Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Read online

“How about a female member of the clergy?” I asked. “Do any of you know one?”

  Silence, then Diana said, “Does Kimberly Walnut count?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  No one else admitted knowing one, so I turned to Sara B. and said, tell me about ergodic literature.”

  “Sure,” she replied. “Espen Aarseth coined the term in his book, Cybertext, Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. In ergodic literature, nontrivial effort is required to allow the reader to traverse the text. If ergodic literature is to make sense as a concept, there must also be non-ergodic literature, where the effort to traverse the text is trivial, with no extranoemic responsibilities placed on the reader except — for example — eye movement and the arbitrary turning of pages.”

  “Great,” I said. “I have no earthly idea what that means.”

  “Neither do any of us,” said Diana. “We pretend it’s all about subtexts.”

  “It’s not,” said Sara B, her exasperation evident. “We all read Landscape Painted With Tea. I’ve gone over this with you a hundred times!”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Would you guys like to see my latest story?” I was feeling pretty darn good about my efforts as of late, and I wouldn’t mind the Bookworms cheering me on. “I happen to have a few copies. Eight copies.”

  “Absolutely,” said Stephanie.

  I passed the pages around, and finished the last slice of the Panda Spinacis as they were reading it. It was only about 2600 words at this point, but some of my finest writing to date.

  * * *

  “Care for a pickle?” Kitty offered, opening the jar on the table easily with her giant man-hands. Something was odd about this one. Maybe it was the dark hair on her knuckles, maybe it was the Adam’s apple jutting from her throat like she’d swallowed one of those painted pet turtles without chewing, maybe it was the three-day stubble on her upper lip, but my gut told me this dame would be trouble. I usually listened to my gut when it was yacking. It was my only friend.

  Kitty gronked a gherkin in one bite, then leaned in with a crooked finger, motioning us to do the same.

  “I’m undercover,” Kitty growled lowly. “The real name is Holly. Holly Tosis. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

  He reached into his camisole, came out with a cheap business card, and slid it across the table.

  The name was as familiar as that Praise Chorus that you could never remember but left you feeling sort of nauseous and made you want to go wash your hands to get the praise off. Then, leaning in, I smelled his breath and it all came rushing back to me. ‘Hollywood Tosis’ it said on his flimsy card, shoofly from the East Side. Not much in the way of a snoop, but cheap as a pair of disposable underpants.

  “You probably know my sister Ginger.”

  “Ginger Vitas?” I interrogued.

  Pedro snorted into his beer. Everyone who knew Ginger Vitas knew her in the Biblical sense, both Old and New Testament with a little bit of the Coptic Gospels thrown in for fun. She was a good-time girl and as easy as C Major.

  “That’s enough of that!” snapped Holly, mad as a snapper, which is why he snapped, probably.

  I lowered my usually euphonious tone to a whisper. “So tell me, Holly, what’s with the petticoats?”

  “I’m working for the Anglo-Catholics. They want nothing to do with this St. Groundlemas. Not enough mysticism. This groundhog merger is bad for business.”

  “And?” I said expectantly. Getting the whole story out of Holly Tosis was like pulling teeth, and not teeth from someone who wants all their teeth pulled because they found out that the government was giving away free teeth, but rather someone who is having all their teeth pulled because their breath is so bad it would make sewer rats take up dental hygiene and that brought us back to Holly.

  “They all wear this stuff. Those Anglo-Catholics have already forgotten more about snoot than the Roman Catholics ever knew! Choir ruffs, crinolines, seven layers of robes, silly hats, incense, smoke and abalone … you name it, they’ve got it.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Anne Dante?”

  “Of course it does! She was involved up to her pretty little scapulars. In fact, she was supposed to broker a deal with Jimmy the Snip to get the two front paws of Punxsutawney Phil and bring them back for the reliquary.”

  “So what’s with that wig, makeup, and eyeshadow?” Pedro asked.

  “Well,” said Holly with a smile as coy as a pond full of giant goldfish, “a fella’s gotta look nice.”

