The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) (15 page)

The choir members completed their trek and were filing into the loft just as I was improvising an introduction to the last stanza. I glanced down into the nave just as Benny Dawkins came into my view. He was about halfway down the aisle, leading the priest in.

Benny Dawkins was our champion thurifer, easily one of the best smokin'-joes in the history of the genre. There were those who held, with good reason, that he was the best the world had ever seen. Once Benny had won every thurifer competition and title there was to win, he retired from competition and turned pro. Now he travelled to all the major venues—Notre Dame in Paris, St. Peter's in Rome, St. John the Divine in New York, and the Hagia Sophia Church in Istanbul, among many others—and exhibited his gifts with a virtuosity that made worshippers weep to see it. Many other thurifers had switched to the hypoallergenic incense due to the outcry among those in the congregation suffering with allergies, but Benny poo-pooed the practice, preferring to blend his own special mixture that was both aromatic and delightful. The smoke didn't burn anyone's eyes and, amazingly enough, created a sense of well-being, was rumored to cure headaches and caused head colds to briefly abate. Benny kept his mixture a well-guarded secret, sharing it only, rumor had it, with his protégé, nine-year-old Addie Buss. Benny had told me that the smoke of his special blend was much heavier than the smoke from regular incense and thus made it more easily manipulated. I took him at his word, as did anyone else who witnessed his thuriblific offerings. As Benny reached the crossing, his swinging and smoldering pot increased its speed until it became a blur. Addie, who was carrying the incense boat, stayed close to Benny's side, never wavering, as the thurible whizzed by her head at dizzying speed. When it finally slowed, Benny moved up the steps to cense the altar and left in his wake a life-sized depiction of Michelangelo's
Pieta
. The white smoke actually hung in the air and for a few breathtaking and reverent moments, mimicked the shimmering Carrara marble and the perfection of Michelangelo's vision. There was a gasp of appreciation from the congregation.

Vicar McTavish had taken another route in his procession to the chancel, going around Benny's artistry to the right, then stopping in front of his chair. He faced the altar, but didn't sit.

I was watching, of course, to see what Benny would come up with, managing the last verse of
A Mighty Fortress Is Our God
easily from memory. We didn't do much for Reformation Sunday here at St. Barnabas, but a musical nod toward one of our spiritual forebears, Martin Luther, wasn't out of order.

In most churches, it was the practice for the thurifer to hand the thurible to the priest for the censing of the altar. Benny had always done it, and the priest made no move to deny him the chore. I'd seen him do it dozens of times, but it was still fascinating and beautiful to watch. While Addie stood to the side, Benny circled the altar making small movements with the thurible in a counterclockwise direction (resulting in an exquisite collection of interlocking smoke rings) until he reached the west side of the altar, facing east. He then made three sets of triple swings towards east, and continued around the altar to his original position. Having finished censing the altar, and with the entire chancel now obscured by smoke, Benny retreated to his own chair, hung his thurible on its hook as the hymn ended, and remained standing for the opening sentences.

Vicar McTavish turned to face the congregation, lifted his arms to the heavens and spoke in a thundering voice:

"O God, who didst call thy servant Queen Margaret to an earthly throne that she might advance thy heavenly kingdom, and didst endue her with zeal for thy Church and charity towards thy people. Mercifully grant that we who commemorate her example may be fruitful in good works, and attain to the glorious fellowship of thy Saints; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Queen Margaret?" said Meg.

"Maybe it's her feast day," whispered Bev. "Or maybe she's the patron saint of St. Drinstan's parish in Old Muke."

"Old Muke?" said Sheila in a hushed tone. "What did I miss?"

"Hear what our Lord Jesus Christ saith," said Vicar McTavish. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets."

"Oops," said Bev. "Gotta pay attention. Time to sing."

I played the
Gloria
, and the congregation and choir sang, if not lustily and with good courage as John Wesley decreed, at least energetically and only slightly behind the beat.

We finished singing and the collect of the day was read. Then, those following along in the bulletin read the direction, "The children may come to the chancel steps for the Children's Moment." Eager parents pushed their preschool children out into the aisle, but—unlike when Gaylen Weatherall invited the children forward in loving, maternal tones and they fairly danced up the aisle to be with her—these children remained frozen in their spots, their eyes locked on the figure before them.

Towering on the top step and dressed in his long black cassock with white preaching tabs was the vicar. He growled from deep in his throat, a low growl that we could hear in the choir loft even though his mouth never opened. Then with arms extended, his hands like claws at the end of massive iron rods, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Suffer the little children to come to me," he said slowly, in a voice like ancient oak.

"The key word here," muttered Bev, "being
suffer
."

"How does he make his voice do that?" whispered Muffy. "How does he make it go all anointy and stuff? He sounds like a cross between Sean Connery and James Earl Jones."

Vicar McTavish turned and slowly walked back to his chair, and the children, mesmerized, traipsed methodically up the aisle, followed him behind the altar, and circled around him in silence. He bent from the waist until his head was at the level of their little faces, then whispered to them for three full minutes. The congregation leaned forward in their pews, and the choir in their chairs, but all we could hear was a sub-audible mumbling.

