Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines (9 page)

Chapter 11

“The choir would like to know if you’d be interested in coming back for two weeks,” Meg said.

We were relaxing in the living room after a long Monday. Snow was drifting down from the cold, overcast sky. The dog was asleep on his rug in front of the fire, the owl was dozing on the mantle, Bach was on the stereo, and my wife was curled on the couch with her iPad reading something or other. I was flexing my fingers in anticipation of a flurry of belletristic creativity. All was right with the world.

“Nope,” I said. “Not remotely interested.”

“The choir has deputized me and instructed me to provide certain favors in acknowledgment of a positive response.”

This caught my attention. “Certain favors?”

“Indeed,” said Meg, blushing, but not looking up from her tablet.

“And these favors would be
…
?”

“Above and beyond.”

Now my attention was rapt. “Above and beyond, you say. Above is pretty high, and beyond is quite a long way.”

“It is,” Meg said with a giggle. “It’s the terrible price that I, as a choir member, am willing to pay to get you back, even for a couple of weeks.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Who authorized this brokering of favors?”

“The president of the choir.”

“That would be you.”

“After everyone realized that Edna was leaving and we didn’t have anyone else, we were all trying to come up with suggestions.”

“That was the best one?” I asked.

“Well, the choir suggested that I tempt you with a Reuben sandwich. I came up with this on my own.”

“I don’t know
…
What about my detective story?”

“You could pass it out on Wednesday during rehearsal.”

“I was just getting used to sleeping in on Sundays.”

Meg stood up and pulled something small and lacy from underneath one of the sofa cushions. “I guess I might as well take this back to the store then. I think its too small anyway. I was going to go get ready for bed and see if it fit, but I suppose that since it’s so cold out, I’ll just pull out my flannel footie pajamas, roll my hair, and slather on some facial cream.”

“Two weeks? That’s it?”

Meg gave me a smile that I felt all the way to my socks. “Two weeks.”

“Above and beyond?”

“Oh, my. You have no idea.” Meg put her iPad on the couch, turned slowly and slank, actually
slank,
toward the bedroom. Slowly. Suggestively. Libidinously. She turned at the door and looked back. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” I managed, with a gulp. “I say yes. You have found and exploited my one weakness.”

“One caveat,” she said. “You tell the choir it was the Reuben sandwich.”

“
And
I want a Reuben sandwich.”

Meg laughed out loud and disappeared behind the door, then stuck her head out and said, “Give me fifteen minutes.”

After staring after her for a good two of those minutes, I turned my attention to the typewriter. I might get a few paragraphs finished now that I had some real inspiration. I wondered if this was the way that Raymond Chandler worked.

* * *

A shot rang out, a man screamed in a high-pitched lady-voice but you could tell it was a man, a small dog howled, and somewhere a woman named Ginger wept openly but she didn’t know why although it turns out that she was mildly psychic and the long lost sister of Anne Dante, more about this later.

“That’s the quickest anyone’s been shot in one of your stories,” Pedro quipped. “She only got about a dozen words out.”

“Enough for a clue to her murderer.”

“Maybe,” said Pedro. “You think you’re that good?”

I bent down to look at the cold body, although she hadn’t been dead that long, but it was a really cold night, her minidress bunched angrily around her waist, her leopard print blouse rudely unbuttoned, then ran my finger across the hoarfrost clinging to her fishnet stockings and wondered briefly about the origin of the strange meteorological term and whether it was a clue worth considering.

“Well, since you have the gun in your hand and it’s smoking and there’s a bullet hole in Miss Dante, I might have this one wrapped up by lunchtime.”

“I didn’t do it,” said Pedro, slipping the gat into his shorts.

I was sure there was a clue here somewhere. Something was gnawing at me like those bedbugs I got at the Hymn Society retreat.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, I flipped off the old banker’s light, and called it a night
…
as far as my writing was concerned.

