The Mezzo Wore Mink Read online

  A liturgical detective is as welcome in a church as a plumbing inspector in a urologist’s office. I pulled my hat down low, lit a stogie, and slumped in my pew as the notes of a Bach fugue beat me about the head like a nun on St. Dorcas Day until I was praying for just one verse of “Softly and Tenderly.” I was there to meet a client sent over by the bishop. I work for him. Yeah, I’m a detective.

  This was a Baptist church and except for the organist, it was as empty as a Baptist church on Good Friday. I checked my calendar. Good Friday. I pulled the piece of wadded-up paper out of my pocket and looked at the name. AveMaria Gratsyplena. It was a flat cinch this ankle wasn’t a Baptist and wasn’t looking to convert. I had questions. Questions and queries. Why did the bishop send me over here? How did Noah clean up after those hippos? And, if you have a cold hot-pocket, is it just a pocket?

  Suddenly a shot rang out, a knife whizzed by my ear, a hangman’s noose dropped ominously from the balcony, and a bottle of cyanide appeared mysteriously in the hymnal rack in front of me next to a little plastic communion cup neatly engraved with a skull and crossbones. I picked up a hymnal and it fell open to hymn number 354—“Where Will You Spend Eternity?”—and I shivered as the cold feet of three baby church mice ran up and down my spine. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. There was a clue here somewhere. Then it came to me. A Bach fugue in a Baptist church? I don’t think so.

  •••

  “Tell me again when Meg is coming home?” Nancy asked. “You’re looking distinctly less kempt than usual.”

  I looked down at my flannel shirt and jeans. “How so? This is what I always wear.”

  “No. That’s what you always wear when Meg is out of town.”

  I looked out the plate glass window of the police station. The town square wasn’t exactly bustling, but there were a few folks out and about.

  “Hmm. I don’t know what you mean, but Meg will be back tomorrow night.”

  “Did you open your windows?”

  “Windows? Why?”

  “Because you’ve been smoking cigars in the house again, that’s why.”

  “How did you?…Never mind.” I changed the subject. “What’s the news around town?”

  “Dave will be back this afternoon,” said Nancy. “And the bookstore is moving in next to Noylene’s. I just drove by. Someone’s inside painting and there’s a sign up.”

  “Glad to hear it. How about our new music store?”

  “Behind the Ginger Cat on North Main. You know…where Beaver Jergenson had his chainsaw repair shop. Beaver says he can’t afford the rent, so he’s working out of his garage. I looked in the window, but there didn’t seem to be any activity. Pete says they’ll be in before next week.”

  “A bookstore and a music store,” I mused. “We’re really starting to expand. If we could get a donut store here on the square, we wouldn’t have to send Dave to the Piggly Wiggly every morning.”

  “You don’t eat the ones we get.”

  “I’m watching my girlish figure,” I said. “Besides, I contend that it’s our duty as law enforcement officers to support the donut trade in town.”

  Nancy harrumphed. “Well, I’m looking forward to the music store. I’m tired of driving into Boone every time I want a new CD.”

  “You could try the internet,” I said.

  “Can’t get high-speed where I am. I’m still on dial-up. I don’t use it except for e-mail.”

  “Why don’t you just use the office internet? That’s what Dave does.”

  “That would be an illegal use of city property. I’m thinking of having Dave arrested,” Nancy laughed. “And besides, I don’t have a credit card.”

  “You’d arrest your own boyfriend?” I chuckled. “Hey, wait a minute. No credit card? Not even one? That’s amazing.”

  “Never needed one, never wanted one,” replied Nancy in a very self-satisfied tone. “Mostly I use cash. You’d be amazed at the discounts you can get if you’re a cash customer.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I looked back out the window. “How about our new spa? Any news?”

  Nancy gestured with a nod. “Down the street from the flower shop. That two-story yellow house on the corner.”

  “Mrs. McCarty’s house?”

