The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) (15 page)

"I heard about the kidnapping," said Cynthia. "Not to mention the dead, heart-attack guy in the alley. Sheesh. I can't even leave town for a couple of days before everything goes to heck." She sighed heavily. "The Town Council is going to want updates on your progress. We can't have a band of baby kidnappers roaming the hills looking for children to abduct. Is the dead guy connected to the kidnapping?"

"No proof of that," I said. "We shall keep your council well informed. As mayor, you are privy to all our investigative secrets."

"What about me?" asked Pete. "As a truffle pig owner, I have a right to know."

"Well, of course," I said. "I'll send you hourly peeps."

"What's a peep?" asked Pete.

"It's a Twitface thing. I don't know for sure. I just know that you'll be getting peeped."

"Tweets," said a young man at the next table. "You get tweets. From Twitter."

I snapped my fingers. "That's it," I replied. "Twitter. I have an account now, you know."

"What's your user name?" asked the man, pulling out a phone, then punching in information with both thumbs. He was obviously adept at social media and looked the part. His light brown hair was cut short except for his front bangs that had been waxed up into a comb. He sported black, horn-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and was wearing black jeans with a long-sleeved T-shirt that proclaimed that he was interested in saving polar bears.

"Umm ... I can't remember," I said. "I'll have to look it up." Mercifully, just then Pauli Girl appeared at our table with my breakfast.

"You should tweet that you're eating breakfast," said the man.

"Why would he do that?" asked Pete.

"People want to know," said the man with a shrug. "I'm tweeting it right now. Eating breakfast with a couple of old guys who have a pig."

Cynthia laughed, drained her coffee cup, and got to her feet. "I have to leave here at one o'clock," she told Pete. "I have a Little Theater rehearsal this afternoon."

"You're in the Mitford play?" I asked. "When did this happen?"

"Mr. Christopher called me last week. Someone dropped out of the production, so he wanted to know if I could do it. I'm a trained thespian, you know."

"I can vouch for that," said Pete, then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "In fact, this one time ..."

"Quiet, you!" Cynthia said, then turned her attention back to me. "I haven't been to a rehearsal yet, but I've learned all my lines. I'm playing Aunt Rose."

"Aunt Rose?" I said.

"Uncle Billy's lovable but dotty wife. She likes to direct traffic wearing a military trench coat and rubber boots."

"Ah, yes," said Pete, closing his eyes and stroking his chin stubble. "I have fond memories of that trench coat."

"Hush!" shooshed Cynthia. "I'm the mayor! Don't be blabbing all over town!"

The young man at the next table tweeted for all he was worth.

* * *

After breakfast I said my goodbyes, then walked across Sterling Park to St. Barnabas Church. The day was warming up as the sun rose in the sky. A few more days of this weather and we'd all forget winter like it was an unwelcome relative, visiting too long, but once gone as forgotten as a bad dream. The dark red front doors of the church were unlocked and I pulled one of them open, walked into the narthex, then up the stairs and into the choir loft. There was some activity happening down at the front by the chancel. I looked down from the back balcony and watched as Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh, her husband, Pastor Herb, Muffy LeMieux, Bear Niederman, and Mr. Christopher — all new members of the Altar Guild — were discussing the placement of decorations. The projection screen was hanging to the left of the chancel steps about ten feet above the floor, right above the hymn board, as obvious as a front gold tooth on a Lutheran.

The committee was gathered around the altar, chattering away, when I played a chord on the organ, startling them. They stopped talking and looked up at me.

"Sorry to bother you," I said. "You don't mind if I do a little practicing, do you?"

"Of course not," said Rosemary. "You go right ahead. You won't bother us a bit."

"Before you start," said Mr. Christopher, "could you come down and give us your opinion on something?"

"Sure. Be right there."

As I walked down the center aisle, I was conscious that the group had formed a semicircle in front of the altar, blocking my view.

"Okay," said Mr. Christopher. "Stop right there and tell us what you think."

I stopped and watched as the members of the guild parted in the middle and stepped away from the altar, revealing the decorations for the First Sunday of Lent.

