Read Online The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) by Mark Schweizer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Schweizer
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occupied chairs of the tenor and bass sections. "I like to sing the tune."
"Good luck with that," muttered Muffy. "There ain't no tune that I can find. Not in this thing."
"I usually sing solos," Goldi Fawn said to Muffy. "You know, with an accompaniment track? My signature song is Christmas Shoes . It's a song about a little boy who wants to buy some shoes for his dyin' momma at Christmas so she can look pretty when she goes to meet Jesus."
"I sing that song, too," said Muffy. "It's beautiful!" She wiped a single tear from her eye. "But Hayden won't let us sing with a track."
Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle gave her a smile and a wink. "That's okay. I'm singing it at the Lion's Club Christmas luncheon in Boone next week. Wanna come?"
"Yeah!" said Muffy. "You think I could sing something, too?"
"Oh, I'm sure you could!" said Goldi Fawn, choosing an empty chair next to her new friend. "I know the program chairman. She comes in every week to get her stars done and her hair colored."
The choir had grown since Sunday, thanks to some heavy handed recruitment by Meg and Bev. I'd also made a few phone calls and now we numbered twenty-five. Codfish Downs had agreed to sing and was a good, if aging, tenor. Codfish made his living selling fresh mountain trout out of the trunk of his '98 Pontiac. Most of the trout farmers in the area thought that he made his living by selling stolen fresh mountain trout out of his trunk. This accusation had never been proven and until I had some evidence to the contrary, I had to view the Codfish's wares as not only legitimately procured, but also very tasty. If he was poaching trout, the farmers couldn't figure out how he was doing it. Fresh fish were a seasonal delicacy, however, and when the temperature dropped into the single digits, the trout became much harder to come by. Hence, when I offered the Codfish a few bucks to sing with us, he jumped at the chance.
Nancy didn't actually jump at the chance, but did agree to join us once Meg asked her nicely. Annie Cooke heard Bev and Elaine talking about the cantata over at the Ginger Cat and was invited to sing when she'd expressed a previously forgotten pleasure in singing Ralph Vaughan Williams' Hodie years ago with her college choir.
Pete and Cynthia, good as their word, were on hand. Pete found a chair in the far back of the choir loft, beside Mark Wells.
A surprise, a pleasant surprise, was Rhiza Walker. As Raymond Chandler so aptly put it, Rhiza was a blonde, a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. She'd been married to St. Barnabas' Senior Warden once removed. Now she was divorced and her ex, Malcolm Walker, was finishing a seven to ten year plea deal at a minimum security facility. Not hurting for money, she'd been living in Europe for the past few years, but I'd seen her in town on Monday, and so invited her to come and sing. She'd been an undergraduate music major at the University of North Carolina when we'd met. I was in graduate school at the time, and we'd dated for a while. When she graduated, though, she married Malcolm. It was Rhiza, in fact, who told me that Pete was looking for a police chief all those many years ago. I remembered her as a wonderful soprano. I was hoping she still was.
"I have an announcement," said Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, standing up. "I'm having a sale on zinks and lysards at the Music Shoppe," he said. "I've gotten a double shipment by mistake. I also have a selection of handmade snoods just in from Luxembourg."
"Hang on," said Marjorie. "You've got skinks and lizards?"
"Zinks and ly- zards ," corrected Ian, putting the accent on the final syllable.
"How much?" said Goldi Fawn, obviously never one to pass up a bargain."
"Half price," said Ian.
"Save me one of them skinks, then," said Goldi Fawn. "A green and red one."
Ian looked confused for a moment. "Green and red?" he said.
"Hawk your wares later, Ian," I interrupted. "Did you find out anything about Elle de Fournier?"
"Who's that?"
"Good luck with that," muttered Muffy. "There ain't no tune that I can find. Not in this thing."
"I usually sing solos," Goldi Fawn said to Muffy. "You know, with an accompaniment track? My signature song is Christmas Shoes . It's a song about a little boy who wants to buy some shoes for his dyin' momma at Christmas so she can look pretty when she goes to meet Jesus."
"I sing that song, too," said Muffy. "It's beautiful!" She wiped a single tear from her eye. "But Hayden won't let us sing with a track."
Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle gave her a smile and a wink. "That's okay. I'm singing it at the Lion's Club Christmas luncheon in Boone next week. Wanna come?"
"Yeah!" said Muffy. "You think I could sing something, too?"
"Oh, I'm sure you could!" said Goldi Fawn, choosing an empty chair next to her new friend. "I know the program chairman. She comes in every week to get her stars done and her hair colored."
The choir had grown since Sunday, thanks to some heavy handed recruitment by Meg and Bev. I'd also made a few phone calls and now we numbered twenty-five. Codfish Downs had agreed to sing and was a good, if aging, tenor. Codfish made his living selling fresh mountain trout out of the trunk of his '98 Pontiac. Most of the trout farmers in the area thought that he made his living by selling stolen fresh mountain trout out of his trunk. This accusation had never been proven and until I had some evidence to the contrary, I had to view the Codfish's wares as not only legitimately procured, but also very tasty. If he was poaching trout, the farmers couldn't figure out how he was doing it. Fresh fish were a seasonal delicacy, however, and when the temperature dropped into the single digits, the trout became much harder to come by. Hence, when I offered the Codfish a few bucks to sing with us, he jumped at the chance.
Nancy didn't actually jump at the chance, but did agree to join us once Meg asked her nicely. Annie Cooke heard Bev and Elaine talking about the cantata over at the Ginger Cat and was invited to sing when she'd expressed a previously forgotten pleasure in singing Ralph Vaughan Williams' Hodie years ago with her college choir.
Pete and Cynthia, good as their word, were on hand. Pete found a chair in the far back of the choir loft, beside Mark Wells.
A surprise, a pleasant surprise, was Rhiza Walker. As Raymond Chandler so aptly put it, Rhiza was a blonde, a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. She'd been married to St. Barnabas' Senior Warden once removed. Now she was divorced and her ex, Malcolm Walker, was finishing a seven to ten year plea deal at a minimum security facility. Not hurting for money, she'd been living in Europe for the past few years, but I'd seen her in town on Monday, and so invited her to come and sing. She'd been an undergraduate music major at the University of North Carolina when we'd met. I was in graduate school at the time, and we'd dated for a while. When she graduated, though, she married Malcolm. It was Rhiza, in fact, who told me that Pete was looking for a police chief all those many years ago. I remembered her as a wonderful soprano. I was hoping she still was.
"I have an announcement," said Dr. Ian Burch, PhD, standing up. "I'm having a sale on zinks and lysards at the Music Shoppe," he said. "I've gotten a double shipment by mistake. I also have a selection of handmade snoods just in from Luxembourg."
"Hang on," said Marjorie. "You've got skinks and lizards?"
"Zinks and ly- zards ," corrected Ian, putting the accent on the final syllable.
"How much?" said Goldi Fawn, obviously never one to pass up a bargain."
"Half price," said Ian.
"Save me one of them skinks, then," said Goldi Fawn. "A green and red one."
Ian looked confused for a moment. "Green and red?" he said.
"Hawk your wares later, Ian," I interrupted. "Did you find out anything about Elle de Fournier?"
"Who's that?"
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