Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon Page 5

  "Marilyn," I called, "How about a cup of coffee?"

  "You know I love you. Right, honey?" asked Meg.

  "Yes."

  "This is really bad."

  •••

  "Hayden! You aren't going to believe this!"

  Beverly and Elaine had both come into the police station and were hollering across the counter. Dave had gone out for donuts, or he might have been able to restore a little decorum.

  "Come on in. Quit yelling," I called from my desk.

  They came around the counter and through the door of my cluttered office. I turned down the stereo and listened to both of them launch into a tirade-duet.

  "One at a time," I said. "Tell me what's going on."

  "It's the valet!" said Elaine.

  "He's a dwarf!" shouted Beverly.

  "I believe they like to be called 'little people'," I said. "But why do you think he's a dwarf? Maybe he's just short."

  "He TOLD us that he was a dwarf!" Elaine said. "I just can't believe this."

  "I couldn't even understand him," said Beverly. "He's Hungarian! And he doesn't speak English all that well."

  I nodded. "So, he's a Hungarian dwarf. And his name is…?"

  "I wrote it down. Hang on," said Beverly, digging a piece of paper out of her purse. "Here it is. His name is Wenceslas. Wenceslas Kaszas. He's royalty or something."

  I could tell I was smiling in spite of myself. I had heard about the priest's valet. Word travels fast around St. Germaine, and having a Hungarian dwarf in town was a tough secret to keep.

  "I don't think that Wenceslas is a Hungarian name. It's more Czech I think. Good King Wenceslas and all that."

  "It doesn't matter," said Elaine, despair evident in her voice. "Our verger is a Hungarian dwarf. What are we going to do?"

  "I guess we'll make do until we get our new priest."

  "Can't you do something, Hayden?"

  "Nope. Sorry. We just have to wait it out."

  As I watched Elaine and Beverly cross the street and head straight for the library, presumably to spread the news to whomever they could find, Dave came in the front door with the donuts.

  "What's going on?" he asked. He put the box of donuts on the counter, opened it and took two of them back to his desk.

  "Nothing earthshaking. Just a little Episcopal Church politics."

  "Oh, you mean the dwarf. They were talking about him down at Dizzy Donuts."

  "Really? They were talking about it? I thought Dizzy D's was a Methodist hangout."

  "I don't know about that," Dave said, "but St. Barnabas should be full next Sunday. Everyone will be there. It's all they're talking about." Dave took a big bite of his breakfast.

  "Answer the phone please, Dave," I said in response to the insistent ringing and my eagerness to cut this conversation short.

  "Mmmph," said Dave through a mouthful of banana crème filling.

  "Never mind," I said. "I'll get it."

  Hugh was on the phone. I mentally figured the time difference. It was mid-afternoon in England.

  "How's the new priest?" he asked.

  "Um. Well, he's certainly eminently unqualified, yet at the same time, highly amusing."

  "Great," he said, changing the subject. "Do you have any more thoughts on the murder?"

  "Yes I do. I believe I've solved the entire crime, but I'll have to have another trip over to explain everything to the Police Authority. Did you check out the diamond?"

  "Yes, we did. It was a fake, just as you said, and the real diamond is still missing. Any ideas where it might be?"

  "Yep."

  "Well?"

  "If I tell you now, it won't be a surprise."

  I could hear a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone.

  "Ok, ok," I said. "I don't actually know yet. It would be easier if I had about a week over there to question a few folks and look around again."

  "I'll see what I can arrange. Your stock is pretty high since your discovery of the fake diamond. The Minster Police are holding up their heads again."

  "Let me know when. Things are pretty slow here."

  •••

  Nancy came in a few minutes later, grabbed a couple of donuts, and sat down at her desk.

  "I heard about your dwarf," she said.

  "First of all, he's not my dwarf. He's the priest's dwarf …er…valet."

  "The priest has a valet?"

  "Well," I started, hating to be put in the position of defending this nitwit, "maybe the valet is left over from his lawyerin' days. All lawyers need a valet. At least that's what I've heard."

