The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries)

The Treble Wore Trouble

A Liturgical Mystery

by Mark Schweizer

The Treble Wore Trouble

A Liturgical Mystery

Copyright ©2012 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

SJMP
|books

www.sjmpbooks.com

P.O. Box 249

Tryon, NC 28782

Acknowledgements

Nancy Cooper, Betsy Goree, Beverly Easterling, 

Kristen Linduff, Beth McCoy,  Patricia Nakamura, Donis Schweizer, 

Liz Schweizer, Richard Shephard, and Holly D. Wallace

Sing Me to Heaven

Music by Daniel Gawthrop, Poem by Jane Griner

used by permission

Prelude

Three thousand miles away, Marsha suddenly woke to the sound of beetles scurrying and the smell of sewage and couldn't help thinking that, if she had only gone to choir practice instead of that Beth Moore Bible Study, none of this would be happening: the First Methodist youth group wouldn't have been
eaten by cannibals, and she wouldn't be left with only
seven toes or be locked in a Peruvian jail with
a large, unhygienic woman named Adelgonda who liked having her feet rubbed.

* * *

"The difference between a good writer and a bad writer is merely the distance of a few participles."

"You don't say," said Meg, glancing up from the book she was reading.

"I'm absolutely convinced," I said.

Meg was curled up on the overstuffed leather sofa in front of the fireplace, her legs tucked under her. It was where she might be found on any given evening after the dishes had been washed, the dog fed and she'd finished watching her daily DVR recording of
Worldwide Exchange
. The program came on at four in the morning and featured in-depth coverage of business and investment issues, something that Meg, as a financial advisor, was keenly interested in. I, on the other hand, was not. I enjoyed watching a football game, or the NCAA basketball tournament, or even one of those home renovation shows, but sitting through an hour of financial information every day was tantamount to torture.

When I asked why she didn't get up at four to watch the program live, Meg rolled her eyes. "Oh, puh-lease," she'd groaned. "There's nothing happening at four in the morning that's going to affect anything that I do. I just like to keep up." So, unless I had other pressing business, as soon as Meg settled in with her book, I sat down at my typewriter and tried to tickle the muse.

"Hayden Konig," Meg said, peering over the pages and doing her best impression of a schoolmarm, "do you even know what a participle is?"

"No," I said, "but I could look it up."

"I think you should."

Sitting at the typewriter, I immediately decided that I couldn't be bothered. I put my fingers onto the keys and felt a gentle warmth emanating up through my hands. Imagination? Perhaps. But, as far as I was concerned, writing was more than inflated pronouns, furtive oxymorons, and grumpy infinitives. Writing was magic, and, although the magicians were many, my favorite had an historical link to this particular machine.

Raymond Chandler.

Raymond Chandler was my literary hero. A giant in the 1940s, he, along with Dashiell Hammett, embodied the hard-boiled fiction writer. Chandler was good. No, he was the best, and Philip Marlowe was his character — a wisecracking, hard drinking, tough private eye with a contemplative, more philosophical side. A man who loves women and enjoys poetry, but wouldn't think twice about jamming a roscoe in some sap's button and squirtin' metal.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" asked Meg. "I'm getting one for myself." She'd unfolded herself from the sofa and set her book down on the coffee table.

"No wine, thanks, but will you bring me a beer?" I asked.

"I certainly will. Any preference?"

"Nope. Surprise me."

Meg and I have been married for three and a half years. Before that, we'd been an exclusive item since she moved into town nine years ago. She is a few years younger than I, and, according to almost everyone in our little burg of St. Germaine, North Carolina, I "married up." They would get no argument from me.

Mrs. Megan Konig, née Farthing, had been married once before, and so was one union ahead of me. I hadn't planned on marrying at all — not being one of those unmarried men who was "resigned" to bachelorhood, but one of those who enjoyed it. I'd had the freedom to do what I wanted. I lived in a log cabin on a couple hundred acres. I was rich, thanks to an invention I'd come up with that had nothing to do with my actual job — a job, by the way, that I loved. Life was good.

But life was even better now. Now I had all those things and a beautiful wife besides. I watched as she walked to the kitchen. Baxter, our tricolored Mountain Dog, dutifully got up from his rug in front of the fire and followed her, hoping, I supposed, that maybe Meg had forgotten that she'd just fed him and would therefore offer him another piece of leftover duck with blueberry glaze. It was a forlorn hope, but one that Baxter never failed to exhibit. If Meg headed to the kitchen, the big dog was on her heels, tail wagging in optimistic expectation. I heard the rattling of bottles as Meg rooted around in the fridge, the sound of the door closing, the clink of a wine glass, and a few moments later, Meg was coming back into the living room with a glass of red wine in one hand and a bottle of BottleTree Blonde in the other. Baxter followed at a respectable distance, his tail now low, flagging his disappointment. He made his way back to his rug, sniffed it once or twice to make sure no other dog had sneaked into the house and usurped it while he was otherwise occupied, then stretched out and settled back into his torpor. It was the blazing fireplace that sent him snoring. It did the same thing to me. Keeping a fire going in early March was a given here in the mountains of North Carolina. Although we'd had the occasional warmish day in February foreshadowing an early spring, this year, like most, there was still snow on the ground.