  “Yep. She’s moving down to Gastonia where her daughter lives. Pete’s giving them a zoning variance to put in a business. It’s only a couple of blocks off the square and the only residence on the block.”

  I nodded. “What about parking?”

  “Customers will have to park behind the house or on the street, but we’ve been assured there won’t be more than three or four cars at a time.”

  “Three new businesses. Pete will be riding high for a few weeks at least.”

  “That’s his plan.” Nancy’s eyes narrowed as she looked out the window, across the street and into the park. “Uh oh. Here comes Cynthia. I’ll be back by lunch.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I said, but Nancy had already disappeared.

  •••

  “What’s going on here?” demanded Cynthia.

  “Huh?” I decided that playing innocent was my best defense. “Well, hello, Cynthia.”

  “Don’t you ‘Well, hello, Cynthia’ me. What’s all this about new shops coming into town?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I believe that there’s a bookstore, a music store and a spa joining our downtown community. Also a furrier. But that hasn’t been made public yet.”

  Tears welled up in Cynthia’s eyes. “It’s not fair. Just when I tell everyone that Pete hasn’t done one thing to help grow St. Germaine’s tax base, he announces three…”

  “Four,” I corrected.

  “Four new businesses.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “It certainly is good timing for Pete.” I paused before adding apologetically “I’m his crony, you know.”

  “I know,” she said sadly. “I wish I had a crony.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Pete was really scared for a couple of days.”

  “Now I have to go after his underwear.”

  “Yeah.”

  We both stood there silently for a moment; then Cynthia brightened. “Hey,” she said, “maybe he’ll do something—you know—unsavory before the election.”

  “He’s certainly been known to,” I said cheerfully. “Pete’s a free spirit.”

  •••

  Lunchtime at the Slab was fairly hectic, mostly due to the fact that Noylene was back at her Beautifery by noon and Bootsie didn’t quite have the hang of waiting tables even though she’d been at it for a few months. I walked in and spied Georgia and Elaine huddled over a table in the corner by the kitchen. They saw me and waved me over.

  “Pull up a chair,” Georgia said. “We have terrible news.”

  “Terrible,” echoed Elaine.

  “You just found out that Gaylen Weatherall is being considered for bishop of Colorado?” I said.

  “You knew?” said Elaine. “You knew and you didn’t tell us?”

  “Well, I don’t tell everything I know. Anyway, she asked me to keep it under my hat. How did you find out?”

  “I have a friend in Colorado,” Georgia said. “She asked me if I happened to know this particular priest from North Carolina.”

  “Gaylen,” added Elaine glumly. “Just when I thought we were on the right track.”

  Bootsie came up to our table with a crazed look in her eye. “What do y’all want?”

  “Bootsie,” I said, “you look a bit harried.”

  “Cut the chit-chat. What do y’all want?” Bootsie repeated. “C’mon. I ain’t got all day.”

  “I shall have the special,” Elaine said.

  “We got no special,” Bootsie answered. “How about a meatloaf sandwich?”

  “No, thank you,” said Elaine picking up a menu. “Let’s see…”

  “I’ll get you some fries with that,” said Bootsie, ignoring her. She slapped her order pad closed. “In fact, meatloaf sandwiches for all
of you. And iced tea.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  “That was easy,” I said. “Sometimes I have a hard time deciding.”

  “I swear,” said Georgia. “I’m going to quit coming in here unless Pete gets some decent help.”

  “I hate meatloaf,” said Elaine. “But back to Gaylen. The election’s tomorrow. She’s already been out to Colorado twice for the ‘meet and greet.’”

  “Maybe they won’t want her,” I suggested, knowing it was a futile hope. Gaylen was one of those rare priests who was intelligent, kind, well published, and not too full of herself. If she weren’t elected bishop this time, another diocese would soon snap her up. She was now on the fast track.

  “If she gets chosen, when will she leave?” asked Elaine.

  “In a couple of weeks, I expect. They tend not to dawdle.”

  “Then what?”

  “I suppose we’ll ask the bishop to send us an interim priest.”