I was aware of Muffy LeMieux's solo,
On
Eagle's Wings
. I might even go so far as to say that I had prepared myself to hear Muffy sing it in church. What I wasn't prepared for was the three-foot-tall, full-grown, stuffed bald eagle standing atop the altar with a squirrel in one, raised talon. The squirrel's glass eyes were wide with terror, and its lips were pulled back over its teeth in what can only be called the genius of the taxidermic art. The wings of the great bird were spread to their full eight-foot span, and its hooked, cruel beak was partially open in a defiant, soundless screech. It was something straight out of the Smithsonian Institution's exhibit on giant North American raptors, that is, if the Smithsonian still had any stuffed and mounted bald eagles. They might have some in the back, I thought, hidden away in a crate somewhere. If they did, the birds would have to be pre-1940 eagles or else accompanied by a permit from the Secretary of the Interior. This much I knew. There was something called the Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act of 1940, and it didn't do to get caught with one of these endangered birds. The Smithsonian probably had hundreds of legal specimens, but none, I'd wager, mounted like this one.

"Wow," I said. "Where did you get the eagle?"

"It's mine," said Bear proudly. "I didn't shoot it though. I hit it with my Jeep."

"Ah," I said.

"I did shoot the squirrel, then I worked it into the tableau. The eyes were the hardest."

"It's a nice touch," I admitted.

"Mother P said she needed an eagle, so I donated it to the church for a tax write-off. I figure it's worth maybe a couple of thousand."

"Of course you can!" said Mother P happily. "I'll give you a receipt."

"I think you might find," I suggested, "that a stuffed bald eagle might be a bad choice for an altar decoration. An 'ill-eagle,' if you will." I chuckled at my own wit. "You could get into plenty of trouble."

"Pish-tosh!" said Mother P. "Bear didn't shoot the thing. You heard him. He hit it with his Jeep."

"Yes, but ..."

"What we want to know," said Mr. Christopher, "is whether you think it would be better to have an American flag draped over the front of the altar or just go ahead and use the white linen cloth?"

"But isn't purple the color of Lent?" I asked.

"Purple don't work with the eagle," complained Muffy. "The feathers are too dark. They sort of blend in. We really want the eagle to pop!"

"Not to mention that my sermon has an element of patriotism," added Rosemary.

I took a deep breath.
My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.

"The flag, then," I said. "Definitely the flag."

Forty-five minutes later, I didn't feel the least pang of guilt as I finished up my mass.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when I decided that it would be a good thing to talk to Cynthia alone. She was, after all, the mayor. I climbed into my truck and made the ten minute drive up Oak Street where the Little Theater was putting the final touches on its production of
Welcome to Mitford
. With less than a week to go, dress rehearsals were imminent and imminently terrifying. Over the years, the St. Germaine Footlight Club had occupied many venues, the most famous of them being the second floor of the courthouse, where they performed for thirty or so years back in their heyday. There had been a raised stage area, a huge velvet curtain, room for flats, props and backstage paraphernalia, pretty good theater lighting, a couple of small dressing rooms, and seating for about one hundred seventy patrons. In the 1960s, the Town Council deemed that the second floor of the courthouse was needed for office space, and so the Little Theater raised enough money to build a performing space at the top of Oak Street, and had been there ever since. It was a block building and owed its charm to the architectural style known as "bad," but had a nice little lobby, a box office, a good-sized stage, dressing rooms, and seating for about two hundred. There was also fly space, another story above the stage to hang backdrops and set pieces — something that the courthouse never had.

I walked into the theater and saw Cynthia up on the stage, chatting with Muffy LeMieux. The set was the interior of a house with two doors and a window. One of the doors was shut; the other one, obviously the front entrance, was open, and there was a bit of set dressing to depict the outdoors just beyond the threshold. The window was festooned with drapes and ties and the walls were covered in some sort of textured wallpaper with a light pink pattern. A couch was set at a theatrical angle down center. Two upholstered chairs flanked it on either side, and a small drum table acted as a stand for a lamp and a few random books. All of this, decorated with Mr. Christopher's signature Fourteen Layers of Style.

