The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 5

  We sang the Doxology and waited for the prayer. Gaylen was at the altar holding both offering plates aloft obviously waiting for Vicar McTavish to bless the gifts. After what seemed an interminable silence, he turned and faced the congregation. Then he raised his arms toward the heavens and prayed, in a tremendous bass voice:

  "O most omnipotent, wrathful, and unforgiving Father. Sanctify these unwarranted mercies to us, the lowliest of miserable sinners. Let thy distress at our wanton grievousness be our distress, let thy anguish be our anguish. Make thy servants bow the knee to thy terrible majesty and grovel in the dust like the worms we are."

  Meg looked at me, her eyes wide. Every other member of the choir was staring at the Scottish vicar.

  "Holy smokes," muttered Bev. "Worms? We are in for it!"

  "Turn our rancorous hearts from wickedness," continued McTavish. "Beat our carnal desires and lascivious thoughts from us as with a three-pronged flailing stick and blind us, yea Lord, even as thy servant Samson was blinded with white hot spikes driven into his eyes—yea even this, almighty and pitiless Father, to forfend the wanton blandishments of worldly things and turn our feckless endeavors toward thy continued glory. Amen."

  "Amen," muttered the stunned congregation, most of them unable to get the image of white-hot spikes out of their minds.

  Vicar McTavish growled. His lips were coated with flecks of foam as he seemed to contemplate, with a certain degree of satisfaction, the prospect of the members of his flock being spit roasted over the eternal bonfire. Then he clasped his hands together, then turned back and faced the communion table. He didn't move again until the clergy recessed during the last hymn. He certainly didn't take communion.

  Chapter 5

  I was still working the phones when the door to the office flung open and there she was, her hair whipping around her head like the tail of a horsefly-crazed pony--a beautiful pony named Tessie that my sister got as a Christmas present the same year I got a clock-radio, not that I'm bitter or anything--and that brings us back to the weather girl Tessie who was now standing in the doorway, not looking like a pony at all, but when she spoke, did turn out to be a little hoarse.

  "Urgh," she croaked through lips that were as thin as her rain-soaked silk dress, her profile, her resumé, and her probable reason for coming to me. She sauntered across the floor like Saunterella, the sauntering siren of Sauntyville, and didn't really need to speak; her wet dress clinging to each delicious curve said it all: "I'm a beautiful but vacuous weather girl whose evil stepmother was just killed by vampire-hunting Methodist assassins," or maybe, "Do you know a good dry-cleaner?"

  "I need help," she finally squawked in a voice that had failed to endear her to over fifteen men in three years. "My name's Tessie. Tessie Turra."

  "I know who you are, Doll-face, and we all need help," I said, stuffing cotton in my ears, lighting up a stogie, and eyeing Tessie's assets--assets which, as far as I could see, and I could see plenty, did not include a checkbook. "You need help, I need help, even the Archbishop needs help. Why come to me?"

  "I heard you were the best Liturgy Detective on the block. That, and that you might cut a girl a break if she didn't have the dough."

  I looked at her. "Yeah? And?"

  "My evil stepmother..."

  "I know all about it. What else?"

  She looked at me like a cow just before it's milked, horror and betrayal in her soft, brown eyes. "My sister's undead. She's been unmurdered and I think I'm next!"

  I wasn't unsurprised.

  "Undead?" said Meg.

  "I'm taking advantage of all the vampire stories that are so hot at the moment. Vampires are very in. Georgia's having one of the authors do a signing at Eden Books."

  "Ooo, that's a good plan," said Meg, with no little bit of sarcasm. "You'll enrapture all those teens that love a badly written, church music vampire mystery."

  "Mock me if you will. I am secure in my aesthetic."

  "I think that Halloween music is getting to you. What's playing?"

  "Guess."

  "I guess Holst. Something from The Planets."

  I looked up at her from the typewriter. "You're exactly right. That was Mars, the Bringer of War."

  She gave me a smile that made my socks tingle.

  "You're getting pretty adept at this classical music stuff," I said, "but that was easy." I reached for my CD remote, clicked it, and the music changed abruptly. "How about this one?" I asked.

  Meg thought for a moment. "The Witch's Ride from Hansel and Gretel."

  I clicked again. She listened, then said, "Mephisto Waltz No. 1. Franz Liszt."

  "Huh?... what?... you?..."

  Meg smiled again and patted me on the cheek, then walked out of the room. I stared for a moment in bewilderment, then turned my attention back to the typewriter.

  "Unmurdered, eh?"

  "What else would you call it?" she whimpered wanly yet piteously. "She walks the streets all night long wearing shapeless black dresses and biting the necks of Methodists. That's why they're out to get her."

  I'd heard of these abominations. We all had. Methodists... No, wait a second. I mean the Vampire Amish. I'd thought they were just a rumor--scuttlebutt thrown around by the Mennonite Red Cross to discredit the annual Amish Scouts' Cookie Sale. Now it seemed as though we were up to our necks in them. Our long, sweet, swanlike necks.

  I grabbed my gun and her hand. "C'mon, toots. I know a guy who knows a guy."

  ***

  On Wednesday morning Sterling Park was bustling. I'd stopped by the Holy Grounds coffee shop on my way into town and gotten a large cup of unpronounceable coffee made with the droppings of a civet cat on the recommendation of Kylie Moffit, our local barista. It was on sale for $9.95 per cup, but for the rarest coffee in the world, Kylie assured me, the price was quite a bargain. It was usually double that. She had received a big order and there was some left over. "That's why we're letting it go so cheap," she explained. "The order is for a special event, but the customer told us we were free to keep what was left over after he had what he needed. Nice, eh?"

  Cheap or not, at ten bucks a cup, I didn't dare put any cream or sugar in it as was my custom. I was bound and determined to drink it straight up.

  I sat down on a park bench, hoping to enjoy my midweek morning splurge as well as the wonderful late October weather and the activity in the park that characterized small town life here in the Appalachians. Our little burg was gearing up for the St. Germaine Halloween Carnival, and Cynthia Johnsson, in her capacity as mayor, was busy overseeing the installation of booths, games, and events that would comprise Saturday's festivities.

  The carnival was the idea of the Kiwanis Club when it became apparent that the Rotary Club had a death grip on the town Christmas activities this year. Usually the Christmas parade and the Christmas Crèche—our "Living Nativity"—alternated between the two civic organizations, each club trying to outdo the other. Unfortunately, in late September, Beaver Jergenson's climate-controlled horse barn had burned down, and Beaver's barn was where the Kiwanis Club stored their Amish-built stable, costumes, manger, lighting equipment, and the rest of their Nativity paraphernalia. So, although it was the Kiwanians' turn to host the Christmas Crèche, it didn't look as though they had enough time to rebuild, revamp, refit, and make it all happen by Thanksgiving. Their stable had been beautiful, a mini-chalet straight from the front of a Swiss postcard that featured carved corbels and brackets, a gabled and thatched roof, exposed beams, painted gingerbread moulding and several balconies; they had been on the cover of Our State magazine, for heaven's sake, and they weren't about to take a step backward. If Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus had been in the Kiwanians' stable on that first Christmas, they'd have had to use their American Express card to tip the concierge for directions to Egypt.

  When Beaver's barn burned down, the members of the Rotary Club had happily volunteered their own crèche, but made it clear that they weren't about to give up their rights to the parade. It w
as then that the Kiwanis Club brought forth their new idea of a Halloween Carnival, an idea that was quickly embraced by the town council, five of them being Kiwanians, and only four comprising the dissenting Rotarians. That all the proceeds raised from these civic endeavors went to benefit a common scholarship fund that was administered by the Friends of the Library made no difference. It was the competition that mattered.

  Cynthia plopped down beside me with an exhausted huff.

  "Good morning, Madam Mayor," I said. "How are things?"

  "Oh, fine, I guess," said Cynthia. "What're you drinking?"

  Cynthia's query was of a professional nature. She not only worked at the Slab, but also at the other two restaurants in town—the Ginger Cat, our expensive, boutique eatery with an unintelligible menu featuring such delicacies as roasted plantain and wood-fired caper sandwiches topped with plum duff couli—and the Bear and Brew, chiefly known for good pizza and twenty-two micro brews on tap. In addition, Cynthia sometimes worked the counter at Holy Grounds, but being one of the two professional waitresses in town, found that she didn't make enough tips at the coffee shop to make it worth her while.

