The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) (14 page)

Chapter 16

I'd heard the rumors. Carrie Oakey was going to shut down the Society for the Betterment of Choirs. The SBC had a dirty secret that had been kept by the Anglican Boys choirs for the better part of a century. Leprechauns. Leprechauns masquerading as
boy sopranos. With their high, peepy voices and their
creepy little fingers, they could go undetected for decades as long as they kept moving. After a few
years in one place, it was a dye job, some liposuction,
a quick shave, and a new pair of short pants, and they were off to a competing choir, a sack of coins and a gold watch for their trouble. The only time the choir director had to worry was when St. Paddy's Day fell on a Sunday.

The baby name grift was to keep me busy, out of the loop, while Carrie Oakey moved in and cleaned them out. And since I would be busy investigating the bishop, he wouldn't be able to call me in. But why now? Then it hit me like a cantaloupe thrown from an interstate overpass: the leprechauns were tied to the Mayan calendar just as surely as St. Lucy was the patron saint of optometrists, what with her eyeballs on that plate and everything, and 2012 was the end. The end of everything.

* * *

I kept thinking about the seventy-five thousand dollars as I drove into town on Saturday morning. It was Nancy's day off and Dave was working the station, but I thought I'd check in at least, then go over to St. Barnabas and practice a bit. I still had some work to do on the Reincken organ postlude and I had to come up with something for the service music. I'd told Rosemary that I was almost finished with it — no sense in panicking the priest unnecessarily — but couldn't get it into the bulletin for the congregation this quickly. We'd agreed that we'd let the choir sing it this coming Sunday, then have the congregation join in next week. All this, predicated on the assumption that I'd actually come up with something.

During the season of Lent, we didn't sing our customary
Gloria
, but substituted a more penitent
Kyrie
instead.

Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

The
Sanctus
remained, as did the music sung at the breaking of the bread, known as the "fraction anthem." This anthem changed from week to week and was generally only sung by the choir, our usual text being the
Agnus Dei
—
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
This being the case, I could get away with writing a
Kyrie
and a
Sanctus
for the congregation to sing, and then maybe a more elaborate
Agnus Dei
for the choir.

As I drove down the mountain toward town, I slipped the recording I'd been listening to out of the CD player and replaced it with one featuring Leon Redbone, entitled
On the Track
. In my opinion Leon Redbone was a genius, a one-man folk-jazz enigma. I clicked through the tracks, landing on a favorite,
Lulu's Back in Town
. Four songs later I was pulling into my parking place in front of the police station, when the last song on the album came up and a familiar tune floated through the cab of the pickup. It was a tune I'd learned as a kid, sung in music class in elementary school, figured out how to play on the harmonica when I was eight, and harmonized around every campfire since I could remember. I froze and listened to Leon warble through the old classic. Divine inspiration? Oh, yes! I bowed my head and offered a prayer of thanks for illumination, then a prayer asking forgiveness for what I was about to compose.

* * *

Dave was in the office, reclining in his swivel chair, his feet resting on the desk, eating a vanilla donut stuffed with Bavarian creme, judging from the yellow pudding gracing his chin.

"Morning, Boss," he said. "You want a donut? There're one or two left."

I opened the white cardboard box sitting on the counter and viewed the remnants of multicolored sprinkles, smears of chocolate, apple filling, powdered sugar, and white and yellow creme. Also in the box was a plain cake donut, no glaze, no sugar. I picked it up.

"This is it?" I asked.

"I ordered a dozen assorted. That's how they get rid of those plain ones I think. No one likes 'em."

I took a bite, then tossed it in the trash can. "Yeah," I said. "I can see that. I'll be at the Slab if you need me. After that, I'll be at the church."

"Nothing happening here," said Dave. "I'll stick around 'til two or so, then I'm heading home."

I left the station and crossed the side street, taking time to stop and wave to a couple of kids running through the park. It was still chilly, but the wind had stopped and the sun was out in full force. The Slab was just on the next corner and it was, as I expected it to be, full of customers. Saturday mornings were always good for a big breakfast crowd. I opened the glass door and the cowbell tied to the crossbar jangled my arrival. Pete had three waitresses hustling the food and drinks and so, content to watch over his empire, was sitting at our table in the back of the restaurant. Cynthia Johnsson, Pauli Girl McCollough and Rosa were scurrying to and fro with full and empty plates, baskets of biscuits, coffee pots, and menus. I hung my coat on the rack by the door and Pete waved me over as soon as he saw me.

"Sit down," he said. "Have some breakfast."

"Don't mind if I do."

"I heard about Noylene and Hog's baby boy. I guess everybody has by now."

The small town grapevine was nothing if not efficient. "What did you hear?" I asked.

Pauli Girl was at my elbow a few seconds after I'd sat down, filling my coffee cup. Pauli Girl McCollough was the middle child of Ardine and PeeDee McCollough, although PeeDee had been absent for most of the children's lives. The word in the wind was that Ardine had taken care of the problem of an abusive husband in the way that many wives had in the long history of the mountain folk. It was not a scenario I cared to contemplate professionally, knowing full well that PeeDee had been perfectly happy getting drunk and beating not only his wife, but also his young children. I had heard, through the same St. Germaine grapevine, that Ardine took it when it was just her, but when her husband started on the kids, enough was enough.

