The Soprano Wore Falsettos (2 page)

“No, you guys go ahead. I’ll just sit here and watch.”

“Hey,” said Nancy. “Did you hear about the winning Powerball ticket? It was sold over in Elk Mills.”

“Really?” said Dave. “That’s only about twenty miles from here.”

“Right across the Tennessee border,” added Nancy. “How come North Carolina doesn’t have a lottery?”

“We do. The governor just signed it into law,” I said. “We should have it up and running by next summer.”

Pete came up to the table, carrying a platter of waffles.

“Did you hear about the Powerball ticket?” We all nodded. “Anyway,” he said, “I got a new Belgian Waffle machine and some special batter from a new supplier in Maine. Try some of these oat-maple waffles with black walnut syrup. You won’t believe how good they are.”

Pete Moss was the owner of The Slab, the mayor of St. Germaine and my old college roommate. In fact, he was the one who landed me this “cushy job,” as he called it. It wasn’t that cushy, but it wasn’t bad. Pete had been my roommate in college when we were both undergraduate music majors. We’d lost touch for a while when I’d gone on and gotten a masters degree in composition. Then, after consulting the job market for composers, I went back and got another degree in criminology.

“Sorry, Pete,” said Nancy. “Hayden’s on a diet. We’ll eat them though. They look absolutely dee-licious.”

“Yeah,” chimed in Dave, “it’s a shame to let these go to waste.” Dave turned to me with a grin. “Get it, boss? Go to waste? Go to
waist?”

“Yes, very clever, Dave,” I said. “You’re a regular Henny Youngman.”

“Who?” asked Nancy.

“Take my wife...please. Oh, never mind. Give me some of those waffles. I’ll start this diet tomorrow.”

“Hey,” said Noylene, wandering up to the table looking for unfilled coffee cups and, spotting a couple of them, remedying their half-empty status. “Did Dave just tell a joke?”

“Not much of one,” muttered Nancy.

“I’ll bet Collette would have liked it,” I said, unable to keep myself from throwing a little kerosene on Nancy’s smoldering irritation. She answered me with a low growl that I wasn’t even sure I had heard until I felt the kick under the table.

“Collette’s off today,” said Pete in all innocence. “In fact, I think she went down to Hickory for a couple of days. She’s not on the schedule again until Monday.”

“She’s visiting her mother,” said Dave.

“Glad to hear it,” muttered Nancy. “Maybe we can get some work done.”

The waffles disappeared quickly, and, since I was officially off my diet for the day, I ordered some grits, bacon and a couple of eggs as well.

“I thought about going on a diet myself,” said Pete, “but then I made a brilliant discovery. Have you tried expando-pants? They’re great!”

“What are expando-pants?” asked Nancy.

“They’ve got these gussets or something on the side,” said Pete. He got up and unbuckled his belt. “Look here.” He pulled the waistband of his seemingly normal khakis out far enough to drop a dictionary down his shorts. “They expand up to three inches.”

“Wow,” said Nancy, “just what the world needs. Maternity pants for men.”

“I’m never going back,” said Pete. “I’ve seen the future, and it’s wearing expando-pants.”

“I can’t do it, Pete,” I said, finishing up my coffee. “I may actually have to take up exercise.”

“Don’t do anything drastic. Exercise can kill you. I heard about this one guy…”

“Hey,” interjected Nancy, always happy to interrupt a conversation that she wasn’t interested in. “Did I hear that your typewriter was broken?”

“It was, but I sent it off to Philadelphia. It’ll be back this afternoon,” I answered. “Have no fear. I’ll be writing again very soon.”

“Who’s Henny Youngman?” asked Dave.

“Try to keep up, Dave,” said Nancy.

