“So he stole Kokomo and took him to the church?” asked Pete.
“Yep. And he did it by himself. He told Noylene that he didn’t want anyone else involved. There’s a big baptismal pool in the sanctuary, but Brother Kilroy decided that he’d rather do the baptism in the smaller pool in his office. The spa. He’d already filled it up so he wouldn’t have to wait once they’d arrived. The minister and the gorilla got to the church, went into his office and went back to the bathroom where the spa is. Then something went wrong.”
“Kokomo didn’t want to be dunked,” said Meg.
“That could have been it.” I shrugged. “But normally, gorillas have no problem with water. So I’m thinking that something else might have triggered the rampage. Whatever it was, Kokomo went crazy, and a crazy five-hundred-pound gorilla is nothing to mess with. I’m telling you, the place was torn apart. Busted furniture, the piano, books…everything. Brother Kilroy was face down in the pool when we got there this morning. Kent says his neck was broken and he was knocked pretty hard in the head, but it was drowning that finished him off.”
“So the gorilla killed him?” asked Pete.
“It looks like it. The strange thing is that there were no other marks, no defensive bruises…nothing.”
“But Nancy said that when you got there the door was locked,” said Meg.
“From the inside. Not only that, the key was still in the lock. It looks like an open and shut case. I don’t know what Mona Kilroy is going to say, but I don’t think that Kokomo has much of a prayer. It’s a shame all the way around.”
“Yeah,” said Pete. “And we’re going to get some really bad publicity. We were doing pretty well with this racecar thing, too. By the way,” he added, changing the subject.” “How did that dinner you were cooking turn out?”
“It was delicious,” answered Meg. “Amazing. Onion tart, scallops and baked pears.”
I tried to look humble. “It was nothing, really.”
“I can hardly wait to see what he’s going to serve tonight.”
“Huh?” I said, startled. “Tonight?”
“Yes, dear, it’s Tuesday,” said Meg, with a smile. “Fridays and Tuesdays. Don’t fret too much. We’ll have a late supper. See you around nine?” She gave me a quick kiss and disappeared out the door.
“So, what’re you having tonight?” asked Pete, with a grin.
“What have you got in the walk-in? Any leftovers?”
“I can give you a couple of marinated steaks and some twice-baked potatoes you can heat up.” Pete thought for a moment. “Some salad, bleu-cheese dressing, and a couple of pieces of strawberry short cake. You’ll have to grill the steaks and come up with your own wine, though.”
“I can do that. Thanks, Pete! You’re a life saver!”
“No problem. I’m just glad to help another bachelor in trouble.”
“How’s your Communion Fish venture going?”
“It’s going great. The plant has the machinery retooled and the recipes finished. We should have some prototypes ready to go within a couple of weeks. You think your new priest will try ‘em one Sunday?”
“She’s pretty much a traditionalist,” I said, “but I’ll ask her. Can we get Barabba-que?”
“Now, Hayden, you know that wouldn’t be appropriate. Holy Week is over. Let’s start you off with Tongues of Fire—Cajun Spicy.”
“Send over a couple bags,” I said. “If we don’t use them for communion, we can always munch on them during choir practice.”
* * *
“Marilyn,” I barked, “hustle your duck-pins in here. You’re supposed to be my secretary. Where’ve you been for the past two days?”
“I told you,” Marilyn said. “I went to a feminist empowerment weekend.”
“I didn’t pay for that, did I?” I didn’t remember authorizing such an expense--not on my bread and water salary--but then I remembered that Marilyn kept the books.
“You paid for it all right.”
Marilyn smiled; her lips, two red worms lying together on the cracked sidewalk of her countenance, first stretching out to take advantage of the early morning warmth, but then, later in the afternoon, writhing on the hot cement before finally turning brown and curling up at the ends--it was a cruel smile and annelidical.
“And now that I’m empowered, you can’t tell me to hustle my duck-pins in here anymore.”
