Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Page 16

  * * *

  “Okay, I’m really getting into this story,” said Sheila. “Priests twirling like manatees, rampant nuns … so descriptive.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Marjorie.

  “I don’t get it, either,” said Meg, “and I’m married to him.”

  The rest of the choir climbed the stairs to the loft and were finding their seats with varying degrees of comments.

  “I heard we had to learn about three hours of music for this evensong,” said Phil.

  “Not quite,” I said, “although there are a couple of extra anthems we need to rehearse for this one.”

  “Hey,” said Mark Wells, appearing at the top of the stairs. “Sorry I’m late. I had a Jehovah’s Witness knock on the door just as I was getting ready to leave. Nice young fella.”

  “I had one show up yesterday afternoon,” said Phil. “Did you give him the heave ho?”

  “Nope. I decided to do the Christian thing and invite him in. I told him to come on in and sit down. So he did.”

  “And?” said Phil.

  “And I asked him what he wanted to talk about. He says ‘Beats me. I’ve never gotten this far before.’”

  The choir broke out in laughter. A good start.

  * * *

  If the Fraternity of Insane Bishops managed to merge Groundhog Day with Candlemas, the Anglo-Catholics were done for. Not because they couldn’t bear the merger, although tying their rosaries to a rodent that predicted the weather wasn’t their idea of parochial correctness, but because their entire funding came from the Liturgical Candle franchise. They ran the biggest candle recycling program in the country and supplied everybody with their bougies - from those little white taperinos that congregations pass around on Christmas Eve, to those hundred-pound Paschal mega-wicks all tarted up like Tammy Faye with more lilies, crosses, and solid-gold Chi Rho symbols than a Trinity Broadcasting stage set. And, of course, the Queen-Mother of all Holy Days in the world of glimmer-glow was … Candlemas.

  I figured that with Candlemas out of the liturgical calendar, the Anglo-Catholics would be ten million in the red by Pentecost. Sure, they’d get some graft from the wedding planners, a little swag from the “Silent Night” crowd, but without Candlemas most of their boodle would go up in smoke. They’d dry up quicker than Betty White in the hot sun.

  Suddenly I felt someone poking me in the back, not the gentle poke of “Excuse me mister, you’re standing on my guinea pig,” or even “Hey buddy, sit down, I can’t see the stripper,” but rather the insistent poking of a couple of 38s and I don’t mean the good kind.

  “Ja, ja,” Klingle sprinkled. “It’s time we took a walk.”

  * * *

  Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, was the last to arrive. He was preceded by his nose which was abnormally long, red, and honking, and his attitude, which was, as usual, haughty and not a little overbearing. He couldn’t help it. His allergies accounted for his sounding like a goose in heat and his PhD in music history (Specialty: The French Chanson 1413-1467) accounted for his attitude. He’d tried to garner numerous teaching positions over the years, but this hadn’t worked out for him. As a certified Mediaevalist he was fluent in Latin and Old French and proficient on a number of instruments, none of which anyone wanted to hear: the rauschpfeife, the racket, the cornemuse, and several unpronounceable bladder instruments. Now he made his living as the owner of the Appalachian Music Shoppe, specializing in selling reproductions of these instruments to other delusional folks. Almost all of his business was done via the internet.

  All that being said, he was a marvelous countertenor and held down the alto section brilliantly. He did have an unrequited crush on Tiff St. James. She’d told Meg his ears reminded her of a Volkswagen Beetle with the doors open.

  “Glad you’re back, Ian,” I said. “How was the tour?”

  “Brilliant!” He grinned ear to ear and it startled everyone. No one had ever seen him smile before. He made a beeline for Tiff, took the seat next to her and, ignoring everyone else in the choir, leaned over and whispered in a loud tone, “I heard we are getting a new organist. A Chevalier!”

  “The concert venues were good?” I asked, knowing that Ian had expressed some concern about the Appalachian Rauschpfeife Consort’s bookings. Ian had found a shady Italian concert/travel agent online and each member of the consort had paid several thousand dollars to go on this tour. They group hadn’t received an itinerary before they departed, but were hoping to get one when the plane landed in Paris.

  “We played in train stations mostly,” said Ian, “but the crowds were most appreciative.”

