Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines (18 page)

“It’s a
Baum-Boltoph, built here in North Carolina.
Thirty-two stops and thirty-eight ranks across three manuals and pedal. Trumpet en chamade, zimbelstern, and a nachtigall.”

“Ridiculous,” said the Chevalier, dismissively. “Who ever uses a nachitgall?”

A “nachtigall”
was one of the toy stops that Baroque organs used to have in abundance. This one was made up of two small pipes, mounted upside down, blowing into a jar filled with water. It was meant to sound like a toy bird, or translated, a “nightingale.”
I didn’t say that it was a delightful gift from Michael Baum, the organ builder, and I was happy to use it when I could. No, I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I just smiled.

“Father Dressler told me there was quite a bit of money in St. Barnabas’ coffers. Perhaps we can use some of that to upgrade the instrument and make it
…
shall we say
…
more inclined toward the French literature. I know a wonderful organ builder in Ontario who could make this organ playable in no time.”

“That’s always a possibility,” I said, “but you know, my sabbatical is over at the end of June.”

He ignored that comment and said, “I’ve looked over Sunday’s music and it all seems to be in order. Thank you for preparing the choir. I wonder about your choice of hymns, though. They seem a bit pedantic. One might even say ‘sententious.” He managed a mild sneer in my direction.

“Yes, one might say that if he didn’t know what ‘sententious’ meant. Taking your meaning, I might agree with you, but since the hymns were chosen by Father Dressler, it really wasn’t my place to say anything. I
am
on sabbatical, you know.”

“Well, if Father chose them, I’m sure they’re just fine.” He held up the bulletin and seemed to peruse it in more detail, then said, “In fact, now that I look at the flow of the service closely, I can see where he’s going with all this. Yes! Yes, this will be excellent for my first Sunday. Perfect, really. I shall improvise on the last hymn for my postlude!”

“Great,” I said.

“I know the Bruckner
Tonto Ergum
, of course, but I don’t know this offertory anthem.”

“You mean
Tantum Ergo
? I believe that Tonto Ergum is the Lone Ranger’s sidekick.”

He reddened at his misspeak. Easy enough to do, and, Lord knows, I’m the worst offender, but he was starting to irritate me.

“You remember,” I said, smiling, “
Tonto ergum kemosabe.
”

He ignored the barb. “Is the anthem accompanied?”

“It is. It’s a little three-part Charpentier setting of Psalm 117. All the music is up on the console. Since we didn’t have much rehearsal time, I thought it would be good to have something that could do double duty this Sunday morning and next Wednesday for the Evensong.”

The Chevalier nodded his head thoughtfully, back in control. “That’s a good, safe plan. Not what I would have done, but you know the choir better than I do right now.” He leaned back in my chair and looked at the ceiling, his pudgy hands clasped over his belly. “Back when I was doing my study year in England, my mentor, Sir David Willcocks, always said to me
…
”

I stood up to leave and interrupted him. “If you have any questions about the organ, just have Marilyn give me a call. She has my cell number.”

“Oh!” he said, brightly. “Why don’t you give it to me as well?”

“It’s a police number,” I said. “I don’t give it out.”

Chapter 23

Rachel Barstow’s house was positioned to take advantage of one of the loveliest gorge views I’d seen, and I’d seen a lot. Coming up the walk, Nancy and I had paused when the view came into sight, then made a slight detour around the house to admire the panorama. It stretched for miles and I could pick out Grandfather Mountain and several other well-know landmarks. Clouds bunched beneath us and crowded into the sides of the mountains. It was stunning.

“Wow!” said Nancy. “So this is how you rich folks live.”

We made our way back to the front walkway and wandered through a number of gardens, both flower and herb by the looks of them, although they were now fallow. There was a greenhouse visible in the side yard and a number of fruit trees and arbors with bare vines.

The house was a large, two story structure that owed its design to the Arts and Crafts look of the late 1920s. The wooden, Dutch-lap siding was painted a greenish-gray and blended beautifully into the landscape. The accent paint was a creamy off-white, and the ceiling of the porch was painted in the old Southern tradition of powder or “haint” blue. This, according to whichever theory you chose to believe, was to confuse the insects into thinking the ceiling was the sky, to scare away the evil spirits (haints), extend the feeling of daylight, or just to bring good luck.

Stonework accentuated the house and included a flagstone walk, retaining walls, flower beds, and porch pillars. Quintessential Appalachian architecture. Something out of a Thomas Kincaid painting.  It looked as if it had been here for decades.

In reality though, once one looked closely, it was obvious that it had been constructed in the past few years. The siding was cement board, the stonework showed not a crack, and the masonry was still well pointed. The porch on which we were standing was constructed of some kind of PVC product designed to look like painted wood. Not that it didn’t look good. It did. This was, as they said in the real estate biz, a high-end property. I knew that the view alone was probably worth a couple of million bucks.

We’d called and made an appointment. Nancy rang the doorbell and Rachel opened the door a few moments later and invited us in.

The inside of the house was what you might expect after having seen the view. We walked into a huge living room with vaulted, paneled ceilings, crisscrossed with gigantic timbers probably from the Pacific Northwest —
 at least, I’d never seen trees that large here in the southern part of the United States. The room was tastefully appointed in “mountain chic.” The kitchen was open, featured a granite island that was larger than my first apartment and appointed with the latest in polished steel appliances including a Wolf six-burner gas range with a double oven and a huge subzero refrigerator. I knew this because I had the same models.

Rachel ushered us into the sitting area and we admired the view from a wall of plate glass that looked out over the gorge. A gas-log fire blazed in the oversized fireplace. All the comforts of home at the click of a button.