“Sheesh, Marilyn,” I said. “You know I think of you as the sister I never had.”
“But, you have a sister. You have three sisters.”
“I think of you as the sister I NEVER had. Not the ones I DO have. Now get me a cup of java, will you? And hold the castor oil.”
I settled back in my chair, the shadows playing with the Venetian blinds like a bad tailor sewing a burlap suit. I didn’t know what was going on yet, but I knew one thing: somebody was trawling for information, and Fishy Jim was the bait, Betsy was the hook, Marilyn was one of those red and white bobber thingys and I was the sinker.
Something was about to happen. I could tell. I’m a detective.
* * *
I clattered to a stop, wrapping up another successful venture into the world of bad detective fiction. Meg was due any time and supper, sans steaks, was on the table. The steaks would only take a few minutes, and I’d be off the alimentary hook for another few days. Baxter, as usual, had ascertained a steak supper was imminent and assumed a supine position under the table, waiting for any spare scraps that happened to be thrown his way. I hadn’t seen Archimedes since last night, but he’d be back around before too long.
I headed into the kitchen whistling a Bach toccata, took the steaks out to the grill and laid them on the fire just as Meg walked up.
“Hey, Honeybunch,” she said sweetly, giving me a kiss. “What are we having for dinner?”
“Honeybunch, eh?”
“Would you prefer ‘Pookie-Bear?’”
“No thank you. As you can plainly see, we’re having grilled steaks. Also twice-baked potatoes, tossed salad with home-made bleu-cheese dressing and strawberry shortcake for dessert. Are you impressed?”
“Very impressed. It sounds suspiciously like the Tuesday night special from Pete’s walk-in.”
“Yeah? Well…I’ll have you know I’m working very hard on this dinner. I have to grill the steaks. It counts.”
“Oh, I didn’t say it didn’t count. It smells delicious. By the way, I talked with Noylene after I left the Slab. She said that Wormy is ready to start selling plots over at his Bellefontaine Cemetery. He’s got the house and the barns down and the roads pushed in by the bulldozers.”
“Great,” I said. “Should we go ahead and get ours? I think the side by side His ‘n Hers would be a good choice.”
“Not yet. We don’t need to rush. There’s plenty of room. It won’t fill up for a hundred years or so.”
Chapter 13
I was on my second stogy and third drink when the door flew open and a couple of ginks wedged themselves through the opening.
“Hello boys,” I snarled through the cigar smoke. “I wondered when you’d show up.” I recognized them right away. The big one was called Ray, the little one was Reef
--a couple of sharks from downtown. I knew mussel when I saw it.
“What’d you do with Marilyn?”
“Locked her in the filing cabinet,” said Reef. “Under Y for ‘yap.’” He laughed, showing three rows of yellow pointed teeth. “She wouldn’t clam up.”
“So, what’s the grift?”
“Dis got squid to do wid you,” said Ray, shaking a limpet off his arm. “You oyster stay out of it.”
“Too late for that,” I said. “I’ve already been hired.”
“We know all about it. She won’t be needing your services no more. What’s da matter? You hard of herring?”
“Who are you remoras working for?” I asked, lighting another stogy. “You’re not the brains of this operation. You boys ain’t smart enough to find your own dorals
with a map and a one cheek head start.”
“Let’s just say we’re in the fish business,” said Reef, pulling out his gat and leveling it at me. “And you’re about to go swimming with them.”
I would have been worried, but I’d tried to lock Marilyn in the filing cabinet once before. It just made her mad. Ray never saw her coming, and she clobbered the
big guy with my hard-bound copy of the Bach Orgelbüchlein. He dropped to his knees like a monkfish at vespers. When Reef turned to see what happened, I pulled out my roscoe and plugged him like a bad hair replacement.
“You shot him,” said Marilyn. “I was only going to beat him till he squealed.”
“That one’s still alive,” I said. “He’s all yours.”
“You might want to leave the room,” Marilyn said, pulling a claw-cracker and an oyster-shucker out of her purse. “That is, if you’re squeamish.”
