The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (2 page)

I kept it there originally for the rats in the choir loft. But then the church had burned and been rebuilt, and there weren’t any more rats. Still, I’m a creature of habit and as long as the tenors knew the gun was there, I felt as if I had a little more control over the choir. Being the part-time organist and choir director at St. Barnabas was the profession I’d trained for. Police Chief was the job I’d stumbled into when I realized that church musicians were paid just slightly more than janitors. Actually, a second Master’s degree in criminal justice didn’t do my vitae any harm when it came time to hire the new police chief of St. Germaine some ten or so years ago. As far as my salary at the church was concerned, I didn’t really need to worry about that either. I’d made a couple million selling a little invention I’d come up with to the phone company some years ago. Meg Farthing, my investment counsellor, brokered that sum into quite a few million, then got me out just before the market crashed. I was so grateful, I married her. She was so grateful she decided to take my name. Mrs. Hayden Konig. The most beautiful woman in Watauga County.

Nancy and I walked across Sterling Park, currently, being late November, devoid of the leaves that formed the canopy over the park in the spring and summer. The lawn crew had gathered the piles of leaves a few weeks ago and now the landscape was clean and bare and tourist-friendly. The park gazebo had been covered in white Christmas lights which, along with the streetlights boasting garlands and bows, would light the entire park as soon as the sun settled behind Grandfather Mountain. As we walked across the stiff, brown grass, I waved to Billy Hixon, the Junior Warden of St. Barnabas, who was on his knees cleaning up the flower beds in front of the church. He waved back, then buried his head back into the garden, yanking up dead chrysanthemums and flinging them behind him like a badger gone berserk.

We walked beside the church and down Maple Street, past the flower shop, and up the steps of Mrs. McCarty’s old house, now the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop. The turn-of-the-century house was an American Foursquare, two stories tall, covered with white clapboard, and freshly painted. The porch stretched across the front of the house and welcomed customers into one of the four rooms downstairs (each one square, of course), while the upstairs had been converted into living quarters for the new owners—Biff and Kylie Moffit. The Moffits had moved to town after buying the coffee shop, and from all appearances, were now doing well. I hoped they didn’t spend all the proceeds. January and February were pretty slim in St. Germaine and business wouldn’t really begin picking up again until May. Biff and Kylie had joined St. Barnabas, being cradle Episcopalians, but had declined my invitation to join the choir. It was an invitation I offered everyone, being magnanimous in my musical mission, but the choir was pretty good and newcomers who decided to join us either held their own or followed the leaders without too much trouble. Either way I came out looking like I knew what I was doing and our choir hovered around twenty-two on any given Sunday. Thirty if everyone showed up, which they never did.

“
Good morning, Hayden,” called Kylie, when she saw me come in. “Morning, Lieutenant Parsky.”

“
It’s the uniform,” I said, as we made our way to the only free table and seated ourselves. “You’re the authority figure. I’m more accessible. Sort of like Andy Griffith and Barney.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “They both wore uniforms. Not only that, they were both called by their first names. Anyway, I think you’re much smarter than Barney.”

“
No, no,” I said. “I’m Andy.
You’re
Barney.”

Nancy snorted. “In your dreams.”

Holy Grounds was doing a brisk breakfast business on this Friday morning, even though the menu consisted only of bagels and muffins. But, in their defense, the coffee was excellent and you could get your bagel toasted if you wanted.

“
What can I get for you?” asked Kylie, brandishing an order pad, at the same time pulling a pen from behind her ear. Kylie, like her husband, Biff, was in her mid-thirties, but unlike her husband, didn’t dress like a perpetual yuppie. Biff was spotted all summer around town with his tennis sweater draped over his shoulders. Kylie preferred comfortable work clothes. Her dark hair was pulled back and held with a scrunchie.

“
Hmm,” I said. “I think I’ll have a Norwegian omelette. Yes. An omelette and a side of pancakes. With the Hollandaise hash browns.”

“
Right,” said Kylie, scribbling on her pad. “Coffee and a bagel.”

“
With extra blueberry syrup,” I said.

“
Toasted,” scribbled Kylie.

“
Maybe a plum duff for dessert. And don’t skimp on the rum sauce this time.”

“
Cream cheese. Got it.”

“
Same,” said Nancy.

Kylie disappeared into the kitchen.

“
Heard from Dave?” I asked. Dave Vance was the third member of the St. Germaine constabulary, charged mainly with handling phone calls and donut acquisition.

“
He’s on the way back. He called me this morning from Roanoke. I’d say he’s a couple hours out.”

Kylie returned to our table with two toasted bagels on small paper plates and a couple of cups of coffee in cardboard cups with hard plastic lids. She smiled and dropped the bill in the middle of the table, then headed for a table of new customers.

“
We’ve got to get our table back at the Slab,” Nancy grumbled. “This just ain’t right.”

“
Maybe we could commandeer a table under the Patriot Act,” I suggested, taking a sip of the coffee. “Hey, this is really good coffee.”

“
Well, it ought to be for two bucks plus tax! But, paper cups?”

“
I’ll talk to Pete,” I said. “Maybe we can make a standing reservation at the Slab for every morning at 8:30.”

“
Pete doesn’t take reservations.”

“
Patriot Act,” I answered with a grin.

