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Authors: Mark Schweizer
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said we were meeting at eight sharp,” said Nancy as I walked in.
“It is eight,” I said, sitting down. “Isn’t it?”
“Close enough,” said Dave.
“You got here three minutes ago, Dave,” said Nancy.
“Well, I knew that the chief wasn’t going to be on time. He’s always here at eight-thirty. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
Collette filled his coffee cup and looked at him adoringly. “You’re really smart, Dave,” she said.
“Oh, puh-lease!” said Nancy to no one in particular. “I think I’m gonna…”
“Coffee for me, Collette,” I said, hastily interrupting Nancy’s outburst. “And some of those Belgian waffles.”
“Has anyone heard from Lucille Murdock since the meeting on Tuesday night?” asked Pete, pulling up a chair. Pete was always a de facto member of our staff meetings whenever we met at The Slab Café. He was, after all, the mayor, and since he was the owner, he also comped our breakfasts. It was a good deal all around.
“How did you hear about Mrs. Murdock?” I asked.
“Everyone’s heard about it. Are you kidding?” said Dave. “It’s big news. How do you think she’s going to spend the money?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Dave, but she’s certain to have a lot of help deciding.”
“I’m sure Agnes Day will have a few suggestions,” said Nancy.
“Why do you think that?” I asked. “Why would a substitute organist even care?”
“I heard that she was bucking for your old job, boss. If you didn’t decide to go back, that is.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too. So?”
“Well, if she’s the regular organist, she might want to finagle some of that cash into the music fund.”
“She might,” I agreed. “But what does that have to do with Mrs. Murdock?”
“Don’t you know?” asked Nancy. “Agnes Day is Mrs. Murdock’s home health care nurse.”
• • •
Meg and I entered the front doors of St. Barnabas on Palm Sunday at precisely 10:32. The service started at 10:30 or was supposed to. As usual, things were slightly behind schedule. Meg had decided to forego singing in the choir after the rehearsal on Wednesday night. I accused her of being a “fair-weather” singer and threw in a few “I told you sos” for good measure. I didn’t get to use them very often, so when I had the opportunity, I jumped on it like a Schnauzer on a schnitzel.
“Hush up,” Meg said, putting one lovely finger to my lips, “and I’ll make it worth your while.”
I hushed up.
I hadn’t been back to St. B.’s for almost five months, and I had mixed feelings as I walked into the nave. I missed playing the organ in church. I missed playing, period. Then I heard Agnes Day’s prelude. This was Meg’s plan, of course, and a ruse that I saw through immediately.
“It won’t work,” I said. “I’m not coming back.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Meg said. The sounds of what I thought might be All Glory Laud and Honor , the Palm Sunday processional, came crashing down from the organ loft.
“What on earth is that?” I whispered.
“Agnes Day is improvising,” said Meg. “It’s her musical gift to the congregation. Each Sunday in Lent, she’s been improvising on hymn tunes for that particular day.”
“My God! I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“It’s not over yet. Here,” she said, handing me a hymnal. “Bite down on this.”
• • •
We sang the Palm Sunday processional and watched as Benny Dawkins, the world-class thurifer, worked his magic with the incense pot. He really was world-class, having finished in the top five for three years running at the International Thurifer Invitational in London. Benny had told me that he had perfected a couple of new moves that he picked up at the competition — the Three-Leaf Clover and the Double Gerbil. He executed them flawlessly.
We joined in on the Kyrie and the Psalm and listened to the sermon. At the offertory, we were treated to a heartfelt, if not completely
“It is eight,” I said, sitting down. “Isn’t it?”
“Close enough,” said Dave.
“You got here three minutes ago, Dave,” said Nancy.
“Well, I knew that the chief wasn’t going to be on time. He’s always here at eight-thirty. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
Collette filled his coffee cup and looked at him adoringly. “You’re really smart, Dave,” she said.
“Oh, puh-lease!” said Nancy to no one in particular. “I think I’m gonna…”
“Coffee for me, Collette,” I said, hastily interrupting Nancy’s outburst. “And some of those Belgian waffles.”
“Has anyone heard from Lucille Murdock since the meeting on Tuesday night?” asked Pete, pulling up a chair. Pete was always a de facto member of our staff meetings whenever we met at The Slab Café. He was, after all, the mayor, and since he was the owner, he also comped our breakfasts. It was a good deal all around.
“How did you hear about Mrs. Murdock?” I asked.
“Everyone’s heard about it. Are you kidding?” said Dave. “It’s big news. How do you think she’s going to spend the money?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Dave, but she’s certain to have a lot of help deciding.”
“I’m sure Agnes Day will have a few suggestions,” said Nancy.
“Why do you think that?” I asked. “Why would a substitute organist even care?”
“I heard that she was bucking for your old job, boss. If you didn’t decide to go back, that is.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too. So?”
“Well, if she’s the regular organist, she might want to finagle some of that cash into the music fund.”
“She might,” I agreed. “But what does that have to do with Mrs. Murdock?”
“Don’t you know?” asked Nancy. “Agnes Day is Mrs. Murdock’s home health care nurse.”
• • •
Meg and I entered the front doors of St. Barnabas on Palm Sunday at precisely 10:32. The service started at 10:30 or was supposed to. As usual, things were slightly behind schedule. Meg had decided to forego singing in the choir after the rehearsal on Wednesday night. I accused her of being a “fair-weather” singer and threw in a few “I told you sos” for good measure. I didn’t get to use them very often, so when I had the opportunity, I jumped on it like a Schnauzer on a schnitzel.
“Hush up,” Meg said, putting one lovely finger to my lips, “and I’ll make it worth your while.”
I hushed up.
I hadn’t been back to St. B.’s for almost five months, and I had mixed feelings as I walked into the nave. I missed playing the organ in church. I missed playing, period. Then I heard Agnes Day’s prelude. This was Meg’s plan, of course, and a ruse that I saw through immediately.
“It won’t work,” I said. “I’m not coming back.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Meg said. The sounds of what I thought might be All Glory Laud and Honor , the Palm Sunday processional, came crashing down from the organ loft.
“What on earth is that?” I whispered.
“Agnes Day is improvising,” said Meg. “It’s her musical gift to the congregation. Each Sunday in Lent, she’s been improvising on hymn tunes for that particular day.”
“My God! I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“It’s not over yet. Here,” she said, handing me a hymnal. “Bite down on this.”
• • •
We sang the Palm Sunday processional and watched as Benny Dawkins, the world-class thurifer, worked his magic with the incense pot. He really was world-class, having finished in the top five for three years running at the International Thurifer Invitational in London. Benny had told me that he had perfected a couple of new moves that he picked up at the competition — the Three-Leaf Clover and the Double Gerbil. He executed them flawlessly.
We joined in on the Kyrie and the Psalm and listened to the sermon. At the offertory, we were treated to a heartfelt, if not completely
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