Baby Jesus, up till now hidden by a thin layer of hay, sat up in the manger and waved. The stunned judges waved back. Mary sat there serenely, treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.
She pondered them until the repeat: the part where the music slows, trombones and tubas come in with the countermelody, and the piccolos take off into the stratosphere for the big finish.
Yes, Big Mel was a champion. She’d won the Two-Baton National Title in 1983. She’d won the Three-Baton Title in ’85. She didn’t twirl three anymore, but two batons were her bread and butter. When she heard the trombones come in, she jumped up, threw off her veil, dropped her white robe, grabbed her top hat from behind the manger and tapped to the front of the stage in her black tie and tails with matching hot-pants. Standing almost seven feet tall in her top hat, with size fourteen tap shoes that sounded like machine guns, she dwarfed her co-stars. The two wise men took a beat to reach down and retrieve Mel’s batons from where they were hidden in the hay, torch them with a couple of fireplace lighters, and, as the wicks on the ends burst into flames, tossed them to Big Mel. She caught them, still spinning, and whipped them into an artistic blur of flame and smoke.
This was the cue for Brian, the angelic host in the hayloft, to push the button and ignite the fireworks. Four pyrotechnic fountains erupted from the roof of the stable. Red, white, and blue fire shot up into the air, accompanied immediately by a number of Roman candles and something the fireworks company had dubbed The Battle of Vicksburg. The crowd cheered as Brian turned to face them and accept his accolades, but then he appeared to stumble, arms waving frantically, and he tumbled out of the loft and plummeted toward the floor of the flatbed trailer. The crowd gasped and Kimmy Jo Jameson leapt to her feet and screamed in terror.
The flailing Brian dropped like a rock just behind the manger, but our fears came to naught as the little acrobat landed squarely on the hidden trampoline and bounced back up into the air, executing a neat somersault just above the head of Big Mel. The only casualty seemed to be Brian’s halo which flew off his head and into the crowd of shepherds.
The spectators roared their approval. The tiny tappers heard the crowd and redoubled their tapping efforts, their feet firing like little cap guns. The trombones boomed, the piccolos shrieked, the angelic twirlers spun their batons in a blur of holiday exultation. Brian bounced higher, doing a piked front somersault, followed immediately by a cat twist and a double back flip. The wise men spun their flags like airplane propellers and Big Mel tapped and twirled for all she was worth.
And Big Mel was a champion.
She threw her first fire baton ten feet in the air, spun around once, twice, still twirling the other, and caught the falling baton without dropping a step. The crowd gasped. Another fireworks fountain went off with a whoosh. The driver of the truck turned the music up a notch as the march headed toward its final cadences.
The clatter of the tappers was unimaginable, one hundred heels and toes slapping white oak with a rhythmic precision that was astonishing. Faster and faster went the batons of the twirlers; higher and higher bounced Brian. Roman candles exploded and blazed into the afternoon sky. Big Mel threw her fire batons up into the air, one after the other, in rapid succession. Ten feet into the air, twenty. The music slowed slightly for the penultimate chords. Then, just as all the performers were preparing for the big finish, the unexpected happened.
Big Mel, fueled with adrenaline, sent one of her aerials soaring dangerously high. This wasn’t a problem for Mel; she was well used to catching flaming batons from dizzying heights. It was a problem for the St. Germaine Electric Co-op. The overhead wires that prevented Bullwinkle the Moose from making his trip around the downtown square seemed to reach out and pluck Big Mel’s baton from the air. Still spinning, it circled the live wire twice and spun off in an altogether different direction, stopping only when it banged, flaming end first, into a nearby transformer sitting atop an electric power pole. The explosion and resulting cascade of sparks that rained down from the ruined transformer blended right in with the fireworks finale, now reaching its zenith on the roof of the stable. In a few moments, the final chords of John Philip Sousa’s masterpiece sounded, the pyrotechnics sputtered to a halt, and the performers finished, breathless, standing in expectation of thunderous applause. Unfortunately, most of the crowd was too busy watching the blaze that had started in the stable when the hay caught on fire to clap.
