The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) (19 page)

"Aw, nuts," I said. "Another dead end."

"She did tell me that she worked for one law firm for about a year. As a contractor."

I looked at Collette. This was a different girl than the one who had left St. Germaine three years ago, and it wasn't just the physical transformation. She was tougher, more self-assured.

"Something with ABBA in the title. I remember because we laughed about it."

I looked at her, puzzled.

"You know," she said, "ABBA. The singing group? 'Dancing Queen?'"

"I'll check it out," I said. "You going to stick around?"

"Nah. Dave said he'd drive me home."

I stuck out my hand. "It's good to see you, Collette. Thanks for your help."

She took it.

Chapter 14

We snuck into the crypt and looked around at ten empty caskets.

"Where do you think they are?" asked Pedro. "Taking a coffin break?"

"That line's been done to undeath," I said. "They're here. I can smell 'em."

"Oh, they are here all right," said Lapke Baklava with a swirl of his cape. "And now we've got you, too."

"Lucky I slipped into my garlic-flavored pantaloons," said Pedro with a determined grin. "You have yours on?"

"Not me," I said. "I have a date later."

***

It didn't take long to find a law firm in Charlotte that included only the initials A and B. Aaron, Brokovitz and Adger, Attorneys at Law. Seven years ago, the initials were ABBA, but the firm had dropped one of the partners when he plead guilty to manslaughter and was sent up the river for fifteen years. That partner's name was Brannon. Rob Brannon.

Carol Sterling introduced me to him four years ago when he moved to town. "Rob's been a visitor here at St. Barnabas since he was born," she said. "His family's from St. Germaine, but he's never really lived here."

When the old church stood, it was easy enough to find the Brannon name amongst the good and great. Rob's ancestors were among the founding members of St. Barnabas and there were three earlier Robert Brannons memorialized in the stained glass windows. This Rob Brannon though, Rob Brannon, IV, was a different story. He'd tried to legally lay claim to thirty-four million dollars that St. Barnabas Church had in an old account, but had no idea that it was still entitled to. When the church treasurer, Randall Stamps, got in the way of the deal, Rob arranged for his untimely death. It was a closed case and we'd put the rascal away, although the church still bore some of the divisive scars that he'd inflicted. That Flori Cabbage had worked for Brannon in Charlotte was no coincidence.

"Find out where he's doing his time, and schedule us an appointment with him," I told Nancy. "I've got a meeting over at the church. I'll be back in about thirty minutes."

"Don't your meetings take four or five hours?" asked Nancy with a snarky smile.

"Half an hour," I growled. "Maybe sooner. Dave come in this morning yet?"

"Nope."

***

"Today is All Saints' Day, November 1st," sniffed Bev. "We're celebrating it this Sunday. It's one month 'til Advent starts. We ought to have at least one staff meeting before Christmas, don't you think?"

"You guys can have as many meetings as you like," I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee from the carafe that Marilyn had thoughtfully put on the table. "In fact, I affirm your meetings."

"Can you tell us anything about poor Flori Cabbage?" asked Joyce Cooper.

I shook my head. "I really can't. I will tell you, for what it's worth, that we think she was killed elsewhere and then dragged into the hay maze."

"Terrible thing," said Joyce.

"Speaking of terrible," said Kimberly Walnut, "do you know when Vicar McTavish is coming in? I needed to ask him something about Sunday's service, but I can never seem to catch him."

Bev shook her head. "Vicar McTavish is only here on Sundays. He's working up on Grandfather Mountain."

"Oh,
brother!
" said Kimberly. "By the way, can we get Clarence to clean the children's bathroom upstairs once in a while? It's like a pig sty up there! You'd think that a janitor would know his job!"

"Sexton," Bev said with a weary sigh. "Clarence is a sexton."

"What was it the vicar said to the kids during the Children's Moment last Sunday?" asked Joyce. "I've never seen them so quiet."

"They wouldn't tell me," huffed Kimberly Walnut. "The only information I could wheedle out of one of them was that the Father said that they mustn't ever tell what he told them. It was a secret and did they know what a secret was?"

"Apparently, they do," I said with a smile.

"I asked one of the parents, but they couldn't get anything, either. And here's something else..."

"I've got to get back to work," I interrupted. "Anything I should know about the service on Sunday?"

"Just the normal 1928 All Saints' liturgy with a throwback, 19th century Scottish Calvinist priest," said Bev. "Should be interesting. What are we singing?"

"We're doing the Puccini
Requiem
."

"The whole thing?" asked Joyce.

"It's not a requiem mass. Just an anthem, but very nice. We'll do it during the offertory."

"The bulletin's almost finished," said Marilyn. "It's in the office if anyone wants to see it. I'm still waiting for the list of the dearly departed." She looked at me, then smiled and said, "Hayden's already sent his stuff in."

"Don't forget that we have the Congregational Enlivener here on Sunday," said Kimberly Walnut. "He'll be meeting with the Sunday School classes and telling us why our church is so... well... boring. Then we'll be handing out the Spirit Sticks for the kids to use during the service. The vestry is all on board."

"Has your Congregational Enlivener actually been to one of our services?" I asked.