  * * *

  “Wow,” said Sarah A. “You’ve got some … uh … real good writing going on.”

  Alison slowly nodded her agreement, then said, “Holly Tosis, Ginger Vitas. A dentally superb cast of characters.

  Rachel added, “And many metaphors and similes which are, of course, the writer’s hammer and tongs.”

  “I’ve really got to get back to work,” said Stephanie, and they all popped to their feet. “Thanks for lunch, Hayden.”

  “Huh?” I managed, but the were all scurrying for the exit.

  “I told them all you were paying for lunch,” Diana said, the last to leave.

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m happy to pay for lunch. I was hoping to get a little constructive criticism from the group.”

  “I’m sure that our criticism wouldn’t sway your style one way or the other,” Diana said over her shoulder as she headed quickly for the front door. It swung open, then closed, and I heard laughter on the sidewalk in front of the Bear and Brew. Mocking laughter.

  Chapter 17

  Gwen Jackson lent Bud three live traps and gave him instruction on their use. Gwen, the town vet, kept traps like these handy behind her office, just in case. Baited with a radish, the groundhogs stood no chance, and by Saturday night, we’d trapped seven, three of them cubs. Gwen had informed us that a young groundhog is a cub or a kit, rather than a pup.

  Moosey was happy to take one of the cubs home and begin its training as part of Moosey’s Menagerie. Gwen took the other six and informed us that they’d be relocated. I called Harm Pooter and told him that he was free to camp out at the house and take care of whatever groundhogs were left. He was agreeable and promised a groundhog free zone by Monday morning.

  * * *

  Kent called me on Saturday.

  “Whatever the poison was that killed the women, it wasn’t succinylcholine,” he said.

  “Yeah, that’d be too easy,” I said.

  “It really would have been. You can only get succinylcholine if you’re licensed to practice medicine. They keep track of that stuff.”

  “But, alas,” I said.

  “Alas,” repeated Kent. “I don’t know if it makes any difference, but Crystal had leukemia. I just got the blood work back this morning. Early stages. She might not have even been aware of the diagnosis yet.”

  * * *

  “Dr. Alison Jaeger is lying,” said Nancy. We were meeting at Holy Grounds coffee shop for an afternoon espresso and update. “You told me she said that she only knew one of the victims.”

  “Crystal Latimore. She indicated that Crystal had been a patient a few years ago, but she hadn’t seen her for a while.”

  “I went by the three houses like you asked and picked up the mail. If you’re going to lie, you should probably make sure your billing department doesn’t send out monthly statements.” Nancy handed me two envelopes, one addressed to Darla Kildair, and one addressed to Amy Ventura. The one addressed to Darla had her old address showing through the clear window of the envelope. There was a yellow, forwarding address sticker slapped catty-cornered over the window sending the envelope to Darla’s new address underneath the Gun Emporium. They had been opened by Nancy. I took out the one addressed to Amy and saw that she had a balance of one hundred twenty-three dollars. There was no itemizing, just a balance due. Probably a copay or part of her deductible. Darla’s statement was itemized for a flu shot, and blood work, but she only owed ninety-six dollars. I looked at the photo I took of the
contents of her medicine chest and guess what?”

  “Alison Jaeger is the prescribing physician on the bottle of Premarin.”

  “Exactly right,” Nancy said. “Why would she lie about knowing them?”

  I ran the conversation back through my head, then said, “She might not have. She said she knew Crystal Latimore, then asked me for the other two names. She never actually said she didn’t know them.”

  “She didn’t say that she did,” said Nancy.

  “True enough,” I said. “I assumed that she didn’t know them.”

  “Either way something’s not right.”

  “I’ve have that same feeling,” I said. “Like we’re missing something.”

  Chapter 18

  The dead make good clients; I mean they rarely complain; they don’t drink your gin; they don’t try to sell you Mary Kay Pore Minimizing Lotion to make their monthly nut; they’re quiet for the most part except when the gas escapes, and really, who hasn’t that happened to; no, as a whole, your graveyard stiff is just about the ideal mark. The problem is getting paid.

