"Was it a squirrel?" asked Christopher, walking hand-in-hand with Ashley.
"No, I think you were right," said Ashley. "It was Jesus."
* * *
"Hayden, may I speak with you for a moment?"
I looked up from my postlude following the uneventful remainder of the service to see Davis Boothe standing in the choir loft. Davis wasn't in the choir, although I had tried to recruit him many times. He had a very good singing voice and had told me, when he first moved to St. Germaine, that he had done some stage work in community theaters around the Asheville area. Davis was new to the vestry and worked at Don's—the clothing store on the square. He was unmarried, in his thirties, genteel and fairly obviously gay, although I had never seen him with a significant other. If he wasn't, said Nancy, he was missing a heck of a chance.
"Sure, Davis. What's up?"
"My car was spray painted last night. I didn't call downtown because I knew I'd see you this morning."
"I'm really sorry. You think it was kids?"
"I don't think so, but I don't know. I went to bed around eleven. When I came out to get in my car this morning, I was greeted with this." He handed me a picture printed from a digital camera. His dark blue Volvo was covered in yellow graffiti. "Queer," "homo," and "fag" were the largest and most visible of the epithets.
"Aw, jeeze," I groaned. We hadn't seen this sort of thing for a long time.
"I drove my old VW in this morning. The Volvo's still at the house. Can you come and look at it? I need a police report for the insurance company."
"Yeah," I sighed. "I need to go to this vestry meeting. Then Nancy or I will come out, take some pictures and file a report."
"I have to stay for the meeting, too."
"Okay, then. I'll see you in the Parish Hall."
* * *
The first meeting of the new vestry always began with a lunch. Usually it was a catered lunch, and this year was no exception. I attended because I was on the staff. I didn't have a vote. I was just there as a courtesy. Brenda was there; Father George, old and new vestry members, Marilyn, and Carol Sterling. Jed Pierce was noticeably absent. After a delicious lunch, Father George walked up to the podium and addressed the twelve vestry members and Rob Brannon, our new Junior Warden.
"First of all, I'd like to welcome our new members—Davis Boothe, Gwen Jackson, Russ Stafford and Megan Farthing. Although Meg has just rotated off, she was elected again and has agreed to serve another three years."
"As most of you know," he continued, "Jed Pierce has resigned from the position of Senior Warden. According to our by-laws, in the case of a resignation, I am charged, with the approval of the rest of the vestry, to appoint a successor until the next election comes up. That being the case, I'd like to offer the name of Rob Brannon as Senior Warden. He's already assumed responsibility as our Parish Administrator, and he has a good handle on what we need to do to accomplish our goals.
"I second the motion," said Rhiza. I glared at her.
"If I'm appointed Senior Warden," Rob said graciously, "I think we should get Billy Hixon to remain as Junior Warden. I think he'd be more than happy to continue in that position."
"Wait a minute," I said, "what about the conflict of interest? I thought that he couldn't have the lawn service contract if he's in the position of Junior Warden."
"Hayden," said Father George, "I'm surprised at you. That's never been a problem for us in the past, and I don't see why it would be a problem now."
I was dumbfounded. Flummoxed. Flabbergasted.
"I don't think this is a good idea," I sputtered. "Rob has been here less than three months and the election only took place last week. It's not like we're halfway through the year. There's plenty of time… "
"I think we all know your position, Hayden," said Logan Askew. "You've made it pretty clear."
"Excuse me?"
"I think we should call the question," said Father George. "All in favor?"
"Aye," was the majority declaration.
"Opposed?"
"Nay," said Meg and Mark Wells, a long-time member of St. B's.
"Motion carried. I'll ask Billy if he would be willing to serve as Junior Warden as well. As Senior Warden, Mr. Brannon, will you take the chair?"
"Gladly. Thanks, George." Rob had a folder with his agenda already intact. I understood at last.