Chapter 12

I walked into Marilyn’s office and announced myself too loudly, then said, “I don’t have an appointment, but maybe I can see Father Dressler if he’s not too busy.”

The door to the rector’s office opened quickly and Father Dressler stepped into Marilyn’s alcove.

“Good morning, Hayden. I have a few moments. Won’t you come in?”

“Sure,” I said, and followed him through the door. He shut it behind me, gestured me into one of the small chairs in front of his desk, then walked around and eased into his grand leather throne. Officious looking books lined the cases behind him, most of them bound in leather, and carefully arranged. The top of his desk was cleared, no papers, no pens, no pictures or knick knacks.

“How may I help you?” he said, then adjusted his cassock, folded his hands and rested them on the desktop.

“I told Meg that I’d be happy to help St. Barnabas out for a couple of weeks. Just until you can find someone to fill in while I’m on sabbatical.”

He steepled his fingers and tapped his chin a few times. “I have just called someone who I know will be an excellent replacement, but he won’t be here until a week from Sunday, so if you could fill in until he arrives, we would certainly appreciate it.”

“Great,” I said, happy that Meg wouldn’t be coercing me into extending my two-week offer. “Is it anyone I know?”

“I doubt it,” sniffed Father Dressler. “He’s a
serious
musician. I know him from my former parish.”

“Well, I do know a lot of folks. What’s his name?”

“The Chevalier Lance Fleagle. He’s coming down from Niagara Falls.”

“Chevalier?”

“Yes. He and I are both members of the Order of St. Clementine, the Canadian Priory.”

“That’s interesting,” I said, deciding that a little small talk was in order. “I know nothing about the Order of St. Clementine. Is it like the Elk Club or one of those other service organizations?”

“Absolutely not. Nothing at all like the Elks. The Order of St. Clementine is inspired by the statutes which defined the Fraternal Society founded by Ladislaus the Posthumus in 1441. Many, though not all of us have military service in our backgrounds.”

“And do you?”

“Well … no. But all of us are pledged to uphold the chivalric virtues.” He started ticking them off, one finger at a time. “Prowess, courage, honesty, faith, generosity … “

“I understand,” I said. So why do we call this fellow ‘Chevalier?’ Has he been knighted by the queen or something?”

“Each member may use the title if he chooses. It is one of the benefits of membership and membership, I might add, is
very se
lective. You have to be nominated by an existing Knight or Dame or the order.”

“Sort of like a Kentucky Colonel, then.”

He huffed in exasperation. “Nothing at
all
like that.” He made a terrible face as though I wasn’t comprehending the seriousness of his organization. “Can you honestly say that you’ve never heard of the Order of St. Clementine? What kind of backwater town did I come to?”

“One that’s never heard of chevalier
s
, obviously,” I said. “But, okay, I’m with you. When’s your boy coming in?”

“He’s hardly a boy. He’s thirty-two years old with a master’s degree from Oberlin. A
master’s
degree.”

“A master’s degree you say. Wow. But
when
?”

“I think he’ll be able to start a week from Sunday.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Then I’ll be happy to take the rehearsals on the next two Wednesdays and the service this Sunday.”

He nodded at me, then said, “I’d like to make some changes to the service. Minor changes for now.”

“How can I help?”

“First, I’d like to switch to the Rite One service. As you know, it’s much more formal. Traditional language, solemn prayers.”

“Verily, it is thine own prerogative,” I said, smiling at my own joke. He didn’t seem to get it, or maybe his sense of humor had taken the morning off for prayers and mortification. I continued, “It might be a nice change for a while. I don’t know how the congregation will react to that change being a permanent.”

He ignored the comment. “We won’t need the
Gloria
. The
Trisagion
will do.”

“Okay.”

“We won’t be having a children’s sermon. I’ve already spoken with Kimberly Walnut.”

“Fine with me,” I said.

“For now, we’ll skip the
Angelus
at the end of the service — I’ll add it at a later date — but I’ll certainly want the Psalm sung. Can the choir do Anglican Chant?”

