The Tenor Wore Tapshoes Read online

  The Tenor

  Wore Tapshoes

  a Liturgical Mystery

  by Mark Schweizer

  The Tenor Wore Tapshoes

  A Liturgical Mystery

  Copyright ©2005 by Mark Schweizer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by

  St. James Music Press

  P.O. Box 249

  Tryon, NC 28782

  ISBN 0-9721211-4-5

  Prelude

  "I think you're finally famous."

  I looked across the top of my old typewriter and saw Meg coming out of the kitchen, a newspaper held open in both hands and her face buried behind page two.

  "Famous, you say?"

  "There's an interesting article in the Charlotte Sun Herald ," she said, lowering the paper and giving me her hundred-watt smile. "Want to know what it's about?"

  "Yes, please," I said, removing my visor and clicking off the green-shaded banker's lamp. The black typewriter, a moment ago bathed in pale yellow light, now vanished into the shadows of the old roll-top I used as my writing desk. "I need to get a beer anyway."

  "I'll bring you one. What would you like?"

  "I've been waiting to try a Malheur Black Chocolate. I got some yesterday. It's been at the top of the beer charts for a couple of months now. Look in the door of the fridge."

  "Top of the beer charts? There are beer charts?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Any other 'charts' I should know about? For when your birthday comes around?"

  "Well," I said, "there's the cigar charts, the wine charts, the stereo equipment charts, classical recording charts, gun charts, new church music charts…that's all I can think of at the moment."

  "In other words, every magazine you subscribe to has a chart."

  "Yep."

  "I'll get your beer."

  Meg put down her paper and disappeared into the kitchen, followed closely by Baxter who was obviously hoping for a doggy treat. Baxter, being almost a year old and a Burmese Mountain Dog, was always on the lookout for a handout.

  I clicked the stereo remote and the sounds of Englebert Humperdinck filled the room—the composer, not the lounge singer.

  "This looks like champagne," said Meg, returning with a couple of elegant bottles. "Is that Hansel and Gretel I hear?

  "It is," I replied, taking the Belgian draft from her outstretched hand and settling into my worn leather club chair. "I love this opera. As far as Romantic opera is concerned, it's brilliant."

  "I thought it was a Christmas opera. Doesn't the Met always do it on Christmas Eve? It's only October."

  "I've never understood that really. Maybe it's the gingerbread house. There's really nothing Christmassy about it unless you count the witch, the attempted homicide and resultant cannibalism and, of course, the hallucinogenic mushrooms."

  "Yes, hallucinogenic mushrooms always say 'Merry Christmas' to me. Anyway I recognized the tune," said Meg, sitting on the sofa. "My grandmother used to sing it to me."

  "Yep. Humperdinck was one of the first composers to use his tunes in his overtures. Quite an innovation. And did you know that the first example of sprechstimme has been traced to one of his early operas? The amazing thing is that…"

  "Yes, I know," she said, cutting me off. "I read your thesis. Now stop changing the subject and listen to this." She snapped open a newspaper and started reading:

  AP, Charlotte, North Carolina.

  What do Rosemary Brown, J.Z. Knight and Hayden Konig have in common? They are all famous "channelers." But unlike Ms. Knight (one of Shirley MacLaine's favorite channelers and the 20th century vessel for the 35,000-year-old Cro-Magnon warrior called Ramtha) Rosemary Brown and Hayden Konig are channelers for creative personalities and have actually produced new works through their dead benefactors' influence.

  Although born to poverty and working part-time at a school cafeteria, Rosemary Brown was a personal friend of Beethoven, Mozart, Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff, Debussy, Bach, Brahms, Liszt, Chopin, Schumann, Handel and a host of others. She took dictation of hundreds of works from a veritable Who's Who of great composers, compositions that were performed and recorded during a brief psychic craze in the early 1970s. Rosemary, whose amazing talent became recognized during a spiritual healing session, was not at all remarkable according to the Psychic News. "It is comparable to what hundreds of other mediums have done—the only difference is that you have some famous composers involved."

