The Soprano Wore Falsettos (20 page)

Since I was early, Meg, Ruby and I decided to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee before I drove everyone to the church. Meg only lived about a half-mile away, and normally we would have walked. Ruby, who attended the Baptist church, decided that it might be better to go with us on this particular morning. She would have had to make a five-mile commute in her old Buick, and her car lacked the four-wheel drive capability that made my old truck so serviceable. I offered to drive her, but she said that she’d just as soon go with us.

“They’re having a performance of an Easter cantata by John W. Peterson,” said Ruby. “I went to a couple of rehearsals, but I just couldn’t do it. Hang on. I have a flyer here somewhere.”

“Do you have any donuts?” I asked. “I’m starved.”

“There’s a cheese danish in the fridge,” said Meg, “but it’s about a week old.”

“Great!”

“Here it is,” said Ruby, finding the flyer and reading it out loud. “
The Glory of Easter
by John W. Peterson premiered in 1962. It will be performed by our Sunset Choir on Easter morning at the eleven o’clock service.”

“The Sunset Choir?” I asked, munching happily on my danish.

“That’s the old folks choir,” explained Ruby.

“So I gathered,” I said. “But isn’t that a bit morbid? That’s like calling them the ‘Eternal Rest Choir’ or maybe the ‘One Foot Already In Heaven Choir.’”

“That’s good,” laughed Ruby. “I prefer to call them the ‘Sit In My Seat and Die Choir.’ They’re very possessive.”

“So, you don’t want to hear
The Glory of Easter?”
I asked.

“They’ve sung it every other year since 1962. It never gets any better.”

• • •

For a cold, wintry morning in April, it looked as though attendance at St. Barnabas would be surprisingly good. It was almost like every other Easter that I had experienced in the small Episcopal church, except fur coats, earmuffs and mittens replaced the usually festive Easter hats and spring outfits. Meg and I walked into the nave and were heading toward the choir loft when I saw Benny Dawkins.

Benny was practicing with the thurible, something he did for about fifteen minutes before the congregation arrived. He didn’t have it lit, so the effect wasn’t quite as dramatic as when the incense pot was sending smoke cascading through the sanctuary, but I watched in appreciation as Benny walked down the center aisle, whipping the thurible through its various orbits, before stopping it on a dime just before it crashed into the altar. It was a pleasure to watch a true professional at work.

Benny had finished his warm-ups and was walking back to the sacristy to fill the pot with incense when Russ Stafford walked into the sanctuary.

“Hey, Benny!” he called loudly, from six pews away. “I heard about your violin. What was it worth? A cool quarter million?”

Benny ignored him and continued toward the door leading into the sacristy.

“I wish that
I
would have bought it from you, but I didn’t know you only wanted eight hundred bucks!” Russ laughed the raucous guffaw of the boorish real-estate salesman.

“I don’t think that I would make Benny too angry,” I whispered to Meg. “He’s got quite a temper. Russ is on thin ice.”

I met with the choir, and we went over the
Messiah
choruses, tuning up a few spots that I felt could use a little tuning up. I hadn’t chosen the hymns, but Marilyn had given me a “heads up.” One of the hymns,
Up From The Grave He Arose
, isn’t actually found in the Episcopal hymnal, but Father George had printed the words in the bulletin, hoping, I presume, that everyone knew the tune. I was pretty sure that some people did, at least the congregants that came to the Episcopal church later in their ecumenical experience. The cradle Episcopalians, or the “frozen chosen” as they are referred to by the Episco-Come-Latelys, had probably never sung it. I had copied the hymn out of a United Methodist hymnal, knowing that I, at least, would need the music in front of me.

My prelude was by G.F. Handel, in keeping with our mostly Baroque theme — a transcription of the
Arrival of the Queen of Sheba
from
Solomon
. The choir then sang the
Hallelujah Chorus
as a choral introit from the balcony, and I launched into the processional hymn,
Jesus Christ Is Risen Today.
The choir had to scramble down the stairs to be part of the procession, then, as usual, once around the church and back up to the loft.

I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that the crucifer was in the lead, followed by a couple of acolytes, Benny Dawkins swinging the thurible and sending clouds of smoke billowing upwards, Father George and the choir.

I noticed Russ Stafford sitting toward the front of the church, right on the aisle. He was hard to miss, his Easter finery consisting mainly of a green and yellow plaid sport jacket. All of a sudden, I had a flashback.

Back, a few years ago, when Benny Dawkins was learning the
Doubly Inverted Reverse Swan,
the trick that won him third place in the International Thurifer Invitational in London a few years back, he was perfecting the maneuver at St. Barnabas when, one Sunday morning, he happened to catch poor Iona Hoskins behind the ear with the pot, knock her out cold and catch her wig on fire. Iona was sitting on the aisle, and, as I suddenly recalled, didn’t care for Benny very much. In fact, she had lodged a complaint with Father Tony Brown because Benny had been sneaking into the church kitchen on his way to work and eating a bowl of cereal — cereal that Iona bought especially for her breakfast club. We all assumed that it had been a terrible accident, but now, as I watched the thurible tumble and pirouette on its chains in almost slow motion, I suddenly had another thought — a thought that was interrupted by a terrific “CLANG!”

I looked up from my music long enough to see Benny glance down at an unconscious Russ Stafford. He never broke his rhythm or his stride, executed a perfect
Skin The Cat
, and continued up to the front of the church. Father George, however, didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to stop the Easter procession, but Russ was clearly knocked cold. Not only that, but Russ’ hair was beginning to smolder just as Iona’s had done. Father George didn’t stop the procession, but he did pause long enough to pat Russ’ head and put out the embers of incense that had escaped from the pot during the collision.

