Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines (22 page)

“Hmm,” I said. “What I wonder is, whether you were having affairs with those three women.”

Francis went pale as a ghost, sputtered for a couple of seconds, then jumped to his feet and said, through clenched teeth, “
How dare you!
”

“Judging by your reaction, Francis, I think we’ve hit the molar on the head.”

“You have no right
…
you
…
you
…
you get out of here this instant!”

“Tell him about Crystal’s diary,” said Nancy. “The one we found under her mattress.”

“
What?
” said Francis, panic now in his voice. “Diary? Crystal kept a diary?”

“More like a journal,” I said, waving it off. “But never mind about that. Tell you what. Dave is getting a search warrant and we have good cause to believe that this office is where the murders took place. So if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside, we’re just going to clear everyone out and wait for Dave to show up.

“You can’t just paw through everything,” said Francis, losing his color again. “Patient records are confidential!”

“Never fear. We won’t infringe upon anyone’s rights.”

“You’ll regret this,” said Francis, but there were no teeth in his threat.

“Did you kill these women, Francis?” I asked. “Some sort of lover’s pique?”

“Of course not!”

“But you did have affairs with all three.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That’s not a crime,” said Francis, then, “I want to call my lawyer.”

“Just one more question,” said Nancy, showing him her teeth. “Do you think I need braces? I’ve got this slight overbite.”

Chapter 28

We executed the search warrant and came up empty. The warrant specified that we were granted access to the entire office, but only to the records of the three murdered women. Nancy went through them in Robin’s receptionist cubicle while Dave and I searched the rest of the building. Kent was right about the autoclave. There was one in the workroom, along with molds, dental plaster, and various other tools of the trade. In the corner was a large box strapped to a refrigerator dolly, shipping straps still in place. On the outside of the box was a label from Ross Orthodontic Supply and the words “Wehmer’s Pro Vacuum Mixer,” and “No Forks,” and “This End Up.” The walls of the office were lined with different machines, presumably all with an orthodontic purpose. We didn’t find any poison.

The victim’s records indicated that they all had retainers, although the only one we’d found was Darla’s. As far as definite proof of Francis’ guilt though, there was nothing. He as much as admitted the affairs, but he was right about one thing. That wasn’t a crime. Everything else we had was circumstantial. A competent lawyer would argue that anyone might have access to Darla’s retainer.

“Found something,” said Nancy, walking into the workroom where Dave and I were finishing up. She had a sheet of paper in her hand. “Darla, Crystal, and Amy all had appointments on January 10th. That was a Monday. Darla’s was at eleven o’clock. Crystal and Amy were back to back at 2:30 and 2:45.”

“Those appointments are close together,” I said.

“That’s the way they’re scheduled. Every fifteen minutes.”

“What did they come in for?” I asked.

“It just says ‘adjustment’ in the calendar. There isn’t anything in any of their records.”

“They all showed up?”

“Looks like it,” Nancy said. “They’re checked off and I found the sign-in sheet. There’s a problem though.”

“What?” I asked.

“According to the same calendar, Francis was in Raleigh on the 10th through the 12th at some orthodontic conference.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were,” said Nancy. “Easy enough to check.”

“Well, I doubt that Francis is going to be talking to us anyway. Let’s keep looking. Maybe we’ll find the poison in the bottom drawer of his desk.”

But we didn’t.

* * *

Evensongs at St. Barnabas are rare. During my twenty year tenure, we might have average one a year depending on the priest in charge. When Gaylen Weatherall was our rector, and before she went away to be a bishop, we did a few more — one in Advent, one in Lent, maybe another — but these were just standard fare. A Solemn Candlemas Evensong and Benediction would be something to see. This was my thought, as well as the thought of many of the parishioners. There was a good crowd in Sterling Park across the street, most of whom I thought were planning to attend. Father Dressler and the Chevalier had put up posters advertising the service around the downtown area. Nice posters, printed at OfficeMax in full color and featuring the Virgin Mary looking down from heaven in her holiness upon St. Barnabas.

