“I don’t know,” answered Meg, “but I’ll bet he hasn’t seen forty-five yet.”
I sighed. “They sure start life early up here in the hills.”
* * *
“You might want to leave the room,” Marilyn said again, for the benefit of those readers who had forgotten where we were in the story. She pulled a crab-leg cracker and an oyster-shucker out of her purse.
“That is, if you’re squeamish,” she added.
I was squeamish enough. I went out for a hot cup of
joe, and when I got back an hour later, Marilyn was sitting primly at her desk, typing titillatingly on her tidy typewriter. I glanced into my office. The two goons were nowhere to be seen.
“It’s a good thing for you I’m empowered,” said Marilyn. “Or you’d be swimming with the fishes.”
“Speaking of fishes, where are the boys?”
“I showed them out.”
“Did Ray have anything to say?”
“Oh, yes. He was very talkative.”
“Spill it, Sweetheart.”
“It’s a guy named Moby Mel. He’s behind the whole deal. He’s been buying up all the fish markets all over the city.”
“What for?”
“He’s got his hooks into the bishop. If Moby Mel can get the clergy to okay his new ‘Fish on Friday’ agenda, Moby Mel’s fortune is made.”
Yeah, it all made sense now. A “Fish on Friday” edict would give Moby Mel a share of all the food served in the city, and that was a whole lot of sushi.
“Another brilliant installment,” said Georgia as she looked over my latest offering at choir practice. “I can’t say you’re getting better, but I don’t think you’re getting any worse.”
“I notice that I’m not in the story yet,” huffed Marjorie.
“I haven’t had time to work in the Hard-Drinking Bus Station Restroom Attendant With The Heart Of Gold just yet,” I said. “I’ve been terribly busy.”
“Gaylen said that she’d like one of these in her prayer book on Sunday morning,” said Bev. “I’ll take care of it. She just wants to keep up.”
“Then I’ll be careful what I write,” I said. “Okay, time to rehearse. Let’s take out the Charles Wood piece. Start at measure twelve. And sing it like you mean it!”
Chapter 14
It was a Thursday—a sticky Thursday morning with summer beginning to bear down on us. It was a day I was not looking forward to. I figured that if the boys from the Fish and Wildlife Commission had gotten their warrant to destroy Kokomo, they’d get an early start, so by seven o’clock, I’d showered, shaved, fed Baxter and Archimedes and was on my way into town. I was expecting a fax from the North Carolina Attorney General that I thought might help diffuse the situation.
I had enough time to stop by the Ginger Cat and get a cup of coffee, get to the Police Department, settle into my chair, and read two pages of the Watauga Democrat when the phone rang.
“Hayden Konig,” I said, identifying myself.
“Hayden, you’d better get out here.” I recognized Gwen Jackson’s voice right away.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I let those protesters camp out in front of the office, but now they want to come in and wave their signs in front of my patients. I just won’t have it.”
“Any sign of the Fish and Wildlife rangers?”
“Not yet. It’s been two days though.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking, too. Is the gorilla locked up?”
“Yep. I haven’t checked on him yet, but his cage is in a locked enclosure. The PETA crew can’t get back there. They’d have to come through the clinic because the gate is locked, and I’m not opening the doors until you get here.”
“What about Dr. Pelicane?” I asked.
“She’s with them. I’m not letting her in either, and she’s screaming bloody murder.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
* * *
It was closer to twenty minutes by the time I’d gotten the fax I needed, found the ammunition for my gun (it was in the bottom drawer of my desk), shanghaied Nancy from her breakfast repast at the Slab and made the drive out to the veterinary clinic. I pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of the building, forcing a number of protesters to move away from the doors where they’d gathered. Dr. Pelicane was the first to meet me as I exited the truck.
“The vet won’t let me in!”
“Well, you sort of opened a can of worms here,” I said.
Dr. Pelicane shrugged. “I just wanted the publicity. I figured that the public outcry would be enough to get Kokomo released.”