  “Any reviews?” asked Marjorie. “I love reading bad reviews.”

  Ian sniffed. “None that you could read, dear. They were all in French.”

  “Oh, I read French all right,” said Marjorie. “I was a nurse back in the war. I spent several happy months in Amiens with this good looking gendarme named Pierre. I nursed him back to health after he caught a dose of the Spanish Pox. Of course, the rest of the unit moved on, but I hid in the supply closet so I could stay and look after him.” She looked wistful for a moment. “Oh, the fun we had …”

  “That explains a lot,” said Bob Solomon.

  “Let’s get started,” I said. “We have a lot to cover.”

  * * *

  We went through all the music and there seemed to be no major problems. I explained again to the choir that the Chevalier would be arriving shortly and I extolled his many virtues. When we got to the anthem that we’d be doing on Wednesday, there was general hilarity.

  “You did this on purpose,” Meg said.

  “I cannot confirm or deny that statement. All music has been approved by Father Dressler.”

  “That’s because he hasn’t read your detective story,” said Georgia. “He probably doesn’t even realize that Candlemas is also Groundhog Day.”

  “This anthem has nothing to do with Groundhog Day. It’s a beautiful expression of love from the Old Testament. It’s perfect for a Candlemas Evensong, especially accompanied by the service of Benediction.”

  “Really?” said Rebecca Watts, her sarcasm apparent.

  “Sure. Look at the text.”

  “We’re looking at it,” said Steve.

  What they were looking at was Edward Bairstow’s setting of the text from the Song of Solomon.

  I sat down under his shadow with great delight.

  We can’t sing this with a straight face,” said Marty from the alto section. The rest of the altos nodded their agreement.

  “Alas,” I said, “it’s already been approved and is probably to the printer.” I wasn’t sure about that last part, but it sounded good. “It’s a beautiful piece and you all will sing it just fine. Now let’s have a prayer and dismiss.”

  * * *

  After choir was over and folks were dispersing, Georgia came up to the organ console, leaned over and said softly, “I’m in the St. Germaine Garden Club, you know.”

  “Oh?” I feigned ignorance of what was coming next.

  “You haven’t told the priest about the Blessing, have you?”

  “Blessing? What blessing?

  Georgia growled at me.

  “Umm … well … Kimberly Walnut did mention something about a groundhog being blessed, but I told her she should take care of it. Either tell the Garden Club or tell Father Dressler, but one of them is going to be very upset.”

  “You know she won’t. She avoids confrontation like you avoid writing classes. She’ll try to figure out some way to make everyone happy. Or, at least, not to make anyone too mad.”

  “That’s hardly my fault.”

  “You should say something,” said Georgia, with an evil smile. “You will have a lot to answer for on Judgement Day.

  “Maybe,” I said. But technically, I’m still on sabbatical.

  Chapter 22

  The Chevalier Lance Fleagle arrived on Thursday morning. I know this because Georgia walked into the Slab Café, stomped up to the tabl
e, put both hands on her hips and announced it.

  “The Chevalier Lance Fleagle is here. He’s moving into your office.” Georgia hadn’t bothered to remove her coat, hat, or mittens. “Kimberly Walnut is running around like a chicken with its head cut off saying she’s going to be murdered and left in a closet. The whole place is in an uproar.”

  My eyebrows went up. Pete, sitting at the table with me, guffawed. Cynthia, who was working this morning, turned from the table she was waiting on and said, in a small voice, “Oh, my.” I was waiting for Dave and Nancy to come over for our weekly staff meeting (otherwise known as “free breakfast”) and was enjoying my second cup of coffee.

  “Moving into my office, you say?”

  “Yes,” said Georgia. “Father Dressler told him he could box up your things and stack them in the storage closet down the hall, so that’s what he’s doing. He also requested the password on your computer so he can use it since it contains the music library data base. And Kimberly Walnut has gone crazy!”

  My eyes narrowed. “Moving into my office?”

  “Yes,” said Georgia. “He has quite a number of boxes. I believe he brought all manner of books, encyclopedias, and music with him in his van. Also vestments and several cartons of other religious paraphernalia including his own prie deux and small Mary altar. Did you hear me about Kimberly Walnut?”

