The Soprano Wore Falsettos

The Soprano Wore Falsettos

A Liturgical Mystery

Copyright ©2006 by Mark Schweizer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by
St. James Music Press

P.O. Box 249

Tryon, NC 28782

ISBN 0-9721211-6-1

Acknowledgments

Allison Brannon, Cathie and Ron Buck, Sandy Cavanah, Nancy Cooper, Karen and Ken Dougherty, Marty and Randy Hatteberg, Kristen Linduff, Mary Ann Martino, Rebecca Watts, Jane and Mark Wells and Donis Schweizer

Prelude

The wind sl ap pe d meinthem ug

“Dadgummit,” I yelled, smacking the return carriage bar on my typewriter in frustration. Baxter, sleeping on his rug in front of the fireplace, opened one canine eye and gave me a pitying look, but was otherwise uninterested. This typewriter was an antique, and I really shouldn’t have been smacking it around, but this was the third time in as many days that it had locked up on me. Sure, I could have used my iBook or any one of the three other computers in the house. I could have even probably found an antique typewriter on eBay or another on-line site, one that was in better shape. But there was another reason why I put up with this temperamental piece of archaic machinery.

This particular typewriter was Raymond Chandler’s 1939 Underwood No. 5 — the very one on which he wrote
Farewell My Lovely, The High Window
and
The Lady in the Lake.
When I bought the typewriter, it came with excellent documentation, complete with an actual page of the second draft of
The High Window
— a perfect match to the characteristics of this particular page mill. I had the page framed and hung it on the wall in my den.

“Problem, Hayden?” said Meg, obviously hearing my outburst. She came into the room, carrying a couple of bottles of Pete’s Wicked Ale. She plopped down on the overstuffed leather sofa — if one could use the word “plop” for the way a beautiful, fortyish woman, with black hair and gray eyes, who moved with the grace of a dancer — ended up reclining in front of the fireplace. I suppose it would be more accurate to say she “settled” on the sofa or perhaps she “lit” or even “ensconced herself the davenport thereupon.” However she did it, when I looked up from the infuriating apparatus that was thwarting my efforts at the next great detective story, there she was, sitting comfortably and offering me a beer.

“Come sit over here,” she said with a smile, patting the worn leather beside her. “Take a break. You’ve been working too hard lately.”

“I agree,” I said, messing with the hammers that had become wedged together. “But, I always think I work too hard.”

“Typewriter jammed again?”

“Yep. I’m going to send it back to Philadelphia and get Max to have a look at it. He worked his magic on the old girl when I bought her, but that was a couple of years ago.”

“A couple of years and three stories ago,” Meg said. “I’m not one to quash anyone’s dreams, especially yours, but your writing is not getting any better.”

“Well,” I said, “at least it’s not getting any worse.”

My ’40s-style detective stories were not without their critics, but writing them was the reason I’d bought the typewriter in the first place. Raymond Chandler was the best, in my opinion. There were those that favored Dashiell Hammett or Ross Macdonald, but for my money, Chandler was the master. Hard-boiled mysteries were the favorites of millions, and they just weren’t being cranked out anymore. That’s where I came in. My name is Hayden Konig. I’m a writer.

“You’re not a writer,” said Meg.

Okay. I’m not a writer. I’m a police chief in the Appalachian mountain town of St. Germaine, North Carolina. I could be a writer. That is, if I were any good, which I’m not. I’m pretty good at a couple of things though. I’m good at being a police chief, and I used to be good at being the organist and choirmaster at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church. That church job was part-time, and I’m currently taking a “leave of absence.” Police chief is full-time. Writing is on my own time. I fed a new piece of paper behind the roller and gave it one more try.

The wind slapped me in the m ug

“Nuts!” I said, yanking the paper out of the carriage.

“Maybe this is a sign from God,” said Meg, hopefully.

“I’m sending the typewriter off tomorrow. Federal Express. I’ll bet I can have it back by the weekend.”

“Isn’t that a bit expensive?” asked Meg, always concerned about cost, although expenditures didn’t really bother me any more. I had made a boatload of money about five years ago selling an invention to the phone company. Meg, my investment counselor, as well as my significant other, had parlayed that windfall into such a tidy sum that I really didn’t even have to work, much less worry about how much FedEx was going to charge me to send my typewriter to Philadelphia.

“Price is no object!” I crowed. “I’m rich as a televangelist with my own 900 number.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Meg, getting up with a laugh, “and try this beer. It’s really good. By the way, I’m fixing sandwiches for supper. Brie and bacon.” She got to her feet.

“An excellent choice.”

Baxter, our Burmese Mountain dog, suspected that Meg might offer him a treat, so he bounded to his feet and followed her back into the kitchen.

