The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) (16 page)

Chapter 18

The choir was gathering in the loft for our pre-game rehearsal. Since we weren't doing the Great Litany in Procession, Mother P, obviously not a fan of the penitential rite, had seen no reason to change the service other than substituting the
Kyrie
for the
Gloria
. In other years, years when the Great Litany was relegated to Advent, we might have begun the first Lenten service with the Penitential Order that included a confession of sin and absolution. We had in past years included the decalog — a reading of the ten commandments — or else a summary of the law found in the Gospels of Matthew or Mark. Music for the occasion had always been fairly somber. But this year we were "blending." I wouldn't even be surprised if a forbidden "Alleluia" snuck in here or there.

"Are we singing the Psalm this morning?" asked Meg. She was the first soprano robed and in her seat by virtue of being married to the organist. The rest of the sopranos were filling in the section as they arrived.

"We are not," I said. "I was informed this morning that, during Lent, Rosemary would like to have the Psalms read antiphonally by the congregation. The text is in the bulletin."

"Then I'm singing it at communion!" added Muffy, who had found her seat. "Psalm 91.
On Eagle's Wings.
That's why I'm not wearing my choir robe." Muffy was in a lavender angora sweater that wouldn't have been out of place in a 1940's Jane Mansfield film. It was a tight fit, accentuating her curves, and she had demurely accented the look with a strand of pearls. She had on light-gray stretch pants and high heels. Her dark red hair exhibited a touch of Lenten restraint, seemingly not quite as teased, nor piled as high as usual.

"Varmit's downstairs," she announced. "He won't be singing this morning. He needs to run my mic and the CD player."

"Back to the Psalm," Elaine interrupted. "Antiphonally. How does that work?"

"I'm sure that Rosemary will give us direction," I answered. "But that's what it says in the bulletin. 'Antiphonally.' I presume that the right half of the congregation says the even verses and the left hand side does the odd ones."

"What do
we
do?" said Mark Wells. "We're in the back."

"Your choice," I said. "Now take out your anthem for the offertory and let's go through it.
Lord, For Thy Tender Mercy's Sake
by Richard Farrant."

"What the hell is
that
thing?" asked Marjorie, pointing down at the altar. Marjorie had found her chair and just noticed the new sanctuary decor.

"I believe it's a bald eagle," I answered. "And a squirrel."

"I know it's an eagle!
Why is it on the altar!?
" Marjorie was incensed. As a thirty-year member of the Altar Guild, although now long retired, she had standards.

"It's there because Mother P is preaching on Psalm 91," said Muffy. "The new members of the Altar Guild thought that it would help the congregation visualize the promise. For He will command His angels to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone. Also, there's eagles in there somewhere."

"So what?" said Marjorie. "When she preaches on Abraham and Isaac, is she going to throw a slaughtered goat up there?"

"Now, Marjorie," I said. "I believe that was a ram."

"Where's the squirrel come in?" said Randy.

"It came with the eagle," Meg said.

"Well, I don't like it!" spat Marjorie. "Not one little bit!"

Muffy pursed her lips and didn't comment further.

Joyce Cooper's face appeared at the choir loft door. "Hayden," she called. "I really hate to interrupt, but you need to come down here for a minute."

The look on her face told me she wasn't joking. I got up from the organ bench and wound my way through the sea of legs and billowing surplices, then descended the steps into the narthex. Joyce was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

"Two Indians," she said and pointed through the door into the church. "Sorry. Native Americans. On the left side. See them? I went up and tried to talk to them. They stared right through me. Gave me the creeps. Something's not right."

"I'll talk to them," I said, moving into the church and making my way to the side aisle.

They saw me coming and both turned to face me, slowly, their hands coming to rest in front of them, hands clasped just above their belt buckles. They were both dressed in black, the taller of the two wearing a black suit, black silk shirt with no tie and black dress cowboy boots. He was a shade over six feet and powerfully built, heavy shoulders and a thick middle. Glancing at the hands in front of him, I saw large, calloused knuckles and several gold rings. He had on a gold necklace as well, a chain with a golden arrowhead that dangled onto his hairless chest. The shorter of the Indians was not that much shorter, but he was slighter. His face was meaner and his small, black eyes followed my movements with intent. He was wearing black, skinny jeans and a black turtleneck, and dress cowboy boots with silver tips on the toes that looked exactly like the one I'd seen decorating the boot of Johnny Talltrees. Both men had long, black hair, slicked, and tied back in ponytails. They looked dangerous. They were dangerous.

"Gentlemen," I said as I approached. The church was empty except for the choir, watching from the loft, and Joyce, who was standing nervously by one of the back doors leading to the narthex.

One of them, the smaller one, nodded at me but didn't say anything.

"My name is Hayden Konig. I'm the Chief of Police." I held out my badge, then slipped it back into my pocket. "I also work here at the church. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, Chief," said the smaller one. "Thanks just the same. We were looking for someone. We heard he might be here."

"Johnny Talltrees?" I asked.

The smaller Indian's eyebrows went up a hair, but other than that his expression didn't change. "You know Johnny?" he said.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Johnny's dead. We're looking into the circumstances surrounding his death. I'm sorry for your loss."