In the dimming, late-afternoon shadows, we watched in silence as the two kings used their emergency fire extinguishers to put out the flames, while at the same time, all the electric lights in the square, first the outside decorations, then the lights in the shops, blinked twice and went out.
•••
“Wow!” said Nancy.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Meg.
Pete nodded but was speechless.
“Well, someone had better call the electric company,” I said. “Nancy, you want to do it?”
“Already dialing.” Nancy had all the emergency numbers for the town in her cell. Efficient.
The parade continued on its route and folks who had been inside, for some reason or other, began to emerge from the powerless buildings to see what was going on. I looked across the street to the library and saw Rebecca Watts and Diana Terry come out of the front doors and look around. The same thing was happening in every doorway of every shop around the square.
After the band marched by, Cynthia’s float was next. Her belly dancing to Jingle Bell Rock, although both seasonal and scintillating, was rather a letdown after Big Mel’s extravaganza. A number of camera flashes went off, though, and I suspected that Cynthia’s shimmying mayoral snapshot would be adorning Our State magazine. Her float didn’t stop in front of the judging stand and neither did Santa’s, and in a few minutes the parade was on its way out of town, a chorus of children, including Moosey and Bernadette, dancing in its wake.
“Hayden!” Rebecca called as the crowd on the street began to disperse. “C’mere, will you?”
“Be right back,” I said to Meg, then hurried down the steps of the courthouse, across the street and up to the library doors.
“What’s happened?” asked Diana. “I was inside using the computer and all the electricity went out.”
“I checked the breakers,” said Rebecca. “They seem to be okay.” She looked around the square. “It seems as though the power is off everywhere...”
“Big Mel blew up one of the transformers.”
“How’d she do that?” asked Diana.
“Fire baton,” I said, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world.
“Oh,” said Diana with a confused look. “Fire baton. That explains it.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Sheesh. How long till the power comes back on?”
“I expect that the power company will need to replace the transformer. I’d give them a few hours, anyway.”
“I’m locking up and taking the rest of the afternoon off,” declared Rebecca. “I’ve got to open back up tonight for a book club meeting. I hope the power’s back on by then. We’re Skyping Jan Karon.”
“I was in the middle of an email,” said Diana, her irritation evident. “The whole computer just shut down.”
“Yeah,” I said with a shrug. “Nothing we can do about it.”
“It’s always something,” said Diana.
Chapter 16
“I forgot to tell you,” called Meg from the library. “Your Christmas beer came yesterday. I put it in the garage fridge.”
“Excellent! Thanks.”
I’d been sitting at the typewriter, resolved to generate some first-rate detective fiction, or at least some first-class second-rate fiction. Failing that, I was determined at least to enjoy the process. I trekked to the garage and opened the door to the old refrigerator. Looking up at me, a twinkle in their eyes, were twelve bottles of Samichlaus—Swiss-German for Santa Claus. Only brewed once a year on the feast day of S
t. Nicholas, this beer is the strongest in the world. Few occasions call for such a strong brew, but, the way things were going, I figured that the stresses and strains of this festive season justified an encounter with Santa Claus in his most powerful incarnation. I carried it into the kitchen, popped open a bottle, filled a frosted mug, and carried it back into the living room.
She stood there in front of my desk like one of those long-legged birds you see in Florida that stands on one of them and gobbles frogs, except she was standing on both of them and wasn’t gobbling frogs, so I knew right away she was trouble, which those birds usually aren’t, unless you’re a frog or maybe a very ugly adolescent male with really bad acne, bulging eyes and a greenish complexion, so she wasn’t actually like one of them after all. I lit up a stogy and remembered I didn’t like those birds.
“What’s the problem, Polly?” I asked, thinking about a parrot I had once that I also didn’t like.
