Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon (17 page)

"Take your seats please. We don't have a lot of time," she said, bringing the class to order. "This is Chief Konig, from our police department. Most of you know him."

I recognized a couple of the kids from some scrapes I'd been called in on. Nothing serious. Seventh graders didn't get into too much trouble. I knew almost all the rest of them by name. St. Germaine is a small town.

"As you know, we're wrapping up our 'Bad Writing' contest this week. The results will be published in the school paper and we'll post them on the school's web-site. "

I glared at Meg. She just smiled innocently as Mrs. Nelson continued.

"Chief Konig is the proud owner of a typewriter. Not just any typewriter, but the very typewriter on which Raymond Chandler used to write his novels. Chief?" Mrs. Nelson motioned to me. I set the typewriter on her desk.

"Is that really Raymond Chandler's typewriter?" asked a boy with blue hair and a do that would make a porcupine jealous.

"It is," I answered. "Do you know Raymond Chandler?" I was a bit taken aback. I didn't think that seventh graders read hard-boiled detective novels.

"We knew you had his typewriter so we've been reading selective chapters," explained Mrs. Nelson, "We're examining good and bad writing styles."

"And how does he rate?" I asked somewhat defensively, determined to defend my muse.

"Raymond Chandler is the master of the descriptive simile. In context, he is without peer," said Anthony Hatteberg. He was sitting in one of the front desks. Mrs. Nelson nodded approvingly and continued.

"We've been assembling our favorite Chandlerism's. Would you like to hear some?"

I nodded as hands went up all over the classroom.

"Why don't we start here," Mrs. Nelson said, pointing to the front row, "and we'll make a game of it. The Chief will have to guess where the quote came from."

I nodded confidently. Chandler was my business.

A boy at the head of one of the aisles stood up and began the test. "It was a blonde, a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window."

It was an easy one. "
Farewell, My Lovely
," I said.

The next student stood, opened his book and read "To say she had a face that would have stopped a clock would have been to insult her. It would have stopped a runaway horse."

"
The Little Sister
," I said, apprehensively, but the girl nodded with a smile and sat down.

"I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it."

"
The Big Sleep,
" I replied, still fairly certain that I was right. I was. The next student stood up.

"She opened a mouth like a firebucket and laughed. That terminated my interest in her. I couldn't hear the laugh but the hole in her face when she unzippered her teeth was all I needed."

I knew I had read it, but where? I shook my head. "I'm sorry I can't remember. How about
Playback
?"

"No, sir," came the answer. "It's from
The Long Goodbye
."

"Three out of four," laughed Mrs. Nelson. "That's pretty good. But now Chief Konig is going to read us a bit of his writing and we're going to critique it for him."

I glared at Meg again. This was a set up if ever I saw one. I opened my notebook and read.

It was a dark and stormy night; dark, because the sun had just set like a giant flaming hen squatting upon her unkempt nest that was the gritty urban streets; stormy, because the weather had rolled in like an angry fat man driving his Rascal into a Ryan's Steak House and then finding out that the "all you can eat" dessert bar had an out-of-order frozen yogurt machine.

"Let's stop there," said Mrs. Nelson. "Who can tell me what's wrong with that sentence?"

Every hand in the room went up. This was going to be a long morning.

Chapter 14

Nancy met me in the office on Wednesday morning.

"Morning, boss. Here's the clown report from the coroner." She handed me a manila envelope and waited expectantly for me to open it.

"Just curious," she said, answering my quizzical look.

I pulled out the report and gave it a quick read, my eyes automatically jumping to the bottom line.

"The cause of death," I said, still reading, "was a heart attack."

"So someone choked him with a balloon wiener-dog and he had a heart attack?"

"Maybe. The back end of the balloon was stuck pretty far down his windpipe."

"Could have happened," Nancy observed.

"Yep. Also there were a significant number of ruptured alveoli and the surrounding capillaries."

Nancy waited for an explanation.

"The small sacs where the air is exchanged in the lungs. Plus a pretty good sized pnumothorax – a hole in his lung. Kent thinks that it might have been there for a while. He also had an advanced case of emphysema. And his blood work had traces of benzodiazepine. Not a full dosage though. Probably Valium." I looked up. "He was a clown. Maybe he was suffering from performance anxiety."

"All of which means what?" asked Nancy.

"I have no idea."

•••

I arrived at the Parish Hall just before six o'clock. Parishioners were starting to gather outside the doors. I went over and stood by Malcolm and Rhiza and waited for Megan to arrive.

"We're not allowed inside yet," said Rhiza. "They're not quite ready."

"Did I tell you about the two applicants we have coming in after Easter?" Malcolm asked.

"Meg told me. Either one sounds pretty good."

Malcolm nodded. "I just hope that one of them works out. Here's Meg," he said nodding in her direction.

Megan walked up and gave me a kiss. "Sorry I'm late. I was supposed to bring some bitter herbs. Jelly suggested a nice horseradish sauce. I had to take it around to the back so they could sneak it into the kitchen. It's all very secretive."