  As her notoriety flourished, Rosemary rose to the task. She would chat cordially with seemingly empty chairs. "Mr. Bruckner is standing next to you now," she'd tell a visitor, or "Oh, I do like his lovely violin concerto," even though the composer had seemingly failed to write one. Her conversations with the dead always took place in English, even with composers who spoke no English during their lifetimes, but who may have since had time for sessions with Mr. Berlitz—also deceased. All, according to Rosemary, are still busy composing—except Debussy, who has switched to painting.

  "I don't like where this is going," I muttered.

  "Oh, it gets better," said Meg.

  Hayden Konig, of St. Germaine, North Carolina, is the proud owner of Raymond Chandler's 1939 Underwood Number 5 typewriter. Raymond Chandler, one of the creators of the "hard-boiled" detective genre of the 30s and 40s died in 1959. Many of his books translated to the silver screen and made Humphrey Bogart and the character of Philip Marlowe a household name.

  Now Hayden Konig, a police chief by trade, is fashioning the same imagistic prose and crackling dialogue as Mr. Chandler, albeit, with a twist. Where Raymond Chandler's writing is inventive, witty, and carries the crime story to levels of artistry that have rarely been matched, Konig-Chandler's efforts are simply awful. So awful, in fact, as to garner an honorable mention in the Bulwer-Lytton competition, a national literary competition to come up with the worst opening line of a novel since "It was a dark and stormy night."

  "Really? I got an honorable mention? That's great!"

  "Hush. Let me finish."

  Hayden sits in his cabin in the woods. He places his fingers over the keys of the old typewriter, puts himself into a trance and begins channeling the spirit of the famous author. His eyes glaze over, his mouth drops open, and his fingers fly over the keys. "I can feel his ghost take hold of me," says the mountain detective. "I ain't even myself. It's almost like my own mind just gives over to him." Yet much like Rosemary Brown, the effort is hackneyed, rough and a poor substitute for the real thing.

  "I sent in a few entries, but I hadn't heard anything. An honorable mention? Wow."

  If Chief Konig really is channeling for Raymond Chandler, the least he could do is to give us another Killer in the Rain. And Rosemary might well oblige us with Beethoven's 10th.

  "Do you think that there's an awards ceremony or something? I wouldn't mind going. Even just for an honorable mention."

  "Hayden, you're not paying attention. This is an Associated Press story. It's just strange enough to get picked up in any number of papers."

  "Who wrote it?"

  "Some woman named Rachel Coolidge."

  "Well, she didn't get the quote from me. I hardly ever say 'ain't.' At least not to a reporter."

  "You're not worried?"

  "About what?" I asked.

  "The fact that most of the people in St. Germaine, as well as in the county, will think that you're a psychic detective who's channeling for a dead author. In other words, a crazy man with a badge and a gun."

  "I don't carry a gun."

  "Nevertheless," said Megan, putting down the paper, "I think you should sue for slander. At least get a retraction. This story makes you look like a nut case."

  "Well, the thing is…" I started.

  "What?" asked Meg, suddenly sounding concerned.

  "Well," I said, "sometimes late at night, when I'm typing, I sort of feel like there's someone else in the room with me."

  "You mean you think you are channeling for Raymond Chandler?"

  "No, of course not. But it's a bit spooky."

  "Maybe it's the ghost of Daniel Boone's granddaughter. She used to live in this cabin, didn't she?"

  "Yep," I answered, finishing off my beer and putting the empty bottle on the side table with a dull clink. "But I don't think it's her. If I had to guess, I'd say it was Ray, sure enough."

  "You're serious?"

  "Not too. But if you hear me talking to someone in here, don't be surprised."

  "Has he said anything about your writing style? Has he begged you to stop defiling his typewriter?"

