The Soprano Wore Falsettos (8 page)

“Quit looking at me like that,” said Ruby. “You should be ashamed. I’m old enough to be your slightly older, very good-looking second cousin.”

“Which is legal in North Carolina,” I added, ducking a piece of celery aimed at my head by Meg. “And, to answer your question, my dear, yes, I did take one of my many offers, but only for the Sunday after Easter. The job was too good to turn down. The chance-of-a-lifetime, if you will.”

“Really. What, pray tell, is it?”

“You’ll laugh,” I said, taking another sip of my very refreshing drink.

“I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Okay then,” I said. “Remember when we did that Clown Eucharist last year?”

“How could I forget?
Crown Him You Many Clowns…The Clown Imperial March
…it was awful.”

“Yes, well…I got a call from Holy Comforter in Morganton. They heard about our Clown Eucharist.”

“You’re not doing another one?”

“Of course not. I told them a Clown Eucharist was a bad idea, and it didn’t work that well.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Then I might have mentioned another option for them to try,” I said, sheepishly.

Meg’s head dropped. “What did you suggest?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“A Pirate Eucharist.”

“
WHAT?!”

“Really, Meg,” Ruby said. “You shouldn’t scream. Use your ‘indoor voice.’ What will the neighbors think?”

“They’re not going to do it, are they?” asked Meg. Then she comprehended the meaning of my maniacal grin. “You may
not
play for a Pirate Eucharist.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You misunderstood. I’m not only playing for it; I’m
writing
the Pirate Eucharist.”

“It sounds like fun,” said Ruby. “Can we come?”

“Arrrgh-solutely,” I said, dropping into me best piratese. “Yar, me proud beauty, I be honored to take ye wi’ me!”

“But you can’t!” said Meg.

“Listen,” I said. “Clowns scare little kids to death. Pirates are much more fun. If you can have a Clown Eucharist, why can’t you have a Pirate Eucharist?”

“No reason I can see,” said Ruby.

“Lots of reasons,” said Meg. “Lots.”

“The priest thought it was a great idea. They’re advertising it.”

“Oh, no…”

“Oh,
yes!”
I said.

• • •

Ruby and Meg finished up the sandwiches in short order.

“Well, if I’m going to a Pirate Eucharist,” said Meg, “then you may go with me to church on Palm Sunday. We’re singing
The Palms
by Fauré.”

I snorted. “You realize that this particular Fauré is not Gabriel Fauré,” I said. “It’s by his musically challenged half-nephew Jim-Bob Fauré. It’s an awful piece.”

“Well, I haven’t heard it yet since I skipped rehearsal last week, but I’m sure you’re exaggerating because you, as we all know, are a musical snob. It’s probably lovely.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed, eyeing my lunch.

“And speaking of awful writing,” Meg said in her most pitying voice as she handed me a roast beef sandwich, “your story is not going well, is it? The plot seems to be a little off course.”

“Not a bit of it. I’m right on target. Every word a gem. Every nuance a nugget of pure gold.”

“I’d like to read it,” said Ruby, sitting down next to me. “Do you have a copy?”

“Not with me, but I’ll make sure you get one as soon as I finish,” I promised.

• • •

I got the skinny from the boys and set out just after the sun went down. It was a dark night, as nights here in the city usually are, and, in fact, I couldn’t remember a sunny night since my twelve-hour layover at Juneau International in the middle of August. It was also stormy, but that was a given. I pulled the lapels of my trench up over my ears, tucked my head down and turtled down the street at a leisurely pace.

The decorators were a front for a scam--that much was clear. One hundred sixty-five large for fabric swatches? Who did they think they were dealing with--Martha Stewart’s prison consultant? After a little friendly persuasion, they’d given me a name. I didn’t hurt them. I just pinched them a little.

• • •

I walked into The Slab on Thursday morning, bright and early, early for me being eight-thirty. I had taken my time driving in, enjoying the scenery and listening to the
Ninth Symphony
of Vaughan Williams. It was the symphony about which Aaron Copland quipped, “It’s like watching a cow for forty minutes.” Aaron Copland was right, but it was beautiful music for driving through the mountains on a crisp morning in March.

“I thought you said we were meeting at eight sharp,” said Nancy as I walked in.

“It
is
eight,” I said, sitting down. “Isn’t it?”

“Close enough,” said Dave.

“You got here three minutes ago, Dave,” said Nancy.

“Well, I knew that the chief wasn’t going to be on time. He’s always here at eight-thirty. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Collette filled his coffee cup and looked at him adoringly. “You’re really smart, Dave,” she said.

“Oh, puh-lease!” said Nancy to no one in particular. “I think I’m gonna…”

“Coffee for me, Collette,” I said, hastily interrupting Nancy’s outburst. “And some of those Belgian waffles.”

“Has anyone heard from Lucille Murdock since the meeting on Tuesday night?” asked Pete, pulling up a chair. Pete was always a de facto member of our staff meetings whenever we met at The Slab Café. He was, after all, the mayor, and since he was the owner, he also comped our breakfasts. It was a good deal all around.

“How did you hear about Mrs. Murdock?” I asked.

“Everyone’s heard about it. Are you kidding?” said Dave. “It’s big news. How do you think she’s going to spend the money?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Dave, but she’s certain to have a lot of help deciding.”

“I’m sure Agnes Day will have a few suggestions,” said Nancy.

“Why do you think that?” I asked. “Why would a substitute organist even care?”

“I heard that she was bucking for your old job, boss. If you didn’t decide to go back, that is.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too. So?”

