The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) by Mark Schweizer Page B

happened exactly?” asked Dave. “You remember what caused the wreck?”
    “ As I recall,” I said, “Gaylen was driving when some baby skunks and their mama decided to cross the road.”
    “ And she didn’t want her car to stink,” said Dave with a grin, “so she hit the tree instead.”
    “ It was a reflex,” I said. “She tapped the brakes and we caught a patch of black ice.”
    “ What happened to the scoodle of skunks?” asked Noylene, suddenly reappearing with a coffee pot. “I jes’ love little baby skunks.”
    “ Scoodle?” I said.
    “ That’s what you call skunks,” said Noylene. “A scoodle.”
    “ Nah,” said Pete. “It’s a skein of skunks. Or if there are more than five, you call them a skank.”
    “ You’re both wrong,” I said. “It’s a surfeit of skunks. Anyway, the skunks are all fine, I believe.”
    Nancy’s cell phone rang and she flipped it open. “Skunk department,” she said.
    “ Nancy forwarded the office phone,” Dave told Pete. “That way we can eat breakfast all day.”
    The cowbell rang again as three more customers came into the restaurant. Noylene gave an audible sigh.
    “ Cheer up,” said Dave. “You know what they say. Every time you hear a bell, another angel gets its wings.”
    “ What they don’t tell you,” said Pete, “is that every time a mouse trap snaps, an angel bursts into flames.”
    “ We’ll be right there,” said Nancy, closing her phone. She took a slurp of coffee. “Time to go,” she said, standing and reaching for her coat. “We’ve got a floater in the lake.”

Chapter 7

    Lake Tannenbaum was just outside the St. Germaine city limits and surrounded on three sides by the Mountainview Cemetery. It was a small mountain lake, just a couple of acres, spring fed and ice cold, even in the summer. The small dock, just visible from the road winding through the monuments, jutted about eight feet into the water and was flanked by “No Swimming” signs on either side. We parked on the pavement behind an old white Ford Bronco and made our way down to the edge of the lake. I recognized Pam Rutledge as she waved to us from the dock.
    “ I was visiting Mom,” she said, once we’d gotten down to the shore. “After I put the flowers on her grave, I came down to the lake. It’s peaceful and I had a few minutes before I needed to be at work.”
    The water, cold as it was, was still a good deal warmer than the air on this frigid morning, and steam drifted up off the surface of the lake like the backdrop of an Arthurian legend.
    “ You said there was a body?” asked Nancy, sticking her hands deep in her pockets.
    “ Right there.” Pam pointed down to the brown cattails bobbing lazily beside the old wooden planks. Sure enough, there, floating face down, was a man. Although we couldn’t yet see his face, I knew I’d seen him before. He was wearing a sheepskin coat, jeans, and cowboy boots. His brown hair drifted in the icy water and I had no doubt that, when we fished him out, he’d have a beard.

    •••

    Joe and Mike, our two EMTs, were not happy about having to go into the shallows and drag the body to shore even, after I pointed out that I myself had a broken arm, that Dave’s back was acting up, and that Nancy was a girl.
    “ It’s freezing,” complained Mike. “And I don’t have my waders.”
    “ Suck it up,” said Nancy. “I’d do it, but I’m a girl.”
    “ A girl who could kick both our butts and never break a nail,” muttered Mike.
    “ C’mon,” said Dave, giving him a gentle, good-hearted nudge on the shoulder. “Quit griping. It’s your job.”
    “ Sheesh,” said Joe, wading into the water and grabbing the man by his collar. “I’ll get him.”
    He dragged the body across the weeds and up onto the shore, where Mike and Dave latched on and helped him pull the corpse up so we could get a good look at him. Once he was up on the grass, they rolled him over. I recognized him from the auction. Nancy