Ardine earned her living working at a Christmas tree farm and making quilts that she sold in gift shops around the area. The Ginger Cat, for example, had a couple on display. I'd seen them the last time Meg and I had lunch. She and the kids lived in a single-wide up in Coondog Holler on about a half-acre that sidled up to the Pisgah National Forest. There was an old spring box on the property where they got their water, and a septic tank that may or may not have been constructed from a 1945 Studebaker with the windows rolled up.

One thing PeeDee had insisted on when his progeny appeared on this earth was to name them after his favorite thing next to himself, his dog, and his truck. Hence, the children were all named for beers: the eldest, Bud, the middle child, Pauli Girl, and the youngest boy, Moose-Head. Moosey for short.

Bud was twenty years old and finishing his last year at Davidson. He was majoring in business, but his real passion was wine. The fruit of the grape had been his singular focus since he was twelve years old. If all went according to plan, he'd graduate in May and set up his wine shop in St. Germaine. I was his business partner. Bud had landed us in the catbird seat when he discovered, at a farmhouse auction, three cases of wine that he had me buy. Thirty-six bottles of Chateau Petrus Pomerol 1998, that would reach maturity sometime in the next few years. According to Bud, who knew a thing or two about wine, these bottles would be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter million dollars when we were ready to cash them in. For the past few summers, when not attending wine courses, Bud had spent his time at the Ginger Cat, offering his expertise to Annie and her customers. Bud was the youngest of the seventy-five Master Sommeliers in the United States and had already been contacted by several New York restaurants with offers of employment. Bud's nose for wine, and his penchant for the lingo of wine-speak, made him a natural. It wasn't uncommon to find him holding court in the Ginger Cat expressing his opinion on a young cabernet: "an astonishing marriage made in heaven and hell; of richness and decay; chocolate and schoolgirl's uniforms with a flare of cream cheese; a cigar box containing a Montecristo, a single yellow rose and a hot brick sitting on top of a saddle."

Bud would turn twenty-one in April and could legally sell wine the day after. I'd already gotten our license and lined up a building. We'd start renovations around Easter and be ready to open for the summer tourist season.

"How about the breakfast special, Chief?" Pauli Girl asked.

"What is it this morning?"

"
Machaca con huevos
and jalapeño corn cakes."

"I recommend it," said Pete, sipping his coffee. "Manuel is on his game this morning."

"Sounds good," I said to Pauli Girl, then added, "How's school going?"

Pauli Girl gave me a smile that would melt anyone's heart. A year younger than Bud, she was the prettiest girl in town and, once she'd finished high school, had taken a path pointing her towards a nursing career. Even with the rigors of studying, she still worked weekends and holidays in St. Germaine when she wasn't busy with her nurse's training.

"I'll be finished with my LPN certification this spring, but now I'm thinking about going on and getting my RN," she said. "I can make more money, that's for sure. A Registered Nurse can get a job about anywhere."

"Are you thinking about staying at Appalachian State?" I asked.

"Till I graduate," she said. "Then I'd like to move somewhere with, you know, a little more action."

"I know exactly."

"Let me get this order turned in. I'll have it up for you in a jiff." She turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.

"At least she didn't call you 'Hon,'" said Pete. "Yesterday she called me Hon. I hate to be called Hon by someone that young. I have corns older than she is." Pete shook his head in disgust. "Now tell me about the kidnapping."

"You probably heard all there is to tell. Rahab was stolen out of his bedroom. The kidnappers left a note and Hog and Noylene paid the ransom. The whole episode lasted less than six hours."

"Seventy-five large is what I heard," said Pete.

"The grapevine is very effective. When did you hear about it?"

"Hannah, Amelia, and Grace came by this morning for breakfast on their way to the Piggly Wiggly. It seems that Roger makes them all work on Saturday now. They were filling Cynthia in on all the details while they ate."

"How on earth? ... "

"I don't know," said Pete, raising his hands in consternation, "but they had all the facts, or seemed to, right down to Nancy tracing the phone call, and Rahab found beside the road chewing on a chicken leg."

"Carrot," I said.

"Huh?" said Pete.

"It was a carrot, not a chicken leg."

"Oh. Anyway, you have any suspects?"

"Not a one."

"Grapevine says it's a gang of kidnappers and they're liable to strike again at any time. Lock up your babies."

"That's a relief," I said.

"What? That there's a gang of kidnappers?"

"No, that the grapevine is wrong for once."

Cynthia walked over to the table and plopped down in the chair next to me. "I'm exhausted," she said. "Get me a cup of coffee, will you Pete?"

"Get back to work," said Pete.

Cynthia glared at him. I laughed. "I'll get it," I said, and started to get up.

"Never mind," said Cynthia. "Here's Rosa." She turned an upside-down coffee cup right side up as Rosa walked by and Rosa was happy to fill it for her. "I tell you, I'm beat!" Cynthia said. "I didn't get home 'til late last night, then up at five to get ready for work." Cynthia didn't look as though she got up at five o'clock. A tall, willowy blonde, she was wearing very little make up, or so it seemed to me, and didn't look as though she needed it. Belly dancing kept her figure in great shape. She was wearing an old pair of faded jeans that fit snugly, a pair of Nikes, and a sweatshirt that advertised North Carolina State University. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail.

"Did you make the acquaintance of our pig?" I asked.

"Alas, I did not," said Cynthia. "Our pig ... that is,
your
pig, was fast asleep in the hay of her comfy, heated, little pig house."

"Heated?" I asked.

"Of course, heated," said Pete, looking at me with astonishment. "I told you that before. You want Portia to get cold?"

"No, I guess not."