"He doesn't understand the dynamics of the Children's Moment," I whispered to Meg. "It's not for the children. It's so the adults will have some entertainment. He needs to ask them leading questions so the little tykes will give hilarious answers and we can all have a good chuckle."

"Hush!" said Meg, her eyes glued on the cluster of kids behind the altar.

His talk finished, the priest straightened and gestured for the children to leave. They dutifully obeyed, filing silently back down the aisle, through the church filled with stunned parents, older kids, and others wondering what they'd just missed, and out into the narthex where they were met by an incredulous Kimberly Walnut.

"I wonder what he said to them," whispered Rebecca. "Whatever it was, I'd like to know. I'd tell them the same thing during story time at the library."

***

The scriptures were read and it was time for the sermon. Fearghus McTavish climbed into the pulpit and looked across the congregation with unwavering severity in his ice-blue eyes.

"The Word of God says," he snarled, "that a virtuous woman is a crown to her husband: but she that maketh him ashamed is
as rottenness in his bones."

"What?" gasped Martha. "I
doubt
it! I've gone to twenty-seven Women's Bible Studies, and we never read
that.
"

"Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on Hell where the screams of the undead shall pierce the sinner like a sword. Where the lamentations of the damned are without end. For their black hearts are ripped asunder and cast into the pit of everlasting fire."

"Proverbs," I said with a nod. "Can't go wrong with the Book of Proverbs."

The congregation sat, stunned, their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide, as the vicar painted them a twenty-minute vision of the fiery depths of Hell that they wouldn't soon forget, the road to which, by all accounts, would be lined with wanton women and lascivious libertines.

He narrowed his gaze and managed the smallest of self-satisfied smiles. "We are maggots and wretches, cullions and blackguards, caitiffs and poltroons, and all of us wholly dependent on the grace of the Almighty." His voice rose to a thunderclap and he pointed a finger quavering with rage across the congregation. "Confess your sins," he roared, then dropped his voice to a low growl, "and turn from your degradation."

"I confess," muttered Marjorie in terror. "I'm a poltroon."

The parishioners sat spellbound and silence reigned as the priest surveyed the crowd.

"God... is... not... mocked!
" he finished.

***

I was playing the postlude and the choir had departed the loft in favor of coffee in the parish hall. I played the last few chords, turned off the organ and looked up to see the worried face of Ian Burch, PhD, staring at me over the console.

"Umm..." he started.

"Something to tell me?" I asked. "As police chief. I'm not taking confessions of a personal nature."

"Well... I wonder if you think that someone who might have been looking for Flori Cabbage might find those texts she was sending me. Or vice-versa. I mean, since Lieutenant Parsky had no problem, someone else could probably do it just as easily."

"Probably," I agreed. I didn't know for sure, but it sounded plausible to me.

"Flori Cabbage told me that she'd seen her old boyfriend in town yesterday morning. The one from Charlotte."

"She tell you his name?"

"No, she wouldn't tell me."

"Did she have reason to be afraid of him?"

Ian shrugged. "I don't really know, but she was acting strangely. I was thinking maybe that's why she said she was still scared yesterday afternoon." Ian put his face in his hands and mumbled through his fingers. "What if he was the one who killed her? I could be next."

"So, why didn't you tell us this last night?"

"I was scared," said Ian Burch, terror not far from his voice. "If he murdered Flori Cabbage, he wouldn't think twice about killing me as well. What if he reads those texts on her phone? What if he killed her because she knew something? He might think that she told me something and now I'm talking to the police. Can you give me protection?"

"Nope. I doubt he'll bother you. Tell you what. We'll make sure we stop by the shop every few hours for the next couple of days. At least when we're on duty. You have a burglar alarm?"

Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, shook his head.

"I'd get one."

Chapter 11

Lapke Baklava reached down, took Tessie's delicate fingers in his hand and nibbled on her knuckles in a gesture so intimate that the dead rat in the corner blushed.

"My family requires that I marry a wirgin," he smarmed oilily. "Are you a wirgin?"

"I think so," gulluped Tessie. "What's a wirgin?"

"Never mind that," said Pedro, with a stern yet resolute nod. "Lapke here tells me that the Amish Vampires are onto the Doctrine of Transubstantiation. Once they discovered that little gem, they started converting to Catholicism so fast that the Pope couldn't cook the wafers fast enough."

"What about the crosses?" I asked. "And the holy water? Aren't vampires allergic or something?"

"It's a problem," admitted Lapke, sipping his Bloody Mary. "That's why they're after the Methodists. A cross with a flame in the middle doesn't seem to affect them. And there's no holy water to worry about."

Pedro nodded gravely and solemnly, somehow retaining the air of sternness and resolutivation of his previous nod. "If they can get the Methodist bishops to approve the Doctrine of Transubstantiation at the next annual conference, the Vampire Amish will move to Methodism like Angelina Jolie into a Pillow-Lips franchise."

"Not to mention that Methodists have been garlic-free since 1998," I said. "You remember the incident at the Council of Arugula with the Cloven Tongues of Fire appetizers?"

Pedro nodded again, this time grimly and seriously, still without losing any of the gravenicity, solemnation, sternitivity, or resolutionness of his prior head-bobbings.