The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries) Read online

  “Sort of a rent-with-option-to-buy deal,” I said, with a smile. “A trial basis.”

  “Yep. We’d try her out, she’d try us out, and then we’d see what happens.”

  “I’ve seen other churches hire their interim, and sometimes it works out,” I said, taking another curve, this time slower. “Generally, it’s an interim priest that the church ends up liking while they’re looking for someone else. They realize they already have what they’re looking for and offer the interim priest the job. How long is the trial period?”

  “Through the end of the year. Then we make a decision to either hire her full-time or look for another interim.”

  “That seems fair enough.”

  “Well, Gaylen seems very enthusiastic. She’ll be here tomorrow to look around, and she’d really like to meet with you.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Well…umm…” started Bev, not knowing how quite to broach the subject. “The vestry sort of told her that you were still the choir director, albeit on leave, and that you would be willing to come in and talk to her about resuming your duties.”

  “Did they?” I said, letting my irritation show. “Did they really?” I pushed down on the accelerator and took another curve. Bev slid all the way across the seat and banged up against me. She grabbed at the seat with both hands, but there was nothing to hold on to.

  “It was Meg!” Bev blurted out. “She’s the one who said it! Don’t kill us!”

  I slowed down again, rounding the next curve at a more leisurely pace. Bev crept back to her side of the seat.

  “I almost think you did that on purpose,” she said primly, straightening her blouse. “You sir, are a letch.”

  “I don’t deny it,” I said. “The letch part anyway. Have her give me a call. I’ll be happy to meet with her. But I’m here to tell you, I’ve got some hard questions.”

  “I’m sure she has some as well.”

  Chapter 7

  “I copied down your sentence about the ‘bitter chalk of adolescence’ and showed it to Mom,” said Meg. “She liked it. Are you going to send it in?”

  “I didn’t even think about that one,” I said. “But now that I look back on it, it has some real potential. How are you ladies doing with your entries?”

  Meg sighed. “Mom’s got another one, but it’s not so good. I don’t know how Elaine is doing, but I’m coming up blank. This shouldn’t be that hard! I mean, they get over five thousand entries a year.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But they’re not all Bulwer-Lytton quality.”

  “That’s the most oxymoronic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  So Fishy Jim had gills. The answer hit me like Vanna White thrown from the roof of a bowling alley. It was so simple. Why hadn’t I seen it before? The extra large mouth; the olive-green hue that we’d attributed to too much time in the practice room; the unblinking orange eyes; the white, mottled belly and the two dorsal fins. I’d been in a couple of choirs with Fishy Jim. He had the lowest notes and the cleanest scales of anybody on the circuit, and now I knew why. His secret was out. He was a bass.

  “Son of a clam!” I said.

  “You won’t tell anyone?” asked Betsy. “Don’t we have some kind of detective/client privilege or something?”

  “No such thing,” I smirked. “But I won’t tell.”

  Not yet, at least, I thought to myself. There was quite a hubbub going on in the church about being inclusive. Mixed marriages were one thing, but marrying outside your species was something else altogether.

  * * *

  I walked into St. Barnabas at exactly four o’clock, the precise time of my appointment with Rev. Dr. Gaylen Weatherall. I walked in through the Parish Hall doors, planning on getting a cup of coffee on my way to the meeting, and met Meg, Bev and Gaylen, all standing around the coffee pot with precisely the same idea.

  “Hayden!” said Gaylen, walking over to me with an outstretched hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard such great things.”

  I smiled and shook her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, too.”

  “Why don’t we go into the rector’s office and chat,” she said. “After you get a cup of coffee.” She and Bev went down the hallway and disappeared from sight.

  “She’s clever, that one,” I whispered, as they rounded the corner.

  “What do you mean?” Meg whispered back.

  “Did you notice how she said ‘the rector’s office’ instead of ‘my office?’”

  “That is clever,” said Meg, her sarcasm apparent. “Oh, how will you ever cope with such a clever person? Now go on in and talk to her.”

  * * *

  The rector’s office was dominated by a massive oaken desk, left over from Father Barna’s tenure, a former interim priest with a prodigious case of furniture envy. It was matched in size and ostentation by the overstuffed leather executive chair behind it. However, for this meeting, Gaylen had arranged four chairs in a comfortable pattern around the room.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Gaylen said. “I’ve asked Bev and Meg to join us. This is just an informal chat.” She motioned for us all to be seated.

  “That’s fine with me,” I said, taking the chair nearest the door.

  “I’ve been talking with Bev, and she’s explained the reason for your leave-of-absence.”

  “Actually, I was fired,” I said.

  “Yes, she mentioned that, too. Is there still a problem with any of the parishioners?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I’ve subbed a few times since then. Everything seems fine.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve had a few problems with the clergy?”

  “Well, let’s see,” I said. “Because of me, Loraine Ryan had to leave the priesthood for having an affair with the Senior Warden. Then Emil Barna’s wife tried to kill me. And Father George gave me the sack. So the answer would be…yes.”

  “Bad apples,” said Gaylen. “Tony Brown says you’re the best organist in the state.”

  “Hardly,” I said. “But I’m probably the best in town.”