• • •

The FedEx delivery guy had walked into the police station at 2:10 p.m. I know because Dave had dutifully logged him in and accepted the package. I opened the box in my office, lifted out the twenty pound typewriter, put a piece of copier paper behind the roller and clicked it into position. I didn’t generally use copier paper because I didn’t want to cheapen the experience. This was, after all, Raymond Chandler’s typewriter. I had started using a 42 lb. bond that I ordered from California — a specialty paper that had been carried by the same stationery company since 1928. But that paper was at home, and I was itching to give the typewriter a try. I typed:

The Soprano Wore Falsettos

Chapter 1

It worked just like new.

• • •

The wind slapped me in the mug like a petulant chippy; then it threw its drink in my face, kissed me hard on the mouth, slapped me again, kissed me once more, showed me a good time, stole my wallet and banged open the door of the Possum ’n Peasel just as I walked up--it was one heck of a wind, and I oughta know.

I was meeting someone. Someone who didn’t want to be seen going to the office of a gumshoe. It was all the same to me. I wasn’t picking up the tab. I’m an L.D.--Liturgical Detective duly licensed by the Episcopal diocese of North Carolina and answerable directly to the bishop. At least that’s what it said on my card. But, I thought as I lit a stogy and dropped into my booth, a little moonlighting on the side never hurt. The Possum ’n Peasel was still my favorite dive on the West Side even though the new management was now offering an embarrassment of drinks with names like “Fuzzy Smurf” and “Butterfly Kisses.” The late owner, a crusty old coot named Stumpy, wouldn’t have put up with it, and I had to admit that the only “butterfly kiss” I wanted to see was a butterfly kissing the windshield of my flivver on my way home from Francine’s.

I had taken up with Francine after my last case. She

was a nurse. I met her while I was visiting Marilyn in the hospital after the last bust-up. Who could tell? I might even be in love. All I knew for sure was that when-ever she spoke, I could swear that I heard bells--like she was a cement truck backing up.

“
What’ll it be, Shamus?” asked the waitress. I couldn’t remember her name, but then, I didn’t know many of them any more. Waitresses came and went at the P ’n P quicker than Methodists in a liquor store.

“
Give me a beer and a belt, Doll.”

“
Huh?”

“
Beer,” I sighed. “With a whiskey chaser.” It wasn’t even any fun ordering anymore.

She snapped her gum like it was punctuation--a misplaced period at the beginning of a sentence or perhaps a colon, although a colon is generally used after a complete statement in order to introduce one or more directly related ideas, such as a series of directions, a list, or a quotation or other comment illustrating or explaining the statement, so it was more like a period.

“
We have Bud, Bud Light, Michelob, Coors, Coors Light, Killian’s, Schlitz, Lowenbrau and Miller Light. We have Dewar’s, Jim Beam, Maker’s, Dickel’s, and umm...” She paused in her litany. “I can’t remember,” she shrugged with a smile cute enough to shoot, stuff and hang over the fireplace. “I’ll have to go check.”

“
Never mind,” I growled under my breath. “Just bring me a Fuzzy Smurf. And one of those glow-in-the-dark swizzle-sticks.”

“
I’ll have one of those, too,” said a voice from over my shoulder.

• • •

“I see that you have your toy back,” said Meg.

“I do,” I said. “It works great!”

“I was afraid of that. How’s the new story coming?”

“It’s so good, it’s almost writing itself.”

“That’d be a nice change.”

“Look,” I said, “for someone who doesn’t want to marry me, you sure are critical. You haven’t even read it yet.”

“I’m just looking out for the literary community at large. But you make a good point. I shall refrain from criticizing until I’ve heard it.”

“Shall I read it to you then?”

“Yes. Yes, you shall.” She sat down on the sofa, placed her hands in her lap and looked at me expectantly. I raised my eyebrows and accepted the unspoken challenge. I read my opening paragraphs in my best dramatic voice, paying extra attention to some particularly well-written prose that I thought showed off my best work — my opening sentence, the part about the gum-snapping and the cute smile. This was good stuff. I could tell.

“Is that it?” Meg asked.

“So far. What do you think?”

“It’s growing on me.”

“It is?”