Cynthia was standing behind the couch and had a cup of coffee in her hand. Muffy was reclining in one of the chairs taking a slurp out of a plastic water bottle. Break time. I walked down one of the side aisles and up to the lip of the stage.

"Hayden!" said Muffy when she saw me. "We were just talking about you!"

"All good, I hope."

"Of course! Did you come to watch part of the rehearsal? We're about to do the scene where Father Tim neglects his diet and exercise and goes into a diabetic coma while driving and wrecks his car. I'm just waiting on Mr. Christopher."

"It sounds scintillating," I said, "but I think I'll wait to see the show. I don't want to ruin any of the surprises." I turned my focus to Cynthia. "Would you have a minute to chat?"

"Sure. Let me come around."

Mr. Christopher came out onto the stage from one of the wings. "Hayden, I thought I heard you. Do you think you can do something about these chainsaws going day and night? It's incredibly difficult to rehearse with all this racket."

I listened for a moment. Nothing.

"Well, of course they stopped as soon as you came in," huffed Mr. Christopher, then perked up as he heard the buzz of a nearby weed-whacker. "There! There it is!"

"I'll see what I can do," I promised.

"Try it now," hollered a voice from backstage. Mr. Christopher walked over to the front door and flipped the light switch. Then walked over to the side table and clicked the lamp off and on a few times. Nothing.

"Did you connect the hot wire to the common terminal of the first three-way?" Mr. Christopher yelled.

"I think so," the voice came back. "Which one is that?"

"The black one. Oh, for heaven's sake! Connect the black one to the black one, then the white one to the white one, then the black load wire to the common terminal of the opposite three-way switch. Then you can connect the travelers."

"Which screws do I attach 'em to?"

"Doesn't matter! There's no polarity. Oh, never mind. I'll do it myself." He flounced off stage and we heard some muffled growling.

Muffy giggled. "I think he has a crush on Varmit," she whispered.

A moment later Cynthia appeared from one of the exit doors located on the floor beside the stage.

"What's up?" she asked. She still had her coffee cup and took a sip.

"I thought I should fill you in on a few things, you being the mayor and all."

Her eyes widened slightly. The table lamp blinked on, then off, then on again.

"It works, Sweetie," Muffy yelled.

"Let's go outside," I said, then added in a whisper, "I'd like to keep this confidential."

Chapter 17

Moosey McCollough was the youngest of the McCollough children. He was eleven years old, almost twelve, but small for his age. He had a mop of unmanageable straw on his head, freckles, and bright blue eyes that peered out from behind oversized wire-rimmed glasses. He wore blue jeans, summer or winter, and the fact that he had worn holes through both knees didn't warrant, in Ardine's opinion, throwing them away. They had been patched multiple times. He usually sported a striped T-shirt and was rarely seen without his high-topped Keds, although lately he had switched from red to black, a sign of his coming-of-age. His best friend was Bernadette Kenton.

When I drove up, they were both waiting for me outside Bernadette's house sitting on the stoop, wearing light coats against the cool weather we'd had all week.

"Can we ride in the back?" hollered Moosey.

"Nope," I said. "It's against the law. You're not eighteen."

"Aw, man," answered Bernadette, as she and Moosey clambered into the cab of the truck. "My uncle lets us ride in the back of his."

"He's not a cop," I said. "I'd have to give myself a ticket. Besides, it's dangerous."

"You used to let us do it," complained Moosey.

"Children don't bounce as high as they used to."

It was a ten-minute drive to Pete's, Moosey and Bernadette chattering all the way. We pulled up at the curb in front of the house and the two kids slid out of the cab in a jiffy.

"Now where's that pig?" asked Moosey.

"In the back," I said. "Don't scare her, though. She may not be used to us yet."

"Is she really from France?" asked Bernadette.

"Yep," I said.

"There's a place in France, where the alligators dance," sang Moosey.