  “How many are in town?” whispered Bev to Meg.

  “Just one,” answered Meg, “since Agnes Day got killed with the handbell.”

  “What would it take for you to come back?” Gaylen asked, finally getting to the heart of the matter. “A raise?”

  “He’s rich,” said Bev. “I forgot to tell you that. He doesn’t do it for the money.”

  “I’ve never taken a salary,” I said. “But I’ve got a few questions for you.”

  “I’m at your disposal.”

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  Bev and Meg gasped audibly.

  “Fifty-five.”

  “Married?”

  “Widowed. Three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. She nodded.

  “How do you feel about re-naming the Trinity?” I asked.

  “I presume you’re referring to that Presbyterian clap-trap that happened at their National Assembly. Quite frankly, it’s the best thing to happen to the Episcopal Church since those wacky Presbyterians came up with the ‘Service of Milk and Honey’ at the ReImagining conference in 1993. Lord knows, we’ve got plenty of problems we need to work out, and this should take the public eye off of us for a couple of months.”

  “So, I’m presuming you won’t be renaming the Trinity in any of our liturgies.”

  “Nope. I stick pretty much to the Prayer Book. Those Presbyterians can call the Trinity ‘Huey, Dewy and Louie’ for all I care.”

  Meg giggled.

  “What’s your position on Clown Eucharists?” I asked.

  “Kneeling in front of my statue of St. Genesius. Seriously, there certainly have been plenty of them, but I find them ridiculous.” She looked thoughtful for a moment and then added “Pirate Eucharists as well.”

  “Someone’s been telling tales,” I said with a smile. “I read a couple of your books—Engaging God: The Theology of Worship and your memoir,
Beyond Bethel. I enjoyed them both.”

  “I admit that I’ve enjoyed your writings as well. When I Googled you, a page came up entitled The Usual Suspects.”

  “Some of my best work,” I said modestly.

  “I didn’t know he had any of her books,” whispered Bev to Meg.

  “I didn’t know either,” Meg whispered back.

  “So,” I said, “hypothetically speaking, if you were our priest, how would we address you? Mother Weatherall?

  “Well, there is precedent for that, but I find it rather pretentious. If we’re in a formal situation, ‘Reverend or Doctor Weatherall’ will do nicely. If not, I’ve always preferred ‘Gaylen.’“

  “What’s your stance on sexual harassment?” I asked.

  “I won’t tolerate it,” Gaylen said, smiling. “Oh, you may certainly compliment my hair or my outfit, and I’ll do the same for you. You know, there’s a video put out by the Diocese…”

  “I’ve seen it,” I interrupted. “I was particularly impressed by the stunning production values. But I meant Marilyn,” I said, referring to our long-suffering church secretary. “If I come back, may I still sexually harass Marilyn?”

  Gaylen look confused. “Did you before?”

  “Kind of,” I admitted, with a shrug.

  “I’d rather that you didn’t.”

  “Hmm. What about the altos? May I sexually harass the altos?”

  “He doesn’t actually harass us,” said Meg. “Throw him a bone, will you?”

  “Okay,” said Gaylen. “You may sexually harass the altos. Up to a point. But if you tell anyone I said you could, I’ll deny it.”

  “Ah, plausible deniability,” I said. “But I have witnesses.”

  “No you don’t,” said Bev.

  I looked over at Meg. She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Fine,” I shrugged.

  “Now I have a couple of questions for you,” Gaylen said. I looked at her in anticipation. She was quite an attractive woman, tall and slender with shoulder length white hair that rested gently on her shoulders, and an easy smile that lit her unlined face.

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “Well, that’s the first question. Do you actually keep a loaded pistol in the organ bench?”

  “Yep. A Glock 9.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Well, I am a cop,” I said. “Plus, there are rats in the choir loft, and I find it helps persuade the tenors to sing the right notes.”

  “Hmm,” said Gaylen. “I can see where that might help. How about the psalms? Do you sing them or just say them?”

  “We always sang them when I was here. I’m not quite sure what they do now.”

  “Well, I’ve gone over some of the bulletins from your tenure, and the music looked wonderful. If you decide to come back, I hope that you’ll continue to provide the parish with that gift.”

  “No Hootnanny masses?” I asked. “No canned music?”

  “No.”

  “Who picks the hymns?”

  “You do.”

  “Who’s going to fire the one-legged organist?”

  “Bev is,” said Gaylen, with another smile.

  “Well, I’ll certainly mull it over,” I said, getting to my feet. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “I’ll be here on Sunday,” Gaylen said. “Tony will be celebrating, but I’ll be helping out. The Sunday after that, it’ll just be me. I hope you’ll be back by then. Also, if you put copies of your detective stories in the choir folders, I expect one in my Prayerbook as well.”

  She stood and shook my hand. “It’s been a real pleasure talking to you, Hayden.”

  * * *

  “So, what do you think?” asked Meg. “C’mon. What do you think?”

  “I think she’s very clever,” I said. “Very clever. Almost too clever.”

  “But you like her, right?”

  “Yeah, I like her.”

