Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Page 4

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. I’m here now.”

  “We’re on the way.”

  Chapter 4

  Meg elected to stay home and clean up the dishes after supper. The rest of the dinner group headed into town, since Nancy and I were heading that way anyway. Nancy dropped Bev off and headed over to Bud’s new house. Kent and Jennifer wanted to stop by since it was on the way home and Kent had a professional interest in the discovery. Being the medical examiner, he’d be seeing the body eventually anyway. Jennifer, though, decided to stay in the car with the heater running. Cynthia held that since she was the mayor, she might as well come and see what was what. Pete wanted to be deputized immediately.

  “Remember when I helped you guys solve that case of the kidnapping and the double murder? I don’t even know how I do it. I’m like some kind of crime solving genius.”

  “I don’t remember that at all,” I said.

  “Me neither,” said Nancy.

  We were standing in the living room of what looked like a small craftsman-style vacation cottage. We couldn’t really tell very much about the house since we were all using flashlights. I kept two in my truck. Nancy had two as well. Dave motioned us toward a room in the back.

  “In there,” he said.

  “Where’s Bud?” I asked.

  “I sent him home. That okay?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “He seemed sort of shell shocked when I got here.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Cynthia.

  “Anyway, the body’s in the closet. It’s a woman.”

  “Anyone we know?” Pete said, as we all followed Dave into the bedroom.

  “I don’t know her,” said Dave. “At least I don’t think I do. It’s hard to say till we get enough light back there.”

  “How about the ambulance?” Cynthia asked.

  “On the way from Boone,” said Dave. “I told them no hurry. They’ll be here within the hour though.”

  “They’ll drop her off at the morgue,” said Kent. “I can give her a look on Monday.”

  We crowded into the small bedroom and huddled around the closet door. The room was empty except for an old chest of drawers against one of the walls. The closet was framed by a couple of louvered wooden doors, both of which were standing open. The beams of our flashlights all found the body at the same time.

  It was a woman. A middle-aged woman. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the side wall of the closet. He legs were stretched straight in front of her, her feet splayed to either side. Her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were closed. She was wearing a woolen dress that looked a little big for her, a scarf, and shoes with a short heel. Church clothes.

  She’s been dead for a couple of days at least,” said Kent, putting his face close to the dead woman’s face, sniffing, and peering closely with his flashlight. He put a hand on her abdomen. “Probably longer. It’s been below freezing for what, two weeks or so? With no electricity on in here, it’s like a freezer. Hardly any decomp at all, but that’s to be expected since she’s solid as a rock.”

  “It’s been winter since way before Christmas,” I said. “We’ve had a few days up in the forties, but even so, the temperature in here might not of climbed high enough to thaw her out.”

  Kent nodded. “Yep. Once she was frozen solid, it’d take a few days to thaw her out. Think about a twenty pound turkey. That takes a day or so at room temperature. She looks to be maybe a hundred forty pounds. So even if she thawed a bit during the day, every night she’d freeze back up.”

  “Anyone recognize her?” asked Dave. “I don’t.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s Darla Kildair. She didn’t live here, but she cut hair over at Noylene’s Beautifery until last year. Then she and Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle had a fight and Darla opened her own shop down around back of Dr. Ken’s Gun Emporium on Old Chambers. He gave her that basement space. Not easy to find unless you know where it is, although there’s a sign for it on the highway. Darla’s Hair Down Under.”

  “So that’s what that is,” said Dave. “I had no idea.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” said Nancy, shining her light right into the woman’s face.

  “That’s not Darla,” exclaimed Cynthia with astonishment. “I saw Darla at Thanksgiving when I went over there for a haircut. This woman is older.”

  “Pretty sure that’s her,” I said.

  “What you’re seeing is some desiccation,” said Kent. “That’s to be expected, even with the freezing. When a body loses fluid, the aging process appears more pronounced.”

  “Her hair’s different, too,” said Pete. “Didn’t she used to have blonde hair?”