"And one wouldn't dance, so they kicked him in the pants," joined in Bernadette. They howled with glee. I was used to this from these two.

Pete was at the Slab for the afternoon, so we walked around the side of the house, through the back yard, and found the pig pen. There was our truffle pig, rooting up something or other beside her pig house and oinking to her heart's content.

"Wow!" said Bernadette. "I've never seen a pig like that. She's beautiful."

"She's a long-haired Mangalitsa pig. Very rare. Her name's Portia."

"It sort of looks like a sheep," said Moosey. "With that hair and all."

"A little bit," I admitted.

"Can we go in and pet her?" asked Bernadette.

"Yeah, can we?" added Moosey.

"Sure," I said, then unlatched the gate and opened it. "Be careful, though. Don't chase her, and don't go into that corner of the pen." I pointed to the corner where the pig had obviously decided to do her business.

"Pew!" said Bernadette, making a face. "Don't worry!"

The two kids went cautiously into the pen and walked slowly up to the pig, who looked up at them, grunted a greeting, and went back to snouting up the soil. A moment later, Bernadette and Moosey were scratching the pig's back, tickling her under the chin, and feeding her an apple that Bernadette had smuggled in by way of her coat pocket. At a hundred and fifty pounds, Portia wasn't a huge pig, and her belly probably counted for half of her weight. She was a little over three feet long, I'd say — maybe about forty inches, nose to tail — and stood two feet high at the shoulder. Her head then sloped downward, in the manner of pigs, and large jowls framed her short face and snout. Her ears were large and hung forward, shading her eyes. The porcine mouth had a bow-like quality that made her appear as though she were smiling, and her eyes, beneath long, black lashes, were the most startlingly blue. She was, of course, covered with long, gray, curly hair.

Our pig was obviously used to children, or else just glad for the company, because she gave up her hunt for grubs and began frolicking with Moosey and Bernadette, chasing them around the pen, then being chased by them. She oinked happily and gave out a couple of squeals that first startled the kids, but then made them break into peals of laughter.

"When can we take her out for ruffles?" asked Moosey. He was kneeling beside the pig and hugging her around the neck.

"What's a ruffle?" asked Bernadette.

"Truffle," I said. "Truffles are like underground mushrooms. A pig can find them because their noses are so much more sensitive than ours. They can smell them under the ground. We might take her out next week. We're letting her get used to the place."

"Can we come?" asked Bernadette. "Hey, look at her tail!"

Like any happy dog, our Mangalitsa's long, straight tail was wagging back and forth to beat the band.

"She really likes us," said Moosey. "That's why she's wagging her tail."

"I think she does," I said. "It'd probably be good to take you two on our truffle hunt. She might find us what we want just to make you guys happy."

"Excellent!" said Bernadette.

* * *

"Any ideas on who kidnapped Rahab?" Meg asked as she whisked the dishes off the table and into the dishwasher.

"Not yet," I said. "We have this other thing, too. The dead Indian. We're operating under the assumption that they're connected somehow." Meg already knew about Kent Murphee's findings, and during a lovely meal of lamb curry, we'd dismissed the unpleasantness and talked about her upcoming business venture with Bev Greene — the
nonprofit financial advisement company that she was very excited about starting.

We finished clearing the kitchen and repaired to the den, where I opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio that Bud had recommended and poured us each a glass. Then, as Meg curled up on the sofa with her book to the sounds of a Vivaldi violin concerto, I sat at my desk, pulled the chain to illuminate the green glass of my banker's light, and prepared myself for another foray into the world of noir wordsmithing.

"Is your mass finished?" Meg asked, suddenly looking up from her reading. "You need to finish your mass before you write any more of your detective story. It's due tomorrow."

I felt like I was back in junior high school. "Yes, ma'am," I said. "It is finished."

"All of it?" asked Meg.

"Well, the
Kyrie
and the
Sanctus
. The fraction anthem for tomorrow is Muffy's solo
. On Eagle's Wings.
"

"No
Gloria
?"

"We don't do a
Gloria
during Lent," I reminded her.

