The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 3

  “Yep. The Ginger Cat doesn’t open soon enough to get the early morning coffee drinkers. I’m quite finished drinking coffee by 9:30, thank you.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “It’s good coffee. I affirm its Christian goodness.”

  Meg rolled her eyes. “They can certainly open a Christian coffee shop if they want. You don’t have to be so snide about everything.”

  “I just wonder how drinking this Christian cup of coffee will serve me better in the eternal order of things than drinking a cup of coffee from, let’s say, Buddha’s Coffee Barn. Hey! Maybe they give part of their profits to convert the unwashed of Appalachia.” I took another sip.

  Meg harrumphed. “Maybe they do. You don’t know one way or the other.”

  “I’ve never known a business that does do something nice like that not to display the fact prominently in their window.”

  “You are certainly jaded on this lovely morning.”

  I nodded. “You’re absolutely right. I take it all back. And if this weren’t a good cup of coffee, I wouldn’t drink it. But if they come out with WWJD cup holders, I’m finished with them.”

  “What Would Jesus Drink?”

  “Exactly.”

  We sipped our coffee together.

  “Their spa opened the day before yesterday,” said Meg. “It’s on the second floor. Christian massage and holistic healing. That’s what Cynthia told me.”

  “Has Cynthia already been there?” I asked.

  “She’s working there,” said Meg, taking a sip of her coffee and smiling at the corners of her mouth.

  “Has she given up belly dancing?”

  “Nope. She’s been encouraged to incorporate her dancing into the totality of the Christian wellness experience.”

  “Huh?”

  Meg shook her head. “Those are her words, not mine. She can dance, but she’s not allowed to give massages. Chad is the only certified Christian massage therapist in this part of the state.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Meg wasn’t looking at me. I suspected she didn’t want to give away the punch line too soon, and I knew her too well to believe she wasn’t going somewhere with this information.

  “That’s a shame really. I think Cynthia would make a wonderful Christian masseuse. Especially if she wore the outfit.”

  “Huh,” Meg sniffed. “I don’t think you’ll be going in.”

  “Not without the Vice Squad.”

  Meg spun toward me, a big smile finally breaking over her face.

  “Okay. I can’t stand it any longer,” she blurted out. “Do you know the name of the spa?”

  Her smile was infectious. “Nope. Do tell.” I chuckled and put the cup to my lips.

  “The Upper Womb,” she laughed. I choked on a sip of coffee and spit it back into my cup.

  “Isn’t that just great? The Upper Womb. Chad took me up there. It’s all dark and warm and there was a heartbeat on the sound system.”

  I shook my head. “All the time? Just a heartbeat?”

  “No. He can switch it to anything. Heartbeat, ocean waves, New Age, Contemporary Christian…whatever he wants. He gave me a coupon for a free massage.”

  “Yes, I’ll bet he did.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t use it.”

  “The heck you won’t!” I exclaimed. “I need someone to go up there and scope it out. It’s not every day you get a chance for a free Christian massage. Anyway, you’d probably enjoy it.”

  “Yes,” said Meg with a nod of her head. “I probably would. But I don’t think I should go. I’ll see if Nancy will do it.”

  “You should go. I’m sure Chad…what’s his last name?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, I’m sure Chad Whatshisname will do a good job.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he would.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” I asked with a shrug.

  “You haven’t seen Chad.”

  •••

  Meg and I finished up our coffee and wandered over to the Slab for breakfast, an event that was occurring almost daily. Our usual table was empty, although the restaurant was beginning to fill up. It was still early and by eight o’clock, there wouldn’t be a table to be had. Noylene was on duty and so was Bootsie, and it was Bootsie who spotted us and made a beeline to the table.

  “Coffee?” she asked, already pouring.

  “Not this morning,” said Meg, causing Bootsie to stop the stream of coffee with a small jerk, spilling some in surprise. Meg gave her a guilty look. “We just had some. Could I get some orange juice instead?”

