The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (20 page)

“
Oh. Right. It doesn’t matter anyway, because you cancelled choir this Wednesday. Living Nativity. Remember?”

“
I remember. Still,” I said whimsically, “Muffy does fill out the soprano section. I mean, she
really
fills it out. It’s those angora sweaters—now in holiday colors.”

Meg punched me in the cast and immediately regretted it. “Ouch,” she said, shaking her fingers.

“
Both hands on the wheel, please.” I smiled at her. “It serves you right. You shouldn’t punch a cripple this close to Christmas.”

Chapter 18

“
Hiya, Chief,” said Dave, when I came through the police station door on Monday morning. “How’s the good bishop doing?”

“
She’s back home and doing okay,” I said. “She’ll be back by Christmas Eve. Where’s Nancy?”

“
Out doing police stuff,” said Dave.

“
Ah. Police stuff.”

“
Yep. I asked her to stop by the Piggly Wiggly on her way in and get us a dozen donuts.”

“
That’s police stuff, all right,” I agreed. “Anything happening we need to check up on?”

“
Nope. I’ve got about three reports to finish up. Then I’m going home.”

“
You’re on for Wednesday, right? Living Nativity duty. Nancy’s on duty Thursday and Saturday. I’ve got Friday and Sunday.”

Dave nodded. “Nancy said she’d help me out on Wednesday, so we’ll both be there. I might have to shoot that camel and I’m not really comfortable with that. Nancy says she wouldn’t mind.”

Chapter 19

Annie. Annie Key -- singer, looker, and potential cash cow.

“
Why’d you come to me?” I asked. “Who gave you my name?”

“
Pedro did,” she whispered, moving across the desk like a piece of Guernsey flotsam. “Pedro LaFleur.”

Her breasts pressed against me like spent sausage casings while the moonlight played on her thighs like two tennis players engaged in mortal combat to the death.

“
My credit card has been declined,” she sobbed. “My LCA maxed it out, and now she won’t answer my calls!”

Suddenly Annie had lost her bovine luster.

I struck a match and lit a stogy. “So what do you want from me, sister?”

“
Won’t you help me? Won’t YOU be my new Life Coach Accompanist?”

“
Listen, Bossie. I’m a shamus, a gumshoe, get it? Sure, I can tickle the ivories and give advice, but it ain’t my bread and butter. Besides, your credit card has been declined.”

“
Won’t you do it out of love?” Her eyelashes flapped like clothes-lined underwear in a stiff breeze, not banging noisily against the pole like those stiff cotton briefs that are usually on sale at Walmart, three for five dollars, but fluttering gently like the $69.95

J Peterman imported knee-boxers made of grasshopper silk and hand-stitched by the seamstresses of Kooloobati.

“
I might,” I said, adjusting my knee-boxers.

“
Pedro said you were the best.”

“
Yeah. What was the name of your last LCA?”

“
Sophie. Sophie Slugh.”

The kiss that was halfway out of my mouth crawled back inside like a startled mushrat.

“
What’s wrong?” asked Annie, a pucker still dangling from her lips like a blister on an overcooked bratwurst. “You’ve gone all verschlunken.”

I didn’t answer. Sophie Slugh, alias Sophie Slug, alias Sophia Limacé. My archenemy. Ten years ago I’d thrown her off Reichenbach Falls into the salt mines of Kooloobati. Now she was back.

•••

I didn’t plan to go to church. A Wednesday night off during December was something to be savored, but I was backed against the counter by Bev Greene as soon as I walked into the Slab for a cup of coffee early in the afternoon.

“
You’ve got to go to Deacon Mushrat’s Bible study tonight,” she said.

“
No, I don’t.”

“
Gaylen wants you to,” said Bev.

“
You’re fibbing,” I said.

Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, I am,” she admitted. “I can’t go. I told Gaylen I’d keep an eye on him, but I’ve got to pick up the donkey at Connie Ray’s farm and take him back after the show. It’s my Kiwanis Club assignment. It was either that or be the innkeeper’s wife, and I don’t look good in burlap.”

“
You’d look great in burlap,” I said. “It could be the fashion move of the season.”

“
C’mon,” she wheedled. “You owe me. What about that time I didn’t tell Meg that I saw you...”

“
Don’t finish that sentence,” I said. I thought for a moment, then decided. “Okay, I’ll go, but I’m not staying for the whole thing. I’ll go and listen for just a bit. Then I’m heading home.”

•••

At six o’clock I was up in the choir loft, sitting in the dark on the back row, waiting for Mushrat to begin. There were about twenty people in the pews. The deacon had decided that, since there wasn’t any choir practice, he’d go ahead and use the church instead of his usual Sunday School classroom, and had gallantly run Edna Terra-Pocks off the console and out of the loft, even though it had taken her an hour to drive into town just so she could practice. Edna was storming out just as I walked up. She was
not
happy.

