The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (13 page)

“
Glad to see you’re up and about,” I said.

“
Uh-huh,” Gaylen answered.

“
C’mon. I know you can talk. Just use your lips.”

“
Yes, yes,” she grumbled, her lips drawing away from her teeth in her effort to form words through a broken jaw that was wired shut. “I can talk. Slowly and softly. And it takes a lot of effort. Come on in.”

I followed her into the living room, a comfortable room with an old sofa and two overstuffed arm chairs facing a gas fireplace. The fire was blazing. Heart-pine floors, original to the house, were tastefully covered by worn Persian carpets. The plaster walls had been freshly painted just before Gaylen had moved back and the pictures she’d chosen for the walls made the room both informal and inviting.

“
Coffee?” asked Gaylen, through gritted teeth.

“
I’ll get it,” I said, picking up Gaylen’s empty mug from the side table. She sat down heavily in her arm chair, favoring her left side, and I saw a grimace before I disappeared into the kitchen to refill her cup and get one for myself. I was back a moment later with hers.

“
Cream, no sugar,” I said, as I handed her the cup.

“
Thanks.”

I headed back to the kitchen and hollered back over my shoulder. “Now that I’ve got this broken arm, I’ve got to make two trips to do everything.”

Gaylen waited until I’d come back with my own coffee before replying. “I’m so sorry about the accident,” she started. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I feel so terrible...”

“
Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. And good news! All the baby skunks survived.”

Gaylen couldn’t help but laugh. “Great. That’s just great. All the skunks survived. The story of my life.”

“
How’re the ribs?”

“
They hurt, but they’re getting better.”

“
That’s good. So you’ll be celebrating the Eucharist this Sunday?”

“
That is the current plan,” Gaylen said slowly, working very hard to enunciate her words. “Donald will be doing the sermon. I heard that your cantata was excellent last Sunday. I’m sorry I missed it.”

“
It was okay,” I said. “I didn’t care for the organist’s registrations. And her prelude...”

Gaylen put up her hand and smiled. “We’ll get through this. I’ll be back to work full-time by Epiphany.”

“
That’s why I’m here, actually,” I said. “I have a proposal.”

Gaylen’s eyebrows went up in interest.

“
I just had a phone call from a vicar in Nantwich,” I said.

“
Nantwich?”

“
Northwestern England. Geoffrey Chester gave him my name and number. The church there has decided to schedule a tour of some religious treasures. Apparently, once the tour was announced, the vicar got a phone call identifying St. Barnabas as one of the wealthy churches on the east coast of the U.S.”

“
A dubious distinction,” mumbled Gaylen. “I’m pretty sure our illustrious bishop flagged us.”

“
Be that as it may, this is quite an interesting proposition.”

Gaylen settled back into the cushion and took a sip of coffee. “Okay, I’m all ears.”

I reached into the pocket of my coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I took notes,” I admitted. “This is quite an amazing story.” I unfolded the papers and began.

•••

“
Arthur Farrant is the vicar of a small parish in Nantwich called St. Hywyn’s. Like many of the parish churches in England, St. Hywyn’s is trying desperately to raise money to repair the 16th-century building and keep the church going. It’s in a very poor section of the town. The vicar says that the main mission of the parish is running a soup kitchen and providing clothing for the poor.”

“
You got verification?” Gaylen asked.

“
I called Geoffrey and he gave me the number of a friend of his at St. Mary’s in the same town. They both told me Farrant’s on the up and up and does great work. He’s even been featured in his local paper several times. But the British economy is as bad as ours and they’re hurting for funds.”

Gaylen nodded, but didn’t say anything. She motioned for me to continue.

“
So St. Hywyn’s hired this fund-raising group. It was just a local firm and they didn’t charge much, but they gave them some ideas on how to raise some money. One of the ideas was a throw-back to the Middle Ages.”

“
Don’t tell me. They’re going on a crusade.”

“
Nah. You’re thinking of Billy Graham. This is even better. Relics.”

“
Relics?”

“
Yep. January 6th is the Feast Day of St. Hywyn,” I said.

“
Same as the Feast of the Epiphany.”

“
Yep. Here’s his story.” I looked at the folded paper in my good hand to get my facts straight. “Some of this is just legend, of course. But still...”

“
Let’s hear it,” said Gaylen.

“
St. Hywyn,” I began, “also called Owen or Ewen, was a disciple of St. Cadfan in the 5th century. He founded monasteries and churches in Wales and western England. No one knows how the little church in Nantwich became associated with this saint, but it may have been because of his feast day and what happened in 1164.”

“
My knowledge of medieval history being what it is, you’ll have to elaborate.”

“
Really? You don’t know what happened in 1164?”

Gaylen snarled.

