Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed (12 page)

“I cannot and I will not recant anything. Here I stand. I can do no other.”

“Yes, Dr. Luther, Very funny. Are you running out of steam on
The Alto Wore Tweed?”
Megan wondered aloud as she finished reading my latest missive. “At least we understood
some
of that.”

hI just thought that Reformation Day needed a little punching up. It’s not one of our more well-known feast days. I’ll get back to the story in a bit.”

“So what do we actually do for Reformation Day? I don’t seem to remember any kind of mention of it in the service.”

“Well, usually we all dress up as monks, walk barefoot in procession down Main Street and nail our complaints to the mayor’s door. Then we find a hotdog vendor and say ‘Make us one with everything.’ But we haven’t done it for a few years. Actually the last time was right before you moved here.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “This is a tradition I think we should resurrect. Do you still have your monk suit?”

“Of course I have my monk suit. Is it always your habit to be so inquisitive?” I added, smirking poignantly. I had a lot of monk jokes.

“Oh, haha,” Meg replied mirthlessly. “Your puns garner you no lady’s favors, sirrah. And what’s this stuff about the International Congress of Church Musicians? I haven’t ever heard of them.”

“It’s a secret society and I must advise you to pretend you never asked that question.”

Meg looked up at me from below arched eyebrows.

“Many people have made that same inquiry in various forms and were never heard from again.”

“Do tell,” she said.

“Sometimes they’d ask nicely and say, ‘Just what is the purpose and mission of the ICCM?’ and sometimes they’d just yell, ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning! Why don’t you idiots shut up and get that damn goat off my lawn?’ Then the cops would come and we’d have a heck of a time explaining sixteen men in raccoon hats, a goat and a five-gallon container of spaghetti sauce.”

“I see. So
that’s
what you’re up to all hours of the night.”

“I have no comment at this time.”

“You need to have your blood sugar checked. I think you may be a couple of bubbles out of plumb. Now, let’s see that clue you were talking about.”

I pulled a Xerox of the clue out of my shirt pocket, unfolded it, put it on the kitchen table and smoothed it out. Meg spun it around slowly so she could read it and sat down at the table.

“Hmmm,” she hummed, deep in thought.

“Any ideas?” I rested my elbows on the table and propped my chin in my hands.

“OK,” she said. “Let’s assume for the moment that this is a real clue. That someone saw who did it and is trying to get you to guess who it is—for whatever reason.”

“Fair enough.”

I saw who did it. It’s Him. It’s Matthew.

She continued. “It’s obviously not Matthew, right?”

I nodded. “All Matthews are currently alibied.”

“Then what could ‘Matthew’ mean? Her fingers were tapping on the table.

“The Gospel of Matthew?” I offered.

“Right,” she said decisively. “But where in the gospel? That’s the question.”

I was content to let her keep going. I had a feeling Meg was going to make me look good.

“Hmmm,” she hummed again, this time at a slightly higher pitch.

“Got it!” she sang out suddenly. “Get me a hymnal and a Bible!”

“An Episcopal hymnal?”

“Of course, silly. It’s so obvious. It has to be an Episcopal hymnal and whatever translation of the Bible we use at the church. You’re so cute when you’re playing detective,” she called after me as I went into the library to fetch her books.

I handed her a New American Standard version of the Bible and The Hymnal 1982.

“Now,” she said picking up the hymnal and turning to the index in the back. “
Hark, the Herald Angels
, hymn number 87. You see? It’s Him, It’s Matthew.
O hark the herald angels sing
. Hymn number 87. Matthew 8:7. Pretty clever, yes?”

“You’re a wonder, do you know that?” I said admiringly. “How about a kiss?”

“Not now! Can’t you see we’re about to solve the murder? All we have to do is look up the verse and we’ll know who the killer is.” She was already thumbing through the well worn book.

“And he said to him ‘I will come and heal him,’” I quoted.

“What?” she said, distracted and finding the passage.”

“And he said to him ‘I will come and heal him,’” I repeated. “Matthew 8:7.”

“How did you know that? Do you have this whole book memorized?” She was genuinely shocked.

“Well, no. Actually I looked it up this morning.”

“You stinker!” she shouted, laughing. “I might have known.”

“Now, about that kiss, Ms. Farthing....”

“Not on your life. Get away from me. Lips that touched goat lips will never touch mine.” She ducked under my halfhearted grope and slid to the other side of the table.

“Well then, who did it?” she asked, picking up the note again and looking at it intently as if the answer would leap forth from the paper. “A doctor?”

“It could be, but that’s still a stretch. It’s certainly not a definite identification of the killer. There have to be eight or ten doctors in the church not to mention dentists, nurses, EMTs, and whoever else might bmployed in the health care field. And let’s not forget, it may be someone that isn’t a member.”

“I think it is,” said Meg suddenly quiet, her playful mood dropping away. “I think it is a member of St. Barnabas.”

• • •

October was drawing to a close. It was my favorite month and this one was certainly one for the books. The mayor had called me in to see about our progress on the case. Of course, the mayor was also known as Pete Moss, the owner of The Slab.

“How’re you doing Hayden?”

“Is this an
Official Meeting
?” I asked. “’Cause if it is, I want a complimentary piece of Boston Cream pie and a cup of coffee.”

