The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (8 page)

"Just came in for a cup of coffee," I said, waving my empty mug. "What are you lovely ladies doing here?" I walked over to the Bunn coffee machine and poured myself a cup of Community Dark Roast, the church's coffee of choice.

"The Salvation Army called this morning," said Wynette. "They're running out of food every day now."

"It's the cold weather," said Mattie Lou. "Lord knows, I hate making these sandwiches, but it's Christmastime."

I gestured toward Marjorie with my coffee cup. "What are you doing here, Marjorie? As I recall, you're having an all-out skirmish with the Salvation Army."

"That was last year," said Marjorie, not the least bit defensive. "It's just that they wouldn't let me ring the little bell."

"That wasn't the Salvation Army, dear," said Wynette, spreading some pimento cheese on a piece of white bread. "That was those nudists over at Camp Possumtickle. They were collecting for their
Toys for Nekkid Children
drive or some such thing. They didn't even have a bell. Just a red plastic bucket."

"Huh?" said Marjorie. "Really? You sure? I thought they were Salvation Army. They had clothes on. And Santa hats. One of 'em had a tambourine."

"Pretty sure," said Wynette. "And you
have
to wear clothes outside the Kmart. It's a state law."

"Yep," agreed Mattie Lou. "State law. I read it in the paper."

"Well, dang!" said Marjorie. "I didn't know they were nudists."

"I'm sure it was all for a good cause," I said. "While I have all you ladies here, I have some questions I'd like to ask you."

"Are you gonna interrogate us?" asked Mattie Lou. "Do I need my lawyer?"

I laughed. "This is not an official inquiry. I'm just looking for information."

"Okay, then," said Wynette. "Shoot." She put down her spreading knife and wiped her hands on her apron.

"Yeah, shoot," added Marjorie.

Wynette Winslow and Mattie Lou Entriken, both now in their late seventies, had been friends since childhood, and had been members of the church since they were born. They were the two saintly matriarchs of St. Barnabas. As far as they were concerned, Marjorie Plimpton was a Johnny-come-lately, having joined the church when she was seventeen and only being a member for sixty-two years.

"Okay," I said. "What do you remember about Christmas Eve, 1942?"

"What?" said Wynette. "1942? I can't remember what I had for lunch last Tuesday!"

Marjorie gave a cackle.

"I remember that year very well," said Mattie Lou, her smile fading. "I remember because I had to spend the whole school year and the next with my grandparents in Raleigh. Papa was sent home from the Navy because he had tuberculosis. Momma took him to New Mexico to get better. I was just fourteen." Her voice dropped. "He died anyway. July 22, 1943."

"I'm sorry, dear," said Wynette, putting a hand on Mattie Lou's shoulder.

Mattie Lou placed her hand on top of Wynette's and gave her a sad smile. "I still think about him."

"Sure you do," said Wynette.

"That was during the war, right?" asked Marjorie.

"It was," I said. "The year after Pearl Harbor. I'm trying to find out about a Christmas piece that was sung here at St. Barnabas on Christmas Eve that year. The world premiere of a cantata."

"I hadn't moved to St. Germaine yet," said Marjorie. "I joined the choir as soon as we moved to town, but that was in 1945. The year after the war."

"I wasn't in the choir," said Wynette, "but my mother was. She wouldn't let me join because she said I had my father's tin ear." She laughed. "I didn't even know what that meant till years later. She was right, though."

"Ah, well," I said. "I thought it might be worth a try. All the bulletins were lost in the fire. You three were my only hope."

"Hang on, now," said Wynette, "I didn't say I didn't remember 1942. I just can't remember last Tuesday. Now that you mention that Christmas cantata, I do recall the hubbub."

"Really?" My hopes went up. "What kind of hubbub?"

"Well," said Wynette, "I was fourteen that year, the same as Mattie Lou." She beetled her brow and looked thoughtful. "It seems to me that there was a big to-do made over the composer. It was a woman, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I said. "A woman named Elle de Fournier."

Wynette shook her head. "I don't remember the name and I don't think I knew her. She might have been a local girl, but if she was, I never heard of her, before or since."

"So, probably not a local," I said, my detective sense tingling. I pulled a pen out of my pocket and jotted the new fact onto a paper napkin that was lying on the counter.

Mattie Lou gave me
the look
. "A napkin? Oh,
really
, detective. Where's your notebook?"

"Don't give me any grief," I said. "I'm collecting clues and formulating hypotheses. There may be more information to be gleaned."

"Probably not," said Wynette. "Anyway, it didn't happen."