  “I’ll have just one more cup,” I said quickly. Bootsie relaxed, smiled, and finished pouring the steaming mug. Then she slid it over in front of me.

  “I’ll get your juice in a sec, Hon,” Bootsie said over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I think you confused her,” I whispered. “Don’t confuse her. Just take the coffee.”

  Meg nodded.

  Nancy appeared at the table followed closely by Dave. “Expecting anyone?” she asked as she sat down. Dave took the other chair.

  “I was just about to ask Meg to raise my illegitimate love-child,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster, “but please join us, won’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” Sarcasm wasn’t totally lost on Nancy, but she ignored it most of the time. “Hey, I heard you got yourself a BlackBerry.”

  “I did,” I replied, “but I haven’t figured it out yet. I can almost make a phone call.”

  “Almost?” said Dave.

  “My fingers are too big for those stupid little buttons.”

  “You’re supposed to use the little stylus,” said Meg.

  “I lost it. I was using it as a toothpick and I think I left it somewhere. I’m not worried. I don’t call anyone anyway.”

  Meg turned to Nancy. “That’s true. I always have to call him.” Nancy shook her head in disgust.

  “I can answer the phone,” I said, defensively pulling out the BlackBerry from my pants pocket. “I just have to push this button here.” I looked at the phone, squinting to see the tiny letters, but not able to make them out. “Or maybe this button.”

  “How about your notes?” Nancy asked. “Are you taking notes so you don’t forget stuff?”

  “I lost my stylus…”

  “And your calendar,” Dave added.

  “Calendar?”

  “Give me that!” said Meg, taking the BlackBerry out of my hand. She pulled out her own cell phone, deftly popped open the back and pulled out a small card. Then she did the same to the BlackBerry, switched them, closed up both phones and handed me her old flip-phone—the one with the big numbers.

  “Use this one,” she said.

  “But my phone number…”

  “Already switched. It’s all in the SIM card.”

  “Great,” I said. “Now I don’t have to worry where I left that stylus.”

  “You left it at my house,” said Meg. “I have it in my purse.”

  Nancy laughed and changed the subject. “Has Gaylen Weatherall left yet?”

  Meg’s shoulders slumped just slightly. “Yes, she’s gone. The Reverend has become the Right Reverend Bishop of Colorado.”

  “Does she need a bodyguard?” asked Nancy. “I think I might like Colorado.”

  “Probably not,” I said, “but I’ll be sure and ask.”

  “What’s the priest situation then?” Dave asked. Dave and Nancy had started going back to St. Barnabas as a couple after Dave’s break-up with Collette and his subsequent expatriation from the New Life Baptist congregation.

  “We’re getting an interim rector this week,” Meg groused. “Today, in fact. Father Tony won’t do it, no matter how many people beg him. I just hope our bishop sends us someone with a little…hmm…how shall I put it…?”

  “Ability?” I offered.

  “Brains?” added Nancy.

  “Intelligence?” said Dave.

  Pete
had walked up in the middle of this conversation and wasn’t shy in chiming in. “Discrimination? Imagination?”

  My turn. “Acumen? Prudence? Sagacity?”

  Nancy: “Good taste? Resourcefulness? Discernment?”

  “Sense,” said Meg with finality.

  •••

  Wednesday meant choir practice. The choir had returned from its summer hiatus in September and was now back in full swing. I was sitting at the organ as the members began to wander up to the choir loft.

  “Do we still meet at seven?” asked Rebecca, looking at her watch.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Seven sharp.”

  “It’s past seven,” said Elaine. “Actually, ten past.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I know. We should get started. I think our new rector is coming up to meet you all. It would be good to pretend we’re rehearsing.”

  “Well,” said Beverly Greene, “play something.”

  Beverly was our parish administrator, an appointment made by a previous rector and made semi-permanent by a vote of the vestry. Now she gave a yell worthy of a parish administrator.

