The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) (6 page)

Noon of us were aboot to aergue.

Chapter 4

I got to church early. I didn't usually practice on Sunday morning before church, but on this particular morning, I had my hands full. The title of the offertory anthem that was printed in the bulletin was a piece called
Sing Unto God.
It was a great anthem—one of the choir's favorites by Mr. Handel from his oratorio
Judas Maccabaeus.
Still, it was a toss-up whether enough altos would show up to make a go of it. The anthem began with altos singing the theme and only three had been to Wednesday night rehearsal. Truth be told, they weren't the three I would have liked to see sitting in those chairs. I could double them up with some of the sopranos at the beginning, but after that, we were toast. Too many runs, too much exposed singing. I had a back-up plan, though: another Handel anthem, also on a paraphrase of Psalm 96, this one in two parts and easy enough to put together in a few minutes if my worst fears came to fruition.

Seated at the organ console, I had to assume that we'd do the first, more difficult one and it had more than enough black notes to persuade me that it would be a good use of my time to woodshed it before the choir showed up.

I'd made it through the first couple of pages when I heard the first footfalls stomp up the wooden steps to the loft. I expected Marjorie Plimpton, one of our tenors who was almost always twenty minutes early. She'd drop her grandkids off at Sunday School, grab a cup of coffee in the parish hall, and head for the choir loft to refill the flask she kept under her chair before anyone else showed up. Her "refill" bottle was in the organ case stuck behind one of the larger pipes and I didn't dare ask what it contained. That I occasionally was there when she replenished her supply didn't bother her. I was mildly surprised, therefore, when I glanced up from a cadence and saw not Marjorie but Bev Greene. I stopped practicing and waited for her to speak.

"I think that we and Bishop O’Connell have made a terrible mistake," she said.

"Really?" I feigned surprise. Bev ignored me.

"As church administrator I feel that I can offer a well thought-out opinion. He's horrible."

"The bishop?"

"The priest. McTavish."

"Horrible in a good way?" I asked.

"Horrible in a horrible way. He refuses to help with the communion service as long as Gaylen's celebrating. He's made it quite clear that he won't be served by a woman. Nor will any congregants once he is in charge."

"Perhaps they have different customs in Scotland."

Bev looked nervous. "He'll probably just stand there at attention for the entire service. The only thing he consented to do is to say the prayer after the offertory."

"I'll bet he just wants to see how the service flows since he'll be taking over next week."

"He growls to himself a lot. I think he's what you might call a Calvinist Anglican with strict Scottish Presbyterian leanings."

"Sort of flinty, eh?" I said. "A bit rigid?"

"In a word. He told me he prefers to use the 1549 edition of the prayer book in his daily devotions and, if he had
his
way, we'd be using it for services."

"Hmm. Ol' King Henry's prayer book? Is that allowed?"

"No," said Bev miserably. "But the old 1928 version
is
allowed if he gets the bishop's permission."

"Has he?"

Bev shrugged.

"So," I said, "no more snuggly couples-counseling? No codependent nurturing support groups? No twelve-step programs?"

"The only twelve-step program he'll be participating in is the eleven running steps he takes before he kicks you in the kiester."

"We'll manage," I laughed. "It might only be for a little while. He might be just the impetus the search committee needs to move quickly."

"I believe he'll be wanting us to switch to one of the Scottish metrical psalters."

"Could be worse."

"And we'll be getting fire and brimstone in the sermons."

"Probably good for us."

Bev eyed me with suspicion. "You're enjoying this, aren't you," she said. "You're one of
them.
"

***

The choir gathered in the loft thirty minutes before the service. My plan was to rehearse the anthem and go over the service music. It was a plan that seldom succeeded.

"Hayden's a closet
Manglican
," Bev said to Meg as soon as Meg sat down in her chair. "Did you know that?"

"Manglican?" said Meg.

"Man Anglican. A religiously crazed, male-centered, orthodox conservative who prefers the 1928 prayer book."

"Sure," said Meg with a shrug. "I knew that."

"Before you married him?"

"Oh, yes. Although 'orthodox' is a stretch. He's anything but orthodox. But crazed? Yes, definitely crazed."

"Harumph," said Bev.

"To tell the truth, I rather like the old prayer book, too," said Marjorie. "It reminds me of when I was a girl."

"Totally different," said Bev with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You prefer it because you're old. Hayden prefers it because he's a man."

"Old?" said Marjorie, bristling. "Who's old?"

"I never said I preferred it," I said. "I just indicated that I shall make the best of whatever situation presents itself." I lowered my voice to a mumble. "Although, now that you mention it..."

"We're using the '28 prayer book?" asked Elaine, joining Meg and Bev in the soprano section. "Are we allowed to do that?"

"Hope so," said Marjorie as she thumbed through her music folder. "Hey! Look! Our new liturgical mystery." She pulled the Psalm for the morning out of her folder, flipped it over and started reading the story I'd copied onto the back.

"I hope it's better than the last one," said Martha Hatteberg, one of the Back Row Altos, or BRAs, as they rather liked to be known. Martha was one of those who'd missed the rehearsal on Wednesday and I was glad to see her, thinking we might have a chance at the anthem after all. Seated next to her was Rebecca Watts, happily reading. But there were still seven altos missing.