“My name’s Annie,” she said. “Annie Key. I’m a singer. It’s my Life Coach Accompanist. I think she’s trying to ruin me.”
I gave her the old “once-over,” the “up-and-down,” the “eye-frisk,” the “peeper-perusal,” the “yo-yo ya-ya,” and I liked what I saw.
“Life Coach Accompanist?” I asked.
“I thought you’d given up the noir detective genre for a few weeks,” said Meg, reading over my shoulder and then uttering a heart-felt sigh. “I was so happy.”
I adjusted my fedora and chomped down on my unlit Romeo y Julieta Cuban cigar. “Couldn’t do it. Sophie Slug was okay, but she had no real ethos. No magnetism. No charisma.”
“She’s a slug.”
“Exactly. She keeps melting.”
Meg shook her head in mock-disgust. “Well, our company will be here in a few minutes to help with the tree. Don’t get too involved.” She bent down over the back of the chair and gave me a kiss on the cheek opposite the cigar. “How’s that beer, by the way?”
“Stout. Stout and delicious. Just the thing for a cold Saturday night after the greatest Christmas parade in history.”
“Save me some.” Meg disappeared into the kitchen.
I took another sip and looked down at the page. I not only had to type one-handed, but one-fingered, since it was now hunt-and-peck. But hunt-and-peck I would.
“Life Coach Accompanist?” I asked again, because Meg had interrupted and I’d lost my train of thought.
“It’s the ‘in’ thing,” said Annie Key, twirling a delicate digit through her blonde curls. “They play for you when you sing. Then they tell you how to run your life. They give you advice.”
“Sounds like every voice teacher I’ve ever met,” I said. “But I’ve never heard of a Life Coach Accompanist. What’s the skinny on a deal like that?”
She shook her head and I could have sworn I heard a rattle. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“How much do they charge?” I asked.
“Three hundred twenty-five dollars an hour. But it’s easy. You just give them your credit card number.”
A light bulb blinked over my head. I remembered I hadn’t paid the electric bill and then an even brighter, although metaphorical, light bulb blinked and I had an idea. A brilliant, hundred-watt idea.
Life Coach Accompanists were charging three hundred twenty-five semolians an hour. I was getting two Cs a day, and that was when the fish were running. It didn’t take a genius to do the math, especially with a fancy calculator like the one I had sitting on my desk, thanks to a little game I invented called “You Bet Your Calculator” that I talked the bishops into playing when I invited them over for casino night, them and their calculators.
By day, I was an L.D., Liturgical Detective duly licensed by the Diocese of North Carolina and dedicated to the prospect of early retirement. But by night... I had a phone, advice, and a Rolodex full of more suckers than the all-you-can-eat Wednesday night octopus buffet at the Red Lobster.
“You want my advice, Toots?” I asked. “And would you take it, if I gave it?”
“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“You need a new Life Coach Accompanist.”
•••
“Oh, no!” said Meg. She was on the phone in the kitchen. “That’s terrible. What does the doctor say?”
I picked up my beer, clicked off the banker’s light over the typewriter and headed for the kitchen to get whatever bad news was looming, then decided that Baxter might need to romp outside for a few minutes, at least enough of a romp to let Meg finish her phone conversation.
We snuck out the front door and Baxter tore off into the field after a phantom herd of deer, barking his head off, then returned in short order, his tongue hanging out, and a very satisfied look on his face. I scratched him behind his ears and followed him in the kitchen door.
“What’s up?” I asked, dreading the answer. I set my oversized bottle of Samichlaus on the counter, only half empty. I sensed I’d be finishing it up pretty quickly.
“It’s Gaylen. She was walking down the basement stairs when the lights went out all over town. She fell down the last three and the emergency room doctor thinks one of her broken ribs might have punctured a lung. Luckily she had her cell with her. That was Georgia calling from the hospital.”
“Should we go over?”
