The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (28 page)

“
That’s it,” she said, clicking the slide back into place. “Barrel removed and replaced in well under a minute. And I didn’t even need a tool.”

“
So what’s the point of all this?” asked Pete.

“
Well,” I said, “we just wanted to know how long changing a barrel might take. Plus, we have a gun we have to re-test.”

“
Ah,” said Dave, comprehension dawning on his face.

Cynthia came out of the kitchen. “Pete! We could use a little help back here!”

Pete huffed and got to his feet. The cowbell on the front door announced another patron and Brother Hog walked into the restaurant.

“
Brother Hog!” called all the regulars.

The Rev. Hogmanay McTavish waved dejectedly and made his way over to an empty stool at the counter.

“
I hear congratulations are in order,” Pete said. “Let me get you some breakfast. On the house.”

“
Thanks,” said Brother Hog.

“
Have you visited the little nipper?” I asked.

Hog shook his head in the affirmative. “Oh, yes.”

“
Have you seen his tail?” asked Dave.

“
Shut up, Dave,” whispered Nancy.

“
Noylene doesn’t want the doctors to snip that little rascal’s rudder,” Hog said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. As the father, I’m sure I have at least
some
rights.”

“
What’s her rationale?” Pete said. Cynthia gave him a withering look. “If I may ask?” he quickly added.

“
She says that maybe little Rahab...” Hog fixed an unblinking eye on us. “You
know
that’s a girl’s name, right?”

We all nodded.

“
She says that maybe little Rahab should keep his tail until he reaches an age where he can decide for himself whether or not he wants to keep it. I say that we know what’s best for the child and should point him in the way that he should go.”

“
Ah,” Pete said. “Sort of like infant baptism.”

Hog pondered this for a moment then rejected the notion. “No,” he said. “Nothing like it at all.”

Pete laughed.

“
So,” I said. “Are you getting married again? Are you going to make an honest woman out of Noylene Fabergé-Dupont?”

“
I asked her. She hasn’t said one way t’wor the other.”

“
How does New Fellowship Baptist Church feel about all this?” asked Cynthia. “Did the congregation make a big stink?”

“
They’re not happy,” admitted Hog. “In fact, I’ve taken a leave of absence until after the New Year. I may have to go back into the tent revival business.”

“
Well, you were awfully good at it,” I said. “You could preach a badger into a turtle hole.”

“
None better,” agreed Pete.

“
Binny Hen the Scripture Chicken was top notch,” said Dave.

“
Souls were saved,” added Nancy. “People baptized.”

“
Picnics on the grounds,” I said. “Music, games, fun...”

“
And a good time was had by all,” Noylene said, standing in the doorway with a bundle in her arms. “Hog,” she added sternly. “We gotta talk.”

Chapter 31

“
Things are heating up in the world of Sophie Slugh,” observed Marty Hatteberg. Members of the choir who happened to show up to rehearsal on time were treated to my latest treatise on the adventures of Sophie and the under-dwarves. The rest of the group would have to wait. But perhaps that was their plan from the beginning.

“
I still don’t care for slugs,” said Marjorie, tossing the page over her shoulder in disgust. “Anyway, I have an announcement. I’m thinking about starting a blog.”

“
What?” said Steve DeMoss. “Do you even know what a blog is?”

“
Sure. You get on the computer and you type in stuff for people to read. Then they give you their credit card numbers.”

“
And you have something that people want to read?” said Phil. “I mean besides how to make bathtub gin?”

“
An important skill back in the day,” Marjorie said. “But I used to be quite a soprano, you know. I thought I’d share my techniques on voice production. You know, some anecdotes, followed by singing advice. Then people will pay to read it and I’ll be a millionaire. I found out about all this on the interweb down at the library.”

“
You were a soprano?” Meg said. “When was that?”

“
In the forties, dear. We had quite the choir in the forties.”

“
But you’re a tenor,” I said. “The lowest tenor we have, in fact. Most sopranos at least keep some semblance of their range over the years.”

“
That’s just the way God made me,” said Marjorie, taking a sip from the flask that she kept under her choir chair. We never asked what was in the flask. None of us really wanted to know.

“
My first blog-thingy article is going to be called
Smoking Your Way to a High B.”

Guffaws erupted from the choir.

“
No, really,” said Marjorie. “Sometimes sopranos don’t like to give away their singing techniques, but I’ve been singing in the church choir for eighty-seven years and I know a thing or two.”

More laughter.