  "I'm going to become a lawyer," said Dave. "I need a valet."

  "Yeah, Dave," said Nancy, reaching for the phone, now ringing again. "You need someone to lay out your khakis and keep track of your dates." She lifted the phone to her ear.

  "Police Department. Uh huh. Just a second. I'll get him." She pointed to me and pushed half a donut into her mouth.

  "Hayden Konig," I said.

  "Hayden, this is Malcolm."

  This was the call I'd been dreading all morning.

  "Hi, Malcolm. What's new?"

  "You know exactly what's new."

  Malcolm Walker was the Senior Warden of St. Barnabas. He was in charge of the vestry, the church finances, and was the richest man in St. Germaine. He was currently separated from his second wife, Rhiza, whom I knew quite well from graduate school. Rhiza had moved to Blowing Rock just after Christmas, and I saw her occasionally. We were still great friends. Malcolm and I were less friendly, but in spite of our past differences, still on good terms.

  "Listen, Malcolm. I'm staying out of all of this. The bishop assigned this guy for reasons unknown to anyone with any sense, but I'm going to ride it out."

  "He wants the vestry to hire his valet to be the verger."

  "I'd heard that."

  "Look, Hayden," he said. "Everyone respects your opinion. Apparently you're now the only person employed by the church that has any sense of liturgy at all. Might I convince you to speak out on this subject?"

  "I don't think I can, Malcolm. The priest is the boss until he's no longer the priest. So, until the bishop replaces him, which doesn't seem likely, it's up to the vestry to do the best they can. Admittedly, that probably won't be too much. You can refuse to hire the verger, but I think Emil will use him anyway."

  "I suppose. I've already left several messages with the bishop, but he hasn't returned my calls."

  "On the up-side, the word is that St. Barnabas should be full on Sunday."

  "Oh, that's just great." Malcolm sighed into the phone. "I'll talk to you later," he said and hung up.

  Nancy had already picked up another call on line two. "It's for you," she called. "It's Connie Ray."

  "Hi, Connie. What's up? Yeah. Yeah. Hmmm. I don't know what we can do, but I'll ask around. Someone might know something. No, don't shoot anybody. I'll talk to you later."

  Nancy looked at me waiting for the news.

  "That was Connie Ray."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "He's been having some problems out at the farm."

  Nancy nodded.

  "I'm afraid it's…" I paused for dramatic effect, my eyes narrowing, "cow tipping."

  "It's too cold for cow tipping," Dave chimed in. "That's a summer sport."

  "These are in the barn. It's cold, sure, but at least there's a lot of hay around."

  Pete Moss stuck his head in the door.

  "If any of you want a haircut," he announced, "I'm offering a free trim with any sandwich combo plate. Noylene has just graduated from Beauty College."

  "We'll be there shortly," I said. "I always like to support our local artists."

  "What about the cow tipping?" Nancy asked as Pete continued down the street, making his luncheon announcement to the various businesses remaining open through the cold winter months. She had her pad out and was getting ready to take notes.

  "Last time, it was those high school kids from Watauga South,"
Dave said.

  "Probably more of the same," I said. "Let's stop it though before some poor cow gets hurt. Who's up for barn duty? Nancy?"

  "Ah, crime fighting in the big city." Nancy was resigning herself to spending the night in a cold barn. "I'm taking Dave with me," she said.

  "Fine with me," I answered, knowing that Dave would love it. An evening alone in a dark barn with Officer Parsky. What could be better? I think the Rubaiyat said it best.

  A book of verses underneath the boughs;

  A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and cows.

  Lenten Cow Tipping. What next?

  Chapter 7

  Someone was in trouble and it was probably me. We detectives can sense these things almost instinctively, that and the fact that there was a forty-five pointed straight at my head by a woman wearing black, picking body parts off my carpet like a crusader finding relics in the Holy Land, and holding a nine foot boa constrictor named Rolf.