Meg shook her head. “Georgia said not to. Gaylen will be okay, but she’s staying the night at least.”
“That’s a relief,” I said, “but this does not bode well for St. Barnabas.”
•••
“That’s it, then,” said Dave, standing up and brushing his hands on the front of his sweater to get rid of any loose needles. “Looks good to me.”
“It’s leaning to the left,” said Cynthia. “And it needs to be turned a quarter-turn to the right, so that bald spot is against the wall.”
“Yes, exactly!” agreed Meg.
Dave and Nancy had come over to help Meg put up the Christmas tree. Pete and Cynthia had come over to watch and give directions. Ruby, Meg’s mother, was happy to join in the festivities as well.
Dave sighed, got back on his knees, and grabbed the tree stand, so he could help Nancy spin the tree.
“There,” said Meg. “Perfect.”
“Whew! I’m exhausted,” said Pete, watching from my overstuffed, leather club chair. “What’s for supper?”
“Chili and jalapeño cornbread,” I said. “And a nice Christmas beer, if you’d like.”
“I’d rather try some of that fancy wine you bought,” said Ruby.
“No,” muttered Meg. “Absolutely not. Not ever. Never, in fact.” She looked around the room, a blank look on her face. “Fancy wine? What fancy wine?”
“Okay, okay,” said Ruby, raising her hands in surrender. “Anything but beer, though.”
“Cheap chablis?” Meg asked.
“Wonderful,” said Ruby.
“I’ll have the beer,” said Cynthia. She’d changed out of her belly dancing outfit, much to my disappointment.
“Ditto,” said Nancy.
“Yes, please,” agreed Dave. “Beer.”
“We’ll put the decorations up after we eat, then,” decided Meg. “Dave, you and Nancy are in charge of the lights. That’s usually Hayden’s job, but he is incapacitated.”
“I still have one good drinking hand,” I said. “And I can probably point to stuff.”
“Well, point your way to the kitchen,” said Ruby.
•••
“Well,” said Meg, “I, for one, am glad that Big Mel won the float contest. I mean, how could anyone have topped that?”
“There are those that would argue,” said Nancy. “You can’t put out all the lights in town and walk away with three thousand dollars.”
“Nothing in the rules about that,” said Pete.
“Not to change the subject or anything, but how’s the investigation going?” asked Cynthia. “This cornbread is great, by the way!”
“Thanks,” said Meg. “The secret is to us
e creamed corn. That way it doesn’t get dry.”
“The investigation is going just fine,” I said. “And I affirm the cornbread as well.”
“We’ve got nothing,” said Nancy glumly.
“Nothin’,” agreed Dave, his mouth half full of chili.
“Aw, c’mon,” I said. “We know the guy’s name. We know he was a killer-for-hire. We know he was shot with a 9mm handgun at close range.”
“It’s not much,” said Nancy.
“Umm,” agreed Dave, still eating.
“We know he has a partner. We’re almost sure it’s a woman, we think she lives in the area, and that she’s the one who killed him. She might have moved here within the last five years.”
“Slim,” said Nancy. “Very slim.”
Dave nodded.
“We know he was trying to buy some very expensive wine at a foreclosure auction. What we don’t know is why he was there in the first place.”
“Or who killed him,” said Nancy.
“Well, it seems like you know quite a lot,” said Ruby.
“But not the important stuff,” said Pete.
I looked across the table at him, blowing gently on a spoonful of too-hot chili.
“Really,” I said. “How about this? His partner’s white, in her late thirties, five feet eight inches tall, slim, athletic and attractive, although she probably wears oversized and unflattering clothes. She has brown hair, unless it’s been dyed and she wears it either short or tied back. She drives a late model SUV four-by-four. Probably black. She has a checking account at a local bank, but it doesn’t have more than two thousand dollars in it. Her off-shore accounts are where she stashes all her money. She buys almost everything locally with cash.”
The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 11