At that moment the doors to the Parish Hall swung open and we were swept in with the rest of the attendees. At the front of the hall, as advertised, was a long table covered with a white tablecloth. Seated and standing at the table in various poses – reminiscent of, if not actually replicating DaVinci's
Last Supper
– were the twelve disciples with Jesus in the midst of them.

"Welcome to the
Edible Last Supper
," said Jelly Barna after we had all made our way indoors. "Please go through the line and then eat reverently while you listen to the beautiful music."

This was the cue for the music to come up, and the hall was filled with the lilting strains of yet another arrangement of Johann Pachelbel's famous canon.

"It's too bad he's not getting royalties from that piece," I said. "Too bad
I'm
not getting royalties from that piece."

"Hush," Meg hissed under her breath, giving me an elbow in the side.

"After supper," Jelly continued, "you are invited to go to the sanctuary for a time of meditation and a short sermon by Father Barna."

"Are you going for the sermon?"

"I am not," I said. "I have to prepare for choir practice."

"You never prepare for choir practice," said Meg. "But I'll be happy to help you."

From a distance the entire representation looked quite attractive. But, as the buffet line moved closer to the table, it became apparent that most of the mannequins playing the disciples had seen better days. By the time we had reached the table, several beards were askew and St. Andrew's arm had fallen off, landing in a plate of creamed corn.

Cynthia Johnsson, now back at work at the Ginger Cat, had brought the coffee and was serving it at the Mary Magdalene Coffee Bar. She was, of course, dressed accordingly. I stopped to say hello.

"Cynthia, it's so good to see you. I must say that you look lovely this evening. Sort of like an Arabian hooker."

"I'm Mary Magdalene. I looked her up and found out that she was a prostitute, so I went down and got a belly dancer's outfit in Boone. Do you like it?" She snapped her fingers and did a little spin.

"It's
very
nice. I especially like the bells. I have just two questions. Number one: will you be dancing later? And number two: can Meg borrow the outfit when you're finished?"

"Number one: if the price is right," laughed Cynthia. "And number two: absolutely…"

"NOT!" added Meg, dragging me toward the buffet.

Each mannequin at the table was wearing a beard and dressed in a cloak and a tunic – a nametag affixed to each outfit, presumably so that we could tell one disciple from another. Unfortunately, I wasn't expecting to see nametags at the Last Supper, and the "Hi, I'm Judas!" badge made me laugh out loud, costing me another dig in the ribs, this time courtesy of Rhiza.

Jelly's plan was for all of the guests to pick up a plate, walk by the tableau, and help themselves to whatever traditional Passover foods they wished to eat. The platters, heaped with food, were placed in front of Jesus and the disciples along with serving utensils. Brenda – dressed as Martha – and Wynette Winslow – dressed as Mary – were going between the tableau and the kitchen, refilling the empty plates. There were a couple of folks in the kitchen as well, dishing up the food. Every few minutes Brenda would stop to glare at Mary Magdalene.

"It looks as though Brenda doesn't appreciate Cynthia's outfit," I said with a grin.

"I'm not sure
I
do either," said Meg with a sniff as we moved through the line.

"I didn't know that St. Matthew was fond of chili enchiladas," I said, pointing them out as I took a helping of Wendy Bolling's baked beans from the plate of James the Less. "I love these beans though."

Suddenly Wynette, obviously tired of running back and forth to the kitchen, decided to yell out her order. "St. Thaddeus is out of stuffed mushrooms! And Bartholomew needs some more cheese grits!"

"Try some of
my
dish," said Mattie Lou Entriken who was two places in front of me. She pointed toward St. Philip who, in turn, was pointing accusingly to a steaming plate of shrimp pasta.

"Shrimp pasta?" I asked.

"I was supposed to bring some matzah ball soup, but since it's a potluck, I wanted to bring something a little tastier. I didn't want to be the only one bringing a lousy dish," Mattie Lou shrugged. "It looks like everyone else had the same idea."

"I'm sure St. Philip would approve of the sentiment, if not the shellfish," I said, taking a helping.

We went through the line and sampled Simon's bread pudding with rum sauce. Matthew's enchiladas were complimented nicely by a delicious chickpea and artichoke salad. Mouth-watering grilled bratwurst and sauerkraut appeared courtesy of Doubting Thomas. Peter, true to his later theological leanings, was serving bacon-wrapped pork chops. Andrew had traded creamed corn for asparagus while James and John, the Sons of Thunder, teamed up with barbequed ribs and tuna casserole. Judas was looking dourly at Meg's horseradish sauce and a platter of overcooked lamb with mint jelly that wasn't moving too quickly. Jesus presided over a basket of cornbread and hush-puppies.

I filled my plate and moved to the Mary Magdalene Coffee Bar.

"Don't spend too much time over there," warned Meg. "I notice that the line is all male."

"It's just that we men like our coffee served a certain way."

"By a woman in a skimpy belly-dancer's outfit?"

"Come to think of it, yes. Yes, that's it exactly."

"St. Thomas needs some more brats and kraut," came the call. "And Jesus needs a refill."

"Now there's a line you don't hear too often at a Seder Supper," I said to Meg.