“They’re out of practice, but it shouldn’t be hard to get them back in shape.”

“I myself will be chanting the entire service including the collects. I won’t need a pitch from the organ. I have perfect pitch, you see. The Chevalier has already given me the Perfect Pitch test and I passed in the ninety-eighth percentile. The Chevalier was quite pleased.”

“Excellent. I’ll check that off my list of things to worry about.”

“I understand Benny Dawkins is a member of this parish. I was quite excited to hear that.”

“He is,” I said, “but Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh was not fond of smoke, so Benny hasn’t censed at St. Barnabas for the better part of two years. That doesn’t mean he’s out of practice. He has invitations and jobs almost every week.”

“I think he’s easily the best thurifer in the United States right now,” said Father Dressler. “Maybe in the world! I saw him at St. Mary’s in New York last year during the Greater New England Thurible Invitational.” The priest closed his eyes and took on a visage of utter rapture. “He came down the aisle utilizing a simple double-hanging glide step — almost comical in its simplicity, but elegant beyond belief — then, as he passed the pew octave, launched into one of the most enchanting and decorative rosette quillions I’ve laid eyes on. I tell you, after that, people flung themselves down, face first, in the center aisle, such was their reverence.”

“I’m sorry I missed that one,” I said. “Benny has told me that Smokey Mary’s is the best venue in the country. I’ve seen some stunning examples of his art over the years. I remember one time …”

“Of course he won hands down,” interrupted Father Dressler, waving a dismissive hand at me. “And that little girl! His protégé. What is her name?”

“Addie Buss. She’s no slouch with the thurible either.”

“She was
extraordinary!
” he bubbled. “She only got fifth place, but you can just feel the talent ready to burst forth. The thurible was an extension of her beautiful soul. So pure and innocent, childlike, yet profound beyond her years. The chains sparkled as they flew through the candlelight, and the smoke moved as though it had a will of its own, but no one there could look away from her face. In another few years, she’ll be ready to ascend the throne!”

“I suspect so,” I said with a smile. I was glad at least that this priest had an appreciation for the fine art of the thurifer. The clergy I’d worked with lately had more in common with Tallulah Bankhead than the Archbishop of Canterbury when it came to swinging an incense pot in a church service:
Dahling, your dress is divine, but your purse is on fire.

“Marilyn has his phone number,” I said. “Addie’s as well. I’m sure you can get in touch with one of them.”

“Well, that should do it then. I shall pick the hymns of course. You will choose the anthems and the Psalm chant, but let me look at them. Rite One service music. Is there a setting the congregation knows?”

“Yes,” I said. “The Healey Willan setting. I don’t think we’ve used it for two or three years, but everyone probably still knows it.”

“It will do for now,” Father Dressler announced. “Once the Chevalier arrives, we’ll learn some Gregorian settings as well.”

“Oh, fun,” I said, my lightly veiled sarcasm apparent.

He glared at me for a long moment, then said, “That will be all.”

I turned to go, then remembered something I’d meant to ask. “Father Dressler, I’m afraid I don’t even know your first name.”

“Gallus Dressler,” he said. “My first name is Gallus. I took that name when I became a priest, but I would prefer you call me Father Dressler.”

* * *

Darla Kildair’s rented apartment was attached to the back of her beauty shop and all of it was located in the basement of Dr. Ken’s Gun Emporium. The Gun Emporium was a fine establishment where one could purchase one’s choice of fine weaponry and ammunition suitable for every need: hunting, recreational shooting, home protection, or stockpiling for the apocalypse. Dr. Ken also carried archery and other hunting supplies, a large supply of bear urine, camouflage outfits, beaver musk, orange hunting vests and hats, earplugs — anything the modern gun owner might find useful. The store faced the highway and there was parking for about ten cars in front of the barred, plate glass windows. It appeared from the street to be a low, squat, cinderblock building, but it was built on a hillside and was, as many buildings were here in the mountains, two stories tall. We got the key from Dr. Ken and drove around the side of the Emporium and down the steep hill to the entrance of the beauty shop. Darla’s Hair Down Under.