I laughed. “In that year, Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa gave the bones of the Three Kings to the cathedral at Cologne. According to the St. Hywyn parish legend, the bones were carried to Cologne in a caravan headed by a Welsh priest, coincidentally also named Ewen. The relics were enshrined and are in Germany to this day. But here’s the rub. Ewen managed to get home to England with some of the relics hidden in his bags. He and they landed in the little monastery at Nantwich where the bones were stored for some seven hundred years. The reliquary where the bones are kept dates from the 1400s. Apparently it’s quite a work of art, made of wood with silver and gold inlay. And these bones kept the monks flush for many, many years.”

“
You’re saying that one of the Three Kings is in Nantwich?”

“
That’s the legend.”

“
One of the Three Kings that visited Bethlehem? The gold, frankincense, and myrrh Three Kings?”

“
The very ones.” I checked my notes. “The reliquary was hidden by the monks in 1536 when the monastery was shut down. It was rediscovered in 1892 and returned to the church where the monastery stood. It’s been there ever since, along with Hywyn’s staff, little known and rarely visited. Anyway, the vicar and the vestry thought that, if advertised correctly, sending the relics on a short tour of the eastern U.S. might generate several thousand pounds after expenses. The reliquary is to be displayed at several well-to-do churches. We’d have to make an offering to St. Hywyn’s.”

“
Hmm. And the money would go to the feeding and clothing of the poor?”

“
Well, that and the upkeep of the building. If that isn’t done, there won’t be any more feeding or clothing going on at all. Here’s a picture of the reliquary.”

I handed the last page of my notes to Gaylen, the page that I’d printed off the internet with a beautiful photograph of the Nantwich Reliquary. There had been a lot of information, once I’d Googled the subject, most of it put out by the publicity firm the church had hired.

Gaylen studied the photo, then pointed to the bottom of the page and said, “I see some links here to some auction sites. They’re not selling it, are they?”

“
Not that I know of. Farrant didn’t mention that. But I suppose they would sell it if they had to.”

“
Hmm. How much will it cost us?”

“
Four thousand bucks. And we get the reliquary the first week of January. It would be a great centerpiece for our Epiphany service. We can take up an offering for the mission work as well.”

“
Sounds reasonable. Just to be clear, you’re saying that we’re going to have the bones of one of the Three Kings on display for our Epiphany service?”

“
Yep.”

Gaylen managed a smile. “Well, why not?”

Chapter 13

The Slab Café was bustling for lunch, but with our reserved table status, Nancy and I calmly pushed our way through the line of would-be patrons and sat down to the angry glares of many out-of-towners.

“
You know, dear,” said one of the men to his wife, but loud enough for everyone in line to hear, “it’s amazing that the police in these little burgs think they can just barge in wherever they want and get a table without waiting in line like civilized people.”

Nancy stood back up, put her hand on the butt of her gun and gave him a hard look. “Patriot Act,” she said.

The man mumbled something unintelligible and Nancy sat back down, followed by Pete a few seconds later.

“
Don’t scare the customers,” he said.

Nancy pulled a sheaf of papers out of her inside overcoat pocket and put them on the table. “This is Sal LaGrassa’s dossier. The hit-man. Remember?”

“
Of course,” I said. “Do I have to read the whole thing, or can you give me the highlights?”

“
Highlights it is,” said Nancy. “But first, some breakfast.”

“
Or lunch,” suggested Pete. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“
Breakfast,” said Nancy.

“
Breakfast,” I agreed.

“
I’ll order it in the kitchen,” said Pete, getting to his feet. “But don’t tell anything until I get back.”

Nancy held her coffee cup aloft just long enough for Pauli Girl to spot her and come dancing over with a half-full carafe.

“
Here you go, hon,” she said, filling both our cups and Pete’s as well. By the time we’d taken our first sips, Pete was back at the table.

“
You’re getting omelets,” he announced. “And biscuits with gravy.”

“
Sounds fine to me,” I said, then turned to Nancy. “Okay, what have you got on Sal LaGrassa?”

Nancy thumbed through her papers. “Born Salvator Francis LaGrassa. Forty-five years old. Six feet even, a hundred and ninety pounds. Wanted for questioning in sixteen murders-for-hire. He’s also suspected in several major heists. Never arrested, never convicted, never even brought in for questioning. No siblings, no wife, no kids...no family at all, for that matter. His mother, apparently his only close relative, died in New York five years ago. He’s rumored to be one half of a team. The FBI suspects that the other person may be a woman.”

“
Can they close any of these cases?” I asked.

Nancy shook her head. “Nope. Ryan Jackson says they’ve got nothing substantial. No clear evidence at all. If they’d caught him, all they could do was question him and let him go.”

“
But they’re pretty sure?” said Pete.

“
Oh, they’re sure, all right. He was a seriously bad guy. They just couldn’t take him to trial.”