"Excuse me!" I said. "That last story was rather brilliant."

Muffy LeMieux and her husband, Varmit, came into the loft. Muffy dreamed of the stage at the Grand Ol' Opry and sang accordingly. She had a signature look that she thought would play well in Nashville—tight angora sweaters, stretch pants, and big, dark-red mall hair that tended to change shades from week to week. Her husband, Varmit, was the foreman down the mountain at Blueridge Furs and didn't sing much, at least as far as I could tell. His job, as he saw it, was to hunker down in the bass section and keep an eye on Muffy. Muffy waved to me and flounced down amongst the sopranos.

"Georgia said to tell you she can't make it," Muffy said.

Another alto down.

"How about Tiff?" I asked, referring to our unpaid choral intern from Appalachian State.

"Fall break," said Fred May from the back row where the basses sat. "She said she was leaving for the week. Anyway, the basses are all here."

He was right. Bob Solomon, Mark Wells, Steve DeMoss, and Phil Camp joined Fred and Varmit in the bass section. The tenor section, anchored by Randy Hatteberg and Marjorie, had been supplemented by Burt Coley. Burt, who had a degree in music, was employed by the Boone Police Department and took weekend duty whenever he could. I couldn't count him as a regular, but he was here this morning, so I didn't have to worry about the tenors. Of the twenty-eight on the choir role, sixteen were present and all the sections were represented pretty well—all except the altos.

"Where's Sheila?" I asked Steve.

"Asheville," said Steve with no further explanation.

"I can't really sing," said Martha. "I just came to offer moral support. I've got the crud." Rebecca, the only alto left, looked up from her reading, startled.

"Elaine?" I said hopefully. "How about singing in the alto section?"

Elaine shook her head. "No way."

"Bev?"

"Manglican," said Bev accusingly.

I sighed, resigned myself to the easier anthem, and pulled it out of the pile of music sitting on top of the organ.

"This story is okay," announced Marjorie, "but it doesn't go anywhere. There's no plot."

"None of his stories go anywhere," said Meg. "You should know that by now."

"You need to take a writing course," said Muffy. "Over at the college. I took a song writing course last year and it helped me a lot. That's when I wrote my song
Please Bypass My Heart
." She started singing in her country twang. "Please bypass my heart, but don't pull the plug on our love..."

"That's great," I interrupted, "but this installment is just the introduction to the drama. The next chapter will be scintillating and will include many grammatical devices, including meandering conjunctions and itinerant participles."

"Fancy talk for someone who got a 'D' in college English," said Meg.

I ignored her. "Criticism later—now, down to business. We need to look at the Psalm and pray for altos."

"We always pray for the altos," said Elaine. "You know, 'Dear Lord, forgive the altos for their many transgressions...' It's in the St. Barnabas Chorister's Prayer."

"I mean, let's pray for
more
altos," I said.

"A little character development wouldn't hurt, either," said Mark. "Plot and character development. That's what you need."

"I've been saying that all along," said Meg with satisfaction. "Hayden definitely needs some character development."

There was a noisy honk at the back of the choir loft and everyone turned around to see what the commotion was. There, framed in the stained glass window, was Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, the town curmudgeon, with a handkerchief in his hand, wiping his long, glowing, snipe nose. Dr. Burch had several degrees in musicology and owned the Appalachian Music Shoppe on the square, a store that specialized in Medieval and Renaissance period musical instrument reproductions. He lived in two rooms at the back of the store. The Shoppe didn't have many walk-in customers except during peak seasons, but his employee, Flori Cabbage, had told me that they did quite a brisk business through their website. Ian's most arresting features, other than his beak, were his ears, large and prominent, jutting from his small flat head. That he was blowing his nose like a bugle was no surprise to anyone that knew him. Ian Burch was the foremost pine pollen sufferer in the county.

"Hi, Ian," said Mark Wells. "Are you going to accompany us this morning on your nose, or is there a rack-pipe part in this piece?"

"Rauschpfeife," said Ian in his freakishly high nasal voice. "I play the sopranino rauschpfeife."

"There's no rauschpfeife part, I'm afraid," I said.

"I didn't think there was," said Ian. "Otherwise you would have called me. I need to get my singing voice back in shape and I wondered if you could use an alto?"

"Sure," said Rebecca. "Do you know one?"

Dr. Burch sniffed and snorted into his handkerchief again. "I am quite a good alto—countertenor, actually—and have sung in many madrigal and early music venues. As a
chanteur
, I specialize in the works of Gilles Binchois, specifically his chansonnier oeuvre from the 1430s, but I'm also quite versed in the chanson baladée repertoire of Dufay and Machaut. I can audition if you'd like." He cleared his throat and made a high, keening sound.

"No audition necessary, Ian," I said. "Glad to have you. We're not singing anything in Medieval French this morning, but there's a folder sitting on that chair next to Martha. It's Tiff's seat, but she's absent."

A dark look of disappointment crossed his face, but he took the chair and opened the folder.

"Okay, everyone," I said. "Let's try the
Judas Maccabaeus
anthem. And sing it like you mean it."