"All of you have already received a copy of the agenda in the mail with a couple of items of interest," Rob said. "The first is a system of vouchers and purchase orders I'd like to implement that will make the financial position much clearer for the congregation to understand. This will help immeasurably when we begin our stewardship drive next week."
"Did you mention losing the twenty-five thousand that goes into the music fund each year?" I said. "Because I'm not supporting this."
"I certainly did, Hayden. Thanks for bringing that to everyone's attention. It's on page three everyone, if you'd please turn to it and read it over again."
He paused while everyone read.
"It certainly seems reasonable to me," said Logan. "It makes sense."
"Me, too," said Davis to nods by the rest of the group. I didn't have the letter and one wasn't being offered to me. Even Meg was studying her paper and conspicuously avoiding my gaze.
"I think we can go ahead and approve this," said Gwen.
"All in favor?" asked Rob.
"Aye," was the almost unanimous verdict.
"Opposed?"
"Nay," said Meg, suddenly looking up. "You may put me down as a 'nay.' This is foolishness."
"Thank you, Meg," said Rob in his oiliest voice. "Motion carried. Next on the agenda…" He paused and consulted his notebook. "Father George?"
Father George got up and brought a sheaf of papers to the podium.
"We have received quite a blessing this week. As many of you know, St. Barnabas is in need of a new furnace. We've kept it repaired, but it's now close to twenty years old. The cost for this will be close to nine thousand dollars. That's quite a hefty sum. We could put the word out and probably raise the money, but with our stewardship campaign coming up, it might undermine our efforts. Still, we're going to need the furnace this winter."
"On Monday, I received the following letter from The Sons of Richmond, a non-profit group from Richmond, Virginia. They are starting a museum and one of their members, when he was vacationing in St. Germaine a couple of years ago, saw the two Civil War stock certificates that we have framed and hanging in the parlor. The face value of the shares is three hundred confederate dollars. Quite worthless, I think, except to a collector. This group has offered to purchase the certificates and any interest we might have in any pre-existing financial institution for $4500. Half of the cost of our new heating system."
Father George sat down.
"It sounds like quite a deal," said Gwen Jackson, "But what if it turns out that the shares are worth much more?"
"I thought the same thing," said Rob. "So I called Randall and had him check on them. Randall?"
Randall Stamps stood up in the back of the room. He was St. Barnabas' accountant and had been for forty years. He was in his seventies and as crusty as he was shrewd.
"I called a couple of Civil War buffs, then took the stock certificates into Asheville for three appraisals. The bank that sold those shares was burned in 1864. It doesn't exist any more. It wasn't sold and there are no assets. As for the certificates themselves, they might be worth $500 a piece to a collector. Not much more than that. I brought the appraisals with me if anyone want to see them."
"Thank you, Randall," said Rob. "Would you please put that in a report and send it to me? I'll be happy to forward it to the rest of the vestry. I think it would be a good idea to go ahead and investigate selling the certificates to The Sons of Richmond."
"So moved," said Annette Passaglio.
"Wait just one second!" I said, jumping to my feet. "You can't just sell off the church's property! It's illegal!"
"It certa
inly isn't illegal," said Rob, calmly reciting what I heard as a prepared speech. "You should read your charter. The vestry is in charge of the finances of the church and if these certificates are actionable, which apparently they are, it's our job to decide if we should cash them or not. Stocks and bonds, whether or not they are worthless, whether they have an indeterminate value as collectibles, or whether they are current securities, are still considered to be financial instruments."
"This is insanity!" I bellowed, finally losing my temper.
"You're out of order, Hayden," said Father George. "You're only here as a courtesy, and I think we all know that you've been under quite a strain lately."
"You people are crazy! What are you thinking?"
"Hayden, I think you should leave," said Father George.
"Yeah," I yelled, slamming my chair against the wall and heading for the door. "I'll leave. You have my resignation. Effective immediately."
I stomped out onto the patio.
"We have a motion," said Rob calmly. "Do I hear a second?"
