Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed (21 page)

“Never mind,” I said, changing the subject before the meeting turned ugly. Of the three of us, I was definitely
not
the one to be casting aspersions in regard to girth.

“I like your computer, Boss. Is it a new one?”

Dave had finished up his bite of pancakes and was doing his best to clean up his chin.

“Pretty new.”

I fired it up as I gave Doris my order. I had put my “list” on the computer. It was easier to change it on the word processor and I was changing it pretty often.

“Did we hear from the lab?” I asked Nancy.

“I have it right here.” She shuffled through the papers that she had stacked beside her plate. “Here we go.”

She scanned the report quickly to refresh her memory and then gave us the highlights.

“The cross was saturated with oleandrin, nerin, digitoxigenin, and rosagenin.” She hesitated slightly over the unfamiliar names, but read them off without a noticeable error, then checked them again to make sure she had read them correctly before continuing. “The same chemicals that were found in Willie Boyd’s system. Kent Murphee says that the cross was probably boiled in the pot with the oleander because the olive wood absorbed a huge amount of the toxins. And because it was boiled down, it was much more potent than the oleander itself.”

“We thought as much,” I said, holding my coffee cup up for Doris to fill. I opened the file on the iBook. “Let’s see what we have.”

“Well, at least the computer is a step up from your little list,” said Nancy.

When?

Willie Boyd was killed on Friday afternoon at approximately 5:12 p.m. Beverly Green saw him at 5:10 making a phone call to the police. He stole Loraine Ryan’s olive-wood cross from the sacristy and, according to Bev, kissed it before going up to the choir loft where he had a drink, threw up on the organ and died. Willie had stolen three cases of wine earlier that afternoon, hidden them in the trunk of his car and drank from one of the bottles that he had hidden in the choir loft. The wine wasn’t poisoned, but the cross was.

Who?

We still don’t know, but we had the clue figured out. Sort of.

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

O hark the herald angels sing;

The boy’s descent which lifted up the world.

The clue is an anagram. We think that the first line refers to a hymn number and the Gospel of Matthew. The second two lines are an anagram for

While shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground.

While shepherds watched
is hymn number 94. Matthew 9:4 says, “Why are you thinking evil in your hearts?” No help there. Not yet.

Mother Ryan wasn’t off the hook. She knew something, of that I was sure. She was in the kitchen and knew about the oleander broth.

Why?

I’m pretty sure that Willie’s death was an accident. It was a murder, all right, but I suspect that the object of the murder wasn’t Willie at all, but Loraine Ryan. There wasn’t any way that the murderer could possibly know that Willie, infatuation or not, would steal Mother Ryan’s cross and kiss it. Herself, on the other hand, would kiss the cross as a matter of ritual whenever she put it on. Eventually, she would get a fatal dose of the poison. So who would want Mother Ryan dead? Other than everyone in the parish, I mean?

How?

Oleander poisoning. The chemicals were absorbed though Willie Boyd’s oral membranes. The olive-wood cross from the Holy Land was the murder weapon.

My breakfast arrived just as we got to “What.”

Don’t forget ‘What?’, Nancy smirked. “What?”

“Ham and eggs,” I said. “ With a side of hash browns.”

• • •

St. Germaine was a picture postcard in the month of December. There were tiny white lights covering every fence, lightpost and storefront in the downtown area. Cars were discreetly parked and all the shopkeepers had decorated their establishments with wreaths and greenery making Main Street look like Martha Stewart was spending the holidays. With the first snowfall, the effect would be breathtaking.

The Rotary Club was building their Christmas crèche on the south side of Main Street. The Kiwanis Club was putting theirs up on the north side, one block down. It was hard to tell, at this juncture, which club would have the larger display. The Rotarians had a couple of crews at work courtesy of Hatteberg’s Construction. The electricians were finishing up in the stable area, installing the electric “flickering torches” and indirect “holy aura” lighting around the manger, and the carpenters were hard at work on the second story of the inn. The balcony for the innkeeper’s wife to stand on and wave to the visitors of the Holy Family was shaping up nicely but was being reinforced by extra timbers. Apparently the role of the innkeeper’s wife was going again to Mrs. Horst, a woman of healthy Wagnerian proportions.

The Kiwanians were working on more of a barn idea, choosing not to include the inn in their depiction of the Nativity. They had hired four Amish builders to put their barn up, figuring, rightfully so, that they’d do a great job. It would be a real shame to tear it down after Christmas. Their barn was a 3/4 size post and beam, and included a hayloft where the angels would be stationed, singing their praises to the Holy Child. The Kiwanians also planned to include a petting zoo for the smaller children along with the standard cow, lamb and miniature donkey. The Rotarians had the camel—a definite crowd pleaser. It was shaping up to be quite a contest.

• • •

I was in the church office picking out the hymns for Christmas Eve. Meg and I were on our way to the Christmas Concert at Appalachian State and she was, as usual, there to offer her suggestions.

“How about this,” I said to Marilyn, who was in charge of typing the bulletin. “
O Come All Ye Faithful, Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, O Little Town of Bethlehem,
and
Silent Night
.”

“What about
Lo, How A Rose?”
asked Meg, flipping through the hymnal.

