Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon (5 page)

There was a merger in the works. A merger between two dioceses and it was going to be messy. There were threats on both sides and the bishop wanted me to clear the way for this unholy union. I could do it. I had the goods on every priest in both dioceses. They knew that it was me who filled Mr. Big in on all the ministerial dope. I had the skinny on those birds, and they knew that when this merger took place, any one of them could end up as the priest of the Episcopal Parish of Weasel Junction.

First on my list was Father Race Rankle, a retired priest from the old mother church with an agenda of his own. The word on the street was that he wanted to use the combined diocesan money to open an Episcopalian leper colony. Father Rankle was leaning heavily toward Biblical precedent, and I knew that if he could get it to a vote, he might just push it through.

Suddenly I was nearly finished with this installment and I realized that there had been no sultry temptress introduced into the plot.

I looked up and there she was--right on cue--lingering by the stained glass window, dressed in black with a nine foot boa constrictor wrapped around her neck.

"I'm a leper," she said. "And I know there's been a murder."

Somehow I knew she was going to say that.

•••

Meg and I had a huge fire going in the fireplace, doing our best to combat the late snowfall that had covered most of the mountains. I lit a
Romeo et Julietta,
my cigar of choice, surveyed the tranquil domestic scene from my leather club chair, and decided that the setting was the perfect picture of masculine contentment: a huge log cabin with a fire blazing, a beautiful woman reclining in her robe on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand, a loyal dog asleep in front of the fire, a Thelonious Monk CD on the stereo, and an owl sitting on the mounted elk head above the mantle eating a gerbil.

"It's a nice article," said Meg, handing me the paper. "I never knew you were so accomplished."

I looked at last Tuesday's paper. I had been so busy I hadn't had time to read it although I rarely read the paper anyway. The article featured my picture and the facts that I had given to Pete about the murder.

"Pete likes the publicity for the town. It's my civic duty to become famous."

"Tell me how you knew about the diamond," Megan said. "I'm very impressed."

"Elementary, my dear. Here's the skinny."

"The skinny?

"The dope, the poop, the slant, the rap, the hinky."

"Ah, now I understand," she said.

"You see," I began, happy to explain my deductive prowess and show off a little. "You see, Kris Toth, henceforth know as 'the victim' was found dead in the treasury. The first question is 'Why?' She was obviously there to steal something. She also obviously wasn't there by herself."

"The clue there being the fact that she was dead," Meg added.

"Precisely! You know, you're getting the hang of this."

"Please continue."

"The cross was in the victim's hand, so although the case had been opened and re-locked, it appeared that the murderer didn't actually steal anything."

"How odd," said Meg.

"Odd indeed. Now why would the murderer go to all the trouble to murder someone in the treasury with the cameras turned off and not take anything? Especially when a 32 carat diamond worth over a million pounds was there for the taking. The fact that it was screwed into the chalice made it an easy target."

"The superglue gave it away!"

"It was an important clue. You see, the cross was meant to be the only thing the police found missing from the case. They'd assume that the cross had been stolen and never look at the diamond. In the low light of the treasury, a cubic zirconium may not have been discovered for years."

"But how did you know?"

"Given everything else in the case, it was the only thing that made any sense. And I had to ask myself why the victim would have Superglue on her fingers."

"Well, you were right."

I could tell Meg was impressed.

"So who's the murderer?"

"I have a couple of ideas."

"Care to tell?"

"Not yet. I'm still working it out."

"You know," Meg said, looking thoughtful, "if the murderer had put the cross back, you might never have thought to look at the chalice."

"You're right," I said. "That's a very salient point. He might not have had time. Besides, as you know, if the criminal doesn't make at least one mistake, we gum-shoes would be up a dongle."

"Up a dongle?"

"It's detective talk. You know – bounce a limpet, drop a wally, sling some spinach."

"You're making that stuff up."

"Perhaps."

•••

The supper hour came and went, and as I finished up the dishes, Meg finished reading my latest episode.

"Well, your trip to England sure didn't help your writing."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I've tightened it up quite a bit. I met a literary agent, you know. She was quite taken with my prose."

"Yes," Meg said, "I'm sure she was. Is this doggerel going in the choir folders?"

"Yep. This Sunday and every Sunday during Lent."

"That's cruel."

"It may be, but Lent is all about suffering."

"Have you heard anything from Father Tony about the new priest?" Meg asked, changing the subject.

"No, I haven't. I don't know anything about him except that the interim bishop has sent him over from the seminary. To give him some experience, I suppose."

"When will you meet him?"

"He'll be here on Wednesday to talk to everyone. I guess he knows he's just a sub until we finish the search for our new guy."

"What about the new Christian education director? What's her name? Brandi? Boopsie? Have you talked with her?"

"Yes, I have," I answered. "Her name's Brenda, and I'm reserving judgment. So far she's been kind of quiet during staff meetings, but I get the feeling she's just biding her time. She mentioned that at her last church they had a 'Flower Communion' and that it was a very meaningful service. Everyone brought a flower and put it on the altar. During the sermon, the members of the congregation were invited to stand and say a few words about their particular flower."

