The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) by Mark Schweizer
Authors: Mark Schweizer
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file," said Kent.
* * *
I filled Nancy and Dave in on Kent Murphee's findings. "Let's run the prints," I said. "We don't need to advertise all of it. Not just yet. Everyone knows by now that we found a body, but he died of a heart attack. That's our story and we're sticking to it."
Chapter 10
Five o'clock comes early and so does death; this is the motto of the alcoholic mystery writer. Friends? Sure I had friends. Gerunds were my friends. Reciprocal pronouns were my friends. I could conjugate verbs in seven tenses and dangle a participle like Kurt Vonnegut might dangle a wiener in front of his beloved Welsh Corgi, Sprinkles, until he lost that pinkie finger. I sent my metaphors Christmas cards, I called my analogies on Mother's Day, but my similes ... my similes I took dancing, bought flowers, and sent to community college, which is a real college, no matter what your Uncle Ollie says; besides, he's not even really your uncle, just some guy who moved in with your grandma. I slugged down a shot of rye and considered the matter.
This sheila's story stank like a walrus in a school bus, which was a timely analogy because Pastor Hank Langknecht, my Lutheran friend and confidant, had just told me he'd seen one, but Hank was prone to take a nip or two early in the day and what he'd probably seen was just a smelly kid with a glandular problem.
Suddenly a pigeon smacked into the window, a shot rang out, and Carrie Oakey jumped out of her chair like she was shot, which she was, a fact that made this particular simile all the more bittersweet, like chocolate. I smiled. That was it. This simile was chocolate, which actually made "simile" a metaphor, a "simiphore" if you will, but that sent up a red flag, so it was more like a conundrum. The pigeon was lagniappe.
"Ahhh ..." Carrie cried whimperously. Then cried again, one "h" longer, "Ahhhh ..."
"Hang on," I said. "I'm figuring out this grammar thing."
* * *
"I heard that you're writing us a new service music setting," said Martha Hatteberg, one of the altos. She was sitting in her usual place on the back row — one of the Back Row Altos, or BRAs, as they preferred to be known.
"I heard that there was a dead body behind Noylene's," said Rebecca Watts.
"I heard that Bev got fired," said Phil Camp. Bev walked in right behind him but didn't say anything.
"It's been a busy day," I said.
Our Ash Wednesday service had gone according to plan, and the choir had sung an anthem by William Bradley Roberts, Prayer of John Donne . I was planning on this anthem doing double duty and using it again on the Fourth Sunday of Lent a few weeks from now. It wasn't easy, but we'd been practicing it for a few weeks now. Rosemary gave a brief homily, and we all received the imposition of ashes. Kimberly Walnut couldn't find the ashes from the year before — it was our tradition to save a few palm branches from the previous year's Palm Sunday, burn them, and use the ashes for the Ash Wednesday service — so she manufactured some from somewhere. I didn't ask where. I just hoped she hadn't called the funeral home. Now, with the Ash Wednesday congregants dispersing, the choir members who had just been ashed were making their way back up to the loft.
"There was a man who died of a heart attack in the alley behind Noylene's," I explained. "We don't know who it was yet because he had no identification."
"I heard that he was a leprechaun," said Marjorie.
"He was a Native American," I said, then turned to Martha. "And I am composing a new setting of the mass. How did you hear about it?"
"I heard from Joyce. She seemed a little alarmed."
"Alarmed at what?" said Tiff St. James, coming into the loft and not wanting to be left out of the conversation. "The dead guy?" Behind her, following like a baby duck, was Dr. Ian Burch, PhD. They both had the smudges of repentance on their foreheads.
Tiff had been our alto section leader during the years she'd been a voice major at Appalachian
* * *
I filled Nancy and Dave in on Kent Murphee's findings. "Let's run the prints," I said. "We don't need to advertise all of it. Not just yet. Everyone knows by now that we found a body, but he died of a heart attack. That's our story and we're sticking to it."
Chapter 10
Five o'clock comes early and so does death; this is the motto of the alcoholic mystery writer. Friends? Sure I had friends. Gerunds were my friends. Reciprocal pronouns were my friends. I could conjugate verbs in seven tenses and dangle a participle like Kurt Vonnegut might dangle a wiener in front of his beloved Welsh Corgi, Sprinkles, until he lost that pinkie finger. I sent my metaphors Christmas cards, I called my analogies on Mother's Day, but my similes ... my similes I took dancing, bought flowers, and sent to community college, which is a real college, no matter what your Uncle Ollie says; besides, he's not even really your uncle, just some guy who moved in with your grandma. I slugged down a shot of rye and considered the matter.
This sheila's story stank like a walrus in a school bus, which was a timely analogy because Pastor Hank Langknecht, my Lutheran friend and confidant, had just told me he'd seen one, but Hank was prone to take a nip or two early in the day and what he'd probably seen was just a smelly kid with a glandular problem.
Suddenly a pigeon smacked into the window, a shot rang out, and Carrie Oakey jumped out of her chair like she was shot, which she was, a fact that made this particular simile all the more bittersweet, like chocolate. I smiled. That was it. This simile was chocolate, which actually made "simile" a metaphor, a "simiphore" if you will, but that sent up a red flag, so it was more like a conundrum. The pigeon was lagniappe.
"Ahhh ..." Carrie cried whimperously. Then cried again, one "h" longer, "Ahhhh ..."
"Hang on," I said. "I'm figuring out this grammar thing."
* * *
"I heard that you're writing us a new service music setting," said Martha Hatteberg, one of the altos. She was sitting in her usual place on the back row — one of the Back Row Altos, or BRAs, as they preferred to be known.
"I heard that there was a dead body behind Noylene's," said Rebecca Watts.
"I heard that Bev got fired," said Phil Camp. Bev walked in right behind him but didn't say anything.
"It's been a busy day," I said.
Our Ash Wednesday service had gone according to plan, and the choir had sung an anthem by William Bradley Roberts, Prayer of John Donne . I was planning on this anthem doing double duty and using it again on the Fourth Sunday of Lent a few weeks from now. It wasn't easy, but we'd been practicing it for a few weeks now. Rosemary gave a brief homily, and we all received the imposition of ashes. Kimberly Walnut couldn't find the ashes from the year before — it was our tradition to save a few palm branches from the previous year's Palm Sunday, burn them, and use the ashes for the Ash Wednesday service — so she manufactured some from somewhere. I didn't ask where. I just hoped she hadn't called the funeral home. Now, with the Ash Wednesday congregants dispersing, the choir members who had just been ashed were making their way back up to the loft.
"There was a man who died of a heart attack in the alley behind Noylene's," I explained. "We don't know who it was yet because he had no identification."
"I heard that he was a leprechaun," said Marjorie.
"He was a Native American," I said, then turned to Martha. "And I am composing a new setting of the mass. How did you hear about it?"
"I heard from Joyce. She seemed a little alarmed."
"Alarmed at what?" said Tiff St. James, coming into the loft and not wanting to be left out of the conversation. "The dead guy?" Behind her, following like a baby duck, was Dr. Ian Burch, PhD. They both had the smudges of repentance on their foreheads.
Tiff had been our alto section leader during the years she'd been a voice major at Appalachian
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