  Meg was always criticizing my literary efforts. Granted, they might be less than stellar, but I give it my best shot. And I'd been rewarded with an honorable mention in one of the most famous writing competitions in the country. My Liturgical Detective stories had made the rounds at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church where I am employed as the part-time organist and choir director. They were now finding their way, slowly but surely, through the small mountain town of St. Germaine. Ever since I had bought the famous typewriter at an auction, I'd had an insatiable urge to put my own prose to paper. Computers were fine, as far as they went, but there was something intensely gratifying about clicking on the banker's lamp, putting a fresh piece of bond into the antique contraption and then seeing the words appear slowly be
hind the clattering hammers.

  "You're starting a new story, I suppose," said Meg with resignation.

  "I was just warming up when you came in."

  "What's this one called?"

  "I'm not saying. But I'll let you read it when I have a few chapters finished."

  Meg sniffed, picked up my empty bottle and headed back to the kitchen. "Supper will be ready in about an hour, if you can wait that long."

  "That'll be just about right," I called after her, as I pulled myself out of my too-comfortable chair and made my way back to my writing desk.

  I clicked the light on and sat down at the typewriter. The paper slid easily around the roller. I got the typewriter re-fitted when I purchased it and it worked just like new. Looking at the blank piece of paper, I placed my fingers on the keys and typed

  The Tenor Wore Tapshoes

  I could sense it. Another masterpiece was on the way.

  Chapter 1

  I walked noiselessly into the dining room and saw her lying motionless, face up, on the table; her hair--white in the moonlight--swirled about her head like a shimmering sea of mashed potatoes highlighted by streams of melted butter; her cranberry lips parted slightly in a perpetual pout; her apple-cheeks still red with the glow of unsullied youth; her eyes--small black currants surrounded by glistening pools of dark-brown gravy, a garland of pearl onions around her swan-like neck--and as I noticed the knife jutting from her chest like one of those plastic pop-up timers in a frozen turkey, I thought to myself, "this bird is done."

  "Kit!" I called to my Girl-Friday. "You'd better get in here and get a couple of snaps."

  Kit scuttled in like a crab on hind legs. She'd been with me for a while and I could trust her--at least as far as I could trust any dame.

  I'm an L.D. That's Liturgy Detective. Duly licensed by the Diocese of North Carolina and accountable only to the Bishop. At least that's what it said on my card. I flipped on the light switch.

  "Wow!" said Kit, fumbling with the oversized camera hanging around her neck. "Is she dead?"

  "As dead as Fishstick Friday," I said. "And make sure you pick up your flash-bulbs this time. We don't need any extra trouble from the coppers."

  The entrée's name was Candy. Candy Blather. I had first met her at a hymnology conference where she was presenting a paper on the Pietic hymns of the late l9th century. I didn't care for the lecture--one verse of "I Come To The Garden Alone" gave me the shaking jakes--but she was a dame with a come-hither Madonna look and gams till Advent, and when she was finished, I made my way to the front of the autograph line, throwing more elbows than a Japanese tour group on Dollar Day at Gatorland.

  "How 'bout those Calvinists?" I said, using my tried-and-true conversation starter. "Think they'll win the pennant?"

  She smiled demurely and reached for the copy of her latest book that I was pushing across the table.

  "Whom should I make it out to?" she asked.

  "Make it out to me, Doll-face. Just write 'To my dinner date. I'll see you at seven. '"

  * * *

  "October is a rare month for boys." So began one of my favorite books, and it was as true for me when I first read it at age twelve as it was now, some thirty-five years later. The drive from my house into town took about twenty minutes—thirty if I wanted to stretch it, and in October I usually did.

  The Appalachians in western North Carolina are a continuous sunset during October, each day the colors spreading further across the mountain-scape. It's these colors that fueled the economy of St. Germaine. October and November comprised the peak tourist season. We have quite a few summer visitors and a number of seasonal residents, but most of the businesses in town relied heavily on the autumn months for the bulk of their annual income. As a result, on most days the traffic was heavy. On weekends, it was ghastly. The town council had decided that the weekends during these two months required a full staff on duty at the police department. It was my idea, actually, but the council had to come up with the money to pay the overtime.