The principal reason for the gathering across the street was the Garden Club’s Winter Festival. This wasn’t really a festival, but an excuse for the club to get everyone in town together and celebrate Groundhog Day by selling raffle tickets for bulbs, bare fruit trees, and lawn services to be used when spring had finally sprung. The money raised by the Garden Club was used to beautify the downtown area. They had put up flower boxes in all the windows a few years ago. They were responsible for the baskets bursting with color that hung from the lampposts every summer. They maintained the gardens in Sterling Park. The club consisted of a dedicated group of gardeners that took their mission seriously.

There were colorful striped tents set up all across the park; the girl scouts selling hot chocolate; a food tent; some vendors hawking mountain crafts. Dr. Ian Burch, PhD had his display of replicated Renaissance instruments. Noylene was advertising the Dip-n-Tan, although it was much too cold to do such a thing outside. She was pointing patrons into the Beautifery to get their bronze on. The Blue Hill Bookworms were selling used books, and with every book came a certificate for a free cupcake from Bun in the Oven. Patrons were going in and out of the bakery like ants.

The main feature of the Winter Festival was the groundhog. The “official” groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, had already predicted six more weeks of winter, but we had a groundhog of our own, so why would we listen to some Yankee groundhog? Our groundhog lived in a box in Penny Trice’s bedroom though, so seeing his shadow was a matter of turning on the lights. At 4:30 in the afternoon, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the mountains. It was a brisk and beautiful late winter afternoon.

I was at the central tent, the one selling raffle tickets. I didn’t buy any since where I live I have no need of free gardening. I did donate a hundred bucks to the cause and Georgia was happy to take my check.

“How come you’ve been skipping choir?” I asked her. “Meg says you missed Sunday as well as the Monday night rehearsal.”

“Cold,” croaked Georgia. “I can’t sing a lick. This happens to me every January. From what I hear about the rehearsal Monday, I didn’t miss much. I’ll come to the service though.” She gave me a wink and a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“I take it by your evil grin that Kimberly Walnut didn’t explain her predicament to Father Dressler.”

“She did not. She did talk to me about it, though. She seems to have come to the conclusion that it’s always better to ask for forgiveness than permission. That’s what Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh impressed upon her.”

“That was Rosemary’s mantra, sure enough,” I said. “But I wonder why Kimberly Walnut would think that playing the forgiveness card was the best approach with this particular priest.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Georgia with a shrug, then pointed toward the front doors of the church. “There she is. Why don’t you ask her?”

“Nah. How’s she going to get the groundhog inside the church?”

“Probably she’ll have it smuggled into the front row in a baby blanket. Not that I would know anything about that.”

“Of course not. Probably we’re speaking of Penny Trice’s little groundhog.”

“Oh, probably,” said Georgia. “I believe his name is Pig Whistle. Where’s Meg, anyway?”

“Oh, they were required to show up at four o’clock. They have to get their choir ruffs on.”

Georgia laughed, but thanks to her cold, it came out more like a bark. “Choir ruffs?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and they look ridiculous.” Then I asked, “How have you, or rather the Garden Club, managed to keep all this from Father Dressler?”

“He doesn’t really talk to anyone,” said Georgia. “I mean, he talks, of course, but he doesn’t listen. It’s like he’s in his own little world.”

“I understand.”

“Not that anyone would want to talk to him anyway. I think the Garden Club just assumes that he’s good with it. I’m the only member of the club in the choir and so Kimberly Walnut has been our only contact, not Father Gallus Dressler. Since she’s doing the opening sentences, it
might
have been suggested to her that she motion for Penny to bring Pig Whistle up during this time, then do a quick blessing before Father Dressler knows what’s going on. Penny and Pig Whistle will exit, the Solemn Evensong will continue, and everyone will be happy.”

“This all
might
have been suggested?” I said.

“Yes, it just might have,” said Georgia.

“I’m getting a front row seat,” I said.

“Save one for me,” said Georgia.

* * *

I was right about the crowd. When five o’clock rolled around, and the Blessing of the Groundhog imminent, almost everyone in the park headed for the church. It was getting cold, the sun now gone, although there was still plenty of daylight left. The festival goers probably thought this was going to be a quick service of blessing as it had in the past. A wave of the priestly hand over the rodent, a few words of wisdom about the folly of trying to predict God’s ways, a blessing on the upcoming season of growth, and home in time for drinks.

