"Aren't you cold?" asked Pete.
"Nah. Once the mud starts to dry, it sort of heats up on you."
"Well, we're sorry to have missed it," I said with what I hoped was a tinge of regret in my voice.
"You can come back next year," said Nelson. "No charge for either of you."
"That's great!" said Pete.
"We'll be here with bells on our loincloths," I added. "Now how about some of that bratwurst?"
Chapter 16
"Come on over here where I can get a good look at you," I said, still brandishing my heater. He walked up to the desk.
"Now, spill," I said.
"I know who killed Candy. What's it worth to you?"
"Why, you little weasel..." I put a stogy in my mouth with my free hand and lit it with another blast from my shooter. He jumped like a freshman cheerleader at homecoming.
"Jeez! Don't do that."
"Don't do what?" I asked. Kapow! I fired off another round, this one aimed at the radio in the corner. It was a lucky shot, but the radio came on full blast, and the sounds of The All American Polka Band filled the room. Kablam! I hated to waste another bullet, but I hated polka music more.
"Okay, okay. I'll talk," stammered the little pipsqueak.
"You bet you will." I took my time and reloaded, letting him watch each bullet as it wriggled into the chamber. "Now, how do you know who killed Candy?"
"I saw it! I saw the whole thing. I was hiding in the kitchen." He squirmed like a salted slug. "But I want something in return."
"You see this?" I put the gun on the desk. "This is like a game of spin-the-bottle. I ask you a question and then I spin the gun. If it points to you, I shoot off one of your thumbs. Got it?" I spun the gun.
"Wait! Wait! What's the question?" The gun was slowing.
"Who did it?"
The gun stopped and pointed right at him, but then, I've always been lucky at spin-the-bottle. Just ask any of the clarinet players in fourth period band at Redbug Junior High School. I was responsible for more gum swapping than Mickey Mantle's rookie baseball card.
"Don't shoot me! I'll tell you what you want to know." He was as scared as a college fund in a room full of stockbrokers.
I shrugged and reached for my gun. "You'd better be fast."
I hadn't even finished my sentence when a bullet smashed through the window and whinnied over my shoulder. The glass shattered and I jumped over the desk and down onto the floor quicker than a secretary on the boss's birthday.
"Get down," I yelled. I looked over at my visitor. He was already down. And a hole was in his chest.
"Wow." Meg said. "Action. Veiled threats, vague yet intriguing character development, brilliant use of the shameless simile, sexual innuendo, gun violence and finally, another murder."
"Not bad, eh?" I said proudly.
"There's just one problem."
"What?" I asked. "What's the problem?"
"Well you managed to introduce another character. You know…another suspect."
"Yeah. Just in time, too. I was running out of ideas."
"And then," Meg said slowly, as if explaining to a small child, "you killed him."
"Um…wait! Wait just one second. He's not dead yet!"
"Oh, brother…"
I crawled over to the body and looked down at him. He was hurt. Hurt bad.
"I'm not dead yet," he managed to gurgle.
"Told you," I said to Meg.
"Oh, please. Why don't you just give it up? You're not fooling anyone but yourself."
"Who did it? Who killed Candy Blather?" I was insistent now. As insistent as last night's burritos.
"It was..."
I leaned close to his face. He could barely speak.
"Who? Who was it?" I asked again.
A bubble was forming on his lips--an expanding pink globule, reminiscent of the championship performance of Parker "Bubbles" Ramsay in the Tri-state Bazooka Challenge, growing ever larger as the poor sap tried to force his last words through the darkening blackness; finally exploding in a frothy fountain of foam and releasing a single word, carried aloft in a gossamer web of scarlet saliva.
"Rosebud."
"Rosebud? That's the dumbest thing I've ever read!"
"No. It's a clue," I said. "Really."
* * *
It was around four o'clock when I got back to the Slab. Pete, like myself, had managed a shower and was behind the counter, making a pot of coffee.