“It might still. Why don’t you sneak away and meet me around back? I’ll get you in, but don’t bring any of these people with you.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
The crowd was quite a bit smaller than the one that attacked the NASCAR fans. I counted about twenty. Nancy, who had tried to disperse the people in front of the glass double doors, was now being threatened by a rather mousy looking woman.
“I’ve been shot at by Russian whalers!” she screamed into Nancy’s face. “I’m not scared of your Nazi storm-trooper tactics!”
I sighed and called to Nancy. “Go ahead and arrest her if it’ll make you feel any better.”
“Yeah,” answered Nancy, “as a matter of fact, it would.”
I watched as Nancy grabbed the woman by the ear, spun her around and zipped a nylon wrist restraint around both her hands. Then Nancy picked her up and threw her into the back of my pick-up.
“Owwwww,” the woman wailed. “My ear! Police brutality! You all saw it!”
“Who’s next?” said Nancy.
“You can’t do that!” yelled another young man that I recognized from the day before. He reached out and grabbed Nancy by the arm. “Hey…wait a minute…Yowww!”
He landed with a thud in the back of the truck next to the mousy woman, his hands secured tightly behind his back.
“I’ve got about a hundred of these restraints,” announced Nancy. “Anyone else?”
“Now just one moment, young lady…” said the PETA lawyer.
“How about this one, Hayden?” Nancy called.
“He’s a big one,” I answered. “And he’s definitely trespassing. Five bucks says you can’t throw him over the side.”
“Ooomph,” went the lawyer as he landed on top of the young man.
“I’ve been working out,” said Nancy, “and you owe me five bucks. Now, who’s next?”
She didn’t have any takers.
* * *
Gwen and I walked through the clinic to the back and opened the lock on the fence surrounding the compound. Dr. Pelicane was alone and waiting just outside the gate.
“C’mon in,” said Gwen, a sour note in her voice. “I just want you to know that I don’t appreciate this at all.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Pelicane. “I didn’t know it would get out of hand. Is Kokomo doing all right?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Hey,” called Nancy from the gate. “I thought you should know that the rangers just drove up. They’ve got Mona and another guy with them.”
“Better bring them around back,” I said.
“No!” screamed Dr. Pelicane. “Don’t let them come back here!”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I think I can help. At least temporarily.” I called back to Nancy. “Go ahead and bring them back.”
* * *
“Where is that animal?” hissed Mona. She stomped back to the cages with a paper clenched tightly in her hand. Following hot on her heels was Bennett Shipley, the head deacon of New Fellowship Baptist Church. The two rangers were right behind him—Ranger One still carrying the rifle, Ranger Two carrying a clipboard with a sheaf of papers attached.
“I have the warrant right here,” Mona said. “All legal. We’ve come to see that animal shot!”
“Hang on,” I said. “I need to see that warrant, if you don’t mind.”
“Everything seems to be in order,” I said. “But I have a fax here from the attorney general granting a stay until the governor has a chance to review the case and make a final decision. You understand that this is a very special animal.”
“We got the word from Raleigh that this might be coming,” said Ranger Two, taking the fax and looking it over. “Mrs. Kilroy insisted on dragging us out here anyway. I think she figured you might not have heard yet.”
“Of all the despicable…” started Dr. Pelicane.
“That’s okay,” I said, cutting her off. “No harm done.”
“I heard that was a talking gorilla,” said Bennett Shipley. “Is that right?”
“He’s not talking now,” said Dr. Pelicane. “He hasn’t said a word since the…umm…accident.”
“Well, I don’t care if he does talk! We’ll see that monkey dead if it’s the last thing we do!” spat Bennett Shipley. “Jimmy Kilroy was my best friend, and I’ll have that gorilla head hanging on my wall!”
“The governor promised a decision by Monday,” I said. “I’ll see you then. Right now, I have to get these protesters back to the station.”
