Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed by Mark Schweizer Page B

I rested my elbows on the table and propped my chin in my hands.
    “OK,” she said. “Let’s assume for the moment that this is a real clue. That someone saw who did it and is trying to get you to guess who it is—for whatever reason.”
    “Fair enough.”

    I saw who did it. It’s Him. It’s Matthew.

    She continued. “It’s obviously not Matthew, right?”
    I nodded. “All Matthews are currently alibied.”
    “Then what could ‘Matthew’ mean? Her fingers were tapping on the table.
    “The Gospel of Matthew?” I offered.
    “Right,” she said decisively. “But where in the gospel? That’s the question.”
    I was content to let her keep going. I had a feeling Meg was going to make me look good.
    “Hmmm,” she hummed again, this time at a slightly higher pitch.
    “Got it!” she sang out suddenly. “Get me a hymnal and a Bible!”
    “An Episcopal hymnal?”
    “Of course, silly. It’s so obvious. It has to be an Episcopal hymnal and whatever translation of the Bible we use at the church. You’re so cute when you’re playing detective,” she called after me as I went into the library to fetch her books.
    I handed her a New American Standard version of the Bible and The Hymnal 1982.
    “Now,” she said picking up the hymnal and turning to the index in the back. “ Hark, the Herald Angels , hymn number 87. You see? It’s Him, It’s Matthew. O hark the herald angels sing . Hymn number 87. Matthew 8:7. Pretty clever, yes?”
    “You’re a wonder, do you know that?” I said admiringly. “How about a kiss?”
    “Not now! Can’t you see we’re about to solve the murder? All we have to do is look up the verse and we’ll know who the killer is.” She was already thumbing through the well worn book.
    “And he said to him ‘I will come and heal him,’” I quoted.
    “What?” she said, distracted and finding the passage.”
    “And he said to him ‘I will come and heal him,’” I repeated. “Matthew 8:7.”
    “How did you know that? Do you have this whole book memorized?” She was genuinely shocked.
    “Well, no. Actually I looked it up this morning.”
    “You stinker!” she shouted, laughing. “I might have known.”
    “Now, about that kiss, Ms. Farthing....”
    “Not on your life. Get away from me. Lips that touched goat lips will never touch mine.” She ducked under my halfhearted grope and slid to the other side of the table.
    “Well then, who did it?” she asked, picking up the note again and looking at it intently as if the answer would leap forth from the paper. “A doctor?”
    “It could be, but that’s still a stretch. It’s certainly not a definite identification of the killer. There have to be eight or ten doctors in the church not to mention dentists, nurses, EMTs, and whoever else might bmployed in the health care field. And let’s not forget, it may be someone that isn’t a member.”
    “I think it is,” said Meg suddenly quiet, her playful mood dropping away. “I think it is a member of St. Barnabas.”

    • • •

    October was drawing to a close. It was my favorite month and this one was certainly one for the books. The mayor had called me in to see about our progress on the case. Of course, the mayor was also known as Pete Moss, the owner of The Slab.
    “How’re you doing Hayden?”
    “Is this an Official Meeting ?” I asked. “’Cause if it is, I want a complimentary piece of Boston Cream pie and a cup of coffee.”
    “Yes, it’s official. Doris,” he called, “get the detective some pie and a cup of coffee, would you?”
    “Boston Cream,” I yelled out.
    Pete dragged up a chair. “The city council wants to know about your progress on the Boyd case.”
    “Ah, the council.”
    “Any progress?”
    “Some,” I said. “Not very much though.”
    The pie and coffee arrived right on schedule. I always enjoyed these high-level meetings.
    “That’s it?” asked Pete.
    “That’s it.”
    Pete nodded and his eyebrows went up. “Well, thanks