  "You're coming with me," said Lilith, waving her piece around like Toscanini at a Mahler festival.

  "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "The circus."

  •••

  Brahms' First Symphony was heading into the slow movement just as the pork chops were nearing culinary perfection.

  "I don't keep up with the latest trends," said Megan as I finished telling her about our newest police case. "What the heck is cow tipping?"

  She moved around the table, setting the plates and silver with uncommon ease considering she had to maneuver her way over and around a sprawling dog that had made himself comfortable in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  "It's sort of a prank, but it's been around for years. High school kids do it for fun, especially in rural areas."

  "Well, we certainly qualify in that regard."

  "You sneak up on a sleeping cow, give it a firm but hard push, and the cow will fall right over."

  "And you know this because…?"

  "We were all young once." I opened a beer and took a long pull from the bottle.

  "I thought you had given up beer for Lent," Meg said.

  "I started to, but then I decided to give up meddling in church politics. In order to do that, I'm going to need the beer."

  "OK then. Back to the cows."

  "Anyway," I continued, "when the cow falls over, it tends to give a startled moo, which in turn wakes up all the other cows. If there happens to be a bull around, you'd better be fast. The problem is that sometimes the cows injure themselves in the fall. These are very expensive animals, especially some of Connie's milk cows. They're worth several thousand dollars apiece."

  "The whole thing is just silly."

  "I know it. Anyway, Connie Ray's getting a donkey."

  "A watch donkey?"

  "Exactly. They tend to sound an alarm and wake the cows up before they can be tipped. And they're good protection against coyotes."

  "We don't have any coyotes around here, do we?" Meg asked.

  "I haven't seen any, but that doesn't mean they aren't out there lurking."

  "Not to change the subject, but that's an interesting haircut you have there."

  "It was free with the Reuben combo plate at the Slab. Noylene Fabergé graduated from Beauty School yesterday. She was giving haircuts in the back of Pete's storeroom."

  "If I were you, I'd rethink the 'free haircut with lunch' scenario. At least it's winter. You can wear a hat until it grows out."

  "It's not that bad, is it?"

  "No. Not that bad. But I'd give Noylene a couple of months practice before I became a regular."

  "I'll take that advice."

  •••

  Sunday morning at St. Barnabas was as well attended as it was advertised to be with Wenceslas making his debut as verger to great acclaim. I played quite a prelude – The Bach d-minor with the fugue following. Trite, perhaps, but with a royal Hungarian dwarf leading the procession, I couldn't think of anything more appropriate.

  The procession began with the verger, dressed elegantly in a black velvet tunic, complete with a velvet tam and an ostrich plume. His kept his wand at a precise forty-five degree angle, the silver tip pointing the way, and stepped out like he had been trained in the Hungarian Red Army. His boots were polished to a dazzling shine and his cape was trimmed in dark fur. He had a manicured, white beard and a large handlebar moustache. I had to admit that he looked every bit of the Hungarian royalty that we had heard he was. All eyes were on him as he executed a kick turn in front of the altar, spun the verge in his hand like a drum major, and pointed each member of the procession to his place – all in rhythmic precision. As the thurifer brought the incense pot up to the altar, Wenceslas seemed to disappear into the cloud of smoke, reappearing in his designated place as if by magic. I could see all this out of the corner of my eye, and I could see the choir as well. They were mesmerized.

  The priest was less impressive in his entrance. He still had his attendants scurrying around behind him, trying to keep his cope off the ground. However, where Wenceslas had an air of dignity and purpose, the priest had none.

  The Children's Moment had been mercifully scrapped, so the rest of the service went pretty much without incident. It was the following morning that the next bombshell hit.

  "Nice of you to come to our staff meeting, Hayden," said Father Barna in what I perceived as a rather sarcastic tone.

  "It's my pleasure to be here, Emil," I said, taking a sip of coffee.

  "I'm sure we'd all like to welcome the newest member of my staff," Father Barna continued. "This is my excellent valet and our new verger, Wenceslas Kaszas."