“How may I help?” asked Rachel. “You said you had some questions.”

“Just a few,” I said. “We were looking at your
Pinterest
page and wondered about the wolfsbane.”

Rachel nodded and repeated the poem.

O one berie, who planted you?

Our Ladie with her five fingers trewe,

thru all her miht and power,

She brought you hyd to flower,

hwæt I shall have my healthe.

She pronounced hyd “here,” and hwæt “that.”

“It’s an ancient charm I found,” she continued. “Probably medieval. It’s supposed to protect you when harvesting it. They needed protection. Just picking the plant can be fatal.”

“But you use it?” Nancy said.

“Of course not! Didn’t you hear me? Even
picking
the plant will kill you. I put it on the
Pinterest
page with a warning. In Europe it has been well known since Roman times as a poison. They used wolfsbane to kill panthers, wolves, bears
…
whatever. The Roman naturalist Plinius describes it as ‘plant arsenic.’ It’s deadly in almost all its forms.”

“
Debitum naturae
,” I said. “Debt of nature.”

“Exactly.”

“Then why was it used as a medicine?” I asked. “Like the charm says.”

“Because medieval people were much more ignorant than the Romans. In Chinese and Arabic folk medicine, its roots were used for the treatment of various diseases. Later on, Plinius wrote about its application in ophthalmology. As the healing dose was very difficult to determine, most patients died. In the eighteenth century, it was introduced to medicine by a Viennese physician —
 I can’t remember his name — but even after that, no one used it. Too dangerous. Then, in the sixties, when hippies were trying everything, they decided that maybe smoking it would be a good high. It wasn’t.”

“So you don’t use it in your practice as an herbalist?” I asked.

“No, I do
not
!”

“Do you grow it?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got three kids in elementary school. That would be absurd!”

I asked, “Well, have you seen it growing around here? It would be easy to spot.”

“Sure,” said Rachel. “It grows wild. You can see it in the late spring and summer all over the place. It’s quite a beautiful flower. Now, if I may ask, why all the questions?”

I said, “It seems as though the three women were killed by the aconite. The Queen of Poisons.”

“Wolfsbane,” said Rachel with a nod.

“Or monkshood,” said Nancy. “It was found in all the women’s systems. It caused all three heart attacks.”

“That’s
terrible!
You suspect me?”

“You’re an herbalist,” I said. “You have quite a working knowledge of wolfsbane.”

“I have quite a working knowledge of hundreds, maybe
thousands
, of herbs and plants. I have a master’s degree in botany from the University of Florida specializing in the flora of the Blue Ridge region. I worked for the Forest Service for six years. I make my living giving talks on the properties of plants.”

“Pretty good living,” said Nancy, looking around.

Rachel harumphed. “My ex-husband is the North American CEO of Mitsubishi. After twenty-six years he decided he’d rather have some arm-candy, so he married a college sophomore. Her name is Taffi. With an i.”

Nancy gave a small snort, not a laugh, but close.

Rachel raised her eyebrows and smiled for the first time since we’d sat down. “However,” she said, “I and my children shall be comfortable for the rest of our lives.”

“Well, you see why we had to ask,” I said. “Besides the wolfsbane being on your
Pinterest
page, it was you who recommended reading
See Your Shadow
, and, according to the rest of the book club, you were the only one to read it before the murders happened.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Rachel, seeming to think about the possibility. “Boy, that was a stupid thing to do. I just hope that choosing that book didn’t set all this into motion.” She looked at me with an expression of real concern. “I trust you don’t still suspect one of the Bookworms.”

I got to my feet without answering and was followed by Nancy. “Thanks for your time,” I said. We went to the front door, said goodbye, then walked onto the front porch and down the walk toward my truck.

“What do you think?” Nancy asked.

“She didn’t do it,” I said, shaking my head. “Can’t see it. Of course, that’s just my gut yacking.”

“I agree with your gut,” said Nancy. “So where does that leave us?”

“Driving back to town.”

* * *

We rattled back to St. Germaine, “rattled” being the operative word because no matter how I tried to get the old 1962 Chevy tightened up, everything was finally jiggling loose. After almost fifty years, the old girl may have finally had enough. The only thing I’d done to her was put in a good sound system. Other than that, she was all original and untouched.

“You know,” said Nancy, “I have a friend who does auto restorations. This rattletrap would be like new. Better even.”

“It may be time,” I said. “Meg wants me to get one of those new fancy trucks. A four-wheel drive Tundra or maybe a Chevy diesel, but I keep putting it off. What do you think a restoration would cost?”

“Probably about the same as one of those, but you’d have your truck back and another twenty years to drive it. You could be buried in this thing.”

“It’s a comforting thought,” I said. “Let’s do it. Will you give him a call?”

“Sure will!”

We pulled up in front of Bud’s new house. He wasn’t there, but Roberto’s crew was swarming like ants over the property. It had been just over a week since the construction workers had begun on the renovation, and it looked to me as if they’d be finished in another few days.

“Nah,” said Roberto. “Sure, we’re done with the big stuff. Walls, electric, drywall, cabinets, plumbing and junk like that. It’s the finish work that takes the time. We’ve got all the shelves to build, more trim to put up, painting. We’re redoing these hardwoods.” He looked around, then continued, “Light fixtures, security system, cameras
…
”

“I get it, I get it,” I said. “How long do you think?”

“Another two weeks, give or take.”

“That’s great! When you have a definite date, let us know and we’ll set up our Grand Opening.”

“Will do,” said Roberto.