“Yes, it’s official. Doris,” he called, “get the detective some pie and a cup of coffee, would you?”

“Boston Cream,” I yelled out.

Pete dragged up a chair. “The city council wants to know about your progress on the Boyd case.”

“Ah, the council.”

“Any progress?”

“Some,” I said. “Not very much though.”

The pie and coffee arrived right on schedule. I always enjoyed these high-level meetings.

“That’s it?” asked Pete.

“That’s it.”

Pete nodded and his eyebrows went up. “Well, thanks for coming in.”

“Always a pleasure,” I muttered, my mouth full of the scrumptious pastry.

• • •

I pulled up to the McCollough’s trailer later that afternoon. Moosey met me at the door, grinning, with his hands behind him and rocking back and forth on his heels. This time I hadn’t forgotten.

“Here you go, young man,” I said, handing him a big bag of M&Ms. He was out the door and down the steps in half a second.

“Moosey,” his mother called after him. Don’t eat those before dinner.” She sighed and turned to me with a mock frown showing on her face.

“You shouldn’t oughtta give him that stuff.”

“OK, I’ll try to cut back.”

“Well, thanks,” she said. “C’mon in. Is this about Bud?”

“No, actually it’s not. I came to get some expertise and maybe a little advice.”

“Sure,” she said, confused. “Have a seat.” She motioned to the couch and took a chair facing it.

“Do you know anything about oleander?” I asked.

The color drained out of Ardine McCollough’s face so fast I thought she was going to pass out. If I had had a polygraph on her, it would have been playing Chopsticks.

“Um...it’s a plant, I think,” she stuttered, her voice in a half-whisper, her hand moving to her collar.

Whatever skills Ardine might possess, I could tell that lying was not going to be one of them. I hadn’t even posed a pointed question and already she was ready to confess. I admit that I now had an idea what had happened to PeeDee McCollough, but that wasn’t why I was here.

“Listen, Ardine,” I said. “I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I figure PeeDee just up and left. It happens a lot around here and I’m sure that you’re glad he’s gone.”

“I am glad,” she replied, relaxing just a little but still sitting stiffly in the chair, her hands clenched and primly in her lap.

“But there was someone else in town killed by oleander,” I continued, “and I want to know if anyone called you for some advice.”

“I don’t know if I should say,” said Ardine, her voice quiet and without emotion. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

“And I know your promise is important,” I said, leaning forward to impart the importance of the question. “But I need to know who it is.”

“Yes. I guess you should know.”

I waited for about six beats, not saying anything.

“It was that woman from the church.”

“The priest?”

“No. The one that works in the kitchen. She said her name was JJ.”

For someone who has a comment for every occasion, I was speechless.

Chapter 9

The smoke of my stogie circled my head as I rounded the corner of the bar. Then I saw her. She caught my eye like that little fish hook that your brother casts over his shoulder without paying attention. A long, tall blonde. I
’
d seen her before
-
-the bishop
’
s personal trainer.

“
Hi handsome,” she purred. “I
’
m Amber. Amber Dawn.”

“
Hi Amber. I saw your photo spread last month in
‘
Hymns and Hers.
’
Very impressive.”

“
Thanks babe. I
’
ve been looking for you. The bishop wants you to take a look at this.”

She handede a memo. It was from the bishop all right and I was his church music commission toady. I opened the memo and gave it the once over. Another PCD
-
-Politically Correct Directive.

“
Beginning immediately,” the memo said, “all new music compositions must contain a minimum of 50%
‘
nonwhite
’
notes. (Also, in keeping within the national and diocesan guidelines, all whole and half notes will be known as
‘
pigmentally impoverished.
’
)

“
As church musicians, we must also be aware that, although albino-genetic recessive notes tend to move faster and jump higher than pigmentally impoverished notes, we must not perpetuate this stereotype. Pigmentally impoverished notes must be allowed to achieve their true and full potential, and not be held back by any of the
‘
so called
’
traditional composers. By the same token, notes-of-color must be allowed to proceed at their own pace.”

I had heard it all before, but now the bishop was taking it up a notch.

• • •

Christmas, as always, was coming up too fast. I planned to enjoy the holidays every year, but it never worked out. My Christmas vacation generally started on December 26th.

In addition to my church duties, which multiplied during the holidays, there was a myriad of constabulary duties that needed taking care of, not the least of which was this murder. Now more than six weeks old, it was out of the thoughts of almost everyone else. However, I am nothing if not dogged, and I was pretty sure I would have it wrapped up by Christmas.

After speaking with Ardine McCollough, my next visit in the case of the dearly departed Willie Boyd was to JJ. I found her, after a couple of misses, in the kitchen back at the church fixing something for the evening fellowship meal.

“Hi there, Hayden. Wassup?” JJ was dumping a pile of what I hoped were vegetables recognized by the USDA into the boiling pot.

“Well, not too much, my dear. What’s cooking today?”

JJ was sporting her ever-present white painter’s overalls with one of the straps dangling down over her shoulder, a flannel shirt, a bandanna around her neck, and a baseball cap.

“I can’t decide what kind of soup it’s going to be. I’m just putting the stock together.”

“Smells good.”

“You can have some tonight if you get here on time for a change.”