  “It was sort of auburn,” said Cynthia. “Now it’s almost black and a lot shorter. I guess it’s her though, now that I look closely.”

  “Oh, Darla,” said Pete thoughtfully, “what has brought thou to this terrible end? A bad haircut?”

  “That’s not funny,” sniffed Cynthia. “She was a nice person.”

  “Sorry,” said Pete.

  “I don’t imagine,” said Nancy, “that she wandered into a locked-up house, walked into the closet, and died of natural causes.”

  “I don’t imagine she did,” I said.

  “Lookee here,” said Kent, flashing his light on one side of her face, then the other. “She’s just got the one earring. The other one’s missing.”

  I pointed at Pete and Cynthia and said, “You two keep quiet about that earring. That’s a clue, so don’t spread it around.”

  “We won’t,” said Cynthia.

  “What earring?” added Pete.

  Kent stood up from his crouching position. “I can’t tell you anymore till I have a chance to take a closer look. Naturally, liver temp won’t do any good and I may never be able to give you a time of death.”

  “Those Bones guys over at the Jeffersonian could do it,” Nancy said. “They’d just get a frozen blowfly larvae out of her ear, do a holographic 3-D analysis of the larvae’s intestines, and then figure out she died on January 13th at 1:32 a.m.”

  “They’d also have the crime solved by the third commercial break,” growled Kent. “So you’d better get cracking!”

  Chapter 5

  I hadn’t been to church in a couple of weeks. I did go on the Sunday after Epiphany though. I remember because Kimberly Walnut, St. Barnabas’ Christian Formation Director, had managed to dress three of the ushers as kings and send them down the aisle to the opening hymn, We Three Kings. Epiphany (January 6th) fell on a Thursday, but January 9th was close enough. The Burger King crowns were a nice touch, bright gold cardboard with just a whiff of fries. Easter would be late this year, Ash Wednesday still more than a month away.

  Edna Terra-Pocks was at the organ in the choir loft in the back of the church. Most churches are not set up like this, preferring to have their choirs in the front. There was some discussion about repositioning the choir after St. Barnabas had burnt to the ground a few years ago, but it was decided to build the church back just as it was with the exceptions of all the behind-the-scenes improvements; a state-of-the-art sound system with plug-ins for the hearing-impaired; topnotch security including cameras in the nurseries that Moms could log into and watch their darlings during the service on their smart phones; wireless internet throughout the building; radon and carbon dioxide detectors; in short, everything the modern church might need to worship the Creator in beauty and holiness.

  I sat in the back, last pew, on the end by the door. Meg was up in the loft with the others, the choir having already warmed up, rehearsed their music, vested, and now waiting for the service to begin. A stricter director might have quieted them down a bit. As it was, it sounded like they were having a frat party up there. I supposed that Edna was tired of battling with them and since this was her last Sunday as my sabbatical replacement, she was now marking time as far as choir discipline was concerned. The congregation wasn’t anywhere near as noisy, although
there was a good crowd. I thought about going up the stairs in the narthex and shushing them. Nah.

  The large crowd was due mainly to the appearance of our new interim priest. Anytime St. Barnabas had a new priest show up, interim, supply, or regular, the pews were always full for a few weeks. In the dead of winter, the crowd also varied depending on the weather. Today was overcast and cold, but not bitterly so. Too cold to work outside though, or to take a long walk in the mountains. A good day for church.

  Bev had told me that the new interim priest was an Anglo-Catholic. Something new for St. Barnabas. Bev knew this because she was on the search committee for the new, full-time rector. Their first job was to find an interim priest and they’d done that rather quickly.

  St. Barnabas had never been what anyone might characterize as “high church.” We weren’t low by any means, just somewhere in the middle, and the music had always been pretty good. We followed the prayer book, sang the psalms, and enjoyed great hymns, singing them lustily and with good courage. We had days when high church seemed appropriate and on those days, the incense and chanting abounded, but since our last priest, church had become much more “howdy” than I was used to. There was a lot of superfluous chatting between the priest and congregation, bad show tunes couched as worship songs, cutesy children’s moments that had begun to wear thin, and a casualness that I, quite frankly, found off-putting. This is just me, of course. As Meg often points out, I am the president of the Liturgical Curmudgeon Society.

  I blamed all this on the Rev. Dr. Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh, or Mother P, as she liked to be called. She was cut from a different cloth: a midwestern, Lutheran cloth — calico perhaps, or corn-dyed muslin — but it really wasn’t her fault. Not really. There were some folks that liked an informal church service and since she was of that bent herself, she certainly didn’t mind “blending” the service to cater to their enthusiasm. No, it wasn’t entirely her fault, but I didn’t mind blaming her.

  I was thinking that an Anglo-Catholic priest might be just the ticket. So on this, the Third Sunday of Epiphany, I had come to church to see what St. Barnabas had gotten themselves into. Granted, there wouldn’t be any immediate change in the warp and woof of the liturgical fabric. We’d be draped in calico for a while yet, but an interim priest sometimes stayed for a year and sometimes they decided they liked it so much they applied to made the position permanent.

  I’d programmed the music for January before I’d taken my leave for six months, so I wasn’t surprised to hear the choir sing (and quite well!) Almighty and Everlasting God by Orlando Gibbons as an introit. That was just about as snooty as the priest was likely to get given the current atmosphere. Mother P had encouraged Kimberly Walnut to become a deacon and Kimberly Walnut had completed the process just before Christmas. I stayed out of it. About a year ago, the two women had come to an understanding as to the style of liturgy they could both embrace. This no longer included a processional during the opening hymn (too much trouble to get everyone lined up), no incense on high and holy feast days (Mother P claimed allergies), no acolytes (too hard to get the kids to show up), no chanting of any part of the service (too much practice required), no singing the Psalm (too boring), and nothing else that, in my opinion, might take a bit of effort. That’s me being a curmudgeon again.

  I was watching the priest. He’d been advised as to the current practices of the congregation but I could tell he was uncomfortable. Bev informed me that once he’d told the search committee he was happy to chant the service, he was in. It didn’t hurt that the search committee included Bev, Joyce Cooper, Mark Wells, Bob Solomon, Georgia Wester, Fred May, and Francis Passaglio — all but Francis and Joyce, members of the choir. Joyce was ready for a change and Francis didn’t care much one way or the other.

  The rest of the service was par for the course. No surprises, except maybe for the new priest. Kimberly Walnut presided over a particularly doleful Children’s Moment. The kids were bored, had been bored for months, and now, couldn’t be bothered to make any cute comments. They sat on the steps with their chins in their hands, no expression at all on their little faces. Bored, bored, bored.

  “Does anyone know what this is?” asked Kimberly Walnut, holding up a big plastic fish.

  No answer.

  “It’s a fish, isn’t it? Jesus made fisherfolk his disciples. Does anyone know why Jesus called them ‘Fishers of Men?’”

  No answer, although one little girl managed a beautiful eye roll. Bored.

  “Does anyone want to sing the Fishers of Men song with me we learned in Sunday School?”

  They did not. Not even when Kimberly Walnut started the song, then leapt in with wild gesticulations, waving the plastic fish in a bizarre swimming motion.

  I will make you fishers of men,

  fishers of men, fishers of men.

  I will make you fishers of men,

  If you follow Me.

  The children didn’t move. Not a bit. All nine of them, ages four to seven, sat on the steps of the chancel, unsmiling, unspeaking, unimpressed by Kimberly Walnut and seemingly tired of being put on display for the congregation’s amusement. They waited till she finished her song, then, without being prompted, got silently to their feet, and walked sadly down the aisle to Children’s Church with their heads down. Bored.

  It was almost worse than the old days when they reigned terror on which ever priest dared to call them forward during the service.

  The choir sang well though: a lovely anthem, Trust in the Lord by Dan Gawthrop and a beautiful little Mozart communion motet. The rest of the music was good. The hymns were well played and sung, and the sopranos added a descant on the last one that they’d had in their pocket for years.