I could hear Russ moan during the pause between stanzas, and I figured he was all right. A couple of ushers followed the choir in, helped him out of his seat and out the front door. I looked back at Benny. He was completing his patented
Spank The Baby In The Bell Tower,
the thurible flying around the altar like a smoking Sputnik. Suddenly, as the hymn came to an end, Benny stopped the pot dead in its course. Then he gave it three short swings symbolizing the Trinity and hung it on its stand.

The choir came up the stairs to the loft. Meg walked over to me and whispered, “Did you see that?”

“Yes,” I whispered back. “I told you I wouldn’t want to make Benny mad.”

“Is Russ okay?”

“I think so. He walked out on his own with just a little help.”

“Did you ever think that maybe Agnes Day was killed with the incense pot instead of the handbell?” Meg asked.

I didn’t have time to think about it. It was time to play the
Gloria.

In the Episcopal liturgy, there’s quite a lot of music that goes on at the beginning of the service. There’s the prelude, the opening hymn, the
Gloria
or
Kyrie
, and the Psalm accompaniment. Then there’s the gradual hymn, neatly sandwiched between the Epistle and Gospel lessons. As an organist, you have to stay on your toes. Added to all that, on this particular morning, the choir sang the
Hallelujah Chorus
as the introit. It was a full day of playing and singing even before we got to the sermon.

It was during the gradual hymn that we all received our Easter surprise. This was the hymn that Father George had printed in the bulletin. I was right. About half the congregation knew it — about half of the choir as well. The verses were slow, and the chorus was a lot more animated. At least in
my
rendition.

Low in the grave He lay, Jesus my Savior,

Waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord!

Up from the grave He arose,

With a mighty triumph o’er His foes,

When we got to “Up from the grave He arose,” who should come walking down the center aisle but Kenny Frazier. He walked up to the third pew and took the seat recently vacated by Russ Stafford.

“Hey, Kenny!” yelled Moosey McCollough, from the back of the church with a seven-year old’s enthusiasm, “we thought you was dead!” Kenny just smiled and waved at him with the arm that wasn’t bandaged. I could imagine Ardine clamping a hand over Moosey’s mouth to keep him quiet.

He arose a Victor from the dark domain,

And He lives forever, with His saints to reign.

He arose! He arose!

Hallelujah! Christ arose!

Meg pointed at Kenny walking in. She had a huge smile on her face. I nodded and kept playing, the smile spreading across mine as well. As an Easter miracle, it wasn’t bad.

• • •

“Wanna see my drawings?” said Moosey, running up to me as I came down out of the loft.

“You bet,” I said. “Let me get my vestments off, and I’ll give them a good look.”

“Oops,” he said, shoving the stack of papers in my hand. “I forgot. I’ve gotta go get some Easter candy in the parish hall.” He was already at a dead run when he shouted back over his shoulder, “Before those other guys get it all.” Moosey was out the door and gone before I could answer.

• • •

I hung my robe up in the sacristy and waited for Meg, who was schmoozing with church members that she saw only once or twice a year. The rest of the crowd, though, seemed to be concentrated around two particular members. There was one group of people surrounding Kenny Frazier, patting him on the back and asking him what on earth had happened. The other group of people was surrounding and congratulating Rhiza and Malcolm Walker. The Walkers had been in attendance on Thursday night, but since the congregation left in silence after the Nailing Service, I suspected that this was the Walker’s first real public appearance since the big Powerball news.

I had put Moosey’s drawings in my pocket. Now, as I waited for Meg, I pulled them out to look through them — at least enough to tell Moosey that I thought they were almost masterpieces. He had drawn them on two pages that he had torn out of the attendance pads. The first was a picture of what I thought might be the Easter Bunny, but it might just as well have been a penguin with antlers or an anteater standing on his hind legs. It was the second picture that stopped me cold.

In my hand I held a drawing of some trees, or what I thought might be trees. But, the trees were not the important part of the picture. Moosey had used the side of his pencil to shade the leaves of his drawing, and his shading had revealed an underlying text. I could make out a couple of words in the corner —
please forgive me.

• • •

“What did you think about Benny leveling Russ with the incense pot?” Meg asked.

“He said it was an accident. I talked to him in the sacristy.”

“Yeah. Right,” said Meg. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I tend to agree,” I said. “But we have no real proof. It
could
have been an accident.”

“What about Agnes Day?”

“If Benny did kill her, he didn’t do it with the incense pot. She was definitely killed with the handbell. The DNA samples came back last week, and Kent Murphee says the dent in her skull matched the handbell perfectly. There were three samples on the bell. Agnes Day’s, an unknown man’s and an unknown woman’s.”

“Any idea who the unknowns might be?”

“Nope. Could be anyone.”

“Well,” said Meg, “back to the drawing board.”

“Not quite,” I said.

• • •

I called Nancy and Marilyn and told them to meet Meg, Ruby and me in the church office at one o’clock. That gave us time to brave the snowdrifts, walk over to The Slab, and get a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and some fries. We made it back to the church office just as Nancy was coming in the door. Marilyn came in a couple of minutes later.

“Here’s what I have,” I said, spreading Moosey’s picture out on Marilyn’s desk. “Look here at this corner. It’s very faint, but the shading brought up the indentation of the words written on the piece of paper that was on top of it. These are the last three words of the confession note.” I turned to Nancy. “Did you bring it?”

“Here it is,” said Nancy, pulling out our photocopy of the original note. I laid it next to Moosey’s drawing. The words were difficult to make out, but we could all see that they were a match.