Chapter 15
I headed back over to Betsy’s. I’d told her I was a
Renaissance man and now she was playing me like a crumhorn or maybe a hurdy-gurdy, and I wasn’t happy about it. She had another agenda and it didn’t include Fishy Jim stepping out on her. Fishy Jim was like every other bass--he always headed upstream to spawn—and if Betsy wasn’t used to it by now, she never would be. No, there was more to Betsy than a woman scorned. She had a reason to put me on to Fishy Jim. She wanted him watched and kept as close as Brigham Young’s underwear.
I knocked on her door and heard a gruff voice answer.
“Yeah, waddaya want?”
“I’m looking for Betsy.
“She ain’t here.”
I smelled crab cakes and onion pie. Something was definitely up.
“I’ll come back,” I said. Which I did--precisely five seconds later. The latch on the door had about as much chance as a Little Debbie on Ted Kennedy’s nightstand.
“Drop that basting brush!” I yelled to a couple of fry boys standing over a hot rotisserie. “And get up against the wall!” I moved across the floor like an octopus with seven wooden legs. I was too late. I recognized Fishy Jim right away. He was a little green around the gills, but he’d been kept on ice for a couple of days. Now he was stretched out on the charcoal with a little paprika, some olive oil, garlic, and a sprig of rosemary.
Basso alla Capricia. What a way to go.
* * *
I’d been avoiding the dreaded church staff meeting for several weeks, but Gaylen had moved it to Thursday afternoon. I’d begged off of Tuesdays, the traditional time for such meetings, due to my very hectic police schedule. Finally, she pigeon-holed me and asked when I thought I might be able to make it.
“Every fourth Thursday afternoon?” I suggested.
“Thursday afternoons sound good,” Gaylen said. “About 3:30?”
“Yes,” I said. “Every fourth Thursday. Once a month.”
“How about three Thursdays a month? You pick.”
“Too many. I’ll come every other Thursday.”
“Deal.” She spit on her hand and stuck it out to me.
I’d spit on mine in the time-honored tradition of mountain folk everywhere and sealed the pact, but now, of course, I found myself actually having to attend.
I stopped by the Ginger Cat on my way to St. Barnabas and fortified myself with a large cup of coffee containing two shots of espresso. I went into the library and greeted Marilyn, the church secretary.
“You’re early,” Marilyn said.
“A little. Sorry. I didn’t bring you any coffee.”
“Too late in the day for me.”
Gaylen came in next, followed by Bev, Georgia, Brenda Marshall, Joyce Cooper and Billy Hixon.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked Billy.
“We’ve got to figure something out. There’s too many people coming to church on Sunday. We don’t have enough ushers, folks are sitting in my pew…it’s a real mess.”
“Okay, then,” said Gaylen. “We’ve got quite an agenda to get through, so let’s get started. Billy, would you open the meeting with a prayer?”
“Huh?” said Billy. “Do what?”
“Open the meeting with a prayer,” she repeated, closing her eyes and folding her hands in front of her, a smile playing on her lips. We all bowed our heads as well.
I’d never heard Billy pray in public before. Oh, I’d heard him ask the Lord, in no uncertain terms, to smite a few of his clients and to cast Holy Wrath upon eighty-year-old bad drivers, but that was a hop and a skip from praying in front of clergy.
“Uh…” started Billy. “Hey God. This here’s Billy. Billy Hixon. Umm…if you could do something about those fire ants on the front lawn, we’d all appreciate it. Also, bless this meeting and the hands that fixed it.”
“Amen,” said Gaylen.
“Amen,” we echoed.
“First order of business,” said Gaylen, looking down at her notes. “Who orders the coffee around here? It’s awful!”
“We’ve got about forty pounds of coffee that Father George got us,” said Georgia. “It’s in the kitchen. He said that if we ordered it in bulk, we’d get a better price.”
