The Soprano Wore Falsettos (7 page)

“As far as investing in real estate, and especially in a new multimillion dollar rectory, is concerned, here are the reasons that it’s a bad idea. Number one. We already have a beautiful rectory. It’s a short walk from the church and, more importantly, it’s in the historic district. As most of you know, homes in the historic district have been grandfathered in as far as taxes are concerned. As long as we own this property, we will never pay more than fifteen dollars a year in city taxes. To give up this house that we own free and clear would be the height of foolishness, but to keep it as a rental house is not a good option either. We are not in the landlord business, nor do I think we want to be.

“Number two. A house, as an investment, is only a good idea if you plan to sell it. A two million dollar house that appreciates into a four million dollar house is a bad deal if you’re planning on keeping the property, and I don’t think we want to be building a new rectory every five years. At the current tax rate, the annual real estate tax on a four million dollar home would be $21,200.”

There were audible gasps throughout the room. It always amazed me how fast Malcolm could do the math. I had figured it at twenty plus, but I always used big, round numbers.

“Number three. The Clifftops are simply too far out for our rector to be effective. Eighteen miles on those roads is about a fifty-minute drive. That’s a long way. Maybe not in a big city, but up here it sure is. Not only that, but remember that this is an investment in a gated community that may or may not make it as a viable association. I’ve been out to the Clifftops. Right now, it’s little more than some dirt roads pushed in with a bulldozer. There’s no infrastructure, and no electricity; there are no clubhouses, no tennis courts, and no golf courses. At this point, it’s all real estate speculation, and although it might be a good investment, and one that I might make as an individual, to have the church build a rectory at the Clifftops wouldn’t make much sense.”

“But that’s what makes this a great deal,” said Russ, desperate now. “We can get in on the ground floor! You just said it would be a good investment.”

“Yes, it might well be a good investment, but only if the church is intent on investing the money. I’m not sure it is. Of course, that’s just my opinion,” said Malcolm, gently. “The rest of the committee might feel differently. By the way, Russ,” he said, taking his chair, “aren’t you one of the developers involved in the Clifftops?”

“Yes, I am!” steamed Russ, grabbing his boards and his easel. “That’s how come I know a sweet deal when I see one!”

“That went well,” I whispered to Meg.

“Hush.”

• • •

“It seems to me,” said Jed Pierce, coming forward and speaking in a slow drawl, “that the members of this committee are all already of one mind.”

Jed Pierce was a pharmacist in Boone, although he lived in St. Germaine, and had been elected Senior Warden in the fall. He had resigned when a certain traffic accident, in which he was involved, was made public, and Billy had taken over his position. I think he still felt that I had something to do with disclosing it, even though I assured him that I did not.

“It also seems to me,” he continued, “that the people on this so-called committee are the
richest
members in the church. I’d like to know who formed this committee and who decided who was going to be on it.”

“I ain’t rich,” said Billy, but there were more than a few heads nodding in agreement.

Father George got up and addressed the crowd. “I chose Meg Farthing to head up the committee. She chose the other members, and the vestry approved them. I told Meg to choose people she knew would consider their task prayerfully and use their expertise to guide us in these decisions.”

“So she chose her rich friends,” Jed said. “That figures.”

“I said, I ain’t rich,” said Billy, a little louder, and this time to more than a few chuckles from the crowd.

“Well,” said Father George, “it is probably true that most of the committee members are well-off, financially speaking, but they have experience with these kind of funds that most of us do not.” I admired Father George for not making Meg defend herself.

“It’s obvious that Malcolm’s got the best idea,” said Jed. “Put the money in the bank, and we don’t have to ever worry again.”

“That’s not exactly what I said,” explained Malcolm, getting to his feet.

“Why do we need a committee anyway?” asked Joe Wootten. “All this talk about spending all this money is going to split us right down the middle. Nobody’s ever going to be happy. If we just put it in the bank like Malcolm said, we could pay our bills, buy what we needed and never have to worry about it again. Goodbye pledge drives!”

There was laughter and applause to that suggestion.

“But, that’s the worst thing that could happen!” said Father George. “We need to be able to give to the church.”

“We can give to other stuff,” said Jed. “We could give to the Red Cross. Or Habitat for Humanity. We’d actually have
more
money to give.”

“But you wouldn’t,” pleaded Father George. “You just wouldn’t give it.”

“Here’s what I propose,” said Jed. “I think that we should put one person in charge of this; somebody who knows what he’s doing. And I think we all know who that is.”

Father George was desperate. “We’ve got to have a committee. One person only has one viewpoint. We need more than that!”

“Tell you what,” said Jed, ignoring the priest. “Why don’t we do it this way? Whoever’s given the most money to St. Barnabas over the years should be in charge of deciding what to do with the sixteen million dollars. That seems fair. Whoever that may be has been a good and faithful steward. It’s only right that he should decide what’s to be done.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Joe.

“Me, too,” said Steve DeMoss.

“I think it’s a good idea as well,” said Phil Camp.

“I second the motion,” said Russ Stafford, seeing a ray of hope return. He sure wouldn’t talk the committee into a new rectory, but he might be able to talk Malcolm into an investment opportunity.

“There is no motion on the floor,” said Billy, standing up.

“This is a parish meeting, ain’t it?” asked Joe. “And we can take a vote of all the members, can’t we?”

“Yes, we can,” said Billy. “But there’s still been no motion.”

“I move we let the person who’s given the most money to St. Barnabas be in charge of deciding what to do with the sixteen million dollars,” said Jed in a loud voice.