  “Found ‘em,” said Pedro, as he finished rifling through Anne Dante’s purse. “Six credit cards. That should keep us going through the weekend anyway.”

  “Holly Tosis is going to try to scuttle the St. Groundlemas movement,” I said. “I don’t know whose side we’re on here.”

  “If Anne Dante came to you for help, and she was after the whistle-pig’s paws, I’d put her on the side of the St. Groundleites.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I got no pig in this fight, whistling, flying, or otherwise, but you don’t plug a dame in my office and think you’re getting away with it.”

  * * *

  I woke on Sunday morning to the smell of coffee. It was early, and Meg wasn’t beside me in the bed, but Meg was usually up before me anyway, the weekends being no exception. I trundled into the kitchen, filled my mug with coffee and looked out the window at a foot of snow on the ground. That’s the thing about snow: it sneaks up on you, not like a big thunderstorm that announces its presence every few minutes, but like a thief in the night.

  Baxter, lying on his belly in front of the cold fireplace in the adjacent room, looked up at me as if he might want to go outside, then thought better of it and hid his muzzle under one big paw. Meg came in through the kitchen door with a load of firewood in her arms.

  “Good morning!” she said brightly when she saw me. “Here, give me a hand, will you?”

  I unburdened her and took the split oak over to the fireplace. It didn’t take a minute to push a lit piece of pine fatwood underneath the oak and watch the fire blaze into being.

  “I certainly didn’t expect snow,” she said. “The forecast was for a cold and clear weekend.”

  “Well, they were half right. It’s cold.”

  “Can we make it into church this morning?” Meg asked.

  “Oh, sure. That’s no problem. The roads should be clear in an hour or so, and the four-wheel drive will take that truck just about anywhere.”

  “Hmm,” said Meg. “It seems to me you’ve been stuck a few times though.”

  “A few,” I admitted, “but never in a foot of snow.”

  “Archimedes took off when I came out of the bedroom. I didn’t even have a chance to give him one of those chipmunks.”

  I poured myself a mug of coffee. “He’ll probably find his own breakfast this morning. All those rabbit and mouse tracks will be easy to spot.”

  We spent a leisurely few hours warming by the fire, watching the news, and getting dressed for church, then at 9:35 we bundled into the old truck and pointed it toward town. The ten miles usually took twenty minutes or so, but watching for ice and taking our time, we were there just in time to head up to the choir loft to prepare for the service.

  As announced, Father Dressler had changed the service to Rite I, a formal service, but not as formal as he could go. I’d done a little research on Anglo-Catholics. Sometimes they went totally “off-book” and adopted the Anglican Missal as the prayer book of choice. As far as I could tell since I hadn’t seen a copy of the Missal, was that contained had three versions of the Eucharistic prayers: the one from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, the 1549 Canon as translated by Thomas Cranmer, and an English translation of the Roman Catholic Canon. All this remained to be seen. For now — Rite I. We’d used Rite I in the past during Lent so it wasn’t unfamiliar, but Mother Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh didn’t like Rite I and it had been several years since it had made an appearance in our liturgy.

  I was already at the organ when the first of the choir members made their way up the steps and found their seats. Our usual plan was to put on our robes in the vesting room back by the sacristy, then head up to the loft, warm up, go quickly through the music, hit some trouble spots if there were any, and then get relaxed and get ready for the prelude. In the days before Mother P, the choir would go down the stairs and process with the crucifer, acolytes, and priest during the opening hymn, make their way around the sides of the sanctuary and back up the stairs to the loft leaving the clergy and extras at the front to perform their tasks. Since Mother P despised ceremony, she had done away with the processional, the cross had remained stationary in the front, candles were lighted before the service started, and the clergy casually walked to the front during the hymn, stopping to chat and shake hands as they walked. Many of the choir didn’t even bother to put robes on. Today was different.

