The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) (2 page)

Meg walked up and read it over my shoulder. "A golovsh-chik?" she said, pronouncing the word carefully. "What's a golovshchik?" She set a beer on the desk.

"Ah," I said. "Thanks for the suds and I'm glad you asked. A golovshchik was the singer in an early Russian church choir whose role consisted of performing solo verses or the initial phrases of hymns. He carried a stick, presumably for whacking unruly choristers."

"So he was sort of a cantor?"

"Well, yes. A cantor."

"Then why not call him a cantor?"

"Alliteration," I replied. "Besides,
The Cantor Wore Gabardines
doesn't have much of a ring to it."

Meg nodded. "Yes, you're right about that. You haven't done a countertenor yet."

"I haven't done a castrato, either. How about
The Castrato Wore Cutoffs
? I find that the title works on so many levels."

"No." Meg scowled at me, but I was immune to scowls.

"Okay," I agreed. "
The Cantor Wore Culottes
?"

"Funny," said Meg, "but no one knows what culottes are anymore."

"Chintz? Crinoline? Chaps?"

She tapped a finger against her chin as she thought. "Use the countertenor," she said. "And don't worry about the alliteration." Her visage became abruptly austere. "But if anyone ever asks," she sniffed, "I avow no knowledge of this conversation. In fact, I categorically deny any involvement in your literary efforts." She turned and walked back toward the kitchen. I watched her go for a moment, enjoying the view. Meg couldn't fool me. She was beginning to like this stuff.

I pulled the paper out of the typewriter, wadded it up and tossed it into the old metal trash can that was quickly filling up beside the desk. Then I rolled in another sheet and typed:

The Countertenor Wore Chintz

Nope. I tore the page out, crumpled it and tossed it in the bin. Close but no cigar. And I needed a cigar. Also a beer. I picked up the bottle. Murphy's Irish Stout. I took a swig, replaced the discarded sheet, then sat and thought for a long moment.

"By the way, have you decided what you're going to be playing?" called Meg. "On your Halloween recital? Georgia was asking. She wants to put a flyer in the bookstore window."

"Yep," I called back. "I think I'm going to accompany a silent movie. Probably
Nosferatu
."

Meg poked her head back into the room. "Never heard of it," she said. "Is it good?"

"It's a 1922 film starring Max Schreck as the vampire Count Orlok," I said. "Very spooky."

"Sounds great," said Meg. She disappeared back into the kitchen. I heard the oven door bang shut and the smell of lasagna, Italian spices, and garlic bread wafted through the house.

Halloween.

The typewriter clattered, seemingly of its own accord, and I looked down at the page.

The Countertenor Wore Garlic

It felt right. I was off and running.

Chapter 1

Sing, o ye muses, of Noylene's wrath on Triple Coupon Day at the Piggly Wiggly.

"This is a
trapesty
!" Noylene yelled, loud enough for all the other customers in the grocery store to turn and gawk in amazement. "Amelia Godshaw, I demand to see the manager!"

Annette Passaglio, next in line behind Noylene, suddenly decided that she could use another twelve-pack of anything handy and backed her cart down aisle two, pretending she hadn't been in line at all. Annette was one of the grand-dames of St. Germaine and wouldn't think it seemly to stand calmly in line behind an irate, vocal, and possibly insane customer. She stopped backing up when she got to the display of toilet paper, then picked up a single roll of Charmin and pretended to read the instructions on the back, her free hand fidgeting nervously with her pearls as though they were a rosary.

Meg and I were checking our groceries with Hannah at the next register over. Hannah was doing her best to ignore Noylene, but I could see her bristle.

Hannah, Grace, and Amelia were the self-proclaimed "checkout girls" at the Pig. To characterize the three women as "girls" was a stretch since they hadn't seen girl status for sixty years. They all lived together, were fast friends, and since a robbery at the grocery store a few years ago, were all known to be packing heat. Roger Beeson, the long-suffering manager, tried to label them "sales associates," but they wouldn't have it. "We're the checkout girls," said Hannah, "and don't you forget it."

Amelia growled. "Noylene Fabergé-Dupont-Hog or whatever the heck your name is this week, you keep your voice down, or I'll do it for you." She pulled her pistol out from under the counter just far enough for Noylene to glimpse the grip and part of the barrel, then slid it back out of sight with a hard look at her customer. Noylene was not intimidated. She spun and pointed a finger at me.

"You see that?" Noylene yelped. "She pulled her gun on me!" She turned her fury back to Amelia. "And his name is McTavish, not Hog. Hog is his first name. Hogmanay McTavish."

"Why don't you shut your yap?" muttered Amelia in a low voice, but loud enough for all of us standing at the registers to hear.

Noylene turned to me again and barked, "I demand you arrest this harlequin! She can't be drawin' down on innocent people in a grocery store."

"I believe you mean 'harlot,' dear," corrected Grace. "A harlequin is something totally different." She turned and addressed Amelia. "She meant to call you a
harlot
."

"
Harlot?
" said Amelia, her eyes going wide with shock at the accusation. "
Harlot?
You don't even know what a harlot is, you... you...
bucolic
bumpkin!
"

"Let's calm down, ladies," I said. "Amelia is certainly not a harlequin, er... harlot, and Noylene can certainly not be considered bucolic."

"Dang straight," huffed Noylene. "I got all my shots last month. Now what about that gun?"

"I didn't see a thing, Noylene," I said. "I was thumbing through the
People
magazine." I looked at Amelia and offered her my second best law enforcement glower. "I'm sure that these three ladies are aware of the consequences of threatening customers with a firearm."

Amelia humphed. Grace and Hannah shifted their gazes to the ceiling as though tracking a dragonfly that might have flitted through the automatic doors.

Roger Beeson came running from his office when he heard the disturbance. He was a congenial fellow, but couldn't seem to keep any help at the Piggly Wiggly except for an almost vaporous stock boy named Clem, and the three ladies who didn't really need the money and were happy to work for minimum wage. Winter or summer, Roger always wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a tie, dark slacks, and a red vest with P. Wiggly's picture screen-printed on the right breast. On the left side of the vest, a garment which at one time may have buttoned neatly but now no longer stretched across Roger's ever burgeoning belly, the manager's name and title was embroidered. One of his shirt tails was untucked and he had the harried look of a manager who, on October 21st, had just phoned in the order for his fall pumpkins. He nervously smoothed a damp wisp of black hair across the top of his scalp.

"What's wrong, Noylene?" he said, exasperation evident in his voice.

"It's Triple Coupon Day, ain't it?" said Noylene. "I've got coupons."

"We're not giving you cash back," said Amelia with a snarl. "Says so right in the ad."

"No, it don't," answered Noylene, triumphantly slapping her copy of the
St. Germaine Tattler
onto the conveyor belt. "Lookit here. Last month the ad said 'no money back.' Not this month. You forgot!"

Roger picked up the newspaper and skimmed the ad. Then he sighed heavily, handed the paper back to Noylene and addressed Amelia.

"She's right. I forgot. Go ahead and give her the money."

"Forget it!" said Amelia.

"I'm the manager," hissed Roger. "You're causing a scene and customers are leaving the store. Give her the money!"

Amelia crossed her arms in defiance. "Nope. Everybody knows that on triple coupons, you don't get money back. Free stuff, sure, but no money back. That's just the way it is."

Noylene waved the paper under her nose. "Doesn't say so..."

"How much is it?" asked Roger.

Noylene pointed to a stack of items that hadn't been sacked yet that included a gallon of charcoal lighter fluid, five bags of off-brand dog food, and a large assortment of feminine hygiene products. "My triple coupons all add up to $63.76. The bill is $58.45. You guys owe me about nine dollars!"

"It's $5.31," said Amelia, "but we're not paying."

Roger dug into his pocket and came up with a hand full of bills. He counted out six ones and pushed them into Noylene's hand.

"You don't even have a dog," Amelia said to Noylene, her disgust at Roger's submission evident.

"Well, I've got me some dog food," said Noylene, waving the bills under Amelia's nose, "and six dollars to boot. Maybe I'll just go and
buy
me a dog since y'all are paying me to take this food home."

Amelia gritted her teeth but didn't say anything.

Noylene put on her nicest smile. "Maybe you could put these in a paper bag for me."

"I'm on break," said Amelia. "Do it yourself."

Amelia locked her register and stomped off toward the break room. Roger stepped behind the counter, bagged Noylene's purchases and set them into her shopping cart.

"I'll be back in a little while," Noylene said cheerfully, as she pushed her cart toward the exit. "As soon as I print up some more of them coupons. Y'all know you can just get 'em right off the Internet?"

"We think it's the hormones," said Hannah after Noylene had gone. "Her baby's what? Ten months old? She's been in and out of here like a wild woman for the past six weeks. It's driving us crazy." Hannah ran our two sirloin steaks across her scanner. "You have any coupons?"

"Nope," I said.

"Nope," said Meg.

"Hmm. You have your Piggly Wiggly discount card?"

"Nope," I said.

Meg shook her head and proffered an apologetic smile.

"We can also accept your Food Lion discount card if you have one of those," said Hannah hopefully. She lowered her voice. "Or I can let you use mine..."

"We insist on paying full price for these steaks," I said. "It's our anniversary."

Megan Farthing Konig and I have been married for almost three years. Three years this Thanksgiving to be exact, but October 21st was another one of our anniversaries. Not the anniversary of our first date. That was July 15th, the day that Meg went zipping past my '62 Chevy pickup in her Lexus and I was forced to detain her with a dinner of knockwurst and sauerkraut, grilled to the sounds of J.S. Bach on the stereo. July 15th, eight years ago.

October 21st was when she took me home to meet her mother.

Ruby, Meg's mother, had been living in St. Germaine for five years or so prior to Meg's arrival and I'd remembered seeing her around town, of course, but even in a small village of 1500 or so people, unless you ran afoul of the law or needed a police chief's particular services, there was a pretty good chance that I might not have made your acquaintance. Besides, Meg's mother is a Baptist. Baptist folk do not co-mingle with Episcopal folk unless provoked. In St. Germaine, Episcopalians will get together with Methodists (a common heritage), Lutherans (a common distrust of Papal authority), Presbyterians (a common love of mixed drinks), and Unitarians (because they'll drink anything), but Baptists? No sir. Baptists keep to their own kind.

The reason that I remembered seeing Ruby around town is that, although she is now in her seventies, she is a striking woman. Tall and statuesque with silver hair that still showed hints of black, she is an older version of Meg—same dancing gray eyes, same beautiful smile, same knockout figure, same wicked sense of humor. Meeting Ruby on October 21st wasn't particularly memorable, but it was another date Meg and I could celebrate, and we enjoyed celebrating.