I tried the beer. Meg was right. It
was
good. I settled onto the comfortable, down-filled cushions, lit up a highly illegal Cuban cigar — a
Romeo Y Julieta,
smuggled into the country by an unnamed youth on a Guatemalan Mission trip — and clicked the remote control that brought the music of Bela Fleck and the Flecktones into the room. I had built this house soon after I’d struck it rich. The den, where I was sitting, was constructed of an 1842 log cabin, twenty by twenty, with a loft. The rest of the rather large house was built to complement the cabin, but it was this room that gave me the most pleasure. There was an elk head above the fireplace. In the corner stood a full-sized stuffed buffalo that Meg had given me for Christmas a couple of years ago. There were a few thousand books and CDs, my writing desk, a WAVE sound system, the typewriter, the couch and an old leather armchair. Just right for a bachelor, I thought, even though being single was a situation that I had recently tried to remedy.

I had asked Meg to marry me last spring, and we’d tabled the proposal. She still hadn’t given me a definite answer though, preferring, I had to infer, to live in town with her mother. After her divorce, she’d moved to St. Germaine to take care of Ruby in her declining years — years which, by all accounts, weren’t declining very rapidly at all. Ruby was in great health and spirits and glad for Meg’s company. I didn’t live in town, but about twenty miles out on a couple hundred acres up in the mountains. It was a lovely drive, but I had to admit that it was rather remote.

I took another sip of the cold brew and had almost decided to try to write my story on the iBook until my typewriter was back. Nah, I thought. It wouldn’t work. There was something special about putting my fingers on the same keys that Raymond Chandler had used to write those immortal words:

“
Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off.”

But it would have to wait.

Chapter 1

“Have you decided yet?” I asked, taking a bite of the Brie and bacon sandwich. “It’s been quite a while since I asked, you know.”

Meg nodded and swallowed. “Four months, seventeen days.”

“Ah, you noticed.”

“I wanted to remember what day you asked me, just in case I decided to say yes. It would be like a mini-anniversary.”

“Just another date for me to remember?”

“Yes. And to get me a present.”

“Well?” I asked.

“Well what?”

“What might your answer be?” I asked sweetly and acting as unconcerned as I possibly could.

“Nope,” said Meg, sounding as indifferent as I.

“Nope?”

“No, thank you, Detective Hayden Konig. I don’t wish to marry you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

I had met Meg Farthing five years ago when she had first moved to St. Germaine. I’d always accused her of setting up our first date by driving through town at sixty-five miles per hour, an allegation she strenuously denied. I pulled her over, made her get out of the car, and, after looking at her legs (and in the finest tradition of policemen everywhere) gave her a stern warning — a warning which she remembers as mainly consisting of smiling and mumbling incoherently like a thirteen-year-old adolescent. Shortly after our first meeting, she joined me for an evening of knockwurst and Bach, and the rest is history. Meg was the town beauty, as far as I was concerned — black, shoulder-length hair, blue-gray eyes and a figure that would make the Pope consider Lutheranism. Smart and beautiful — just my type — which is why I was sure she was going to jump at my marriage proposal.

“Nope. I like things the way they are,” said Meg. “And so do you. Marriage might just get in the way. If we leave things the way they are, you could leave the toilet seat up if you wanted. You wouldn’t have to make the bed. You could sit around in your underwear all day.”

“But, I don’t leave the toilet seat up,” I said, a bit defensively. “Or the other stuff.”

“But, you could,” said Meg.

“But, I don’t.”

“And you’d better not, if you ever want me to come over,” Meg said. “Also, let’s say you wanted to go out with some floozy. If we were married, you couldn’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But, you still could.”

“But, I wouldn’t,” I said halfheartedly.

“I know, but you still could.”

“Okay,” I said, with a sigh. “I could.”

“But you’d better not,” said Meg.

“So, we’re not going to get married?” I said.

“No. But you can still get me a present if you want.”

• • •

I walked into The Slab Café early on Friday morning. The Slab was on Main Street, just on the corner of the city square. It was an old fashioned café, complete with big black and white tiles on the floor, red tablecloths, four red-vinyl upholstered stools at the counter, and two waitresses that kept things running.

Nancy Parsky and Dave Vance were sitting at our regular table. Nancy is the other full-time officer at the St. Germaine PD. Dave works for us part-time. He answers phones, fills out reports and used to have a thing for Nancy. I say “used to” because lately, much to Nancy’s consternation, he’s been seen on the arm of Collette, one of the waitresses at The Slab. Nancy was peeved to say the least, but to my mind, she didn’t have much of a beef. She’d never given Dave the time of day before Collette showed interest, and she still didn’t. However, whenever I pointed this out to Nancy, she’d get miffed, and I didn’t want her miffed. Nancy miffed was not good. So, being the chief and always trying to keep the peace, when she snarled, I’d taken to nodding understandingly and clicking my tongue in mock sympathy.

“What can I get you, Hon?” said Noylene, the other waitress, as she walked up to the table and poured me a cup of coffee as soon as I was seated.

“Just coffee this morning,” I said.

“You on a diet, boss?” asked Nancy. She had ordered a short stack of pancakes with a side order of bacon.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “I have three pairs of work pants, and they’re still good. I don’t want to have to buy new ones just because I got too fat.”

“You don’t mind if we eat though, right?” said Dave, talking around the half a biscuit in his mouth.