  Everyone had managed to find their robes and we’d already gone through the Psalm and the anthem when Father Dressler appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in his long black cassock with red band cincture, and a beretta with a red ball on top. I saw him come up, but was in the middle of giving directions as to a particular musical phrase when …

  “A-HEM,” he said, not discretely at all. I stopped speaking and all heads turned to look at him.

  “As you know,” he said, “we’re going to be processing this morning. I’ve already given instructions to the acolytes and the crucifer. Sadly, we won’t be having incense, but that will soon change.”

  The choir looked at him but didn’t say anything.

  “The acolytes and the crucifer will be adults this morning, since I haven’t had time to train any young people, but that will change as well.”

  No comment.

  “I’d like everyone to genuflect as they approach the altar. Does everyone know what I’m speaking of?”

  “Sure,” said Mark Wells. “Stop, give a quick nod, and move on.”

  “No,” said Father Dressler. “Absolutely not. Stop, go to one knee, bow your head, cross yourself, then rise and continue in procession. If you need help kneeling or rising, there will be an usher there to assist. Kimberly Walnut and I shall remain kneeling in prayer for approximately thirty seconds. Then I shall ascend to the altar and offer the opening sentences.

  The choir looked at him in stunned silence.

  “That’s probably going to take an extra four or five minutes,” I said.

  “Yes. That’s why you need to plan your hymn interludes accordingly.”

  “Ah,” I said. “It’s a good thing you gave me a little warning.”

  He ignored the comment. “Everything else should be straight forward. I don’t want to change too much of the service right away. We’ll let the congregation adjust.” He disappeared down the stairs to don his liturgical finery.

  The entire choir looked over at Marjorie in expectation. She’d been a member of the St. Barnabas choir for almost sixty years and had seen a lot. She wasn’t shy about expressing her opinion.

  “We did some of that stuff back in the fifties,” she said. “I had enough of it then! I’ll tell you what: I’ll walk down the aisle, give a wink to the acolyte, and smack the first usher that lays a hand on me.”

  “I’m walking behind Marjorie,” said Georgia.

  “Me, too,“said Rhiza, followed by general hubbub in the choir. Meg looked at me with desperation in her eyes. I gave a halfh
earted smile and shrugged.

  “Just a moment,” Meg said loudly, getting everyone’s attention, then lowered her voice. “We might as well do what he wants and see how it goes. As your president, I’m calling on you to do your duty as choir members.”

  “Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a mile,” said Marjorie. “First thing you know we’ll be “Hail Mary-ing” all over the church. Hail Mary, full-of-grace, Hail Mary, fair-of-face, something something placenta.”

  “Placenta?” asked Goldi Fawn. “What on earth are you talking about?

  I interrupted the discussion. “Anyone who doesn’t want to genuflect can stay up here,” I said, “but if you decide to go, that means you don’t have a problem with kneeling in front of the altar as you process.”

  “It’s not that I have a problem, with kneeling,” said Elaine. “I have a problem with getting back up.”

  “Ushers will be there to help,” Meg said, but Elaine shook her head doubtfully.

  “I don’t know about this, either,” said Mark Wells, “but I’ll try anything once. I’ve got this new hip though, so if I go down and don’t come back up, tell Jane I love her and that I spent the insurance money on beer.”

  * * *

  The service, including a nine minute processional hymn thanks to a lengthy improvisation between stanzas three and four, went fairly well. Since I was busy playing, I couldn’t tell how many of the choir members needed help getting up after genuflecting. Meg indicated that not as many needed help as thought they would.

  The congregation seemed to enjoy hearing the Psalm sung by the choir, and if they were put off by the somewhat unfamiliar Trisagion, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei, they didn’t show it. Our two anthems went well, and the other three hymns were fairly familiar and John Wesley would have been happy to hear them sung “lustily and with good courage.”

  However, during the announcements, which Father Dressler made just before the Passing of the Peace, I was surprised to hear the following: