The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries) Read online

  “The Lord be with you,” said the bishop.

  “And also with you,” the Episcopalians in the crowd answered.

  “This is a happy day in the life of St. Barnabas,” said the bishop, beginning his homily. I knew it wasn’t a happy day for the bishop. When St. Barnabas unexpectedly received a windfall of sixteen-million dollars, Bishop O’Connell was hoping that the diocese would receive its fair share. When we told him that the church had decided to sponsor a NASCAR racing team, he was not amused. But, as Billy put it, “It’s our money. We’ll do what we want.” We looked at our beautiful car, sleek and obviously fast, deep purple with the St. Barnabas crest painted on the hood—a basic red and blue Episcopal shield with an olive branch blazoned across it. Across the doors on both sides were the words “St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, St. Germaine, NC.” Painted on the roof was a huge gold cross with the number 17 outlined in black, and on the back of the car were the words “The wages of sin is death,” and “Do you know where you’ll spend eternity?” presumably there to inspire other drivers, sneaking up on Junior at 215 miles per hour, to reexamine their sordid lives—at least long enough for Junior to beat them to the finish line. It was quite a piece of art, let alone being a marvel of automotive mechanics.

  Bishop O’Connell was finishing up, finally getting to the heart of the matter. Georgia moved up beside him with a bowl of water and a small branch taken from one of the sweet olive trees growing beside St. Barnabas. She held the bowl out in front of the bishop.

  “Father, bless this water,” Bishop O’Connell said, holding his hand over the water, “and let it be a reminder for us of our baptism. Help us to live as people of light, and to be blameless and worthy in your sight.”

  He then took the branch in his hand and walked toward the car with Georgia in tow, still holding the bowl of water aloft. He dipped the branch in the bowl, lifted it up, dripping, and used it as an asperge, flinging the Holy Water onto the car.

  “Lend a willing ear, Lord God, to our prayers, and bless this racecar with Your holy right hand,” said the bishop, finishing with the passenger side and walking around the back of the car. “Direct Your holy angels to accompany it, that they may free those who ride in it from all dangers, and always guard them.” He dipped the branch into the bowl again and baptized the trunk, back bumper and any other parts that were within sprinkling distance. “And just as by your servant Philip, you gave faith and grace to the man of Ethiopia as he sat in his chariot reading the sacred Word, so point out to your servants the way of salvation.” He walked around to the driver’s side, and this time, after dunking the branch, reached inside the car and made sure the interior was suitably blessed. “Grant that those who witness the exploits of this car and driver, aided by your grace…” He moved to the front of the car. “…And with their hearts set on good works, they may, after all the joys and sorrows of this journey through life, merit to receive eternal joys, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” He shook the remaining water off the branch.

  “Hey,” said Junior, joining Bishop O’Connell at the front of the car. “Let’s put the rest of that Holy Water in the radiator.”

  From where I was standing, I could hear the bishop take a deep breath, but he nodded as the cameras clicked and whirred. Junior opened the radiator, and Bishop O’Connell took the bowl from Georgia and poured the remaining water into the radiator.

  “Blessed are you, Lord God, king of the universe: you have made all things for your glory. Bless this engine and umm…radiator and grant that your servant Junior Jameson may use them in your service and for the good of this church and all your people. Amen.”

  “Great!” said Junior, clapping his hands and starting a round of applause. “That’s that then. Thanks, yer Grace.” He shook the bishop’s hand. “Any of you reporters have any questions, I’ll be back here at the car in just a minute.”

  The Blessing Party went back through the doors of the church and Junior Jameson reappeared a moment later, coming down to greet the mob of reporters gathered around the racecar.

  “Did you have any idea there would be so much media coverage?” Meg asked.

  “Nope,” said Pete. “I guess with forty-seven cable news channels, they have to come up with something. I’m just mad that I didn’t call them when we discovered the Immaculate Confection. I could have made some real money.”

  Chapter 6

  I was feeling no adversarial pressure concerning our Bulwer-Lytton bet, and unless those three ladies were playing me like a Klezmer squeezebox, I figured that I had plenty of time to work on my detective story. Who knows? I might even come up with a couple of great sentences I could use. I put my fingers on the keys of the famous typewriter and started typing.

  “Fishy Jim?” I said. “Everybody’s heard of Fishy Jim. He’s the lowest bass in three states.”

  “Yeah,” Betsy sniffed. “Sometimes he sings right off the bottom of the piano, just to make me swoon.”

  “So, why do you think he’s stepping out with another skirt?”

  “I see all the signs,” she sobbed. “Lipstick on his choir vestment, late night sectional rehearsals, love notes stuck in his hymnal.”

  I tossed the dead woodchuck into my salad and whistled for the waiter. Unless I was mistaken, I was being strung along by a gal who was as easy as a TV Guide crossword puzzle. No one puts love notes in a hymnal.

  “What’s his secret?” I asked.

  “To attracting choir groupies?” she said, sarcastically.

  “Nah,” I answered. “I know what attracts choir groupies. All you need is a recording of Pachelbel’s Canon and a bottle of Ripple. I’m talking about his low notes. I sure could use another octave.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “C’mon, Toots. You can trust me.” I handed the waiter my salad bowl and pointed to the hair peeking out from underneath a piece of arugula.

  “You know how some singers have really good breath control?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Fishy Jim has gills.”

  * * *

  “He’s gone,” said Bev. “Father George is gone.”

  “Gone, gone?” I asked.

  “Packed up and moved. I went by his house this morning because we hadn’t heard anything from him since he disappeared on Sunday. Anyway, I knocked on the door. No answer. I looked in the front window and guess what? All the furniture is gone. So I went back to the church and got the key. It’s empty. Everything gone. Furniture, appliances, clothes…everything.”

  “What about his wife? Is Suzanne gone as well?”

  “Oh, she left about a month ago,” Bev said, dismissively, “to look for a house and get settled.” She shook her head. “But most of the furniture was still here. Now it’s gone.”

  “His office?”

  “He packed his office up last week, but he was supposed to stay through the end of June. Nope. I think he’s gone for good.”

  “What are you going to do this Sunday?”

  “Tony will be here. He’ll take care of it. And we have an emergency vestry meeting tonight.”

  * * *

  The Slab was bustling, and the breakfast crowd had picked up significantly in the past two weeks. Dave and Nancy were already eating when I joined them. Pete was standing behind the counter, making coffee. Collette was taking an order at one end of the restaurant, and Noylene Fabergé was busy at the other. Noylene, coffee pot in hand, came up to the table as soon as I sat down.

  “Morning,” she said, filling my cup without asking. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have an omelet. Bacon, mushroom and Swiss cheese.”

  “Toast?”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “Hey! I thought you were only going to work on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

  “Well, the Beautifery doesn’t open until ten and Pete needs some help until he hires another waitress.”

  “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it,” said Pete, walking up to the table. “We were getting swamped.”


  “Pull up a chair, Mr. Mayor,” said Nancy.

  “Thank you, I will,” said Pete. He sat down and took one of Dave’s biscuits. “Any nefarious or criminal activity afoot in our fair village?”

  “I gave out two parking tickets yesterday,” said Dave. “‘Cause I’m a corporal now.”

  “I didn’t have the productive day that Officer Snookie-Pie here had,” said Nancy, “but the Gas and Go had a shoplifter. Or said they did. He was long gone by the time I got over there.”

  “What about that robbery at the Piggly Wiggly? You guys ever get that guy?” Pete asked, referring to a case that was now over a month old.

  “Nope,” I said. “He ran barefoot into the woods.”

  “What about the bloodhounds?” asked Pete. “What about the tracking dogs and the helicopter surveillance?”

  “Well,” said Nancy, “since we don’t actually have a helicopter or bloodhounds and since he only got away with what Hannah had in the register, which was $23.45, and since he wasn’t actually from Watauga County or someone would have recognized him from the pictures we got from the videotape, we decided to not waste too much time on it.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing!” exclaimed Pete. “You just can’t stick-up old ladies. We can’t have folks committing felonies at the Piggly Wiggly and getting away with it! That’s armed robbery!”