  A "full staff" at the St. Germaine police department consists of myself, Nancy Parsky and Dave Vance. Nancy is an excellent officer and could easily run the department if I ever decide to hang up my spurs. It was Nancy who showed up at my house last Easter just in time to foil what could have been a very nasty murder and save a rich and handsome gentleman, namely me, from an untimely end. To show my gratitude—I am, after all, very rich as well as handsome—Meg suggested I get Nancy a nice present for her birthday. I did. A silver Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide. Now she's a motorcycle cop.

  Dave works part-time at the station. He answers the phones and generally puts in more hours than show up on his time card. He enjoys the work, and Nancy and I think that he has some sort of trust fund set up. He doesn't ever seem to be hurting for money. Dave has an obvious crush on Nancy, but she ignores his mooning and they get along fine.

  I am the Chief of Police. Criminology was the third stop on my collegiate path. A couple of degrees in music followed by an even less practical one. And finally, after all of that education, I ended up inventing a little contraption that the phone company thought was worth a couple of million bucks. So, as it turns out, I don't have to work at all. I do it because I enjoy the job, and that's a nice position to be in.

  My part-time position as choir director and organist at the Episcopal church on the square is a reasonable use of my music degrees and, although I rarely find any practical use for my degree in criminology, the fact that I had one landed me nicely in the Police Chief's chair. I was recruited and then hired by the mayor of St. Germaine—coincidentally my old college roommate—Peter Moss, who moved back to his hometown after finishing at UNC-Chapel Hill with a degree in philosophy. Pete put his education to good use by opening a diner.

  I pulled onto Main Street and drove my 66 Chevy pick-up past Pete's establishment, the Slab Café. I didn't bother to stop at the Police Station when I saw that, once again, some nitwit had parked in the spot that had a sign clearly stating "NO PARKING—Reserved for the Chief of Police." It was the same thing every day. The traffic was so bad downtown that the out-of-towners decided it was worth the price of a ten-dollar parking ticket to park wherever they could find a spot. It was easy enough to park if you lived here and knew the layout. There were plenty of places for those in the know, my favorite being in the rhododendrons behind the parish hall at St. Barnabas. From the church, it was only a few short blocks back to The Slab Café where, I fervently hoped, Nancy had gotten us a table for our "staff meeting." Tables, this time of year, were as hard to get as parking places.

  I was walking up to the front door of the Slab when I heard, rather than saw, Nancy pulling up. The Harley had a very distinctive rumble. Nancy had no problem parking. She just drove right up onto the sidewalk.

  "Sorry I'm late, but I called and told Dave to get us a table," she said, taking off her helmet and pulling her hair back into a quick ponytail.

  "It's going to get too cold for that bike pretty soon."

  "It's pretty cold now. I'll switch back to the Nissan, I guess, but it'll kill me. I love this bike."

  I had to laugh out loud. She was still, after five months of riding the big bike, like a little kid at Christmas. I held the door open for her as she wrestled off her leather jacket, walked in and looked around the room for the table we hoped Dave had reserved for us. He was there all right. Table for four, biscuits on hand, the coffee already poured.

  "I went ahead and ordered for you," said Dave as we walked up, ignoring the line of twenty or so glaring customers waiting for a table. "It'll be up shortly."

  "Excellent police work, Dave," I said.

  Nancy draped her jacket over the chair and settled into it, managing to pick up a biscuit in the same move.

  "Is Meg joining us?" she asked, pointing to the fourth place setting.

  "Nope. She's working this morning. In Boone, I think."

  "When are you going to get married, Boss?" Dave asked with a smirk.

  "When someone asks me."

  "That's a pretty smug answer," said Nancy between bites. "You'd better be careful though. It could happen."