Meg set my beer on the desk beside the typewriter and went back to her comfortable perch on the sofa. She was the prettiest woman in three counties. Shoulder-length black hair framed a face with high cheekbones, a beautiful smile, and dancing blue-gray eyes. As for her figure, well, with the possible exception of Cynthia Johnsson, the mayor of St. Germaine and an expert belly dancer, Meg would be far and away the favorite in any "over-forty" beauty competition in the state. Cynthia might win the talent competition, with her belly dancing and all, but Meg would garner extra points during the personal interview. Whenever Pete Moss (Cynthia's significant other) and I argued the point, Cynthia and Meg insisted that we're both sexist pigs. Still, a pig knows what a pig knows.

"Thank you very much," I said, taking a sip of the amber brew.

"You're very welcome. Did you look up 'participle' yet?"

"No. I'm much too busy. What are you reading?"

She held up the book so I could see the cover, a cover I knew well. "It's your copy of
The Big Sleep
."

"My Raymond Chandler, first edition, hardback copy signed by the author with mint condition book jacket?" I asked nervously.

"No," said Meg with a laugh. "Your cheap, non-signed, 1978 Books-A-Million facsimile copy."

"Whew," I said, letting out my breath in relief. "That was close. How do you like it?"

"I like it," said Meg. "I've seen the movie, of course. The book is better." She tapped a finger on her chin, pondering for a moment. "You know, I can see where you come by some of your phraseology in your own so-called writing."

I fairly blushed with pride. "Yes, Raymond and I are as alike, yet unalike, as two dissimilar peas in a pod."

"Exactly what I'm talking about," said Meg.

In addition to owning several volumes of signed first editions by Raymond Chandler, I was also typing on the very typewriter that he used to write the book that Meg was reading for the first time. I had bought this 1939 Underwood No. 5 through an on-line auction. After a thorough refurbishment, it worked like new. If hard-pressed to conjure the spirit of Mr. Chandler, I could also don his own grey fedora, circa 1952. These literary procurements, as cool as they were, were the purchases of a law enforcement professional with too much disposable income. Meg's words, not mine. Since she'd taken charge of our investment portfolio, our assets had steadily grown, despite the down market. She never complained when I had these flights of belletristic fancy and spent a few thousand dollars here or there.

"Listen to this," said Meg, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Here's an example.
A case of false teeth hung on the mustard-colored wall like a fuse box in a screen porch
."

"Nice," I said, with a smile.

"Nice?" said Meg. "What does that sentence even mean? Who would hang a case of false teeth on the wall? And since when do false teeth come by the case? Wouldn't someone get a 'set' of teeth? Even in 1939?"

"It's all about context," I insisted.

"Okay, I see your point," Meg agreed, "but a
case
of false teeth? It sounds like something that came right out of your liturgical mysteries."

"Don't worry," I mumbled, "it will."

Baxter let out a gentle woof in his sleep and his hind legs twitched as if he were dreaming about chasing one of the deer that frequented the pastures in which he was fond of running. Meg reached a leg over to where he was lying and scratched his belly with her foot. He immediately rolled onto his back and gave a happy groan but never opened his eyes.

I might be worried about Meg's criticism if writing were my career. Luckily, it isn't. As I mentioned before, I'm a law enforcement professional. Police chief of St. Germaine, North Carolina, a small town in the northwestern part of the state, nestled deep in the Appalachian Mountains. The SGPD consists of three officers: myself; Lieutenant Nancy Parsky, a fine officer who could probably run everything by herself if worse came to worst; and Dave Vance, who did most of the paperwork and answered the phone. We're not that busy most of the time.

But I have an avocation as well. No, not writing. Music.

I'm the organist and choirmaster at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church. This is the best use of my undergraduate and first Master's degrees in music. My second graduate degree accounts for my job as police chief. None of these degrees count at all toward my propensity for writing bad fiction. That came naturally.

"How's your story coming?" Meg asked. "I haven't heard any typing for a while."

"I'm almost ready," I said, looking at the paper peeking around the roller of the typewriter, waiting for the lone sentence to cajole me into continuing. It was a good start, and yet ...

"I have to mull these things," I said. "Mull and cogitate. Then some rumination. This is my process." I took a sip of my beer. "BottleTree Blonde," I said. "A lovely choice. Delightfully light, crisp and effervescent with just enough weight for some complexity. Yeasty, yet not too heavy."

"Now you sound like Bud," Meg said, laughing. "Get back to work. The choir is waiting for the next story. You heard Marjorie at choir rehearsal. If there's no story next week, there's likely to be a mutiny."

I had been fashioning musical detective stories for the choir at St. Barnabas for the better part of five years. Beginning with
The Alto Wore Tweed
, I'd worked my way through the choir — the Baritone, Tenor, Bass, Soprano, and Mezzo — then rounded it out with the Diva, the Organist, and the Countertenor.

"You're right," I said, and pulled the paper from behind the platen of the old typewriter. I replaced it with a fresh sheet. "Time to get moving. Maybe I need some inspiration."

"Did you look at those Chandler quotes I left on your desk?"

"Yeah," I said, leering at her with my most potent ogle, "but I was thinking about
other
inspiration."

"Forget it, Bub. I'm reading."

I picked up the quotes that had appeared in
Harper's
magazine a few months back. These were unused in his stories, but had been found in his notebooks. Apparently Raymond Chandler collected similes the way I collected rebuffs. I typed one onto the page in front of me.

A face like a collapsed lung

I smiled and tried a few more.

A nose like a straphanger's elbow

His face was long enough to wrap twice around his neck

A mouth like wilted lettuce

I knew what I had to do.

The Treble Wore Trouble

Chapter One

Magic.