“Actually, yes. I hate to say it, but it is. I do not detest it.”

“You don’t?” I was amazed.

“Nope. I can definitely say that it doesn’t disgust me.”

High praise.

• • •

She walked past the table, her dress clinging to her torso like paint on the nose cone of a B-17 Flying Fortress, a blond bombshell with more curves than an 48/M reverse-panel throttle bracket assembly.

“
Hi there,” she purred, her engines dropping to idle as she lowered her flaps and glided into the booth. “My name is Memphis. Memphis Belle.”

“
Of course it is, Kitten,” I said, taking a puff on my cheroot and tipping my hat back to enjoy the view. “Now, how can I help you?”

Chapter 2

Worship committee meetings at the church happened on Tuesday mornings and, when I was employed there, I tried to miss as many as I could. But, when feeling guilty, or when things were so slow down at the station that I couldn’t find any other work to do, I would dutifully make my way to the downtown square and into the offices of St. Barnabas, where I would present myself as a ritual sacrifice at the altar of the committee meeting. Although I hadn’t been the organist at St. Barnabas since November, Father George had asked me to come in on this particular Tuesday in late March. It was one of those mornings that could take your breath away, as crisp and snappish as a librarian, with the sun filtering through the budding leaves of the hardwoods. The ever-present scent of the pine and fir trees that were prevalent along Main Street was carried across the town on a light breeze. I hadn’t worn a coat this morning, but was beginning to rethink that decision. I hadn’t asked Father George exactly why he wanted me to come to the worship meeting, but it was a slow morning, and I was, after all, still a member of the church. Besides that, Meg had asked me to go.

Father George Eastman was the rector of St. Barnabas, beginning his ministry in St. Germaine almost a year ago. He’d come just after Easter last year, and now it was the middle of the next Lenten season with Easter looming large again. The church had muddled through the holiday seasons without me, and Epiphany had come and gone. Foremost on everyone’s minds and tongues was the little matter of the St. Barnabas financial windfall. It was the five-hundred pound gorilla in the room.

St. Barnabas Church in St. Germaine, North Carolina, had been the unexpected recipient of an unusually large sum of money. It seems that, due to a bank error and some underhanded financial finagling of funds back in the 1930’s by the bank’s president, Northwestern Bank owed the church over thirty million dollars. St. Barnabas, not wanting to seem too greedy, had agreed to settle the matter to the tune of sixteen million, paid over four years. There was plenty of discussion about how that money could best be used, and everyone had his own ideas.

It was during the church-wide dustup in late October that I had resigned as church organist and choir director. There were hard feelings all around, and although I was asked back repeatedly, I thought it best to take some time off. Meg, in a sympathetic gesture, had stopped singing in the choir, as did a number of others — or so I had heard through the St. B. grapevine. Meg still attended services, was on the vestry and involved in all manner of activities. I hadn’t been back. The church held a meeting in November and determined that they would give me six months to decide if I wanted to remain in the position. “Take your time,” they said. “And if you need a couple more months to make up your mind, just let us know.” Father George found an organist to take over while I considered my options — a Mrs. Agnes Day. She was from St. Germaine and had been the keyboard player at one of the Catholic churches in Banner Elk before she retired about five years earlier. She was a nurse by trade, having worked for a plastic surgeon in Boone for a number of years, and then at the Watauga Medical Center. I think she’d been fired from the hospital, but that might have just been a rumor. I had heard she was now working in town. Home health care.

“Her name is Agnes Day?” I asked with a laugh when I found out who was replacing me. “Really?” Marilyn just smirked.

For the first time since I could remember, I hadn’t had the pressure of Christmas hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. Meg and I took her mother, Ruby, down to Asheville and spent Christmas Eve through New Year’s at the Grove Park Inn. We went to Christmas Eve services at the Cathedral and had an all-around great time.

“Good morning, Hayden,” said Marilyn, the long-suffering church secretary, as I walked into the meeting room. “Want some gossip?”