  "I think they call it Cat Crap coffee," I said, making a face. "I haven't made up my mind about it yet."

  Cynthia laughed. "Kopi Luwak," she said. "Made from partially digested beans that have been redeposited on the fertile earth by the Asian palm civet cat. It's been called the world's finest coffee. I think it's an acquired taste."

  "Ten bucks a cup."

  "Well," said Cynthia, "you can afford it."

  Cynthia was quite a looker, even though now well into her forties. Along with her part-time job as mayor and her full-time waitressing profession, she also found time for her passion: belly dancing. She said it kept her in shape and Pete Moss was happy to agree.

  "How's the carnival shaping up?" I asked.

  "Pretty well, I think. Booths are starting to go up and we have a lot of interest. The Kiwanis Club is in charge, of course, but the Rotary Club has a ring-toss game with big-ticket prizes."

  I took a sip of coffee and tried to decide if it was any better than the seventy-five cent cup of coffee at the Slab.

  "Halloween isn't until next Tuesday," I said.

  Cynthia ignored me. "Then there's the Daughters of the Confederacy booth. They're selling homemade baked goods." She named the groups and counted them off on her fingers. "Friends of the Library, the Town Council, the Moose Lodge, the DaNGLs..."

  "The DaNGLs? What are they doing?" The Daystar Naturists of God and Love were our local Christian Nudists, headquartered over at Camp Daystar, formerly Camp Possumtickle, about three miles from town.

  "Selling pumpkins, I think," said Cynthia. "The Piggly Wiggly didn't get any in. Never fear, they all promised to wear clothes." Cynthia rummaged through her jacket pockets, then gave up. "I've got a list somewhere. Anyway, I'm not in charge. I was just out here checking to see if everything was going as scheduled. Just for your information, official town trick-or-treating is scheduled for Saturday night after the carnival. Halloween is on a Tuesday this year, and Tuesday is a school night."

  "You're a diligent public official. I'm fairly sure that Pete, had he been mayor for yet another term, would have taken two weeks off and headed for Canada to do some fishing right about now."

  "There's something to be said for that," Cynthia said. "You know St. Barnabas is putting up a hay-maze back behind the church?"

  "Yep. I heard about that. I think Billy's in charge."

  "And Salena Mercer's going to be at Eden Books in the late afternoon to do a book signing before heading to Asheville later that evening. She has a midnight signing down there."

  "The vampire book author?"

  "Uh-huh. Georgia's daughter knows her agent and wrangled the appearance. Mercer's quite famous and is only doing two signings in North Carolina. I suspect there will be hundreds of fans here."

  "Crazy vampire fans?"

  Cynthia held both her hands aloft in a we'll-see gesture. "It is Halloween weekend, after all. I'm just saying..."

  My phone dinged. I took it out and looked at the text, then bid Cynthia good luck and took what was left of my ten dollar cup of coffee (maybe $1.35 or so) across the park to St. Barnabas. According to my instant message, Gaylen Weatherall was in the parish hall reiterating her farewells and Meg indicated that I was "invited to attend" since she'd seen me sitting in the park talking to Cynthia, a well known serial belly dancer. No problem.

  "Well, I'm off," Gaylen said to me as I walked in. "I was just leaving. I figure that it's about a three-day drive."

  "It's been a pleasure," I said, offering her a hug. There were several folks sitting at the round table. Marilyn and Meg were there. Kimberly Walnut, of course, our Director of Christian Formation, sipping, as was her morning ritual, on a can of Red Bull. Joyce Cooper, Bev, and Elaine and Billy Hixon rounded out the company. Billy was the Junior Warden and in charge of the physical plant of St. Barnabas. Like Meg's, his term of service was up in January. He ran a landscaping company that held most of the city contracts and many of the private ones including St. Barnabas, Mountainview Cemetery, Wormy Acres, Sterling Park and the Christian Nudist camp, to name a few. Right now, he had a head full of hay straw and a nose red enough to guide Santa's sleigh.