“We’re singing that one on the third Sunday of Advent.”

“How about
Joy To The World ?”

“Christmas morning.”

“Well, they sound pretty good to me,” agreed Meg, closing the hymnal, obviously anxious to get to the concert. She usually put up more of an argument.

Marilyn was typing the hymns into the bulletin template looking up the hymn numbers as she went.

“Which version of
O Little Town of Bethlehem
?” she asked.

“The second one.
St. Louis
.”

Meg and I looked at each other and both of us had the same thought at the same time. She grabbed the hymnal that she had put back on the shelf and turned quickly to Hymn 94,
While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night.

“Sure enough,” said Meg. “We didn’t look far enough. Hymn 95. Same text, different tune. Where’s a Bible?”

“What’s going on?” asked Marilyn.

“Meg’s just trying to solve the murder.”

“Really? That’s great! Who did it?”

“We’ll know momentarily,” I said, finding a Bible on the shelf and handing to Meg.

At that moment Herself’s door banged open and she stepped out into the church office. I had no doubt that she had heard us through the door. She didn’t say a word, but most of the remaining color had drained from her already deathly pallor, leaving the rouge on her cheeks and her bright red lipstick standing out like clown makeup.

Meg didn’t notice her, or if she did, didn’t pay her any mind and read aloud from Matthew 9:5. “For which is easier, to say ‘your sins are forgiven,’ or to say ‘Rise, and walk?’”

Mother Ryan glared at me with a look of unbridled hate, turned on her heel and went right back into her office, closing the door firmly behind her. We all noticed that her phone extension button on Marilyn’s console lit up almost immediately.

“Holy Cow,” I muttered. “We really rang
her
bell.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Meg, reading the passage again, this time to herself.

“What?” asked Marilyn. “Who did it?”

“It might be misleading,” offered Meg. “The real murderer could be someone else.”

“Yes, it could,” I agreed.

“Who?” asked Marilyn. “C’mon. Who was it?”

Meg looked at me for permission to tell her. I just shrugged and Meg felt free to spill the beans.

“The clue might be deceptive,” Meg slowly repeated to Marilyn as if she were telling a child, making sure that Marilyn understood. “It could be someone else.”

“Yes, yes. I
get
it. It could be someone else,” said Marilyn with exasperation, still waiting for the final shoe to drop.

“And you can’t tell anyone,” I admonished.

“I know!” Marilyn dropped into her chair, exhausted by the effort of trying to get information from either of us.

Finally Megan had pity on her.

“Rhiza. It was Rhiza Walker.”

Chapter 15

I weighed my choices like a butcher on Good Friday and decided to give up the Bishop. If I played my cards right, he might never know it was me that dealt him the inside straight.

“
Easy now,” I said to Amber who was leveling her gun directly at yours truly. “I
’
m just getting the photos you want.”

“
We
’
ll need the financial records, too,” said Isabel, now beginning to gloat.

“
You want the whole thing, or just the interesting parts?”

“
We want it all,” Amber squeaked. “Everything you
’
ve got.”

I pulled down the file from behind the book where I had stashed it against the Bishop
’
s employment whims. I looked on it as my retirement plan, but it was disappearing as fast as cheese snacks at an Oprah Winfrey book signing.

“
What
’
re you going to do with this?” I asked Isabel, who was obviously the ringleader of the trio. I put the file on the desk.

“
We won
’
t use it unless we have to. The Bishop has got to back off of our Scratch-N-Sniff Anthems.”

“
I think you
’
re lying. The anthems have nothing to do with this.”

I wasn
’
t buying the Scratch-N-Sniff ploy. It stank like wet dog aftershave. I
’
ve suspected for a while that Isabel was after the Bishop
’
s job. It was conceivable that she could get elected if she could disgrace the Bishop, force him to resign and get someone to put her name in the hat during the convocation. She had the votes or she had the goods on almost everyone. But I didn
’
t know how she
’
d pull it off and I still had to get out of my immediate predicament.

“
Isabel,” I asked innocently. “If you become Bishop, will you still need an Liturgy Detective?”

How did he know?” asked Amber Dawn, Personal Trainer.

“
Shut up Amber.” said Isabel. “He doesn
’
t know anything.”

“
He does now,” said Denver, taking off her tweed jacket and showing off biceps as big as canned hams. She cracked her knuckles and started walking towards me.

I saw it now. Isabel Gerhardt as Bishop, Amber Dawn, her Personal Trainer and Denver Tweed as the muscle.

And the muscle was coming after me.

“Things are starting to pick up,” said Megan. “But what on earth does that mean? ‘Like a butcher on Good Friday?’ And if you dealt the Bishop an inside straight, he’d be pleased, wouldn’t he? Still, I sense the semblance of a plot.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’ve been known to fake a story line quicker than a Connie Chung news crew just to get in some bad similes and a metaphor or two.”

“But, darling,” Meg said, her tongue planted firmly in her cheek, “that would just be
wrong.
Think of the poor children out there that might stumble upon this story and read it accidentally. They could be permanently scarred and you would be held educationally accountable.”

“The story is not to blame,” I said, taking a sip of wine, “it’s the reader. But I think you may be right. I should use my literary powers for good instead of evil.”