Moose Willow Mystery

Chapter 2

- 1 -

- 1 -She just showed up one night, and said, “Hi. I’m Derry. I’d like to sing in the choir.”

It sounded a bit like an AA introduction. Nonetheless, we all smiled idiotically and mobbed her in order to extract as much information as possible, mainly if she sang soprano (God, please) or alto.

“Welcome,” said our choir director, Hannu, who extended a limp hand toward her. She touched his fingertips delicately, as a Victorian lady might do.

Where had this woman come from? She had not been within the humble walls of the Moose Willow Methodist Church that past Sunday. Usually, people shopping around for a church sneak in after the service has started and sit discreetly in the back pew. However, anyone—especially anyone female—who wanders in does not get past the Moose Willow Methodist Women or MW-MW.

The Methodist Women are a tenacious group of church ladies who strive to fulfill their God-mandate of recruitment for “auxiliary activities.” Any woman, lady, or s**t, who dares enter the handicap-accessible doors of the Moose Willow Methodist Church will undergo an inquisition. Before her hand has cooled from multiple welcoming grips, she will be asked to join the MW-MW.

This new woman appeared to be in her thirties. Blonde hair cascaded around her head like a flaxen halo. I judged her jeans to be about a size six. She wore a stretchy top that displayed a tease of cleavage. She studied her surroundings with hooded light-blue eyes—bedroom eyes. In spite of blushed cheeks and bright lipstick, the woman exuded a pale, haunted presence.

“So, Dairy is it?” I asked. “Spelled like Humbolt’s Dairy?” Maybe she was from Wisconsin where they take their dairy products very seriously. I was used to odd names. I lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, or U.P. where people proudly called themselves “Yoopers.”

proudly Our small village got its name from an Ojibwe moniker, Mooz Oziisigobiminzh, which basically translates as Moose Willow. Perhaps at one time the area abounded with moose munching on their favorite willowy browse. However, today, sightings of Bigfoot were more frequent than those of a moose.

Mooz Oziisigobiminzh“Well, actually, it’s spelled D-E-R-R-Y,” she said. “Parks. The last name’s Parks.”

“Very glad to meet you,” I said. “I’m Janese – rhymes with geese. JanESE,” I repeated. “Last name’s Trout, like the fish.”

Needless to say I had gone through my whole life with my first name being mispronounced and my last name being ridiculed.

A warm presence prickled the back of my neck. It was James. Not Jim, mind you, James, like in the Bible. Although our James was no saint. Quite the contrary.

“James Rush,” he said, extending a manicured hand toward Derry. “Baritone,” he added, “and your friendly television news reporter. Perhaps you’ve seen me anchoring the TV13 news?”

“I’m afraid not. I haven’t been in town long and don’t watch much television.”

James regaled Derry with a toothy, veneered smile and reached up to correct any hair that may have strayed. He did this with his left hand in order to display his bare wedding-ring finger. James had been married and divorced three times, much to the consternation of our pastor. Not that I had any room to judge, what with my supposed “jaded” living situation. I needed a roommate and George LeFleur came along, with benefits; so there you have it.

“Will your husband be joining us?” James asked. He could be so obvious.

“I’m a widow,” Derry said.

That took us aback for a sec.

James arranged his face into a perfect display of condolence. “I’m so terribly sorry—and you are so young.”

“Thank you,” she muttered.

I was beginning to feel like a third wheel or fifth wheel or whatever.

“Let’s get started,” our choir director shouted. His name, Hannu, is Finnish, and trying to pronounce his last name is hopeless, so he’s just Hannu. Like “Cher” or “Prince” or “Lassie.” Well, maybe Lassie isn’t a good example. Hannu was a saint and hardly ever yelled at us. I attribute his tolerance to his strong Christian spirit. I do not believe, for one minute, that the rumors are true about the misuse of communal wine or prescription drugs. Alcohol, though frowned upon by the Methodist Church, can serve a legitimate purpose when carefully monitored. I allow myself one glass of wine a day, except on days when two glasses seem more appropriate, such as after a long, meeting-plagued day at the Copper Country Community College where I work.

“All right people,” Hannu bleated as he banged his baton on the music stand. “Take your places.”

Our pianist, Azinnia Wattles, pounded out a few scales while we noisily clambered up onto the choir platform we shared with the pulpit and the stained-glass window of Jesus. The scene depicted in the window suggested good times. Jesus was surrounded by bunches of fruit, sunshine, and lush foliage. He wore a toga and sandals and held a lamb in the crook of his arm. No matter where you were in the sanctuary, you could not escape Jesus’ gaze. His normally benevolent expression had taken on a more reproachful look that evening.

“Where do you want me?” Derry asked.

“Squeeze in there next to Janese,” Hannu said.

This bit of shifting would cause the usurping of Eleanor Heimlich from her ordinary seat to a folding metal chair perched on the edge of the platform, and she was not a person to take such a maneuver lightly.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Eleanor, scoot over,” Hannu snapped. “It won’t kill you to sit on the folding chair.”

Eleanor was apparently unaware of the logistical problem she created. While of average height, her towering “Marge Simpson” hairdo tended to block voices from the back row. I suspected this was a strategic move on Hannu’s part who hoped to position Eleanor where she would block the fewest number of voices. If she capitulated to the folding chair, which she had not yet done, she would be sitting smack behind the pulpit. Anyone stuck there spent the entire church service staring at the assortment of mundane items on the hidden shelf within the unit. One can ponder a box of tissues and the “pennies for pastors” jar only so long before boredom sets in.

