The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (10 page)

"What scripture was it?"

"It was Second Corinthians. The Love Chapter."

"That was a good choice by the chicken."

"It was the Holy Spirit," said Ardine with finality. "And there were five people saved and three rededications."

"I'm glad it was a success. Are you going back tonight?"

"Yep. And takin' the kids, too. Brother Hog's gonna let 'em take up the offering tonight."

"Sounds like a fun evening."

"Nothin' fun about it," said Ardine, opening the door and holding it for me to enter. "This is God's work."

* * *

"You saw
who
?" asked Meg. We were sitting in a booth at the Slab having a late lunch. The crowd of bun-lookers had slimmed for the time being.

"You know, I hesitate to even bring this up," I said. "I may have been dreaming. I'm pretty sure I dozed off during that Gorecki piece you've been after me to listen to."

"Did you like it?"

"The symphony or the ghost?"

"Well, the symphony. We're both pretty sure you were dreaming about the ghost."

"Why are we pretty sure?"

"Because," said Meg, "if you actually did see Raymond Chandler's ghost and talked with him, he would have begged you to stop defiling his typewriter."

"He said I was pretty good."

"Which simply proves my point. You had to be dreaming."

"It seemed pretty real. He left the light on."

"No kidding," said Pete pulling up a chair to the end of the booth. "He left the light on?" I hadn't known Pete was listening in. But I should realize by now that there are no secrets at the Slab.

"Hmmm. What about the symphony then?" Meg was persistent.

"It was OK. I liked the first movement."

"But then you fell asleep?"

"And burnt a hole in my sweater," I added in disgust. "I could have burned the house down. All thanks to minimalism."

"Well, at least you listened to it."

"Yep. Now I have to listen to
Belshazzar's Feast.
Or maybe
Falstaff.
Just to cleanse my palate."

"Back to the ghost," said Pete. "What did he look like? Could you see through him? Did you feel a cold wind?"

"Nope. It looked just like the pictures I've seen of him. He was smoking a pipe."

"You saw a ghost?" asked Noylene, walking up behind Pete with the coffee pot. "I never saw a ghost, but I talked to one once. Through Madam Cleo. You know, that woman on TV. I talked to my old beautician. She told me to go back to my original hair color and to switch from red nail polish to 'passion pink'. It made all the difference."

"He was just dreaming," said Meg through clenched teeth. "See what you've done," she hissed at me.

"I was probably dreaming," I agreed.

"He was dreaming," agreed Pete.

"I don't know," said Noylene, doubtfully.

* * *

"Thanks for coming in, Hayden," said Father George, making a rare Saturday appearance at the church. "I need to talk to you about something."

"No problem," I said, sitting down in the chair that the priest had offered. "I was coming in to practice a bit anyway." Father George took his seat behind his desk.

"We're going to have a new position at St. Barnabas. A Parish Administrator."

I shrugged. "I've heard of them. What would he do exactly?"

"Well, mainly he…or she," he added thoughtfully, "would be in charge of all the business affairs of the church. Budgets, writing the checks, scheduling the sextons, hiring and firing non-salaried workers. That sort of thing."

"Who does all that now?"

"Well, the duties are spread around. I do some of it. Marilyn does some scheduling, but she really doesn't have time. Carol comes in and writes the checks once a month, but she doesn't keep track of budgets. I just think it's time to get it all consolidated."

"Fine by me. You have anyone in mind yet?"

"Not yet. We'll probably advertise for the position." Father George stood up indicating that he'd said what he had to say—a quality I admired about him. I nodded and got to my feet as well.

"By the way, I read that article about you in the Charlotte paper."

"I had nothing to do with that. I don't even know where that stuff came from."

"Hmmm," said Father George with a small nod. Then he changed the subject. "Is there any word on the man found in the altar?"

"He's at the morgue. There'll be an autopsy, but I probably won't hear anything until next week."

"If they need money to bury him properly, I have some in my discretionary fund."

"I appreciate that. I'll let the coroner know."

* * *

"Do you want to go over to the revival?" asked Meg. "Apparently, it's the best show in town."

"I think I'll skip it. Thanks for asking though."

"You know, he didn't have any music lined up, but then, after folks heard about last night, every service is booked with a choir. It was the chicken that did it."

"I'll consider it. I would like to see that chicken in action."

"Well, I think you should. Mamma wants to go so I'm going to take her next week, I think."

"I have these two apple pies," I said. "We could rent a movie, have some dinner and finish with some dessert.

"Then we could have some pie," Meg said with a smile.

Chapter 9

"What's the grift?" asked Toby, still out of breath from tapping up the stairs. His voice was wheezing like a broken accordion in a Lutheran nursing home dance band. His tapshoes were beginning a rhythm on the linoleum.