  “How about Tony?” said Georgia, hopefully.

  “He’s retired,” I answered. “No, I take that back. He’s now thrice retired. I doubt that he’s willing to take the parish again.”

  We all sat in silence, waiting for our lunches,our hands folded in front of us, listening to the cheery chatter of the other customers, but there was no joy in Mudville. Meatloaf sandwiches and yet another priestly migration were nothing to smile about.

  Chapter 3

  A final flood of fugal flatulence drifted out of the organ pipes and off into space like a flock of Easter moths. I got up and was starting toward the baptismal pool, quietly congratulating myself on choosing my new English-Style, double-breasted and fully-lined trench coat, a 60/40 polyester-cotton blend with authentic storm flaps, epaulettes, aged brass hardware and D-rings, like the one in the scene where they say goodbye at the airport, the sound of propellers turning, when I tripped over the corpse.

  It was my client, AveMaria Gratsyplena, and she was as stiff as Al Gore on Oscar night. I bent down and lifted her veil. She’d been strangled with a rosary: not a run-of-the-mill rosary like you might get at a Catholic bookstore where Hail Marys are two for a quarter and indulgences are included on the back flap of the May issue of “Nuns and Roses” magazine, but a fancy heirloom rosary with pearls, rubies, and a solid gold cross; a rosary with attitude; the kind of rosary that said, “Get your Jehovah’s Witness butt off my front porch.”

  “I see that you’re back in fine form.”

  I stopped typing, looked back over my shoulder and smiled at Meg. “It’s the hat.”

  “I can tell,” she said, lifting the newly acquired prize off my head for a moment, and kissing me on the cheek before dropping it back into position. “It certainly has taken your writing to a new level.”

  “I can sense your sarcasm, Madam. I’ll have you know that the choir has been virtually clamoring for a new story. Virtually clamoring, I tell you.”

  “Virtually?”

  “Yep.” I took off the hat, placed it on the desk by the typewriter, then stood and greeted her correctly and profoundly, but not exactly according to the Amy Vanderbilt etiquette book. “Welcome home,” I growled.

  “Mmm, glad to be back.”

  “Let’s rustle up some supper,” I suggested. “How was the seminar?”

  “Awful.” Meg frowned. She was beautiful when she frowned. And she was beautiful when she didn’t frown. “Well, actually, the seminar was okay, but we were through every afternoon at three o’clock. There wasn’t anything to do.”

  We walked into the kitchen and I started rummaging around the fridge. “You didn’t go lie out on the beach?”

  “Sure. From four to six, then back to the hotel room. The rest of the group stayed out partying till two or three a.m.”

  “May I see your tan lines?”

  She giggled. “I haven’t decided. Maybe later. What’s the news around here?”

  I came out of the refrigerator with a couple of old potatoes—old enough to have three inch sprouts shooting from their wrinkled hides. “How about a baked potato?” I asked, handing over one of the spiky spuds.

  Meg shuddered and tossed it into the sink. “No thanks.”

  “Not much news since you’ve been gone. Cynthia has accused Pete publicly of not wearing underwear. It was in the Tattler.”

  “That’s news.”

  “And we have four new businesses coming into town. Two are moving in this week. It’s part of Pete’s revitalization plan to keep the press out of his pants.”

  “That’s news.”

  “And Gaylen Weatherall is probably being elected Bishop of Colorado tomorrow.”

  Silence.

  “I said…”

  “I heard! When did this happen?”

  “Well, as I said, the election is tomorrow…”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly,” Meg said slowly, carefully enunciating every word.

  “Umm,” I started. “You see…Gaylen’s gone out a couple of times this month to talk to the churches. But I didn’t even really know she was seriously in the running until a few days ago.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “She asked me not to.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Mister. Whenever anyone tells you not to tell anyone, that does not include me.” Sparks flashed from her gray eyes.

  I shrugged helplessly.