"Hey there," I called as I came in. "You recovered yet?"
"Yeah. It wasn't too bad. I'm glad we missed that mud-dance though. Those guys are never going to get that mud out of their mmm…crevices."
"Want to go back next year?"
"Not only am I never going back, but those speeding tickets you took care of? I figure you owe me three more."
"Fair enough," I said. "That Mommy-Stick ceremony was enough to…"
"Did I say three?" Pete interrupted. "I meant five. And if you say another word, it'll be seven."
"This Mommy-Stick is 'Why can't you put the damn toilet seat down!' That was great!"
"Seven!" said Pete. "And if you tell anyone, it'll be ten! And besides, you're the one who got sniffed."
"Okay, okay," I said with a chuckle. "I appreciate you going with me. Anyway, all I told Meg was that we weren't allowed to speak a word of what went on at the conference. We all took a man-oath."
"That's good. A man-oath." Pete thought about it and nodded in agreement. "A moath, if you will."
"Yeah, a moath. Could I get a Reuben sandwich?" I asked, changing the subject. "I'm supposed to meet Billy here in a couple of minutes."
"Yep. I'll get it working."
"And a cup of coffee."
"It'll be up in a jiffy."
* * *
I took a seat at a table in the back. Billy and my Reuben arrived at almost the same time.
"What's that?" Billy asked as he sat down across the table from me. "Looks good."
"Reuben sandwich. "
Billy looked puzzled.
"Corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and Russian dressing on rye. Best sandwich ever invented."
"I'll take your word for it." He looked over his shoulder for Pete. "Can I get a burger and some fries?" he called.
"Got it," said Pete from behind the counter.
"And a Coke," added Billy.
"So what's up?" I asked between bites.
"I'm withdrawing my name from consideration for Senior Warden."
"You are? Why?"
"Well, you know I do a lot of work over at the church. I keep the graveyard looking nice, mow the grass, plant shrubs and flowers in the spring."
"Yeah. So?"
"I guess there's a problem," said Billy. "If I'm Senior Warden, there's a big conflict of interest. I really need the graveyard contract and the work I do for the church isn't peanuts either. If I was Senior Warden, I'd have to give up the contract for St. Barnabas."
"Who says?"
"Well, it was Rob Brannon who pointed it out. It makes sense, you know. I can't really hire myself."
"But you're Junior Warden now."
"I know, but I'm giving that up, too."
I was incredulous. "But why? No one's ever complained before."
"I know, but things are changing."
"Billy, that's just plain stupid. Everyone knows you do a great job for a fair price."
"Rob says that if I'm Senior Warden, or even Junior Warden, the job would have to be put up for bid. I might get the contract, but I might not. I just can't afford it."
"There's something fishy going on, Billy. I don't know what it is yet, but I mean to find out. You should go ahead and run."
"Sorry, Hayden. I can't."
Pete came over with a burger, fries and a Coke and put it down in front of Billy.
"Everything okay?" he asked, seeing our faces.
"Yeah," said Billy glumly. "Everything's okay."
"Harumph," I said, my mouth full of sauerkraut.
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* * *
Wednesday morning found me practicing in the choir loft. I had forgotten about the "Puppet-Moment" scheduled for Sunday and was only reminded when I got to the organ console and found a note from Brenda—Princess Foo-Foo—taped to the music rack. The Children's Moment in the service had lost momentum after our last interim priest, Father Barna, had not enjoyed all the success he might have wished for. It had been shelved indefinitely, but the powers-that-be had decided to give it another try—this time with puppets and fair warning to Father George. Moosey, Bernadette, Ashley and Robert were all still attending services and now they had another friend—Christopher. There might even be one or two others.
JJ came up at around noon just as I was finishing up on my Handel concerto for Sunday.
"Cool," she said. "What's that?"
"The Cuckoo and the Nightingale. Like it? I thought I'd do it for the postlude since Brenda's doing a Puppet-Moment."
