The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (13 page)

"Pete and I did," I said. "I shot a few questions at her. I think she knows more than she's saying. She just doesn't want to tell me."

"Why not?"

I shrugged. "She's never liked me much, I guess. Maybe that's it. When she was active at the church, she complained about the music all the time. But that was fifteen years ago."

"She had a lot of musical opinions, did she?"

"I guess."

Ruby laughed. "And you call yourself a detective."

"What?" I said.

"Elle de Fournier?" Ruby said. "How's your French, anyway?"

"Not as good as my German," I admitted.

"Fournier is French...for 'baker.'"

It took me a second or two to make the connection. "You think?"

It was Meg's turn. "What?" she said, looking first at me, then at her mother.

"Elle...Elisabeth...Bessie," said Ruby.

"Elle de Fournier," I said. "Bessie Baker. Baker the Grade Shaker."

Chapter 11

"Mozart, isn't it?" I asked, when the music stopped.

Bessie Baker didn't look up from the spinet, but instead started the next movement of the sonata. The slow movement. "It is," she said.

"You play it very well."

We were alone in the gathering area of the nursing home. I supposed that the rest of the residents were in the cafeteria at breakfast. I'd come into the lobby and signed in as a visitor. Hearing the piano, I walked into the main room and stood several paces behind.

"Nonsense," she said, concentrating on the dingy ivory keys. "The first movement was about half speed and you know it. My fingers are almost a century old. What do you want, Hayden?"

She still had a good ear. I was pretty sure she never saw me come in and she'd only heard me speak once in the past fifteen years.

"I came over to tell you that the church choir is singing your cantata on Christmas Eve."

She stopped playing, removed her fingers from the keys, and slowly shut the keyboard lid.

"My cantata?"

"I believe so." I moved to a nearby chair and sat down. "I may be wrong. The style is distinctly American modernist. Written in the '30s or '40s, I'd say, even though the name of the composer is French. Elle de Fournier."

"You think this 'Elle de Fournier' is me?" She rolled her wheelchair backward away from the piano and spun it to face my chair.

"I do."

"And how, pray tell, did you come to this absurd conclusion?"

"Elementary," I said.

"
Oh, puhlease!
Spare me your juvenile literary allusions."

Pauli Girl came into the room, spotted us right away and came over.

"You obviously have musical training. A lot. People don't play the Mozart sonatas, especially No. 18, from memory, no matter how slowly, unless they have some chops. Added to that, I looked back over some of the letters you wrote to Father Tony complaining about the music at the church after I was hired." I pulled out my small, black notebook and opened it. "And I quote," I said, reading. "Totally ignores dynamic traditions...ill equipped to deal with the nuances of the French literature..." I turned a page. "The musical aestheticism of a Philistine...heavy-handed, ham-fisted, hymn playing suitable only for tent revivals and Methodist services." I closed the notebook and slipped it back into my pocket. "Those are pretty specific criticisms."

Bessie folded her hands and placed them in her lap. "Well...I do have a way with words."

"Second," I said, "two of the movements are composed on texts of Sara Teasdale. Pete Moss mentioned that the girls in his, or rather
your
, English class always memorized poems by Sara Teasdale. Now, granted, she's an important poet of the early 20th century, but in my experience, the teacher tends to steer the impressionable student towards what they themselves enjoy."

Pauli Girl was paying rapt attention.

Bessie thought for a moment. "Yes," she granted. "Your pedagogical assumption may have validity. Sara Teasdale is a particular favorite of mine."

"Third, Elle de Fournier equals Bessie Baker. Not that much of a stretch, although I'll admit that it was Ruby Farthing who pointed me in the right direction. I should have gotten it earlier, but my French is poor, and it never occurred to me that the composer might still be alive, not to mention that I might be able to talk to her."

Bessie sighed heavily. "So what do you want from me?"

"It is you?" asked Pauli Girl.

"Of course it is!" Bessie snapped. "Try to keep up, child."

"I have some questions," I said. "About the score, but also about the premiere performance."

"I don't want to talk about either one," said Bessie.

"But, Miss Baker," interrupted Pauli Girl, "you
have
to. Here's the thing. That music is changing people. All over town!"

Bessie Baker looked at Pauli Girl as if deciding whether to believe her or not. Her lower lip quivered ever so slightly. Then she put her hands on the wheels of her chair and pushed herself toward the hallway.

