The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (3 page)

"She didn't know," grumbled Pete. "She told me D'Artagnan was coming over to crawl under the house and check."

"It's a wonder mine didn't bust," said the man at the counter. "Five degrees last night. Who ever heard of weather like this so early in December?"

"I remember the same thing back in '89," said one of the utility workers. "It was eleven below zero. I remember because it was my first year on the job. I've never been so cold."

"At least we ain't gettin' snow," said his companion. He got up to refill his coffee cup.

"Too cold for snow," said the man at the counter. He took a loud, slow slurp of his own coffee. "Supposed to drop down even lower tonight."

"Sheesh," said Pete. "That's too dang cold. I don't care how Christmasy the town is. Nobody's coming in to shop if it's below zero outside."

The cowbell tied to the inside of the door banged noisily against the glass and Cynthia Johnsson came into the restaurant, smacking her gloved hands together, trying to get some feeling back into her numbed fingers.

"You should have called me," she said to Pete. She peeled off her gloves, then took off her coat and scarf and hung them on one of the hooks that lined the wall beside the door. "Noylene sent me a text. Her pipes are broken."

"Yeah, I know," said Pete. "I just didn't want to wake you." His tone softened for the first time since I'd come in. "Thanks for coming in, though."

Cynthia and Pete had been a couple since Cynthia defeated Pete in a hotly contested mayoral election a few years ago. Pete, a two-time loser in the marriage department, was magnanimous in defeat and showed no animosity at all, preferring now to be the power behind the throne. "I'm not saying that Cynthia's a puppet ruler," he told me. "I'm just saying that a lot of ideas get tossed around under the covers after the town council has gone to bed."

Cynthia walked behind the counter, gave Pete a peck on the cheek and donned her half-apron. She reached under the counter and came up with a book, then walked over to the table.

"I brought this in yesterday," she said. "I don't know if you might want it or not, but I found it in one of the file boxes in the basement of the courthouse. I don't think anyone's been through that stuff for thirty years."

"I can guarantee it," said Pete. "I was just gonna throw it all in the dumpster about ten years ago, but then I forgot."

"Anyway," continued Cynthia, "the state says everything is going digital, so we have to scan all the records and whatever else is lying around, including Pete's expense vouchers for the past twenty years."

"
What?
" said Pete. "Hang on...that stuff's classified!"

Cynthia ignored him. "We were clearing out the papers we didn't need, and found this." She handed me the book. "It has nothing to do with city business, so just throw it away if you don't want it."

The book was oversized, about ten inches by sixteen, and had a blank hardboard cover and stitched binding. The title page announced
La Chanson d'Adoration
by Elle de Fournier, not a composer I knew. I flipped to a random page and perused the hand-copied music manuscript, beautifully done. I knew the look. This was a performance score, notated by one of any number of copyists working in New York City when classical musicians could supplement their meager income by putting composers' scrawl into legible form. This was done in the days before computers had taken over the music engraving business, or even before copy machines. I turned back to the beginning of the score.

"So what do you think?" asked Cynthia.

"I'll look at it, but to be honest, most of this kind of stuff isn't worth the time and money it took to have it transcribed. It most probably got one performance, if that, and was relegated to the composer's resumé."

"Well, whatever," said Cynthia. "I thought you'd like to see it."

"Thanks," I said. "I really will give it a look. You never know."

The cowbell clanged again and Nancy came in, mimicking the hand slapping that Cynthia had just gone through.

"Man, it's cold," she said, unbundling.

"Not my fault," said Pete.

"Never said it was," snapped Nancy.

Nancy Parsky was dressed, as she always was when she was on duty, in her police uniform—standard issue dark brown pants and khaki shirt, this one long sleeved. Her badge was prominently displayed and her gun was holstered high on her hip. She had on her law enforcement issue parka and a trapper style hat of muskrat fur and leather that made its appearance whenever the temperature dropped below ten degrees or so. Lieutenant Parsky had picked this one up on one of her summer trips to Canada and, although she didn't care for hats and usually didn't wear one, the bitter cold made almost everyone, including Nancy, forsake fashion for comfort.

"Who's making breakfast?" Nancy asked. "Is Manuel here?"

"Nope," said Pete. "His car wouldn't start. I'm cooking a breakfast casserole. Eggs, spicy sausage, bread, cheese...It's Manuel's recipe. He read it to me over the phone. It'll be ready in five minutes."

"Figures," said Nancy. "Pete's home cooking. It's gonna be another one of those days. Well, bring it on I suppose." The skepticism was evident in her voice. Since Manuel had taken over the kitchen a few months ago, culinary expectations had risen dramatically.

