina, a small town in the northwestern part of the state, nestled deep in the Appalachian Mountains. The SGPD consists of three officers: myself; Lieutenant Nancy Parsky, a fine officer who could probably run everything by herself if worse came to worst; and Dave Vance, who did most of the paperwork and answered the phone. We're not that busy most of the time.

  But I have an avocation as well. No, not writing. Music.

  I'm the organist and choirmaster at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church. This is the best use of my undergraduate and first Master's degrees in music. My second graduate degree accounts for my job as police chief. None of these degrees count at all toward my propensity for writing bad fiction. That came naturally.

  "How's your story coming?" Meg asked. "I haven't heard any typing for a while."

  "I'm almost ready," I said, looking at the paper peeking around the roller of the typewriter, waiting for the lone sentence to cajole me into continuing. It was a good start, and yet ...

  "I have to mull these things," I said. "Mull and cogitate. Then some rumination. This is my process." I took a sip of my beer. "BottleTree Blonde," I said. "A lovely choice. Delightfully light, crisp and effervescent with just enough weight for some complexity. Yeasty, yet not too heavy."

  "Now you sound like Bud," Meg said, laughing. "Get back to work. The choir is waiting for the next story. You heard Marjorie at choir rehearsal. If there's no story next week, there's likely to be a mutiny."

  I had been fashioning musical detective stories for the choir at St. Barnabas for the better part of five years. Beginning with The Alto Wore Tweed, I'd worked my way through the choir — the Baritone, Tenor, Bass, Soprano, and Mezzo — then rounded it out with the Diva, the Organist, and the Countertenor.

  "You're right," I said, and pulled the paper from behind the platen of the old typewriter. I replaced it with a fresh sheet. "Time to get moving. Maybe I need some inspiration."

  "Did you look at those Chandler quotes I left on your desk?"

  "Yeah," I said, leering at her with my most potent ogle, "but I was thinking about other inspiration."

  "Forget it, Bub. I'm reading."

  I picked up the quotes that had appeared in Harper's magazine a few months back. These were unused in his stories, but had been found in his notebooks. Apparently Raymond Chandler collected similes the way I collected rebuffs. I typed one onto the page in front of me.

  A face like a collapsed lung

  I smiled and tried a few more.

  A nose like a straphanger's elbow

  His face was long enough to wrap twice around his neck

  A mouth like wilted lettuce

  I knew what I had to do.

  The Treble Wore Trouble

  Chapter One

  Magic.

  Chapter 1

  "God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh."

  "Who said that?" asked Nancy.

  "I said it," replied Pete. "You just heard me."

  Pete and Nancy were sitting across from me at the Bear and Brew. He lifted the pitcher of amber brew from the middle of the table and refilled his own glass, then Nancy's. Pete's pint glass had "Old Speckled Hen" printed on it, Nancy's had a Guinness logo, and mine advertised Newcastle Ale, all of which had nothing to do with what we were drinking. The pitcher contained Corona, the cheapest stuff in the place. It was Pete's contention that when you ate a really good pizza, you should always drink cheap beer. Not bad beer. Just cheap.

  Pete Moss wasn't cheap by nature. As the ex-mayor of St. Germaine and the owner of the Slab Café, he had made some wise investments over the years. He looked like an aging hippie, complete with graying ponytail, one small earring, Hawaiian shirt (winter or summer), faded jeans and sandals — either with or without socks, depending upon the snow on the ground. He might look like a love-child from the '70s, but he was a Reagan capitalist from the minute he had to pay his own Social Security taxes. Pete was always on the prowl for the next Big Idea.

  Cynthia Johnsson, Pete's longtime love interest, was up at the counter giving someone heck over our botched order of garlic knots which we should have been enjoying while waiting on our extra large Black Bear Special pizza. Cynthia was a waitress by trade and therefore had no patience for shoddy waiting. That Cynthia was also the current mayor of St. Germaine didn't mean she could give up her day job. After a vigorous and, some might say, "hilarious" campaign and subsequent election, Cynthia discovered that the position of mayor paid very little, certainly not enough to live on, and so continued her full-time occupation as a professional server — one of several ladies who did so. All of them worked in almost every eatery on the square, depending on their schedules and who happened to be busy. The Bear and Brew, the Ginger Cat, and the Slab Café all shared the town's female wait staff. In addition, Cynthia performed as a belly dancer, available for parties, class reunions, Shriners' conventions, and bar mitzvahs. She also gave belly dancing classes at the library when summer was approaching and the women of St. Germaine remembered that they might have to don a bathing suit at some point and thought that some hip and belly wiggling might have a positive effect.

  Meg, the other member of our party of five, had excused herself to make a phone call to her mother and was just outside the brew pub. I could see her through the front window, holding her phone to her ear. It was cold out. Her breath was visible and escaped in puffs when she spoke. When she was listening, her head bobbed slightly and she smiled. Her free hand held the lapels of her overcoat tight against the stiff breeze. She hadn't taken the time to button it when her phone rang and she decided to take the call outside. I watched the snow come up in little eddies as the wind travelled down the sidewalk and whipped around her legs. Meg's black fur cap was indistinguishable from her hair, especially in the dim light of the nearest streetlight, several yards away. It gave her the appearance of a 1940s movie star or maybe an exotic Russi
an spy. After a few moments, she finished her call, dropped her phone into the pocket of the overcoat and pushed open the front door of the restaurant to come in out of the cold.

  "I think it was Voltaire," I said to Nancy, picking back up the conversation.

  "Nah," said Pete. "I thought it was Voltaire, too, but it turned out to be H.L. Mencken. It's on my Quote-of-the-Day calendar."

  "That was my second guess," I said.

  "It's freezing outside," said Meg. She took off her coat and dropped it over the back of one of the empty chairs at the table. Her hat followed. She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head as if trying to rid herself of the cold. "Brrr," she said, sitting down beside me and scooting me over on the bench. "Hey! I'm starving. Didn't we order some garlic knots?"

  "Cynthia's getting them," Pete said, then pointed at me and himself in turn. "Hayden and I are busy quoting Voltaire and H.L. Mencken. We're intellectuals, you see."

  "The secret to being a bore is to tell everything," Meg quipped.

  "There's no need to get personal," said Pete. "I didn't tell everything." He took a sip of his beer and smacked his lips in appreciation.

  Meg laughed. "I was quoting Voltaire," she said.

  "Oh," said Pete. "That's okay, then."

  The original Bear and Brew, located just off the square in St. Germaine, had started its life as the Kellogg's Feed store in the 1920s. But "original" this building was not. Almost three years ago, the fiery finger of God had smote the old Bear and Brew and burned it to the ground for her owners daring to petition the city to sell beer on Sunday. There had been protests and picketing and the issue had finally been decided by the voters in favor of Sabbath sales, but not before lightning and the ensuing fire had consumed the modern day Gomorrah.