contest run by A&E Television on its www.mysteries.com website.
STRAIGHT LIE
Was the ball that killed the golf pro
An accidental shot?
The detective who was on the case
Felt that it was not.
The suspect pleaded innocence:
“Sir, I just play for fun.”
The thing that really cinched the case?
His second hole-in-one.
JOY HEWITT MANN
ALTHOUGH, ON THE OTHER HAND…
PAT WILSON AND KRIS WOOD
I settled my stole firmly around my shoulders and turned to see how he was doing. As usual, he’d gotten his stole wound up in his cincture. “Father Donald,” I said, “let me do that.”
I knew it would be easier to disentangle the snarled fringes and knots myself, rather than watch Father Donald fumble ineffectually with the mess. You’d think after twenty years in the ministry, he would have figured out how to put the stuff on right the first time. I remembered to duck as his right arm shot out from the shoulder, stiffened, held and then snapped back to his sides.
The first time, I’d gotten a black eye, but after six weeks of his exercise regime, I’d learned to be wary. At any moment, he was likely to squat, stretch, twist or flex without warning. Father Donald was a large man, and woe betide any poor, unsuspecting lay reader who got in his way. Frankly, I wished that Molly Thubron had never given him the book. It went with him everywhere, and even now lay open on the vestry table, Flex-er-Cise: Twenty Weeks to a New Physique. I sighed. Six down, fourteen to go. It was going to be a long summer.
“Oh, shoot. I got it tangled again, didn’t I? I don’t know what I’d do without you, not that I couldn’t do anything, but it’s easier, well not easier, but takes less time, although on the other hand, time isn’t really an issue, although some people get annoyed when the service doesn’t start on time, not everyone though, some come in late themselves, though they probably have a good reason, although my sister Dorothy always says there’s no good reason for being late for church…”
I tuned Father Donald out with the ease of long practice. Five years as his lay reader and I knew that, at the most, only one of every forty words was worth taking note of. His other arm suddenly shot out, held and snapped back. I took the opportunity to slip the green chasuble over his head and roll the collar down smoothly.
“There,” I said. “You’re ready to go.”
“Okey-dokey.” He squatted down. “Uh…could you give me a hand?” I heaved him back up. Maybe he wasn’t getting fit with his new regime, but the weight training sure was paying off on my biceps.
“Where’s my trusty server?” It was a question he asked every week with just the same note of anxiety.
Little Mindy Horton, prudently positioned behind the door well out of the way of Father Donald’s gyrations, waved the processional cross and said: “Right here. You want me to start out now?”
“Just a minute, Mindy.” Another small trick I’d learned. “Father Donald. Here is your hymn book, prayer book, announcements sheet, sermon papers, Gospel folder.” I knew better than to give them to him any sooner than this moment. “All right, Mindy. We’re ready to roll.”
I opened the vestry door, and Mindy started out. I followed, Father Donald close on my heels. The notes of the opening hymn, “Onward Christian Soldiers”, trickled reedily from the electric organ, under the quavering fingers of Edith, our fill-in organist. I’ll be glad when Boris is back, I thought. His annual holiday in Portugal always meant we had to endure three weeks of Edith’s fumblings. She wasn’t a bad pianist, if only we had a piano in the church. As it was, she was terrified of the electronic Hammond organ and never played above a whisper.
Mindy and I settled into our accustomed places, and I waited for the service to unfold as it always did, although with Father Donald in charge, it tended to be a little more fluid than perhaps the church fathers had intended. I watched him tuck in a couple of knee-bends as he stood behind the lectern. I wondered how it looked to the congregation as his head appeared and disappeared several times over the top edge. I opened my prayer book and turned to page 185.
However, our beloved rector had something else in mind. “Before we begin, well we’ve really begun, but before we get into the service, although on the other hand, I’ve already started, I have a really important announcement to make, well maybe not that important, but fairly important, at least it will be to some people, in fact, probably to all of you, and certainly to me…” His voice dropped to a low, serious note we seldom heard. I saw his sister Dorothy, ensconced in her usual seat, last pew, right hand side, sit up and cast a gimlet eye on him. Uh-oh, I thought. She doesn’t know anything about this.
Father Donald turned his head sideways, held it, then rotated to the other side. He snapped back and continued: “An extremely serious matter has surfaced. I don’t want to go into right now, although I probably should, but then, we really don’t have time, not if we’re going to get out of here by twelve, and I know how you feel, although not all of you, but most of you have homes to go to, not that everyone doesn’t have a home…” He executed a full neck roll. As his head returned to the frontal position, his eyes locked on Dorothy’s.
Even from my seat at the back of the choir stalls, I could smell the brimstone. Get on with it, man, I silently urged him, before she explodes. I’d seen Dorothy in action before. She ran a tight ship, whether it was the A.C.W., the Altar Guild or Father Donald. Even his current exercise craze was her idea. “It’s time he pulled himself together,” she’d told me, “took off some of that flab, toned up, showed a little discipline.” This from a woman who easily weighed 250 pounds.
“So, in light of what I’ve found out, discovered really, although I wasn’t looking for anything, I’m calling a special Parish Council meeting for Monday night at seven in the rectory.” Dorothy’s glare could have felled an ox at a hundred yards. Father Donald backpedalled rapidly, “Er, that is, not the rectory, but the church basement. Yes, that would be a better place, wouldn’t it? Although, on the other hand, not that you aren’t all welcome at the rectory, you understand, but with Dorothy’s spring-cleaning and all…” I saw her massive bulk lift slightly from her pew. So did Father Donald. He hurried on. “It’s to do with our monies, and you know how important that is, especially to our treasurer although, not as important as some things perhaps, as our Lord tells us ‘where a man’s heart is, there also is his treasure’,” and I saw it coming. One of his awful jokes. “And we all know where our treasurer’s heart is. It’s in that brand, spanking new boat of his, right, Morley?” Everyone laughed and nodded in agreement, but I saw Morley Leet turn deathly pale. Oblivious to everything, Father Donald launched into the service. “Page 185 in your prayer books,” he announced.
The service rolled on without incident except for a slight hitch when Edith hit the Samba button on the organ by mistake, and the second hymn, “Sweet Hour of Prayer”, was underlaid with a distinct “oom cha cha, oom cha cha”. Father Donald took the opportunity to twist and roll from the waist in time to the music, seemingly unaware of the inappropriate beat.
We