  “Hey! You people get your butts up here! We’ve got to get going!”

  “Umm. Thanks,” I said as the rest of the choir hurried up to the loft.

  We rehearsed the anthem for Sunday—a lovely setting of God Be In My Head by Mr. Rutter—and were going through the service music when I noticed a collar-clad black shirt standing against the window in the back of the choir loft. We finished the Gloria, and I stopped and looked back at the figure. The members of the choir turned and followed my gaze.

  “Hello,” came the low female voice. “I’m the Reverend Bottoms. Carmel Bottoms.”

  •••

  “That’s as scary a voice as I’ve ever heard,” whispered Bev, as she watched the Reverend Bottoms leave the nave by way of the sacristy.

  “She’ll be fun to have around for Halloween,” agreed Fred, from the bass section. “It could be the best Halloween ever.”

  “Stop looking on the bright side,” Elaine said. “She’s right out of your first book. Why would the bishop send us someone like that?”

  Elaine had a point. If ever there was an alto destined to wear tweed, Carmel Bottoms was the archetype.

  “Give her a chance,” I said. “She’s only an interim priest. You heard her. She just graduated from the seminary. This is her first parish.”

  “If nothing else,” Meg added, “this should be interesting.”

  •••

  “I need a new book,” announced Nancy, when I walked in. She threw a tattered paperback into the trash. “I’ve read this one four times.”

  I didn’t usually come into the station on Saturday morning, but I’d ventured into town to meet Meg and to buy some drill bits. I’d already stopped by the Slab, had a cup of coffee and tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Pete to add a shrimp po-boy to the lunch menu.

  Nancy stood up. “I want something saccharine and warmly-fuzzy with a whole bunch of wisteria festooning every page. Have you been in the new bookstore?”

  “Nope.”

  “I thought you were a voracious reader.”

  “I have about three hundred books I haven’t even read yet,” I said, “and I’m almost out of room. I promised Meg I wouldn’t buy any more until I got rid of a few.”

  “And you can’t bear to part with them?”

  I gave a helpless shrug.

  “I can take some books off your hands,” suggested Nancy. “Just pretend I’ve borrowed them.”

  “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I don’t have any warm-fuzzy books though.”

  “That’s okay. I like chop-em-ups just as well. I’m just in the mood for a warm-fuzzy.”

  “Well, we might as well hit the new bookstore and introduce ourselves. I have my credit card and I’m not supposed to meet Meg until lunch.”

  Eden Books was around the square next door to Noylene’s Beautifery. We stopped outside and looked in at the window display. It was pretty typical of small town bookstores: some books placed in a semi-artsy array on a piece of black fabric, a couple of posters, a large stuffed giraffe with a sign around its neck advertising a children’s book titled The Animals Watched, and some other knick-knacks. I held open the door for Nancy and we went inside, an obnoxious buzzer announcing us to the woman behind the desk.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Welcome!”

  There were four other customers in the shop. Two of them were Meg and her mother, Ruby.

  “Well, good morning,” said Meg, flipping through a rather large volume of historical fiction. “I just told Hyacinth that you’re not allowed to buy anything.”

  “Good morning, Hayden,” called Ruby from the cookbook section.

  “Morning, Ruby,” I called into the cookbooks, then turned back to Meg. “Methinks you came in here,” I accused, “just to thwart my book habit.”

  “Indeed, sirrah, I did not,” said Meg. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I call it Kismet.”

  “Well…I can’t prove anything, but we detectives don’t believe in coincidences. Anyway, Nancy says she’ll give some of my books a good home.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Meg. “How about you, Davis? Have you ever voluntarily given away a book?”

  Davis Boothe was one shelf over from Meg. He worked at Don’s Clothing Store on the next block. I had tried for a while to get him in the church choir because he had quite a nice voice and served on the vestry with Meg, but he didn’t seem to be interested. Now his head peeked around the corner of the shelf.

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so,” said Meg.