  I took a deep breath and relaxed. “A kneeler, eh? Well, that’s certainly reasonable. Beati possidentes. Blessed are those who possess. Don’t worry about Kimberly Walnut. She’s not going to be murdered. At least not this week.”

  “Quite frankly, it’d be a relief if she was.” She waggled a finger at me. “Back to the Chevalier. He’s screwed his nameplate to the door.” Georgia pulled out a piece of paper and read, “It says Le Chevalier Lancelot Fleagle, KStY, A.A., B.M., M.M. Master of the Musik, and he spelled ‘Musik’ with a ‘k.’ What do you think of that? It’s your office, for heaven’s sake!”

  “All I can say is Date et dabitur vobis. Give and it shall be given to you. Please tell Le Chevalier that the computer doesn’t have a password and to use it with my compliments.”

  “E pluribus unum,” sputtered Georgia. “Are you listening to me?”

  “I am,” I replied, “but like the holy men of yore, I have found my spiritual center. I shan’t be tousled upon this stormy sea.”

  “Oh, my,” said Cynthia again. “This isn’t going to end well, is it?”

  I smiled and slurped my coffee.

  “How come you never put all those letters behind your name?” Pete asked.

  “Too many,” I replied. “It’d be like alphabet soup. There just wouldn’t be room for anything else on my new door nameplate.”

  “Okay, smart guy,” said Georgia through gritted teeth. “How about this then? Father Dressler has applied for the full-time position. I have his formal letter of application on my desk and so does the rest of the vestry.”

  “He did tell us that he was applying,” I said in my nicest voice, “and he indicated that it shouldn’t be too long before we had a new permanent rector.”

  Georgia growled — a deep growl, bear-like, low in her throat. I’d never heard a woman growl like this before. Pete looked startled. Cynthia’s eyes grew wide.

  I said, “Never fear. I shall come over and greet the Master of the Musik as soon as I check with Nancy and Dave on a couple of things and maybe have a little breakfast.”

  “You do that,” snarled Georgia, then turned on her heel and marched toward the door. Dave and Nancy met her as they were coming in and held the door. She didn’t acknowledge the gesture, as all well-bred Southerners do, but stomped right past them into the frosty air, muttering beneath her breath.

  “Wow,” said Dave, pulling out his chair and sitting. “She’s steamed.”

  “She’s the Senior Warden,” I said. “This is all on her plate now.”

  “I wonder,” said Pete, “how long it will really take to appoint the new rector.”

  “Father Dressler is probably correct,” I said. “I don’t think it will take too long. These things tend to work themselves out.” I changed the subject. “Anything new on the murder front?”

  “Nope,” said Nancy.

  “Nope,” said Dave.

  “Well, that’s it for our staff meeting then. Let’s order breakfast.”

  * * *

  After our delicious repast that included Pete’s new menu item — Belgium waffles stuffed with cream cheese and covered with blackberries — Nancy and Dave went back to the office to detect some stuff, and I walked across Sterling Park to St. Barnabas. The park was desolate, as it is every January. The trees were bare, the grass was brown, and the sounds of the park heard before Christmas — laughter, people talking and walking their dogs, music made by itinerant buskers, late-season squirrels and birds — were all gone and wouldn’t reappear until spring. Even the leaves had vanished, thanks to Billy Hixon and his crew of landscapers. It was a desolate park in January and snow scrambled in the roots of the tall maples and oaks. I crossed the street, bypassed the two red front doors of the church, and walked around the side to the entrance of the offices. I found the door locked, pulled out my keys, then opened the door and walked down the hallway to Marilyn’s office. She was sitting at her desk, rifling through papers with a look of consternation on her face.

  “Why is the door locked?” I asked her, in a quiet voice, figuring that Father Dressler probably had his ear to the door.

  “He’s out,” said Marilyn. “He told us to keep the door locked in case of vagrants wandering in and asking for a handout.”

  “When was the last time that happened?”

  “The day he got here. I took care of it like I always do. I took the woman back to the food pantry and loaded her up. She had two little kids with her.”

  “And?”