  “Well,” Meg admitted, “on second thought, maybe you shouldn’t tell me everything. But you should have told me about this.” She ran her hands through her black hair and leaned against the counter, absently scratching a now-contented Burmese Mountain Dog behind his ears. If Baxter felt his tail smack repeatedly against the table leg, it didn’t stop him from enjoying the attention.

  “Oh, fine,” she huffed. “I guess you’re right. You shouldn’t have told me if she told you not to.”

  I walked over and gave her a kiss.

  “Don’t try to make it up to me,” she said, kissing me back. “I’m the one who’s right most of the time.”

  “You are right most of the time.”

  “So, if Gaylen is elected, when would she leave?”

  “I don’t really know. Maybe a couple of weeks from now?”

  Meg sighed. “Oh well. It was too good to last, I suppose. At least she finished putting all the church’s money into a trust.” She frowned again. “Have you found anything to eat yet? I am rather peckish.”

  I went back to rummaging. “How about a bologna and strawberry pop-tart sandwich?”

  “Nope.”

  I looked deep into the refrigerator. “I’ve got a piece of pizza left over from our Fourth of July party. Or you can have one of Archimedes’ baby squirrels.”

  “I refuse to eat owl food, no matter how tempting.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then added, “How would you cook it?”

  “Baby squirrel is best served tartare,” I said. “But wait. Here’s something.” I pulled out a pot of soup and set it on the stove. “I forgot that I stopped by the Ginger Cat this afternoon and picked up a pot of shrimp bisque.”

  “Excellent,” said Meg. “And?”

  “Garlic bread, and a bottle of Shiraz.”

  “Then I’ve decided. After supper you may see my tan lines.”

  Chapter 4

  September turned to October, and with the changing leaves came the tourists. Peak foliage season wouldn’t hit St. Germaine for a couple of weeks yet, depending on conditions, but folks were already making their way up into the Appalachians to enjoy the fall weather, the local festivals, art shows and fairs found in almost every small town, and leaf peeping in general. October and early November were the two months that made St. Germaine’s economy work. Nancy had to hand out more parking tickets during these two months, as space was at a premium, and out-of-towners insisted that it was their God-given right under the Constitution to leave their cars and SUVs wherever they could find space. This included driving up onto the grass of Sterling Park—our small acre of village green—pa
rking in front of fire hydrants, and even, on occasion, in the spot in front of the police station marked “Reserved for the Chief of Police.”

  I was drinking a steaming cup of coffee and marveling at my fortuity to be sitting on a bench in Sterling Park on this beautiful October morning. I believe in fate, in chance meetings, and in good fortune. I also believe in the Trinity, salvation by grace, infralapsarianism, non-Darwinian evolution, and possibly unicorns, as they’re mentioned nine times in the Old Testament. I wasn’t too sure about the unicorns yet. I don’t dwell on either fate or theology for too long because it gives me a headache, but on a morning like this, when the crispness in the air snaps you awake and you can almost feel creation in full bloom, I found it impossible not to smile at the wonder of it all. Hayden Konig—Chief of Police of St. Germaine, North Carolina. Hayden Konig—organist and choirmaster of St. Barnabas Episcopal Church. Hayden Konig—wealthy inventor and investor. Fate? Luck? Predestination? Whatever the cosmic answer, I was as happy as the tenth pick on a nine-man jury.

  I saw Meg making her way across the park with a coffee cup of her own, attired in a coat and scarf even though the temperature was still in the low fifties and my outerwear consisted of an old cotton sweater.

  “Good morning, Miss Farthing,” I said with a smile. “Coffee from the new place?” In all, four concerns that Pete had courted had moved in. I suspected that most of them would vanish in January as soon as tourist season waned, but for now, there was a flurry of activity around town and everyone was happy. I looked at Meg’s paper cup and knew the answer even as my mouth formed the question, seeing as the logo was emblazoned across both the cup and the protective sleeve. The logo was an ichthys—the Jesus fish—swimming like a shark inside a coffee cup and in bright red letters was the name of the shop, “Holy Grounds.”