•••

The church office was closed for the holiday weekend, but I stopped by to view the activity in the nave. The First Sunday of Advent was two days away and the Altar Guild was in full swing. Bev Greene, our parish administrator, had conscripted the services of Mr. Christopher, the foremost interior decorator that Watauga County had to offer. This was quite a coup considering that, according to the local grapevine, Mr. Christopher was about to be offered his own show on HGTV.

Our priest was there too, lending a hand as well as moral support. Dr. Gaylen Weatherall had become our priest three years ago but then had been elected bishop and moved to Colorado. Last summer, chiefly due to her father’s failing health, she gave up her exalted position and returned to St. Germaine as the shepherd of the St. Barnabas flock. Bev was quick to point out that, even though she’d retired from the episcopate, she was still a bishop and entitled to all the rights and privileges thereto appertaining. These rights and privileges, as far as we could tell, consisted of wearing the silly hat and cape during feast days. Still, she was the Right Reverend Rector of St. Barnabas and everyone loved her. Well, almost everyone.

“
Morning, Hayden,” called Elaine Hixon. The Altar Guild had things well in hand, flowers and baby’s breath in abundance, placed artistically among the fir garlands and pine boughs.

Billy, having finished with the mums in the front flower beds, was now directing the hanging of our new Advent wreath.

“
Two years ago today,” said Billy, looking up at Elaine’s greeting and seeing me come down the aisle.

“
I remember,” I said.

“
Elaine reminded me this morning. I’d sort of forgotten. It doesn’t seem like two years have gone by since the church burned to the ground.”

“
No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “But I’m looking forward to our first Christmas back.”

We’d consecrated our new building last May, eighteen months after the fire. St. Barnabas had been rebuilt to look almost identical to the 1904 structure that had been lost. The changes that had been made were improvements to the structure and the infrastructure—things most people wouldn’t notice unless they looked closely, or were in the know. Even the windows had been reproduced as faithfully as possible. One of the improvements the building committee had planned for was the hanging of this huge Advent wreath. The wreath was eight feet in diameter and constructed of welded steel, painted a dark red and covered with greenery. The four candles that jutted from the candle holders, located equidistant around the edge of the wreath, were oversized as well—three purple candles and one rose-colored, all about eighteen inches tall and as big around as the thick end of a baseball bat. The wreath would hang from a cable, eighteen feet above the floor, that had been attached to a winch in the ceiling and was controlled by a locked switch in the pulpit. The wreath could be slowly lowered and raised and the candles lit and extinguished for every service during Advent, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the two Sundays before Epiphany. The whole effect would be rather spectacular.

“
The tree looks great,” I said, looking at the ten-foot-tall blue spruce sparkling in the corner of the chancel.

Our “Jesse Tree” had been set up behind the baptismal font and was covered with small white lights. The Jesse Tree looked, to the casual observer, almost exactly like a Christmas tree. But, as good Episcopalians, we knew instinctively that it was just plain wrong to acknowledge any part of Christmas before December 24th at the earliest, so we did what any self-respecting religious organization would do under similar circumstances: we gave the Christmas tree a different name and pretended we put it up for Advent. As long as no one asked any questions, we were fine. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” That was our Advent motto. Well, that and “Come, Lord Jesus.”

Of course, there was still the internal struggle between the Chrismonites and the Jessetonians, each sect vying for control over the ornamentation of said evergreen. Both factions advocated the use of Christian symbols for decoration, but the Chrismonites were staunch supporters of the tried and true white Styrofoam cutouts decorated with gold beads and bric-a-brac. The Jessetonians held for more natural adornments: fruit, small stuffed birds, and organic ornaments made by the children. The two groups would watch each other carefully through narrowed eyes until the Second Sunday of Advent, the traditional “decking of the Jesse Tree,” neither making a move, but numbering their foes and marshaling their forces for the showdown, i.e., the vestry meeting on the second Thursday of December. It was there the final decision would be made, and God have mercy on us all.

“
How strong is that wire?” asked Gaylen, looking askance at the wreath, now rotating slowly two feet above the floor.
Our priest was a very attractive woman in her late fifties, tall and slender with white hair that rested gently on her shoulders, and an easy smile.

“
It’s airline cable,” said Billy. “Eighth-inch. It’ll hold fourteen hundred pounds.”

“
And how much does that thing weigh?” asked Gaylen.

“
Two hundred. Maybe two-fifty,” said Billy. “Don’t worry. It’ll give you a lot of warning before it snaps.”

“
That’s very comforting,” said Gaylen, with a light shudder.

“
Luckily, I’ll be in the choir loft,” I said. “And even if people are kneeling for communion, they’re still a good ten feet away. You, on the other hand, have to traipse back and forth between the altar and the rail. It’s you, and the Eucharistic Ministers, that have to worry.”

“
And our new deacon.”

Elaine, Bev, Billy, Mr. Christopher, myself, and the rest of the Altar Guild all stopped dead and looked at her.

“
Deacon?” said Bev.

Gaylen sighed heavily. “Bishop O’Connell asked if I’d take him on. I told him I would. It’s only for six months. He passed his General Ordination Exams, graduated from seminary, and was ordained as a deacon. Now he has to do hands-on parish training under the guidance of an experienced priest. That’s me.”

“
When’s he coming?” asked Bev.