The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (14 page)

“
What else?” I asked.

“
Says here he spent the last few years in Montana on a ranch that belongs to a dummy corporation on Grand Cayman. He was in Montana when the feebs lost track of him.”

“
That explains the clothes,” I said. “Real cowboy stuff.”

“
He liked cars,” said Nancy, now skimming the pages. “Owned a Maserati GranCabrio and an Audi R8 4.2. Also a Hummer. A big one.”

Pete whistled. “Those ain’t cheap.”

Nancy continued skimming. “Several off-shore accounts that the FBI knew about. Probably more that they didn’t. He bought a couple of original sketches by Gustav Klimt last year from Christie’s. 10k apiece. But, at that same auction a painting disappeared. Something called
The Holy Family with the infant St. John the Baptist and two shepherds.
Oil and tempera on a panel. Circa 1500. Valued at between five and eight hundred thousand. The winning bid was three hundred two thousand, but when the buyer went to pick it up, the painting was gone. Mr. LaGrassa was a person of interest, but he was nowhere to be found. He also had an affinity for antiquities.”

“
Man!” said Pete.

“
The thing is, there were many more expensive paintings at the auction.”

“
Opportunity?” I said. “Or maybe a buyer in hand.”

“
I’d say the latter,” said Nancy.

“
Okay,” I said, “cars, art, real estate, bank accounts...what else?”

“
Wine,” said Nancy, with a big smile. “He really loved wine. Expensive wine.”

“
That’s what he was doing at Old Man Frost’s!” said Pete. “He was trying to buy your wine.”

“
He obviously knew what it was,” I said. “And how much it was worth. I saw him trying to dial his cell phone in the middle of the auction, but he couldn’t get any service out there.”

“
It caught him by surprise, I bet,” said Nancy. “He didn’t expect to see something like that show up at an auction in the middle of the Appalachian mountains.”

“
And he didn’t have enough cash,” said Pete. “And couldn’t get it.”

“
Sounds right,” said Nancy. “I doubt they would have taken an out-of-town check for more than ten grand.”

“
Still doesn’t answer the most important thing,” I said.

“
What’s that?” said Pete.

Pauli Girl appeared at the table with an arm-full of omelets, grits, baked apples, and a basket of biscuits. She set the plates down, one at a time, in front of each of us, the basket of biscuits in the middle of the table, a bowl of gravy beside it, re-filled all our coffee cups, and never spilled a drop. Then she smiled and whisked herself off to her next table.

“
What’s the most important thing?” asked Pete again, reaching for the bread.

“
How ’bout it, Nancy?” I asked, smiling. “You know the most important thing?”

“
Yep,” she said. “Easy.” She raised a forkful of steaming grits to her lips and gently blew across the top, cooling it enough to slide into her mouth. “Mmm,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. “I love grits!”

“
The important thing...” insisted Pete.

Nancy looked at him. “Oh. Sorry. The important thing is, what was he doing in St. Germaine in the first place?”

•••

The choir loft was full for the first time since the dedication of our new church last May. Christmas always brought out the choir, it seemed. The bass section was populated by the regulars—Mark Wells, Bob Solomon, Fred May, Steve DeMoss, Phil Camp and Varmit LeMieux. Varmit didn’t really sing. He was just there to keep an eye on his wife, Muffy, a redhead who would have made even Liberace consider playing for the other team. Muffy had a signature look, which included dark leggings and very tight angora sweaters in a variety of shades. Muffy dreamed of being a country singer and couldn’t quite get the Loretta Lynn twang out of her rendition of
O Holy Night,
which she and Varmit lobbied for every Christmas Eve since they moved to town and joined the choir.

The tenors were anchored by Marjorie Plimpton and Randy Hatteberg. We had another tenor as well, Burt Coley, but he was employed by the Boone Police Department and took weekend duty whenever he could. He usually only showed up at Christmas and Easter. Marjorie was considering dropping to the bass section as soon as she drank her way into a low A.

Altos were plentiful at St. Barnabas. In fact, the Back Row Altos (BRAs) had formed their own militant feminist organization. In response, the Front Row Alto Union (FRAUs) had decided to band together into their own coalition, but they just didn’t have the political clout that their back row counterparts had garnered. The BRA organization was “by invitation only.” Very exclusive. Elaine Hixon had considered dropping out of the soprano section just to join, but she couldn’t get in. Her application was rejected. “She’s way too nice,” said Martha Hatteberg, one of the dissenting voters.

Altogether we had ten altos on the roll and an equal number of sopranos. If everyone showed up, the choir loft was packed with twenty-eight singers. This rarely happened, but it happened tonight.

“
What’s this stuff about a slug?” said Marjorie, reading my latest masterpiece. “I hate slugs!”

“
Me, too,” agreed Muffy. “And what about the under-dwarves?”

“
I only have one typing hand. I do what I can. Meg suggested I start a new children’s book series starring Sophie Slug.”

“
Don’t you try to pin this on me,” said Meg. “I didn’t write it, for heaven’s sake.”