  Wenceslas nodded and surveyed the table before addressing us in his thick Hungarian accent.

  "For those of you that are wondering," he said carefully, "I am a dwarf. I am not a little person. I am from Budapest where I was the verger for Archbishop Erdo."

  "Roman Catholic?" I asked.

  "Of course."

  Wenceslas had a thick Hungarian accent. I felt like I was talking to Bela Lugosi.

  "You're an excellent verger," I said. "Way too accomplished for a small church like St. Barnabas." It was not empty praise. He was way out of our league.

  He nodded at me. "Yes, but I do not think I will be here for a long time."

  "Isn't 'Wenceslas' a Czech name?" I asked.

  "Yes," he nodded again, his mustache bobbing slightly. "But I was named for Wenceslas Három, the old King of Hungary."

  "Enough chit-chat," said Father Barna. "It's very important to get to my agenda. First on the list – the Children's Moment. I don't think it worked terribly well. I think we should suspend it until after Easter."

  There were nods all around the table. I tried not to grin.

  "Next, we have a report from Brenda."

  Princess Foo-Foo started flipping through her papers until she found the one she needed.

  "I've decided," she started. "That is, Father Barna and I have decided…" She smiled across the table at him. "…that Lent would be a good time to have our first Clown Eucharist."

  "Our what?" said Georgia Wester, obviously appalled. Georgia was a LEM, that is, a Lay Eucharistic Minister, and she took her job seriously.

  "Lent is such a gloomy season. It would be a good time to lighten things up a little. I think this would be a fabulous opportunity for everyone in the congregation to find their happy place."

  "I agree," said Father Barna, not wanting to appear too far away from the action. "It's going to be our theme for the next few weeks. We'll discuss it in the Sunday School classes and offer workshops during Institute on Wednesday evenings. Brenda has found us a workbook book called Finding Your Inner Clown. We've ordered fifty books and I'd like two volunteers to facilitate the classes. Brenda? You'll be there of course."

  The Princess nodded.

  "Hayden, can you be there as well?"

  "I'd like to, but I have that class on comparative religions to 'facilitate,'" I said, thinking quickly.

  "I didn't know about t
hat. Was it on the schedule?"

  "I'm pretty sure it was," I said, trying to catch Marilyn's eye. She was dutifully taking notes as any good secretary should.

  "Here it is," said Marilyn, looking up and flipping a couple pages for show, never missing a beat. "I'm sorry. I hadn't put it on the calendar yet."

  I mentally put Marilyn down for a nice birthday gift.

  "Then I suppose Brenda will have to do it herself," said Father Barna. "We'll culminate the class with the Clown Eucharist on Sunday morning. That's the Sunday after next."

  "I hesitate to ask," I said. "But what the heck is a Clown Eucharist?"

  "We'll have a couple of professional clowns come in," Princess Foo-Foo said. "Father Barna will dress up as a clown and we'll ask for some parishioners to get involved as well. We'll also need some mimes and dancers. Everyone involved will dress as a clown to uphold the feeling of clown-ness."

  "Wenceslas?" I asked. I couldn't see him donning a clown suit.

  "Alas, I will not be here that week."

  "Alas," I said.

  •••

  "I owe you one," I said to Marilyn as I walked by her desk on the way out.

  "You sure do. But you're not out of trouble yet. You still have to get a class together on comparative religions. Father Barna wants me to put it in the newsletter."

  "It’s OK," I said. "I have a couple of ideas. I'll call a few of my other-denominational friends and have them come and chat with whoever shows up. Who knows? It might even be fun."

  "No good deed goes unpunished, you know," she said.

  •••

  I was trying to get into the office fairly early the next morning. The sun was up, but hadn't yet made its way over the mountain when I got into my 1962 pick-up, put on Britten's War Requiem and pulled onto the main road. The War Requiem is a dark, complex piece and suited my mood as well as the weather. Thirty days of below freezing temperatures took its toll on even the most ardent proponents of an extended winter, myself included.