"What didn't happen?"

"The Christmas cantata. I remember that part very well. It was Christmas Eve and Mother came home from rehearsal crying. Then she and my father went into the parlor, closed the door, and didn't come out for about an hour. I remember because the Christmas ham burned and I got in trouble for not taking it out of the oven in time. My sister and I had our ears pressed against the parlor door the whole time trying to hear what was going on."

"Did you ever find out why she was crying?"

"They never told us. We just ate our burnt ham, hung up our stockings, and went to bed early. Well, early for Christmas Eve. That was the only time growing up that we skipped the midnight mass at St. Barnabas."

"So," I said, trying to get Wynette's story straight in my head, "the Christmas cantata wasn't performed?"

"Nope," said Wynette. "I don't believe it was. Not that year, anyway."

I looked over at Mattie Lou. She shrugged and went back to spreading pimento cheese across the faces of her half-made sandwiches. "Like I said, I wasn't here."

"Anything else?" I asked Wynette. "Anything at all?"

She shook her head. "That's it. But if I think of anything, I'll give you a call."

"I wonder if those nudies need someone to ring their bell this year?" said Marjorie.

Chapter 7

She'd joined the Episcopal choir the third week that she had been in St. Germaine. She'd been invited by Mary Alice Sterling, whom she had met downtown on one cool September afternoon. The choir had made her feel very welcome, much more welcome than her new, extended family, and she made friends very quickly. The choir director, a limpid man named Stan Dearman, had been deliriously happy to have a soprano that could read music, not to mention a choir member in possession of such a clear, bell-like voice. When, in the course of conversation, Mary Alice found out that she was a composer as well, and, in fact, had studied with Nadia Boulanger herself, her friend spilled the beans to Mr. Dearman, even though she'd been sworn to secrecy.

That Mary Alice! What kind of friend would betray such a trust? Yet for all her indignant airs, she was inwardly pleased, and even more pleased when Mr. Dearman asked her if she might have composed anything that they could sing for Christmas.

Why, yes, she'd fibbed. A short cantata actually. It would be a world premiere. Did he think the choir would be up for such an opportunity? She might even get Mademoiselle to send a letter of congratulations to the choir. Mr. Dearman expressed his excitement, but was skeptical. Could she really get a letter from Nadia Boulanger? Could we have the newspaper publish it? Oh, I think so, she replied. Mademoiselle came over to America just before the war started and is currently residing in Massachusetts. I have her address.

And so the deal was sealed.

Now she had to write it.

* * *

The painfully frigid temperatures we'd been experiencing in the mountains had abated, and the Slab Café was full. If the Slab was any indication, St. Germaine would be full of shoppers by ten o'clock. Meg had procured a table by the front window and was waiting for me when I came in. The police department had a reserved table in the back, or so we liked to think, but when space ran out, Pete or Noylene, either one, was quick to grab Nancy's "reserved" sign and toss it behind the counter. Paying customers outranked the PD.

"I already ordered for you," said Meg. "Pete wants to turn these tables over and make up for lost revenue."

"Fine with me. I'm in a hurry, anyway." I pulled out a chair and sat down. "What am I having?"

"Well, since Manuel is back in the kitchen, I thought you'd like the special. Cheese Grits Mexicano."

"Sounds great." I waved an empty coffee cup at Noylene. She made a face at me, then pointed at Pauli Girl who took the hint and made her way over to the table, stopping to fill a couple of empty cups
en route
.

"Y'all need some coffee?" she said when she got to our table.

"Absolutely," I said, holding my cup aloft. "How was your semester?"

"Pretty good," Pauli Girl said. "Nursing's hard, but I like it. Right now I'm working on my LPN degree, but I think I might go ahead and become a Registered Nurse."

"That's wonderful," said Meg. "Have you gotten any practical experience?"

Pauli Girl nodded. "When I'm not here, I'm volunteering over at Sunridge Assisted Living. The nurses have me working with an old woman. I'm like her...well...helper."

"Her caregiver?" said Meg.

"Yeah, like that." Pauli Girl smiled at her. Pauli Girl McCollough was the prettiest girl in three states. She'd always been beautiful and had been fending off the heartsick boys in Watauga County for several years. She was determined, though, to leave the haunts and hollers where she grew up and she viewed education as her way out. It was a dream that Meg and I were happy to fund, even though Pauli Girl had saved every penny that she made since she started waiting tables when she was fourteen.

"What's her name?" asked Meg.

"Bessie Baker," said Pauli Girl. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And just between us, she is mean as a snake! She used to be a teacher."