“It’s virtually undrinkable. Let’s throw it out,” said Gaylen, “and get back on the Community Coffee delivery plan. All in favor?”
“Aye,” came the answer.
“All opposed?”
“I don’t think you should throw it out,” started Brenda, aka Princess Foo-Foo. “What a waste of money! Don’t you think…”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Gaylen, sweetly. “Motion carried and approved. Second order of business, the crowds on Sunday. Billy?”
“It’s gettin’ really bad,” Billy said. “There’s just too many folks. I mean, it’s a good thing, but what’s going to happen if we keep on?”
“How many did we have last Sunday?” I asked.
“Four hundred and thirty-three,” said Billy. “We’re putting chairs up everywhere. And we’re running out of cookies at coffee hour after the service.”
“How many can we seat comfortably?” asked Gaylen.
“About three hundred,” said Billy.
“I’ll take care of the cookie problem,” said Joyce. “But how long do we expect that racecar driver to keep winning?”
“I’ve got no idea,” said Billy. “That Holy Water is really doing the trick. I’m thinking we should bottle it, bless it and sell it on the NASCAR circuit.”
“Sorry,” said Gaylen. “My blessings aren’t for sale. This isn’t a Catholic church, you know. With that many people, we need to hire another sexton.” She turned to Bev. “Do we have the money?”
“Sure,” said Bev. “I’ll put an ad in the paper.”
“What about a second service?” said Georgia. “We could have it at 8:30. You know, before Sunday School. At least for the summer.”
“It’s something to think about,” said Gaylen. “Let’s not announce it just yet. Maybe the furor will calm down a little. But if we’re still at capacity in July, we’ll start another service. All in favor?”
“Aye,” came the answers from around the table.
“But don’t you think we should form a committee to look at the long range…” began Princess Foo-Foo.
“Sorry. The motion has been carried,” said Gaylen. “Now, what about some new service music for the Eucharist?” She looked over at me. “Can we come up with something different? I like the stuff in the hymnal, but we’ve been singing it for twenty years.”
“I’ll see what I can come up with,” I said.
“Great!” she said, making another check on her pad. “You’ll have to tea
ch it to the congregation. I don’t want to be the only one singing. Item four. Vacation Bible School. Brenda, what are our plans?”
“I…uh…I don’t have any actual plans yet…” said Brenda. “Father George and I decided that it was better to concentrate on our Sunday School program.”
“I see,” said Gaylen. “Okay, what do you have planned for our Sunday School program?”
“Well…Father George and I were working on it, but then he left. I really don’t have anything.”
“Tell you what,” said Gaylen. “Let’s have a Vacation Bible School for the kids. A one-afternoon event. Let’s say a week from Saturday, noon to four. Marilyn, you put it in the newsletter and print up some flyers.” Marilyn nodded and jotted some notes on her pad.
“Brenda, you go ahead and plan it. I’ll expect you to have some ideas on my desk Monday morning. Okay?” She looked around the table. “That’s it then. Let us pray.”
We all bowed our heads, and I snuck a look at my watch. It was 3:43.
“Grant, O Lord, that we may follow the example of your faithful servant Barnabas, who, seeking not his own renown but the well-being of your Church, gave generously of his life and substance for the relief of the poor and the spread of the Gospel; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“Amen,” we all repeated.
* * *
“Wow!” said Georgia, after we’d all dispersed. “I think that was the most efficient church meeting I’ve ever attended.”
“I didn’t mind that at all,” I said. “But somehow—and I don’t remember exactly how it happened—I volunteered to find some new service music and teach it to the congregation.”
“Yeah,” said Georgia. “She’s got me heading a task force to start a Habitat for Humanity house. She invited me for a cup of coffee and that’s the last thing I remember till the North Carolina Habitat office called me the next day.” Georgia smiled. “Maybe she’s a witch.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “Did I agree to playing for a second service on Sunday mornings?”
The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 15