"No," said Kimberly Walnut, "but I told him how boring they are. Up, down, up, down, sing this old hymn, sing that boring Psalm, read the scripture, recite some old creed... It's the same thing every Sunday. I tried to clear all this with Vicar McTavish..."

Bev bit her lip. "Kimberly, I'd like to see you after the meeting," she said sweetly.

Kimberly Walnut didn't take the hint. "Anyway," she continued, "our Enlivener will be interjecting some fun elements into the service. We've decided that they should be a surprise."

"This should work well, what with us using the '28 Prayer Book and everything," I said as I stood to leave. "The vicar will love it."

"Now, about Advent," continued Kimberly Walnut. "There are several of us that think St. Barnabas should really do away with it entirely. A lot of churches are doing just that, you know. If we had Christmas carols for the whole month of December instead of those gloomy Advent hymns, it'd put everyone in a great holiday mood!"

I made for the door. "I'll see you guys later."

Bev caught up to me just down the hall. "She's got to go!" she hissed. "But I can't fire her! The vestry voted that there will be no personnel changes until we get a permanent rector. She knows it and has been biding her time. Not only that, but now she has a couple of vocal supporters."

"Then I guess we'd better enliven them," I said. "What's the worst that can happen?"

***

"Guess what?" said Nancy as I entered the station.

"I can't imagine," I said. "Where the heck is Dave?"

"Where do you think?" said Nancy.

"Well, he's not at home," I said. "I drove by his place on the way in. His car is gone."

"Right," said Nancy with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. "And you call yourself a detective."

"Oh," I said. "Wilkesboro."

"He called and said he'd be here by lunch. Meanwhile, there's other news. I called the Avery-Mitchell Correctional Institution in Spruce Pine to schedule an interview with Robert Brannon."

"Yeah?"

"I couldn't get one. Know why?"

"He's out, isn't he?" I said.

"Yep. Paroled last month. He did four years of a fifteen year sentence. They're out of space, Rob was a model prisoner, and manslaughter was a lesser offense, so he was paroled out of there."

"Did you call his parole officer?"

"I did," said Nancy. "Brannon checked in the first week, but the parole officer hasn't heard from him since then. The guy is so busy that he hasn't even scheduled any appointments with Rob yet."

"Oh,
great.
Does he have Rob Brannon's address? A phone number?"

"Got the address," said Nancy. "It's an apartment in Newland. I talked to the manager. Brannon paid three months in advance. The manager hasn't seen him for a couple of weeks. There's a phone number, too, but no answer. I'll send Dave up there to check it out, but I'm betting he's not there."

I tapped absently on the desk, my mind racing.

"Well, that explains Flori Cabbage spotting her old boyfriend," I said. "But what's he doing in Watauga County?"

"Remember at his sentencing hearing?" said Nancy. "He said he'd get even with St. Barnabas. Not just you. The whole church."

I nodded. "Let's say he did have something to do with murdering Flori Cabbage. Why? Why after four years?"

"It can't be coincidence," said Nancy, shaking her head. "I just don't know."

"I need a Reuben sandwich," I said. "Sauerkraut always helps me think."

***

Seventeen minutes later, Noylene Fabergé-Dupont-McTavish was setting a plate down in front of me. On this plate rested the champion sandwich of all time, the Reuben. Winner of the 1956 International Sandwich Exposition, it purportedly had a much longer history, having been simultaneously invented in 1914 by Arnold Reuben, owner of Reuben's Restaurant and Delicatessen in New York, by Reuben Kulakofsky, a wholesale grocer in Omaha, Nebraska, and by William Hamerly, a New York accountant and bachelor cook, who named it after Arnold Reuben. Whoever it was that came up with the recipe—corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Thousand Island dressing on rye bread—was a bona fide American hero in my book and should have his own holiday, a plot in the Arlington cemetery, and possibly have his likeness (or one of the sandwich) issued on a postage stamp. Certainly, U.S. Postal Service and other government employees around the country would embrace this idea. What was one more holiday?

"You sure you don't want anything?" Noylene asked Nancy.

"Maybe just some onion rings," said Nancy, now that the scent of deep-fried breaded onions was wafting from my plate. "Onion rings and a sweet tea."

Brother Hog was sitting at the counter, bouncing little Rahab on his knee and digging into a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

"Afternoon, Brother Hog," I said. "Your brother is quite a preacher. Must run in the family."

"Fearghus? Yes, I suppose he is, although he embraces a different interpretation of the scriptures than I do. Still, it takes all kinds to get through to people, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does," I said, tickling Rahab under his chubby chin. "How's that little nipper doing today?"

"Doing great," said Hog. "He'll be a year old in a month or so. You know, I wonder if he might be walking by now if we hadn’t snipped off his tail when he was circumcised."

"Good point," I said. "Although little Rahab will probably be glad you did when he gets to kindergarten. There're not too many kids walking around with tails these days. You know, I've read that baby kangaroos use their tails to learn how to walk. I think that's true of many caudated bipeds."

"Interesting," said Brother Hog, with a bob of his head. Noylene, overhearing, rolled her eyes.

"Is he preaching yet?" asked Nancy. "I read about this little baby preacher in Iowa. Right now he's just preaching to the family pigs, but they seem to be quite amenable to the Gospel. In a year or so his daddy's going to take him on the circuit."