“Well, if she’s the regular organist, she might want to finagle some of that cash into the music fund.”

“She might,” I agreed. “But what does that have to do with Mrs. Murdock?”

“Don’t you know?” asked Nancy. “Agnes Day is Mrs. Murdock’s home health care nurse.”

• • •

Meg and I entered the front doors of St. Barnabas on Palm Sunday at precisely 10:32. The service started at 10:30 or was supposed to. As usual, things were slightly behind schedule. Meg had decided to forego singing in the choir after the rehearsal on Wednesday night. I accused her of being a “fair-weather” singer and threw in a few “I told you sos” for good measure. I didn’t get to use them very often, so when I had the opportunity, I jumped on it like a Schnauzer on a schnitzel.

“Hush up,” Meg said, putting one lovely finger to my lips, “and I’ll make it worth your while.”

I hushed up.

I hadn’t been back to St. B.’s for almost five months, and I had mixed feelings as I walked into the nave. I missed playing the organ in church. I missed playing, period. Then I heard Agnes Day’s prelude. This was Meg’s plan, of course, and a ruse that I saw through immediately.

“It won’t work,” I said. “I’m not coming back.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Meg said. The sounds of what I thought might be
All Glory Laud and Honor
, the Palm Sunday processional, came crashing down from the organ loft.

“What on earth is that?” I whispered.

“Agnes Day is improvising,” said Meg. “It’s her musical gift to the congregation. Each Sunday in Lent, she’s been improvising on hymn tunes for that particular day.”

“My God! I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“It’s not over yet. Here,” she said, handing me a hymnal. “Bite down on this.”

• • •

We sang the Palm Sunday processional and watched as Benny Dawkins, the world-class thurifer, worked his magic with the incense pot. He really
was
world-class, having finished in the top five for three years running at the International Thurifer Invitational in London. Benny had told me that he had perfected a couple of new moves that he picked up at the competition — the
Three-Leaf Clover
and the
Double Gerbil.
He executed them flawlessly.

We joined in on the
Kyrie
and the Psalm and listened to the sermon. At the offertory, we were treated to a heartfelt, if not completely accurate, choral rendition of
The Palms
by Jean-Baptiste Fauré.

“I thought you said his name was ‘Jim Bob’ Fauré,” said Meg, as the offering plate went by.

“Jean-Baptiste translates to Jim Bob.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It should.”

During communion, the musical offering was
The Holy City,
sung by Renee Tatton. I hazarded a glance back up to the choir loft. Ms. Tatton wasn’t wearing a robe, but instead had chosen a lavender, diaphanous gown covered in sequins. I thought that her arm waving was rather extreme for that particular piece, but Meg said that those bird watchers returning from communion would certainly appreciate it. Other than that, it was a pretty good performance.

“At least she chose to wear something purple,” I commented. “It is a penitential season, after all.”

• • •

The service concluded, and the congregation made their way out of the sanctuary and headed to the parish hall for coffee, cookies and the latest gossip — gossip which chiefly concerned one Lucille Murdock. Meg and I were almost the last to leave, hanging back to listen to Agnes Day’s postlude. Finally, we had to admit that enough was enough, and we followed the lemmings to the coffee pot. We had just finished our second cup — real Sunday morning coffee, not Father George’s anemic brew — and were getting ready to leave when Georgia pulled on my arm.

“You’d better come,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”

Meg and I followed her through the kitchen, out the door into the alley and back into the sacristy. Elaine was waiting. She and Georgia were helping prepare the homebound communion.

“Come here,” said Elaine, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the nave. Meg and Georgia followed.

The organ was still playing. Agnes Day had been improvising on
What A Friend We Have In Jesus
as the postlude. I’d heard enough of it, before we left the first time, to know that it wasn’t going to be a virtuoso performance. Now, amid the din of the organ, I noticed the zimbelstern, a set of seven bells played by a rotating hammer and activated by a toe stud on the pedal board. The zimbelstern was great for effects — very pretty — and I used it liberally on Christmas Eve, but I hadn’t ever heard it used in
What A Friend We Have In Jesus
. Then again, I’d never heard an improvisation on that particular hymn tune.

“Listen to her,” said Georgia. “That’s just awful, even for her. She’s been playing the same thing for ten minutes.”

“Maybe she’s still improvising,” Meg said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. C’mon.”

I was down the aisle and up the stairs to the choir loft in short order with the three women following me. I stopped in front of the big stained-glass window that framed the loft and looked at the organ. There, draped across the console, was Agnes Day. I took out my cell phone and called for an ambulance as Meg, Elaine and Georgia joined me in front of the window.

“Is she dead?” asked Meg. “She’s not moving.”

“I don’t know.” I stepped down to the console, followed closely by Meg. I pulled Agnes Day back from the console and looked at her face. Her eyes were open and unseeing. I let her slump back gently where I found her, then reached around and turned the organ off.

“She’s not breathing,” said Meg, “Shouldn’t we do CPR or something?”

I shook my head. “Look here,” I said, pointing to the right side of her head. “If we’d gotten here ten minutes earlier, maybe. Even then…” I left the sentence unfinished.

“Then who was playing the organ?” asked Georgia. “A ghost?”

I pointed to the MIDI recorder. “She was recording her improvisation. I suppose to play it back at some point — maybe listen to it.”

“What’s that thing?” asked Elaine.

“MIDI is short for Musical Instrument Digital Interface. Basically, in this application, it records all of the aspects of a pipe organ’s performance.”

“So it will play it back exactly as it was recorded? All the stops and wrong notes and everything?” asked Georgia.