  “Not armed, actually,” said Nancy. “The guy threatened Hannah with a small stick. She just freaked out.”

  “Still…” said Pete.

  “Listen,” I said, “take comfort in the fact that all the checkout girls at the Piggly Wiggly are now packing 9mm automatics courtesy of Ken’s Gun Emporium in Banner Elk. So shop with confidence, and, whatever you do, don’t try to sneak through the ten-items-or-less line with a dozen donuts.”

  “Yikes,” said Dave. “I almost always take a dozen donuts through the fast line.”

  “Here’s some news,” said Pete, ignoring him. “A friend of mine is visiting Appalachian State…”

  “Yes,” said Nancy. “That is news.”

  “Don’t be snide, Lieutenant Parsky, or I’ll bust you back down to dogcatcher. Don’t forget. I’m the mayor.”

  Nancy snorted.

  “As I was saying,” continued Pete, “this friend of mine is a very famous scientist. She wasn’t, of course, when I knew her. She was a hot doctoral student at the University of Maryland. Anyway, now she’s in charge of the Gorilla Project on Interspecies Communication, and she’s on tour with her gorilla.”

  “Kokomo?” asked Collette, overhearing Pete as she walked by the table.

  “Umm, I think so,” said Pete. “That sounds right. How did you know?”

  “Kokomo’s just about the most famous gorilla in the world!” said Collette. “He’s got a little pet kitten, and he can talk with sign language. I saw him on the Today Show.”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” said Pete. “My friend Penny says we can come up and see him if y’all want to.”

  “Penny?” I asked.

  “Well, Penelope. She prefers to be called Dr. Pelicane. Dr. P.A. Pelicane, PhD. But she’ll always be ‘Penny’ to me.”

  “I’d love to go,” squeaked Collette. “Dave wants to go, too.”

  We looked over at Dave, who had a mouthful of pancakes. He stopped chewing, returned our look, then shrugged and continued his breakfast.

  “I want to see that gorilla,” said Noylene. “And meet that woman. She must be a danged genius to teach him how to talk.”

  “Well, Noylene, I think you’re a genius, too,” Collette said. “Look how well your Beautifery has done.”

  Noylene blushed. “Nah. I ain’t no genius. I just help folks find their inner beauty. A genius would be one of them guys like Norman Einstein.” Noylene disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Speaking of genius,” said Pete, looking over at me, “I’ve got a new idea I want to run by you.”

  “Let’s hear it,” I said.

  “I met this guy in Charlotte that has a cracker factory. It’s called Pepperick Farms. Right now, they only sell around the state, but they’re looking to go national. So we’re having a couple of beers, and it turns out that he’s a Methodist, and we got to talking about communion.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’ve heard of Pepperick Farms.” Noylene reappeared with my omelet and toast.

  “So we’re chatting away like old buds, and he’s telling me that the Methodists have communion once a month.”

  “That’s about right,” I said. “Presbyterians and Methodists—once a month; Catholics, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Church of Christ, Disciples—every week; Baptists—once a quarter whether they need it or not.”

  “So there you go. All these churches are having communion, and most of them are eating these round things that taste like Styrofoam.”

  “Agreed,” I said. Nancy and Dave nodded.

  “So I’m thinking, why not market something to these churches that actually tastes good and has Christian symbolism at the same time?”

  “That sounds like a fine idea,” I said. “What’s the gimmick?”

  “It’s no gimmick,” Pete said. “This is serious. We’re going to start marketing Pepperick Farms Communion Fish.”

  “Communion Fish?” said Nancy, not quite believing what she was hearing.

  “Yep,” said Pete, sitting proudly back in his chair. “Communion Fish in liturgical flavors. You see, the fish will be flavored, as well as coordinated with the correct color for the season.”

  “Dare I ask?” I said.

  “You may,” said Pete, a smile on his face. “We’ve come up with a few, but feel free to add some if you think of any. So far we’ve been thinking about Angel-Nog for Christmas, Vinegar and Gall for Holy Week, Pillar O’ Salty, and TestaMint.”

  It was too much. Nancy and I burst out in laughter. Pete looked hurt.

  “What? This is a great idea!”

  “Oh, we agree,” I said. “Will the fish crackers have little ichthus signs on them? You know, the Jesus fish?”

  “Nah,” said Pete. “Little crosses. We don’t want to confuse anyone.”

  “That’s really good,” laughed Nancy. “How about Tongues of Flame—Cajun Spicy?”

  Pete grabbed a napkin and pulled out a pen. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

  “How about Paschal Lamb?” I added. “For Easter. Or maybe Ah Holy Cheeses.”

  You’re forgetting the best flavor of all,” said Dave, who had finished his pancakes and was now taking an interest in our conversation. We looked across the table at him.

  “Barabba-que.”

  “Your fortune is as good as made,” I snickered, as Pete scribbled away on his napkin. “I’m sure that many churches will want to participate. Anyway, not to change the subject, but I want to go and see that gorilla.”

  “Me, too,” added Nancy. Dave nodded while Collette and Noylene stood by the counter, looking hopeful.

  “Everyone’s coming then,” I said. “Better call Dr. P.A. Pelicane and set it up, Pete.”

  * * *

  Unlike in the winter months, the days in early summer pass pretty quickly for us police-folk. There’s always some problem to take care of, usually tourist-related as the locals and the reverse snowbirds know the routine, and, as irritating as the tourists can be, these folks are the life-blood of St. Germaine, and it pays to be nice. But nice, for me, wears thin after a while. I had just told Dave I was leaving and climbed behind the wheel of my truck when Bev Greene tapped on the windshield.

  “Can I talk to you for a bit?” she asked.

  “I’ve got to drive in to Boone,” I said. “My chainsaw is fixed, and the repair shop closes in a half-hour. You want to ride with me?”

  “Sure,” answered Bev. She opened the passenger side door and climbed in. “Not too comfortable, is it?”

  “These old trucks weren’t built for comfort, but this one’s working on 500,000 miles. Not too bad, I’d say.” The Chevy rumbled to life and th
e sound of William Byrd’s Mass for Three Voices came out of the speakers. I reached over and turned it down.

  “Better roll your window down,” I said. “No air-conditioning.”

  “I’m fine,” replied Bev. “It’s a hair thing. And anyway, it’s a beautiful day.”

  She was right. We’d had more than our fair share of breathtaking weather during the month of May. It had stayed cool longer than any other year in recent memory, or so it seemed. The humidity was low and the mountain breezes just kept on coming. If you were out in the evening, it was a good idea to bring along a sweater. We drove out of St. Germaine and out to the Old Chambers Road, the winding, treacherous and very scenic alternate route to Boone.

  “I thought you were in a hurry,” Bev said.

  “I have half an hour. We’ll be fine. Anyway, this is a much nicer drive than taking the highway.”

  Bev nodded. “The vestry met last night. An emergency meeting. Remember? I think I told you about it.”

  “I remember.”

  “Billy finally got in touch with Father George. Apparently, the pigeon debacle at Pentecost was the straw that broke the rector’s back. He packed up his stuff and had the movers come the next night. I didn’t even know you could get movers to work at night.”

  “Well, that’s that, then.” I replied. “What’s the plan?” I took a particularly sharp curve a little too fast, and Bev bounced against the truck door.

  “Hey, where’s the seatbelt?” she asked, looking for a shoulder belt and, not seeing one, checking the old bench seat for a lap belt.

  “Doesn’t have any. Too early. Seatbelts weren’t even put in this model.”

  “Oh, that’s just great! Then slow down will you?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Now, you were saying?”

  “I’ve forgotten.” She scrunched up her nose. “Oh yeah. The vestry got on a conference call with Gaylen Weatherall. You remember—she was teaching religious studies at Lenoir-Rhyne College last year.”

  I nodded.

  “The vestry asked her if she’d like to come as an interim with an eye toward becoming our full-time priest if things worked out.”