I looked out over the church and tried to recognize folks from the back. It wasn’t that difficult since I’d watched most of them walk in. Varmit and Muffy LeMieux were sitting near the front. Kimberly Walnut was by herself, up on a kneeler, looking as though she was praying fervently. Ruby Farthing, Meg’s mother, was sitting with Wynette Winslow and Mattie Lou Entriken. She was keeping them company. Kylie Moffit, the owner of the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop, was sitting with Shea Maxwell. Flori Cabbage was there. Diana Terry. Karen Dougherty, the town doc. I saw Benny Dawkins, our thurifer, who, I had heard, had just returned yesterday from his European tour. He was sitting toward the back and chatting across the aisle with Frank Harwood. Gwen Jackson...

Donald Mushrat came into the church through the sacristy door, took a moment to adjust the lights, then walked up to the pulpit. He was wearing his white alb and his purple deacon’s stole. Since he was beginning on time, I quit trying to identify the participants. I wouldn’t be here that long. Just a few minutes to fulfill my obligation and then off to the Bear and Brew for a quick beer before heading home.

“
Good evening. Thank you for coming to this awesome Advent study on the Book of Malachi. And since you all are agreeing with me in faith, I’m going to share something else with you this evening. Something I think we should all be aware of.”

“
What’s that?” asked Kimberly Walnut.

“
There’s a jail in our community. I’ve come across some correspondence and I don’t think any of you are aware of the spiritual consequences that this implies.”

I perked up. Jails were
my
jurisdiction. But what on earth was he talking about?

He continued. “Cicero said it best. But before we start, I’d like us to stand and sing the first and seventh verses of
O Come, O Come Emmanuel
, as I light the Advent wreath. It’s hymn number 56.”

I frowned. There were three keys to the lock-box in the pulpit that housed the control for the winch that lowered the giant wreath. Bev had one, Gaylen had one, and Billy Hixon had one. I couldn’t see any one of the three handing it over to Deacon Mushrat for his Bible study.

The congregation stood and Mushrat started the hymn with Muffy leading the assemblage and Flori Cabbage, who had brought her flute, accompanying. The deacon held down the toggle switch and the wreath lowered to its prescribed height.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,

And ransom captive Israel,

That mourns in lonely exile here

Until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel!

As the congregation sang, Deacon Mushrat snapped his fireplace lighter and lit two purple candles and the rose one, three of the four candles on the wreath. Then he went back to the pulpit and held the toggle to raise the wreath back into position.

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind

In one the hearts of all mankind;

Mushrat suddenly looked startled. His eyes grew wide and he dropped his hymnal. It clattered into the back of the pulpit. The congregation was still looking down at their music and continued singing.

Bid thou our sad divisions cease,

And be thyself our King of Peace.

The deacon walked slowly from behind the pulpit and toward the congregation, a horrified look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the back doors and his lips were moving, but not in time with the music.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel!

Mushrat stood on the top step of the chancel, hands clutched in front of him as if in prayer. He dropped to his knees and suddenly there was a horrific squealing that caused everyone in the congregation to drop their hymnals and clap their hands over their ears. The wrenching sound was followed seconds later with what could only be described as a car wreck—steel on steel, two immovable objects hitting head on—followed by a loud bang. Mushrat never even looked up as the cable holding the Advent wreath snapped.

•••

I raced down the stairs as the screams echoed through the church.

“
Back up, give me some room!” I hollered as I ran up the aisle.

“
I called 911,” said Gwen, as I barreled past her.

By the time I’d gotten to Mushrat, Frank, Benny and Varmit had lifted the wreath off of the deacon and rolled it to the side. Dr. Dougherty was kneeling by his side. The crowd backed up and gave me enough room to get next to the doctor. Mushrat was lying on his side in a fetal position. I knelt down beside him, looked at him closely, then looked at Karen who was trying to find a pulse. She looked back at me and shook her head.

“
He’s probably just stunned,” said Muffy. “Or maybe knocked out. I was watching the wreath. It didn’t hit him square on. In fact, his head went right through that opening.” She pointed to the large gap in between two of the candles. “Can’t you do some CPR or something?”

“
I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s gone.”

“
His neck is broken,” said Karen. “There’s no pulse.”

“
I’ll wait here for the paramedics. You all please go wait in the fellowship hall. And Gwen? I think Nancy and Dave are across the street policing the Living Nativity. Would you go and get them, please?”

Gwen nodded and ran down the aisle toward the front doors.

“
Everyone else, please go wait for me in the fellowship hall now.”

“
What about CPR?” one of the voices insisted. A woman. “You’ve got to at least try!”