“How long will sixteen million dollars last? That’s an expensive sport,” said Meg.
“Depends on if we win or not,” I said. “Even if we lose, two or three years, anyway. That’s my guess.”
“Who’s the driver?” asked Pete.
“It’s my understanding that it’s going to be Lucille’s nephew. His name is Junior Jameson.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Nancy. “He’s won a few races.”
“His team is looking for a new sponsor,” I said. “Apparently their old sponsor didn’t take kindly to Junior painting religious slogans on the car — especially on the back bumper. But Junior said that it unnerved the other drivers coming up behind him and gave him an edge. Imagine driving up behind someone at two hundred miles per hour, trying to pass, and seeing ‘Where will you spend eternity?’ jump out at you in bright yellow letters.”
“Sounds like a good tactic to me,” said Pete. “Who was the old sponsor?”
“Budweiser.”
“Well,” said Ruby with a shrug, “maybe some good will come of it.”
“This is great!” said Pete, standing up to get us some more coffee. “It just may put St. Germaine on the map. May I suggest a Blessing of the Racecar service before the first race next year? We’ll advertise it in the paper.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “With pirates.”
“No pirates!” said everyone, in unison.
Postlude
Your other stories have been up on the blog for two months now,” Meg said. “What about this last one? The Soprano Wore Falsettos? ”
“I’ll finish it up right now,” I said, putting down my beer and walking over to the typewriter. “To tell you the truth, I got so busy, I just forgot about it. It just needs a ‘postlude’ to wrap it up.”
“I checked The Usual Suspects website. You’re up to two hundred forty hits.”
“That’s not so good,” I said. “Ah, well.”
“Don’t get discouraged. The Bulwar-Lytton competition is coming up. Maybe you’ll get an honorable mention this year.”
“Maybe I’ll win. ”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Meg laughed. “You’re not that bad yet. While you’re practicing, I’ll start dinner.”
• • •
Pedro, Marilyn and I sat down at our usual table at Buxtehooters. I was flush and almost sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. The Presiding Bishop had coughed up the cash like a kitten getting rid of a two thousand dollar hairball.
• • •
There had been a flurry of activity in St. Germaine over the past six weeks, but we were getting ready to relax into summer. The downtown area had been spruced up, as it was every year, getting ready for the influx of tourists. There were hanging baskets filled with flowers on every corner and in front of every shop. My job, or rather Nancy’s job, during the summer months, was to control the parking.
Dave and Collette had set a date for their upcoming nuptials. They would be married in October, the height of the leaf season, at New Hope Fellowship Church. Dave would have to be baptized again, but he said that he didn’t mind.
“If the old one doesn’t count, then it’ll be a good thing when I do it again,” said Dave. “If the old one does count, then it’ll be just another Sunday morning bath. I just want to cover all my bases.”
Malcolm Walker had a good attorney, but he had to sell his house to be able to afford him. Rhiza filed for divorce the day after he was arrested. Malcolm’s lawyer pointed out to the district attorney that, although we proved the confession note was written by Malcolm’s pen and although his handwriting was a match as well, writing a confession note wasn’t evidence of the crime. Malcolm was just kidding around, he said, and thought it would be funny if someone found the note nailed to the cross.
I was for sending the matter to a jury, but the case was weak at best, and since there was no direct evidence linking Malcolm to Agnes Day’s murder, the D.A. made a deal regarding the attempted murder charge. We did, after all, have a fingerprint on the shotgun. We weren’t complete klutzes. Malcolm would do seven to ten in a minimum security facility. Rhiza had been seen around town occasionally, but she told me that she’d be in Europe for most of the summer.
I hadn’t been back to St. Barnabas to play since the day we arrested Malcolm. Meg had given up asking me, and Father George had found a substitute — not a good one, by Meg’s reckoning. She had only one leg, and although she walked well enough with her prosthetic, it made her pedal work a little heavy on the treble end. I had heard that she was a retired dental assistant. St. Barnabas had extended my “leave” indefinitely, hoping, I think, that I’d decide to come back. I still hadn’t made up my mind.
Benny Dawkins and Ruthie Haggarty got married a month after she was found innocent of killing Little Bubba, claiming “battered spouse” syndrome. The prosecutor was just going through the motions, and, with the quarter million dollars she inherited from her late aunt, Agnes Day, hiring a good feminist lawyer was no problem. The jury was out less than fifteen minutes.
Once we told Renee Tatton she could leave town, she did. We hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her in six weeks. The word was, she moved back to Virginia.
Annette Passaglio won her civil suit against Todd Whitlock, Watauga County’s foremost wedding videographer. Judge Adams had ruled that since Annette had paid for the video in advance, it was, indeed, her property. It was a good thing, too, because Misty’s wedding video won the hundred thousand dollar first prize for the funniest home video of the year. Misty and Annette split the cash fifty-fifty.
Noylene’s Beautifery and Dip ’n Tan had created quite a following for itself, not only in St. Germaine, but also in the surrounding townships. Noylene expected to have a great summer, what with all the tourists coming in. She hired a couple more beauticians and even bought enough tanning fluid so that the customers didn’t have to squat.
Russ Stafford couldn’t make The Clifftops pay off. He declared bankruptcy at the end of May and took a job selling used cars in Asheville. He didn’t have to invest in a new wardrobe.
Kenny Frazier sold his farm and moved to Santa Fe where he heard that medical marijuana, if not legal, was still readily available.
Pete Moss bought stock in the Phlabco Corporation, maker of expando-pants, so deeply did he believe in their product. The stock was holding firm at twenty-three dollars per share, but Pete figured that with the ever-increasing girth of America’s baby boomers, he was bound to make a killing eventually.
Rebecca Watts continued to live in bookish anonymity. She liked it that way.
• • •
“ Drinks for the house,” I said to Helga over the strains of a Froberger Partita. “And bring us a round of Schwabblings.”
“ Ja, ja,” said Helga with a wink, her T-shirt valiantly engaging in the titanic struggle between the tensile strength of cotton and Newton’s third law of motion.
“ Not bad,” said Pedro admiringly. “I see that Miss Bulimia Forsythe is still doing a brisk business.”
“ Men…” said Marilyn, shaking her head in disgust.
“ There’s always a market for self-improvement,” I said, “and I know a good soprano when I see one.”
The Soprano Wore Falsettos Page 22