* * *
I walked out of the church and into the brisk October air. I had a temper. It didn't surface often, but when it did, it was best that I took some time to cool off. I headed across the street and made my way into the park, stopping by my truck to get out a couple of cigars. I was lighting one as I passed the first bench on my random excursion. Sitting on the wooden park bench, feeding a fat pigeon, was Brother Hogmanay McTavish.
"Hayden," he said, flashing me a big smile, "it's great to see you."
"Hello, Hog," I muttered, still mad, but chagrined enough to be embarrassed about eating Binny Hen. "Listen, I'm sorry that D'Artagnan killed your chicken. I certainly never meant…I mean…"
"Don't worry about it, brother," said Hog. "These things happen. A chicken that size is bound to get mistaken for dinner sooner or later. You got another one of those cigars?"
I gave a half smile and pulled my second cigar out of my pocket.
"Romeo y Julietta," he said in perfect Spanish. "And Cubans to boot! My own personal favorite. I get mine from a missionary in Costa Rica. He ships me a box once a month. Highly illegal, of course."
"Of course."
"You having some trouble, son? You look weary and pissed off all at the same time."
His language caught me by surprise and I glanced over at him, but he was still inspecting the cigar. "I am and I am," I answered.
"Your lady friend part of that problem?"
"No sir," I said, taking a puff on my cigar and slowly letting a circle of blue smoke rise heavenward. "She's not."
"Glad to hear it." Brother Hog took the cigar out of the tube, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, slowly breathed in its aroma and, after these time-honored cigar traditions had been carried out, finally accepted my offering of a cutter and lighter.
"My, that's good. It's probably a sin, you know. Anything this good is probably a sin. Happily, we are saved by grace, so I'm not going to worry about it."
"That's a fine philosophy, Brother Hog."
"You going to marry that woman? She's a fine gal. I talked to her a few times over at the Ginger Kitten, or whatever the name of that place is."
"Thinkin' about it," I said, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders. Amazing thing, thinking about the one you love.
"You love her?"
"Yeah, I really do." I was amazed at my own words. And that I was telling this to Brother Hog. "I really do."
"Don't think about it too long then. Anyway, I'm leaving town tomorrow. No sense really in staying another weekend if I don't have a Scripture Chicken. That's where the money is. I'm going down to my brother's farm in Greenville and get another one."
"Get another one?"
"Sure," he said. "Chickens are not long-lived creatures. Two years about does it for them. Binny Hen was my sixth chicken."
"Does it take long to train one?" I asked.
"'Bout a month. By the way, I know it was you that fixed that scripture a couple of weeks ago."
"Oh, man. I apologize. It was a nasty thing to do and I'm sorry for it."
"Nonsense!" he laughed. "It was hilarious! That was the best joke on Brother Hog in many a year! Not to mention that I really had to scramble to get myself out of that one. Who'd have thought? All those kings! That was priceless! I'm puttin' it in my memoirs."
My rage was gone and I had to laugh with him.
"Don't leave your lady friend hangin' too long." He patted me on the back and headed off toward his tent.
Chapter 21
Toby Taps tinkled tidily into the Possum 'n Peasel and danced deftly up to the busy bar.
"Nice alliteration," he said with a smirk. "Although 'tinkled tidily' is a stretch."
"I do what I can," I said with all the false modesty of a really good writer. "What are you doing here, Toby?"
"Starr gave me the heads up. She said youse was askin' questions."
"Yes, but she's the one who hired me."
"Yep," said Toby, turning his attention to Starr and giving her a big smooch. "How youse doin', Rosebud?"
Suddenly, everything became as clear as one of those windows in a Windex commercial--although Starr, who might have played the housewife, singing and dancing her way to a spotless shine, neither sang nor danced, but instead produced a small hand-gun from a crevice I hadn't counted on and leveled it directly at yours truly.
"Rosebud?"