* * *
Dr. P.A. Pelicane’s motor home was parked behind the vet’s office when I drove up the next morning. Dr. Pelicane was beside the cage, sitting in a lawn chair, and talking to Gwen Jackson. She was obviously agitated. I’d been here many times. This was where Dr. Jackson kept quarantined animals or wild animals awaiting relocation. There were two enclosures, both big enough to accommodate a good-sized bear, constructed of heavy chain link over an iron frame. Kokomo’s was locked with a key as well as with a chain sporting a big padlock.
“Morning,” said Gwen, as I walked up.
“Good morning,” I said.
“I can’t see what’s good about it,” answered Dr. Pelicane. “Kokomo is locked up, accused of homicide, and he won’t talk to me. He just sits in the corner, rocking.”
“Did you call Mona Kilroy and talk to her about Kokomo?”
“I called and left about a dozen messages. I left my cell number, but she hasn’t called me back.”
“Well, she’s probably busy with funeral arrangements and such. I’ll go by her house this morning and see if I can find her.”
“No need,” said Gwen, looking over my shoulder. “Here she comes now.”
Walking up the path in a fury was Mona Kilroy, followed closely by two rangers. One of the men was carrying a rifle—a .30-06.
“Mona, I’m really sorry…” I started, but she stormed past me and headed to the door of the cage.
“There it is!” she spat. “There’s the thing that killed my husband.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” pleaded Dr. Pelicane. “Your husband should have never taken him. If I could just have a couple of minutes to talk to you…”
“Officers,” commanded Mona. “Do your duty and shoot that animal!”
Dr. Pelicane gasped. “No!”
“Hang on,” I said, holding up my new badge identifying me as the Chief of Police. “There’s not going to be any shooting today. Do you have a warrant to destroy this animal?” I sincerely hoped that they didn’t, but I was pretty sure that Mona hadn’t managed to get one this quickly.
“We weren’t told we needed one,” said Ranger One, the one with the rifle. “Fish and Game called us and told us there was an animal that needed to be destroyed. They told us to meet Mrs. Kilroy and she’d show us where it was.”
“You certainly do need a warrant,” I said. “Mrs. Kilroy can apply for one from the state, and the animal will remain here until she has one. That is…” I looked over at Mona. “Unless Mrs. Kilroy decides that destroying the gorilla isn’t necessary and that her husband’s actions actually precipitated his own death.” I tried to sound hopeful, but Mona wasn’t having any of it.
“It bloody well is necessary!” spat Mona, venom dripping from her lips. “That beast killed my husband! I’ll see it shot if it’s the last thing I do on this earth!”
“Please!” pleaded Dr. Pelicane. “Please don’t do this. It wasn’t his fault!”
“Gorilla?” said Ranger Two. “Nobody told us it was a gorilla.”
Mona turned to the rangers. “Where do I get a warrant?”
Ranger One shrugged and looked over at me.
“You have to apply to the state,” I said. “Call the Fish and Game Commission. They’ll help you fill out the papers.”
“How long does it take?”
“A couple of days,” I answered.
“And that animal stays locked up until then?”
“That’s the law,” I said.
“I’ll be back in two days! I have to go and bury my husband.” Mona spun on her heel and marched back down the path. The two rangers walked over to the cage and looked in.
“I’ll be a horn-toad,” said Ranger One. “It is a gorilla.”
“Sure is,” said Ranger Two. “I’ve never even seen a live one before. Seems a shame to shoot it.”
I heard a stifled sob come from Dr. Pelicane.
“I guess we’ll see you in a couple of days,” Ranger Two said to me. He tipped his hat, and they both headed back to their SUV.
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Dr. Pelicane.
“I don’t think so. The law is pretty clear on this one. I can put in a call to the governor’s office.”
“Do you think it’ll do any good?” asked Gwen.