  "You might need an antihistamine," I said when I saw him.

  "Dough kiddig," he replied. "Dis hay is killig be."

  "Why don't you get your crew to help put the maze together?" Elaine said.

  "Dey are, bud I had to go pick ub da hay," said Billy. He snorted violently. "Sebed hudred bales."

  Gaylen shook her head and smiled. "I'll miss you guys."

  "We'll miss you, too," said Meg sadly. The others at the table nodded their agreement.

  "Well, I've got to go before I start crying." Gaylen turned on her heel and disappeared out the door. We all sat there for several minutes, none of us saying anything, the silence unbroken except for Billy's snorts and tootles. Finally he stood up.

  "Bell, I'b god to ged back to work," he said. "Be hab da layout dud, bud stackig all dat hay id goig to take sub tibe."

  "I can't understand a word you're saying," said Kimberly Walnut.

  Billy threw his hands in the air and stomped out.

  "This is our Worship Committee meeting," said Bev. "Pull up a chair."

  "You tricked me," I said. "I don't go to meetings on Wednesdays."

  "Or Thursdays," said Joyce, "or Fridays, or any other days probably, now that Gaylen's gone."

  "We have to take the bull by the horns," said Bev. "Here's the deal. Vicar McTavish says he has his hands full with the work of planting a new church up on Grandfather Mountain. He'll be happy to celebrate the Eucharist on Sundays. But that's it. We won't see him during the week."

  "That's a relief," said Kimberly Walnut. "Now, there are a couple of things I need to talk to you all about. The first is our 'Congregational Enlivener.' I found one in Raleigh who's just great and he said he'd love to come up! Only five hundred dollars!"

  "Five hundred dollars?" said Elaine, aghast. "For what?"

  "To enliven the congregation," Kimberly Walnut explained patiently. "You see..."

  "I've really got to go," I said. "Just to be clear, we're in charge of the services. McTavish is just preaching and celebrating the Eucharist. No nineteenth century Scottish Psalters? No Genevan hymnals?"

  "All he requires is that the old King James Version of the Bible be used exclusively. He's gotten permission from the bishop to use the 1928 prayer book. We told him we couldn't do it this week because we didn't have any."

  I raised my eyebrows.

  "They were stored in one of the closets of the old church. They all burned in the fire and we didn't bother to replace them," said Bev.

  "Ah," I said.

  "Luckily," said Bev with exaggerated sarcasm, "Lord's Chapel down the road has enough of them for us to use, but they're in storage. We can pick them up next week."

  "That is
lucky," Elaine said.

  "And," added Bev, "Vicar McTavish will be doing the Children's Moment. He thinks that the children might need a healthy dose of the Bible. The real version."

  Kimberly Walnut blanched. I suppressed a grin.

  "Well, what could be the harm in that?" I said.

  Kimberly Walnut cleared her throat. "A-hem."

  Bev looked annoyed. "What?"

  "About the Congregational Enlivener..." Kimberly said.

  Bev's shoulders slumped. "Oh no."

  "Gaylen gave me the go-ahead two months ago," said Kimberly Walnut. "I called him and he only had one date open and I had to sign the contract. He'll be here a week from Sunday."

  "Gaylen gave you the go-ahead?" said Bev.

  Kimberly looked at Bev with exasperation. "I asked her about it as soon as I heard about him. I have it right here in my notes." Kimberly Walnut held up her legal pad. "Gaylen said 'Not now. Maybe in a couple of months.' You were standing right there next to her. That's in my notes, too."

  "Maybe!" said Bev, looking at her calendar. "Gaylen said 'maybe!' Not 'Go hire a 'Congregational Enlivener' for All Saints' Sunday!'"

  "How was I to know we're celebrating All Saints' Sunday on November 5th?" whined Kimberly Walnut. "It's not even on my calendar. It's not like it's Easter or something. Anyway, I already ordered the Spirit Sticks."

  I just shook my head and sighed. "We always do it on the closest Sunday to the 1st of November. Or on the Sunday after if All Saints' Day falls on a Wednesday."