"I've got a dead girl. I need to know who iced her."

"How would I know?" said Toby Taps, getting his wind and moving into a step-ball-change-flap-ball-change beside the desk.

"You know everything, Toby. If there is a murder in this neighborhood, you know who did it."

"What's in it for me?" Toby executed a very nice paddle and roll.

"I'll teach you another aria."

I had his attention now. Another thing about Toby Taps. He didn't want to be thought of as a one-trick pony. That was four things about Toby--he was stylish, he always wore taps, he had a good tenor voice, and the one-trick pony thing.

"Yeah? Which one?"

"Well, you've got a nice leggiero tenor with a good range. I've heard a high B, haven't I?"

"High C."

One more thing about Toby Taps. It didn't pay to disparage his range. That was five things then: style, tapshoes, good tenor, the pony thing and his high notes.

"I must have been thinking about Cleamon 'Codfish' Downs," I said, backpedaling as fast as Lance Armstrong on rewind.

"Yeah, Codfish had a high B. It's a shame someone dropped a piano on him." Toby implemented a single outward pirouette followed by a slap-riffle-scuff-scuff-repeat.

"How about 'Deposuit' from the Bach
Magnificat
?"

"I don't want nothin' in Latin."

I had forgotten that little fact about Toby Taps. He didn't want anything to do with Catholics. He went to a parochial school when he was a kid, but was tossed out after an incident involving the Mother Superior, a lit cigarette, a live ferret, and a can of potted meat. That was six, I thought, still trying to keep track--fashionable, tapshoes, good tenor, the pony thing, high notes and a bad case of cathlo-phobia.

"How about 'The Holy City? '"

Toby stopped dead in the middle of a shim-sham-shimmy and put a hand to his chin in thought.

"Yeah. I kinda like 'The Holy City. '"

"What do you say?" I asked.

"Let's dance," said Toby.

That's one thing about Toby, I thought. Nah. Never mind.

* * *

"I hear you've been chatting up a ghost," said Rob Brannon on Sunday morning. As a substitute usher, he'd come up to the choir loft to leave the bulletins for the choir. I was putting the hymn descants along with the first chapters of
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes
in the back of the choir's music folders.

"Well," I said sheepishly, "I was probably dreaming."

"That's probably it. Any word on our dead body?" I noticed that Rob had taken ownership pretty quickly.

"Maybe tomorrow."

"I talked with Meg this morning during Sunday School. She seems pretty keen on me being on the vestry."

"She mentioned it to me. I told her that I thought you'd be a good choice."

"Well, I guess if they really need me, I'll be happy to serve."

"That's great, Rob. Just great."

* * *

"I guess Rob told you the news," said Meg with what might have been just a hint of triumph in her voice.

"Yes, I guess he did," I said sullenly. "What a schmuck. What a turncoat. What a weasel. What a …"

"Oh, stop. You don't have to be so grumpy. Why don't you just admit that I have some charms that you may have been taking for granted?"

"Yes, well, I admit it," I said sullenly. "But now we don't get to go to Seattle."

"Oh, we're
going
to Seattle. I already have the tickets."

I'm sure I looked confused.

"But you have to go somewhere for me," Meg added.

This was ominous and I didn't like the sound of it one bit. "And where would that be?"

"You have to go to the Iron Mike Men's Retreat."

My worst fears were realized. The Iron Mike Men's Retreat was sponsored by the Council of Churches in Boone every year at about this time—cold enough for campfires but not too cold to stay in tents under the stars at the Baptist Conference Center. I had been making fun of it for years.

"Absolutely not!" I said.

"Well, I never figured you for a welsher. And I did get the tickets for Seattle."

"Opera tickets, too?"

"Fourth row orchestra."

"Aww, sheesh. Not the Men's Retreat," I whined.

"You need to get in touch with your inner-man."

"Who says? My inner-man is just fine. He doesn't like to be touched."

"It's only overnight. And a bet's a bet."

* * *

Monday morning, bright and early, Nancy, Dave and I decided to make the trek across the street and brave the throng of now ever-present pilgrims to the shrine of the Immaculate Confection. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it had been last week when Pete took out his ad, but there was still a line.

Nancy had called ahead and reserved our table, so we snuck in the back door, through the kitchen, around the counter and sat down before the other patrons noticed their position had been usurped. It probably didn't matter that much, but we didn't want Pete's customers to be irked at our preferential treatment. Nancy, at least, was dressed in her uniform. That gave us a little credibility. Everyone knows that the police force always gets a table.

"The bun is looking a little peaked," I remarked as Pete came over and sat down, completing our foursome.

"I should have gotten it glazed."