"Toby's nickname for me. Isn't that right, Snookums?"
Toby nodded and executed a flap-ball-change. Then he smiled and snapped open his blade.
I shuddered. But not from the cold.
* * *
After the vestry meeting on Sunday afternoon, I sent Nancy over to Davis Boothe's house to take his statement, get some pictures of the damage to his Volvo and file a police report. I didn't hear anything from her until later that evening when my home phone rang.
"Hi, Nancy," I answered. "You know that life was much easier when we didn't have phones."
"I'd just have to come out and get you," she said.
"What's up? Can't that police report wait until tomorrow morning?"
"Sure it can. This is something else. Beverly Greene just called. She heard some dogs barking and growling in the front yard. She turned on her front lights and there, lying in the grass, she saw a dead sheep."
"A what?" I asked, not sure I had heard correctly.
"A dead sheep. I'm out here now. What a mess! Whoever threw it out must have cut it open right before they tossed it. Anyway, the neighborhood dogs have been at it, and it's all over the front yard."
"I'm on my way."
* * *
"I think I'm going to be sick," said Bev. "I can't look at it."
JJ had come out along with Billy. Bev had called them both after Nancy had given her okay.
"We'll clean it up," said JJ. "Don't worry about it." She and Billy pulled on their rubber gloves and picked up a couple of contractor trash bags that Billy had brought with him.
I viewed the carnage from the porch, having already walked through it. It was one of the Harwood's Suffolk ewes, easily distinguished by their white coats, black faces and legs. The Harwoods were the only ones around here that raised Suffolks. I imagined that Frank Harwood would be even less pleased than Bev.
"Hey, JJ," I heard Billy say. "What's black and white and red all over?"
"Shhh. That's not funny."
I walked into the house and found Bev standing with Nancy in the dining room.
"Did you hear anything?" I asked.
"No. I just came out when I heard the dogs barking. There was nothing here when I got home just after dark, so it must have happened between seven and when I came out—around nine, I guess. I'm just sick. Who would do such a thing?"
"Someone's been causing trouble all over town for the past couple of days," said Nancy. "First Gwen, then Davis, and now you."
"Small comfort," said Bev. "I don't like being part of a pattern." She turne
d to me. "Where did you go after the vestry meeting, Hayden?"
"A walk in the park, then home."
"And you've been there the whole time?" Bev's tone had become accusatory.
"The whole time."
"Did Meg come over?"
"No. I haven't seen her since church."
Bev crossed her arms in front of her, turned her back on me and directed her next question to Nancy.
"Will you be able to catch whoever did this?"
"Listen, Bev," said Nancy, "whatever you're thinking, stop it." She lowered her voice, took Bev by the shoulder and walked her out of almost everyone's earshot—everyone except me—and I pretended not to hear their conversation.
"This has nothing to do with Hayden and you know it," Nancy began.
"But I don't know it," said Bev. "This whole thing has me unnerved. Everyone's talking about him, you know."
"I know. We'll figure it out."
"Better do it soon."
* * *
I had just arrived home when my home phone started ringing.
"Yeah?" I answered.
"Hayden, it's Nancy."
"I know," I said, unable to keep the weariness out of my voice.
"Bad news. You know Joe Perry?"
"Sure. He's a member of St. Barnabas although he doesn't really attend except Christmas, Easter and his children's baptisms. Black guy—works over at the college in Banner Elk. He's an English professor, I think."
"That's him. About an hour ago, someone burned a cross on his lawn. Eight feet tall and four feet wide wrapped in burlap soaked with diesel fuel. He didn't know it till a neighbor called the fire department. He's really furious. His wife and two daughters are scared to death."
"My God. What's going on?" I wondered aloud.
"Hayden…I hate to ask this…but where have you been for the past hour? I've been trying to get hold of you."
"I've been driving around listening to Beethoven's Sixth, trying to figure this out. I haven't had my cell phone since this morning. I thought I left it in the truck.
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 17