  I addressed the woman behind the desk. “Pay no attention to the woman in historical fiction,” I said. “I am a wealthy bibliophile with plenty of disposable income. However, this morning we just came by to say hello and to introduce ourselves. I’m Hayden Konig, chief of police, and well-compensated public servant. This is Lieutenant Parsky.”

  “Nancy,” corrected Lieutenant Parsky, glaring at me. “Call me Nancy.”

  “Hello, Nancy. Hayden. I’m Hyacinth Turnipseed, owner of Eden Books.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Nancy.

  “I wondered when you came in if you’d come for a reading. I couldn’t help but notice the uniform.” She smiled at Nancy.

  Hyacinth Turnipseed was a woman of substance with a grandmotherly comportment who could have played Mrs. Claus in any department store in the country. Her soft white hair was tied in a loose bun framing twinkling blue eyes and dimples that Clement Moore would have envied. She was wearing an apron embroidered with “Eden Books.”

  “A reading?” said Nancy. I looked over at Meg. She was still thumbing her book, but I could tell her radar was up. Davis’, too. Ruby was trying to memorize Martha Stewart’s recipe for Lemon Meringue Fluff so she wouldn’t have to buy the book, but stopped right in the middle of blending her egg whites and looked up in astonishment. I didn’t recognize the other patron, a woman at the counter ready to purchase the latest Mitford book, but she looked startled as well.

  Hyacinth smiled a grandmotherly smile and adjusted her round, wire rim spectacles. “I’m very active with several police forces across the country. I help them find missing persons, offer clues to cases…whatever the spirits want them to know.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said. “The spirits.”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” asked Hyacinth.

  “Well,” I answered, “not you specifically. But I certainly know your type of work.”

  Hyacinth smiled and nodded. “If you need some help, you know where to come. Of course, I also do private readings.”

  “And you sell books, too?” asked Nancy, looking at the shelves full of books. “I mean, as well as doing the fortune-telling stuff? You must stay very busy.”

  “I prefer the term prognostication,” Hyacinth said gently. “I’m a clairvoyant. I connect with energies of people who have c
rossed over.”

  Nancy and I, apparently both rendered inarticulate at the same moment, nodded in unison like a couple of police bobble-head dolls.

  Hyacinth rang up the woman’s purchase on an old fashioned cash register and took her money. We listened to the ugly buzz as she opened the door and left the store.

  “Can I help you find something?” Hyacinth asked. “I have quite a good Halloween selection.”

  “I’m sure,” said Nancy.

  “Any of the Harry Potter books? Stephen King? Ray Bradbury? How about an old classic?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe a classic.”

  “No,” said Meg. “You have all the classics.”

  “I have a first edition in the back,” Hyacinth cajoled. “Perhaps I could tempt you. It’s Washington Irving.”

  “Washington Irving? It isn’t an autographed copy, is it?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, it is. I happen to have the first printing by C. S. Van Winkle of New York in 1820. The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon. It’s an early bind-up of the seven parts, but without the outer wrappers. Near fine condition in contemporary marbled boards, marbled end papers and a modern leather spine. The autograph is on the second of the seven parts.”

  “You’re kidding, of course.”

  “No,” said Hyacinth with a smile. “I’m not.”

  “What the heck is the Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon?” asked Meg. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Washington Irving’s collection of essays and short stories,” I said. “It was the first published book edition of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. Of course, those are only the two most famous stories. There is a whole set of Christmas essays as well.”

  “How much is it?” asked Davis, now very curious.

  “Are you interested as well, young man?” asked Hyacinth, her blue eyes sparkling. “My, my.”

  Davis blushed and grinned. “I can’t afford it, of course, but I’d love to see it.”

  “I’ll be right back,” said Hyacinth, and disappeared into the back of the store.

  “I don’t even want to know what that book is going to cost,” said Ruby. “And here I was worried about spending $35.95 on a Martha Stewart cookbook.”