She took another sip. “Back in WWII, we sopranos here at St. Barnabas were very competitive. I remember one girl who had a solo with a high A in it. On Christmas Eve she squawked that note like a goose getting sucked into a jet engine. Oh, how we all laughed at her!” Marjorie closed her eyes and smiled, fondly remembering those glory days.

“
We taunted her all the way into Lent,” she added matter-of-factly. “She eventually had a nervous breakdown and had to quit the choir just before Palm Sunday. We really had a lot of fun back then! Anyway, I’ve decided that it’s time I told my story.”

Marjorie leaned forward in her chair. “The secret of my success...” she glanced around the choir and lowered her voice, “has always been a couple of stogies in the bathroom before the church service!”

“
Hey,” said Mark Wells, “mine, too! I wondered who that was smoking cheroots in the ladies’ room.”

“
Take out the
Mouldy Cheese Madrigal,
” I announced. “Shephard’s
Mass of the Nativity,
and the Holst
Christmas Day.
Also Carson Cooman’s
In the Beginning.
”

“
When does Muffy sing
O Holy Night
?” asked Varmit.

I glared at Meg who’d suddenly decided that Gustav Holst’s use of the half-diminished seventh chord was very intriguing.

“
You can sing it during the pre-game show,” I said with a sigh. “We’ll start singing at 10:30. We’ll have music for a half hour. The service starts at eleven o’clock.”

•••

Rehearsal wrapped up after an hour and a half and the choir members made their way down the stairs and through the nave chattering merrily. Christmas was almost upon us. Even the pall of Deacon Mushrat’s demise didn’t keep us down for long.

Edna sat at the organ, setting a few stops and going over her music for Christmas Eve.

“
Edna,” I said. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“
Yes?”

“
Did you use the computer at the library on Monday afternoon?”

Edna looked confused. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I believe it was Monday. Yes, it was,” she decided. “Monday. I came up to practice but had left my copy of the Olivier Messiaen piece I was going to play for communion at home. I downloaded a PDF off the internet.” She gave me a suspicious look. “Why?”

I was horrified. “Messiaen? Christmas Eve? During communion?”

“
Sure,” said Edna. “I’m playing
Dieu Parmi Nous.”

I heard myself make a small, pathetic sound.

Edna patted me on the cheek. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll play all the right notes.”

That’s what I was afraid of. I shook my head to clear the thoughts of a Messiaenic Christmas Eve. “Anyway, someone took the hard drive out of the library computer,” I said, looking for a reaction. There was none. “I told Rebecca I’d ask around.”

“
It was working fine when I used it,” Edna said. “That was around three in the afternoon.”

She told a convincing story. I don’t know if I believed her.

Chapter 32

Christmas Eve. I was walking across the park toward a row of shops I hadn’t been in for a while. Since last Christmas Eve, in fact. The snow was just beginning to gather against the hard corners of the gazebo as the wind lifted the large, wet flakes and chased them across the frozen ground. My right hand was stuck deep into the pocket of my old coat; my left hand, partially encased in its plaster cast, was bundled against the chill by a woolen boot sock. Cynthia came bouncing out of a boutique called “Sassafras” with her six-year-old niece Penny in tow. She saw me and gave me a wave. Cynthia was positively glowing.

“
I just love Christmastime,” Cynthia said when I walked up. Both her hands were dripping with shopping bags. “Isn’t this the
best
?”

“
Very festive,” I agreed.

“
Have you finished your Christmas shopping?” asked Cynthia. “Penny was all done, but she’s helping me with a few last-minute gifts.”

“
Well, not exactly,” I said. “I did get some books and a few choice bottles of wine, but I don’t really do my shopping until Christmas Eve.”

“
Really?” said Penny, looking as haughty as a six-year-old possibly could. “How pedestrian.”

“
Penny!
” said Cynthia, then looked at me apologetically.

“
It’s an old German custom,” I said, making up yet another old German custom. “Very bad luck. If you do your shopping before Christmas Eve, the Krampus knows what you’re up to and will come to your house instead of Santa Claus.”

“
The Krampus? I’ve never heard of the Krampus.” Penny looked mildly concerned but crossed her arms defiantly. “And I’ve heard of almost everything.”

“
Well, after all, you
are
six,” I said. “I’m just saying that
some
people believe that if you’ve already gotten your presents, and you weren’t a good girl all year, the Krampus will come to your house on Christmas Eve and change your presents for switches.”

“
Oh, I’ve been pretty good,” decided Penny, but chewing nervously on the side of her lip.

“
And the very bad children...” I looked up and down the busy street. “The
very
bad children not only get switches, they get all their old toys taken away as well.”