But it was a matter of status, not scenery that caused Eleanor to glower at the folding chair. She fancied herself a reverent rock star and likely viewed a folding chair as spiritually degrading. I couldn’t help but stare at her coif. It truly defied all principles of physics. I thought of the toy—Weebles, I think they were called, with the marketing phrase “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down!” I couldn’t suppress a giggle thinking about Eleanor’s wobbly hair, which earned me a deadly look from Eleanor. A chill passed over me. Rumor had it that Eleanor was once part of an obscure religion from down South (I did detect a drawl) where they spoke in tongues and performed satanic rituals. Of course, it was all rumor churned up by the Moose Willow Gossip Mill. Eleanor moved to Moose Willow, where she had “connections,” and took a job as secretary at the elementary school. Eventually, she found her way to the Moose Willow Methodist Church where she quickly moved up in rank among the MW-MW—mostly because she terrified them—and became the queen/president of the organization.

Eleanor shifted her disdain for me to the substandard chair that was to be her new place.

“I can sit on the end,” Derry said.

Azinnia was still hammering out scales. Most of the choir had started to warm up their voices—except the soprano section, which was in turmoil because of the seating debacle.

“I want you between Janese and Eleanor. Sit!” Hannu barked.

We all sat abruptly with a unified thud. The piano music trickled to a stop.

Hannu always gets testy during cantata time. Every year, in addition to our regular Sunday anthems, we pull a musical program together for the community. Predictably, it has a religious theme, and the plot is generally the same each year: People of the world are living in darkness, despair, and gloom. They have nothing to look forward to, since the afterlife has not yet been confirmed. Christ Child is born in a manger in a lowly stall because the inn is full. This is the innkeeper’s “humanitarian” solution for a young woman in the throes of heavy labor. A special star shines—presumably a sign from God that a major event is occurring in Bethlehem. Shepherds, while tending their flocks at night, marvel at the heavenly phenomenon and summon up some angels from the realms of glory. Wise men come from afar, following the star. They bring some nice gifts of gold and frankincense, and also the myrrh, which is a funeral embalming material. This particular gift does not bode well for the youngster’s future. The story plays out through the robust singing of the choir. The practices are brutal. Hannu’s sparse hair takes on a maniacal Gene Wilder appearance and large rings of sweat stain his underarms.

This year’s cantata may have a welcome shot of freshness, due to the timely entrance of Derry. She was not only a soprano, but we quickly learned during warm-up that she was also solo material. This would do nicely for the solo piece where Mary sings to Baby Jesus laying all the world’s problems on the little tyke and telling Him, with a multitude of high notes, that He is the world’s savior. Derry sat primly, staring down at her lap. She smiled, but it wasn’t a joyous expression—more fixed, like a mannequin.

The whole thing put Hannu in a very good mood. Perhaps, if the rumors about his habits were true, which I am not saying they are, he would be able to sleep without help that night. However, Eleanor Heimlich, likely still stinging from the chair downgrade, had been singing the solo “just for practice purposes.” Eleanor, nostrils flaring, glared at Derry who focused rigidly on the music folder she held in her lap.

Somehow, James had managed to position himself behind Derry, which was not his normal place. As choir practice got into full swing, Derry and I were assaulted with James’ vigorous singing—obviously intended to impress. I felt, as I’m sure she did, his spittle land on the back of my neck with each word beginning, ending or in any way containing the “S” sound. I was plotting ways to decommission James when Hannu noticed that something was askew in the back row.

“What are you doing there?” Hannu snapped at James. “You move to where you are supposed to be. You won’t project there. And watch the S’s. You sound like a leaky radiator.”

James slunk to his normal place where he would properly project for the baritone solo he was to sing. Now, when he sang of the lonely shepherd in the desert doing God-knows-what with all those sheep, the S-induced spit would find its way elsewhere, possibly hydrating the poinsettia plants, which looked a little droopy anyway.

Once practice ended, I managed to elbow my way through the crush of yakking choir members into the brisk night air. I flapped open my coat, trying to catch the brace of cold. Snow had begun to fall, lazy and innocuous. What seemed so lovely that night—so Christmassy and all—would lose its appeal as winter progressed. The sparkling fairy-tale world would all too soon evolve into a cold, white monster that would make the gloom and despair people endured B.C. seem like a walk in the park.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Derry said. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

There she was again. The woman simply materialized.

“So, where are you from?” I asked, trying to sound as if she hadn’t unsettled me.

“Oh, originally not too far from here.”

“Back to see family?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, welcome, um, we are happy to have you.” Boy, was that lame.

“My pleasure,” she said, equally as lame.

The unmistakable voice of our very own Channel 13 newscaster and baritone soloist wafted into the night air. I turned to look at the door as the choir straggled out, with James leading the way. He always talked in a booming voice, as if on stage for a Shakespearean play.

The Pastor’s wife, Kaaron Saaranen, worked her way through the crowd and brushed up against me. “We have a funeral on Monday. Could I get you to bring something in on Sunday to contribute to the luncheon?” she said.

“Sure, I guess,” I said. “Who passed away?”

“Paavo Luukinnen, poor dear. He was ninety-three.”

I had no idea who Paavo Luukinnen was, but suspected he was another nursing home casualty. I had only rudimentary kitchen skills and always resorted to making a trip to either Tillie’s Bakery or the IGA to buy bakery items. For purposes of a funeral luncheon, IGA peanut butter bars were my go-to contribution. Of course, I removed them from the plastic store container and put on a plate to pass off as homemade.

“Bring your peanut butter bars?” Kaaron said as if reading my mind. “They are always so much better than the ones from the IGA?”

The question at the end of her comment implied that she was on to my fraudulent bakery offerings.

“See you Sunday,” she said.

“Peanut butter bars—Sunday. You can count on it,” I said.

When I turned back to find Derry and suggest we carpool next time (a clever way to find out where someone lives), she was gone. No crunch of footsteps in the snow, no car door shutting, no engine turning over. Just gone.