"Rubbish!" she said, over her shoulder.

* * *

A late breakfast at the Slab was just the thing for a Friday morning in December. I got back into town at about 9:30, parked my truck in front of the police station, and walked the half block to the restaurant on the corner. The breakfast crowd was all but gone. Nancy was there, though, and Dave, holding down our table in the back. Cynthia was leaning against the counter wiping her brow with a napkin. Pete had collapsed at another table and was sprawled in a chair, a coffee cup balanced in his hand. Noylene, behind the counter, was running a cleaning rag over everything, a model of efficiency. I expected Meg to join us. I'd called her from my cell on my way back to town and left her a message.

"I done sold all my wreaths," said Noylene, gesturing to the empty wall that, as recently as yesterday afternoon, had been laden with her holiday wreaths, festooned with an infinite variety of trinkets, pine cones, ribbons and spray-on snow. A particular favorite seems to have been her signature "Santa at the Manger" wreath that featured a bright plastic rendering of the two main subjects (Santa on his knees, praying, and the infant Jesus looking up from his manger with a startled expression on his face), encircled by toy animals that Noylene had bought at the Atlanta Zoo when she'd been there on vacation last summer. Noylene didn't hold with using only barnyard animals, and although the cows, sheep, and donkeys were there as a nod toward tradition, Noylene's Christmas menagerie included warthogs, penguins, polar bears, meerkats, hedgehogs, and emus. "If Santa could show up at the manger," she said to any detractors, "so could the emus."

"Shoot, Noylene," said Cynthia. "I didn't even get one. I waited too long, I guess."

"You snooze, you lose," said Noylene. "There's still a week and a half till Christmas. I could prob'ly sell another dozen if I could get any more of them praying Santas, but I can't. I order them from Japan. That's why that baby Jesus is wearing a kimono."

The cowbell tied to the front door of the Slab banged against the glass a moment later, announcing Meg's arrival.

"Is there any food left?" she asked as she took off her coat and hung it on one of the wall hooks. I'd dropped mine over the back of an empty chair.

"Not much," admitted Pete. "I can rustle you up an omelet or something."

"We're out of eggs," said Cynthia. "Chicken eggs, anyway. I think there're some duck eggs left."

"What?" said Meg. "No, thank you. I do not care for duck eggs."

Manuel came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. "Miss Meg! How nice to see you!"

"Have we got anything left in the kitchen?" asked Pete.

"Hmm," said Manuel. He smiled at Meg, dropped his apron, and rubbed his hands together. "For you, a breakfast couscous with a fresh fruit compote."

"Really?" asked Meg. "Hayden, too?"

"Sí. You will love it," said Manuel with a big grin. "Couscous cooked with butter and cinnamon; topped with a compote of peaches, cherries, cranberries; and apples simmered in brown sugar, lemon juice. Oh yes. The secret ingredient—a tea bag of orange pekoe. I do take the tea bag out."

"Hey! Can I have that, too?" called Dave from the back table.

"Eat your goose eggs, Dave," said Nancy.

"Duck eggs," said Dave miserably. "They sort of taste like dirt."

"Well, come on, sit down," Pete said, motioning to Meg and me. "Give us the scoop."

Meg and I took two of the empty seats at the table with Dave and Nancy. Pete dragged his chair across the floor and joined us. Cynthia came over with the coffee pot, sat down and made herself comfortable. She filled her own cup, then passed the pot around to everyone.

"So I went to see Bessie Baker," I said. "This morning, first thing. She was playing the piano when I walked in." I took a sip of coffee.

"And then?" said Meg.

I put my cup down. "And then I mentioned to her that I thought she might be the composer of the Christmas cantata."

"What did she say?" asked Meg.

"In the face of all the evidence, she admitted it."

"Well, if that don't wash the hog's back legs!" said Pete. "Did you ask her about the 1942 performance?"

"Sure I did," I said. "She said she wouldn't talk about it, then she rolled away."

"Rolled away?" asked Cynthia.

"Wheelchair," said Pete.

"Oh."

"Why don't you use your so-called charms on her?" asked Nancy. "Maybe you could draw her out. She's been there for so long..."

"Alone," added Meg. "I checked. She hasn't had any visitors for years."

"Well, it's no wonder, as crabby as she is," said Pete. "Who'd bother?"

"We should bother," said Meg. "
We
should bother."

Chapter 12