Read Online The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) by Mark Schweizer - Free Book Online

we met her. "What an interesting name. Is that spelled with a 'y'or with an 'i'?"
    "A 'y'," Muffy had answered. "Although I spelled it with an 'i-e' when I was in high school. You know how sometimes you can dot the 'i' with a little heart?"
    Nancy nodded.
    "But then I changed it back. It was too hard to remember."
    Muffy was a wannabe country singer and she had been told, on numerous occasions, that she sounded almost exactly like Loretta Lynn. I almost had the twang out of her choral sound. Almost.
    "Let's look at the Psalm first," I announced. "Then the anthem."
     
    * * *
     
    The service went off without much of a hitch. Dr. Mother Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh's sermon was about how the Transfiguration story sounded just about as crazy as the sky raining meatballs. In the end, she suggested that we might just as well embrace the mystery of it all and give up our "Cloud Control." I thought she missed the point, but during the sermon I decided what I'd give up for Lent. I'd give up snarkiness. No criticizing the sermon. No snide remarks about the liturgy or lack thereof. Forty days of "going along" with the church program, whatever that may be. Now that was a Lenten discipline. I'd tried it before and failed. This time I was determined.
    "Here's my plan," I told Meg, as I drove her to her mother's after church. "I shall give up liturgical snarkiness for Lent. I shall give Rosemary my full support in as far as I am able. I shall not criticize her preaching, nor her ministry."
    "No way," said Meg. "You can't do it."
    "I certainly can," I said. "If you can give up chocolate, I can give up snarkiness."
    "Want to bet?"
    "Oh, yes, I'll bet."
    "Okay," said Meg. "If I win, you have to go to a health week with me."
    "What's that?"
    "A week at a medical facility that specializes in fasting, cleansing, colonics, massages, aroma therapy, reflexology — that sort of thing."
    "You're kidding, right?"
    "I am not kidding," said Meg. "It would be very good for you."
    "It would not be good for me. It would kill me."
    "It certainly wouldn't kill you. You'd feel better after."
    "What do I get if I win?" I asked.
    "What do you want?"
    "Hmm. If I win, you have to cook me hamburgers three times a week for seven weeks. All the way from Easter to Pentecost."
    "Sure," said Meg. "Why not? The burgers would probably finish you off, but I don't really have to worry, do I? There's no way that you're going to let Mother P have carte blanche with the worship services."
    "Watch me," I said with a grin.
    I dropped Meg off and drove home, cleansing my ecumenical palate by listening to some recordings of different choral settings of O Nata Lux de Lumine , the ancient hymn for the Feast of the Transfiguration — two by Renaissance composers, Thomas Tallis and Christopher Tye, and three by contemporary composers, Morten Lauridsen, Seth Garrepy, and Guy Forbes.
     
    O Light born of Light,
    Jesus, redeemer of the world,
    with loving-kindness deign to receive
    suppliant praise and prayer.
     
    Thou who once deigned to be clothed in flesh
    for the sake of the lost,
    grant us to be members
    of thy blessed body.
     
    When I drove up to the cabin, I was refreshed. Refreshed enough to make myself a sandwich and sit down at the typewriter, now to the music of Cole Porter. Raymond Chandler would have listened to this, I thought. I took a bite of the sandwich, then another, and reread my previous effort. It was good, I thought. Maybe not Raymond Chandler good, or even Dashiell Hammett good, but certainly Carroll John Daly good. I clicked the paper in behind the roller and continued.
     
    * * *
     
    "I hear that you're a Liturgy Detective," she said, "and I need help."
    Her eyes were limpid pools, her nose was a limpid sausage, her ears were limpid cartilaginous extrusions. I nibbled on one in anticipation.
    "Everyone needs help, Sweetheart," I purruped. "But it'll cost you."
    "Two hundred a day plus expenses," she said, dropping two C-notes on the desk. "That's what your ad