  “And Father Dressler doesn’t want to deal with that sort of thing, so now everyone has to be buzzed in. If they’re after a handout — that’s what he called it, a handout — they’re to first check in with the Bartholomew Center and their counselors will refer them to the appropriate agency. If they decide that we’re the ones to help, they’ll make an appointment for them. He’s set all this up with the Center. He doesn’t have time to deal with everyone on a one-to-one basis. Besides, he says that certain people work the system. That’s why everyone has to be buzzed in.”

  The Bartholomew Center was a nonprofit agency outside of town that dealt with families in trouble. They did good work, but I knew they had their hands full as it was. Marilyn had always dealt with walk-ins who needed help. She was happy to do it. She liked doing it and she’d told the vestry so on more than one occasion.

  “I didn’t even know that we had a buzzer,” I said.

  “Well,” said Marilyn sadly, “we do.”

  “How about the front doors?” I asked.

  “Locked.”

  “Are you kidding?” Never in my experience had the front doors of St. Barnabas been locked during the day. Old Henry Landers, the sexton, usually didn’t lock the doors till eleven and had them open again by eight. It wasn’t unusual to find people sitting in the church at all hours.

  “I’m not kidding,” Marilyn hissed softly.

  I sighed heavily and said, “Is the Chevalier in? I thought I’d say hello.”

  “He is. Shall I announce you?”

  My eyebrows went up for the second time this morning, something they didn’t do often.

  “I like it when your eyebrows go up,” said Marilyn, finally giving me a small smile. “They go up and then stuff happens.” She picked up her phone, punched in three numbers and said. Chevalier Fleagle? The Chief is here to see you.” Silence, then, “No, not Father Dressler. The Police Chief. Chief Hayden Konig. Yes … yes … I’ll send him right down.” She hung up the phone and rolled her eyes, then pointed down the hall to my ex-office.

  “The Chevalier will see you now,” she said.

  “What’s that extension anywa
y?” I asked. “I never bothered to use it.”

  “Six six six,” said Marilyn.

  * * *

  “Entrez vous,” called the Chevalier when I knocked on the door. I glanced at the new nameplate as I turned the door handle and walked in. Gold with engraved script. Lancelot Fleagle was busy putting his hardcover, twenty-nine volume set of the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians on one of the shelves directly behind where his head would be if he were sitting in my expensive leather desk chair. I didn’t own those particular volumes any longer. I’d given mine to the St. Germaine library. Since the Grove Dictionary went on-line, I much preferred to pay the subscription fee and have everything available at my fingertips and easily searchable. With over 22,000 articles, wading through them all was a daunting task and one suited to graduate students. I had done my time in the days before personal computers and I wasn’t going back.

  The other shelves contained equally scholarly tomes, some I recognized: The Study of Counterpoint by Johann Joseph Fux, first published in 1725, and French Baroque Music by James Anthony, the definitive text on the subject. Some I didn’t recognize, but had no desire to read. It was clear that the Chevalier had boxed up my entire hardbound collection of Peanuts comics.

  Another wall of shelves was full of books of organ music. A few were unmistakable, even from across the room, and I recognized the spines right away. The Bach complete organ works, Mendelssohn, Handel, Durufle. Standard stuff.

  On the desk was a sword stuck into an acrylic stone. Applied to the stone, a small, golden plaque proclaimed his knighthood into the Order of St. Clementine. There was also a framed scroll on the wall, in Latin, advertising the same thing. At least I thought it must. I recognized the words “ST. CLEMENTINE” in bold, Gothic lettering. The desk also had a copy of Sunday’s printed bulletin (Marilyn had been busy this morning), and a working copy of the Evensong bulletin. It wasn’t hard to figure these two out even though I was seeing them upside down. The computer was on, the monitor pointed inexplicably toward the door, and had a new screensaver: the Chevalier being knighted by an even grander knight, presumably the head of the order. To the right of Lance Fleagle was Father Gallus Dressler, dressed in his long clerical garb, but with an heraldic overlay. There were other knights present as well and the venue was a good replication of one of the Great Halls in England, complete with banners, shields, huge oaken beams holding up a vaulted ceiling, and stone walls and floors. It was a portrait worthy of a Pre-Raphaelite.