  The sermon was fine. This guy was a fairly good preacher.

  He didn’t chant any of the service, but I expected that it wouldn’t be long before he’d make some changes.

  Edna kicked into her postlude, the Widor Toccata, since it was her last Sunday for a while. She always played it on her last Sunday for a while, even though she now had to don her sports bra to manage it. “Sure, it’s uncomfortable,” she told me, “but people expect it. It’s my signature tune. Now I just strap the girls down and let ‘er rip!”

  * * *

  We went over to the Ginger Cat for lunch. It was Meg’s favorite place to eat in town because they had a great chef (this I’d been told on numerous occasions), and they always had a lunch special. The restaurant sat on the northwest corner of the town square, prime real estate in St. Germaine. Next to the Ginger Cat, across Main Street was Noylene’s Beautifery: an Oasis of Beauty, and Eden Books. The Bear and Brew, serving great pizza and beer, was just a block down Main away from town. St. Barnabas church dominated the west side of the square. There were many other shops and offices lining the perimeter of Sterling Park.

  Annie Cooke, the owner of the Ginger Cat, met us when we entered. Ruby, Meg’s mom, had skipped church and gotten there early. Lucky for us. The small shop in the front of the restaurant was jammed with parishioners who all had the same idea. They were perusing the local jams and jellies, pickles and sauces, handmade quilts, gewgaws and gimcracks, that made up the inventory. Annie pointed us to the table that Ruby had staked out.

  “Good afternoon,” said Ruby, smiling when she saw us. Ruby looked like Meg, or vice-versa. An older version, sure, but the same beautiful features, delightful smile, and twinkling blue-gray eyes. Where Meg’s hair was mostly black, Ruby’s had become a lustrous silver.

  “I see you skipped church,” I said to her. “Or else you bailed out during the Children’s Moment.”

  “Nope. I skipped. Sometimes, there’s no greater joy than skipping church.”

  “A fact that Hayden well knows,” said Meg. “Although he did manage to make it today.”

  “I wanted to see the new priest,” I said.

  “And?” said Ruby.

  I shrugged. “He was fine. The sermon was good. Kimberly Walnut was awful as usual. Something abo
ut how a plastic fish was like Jesus. I wasn’t really paying attention. Then, of course, she got lost during the prayers of the people and forgot the offertory sentence.”

  “I’m sure no one noticed,” said Meg, perusing the menu. Meg always perused the menu, but neither Ruby or I knew why she bothered. It was a forgone fact that Meg would order the special, no matter what it was. She might change it a bit to suit her taste, but Meg never ordered off the menu.

  “Probably no one did notice,” I agreed.

  “Remember that time last Advent when you played the Gloria instead of the Kyrie?” said Meg. “No one’s perfect.”

  “It was wrong in the bulletin,” I said, “but your point is well taken. I retract all disparaging comments about Kimberly Walnut. She ministers to the sick and the dying, she succors and comforts those in need. She is truly a gem among deacons. We’re lucky to have her.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Meg, incredulously. “She does none of that! She’s awful. She’s as nutty as this warm green bean salad with toasted cashews and Corsican acorns.” She tapped a page in her menu. “Which, by the way, is what I’m having for lunch.”

  “What?” said Ruby. “That’s not the special!”

  “You don’t know me,” said Meg, her eyebrows raised. “I am unpredictable. I might do anything.”

  Our waiter appeared at the table and filled our water glasses.

  “Hi, Wallace,” said Meg, smiling at the college-aged kid. “How’s school going?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Konig. I have a full schedule, plus choir and orchestra, so I’m staying busy, I can tell you. What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have sweet tea,” Meg said.

  “Same for me,” Ruby added.

  “Make that three,” I said, “and we’re probably ready to order.”

  “Great,” Wallace said, pulling a pad from his apron pocket. “Would you like to hear about our spec … ?”