  “So, you’ll come back? I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you’d enjoy yourself. And you just haven’t been happy since you quit.”

  “I know,” I said. “I do miss playing. I’ll tell you what. I’ll come back for a while, and we’ll see how it goes.”

  * * *

  I picked Moosey up at five-thirty in the morning. The sky was beginning to lighten, but the sun hadn’t yet made its appearance. As I drove up to the McCollough trailer, my headlights swept across the porch and illuminated Moosey, sitting cross-legged, chewing happily on a candy bar, the coffee can full of worms next to him. I pulled up, and Moosey was into the truck before I had a chance to come to a full stop.

  “Did you tell your Mom we were leaving?”

  “She saw you through the window,” Moosey said, pointing toward the living room. I looked over, but the curtains were drawn.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. She saw you drive up. Then she waved goodbye and everything.”

  I nodded. “Okay then. We’ll be back by eight anyway.”

  We drove to the lake, carried our tackle down to Pete’s boat, arranged ourselves and pushed off into the quiet water. It was one of those mornings that was dead still. I heard a few birds in the distance, but other than the sound of the oars in the water, the lake was as silent as the grave. The breeze that had welcomed us the first morning was nowhere to be found, and the fog rested on the surface of the lake like one of Ardine’s quilts, making it tough to see the opposite shore even though it was a scant fifty yards away.

  “You think we’ll catch one today?” said Moosey. “I’ve never caught no fish before.”

  “Well, I hope so,” I said. “Here, stick a worm on the end of that hook.”

  One thing I’ll say for Moosey—he’s never been squeamish when it comes to worms. We baited our hooks, clipped on the bobbers and dropped our lines into the water. True anglers worried about casting close to the weeds, which lures would be most likely to work on any given day and making the plastic frog jump to look like something a fish would actually like to eat—but for me, fishing was mostly about dropping a worm in the lake and enjoying the morning. If some fish was stupid enough to eat it and get caught, that was his own dumb fault. I couldn’t be blamed.

  We’d sat there in silence for about thirty minutes, relaxing and switching worms when they either stopped wiggling, managed to escape, or were nibbled off our hooks by some smart fish. Then Moosey got a bite. And what a bite it was.

  There was a big splash and a yell, and Moosey’s pole bent almost double, the spinner having been locked to prevent a snarl. I was expecting that we might catch a brim or a blue-gill or, at the very most, a small bass, and locking the reel wouldn’t have posed any problem. But what Moosey had was a monster.

  “WhatdoIdoWhatdoIdo?” hollered Moosey, standing in the boat and hanging on to the fishing rod for dear life. I put my own rod down and stood behind him, putting my hands over his, helping him to hang on. The rod was bending at about a ninety- degree angle. I unlocked the spinner and the line sailed off the reel as the fish made a dash toward the middle of the lake.

  “Wow!” I said. “Did you see him?”

  “Just for a second,” said Moosey excitedly. “When he came up for the worm.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was darkish green and white! With some spikey fins on his back!”

  “Not black? Like a catfish?”

  “He ain’t no catfish,” Moosey declared. “I’ll bet he’s a big ol’ bass.”

  I had to agree. I’d caught catfish in this little lake before, and I’d never seen a catfish take off like this fellow.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s see if we can land him.”

  We began the traditional fisherman’s dance, first pulling back on the pole, drawing the fish back toward the boat, then reeling in the excess line. We’d done this three times and were feeling pretty good about ourselves when the line went slack.

  “He’s heading back. Reel him in! Quick now!” I said.

  Moos
ey reeled frantically and the spinner whirred, but just as almost all the line had been recovered, the fish changed direction again, bent the pole at another right angle and with a sickening ‘pop,’ the fishing line snapped.

  “Aw, man!” said Moosey, disappointment clouding his face. “The line busted.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That was a big one.”

  “He was as big as my arm,” said Moosey, holding up his arm to show me.

  “I don’t know if he was that big,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what. We’re going to get him before the summer’s out.”

  “All right!” yelped Moosey. “Wait till I tell the guys.”

  “Nope,” I said. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s your fish, Moosey. If you tell anyone, pretty soon everybody will be down here trying to catch him. And we don’t want that.”

  Moosey nodded thoughtfully. “I won’t tell.”

  “That’s good. ‘Cause we’re going to catch that rascal,” I said with a smile. I was smiling because that fish snapped my twenty-five-pound-test fishing line like it was a piece of thread. If it was a bass, and I was pretty sure it was, he was one for the record books.

  * * *

  “How was the fishing?” asked Pete when I walked into the Slab.

  “Well, we didn’t catch anything,” I said, truthfully.

  “Get any bites?”

  “Umm. Nope. Not a one.”

  “You’re lying,” said Pete with a grin. “You saw him, didn’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Pete lowered his voice and leaned in close. “You saw Old Spiney. I can always tell.” He grinned again, studying my face. “Yep. You saw him all right.”

  “Come sit down with me, Pete,” I said gesturing to a booth, “and tell me all you know.”

  “I know two things,” said Pete as he slid across the red Naugahyde bench. “That fish ain’t never been caught, and he ain’t likely to be.”

  “He’s a largemouth?”