"We're all hoping for the best," said the man at the counter.

"Hey!" said Pete, "if you guys don't like it..."

"Everyone calm down," said Cynthia. "What's going on here? It's like this all over town."

"Crabby Christmas," I said. "Happens every once in a while."

"Positive ion bombardment," said Pete, as if this explained everything. "Or maybe sunspots. Sorry I snapped. It'll pass."

Nancy walked to the coffee machine, poured herself a cup, then sat down next to me.

"You're up early this morning," she said.

"Well, I had to get up and run five miles. I figured after that, why not come into work?"

"Five miles?" said Nancy. "Really?"

"Of course not," I grumbled. "You think I'm one of those crazy people that runs five miles when it's a few degrees above zero? You could die out there! Nope. I've gone back to my expando-pants for the winter. I'm just hoping to gain only fifteen pounds between now and New Year's Day."

"Huh," said Nancy. "I'm not sure I can respect a man who wears maternity clothes, even if it is five degrees outside."

"Expando-pants!" I said, putting my thumb into my waistband and giving them a tug. "Look, they have these side-gussets."

"Yeah, yeah," said Nancy. "Well, I ran
my
five miles." She picked up the music manuscript. "What's this?"

"Some music that Cynthia found in a box in the basement of the courthouse."

"Is it worth anything?" asked Nancy. Nancy was a fan of
Antiques Roadshow.

"I doubt it, but I'm going to give it a look."

"Well, who's the composer?" Nancy already had her iPhone out and was busy bringing up her Google page.

"Elle de Fournier." I pushed the book, opened to the title page, across the table. Nancy checked the spelling, typed the information in, and shrugged her shoulders a moment later.

"Nope," she said. "There are a couple
Elisabeth
de Fourniers, but none that look like composers."

"I didn't think there would be," I said. "I'll play through it though. Maybe there's something in it worth excerpting."

"Hang on," said Nancy. She'd turned the title page and was now looking at the verso side where a quarter sheet of folded, lined paper was glued into the binding. She unfolded the paper gently, taking care not to pull it loose. "Look here," she said. "Premiered at St. Barnabas Church, Christmas Eve, 1942."

"Really?"

She spun the book around and pushed it back across the table. The inscription was in faded red pencil, but easily read.

"Interesting," I said.

"Maybe you can check the church records," said Cynthia, looking over my shoulder. "There's got to be some mention of it somewhere. A bulletin maybe."

"All the church records were burned up in the fire three years ago," I said. "Bulletins, baptisms, weddings, old pictures, the whole lot. Someone might remember singing it..."

"I doubt it," said Cynthia. "That was over sixty years ago. I can't remember the sermon I heard last week."

"How about the newspaper?" asked Nancy. "I mean, this was a premiere performance. Certainly newsworthy."

"
The St. Germaine Tattler
didn't even exist until 1950," said the man at the counter. "There was a paper in the '20s. Another in the '30s and '40s. Both long closed and out of business. The
Watauga Democrat
might have something, though."

We all looked over at him. He shrugged and splayed his hands. "What?" he said. "I work for the
Democrat
. Over in Boone. You want me to check on it for you?"

"That'd be great," I said, and watched him scribble the information on a napkin.

"No old copies anywhere?" Pete said. "Of the St. Germaine papers, I mean."

"Not that I know of," answered the newspaperman. "I don't even remember the names of those old rags."

"Even if it wasn't in one of the newspapers," I said, folding the notation back into the position in which Nancy had discovered it, "some people have long memories."

Premiered at St. Barnabas Church, Christmas Eve, 1942
.

Chapter 3

She'd met Henry Greenaway at her twenty-sixth birthday party in September, 1941. A tall, bespectacled, thoughtful man, she hadn't given him a second look when her younger cousin Emily first introduced him to their circle of friends. Emily, it seemed, had her cap set for Henry and clung to him like a treed possum, although he appeared indifferent to her coquettish behavior. She was no classic beauty unless one tended to favor a female with an equine countenance. Emily was said to bear a striking resemblance to Eleanor Roosevelt, but unlike Eleanor, she had quite a figure and, if rumors carried any truth to them, was determined that potential suitors would remember her for her other attributes rather than for her horse-like features. Her Seabiscuit face, accentuated with a dental configuration that allowed her to win each and every "bobbing for apples" competition she'd ever entered, was framed by a mane of peroxide-white hair, but if a young man could focus his attention below her clavicles, he would find her to be very attractive. And willing. Yes, very willing indeed.