"Yes, now I remember. Can I hear it?"

"No, you may not," I said. "It's a surprise."

Meg's face fell. "Oh,
no.
"

"Have no fear," I said. "It is a work that is worthy of the Rev. Dr. Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh."

"Oh,
NO!
" Meg said. "What about your Lenten discipline? I'll win our bet. You'll have to go with me to the Catawba Colonic and Detox Institute for a week."

"Is that the name of it? No way! This
is
my discipline," I replied. "No snarky comments
. No criticizing the sermon. No snide remarks about the liturgy or lack thereof. I shall go along with the church program, whatever that may be. I will not say anything negative and will be supportive in so far as I can.
And I have been."

"So what is this mass, then? The one that's so awful that you won't let me see it?"

"I was asked — nay, almost commanded — by the Rev. Mother to compose such a mass. A musical setting on a common, well-known tune which the congregation will be familiar with. And I have done so."

"And you think that this won't come off as snarkiness? Your deliberate attempt to make Mother P eat her words?"

"It may well," I said. "But let me point out to you that, number one, this was not my idea, and, number two, since no one has actually seen the mass, especially you, it cannot be assumed that it is anything but genius."

"We'll all see it tomorrow," said Meg. "Then your discipline is broken. I'll win the bet!"

"Au contraire. Tomorrow is Sunday and Sundays are excluded from Lent."

"
What?
" Meg said. "I don't believe it."

"Look it up yourself," I said, "or better yet, count it up on your fingers. Forty days from Ash Wednesday to Easter. That doesn't include Sundays. If you count Sundays, it's forty-six."

"Well, who forgot to tell me that?" asked Meg. "You mean I could have been eating chocolate?"

"You still can. The first Sunday in Lent is tomorrow. You haven't missed anything."

"Wait a second! Now I get it. You won't let me see your mass because tonight it's still Lent. Tomorrow is Sunday and you're off the hook. I'm not sure God would like this. You're using a Lenten loophole."

"It's not a loophole. It's been this way for hundreds of years."

"Well, I rebuke it!"

"Rebuke away, my darling," I said. "I'm secure in my absolution."

"Harrumph!"

I smiled and turned to my typewriter. My only friend.

* * *

The Big Brickle had an office in the Goree Building on the thirteenth floor. Big had agreed to see me and Pedro, and, even though the henchman was holding a heater on us, I knew that a gun was nothing more than a two-edged sword liable at any moment to turn its back on the very hand that was biting it.

We were ushered into an office that looked as though it had been decorated by Martha Stewart's prison roommate, then thrown up on by the cast of "Hoarders." The Big Brickle was wallowing on her overstuffed couch, one hand clutching a crate of bonbons, and the other pushing the delicious morsels, interminably, into her gaping maw.

"Hi there, Big," said Pedro. "Haven't seen you in a while."

That was an understatement. Pedro had been avoiding the Big Brickle ever since he dumped her on Valentine's Day. To his credit, he did leave her a note tied to a barrel of chocolate syrup as a parting gift.

The Big Brickle looked around, saw us, and delicately belched a hairball into her silk hanky. She made a move to get up. The room was hot and the
humidity made her massive thighs, under her lightweight
cotton dress, stick together like two manatees in heat.
They came apart with a smacking sound that gave me the shrieking willies.

"Long time no see, boys," said the Big Brickle in a voice like flat Guinness. "Seems like you only call on a girl when you want something."

To describe the Big Brickle as a "girl" would be like calling a musk ox "Betty." Her given name was Peanut — Peanut Brickle — and the last time I'd seen her, she was as mad as Jimmy Dean's pet pig, Flowerpot, when the pig inadvertently discovered the source of Jimmy's wealth by snouting open the secret door to the sausage factory, but Flowerpot's anger
only lasted a few unkind, if ultimately life-changing
moments, unlike the Big Brickle who really could hold a grudge, and if she was still carrying this particular
grudge, I just hoped she'd take it out on Pedro. I was too pretty. Everyone said so.