The smaller Indian gave a shrug. The taller one stood stock still. Then the small one said, "No loss to me. We wondered what happened to him."

"We?"

"We, his employers. We represent the Friendly Gaming Club in Cherokee."

"And your name is ..."

"I am called George Gist." I had no doubt he was making that up.

"And you aren't looking for Talltrees?" I asked.

"Not particularly," he said. "We are looking for someone else."

"Someone in particular?"

George Gist shrugged.

"Well, this is a church and we will be having a worship service here shortly. If you're not here to join us in worship, I'll have to ask you to wait elsewhere."

George Gist considered this for a moment, the gave a small nod. "We will wait for him elsewhere."

"If you mean anyone harm," I said, "it might be best if you go on back to Cherokee." I gave him a hard look, then shifted my gaze to the tall Indian. He hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked as far as I could tell.

"We just need to have a word. As I said, we'll wait for him elsewhere." George Gist glided past me and was followed by his confederate. They walked to the door, looked back into the church one last time, then disappeared outside. I followed them back down the side aisle at a reasonable distance and looked out the front doors. They were both standing in the park, facing the church, hands clasped in front of them, watching.

I started to climb the stairs back into the loft when Joyce grabbed hold of my coattail.

"What did they want?" she asked.

"They were looking for their friend," I lied. "You know, the one that we found in the alley."

"Oh," said Joyce, and considered my answer. "They certainly look scary."

"Yes, they do," I replied. "But looks aren't everything."

* * *

"Back to work, everyone."

"Who were those guys?" Rhiza Walker whispered. "Are they still here?"

"They've left," I said, then gave the choir the same story that I'd just given Joyce. Friends of Johnny Talltrees. "Now let's get to the music, shall we?"

By the time we'd sung through the short offertory anthem, corrected a few mistakes, then sung through it again, our jollity had returned and the visitors were forgotten. Since we had no Psalm to practice and no communion anthem to contend with, we were through in record time.

"Now," I said, "it's time to rehearse our new service music." I took a stack of photocopied music off the top of the organ and passed it over to Bev Greene, who handed it down the rows of singers. As they looked at the title page, their mouths dropped open, and more than a few snorts and coughs uttered forth from the ranks.

"Since this is new," I said, "the choir will be singing it alone this morning. Then next week, we'll have congregational copies as well, and they can sing along."

"Has anyone seen this yet?" asked an incredulous Fred May, our Senior Warden. "And by 'anyone,' I mean Mother P?"

"That's a good question," I said. "I admit that Meg made me feel a bit guilty about writing this. So, in a spate of Lenten remorse, I called Rosemary in this morning and played it for her."

"It's true," said Meg sadly. "He did. I was there."

"And?" said Fred.

"She loved it," said Meg, and crossed herself. "God forgive us."

"It's full steam ahead," I said. "
Missa di Poli Woli Doodle
with a tip o' the hat to Leon Redbone. Let's sing through it, shall we?"

I played an introduction and the choir entered in four parts. It was a composition worthy of the best of the bad Renaissance composers. It began with a homophonic, or hymn-like, section, all the parts moving together, and then a lovely polyphonic ending of each stanza reminiscent of Palestrina. As in all traditional
Kyries
, there were three sections:
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.
The choir sang:

Lord have mercy, now we pray,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie;

Lord have mercy, now we pray,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie;

Kyrie, Kyrie, Kyrie, I've gone astray;

Hear my reverent confession,

and forgive me my transgression,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie.

The second verse was the same, but now in a minor key and a little slower.

Christ have mercy, now we pray,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie;

Christ have mercy, now we pray,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle Kyrie.

Kyrie, Kyrie, Kyrie, I've gone astray;

When I hear my Lord a-calling,

then I find my sins appalling,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie.

I had to stop playing at this point because several of the altos had succumbed to attacks of laughter and had fallen out of their chairs. "Very nice," I said as they struggled back into their seats. "Let's do this last verse unaccompanied, please."

Lord have mercy, now we pray,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie;

Lord have mercy, now we pray,

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie;

Kyrie, Kyrie, Kyrie, I've gone astray;

And at last I know I'm shriven,

and my sins have been forgiven.

Singing Poli Woli Doodle, Kyrie.

"Ow, ow, ow!" yelped Martha. "My side hurts! Stop singing!"

"I like it," said Muffy. "It has some bounce to it and it's easy to learn."

"You will have a lot to answer for on the Day of Judgement," said Bob Solomon. "I'm not sure even Jesus can get you out of this one."

I bowed my head and placed my hand humbly over my heart. "Only doing my job." I looked across the choir and returned their collective smiles with one of my own. "Now let's sing through the
Sanctus
."

* * *

The service began, and the choir processed to our opening hymn, as per usual, and then climbed the stairs to the loft and found their seats. Mother P read the collect.

"Almighty God, whose blessed Son was led by the Spirit to be tempted by Satan; Come quickly to help us who are assaulted by many temptations; and, as you know the weaknesses of each of us, let each one find you mighty to save; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever."