Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon (6 page)

"Of course," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"I'll give the titles to Brenda for the bulletin."

"Yes, yes. That's fine. Whatever," he said, and then continued.

"Now, I'm going to be making a few changes around here. The first is that we're going to add a little pomp to the services. I will be processing along with the choir, the thurifer and the acolytes. However, I'm going to need a verger and two more attendants to carry the back of my cope in procession. Hayden, can you take care of that?"

"No, I don't think so."

He looked rather startled.

"You," he said, pointing at Beverly Greene, one of the two Altar Guild representatives. "What's your name?"

"Beverly…um…Greene," she answered hesitantly.

"Yes, Ms. Greene," he said, taking particular care to pronounce 'mizz' in a politically correct fashion – extra emphasis on the 'zz'. "Will you take care of getting those attendants for me?"

"Er…yes, I guess so."

"Good. That's done then. I have a verger that's coming with me. He's my valet and a top-notch verger. I'll speak to the vestry about getting him appointed and on the staff. That's all then. You're dismissed. Brenda, come with me." He looked around the table. "I'll see
most
of you on Monday morning."

He picked up his pad and was out the door, followed closely by Brenda Marshall, before I could even start laughing. Which I did – at length – as soon as the door closed.

"Oh man," said Elaine, the other Altar Guild representative. "We are in for it."

Father Tony was so mad he couldn't even get a word out.

"Meg says that I have to play nice," I explained to the remaining attendees of the introductory meeting, "which is why I didn't even mention the ground-hog pelt sitting atop his head."

"I hear he has a wife," Beverly said.

"And that she's even worse," Elaine chimed in.

"How is the Priest Selection Committee coming with the resumés?" I asked.

"Well, they didn't meet last week," said Tony. "But I'll get them back together tonight. And at least once more before I leave."

Chapter 5

"That's funny, you don't look like a leper."

I must admit that it wasn't the best pick-up line I've ever used. Sometimes I went with "What's your sign?", sometimes with "Don't I know you from someplace?" This was a new one. But if it worked, I'd keep it in the repertoire.

She stood by the window, the sun racing across her snake-stained dress, looking like ... well ... a very good-looking leper. I lit a cigar.

"You should really have that dress cleaned," I puffed, the smoke coming out of my mouth like the exhaust from a Yugo with a bad ring job. "Those snake stains are pretty disgusting."

"Silly boy. Don't you know that a leper can't change her spots?" She giggled. One of her ears fell off and landed on my desk. She quickly put it into her pocketbook and returned to the reclining position by the window. I knew she was hoping I didn't see her little gaffe because it's hard to seduce someone when your facade is coming apart.

She laughed again, this time nervously. "I just can't seem to keep those dried apricots in my hair."

"Listen sister," I growled. "I haven't got time for this. What's your game?"

I knew about her, of course. Lilith Hammerschmidt, the leprous and distant relation to Andreas Hammerschmidt, the early baroque composer of some note, and a fine musician in her own right. Or so I had heard. I had also heard that the specific kind of leprosy with which she was infected was relatively non-contagious. At least the snake looked healthy--and hungry. I took a hamster out of my pocket and threw it into the middle of the floor, and he was on it like Doberman frosting on a poodle cake.

"Do you always keep hamsters in your pants?"

I changed the subject. I was good at this game and she knew it. I lit another cigar.

"What's the deal, Lilith? Is the bishop setting me up again?"

"I don't know anything about it. All I know is that we've got to have the Leper Colony approved. I'm here on behalf of the Crofton Chamber of Commerce. I'm their official lobbyist." She pulled off her glove and put her thumb back in her purse.

Suddenly and without warning, I heard a startling sound. It was not unlike the great bass, Hans Hotter, singing the entire score to "Die Winterreise" by Franz Schubert, but in a much lower key. I looked around the room. It was a deep, deep sound and resonant. It was a sound I had been looking for to complete my choir, and it seemed to be coming from the snake.

"Is that the hamster, or is the snake singing German lieder?"

She smiled and two teeth dropped to the carpet, lying there like a couple of yellow Chicklets. "It's just Rolf. He's highly musical."

•••

"Aaaargh!" said Meg, doing her best pirate impression and slamming the kitchen door. She had picked up "Aaaargh!" from me, I suppose, it being one of my favorite buccaneer expressions. I like to think I'm a good influence.

"I don't know if I can take this priest, even as an interim."

"He is singularly unlikable."

"I was 'informed' that I was required at the worship meeting this morning."

"And how did that go?"

"All I can say is 'Aaaargh!'"

"Well put."

"You," she said, with a sudden gleam in her eyes. "You can do something."

"No, I can't. Remember my Lenten resolve. I shan't make any trouble for the man. Or his toady, Brenda, either. I am the model of a good employee."

"She's a piece of work," Meg said. "And guess what? His valet has arrived. We haven't met him yet, but the plan is to install him as verger, then have the vestry hire him and put him on staff."

"I had heard that."

"So, what's a verger for Pete's sake? And why do we need one? And if we did need one, why would we hire the priest's valet? And why does a priest
need
a valet?"

"All very good questions."

"Well?"

"Hmmm," I started. "A verger is basically the person who marshals the procession, but they're usually associated with cathedrals. They have a very nice stick and they point where everyone in the procession should go. I suppose they can have other duties as well, sort of like ushers. As far as St. Barnabas is concerned, I think that a verger would be just hilarious. I'm for it."

"As to why our new priest needs a valet, perhaps it's to keep that ferocious toupee from escaping and making a meal out of someone's house-cat."

"You're not being serious here."

"Oh yes I am. It's Lent, remember?"

"Here's the other thing. Princess Foo-Foo has decided to institute a Children's Moment in the service right before the office hymn."

"Princess Foo-Foo?"

"Brenda. You know. Our director of Christian ed. She's very 'feeling-oriented.'"

"I didn't know she knew what an office hymn was. But now that I think about it, yes. Yes, a Children's Moment should be fun," I said. "It will allow the children to be the center of attention as well as terrifying the parents and entertaining the congregation to no end. It's win-win all around and just plain good church."

"We went through this before. Remember?"

"I do remember."

"And you were against it."

"Yes, but now I'm for it," I replied with a smile.

"Aaaargh!"

•••

As Children's Moments go, I thought the first one by our new interim priest went rather well. We hadn't met the priest's valet, and the office of verger hadn't been sanctioned, so we were still vergerless. We did have two extra acolytes to carry the tails of the priest's cope. They were instructed to keep the cope off the ground at all times – something not that easy to accomplish given the fact that the cope was easily a foot too long for the priest. Still, the acolytes scurried around behind him wherever he went like a couple of hyperactive bridesmaids trying to keep the bridal train straight for the photographer. The choir was horrified and kept glancing my way, perhaps thinking that I would finally put the Beretta 9mm I kept under the organ bench to good use. I, however, looked on with an expression I hoped might be described as "expectant wonder."

After the second hymn, Father Barna announced that the children should come forward to spend a few quality moments with their spiritual leader. Four children came forward. The rest clung to their parents like infant chimpanzees, their faces hidden in fear of being forced to participate.

"Good morning," said the priest in his best child-friendly voice, a voice I presume he'd been practicing all morning. "I'm Father Barna. Today I’d like to tell you a Bible story."

"What's that on your head?" asked Moosey loudly. Moosey McCollough was a particular favorite of mine. His father had named the three McCollough children after various beers before he abruptly disappeared, leaving their mother, Ardine, with the trailer, the kids, and no money to speak of. Bud, the oldest, was fourteen. Pauli-Girl was twelve. Little Moose-Head, Moosey for short, was six and the most gregarious of the clan.

Father Barna pretended he hadn't heard the question and started again.

"Today I'd like to tell you a Bible story."

"Is this one about a dinosaur?" asked Bernadette. Bernadette was five and a half.

"No, it's not about a dinosaur," said Father Barna.

"Is this the story about the ark and the rainbow and the dove and the animals, two-by-two?" asked Ashley. "Because if it is, we already know that one." Ashley was Bernadette's best friend. The other boy was Robert, a precocious kindergartener. Together – Moosey, Bernadette, Ashley and Robert were the Fearsome Foursome of the Sunday School and every teacher's nightmare.

"No," said the priest, answering Ashley's question. "It's not about the ark."

"Is it the story about David and the giant and the five smooth stones?" asked Robert.

The questions were coming fast now.

"No," said Father Barna, sweat starting to form under the edges of his hairpiece, causing the ends to curl ominously.

Robert: "Is this the story..."

"No! Now just listen. This is the story of Gideon and his fleece."

It was Moosey's turn. "Gideon and his fleas?"

"Yes. Once upon a time, before Jesus was born, there was a King named Gideon."

Bernadette was next. "Was he an evil king?"

"No. He was a good king. God told Gideon to attack the army that was threatening the Israelites."

Ashley: "I would do it. I’d sure do it if God said so. God’s sort of like your father – only bigger."

They were tag-teaming now. A well-oiled, unrehearsed juggernaught. Father Barna was beginning to squirm.

"Of course you’d do it. But Gideon was afraid and didn’t want to attack."

Moosey: "He was probably just all itchy."

"Itchy?" said Father Barna. "Why?"

"Because of his fleas."

Father Barna did his best to ignore the comment, obviously confused, much to the congregation's delight. This was, as they say in show biz, what they had paid to see.

"Well, I suppose," said the priest trying to get back on track. "Anyway, Gideon told God that he would put his fleece on the ground and if it was wet in the morning when the ground was dry, he would know God would help him win."

Moosey: "So he put his fleas on the ground?"

"Yes."

"And were they wet?"

"Yes," said Father Barna.

"And then did he take them back?" Moosey was pushing him for answers.

"Well, I suppose he did."

Moosey thought hard for a moment. The church became very still as everyone waited expectantly for his next observation. Even the other children demurred to his next theological revelation.