As the hour drew nigh, the church became packed. Many were St. Barnabas parishioners, but many weren’t. Everyone was chatting amongst themselves, as was common at one of these events. I looked at the bulletin that I’d picked up on my way in. At the top, in bold print, was the announcement: Let us keep silence in preparation of the worship of Almighty God. I had a feeling that the priest wasn’t going to appreciate all the good-natured visiting. I couldn’t tell for sure. I was in the front pew and I knew that Father Dressler would be in the back arranging the processional.

Sitting on the altar was the monstrance. The altar cloth had also been changed, probably chosen from the priest’s private collection. It was beautiful — intricate gold overlay on a white embroidered satin background. I knew that the priest’s vestments would match the altar cloth. He probably had a second set for Kimberly Walnut as well. The monstrance looked stunning. One of the spotlights at the top of the nave had been adjusted so that light glittered off the golden sunburst and flashed on the crystal eye of the icon. The eye was empty, waiting for the priest to insert the host and present it to the congregation for veneration.

The Chevalier Lance Fleagle had repositioned the anthem I’d rehearsed, moving it to the beginning of the service and using it as an introit.

“
Ahem
!” said Father Dressler’s voice, coming over the loudspeaker from the back of the church. He had figured out that the crowd wasn’t going to respect his rubric at the top of the bulletin and went to the next best thing: a welcoming announcement.

“Ahem,” he said again. “Welcome to this Candlemas Service of Solemn Evensong and Benediction. Please be aware that during a Solemn Evensong, it is customary to keep silence for a few moments before the service begins.”

The crowd was silent, but Father Dressler pushed his “few moments” to about four minutes, and the chattering started back. Then the organ gave some pitches and the choir sang:

I sat down under his shadow

with great delight,

and his fruit was sweet to my taste.

He brought me to the banqueting house,

and his banner over me was love.

I smiled and I heard some titters as the first line was sung by the choir. Then the beautiful choral sounds filled the church and the congregation stilled. The final chords of the introit faded and the processional began.

This processional wasn’t a hymn, as was usual at St. Barnabas, but rather a couple of movements from
Hommage à Frescobaldi
by Jean Langlais. Written in the 1950s I thought, although I didn’t know the work. The
Offertoire
began with a kind of brooding dance on the manuals with a chant tune in the pedals. It was the type of piece I hated to hear in concert, the type of piece most organists loved, the type of piece that generally made the congregation’s teeth hurt. But it did add to the atmosphere of holy mystery, so I decided to appreciate it for what it was.

First in was Benny Dawkins, his thurible smoking like a 1969 Volkswagon van. At his side was Addie Buss, his young
protégé
, but instead of being relegated to sideboat duty, she now had a pot of her own. She matched Benny step for step and when he began his first “adoration” it was clear that we were seeing something special. Benny’s thurible spun on its chains, seeming to defy the laws of physics. Addie’s smaller pot, on shorter chains, was no less spectacular, twisting and turning inside the arc of the larger pot’s orbit. We watched as wonderfully intricate Celtic knots appeared and disappeared, tied and untied, Addie’s intertwining with Benny’s, and vice-versa. Never did the pots touch, never did the artists falter. Step after measured step until they reached the chancel steps. Several non-parishioners applauded spontaneously, but were quickly shushed.

Following the two thurifers was the crucifer, Robert, one of Moosey’s friends, who carried the cross proudly. He’d obviously been well-coached. Moosey and Bernie, now official acolytes, followed carrying the torches. It would be their job to light all the candles, and there were plenty of them. They went around the thurifers, who had paused at the steps, and got to their task.

The choir was next, processing with their heads sitting atop ruffled crinoline platters, hands pressed in a prayerful pose, teeth gritted, eyes straight ahead. Genuflecting was still the order of the day. The two ushers were there to help everyone back to their feet, but most of the choir just grabbed the side of the pew and hoisted themselves back up. As the choir split, made their turns, and headed back down the side aisles toward the narthex steps, Benny and Addie stood side by side at the chancel and their smoke now billowed like a scene from
The Ten Commandments
. They mounted the steps and stood on either side of the altar, and the smoke rose in pillars of glory.

Kimberly Walnut and Father Dressler were last in line and they ascended the steps with all due dignity. They were wearing matching copes, golden capes obviously from the Dressler catalog of liturgical finery since they also matched the altar cloth. Father Dressler went to his chair, but remained standing, Kimberly Walnut made her way behind the altar, raised her hands and waited for her moment.