Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Read Online Free PDF Page B

church mad, and finding myself fuming every time I walked in the doors. I called my friend Edna Terra-Pocks over in Lenoir and she was happy to sub for me during January. The music committee hadn’t found anyone for February through June, but they were still looking. I, myself, wasn’t looking. I was on sabbatical.
    “It’s only called a sabbatical when you take time off to achieve something,” Bev pointed out. “Otherwise, it’s called a leave of absence.”
    “Not really, no,” I said. “Technically a sabbatical is a rest from work. A hiatus. The origin probably comes from the book of Leviticus where there is a commandment to desist from working the fields in the seventh year. In the strictest sense, a sabbatical should last an entire a year. I’m only taking six months. It’s only in recent times that a sabbatical has been used to fulfill some goal — like traveling for research or doing some sort of continuing education.”
    “Do you have a goal?” asked Cynthia.
    “You bet,” I said. “I’m working on my detective story.”
    This announcement was greeted with a resounding chorus of groans.
     
    * * *
     
    I looked across my desk at Pedro LaFleur, my right hand man, a loogan, a bruno, a button, a bindle stiff with a palooka face gone to seed. He slumped heartbrokenly in his chair like a sad sack of spuds slung over the shoulder of some broken-down Idaho wharfie who’d seen too many night shifts in a city where the only second chances were left to those who managed to get out of this burghal of Unitarian Churches, Bible colleges, and unaccredited law schools.
    He had a drink in his hand and a hole in his heart, a hole big enough to drive a 2013 Honda Odyssey minivan (with satellite linked navigation and a multi-angle rearview camera) down the anterior vena cava, execute a three-point-turn at the atrioventicular valve (thanks to the rearview camera), then exit the pulmonary artery without ever once scraping the Celestial Blue Metallic finish that comes standard on the EX-L. This hole was courtesy of Claire Annette Reed, the ex-girlfriend who squeaked that they should just be friends
    Pedro could sing, sing like a seraphim on angel dust – the sweet stuff, not that junk that you get from those stinkin’ cherubs down on 43rd, that junk will make your wings fall off and your halo burst into flames. He was a countertenor with high C’s to burn and if you wanted the Allegri “Miserere” in this town, you’d better call Pedro or you’d be pushing up daisies by Easter. It was part of his deal with the Family. Da Capo Nostra.
    I took a slug of hooch, cheap hooch, snapped the paper open, and looked at the clock on the wall, watching that thing hanging underneath it swing back and forth like a pendulum. Page two. Obituaries.
    Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Marilyn? Nah. Marilyn was in Vegas for the week at the National Literary Device Convention.
    “Come in,” I called, and the door swung open.
     
    * * *
     
    Supper was delicious. As we ate our way through the brats and kraut, potato salad, and all the fixings, our conversation turned from St. Barnabas to other things; Cynthia’s auction; Bud’s purchase and our plan for the new wine shop; Pete’s idea for renting out the Portia the Truffle Pig to trufflers for Saturday excursions; and all the reasons why Kent and Nancy found Bones to be the stupidest show on television.
    “Really?” said Kent, waving his hands in the air. “They expect us to believe that the Smithsonian, or Jeffersonian as it’s obliquely called, has a multimillion dollar crime lab that can do 3-D holographic reconstructive modeling by tapping a couple of times on the screen of an iPad, and employs five highly trained über-scientists who are free to utilize all the resources of the government and the FBI — all to figure out the identity of a homeless guy found in a dumpster? Really? ”
    “Hang on,” said Nancy. “I’ll just collect some DNA from this tapeworm I