“I’ll give it a try. Kokomo’s pretty famous, and the circumstances are unusual to say the least. Try to get him to talk, will you? He’s a witness. Maybe he can tell us something that we don’t know yet.”
* * *
“Junior’s coming back through town,” said Billy Hixon.
“What for?” asked Meg. We were sitting in the park, enjoying a mid-morning coffee as Billy drove up on his golf cart. Billy spent most of the summer driving all over the downtown area, checking on his landscaping crew.
“He won last Sunday!”
“Yeah, we heard,” said Meg. “What? Does he need another blessing?”
“Indeed he does,” answered Billy. “You know how these guys are. Superstitious. If something’s working for them, they’re not about to change anything until it stops working. I know one guy who always wears one red sock and keeps an old fingernail from his dead crew chief in his pocket.”
“Eeeww,” said Meg.
“You think that’s bad,” continued Billy, now enjoying his role as purveyor of disgusting trivia, “there’s this other guy…”
“Enough!” said Meg.
“Okay, okay,” laughed Billy. “I’m just sayin’ that once these guys latch onto something, it’s going to be hard to get them to give up on it.”
“So, anyway,” I interrupted, “Junior’s coming back in today?”
“This afternoon. He’s just stopping for a few minutes. He’s got to get down to Darlington, South Carolina, for the next race.”
“Did you tell Gaylen?”
“Yeah. She’s fine with it, although she’s not going to get all gussied up. Just a simple cassock. She says she’ll come out and bless it on the trailer. Give it a splash, pour the Holy Water in the radiator and say the blessing. There’ll be some media here, too. This is a big story for them.”
“I’m glad she agreed to do it,” said Meg. I nodded in agreement.
“He won last week, so Sunday’s service should be full. That’s the way it works. There’s no business like show business!”
* * *
We were finishing up our coffee, and I was seriously contemplating going in to practice the organ for a couple of hours when I saw Wormy DuPont sitting at a card table outside of Noylene’s Beautifery.
“This bears investigation,” I told Meg. “Maybe Wormy Acres is up and running.”
“I’d better come with you. I don’t want you buying anything and putting my name on it.”
“Why Pookie-Bear, don’t you want to rest beside me for all eternity?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “I may not want to be buried. What are my other options?”
“We could cremate you,” I said, “and sprinkle your ashes into the organ pipes. Then, little by little, you’d be spread all over the church.”
>
“Nope.”
“You could be in an urn on the mantle.”
“No. I have an unnatural fear of urns.”
“How about a vase?” I suggested. “Or a coffee can? You like coffee, don’t you?”
“What about that diamond thing that we saw on CNN?” asked Meg.
“Oh, yeah. That was interesting. They take your ashes, put them under incredible pressure and compress you into a diamond.”
“That’s nice. I think I’d like that.”
“It’s not without problems,” I said.
“What problems?”
“Let’s just say that you’re a diamond,” I began. “One of the hardest known substances in the world and virtually indestructible, and you leave yourself to the church to be set into a silver chalice to serve communion.”
“Yes,” said Meg, with a wistful smile. “That’s what I want to do. A beautiful chalice.”
“And then, one dark night, the church is broken into by vandals, and they steal the chalice. They take it down to the Pawn Shop in Boone and Two-Fingered Larry gives them fifty bucks for it.”
“Fifty bucks?”
“Yep. Then Two-Fingered Larry pries the diamond out of the setting and takes it down to Atlanta to see what he can get for it. It’s a big one—three carats—and the fence down in Atlanta gives him two grand and then turns around and sells it to a dealer in Los Angeles for six.”
Meg looked horrified.
“Then,” I continued, “a boutique in Beverly Hills purchases it, puts a stud on the back and Britney Spears wanders in and purchases you to ornament her belly-button. Or worse! And if that wasn’t humiliation enough, she decides to feature you in her new video, Brokeback Booty.”
“That slut!”
“There you go,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It could easily happen. Better the worms should get you than Britney Spears.”
“You’re not kidding!”
* * *
The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 13