"Sounds good to me. Care for a bite of lunch?"
"Sure. What's cooking?"
"I'm fixing some soup for tonight's church meeting. You can come down and give it a taste. I've also got some pimento cheese sandwiches in the fridge."
"I'll be right down," I said. "Any rats I need to bring my gun for?"
"I don't think so."
"See you in a minute then."
* * *
I found JJ in the kitchen, stirring her pot. Rob Brannon was standing over the counter, finishing a bowl of soup. It smelled delicious.
"Hayden!" he said as I came through the swinging door. "I was just going to come up and see you. Soon as I tasted this soup."
"Hi, Rob," I answered, picking up a bowl of my own. I turned my attention to the pot. JJ was a good cook, but I had found, over the years, that it was always a good idea to find out what was in the pot. She was stirring the soup with the lower half of a wooden canoe paddle
"This smells excellent," I said. "What kind is it?"
"Gumbo," said JJ with a smile and a genteel drawl reminiscent of her Louisiana heritage.
"Gumbo. That sounds great." I was still wary and holding my bowl close. "What kind of gumbo?
"Squirrel-head gumbo."
Rob spit his last spoonful of soup back into his bowl and wiped his tongue on a paper napkin as unobtrusively as he could— a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by either of us. I didn't mind squirrel-head gumbo. It actually didn't matter what kind of meat was in the gumbo—after a few hours it all tasted the same anyway. The alarming part of the meal was the title and, of course, the surprise at the bottom of the pot. Rob, however, looked rather startled. I didn't mind playing along.
"Well, fill it up," I said, holding my bowl out.
"You want a head or not?"
I could feel Rob looking at JJ in alarm. He was suspicious, but I didn't think he was a true believer. Not yet.
"Sure. I'll take a head."
JJ reached her ladle deep into the twenty-gallon pot and clanged it around the bottom. It only took her a few moments to find what she was looking for. She pulled her prize to the top and dropped it into my bowl where it floated nicely on the roux, vegetables, and other savory ingredients. I deliberately set it down next to Rob and a picked up a big soupspoon. Rob went from startled to green quicker than a chameleon. There, looking up at him, looking very much like a skinned rat, was a squirrel head. There wasn't much meat left on the skull, but the eyes were a nice opaque bluish-creamy color and the teeth, stained brown from the roux, and looked like something out of a horror film. It was what the kids in the congregation loved to see, even though the moms all dreaded the moment. I knew there were two or three heads in the pot and that the kids would take great delight in carrying them from table to table after supper, showing everyone who would look. I ate a big spoonful.
"It tastes great, JJ," I said with a smack of my lips. "Top-notch squirrel-head gumbo." I could feel Rob shudder from three feet away.
"Is that what you're serving for the church meeting?" he asked quietly.
"One of the things," said JJ. "It's a St. Barnabas tradition. There's also some roasted chicken and other stuff."
"Thank God," said Rob.
"Did you want to talk to me?" I asked, this time following my question with an audible slurp.
"Yes," he said. "As you know, I'm the new Parish Administrator."
"Interim," I added.
"Yes, whatever. Anyway, it's my opinion, and Father George agrees, that we need to keep track of expenses in a much more business-like fashion. Therefore, I'm instigating a policy of purchase orders and vouchers."
"Really," I commented in my snidest fashion, not bothering to inflect the one word observation into the form of a question.
"If you need to order something—let's say choir music, for example—you'll have to fill out a voucher with the vendor, the description of goods or services, and the cost, get it approved by the worship committee and Father George. Then it will come to me for approval. If it's consistent with your budget line item, I'll approve it and you may fill out a purchase order, then send or fax it to the vendor. The purchase order number and voucher approval number must be on all incoming invoices or they won't be paid."
"How long do you expect this process to take?" I asked. "Start to finish?"
"Two or three weeks. I know it seems like a long time, but you just have to plan ahead."
"Hmmm," I slurped again. "Seems like a lot of work just to order some music. How about if I just pay for it myself?"
"No, I'm afraid not. We need to find out exactly how much money we're spending. It doesn't do us any good if you're undermining the system."
"You realize, of course, that I donate all of my salary back into the music discretionary fund," I said.
"We're stopping that as well. It's not a good policy for parishioners to be able to allocate where they want their money to go. It sends a bad message. Gifts and tithes should be made without designation. Otherwise popular programs would flourish and programs that we need, but aren't as noticeable, would fall by the wayside. Janitorial services, for instance. Or AA meetings."
"Good point, and I agree with you. But I tithe as well. My tithe may certainly go wherever the church deems fit. But my gift is my gift. It goes where I want it to go."
"We think it's a bad idea," said Rob.
"The music discretionary fund has over ten thousand dollars in it. What happens to that?"
"I think it should be turned over to the vestry, but Father George disagrees. So it will remain in the music fund and be used for music only, but there won't be any more added to it. Next year, when it runs out, you'll have to submit a budget request like every other department."
"I don't think I will," I said, feeling my anger emerging. "And you understand that I'll be taking my salary in full from this point on."
"It's better this way. We'll finally understand how much money it takes to keep St. Barnabas going. People don't realize it because the numbers have been so skewed. What we lose in your salary will more than be made up once the parishioners realize the situation."
"Maybe." I slurped again. "But I'm not going to fill out any stupid vouchers."
"You will or you'll leave," he said smugly, spinning on his heel and marching out of the kitchen.
"My," I said to JJ. "That went well."
* * *
"Hayden, I think you'd better come out," said Nancy's crackling voice on my cell phone. Nancy and Meg were the only two people with my cell number. I had resisted getting one to the bitter end, my excuse being that reception up in the mountains made them practically useless. But then, of course, technology caught up with us mountain folks and the towers started springing up. Nancy finally convinced me that cell phones were the easiest way to keep in touch, and since I rarely answered the phone at my house, I decided to acquiesce.
"There's been an incident. At Gwen Jackson's house."
Gwen Jackson, a faithful member of St. Barnabas, was the veterinarian in St. Germaine. She was unmarried, f
iftyish and had been practicing in the town for over twenty years.
"I've got to be at a meeting over at the church."
"It'll have to wait. Someone shot out her front windows. Her neighbor called it in. I'm on my way out there now."
"Okay. I'm out on Forsyth Road anyway. I'll turn around and head back to her house."
Gwen Jackson lived about twelve miles out of town in the opposite direction from my farm. It was close to six o'clock and already dark by the time I got out to her house. Nancy was in the driveway with a man I took to be the neighbor. Some lights in Gwen's house were on, but her car wasn't in the driveway. She wasn't home.
"Did you try and call her to tell her what happened?" I asked Nancy.
"There was no answer at the office. I called at about five- thirty."
"She's probably at the church. There's a parish meeting tonight. Supper, then the parish meeting, followed by the vestry election. I called St. Barnabas to leave a message for her, but there wasn't any answer. Not surprising really. The phone only rings in the offices."
"What time's the meeting?"
"It should be starting right now," I said as we walked over to the neighbor.
"Hi, Len," I said, shaking his hand. "You know Nancy?
Len nodded toward her. "Len Purvis. Pleased to meet you."
"Can you tell us what happened?" I asked.
"We were eating supper when we heard these shots coming from outside."
"We?" asked Nancy, writing all the information in her pad.
"Me and my wife. We was having pork chops. She's still in the kitchen if you need to talk to her."
"We'll talk with her directly," I said. "Did you hear a car?"
"Heard one leave after the shots and the glass breaking. There were three or four shots, I guess. Shotgun. Twelve gauge."
"How do you know it was a shotgun?" asked Nancy.
"I know a shotgun when I hear one."
"So you heard the shots and the glass breaking, and you came out?" I asked.
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 13