"You can't say anything bad about her, you know. Not after you got Loraine fired."

"I did not get Loraine fired," I said, my hackles rising involuntarily. "She got herself fired."

"Nevertheless," said Meg, "you'd better lay low for a while."

"You have my promise. I won't say anything to anyone until we actually get a full-time priest. I'll just go with the flow, direct the music, plant some flowers, and let the chips fall where they may."

"That's a good plan," said Meg.

•••

The mood at the Slab was upbeat although the crowd was small. The economy of St. Germaine relies mainly on tourism, most of the visitors arriving during the four to six weeks of leaf season – October and early November. We get a few die-hards on long weekends during snow season, but we don't have any slopes, so the skiers tend to stay up on Sugarloaf or somewhere closer to the action. In the summer, we get some folks intent on escaping the heat of the lowlands. Late February, on the other hand, with its bitter wind, ice, frequent snows, and overcast days doesn't draw the tourists like the mayor of St. Germaine thought it should.

"Where are all the customers?" asked Pete of no one in particular.

"Pete," I said, "as mayor of this burg, it is your duty to go out and round up some tourists."

Pete looked thoughtful. "The article in the paper about you and the York investigation was pretty good. It went statewide, you know. I pulled a few strings." He stared out the window for a moment. "Maybe the weather has something to do with it."

"Do you really think so?" asked Nancy. She was eating her regular breakfast of flapjacks and coffee. "The temperature's already up to ten degrees. I'll bet they come flocking in for the crowning of the Ice Princess."

Dave came in the door, pulling it closed against the wind.

"Now that we're all here," I said, "we can call this meeting of the St. Germaine Police Force and Tourism Review Board to order."

"I move that we all go to Barbados," said Nancy.

"What? And give up all this?" Dave was stomping the snow off his boots and taking off his coat.

It was my turn. "I don't know about you folks, but I love this weather. Think about it. No crime – too cold. No waiting for a table – too cold. No traffic – too cold."

"No customers," said Pete. "No tourists. No business. No rent. No money."

"Trust you to always find the down side. You always were a pessimist. My cup, on the other hand, is half full." I held my coffee cup aloft, motioning to Noylene for a refill.

"Mine is half empty," admitted Pete, holding his cup up as well.

"Mine's half frozen," said Noylene, filling both cups, "and you people are crazy."

•••

The staff meeting at St. Barnabas on Wednesday morning was well attended and what I would describe as rather eventful. Our new interim priest was in attendance, presumably to meet us all and to be introduced by Father Tony. Decorum, in these circumstances, calls for a humble, self-effacing response to this presentation. We all probably expected it, but it was not to be.

Father Emil Barna was a short, unattractive man with a bad toupee in a suspicious auburn color. He was, according to his recitation, a "second career" priest, his first career being an ambulance-chasing attorney of some note in Durham. He had now found the higher calling. As a "very wealthy individual," he was now ready to begin his ministry without thought to his compensation, although he had decided, after much prayer, that it was in the church's best interest for him to accept the salary.

I pointed out that as a "very wealthy individual" myself, I gave my own salary back to the church. He looked as if he didn't hear me and continued.

"I think you'll find that, although I'm not an easy person to work for, I'm inevitably right in my decisions. If all of you will pull together as a ministry team and follow the few simple rules that I have, everything will run very smoothly."

"Now I've already spoken with Brenda Marshall. Since she's in charge of Christian education..." He looked to Brenda, and she smiled and nodded like the cat that had just eaten the science fair project. "We have agreed that she should take charge of our worship planning as well as our Sunday School and Wednesday night Institute programming. I think we're all on the same page here."

I snorted into my coffee, but didn't say anything. Father Tony had turned a wonderful shade of pale.

"Brenda," I asked, rather innocently I thought, "didn't you come to us from a Presbyterian congregation?"

"Yes, but my background will add diversity to our offerings." She looked around the table confidently. True to my promise to Meg, I smiled and nodded.

"I'm sure it will."

Father Barna cleared his throat in such an obvious manner that all attention turned back to him. He tapped on his yellow notepad with his pen.

"Hayden Konig," he said, reading off the paper. "Did I pronounce that correctly?"

I nodded with a smile.

"Hayden, you will direct the choir and play for the services. I'll want to pick the hymns in consultation with Ms. Marshall. I think she and I have a good feel for what the people will like."

"That's just fine," I said. Father Tony was stock still, the only evidence of his burgeoning anger manifesting itself in his reddening nostrils and bloodless knuckles.

The Reverend Barna continued.

"This will be Father Brown's last Sunday, so I will begin on Monday morning. I expect you all to be here bright and early for an eight o'clock staff meeting."

"Sorry, Emil," I said. "I'm also the chief of police, and I have a meeting first thing on Monday. I'll tell you what. Since Brenda's in charge of the services, why doesn't she just put a list of the hymns and the service music on the organ, and I'll look through it on Wednesday night before choir practice. I presume you'd still like me to pick the anthems for the choir."