Darla had given Dr. Ken her rent in advance and was paid up through the end of February. We opened the glass storm door which was unlocked, used the keys on the metal door, walked in and flipped on the lights. There were no windows, but the lighting seemed to be good, and the metal door could be left open for some daylight to come into the room.

The shop was clean. There was one station, one beautician’s chair bolted to the floor in front of a sink. There was one large mirror on the wall. All the cutting and styling implements seemed to be in their place. Various scissors, combs, bottles of hair goop. Nothing lying about. The floor had been swept, the trash, emptied. Against the far wall were two chairs for waiting customers and a little table with a small stack of used magazines. It was neat. Done-for-the-weekend neat.

“Her apartment is back here, I guess,” said Nancy, heading for the rear of the shop. There was a free standing, folding room divider zigzagging across the shop about halfway back. Nancy went around it and said, “There’s a bathroom here, too. For the customers.”

I followed her to the back of the shop, then opened the door to the apartment. It was unlocked. We stepped into what would be considered the living room but was also probably the dining room and the bedroom as well. There was some light coming in from a small barred window high on one of the walls, the bars probably put in by Dr. Ken at some point when he was using the downstairs to store his inventory. Nancy found the light switch quickly.

The small kitchen, part of the larger room we were in, contained a stove, a refrigerator, a microwave, and a sink. The counter space was limited and was placed against the wall in between the appliances. The room itself had a sofa, a cheap entertainment center with a flat screen TV, and a small dining table with two chairs. There was a cheap throw rug in the middle of the linoleum floor. Personal items were placed around the room to give it a homey feel — pictures in frames, a silk floral arrangement, an afghan draped over the back of the sofa. All very neat. There were no dishes in the sink. Nothing out of place. Nancy opened the door to the closet.

“It’s a big closet,” she said. “Her dresser is in here, too.” I heard the drawers open and close, then Nancy said, “Everything’s folded and stashed in it’s own drawer. Clothes all hung up. There are a couple of pillows and some blankets on the upper shelf.”

I opened the bathroom door. There was a shower, a vanity sink and a toilet. Nothing much, nothing special. A mirrored medicine cabinet hung on the wall over the sink. I opened it and went though the usual stuff one might find; a contact case and lens rinse; some over-the-counter medicines; a retainer in a plastic case; some antacid; and a bottle of pills labeled “Premarin.”

“Nancy,” I called, “she’s got a bottle of Premarin pills. Do you know what it’s for?”

“Yeah,” came the answer. “Its estrogen. That’s a pretty common prescription for women aged forty-five.”

Under the sink was a bunch of hair products, makeup and such. I called to Nancy again and had her come in to give everything a closer look since I was out of my element. I also had her take a picture with her cell phone of the contents of both the vanity cabinet and the medicine cabinet.

“Normal stuff,” pronounced Nancy. “Nothing out of the ordinary. She sleep on the couch you think?”

“Maybe it’s a sofa bed.”

It was, and a minute later Nancy and I opened it up. The mattress had sheets already on, the blanket and the pillows in the closet.

“Looks like she just went away for the weekend,” Nancy said. “Cleaned everything up, and left.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

* * *

Darla’s old, gray Toyota Corolla was parked in the lot outside her shop. It was locked. Nancy used her slim jim, more properly known as a lockout tool, to pop the door lock, then opened the trunk. We looked through the car carefully. In the glovebox was the usual stuff — registration, inspection certificate, insurance card and her Toyota handbook. There were a couple of gas receipts stuffed into the ash tray. Underneath the front seat was an old cardboard coffee cup and some other trash. The back seat contained a Polartech sweatshirt and a box of hair products — the trunk, a set of jumper cables, two beat-up umbrellas and a couple of old plastic grocery bags. Nothing, really. Nancy dusted for some prints, but we weren’t hopeful.