“
I kinda like it,” said Rebecca, one of the BRAs. “It has a certain
je ne sais quoi.
”

“
I don’t get it,” said Edna Terra-Pocks from the organ console. “Has this got something to do with choral music?”

“
Nope,” said Georgia. “I think it’s about a slug.”

“
Right.” I said. “So here’s the plan. This Sunday we’re singing the Redford
Rejoice in the Lord Alway
at the offertory and Thom Pavlechko’s
Panis Angelicus
during communion.”

“
Not very Christmassy,” said Edna. “What about
Silent Night
? I have a great arrangement!”

“
We’re still in Advent, Edna,” I said.

Edna rolled her eyes and addressed the choir. “Well, this Sunday I’ve got a wonderful toccata for the prelude anyway. Y’all will love it! It’s got so many notes, I have to wear my sports bra to play it!”

“
Great,” I sighed. “That’s great. Anyway, we’ve got a lot to look at. Don’t forget that we’re singing the eleven o’clock service on Christmas Eve.”

“
How about Muffy singing
O Holy Night
?” called Varmit from the back row.

“
Of course!” Edna called back good-naturedly. “What key would you like it in?”

I glared at Meg, but she suddenly pretended to be interested in a dynamic marking she’d previously missed.

“
Key of D,” said Muffy. “At least I think it’s D. Which one has the high A?”

“
That’s D, all right,” said Edna. “I can’t wait to hear you!”

“
I have an even higher high A than last year,” bragged Muffy. “At least, that’s what my vocal coach says.”

Chapter 14

It wasn’t emotion that made Sophie’s lower lip tremble as she beheld the LDS Tabernacle on Temple Square, the seat of her faith and the final harbor of her pilgrimage, but as she felt her carefully-positioned Oprah wig begin to ooze off the side of her head and her eye-stalks droop like Tiger Woods’ putter, it was the realization that, when her Uncle Alosquisious warned her against this odyssey saying she was “too tender” and that her “heart would melt,” Uncle Al wasn’t being at all figurative, but literal, since her destination had been Salt Lake City and she was, after all, a slug.

From: “Sophie Slug: A Mormon’s Journey”

•••

“
I rather like it,” said Joyce, with a twinkling laugh. “It’s got everything: drama, love, alliteration, poetry, religion, heartbreak, topical humor... and do I detect a hint of nutmeg?”

“
That’s just your
Weihnachtsgeist
,” I said. “Your Christmas Spirit. We all smell nutmeg this time of year.”

“
How about an illustrator for your one-sentence books?” she asked.

“
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need a good one,” said Bev as she walked into the meeting room carrying a full mug of coffee in one hand and a carafe in the other. She set them both on the table. “I could do it. All he needs is someone who can draw a puddle with a couple of eyeballs floating in it. How hard can that be?”

“
You’re forgetting about the scenery,” I said. “Salzburg Castle by night, the Alps, sea birds, ocean vistas, the Tabernacle. All very picturesque.”

“
Puddles,” said Bev, pulling out a chair and settling behind her steaming cup. “Puddles and eyeballs. Where is everyone?”

“
Gaylen’s not coming to any worship meetings till after Christmas,” I said. “I dropped by her house this morning and chatted with her. She gave me her proxy.”

“
I’ll bet she did,” said Bev.

Elaine and Marilyn walked into the meeting room with their empty coffee cups and wasted no time filling them. Elaine had brought me a cup as well and I gratefully took the last of the coffee from the carafe. Marilyn sat at the head of the table and readied her notebook for whatever notes she might need to make. Then she smiled demurely, cupped her coffee in both hands and silently sipped the hot beverage, peering at everyone from behind her round spectacles.

Kimberly Walnut and Donald Mushrat came in next, looking extremely guilty for two people who had nothing much to be guilty about. I’m a detective and trained to notice these things, but these two were as obvious as a tattoo on a Lutheran.

“
You two look like you’ve been holding hands in the bathroom,” said Bev.

Kimberly Walnut’s face went beet-red and she sat down quickly, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Deacon Mushrat found the other empty chair, but, except looking vaguely uncomfortable, didn’t seem to be nearly as rattled as our Director of Christian Formation.

“
Right,” said Bev. “Let’s get started.”

“
What about my prayer?” said Deacon Mushrat. “I’d like to open with a prayer.”

“
I expect you’ve got plenty to confess,” mumbled Elaine.

“
I’ll do it,” Bev said, clasping her hands on the table. “Bless the work of our hands, Dear Lord. Amen.”

“
I didn’t even have time to bow my head,” complained the deacon.

“
Gotta be quick when Bev prays,” said Elaine.

“
Humph,” grunted Deacon Mushrat, then asked, “Do we have anything special for this Sunday?”

“
Nope,” said Joyce. “Nothing special. It’s a regular service. The Third Sunday of Advent. Gaylen will be back to celebrate the Eucharist. I’m sure we’re all looking forward to her return.”