“I second it,” said Russ quickly. “And we mean real money, too. Not that ‘in kind’ stuff that Hayden does where he gives his check back to the music fund.”

“Yeah,” came the reply from the crowd. “None of that stuff.” I raised my hands in a gesture of innocence. It wouldn’t make any difference to me, one way or the other. I was staying out of this one, but the crowd wasn’t. They were well involved now, and the noise in the room was intensifying moment by moment.

“All in favor,” shouted Jed.

“Just one dang minute,” yelled Billy. “Y’all just hang on for a second.”

“I call the vote,” shouted Joe.

“I second that,” hollered Jed. “Call the vote, call the vote…”

“Call the vote, call the vote,” echoed the chant from the room, the congregation falling easily into the cadence as the rabble became roused. I looked at Father George. He was sitting, despondent, his head in his hands.

“Fine,” yelled Billy, now flustered by the increasing cacophony. “All in favor signify by saying…?”

“AYE!” came the enthusiastic reply.

“All opposed?”

There were a few “nays” scattered around the hall including Meg’s and my own, but it was evident who had carried the day. Malcolm stood up and walked to the front. The crowd quieted.

“You all know it doesn’t work that way,” said Malcolm. “This is a vestry decision. That’s how we do things.”

“Then let’s have a vestry vote,” called Russ. “We’re all here.”

Malcolm shrugged and gestured toward Billy. Billy cleared his throat.

“Mark Wells isn’t here,” he said, “and Logan’s on vacation.”

“It’s still a quorum,” said Malcolm. “We can vote.”

Billy nodded. “All vestry members in favor of the motion, raise your hand.” I (and everyone else in the room) counted seven hands.

“That’s a majority,” said Malcolm with finality. “I’d like to say that I’ll do my best to prayerfully consider what is right and prudent for St. Barnabas…”

“Hang on a second,” said a voice from the back of the room. It was Beverly Greene. “Hang on, Malcolm.” She made her way to the front.

“We already voted,” said Jed, loudly. “It’s a done deal.”

“Oh, I realize that,” said Beverly, facing the crowd. “There’s just one thing. As you all know, I’ve been doing the pledge cards for a couple months now, and since I started in this job in January, I’ve been astonished by people’s giving. I must confess that when I began this job I was curious as to what some people had given over the years, so I added some figures up.”

She looked pointedly around the room and people started staring at their shoes.

“Malcolm gives a lot of money,” Bev said. “In fact, he gives more money every year than anyone else. I didn’t want to tell you how much because it’s no one’s business but his, but he’s been a very generous member here for eighteen years.”

There were murmurs of approval across the room.

“But he hasn’t given the
most
money. Since this has to be out in the open, I’ll tell you that Malcolm’s given a little over $800,000 in his time here. That’s a lot, but there’s someone here who gives St. Barnabas $1259 every month and has been doing it for sixty-seven years. I added it up the other day because I was just amazed.”

I watched Malcolm as he did the math in his head. He did it quickly, and, although his expression changed ever so slightly, to most observers, he seemed as interested as the rest of the congregation.

“When I asked her about it,” Bev continued, “she told me that her tithe is one half of the settlement pension she receives from the Georgia Pacific Lumber Company. It comes to her every month since her husband was killed in a mill accident in 1938, and she’ll continue to receive it until her death. Every month she receives $2518, and she gives half of it to the church. She told me that she just didn’t need that much money to live on. Anyway, when you add it up, it comes to a little over $1,012,000.”

I looked over at Malcolm. He smiled and answered with a slight inclination of his head. No one said a word.

“The person who has given the most money,” Bev said, in her sweetest voice, “is Lucille Murdock.”

Two hundred heads turned toward the back of the room. There, sitting in her usual place in the corner, was a tiny, eighty-seven year old woman, both her hands tightly clutching a black purse in her lap. Her snow-white hair was tied back in a bun, and she peered cautiously across the room through two gigantic, coke-bottle lenses that magnified each of her frequent blinks, making her look like a frog in a fishbowl.

“Thank you,” she said in a shaking voice as she rose slowly to her feet. “I will certainly pray about it.” Lucille Murdock walked out of the parish hall to complete silence.

“Could this be the hand of God?” I muttered with a smile.

“I hope so,” said Meg.

Chapter 7

“
Tell me boys,” I said, my roscoe dancing back and forth between them like a nervous ballerina on opening night. “Just how do you go 165,000 clams over budget?”

“
Fabric samples,” said Biff. “They aren’t cheap, you know.”

“
Don’t give me that malarkey!” I barked. I had ‘em scared now--scared as a bad writer in a roomful of English majors--so scared that I thought Biff was going to jump right into D’Roger’s arms. The egg started to cry.

I needed answers and I needed them pronto. A little bird told me I smelled a rat, and when I smell a rat, there’s usually a red herring around. Also rats.

“
Something’s fishy,” I said with a sniff. “You’re not pros. You boys smell like last week’s perch pie.”

“
What?” said Biff, obviously hard of herring.

“
Don’t shoot, mister,” the egg blubbered. “She paid us to come up here. She said you were a pushover.”

“
Guess what?” I said.

“
What?” said D’Roger and Biff in unison.

“
I ain’t.”

• • •

“Did you happen to take any of those wandering musician church jobs, yet?” asked Meg. We were working in the kitchen of her house, whipping up some lunch. Actually, Meg and Ruby were working. I was sipping a Long Island Ice Tea and contemplating the two women with my number six ogle — the one that got me banned from Myrtle Beach. Meg looked a lot like Ruby, whose hair was still mostly black, although now, as she neared seventy, it was becoming streaked with silver. She was still a striking woman, tall and statuesque.