The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

  We kicked our way through the wreckage and over to the kitchen door. Dave let out a moan and opened one eye.

  “Is she gone yet?” he whispered.

  “Yeah, Corporal Snookie-Pie,” said Pete. “She’s gone. What did you tell her, anyway? She was as mad as a bag of weasels.”

  Dave sat up, brushed pieces of glass from his hair and blinked his eyes like a toad in a hailstorm. “I told her the truth. That I couldn’t marry her. That I was in love with Nancy and that Chief Konig caught us…umm…”

  “In flagrante delicto?” Pete said.

  “Yeah. That. In the dumpster behind the Baptist church.”

  “Why on earth did you tell her that?” I asked.

  “It was bound to come out,” Dave said. “I thought it would be better coming from me.”

  “Dave, think for a minute. Why was it bound to come out?”

  “You wouldn’t have told anyone? Not even Meg?”

  “Well, I might have told Meg. But she wouldn’t have told anyone. Except maybe her mother. And maybe…hmm…I see your point.”

  “Oh well,” said Dave, glumly. He rubbed a huge knot just above his right eye. “It’s out now.”

  * * *

  I left Pete to clean up. On the way back to the office, I went by Noylene’s and explained the situation to her. The Beautifery was having a slow day, and Noylene volunteered to go over to the Slab Café and help Pete.

  “I’d get Wormy to come with me, but he’s busy getting the cemetery ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “That racecar driver. He’s going to be buried in the Bellefontaine Cemetery.”

  “Junior Jameson?”

  “That’s the one,” Noylene said. “He’ll be the first one infirmed.”

  “Interred,” I gently corrected.

  “Right. Buried. That’s why he’s gettin’ a discount.”

  “This is on Saturday, right?”

  “Yeah. Saturday.”

  I nodded and turned to leave. “Thanks for helping Pete. It’s a real mess over there.”

  “Oh, by the way,” said Noylene. “Junior’s bein’ buried in his car. They’ve hired a crane to lower him into the grave, racecar and all.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not. And Wormy’s going to pipe in Eternizak Country and Eternizak Gospel through the car radio—at least for the first five years. That’s all they’ve paid for.”

  * * *

  My truck pulled up at Ardine McCollough’s trailer just as the sun was beginning to drop below the tree-line. There were still a couple of hours of sunlight left, but the shadows of the hardwoods crisscrossed the driveway like a Japanese art print. Pauli Girl was sitting on the front porch in a pair of cut-offs and a t-shirt, drinking a can of Cheerwine, and looking for all the world like Daisy May, the poster-girl for Fleetside Mobile Homes. She waved to me as I slammed the door of the pick-up.

  “Hey there, Hayden.”

  “You’re not working today?”

  “Naw. Them gummint boys—those ones from Fish and Wildlife—they came in for a pizza and found me out. I’m really not even old enough to wait tables.”

  “Ah, sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t really like working anyway.”

  “Spoken like a true fourteen-year-old.”

  She laughed. “I guess. You want to see Mama? She’s not home yet.”

  “I was hoping to see Moosey.”

  Pauli Girl furrowed her brow. “I saw him a little while ago. I think he was running through the kitchen. He might be out back in the woods.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see if I can find him.”

  * * *

  “Moosey!” I called. “Moosey! Can you hear me?”

  The McCollough’s trailer backed up to the Pisgah National Forest, half a million acres of beautiful and rugged mountain scenery that covered a large portion of the western edge of the state. Moosey was probably well acquainted with a couple hundred of them. If he wanted to play hide and seek, I’d have a hard time finding him without a couple of bloodhounds.

  “Moosey! I know you can hear me. I’ll wait up at your house. Don’t be too long.”

  I turned and walked back to the trailer.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, a breathless Moosey banged in the back door. I was sitting with Ardine and Pauli Girl in the living room, admiring Ardine’s latest quilt. Ardine made and sold three or four a year to supplement her meager income at the Pine Valley Christmas Tree Farm.

  “Hey Mom,” said Moosey. “Did you just get home?”

  “Yes. Just now. I think Hayden wants to talk with you.”

  I saw a worried look cross Moosey’s visage just for an instant. Then his happy-go-lucky demeanor was back front and center.

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “Let’s go out on the porch,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  We went out on the porch and sat down, our legs hanging off the edge, my feet planted firmly on the ground—Moosey’s dangling above the dirt, swinging back and forth. I looked at him. He was nervously chewing the inside of his cheek.

  “You know,” I started. “I was out at Dr. Jackson’s this morning. Someone stole Kokomo from his cage.”

  “Hmm,” said Moosey.

  “Whoever got him out used a set of padlock shims. Do you know what those are?”

  “Hmm,” said Moosey.

  “You know, Bud had a set of those. Remember when Nancy caught him a couple of years ago breaking into houses? Have you seen those shims?”

  “Hmm,” said Moosey.

  “You know what else? When I was looking around the cage, I found this.” I pulled a Milky Way wrapper out of my pocket and showed it to Moosey. “I wonder if I could get any fingerprints off this?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Moosey. “I’ll throw it away for you if you want me to.”

  “Now listen to me, young man. I don’t know where you put Kokomo, but you cannot be around him for a while. There are going to be hunters all over town tomorrow and out in these woods, too. You’re coming with me. I’ll pick you up at seven in the morning. Understand?”

  Moosey nodded.

  “Is Kokomo locked up?”

  Moosey shook his head. “He said he didn’t want to be.”

  “He’s talking to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you get into the fence?” I asked.

  There’s a loose place in the back. You can undo the wires and pull the fence away from the pole. That’s how I always get in.”

  “You’ve been in before?”

  Moosey nodded. “Sometimes I go in to look at the bears. Then, when I leave, I just hook the wires back.”

  “How did Kokomo get out?”

  “Sheesh!” said Moosey. “You should have seen him. He just climbed right over that fence like it wasn’t even there.”

  “What about the razor wire on the top?”

  Moosey shrugged. “Don’t know. He just went right over it.”

  “Did you see any cuts on him?”

  “Nope. He’s fine.”

  “Is he in the woods?”

  “There’s an old school bus…” Moosey pointed to the woods behind the trailer. “Back there. About a mile down the holler. Some boys used to use it for camping, but no one’s been in it for a couple of years. You can’t even see it unless you know where it is.”

  “Did you leave him some food?”

  “Yeah. Lots.”

  “Not candy,” I said.

  “Not candy.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “I asked him what happened.”

  “You did?”

  “Well, sure. He said ‘Kokomo scared. Tiger bad.’ I don’t know what that means.”

  “Wasn’t Tiger the name of his kitten?”

  “Yeah,” said Moosey, with a nod. “Kokomo didn’t kill that man, though. That’s why I rescued him.”

  “I know. And I think you’re right abo
ut Kokomo. He didn’t kill Brother Kilroy. Do you think he’d talk to Nancy and me?”

  “Maybe. I’ll ask him.”

  “Not unless I go with you. If we bring him back, he’ll be shot, so he’s on his own for a couple of days. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Chapter 20

  I had to find Betsy. She was a sitting duck or maybe a cooked goose, a dying quail, a squatting swan, or something equally as fowl. If The Minimalist got to Betsy before I did, he’d squeeze her like a custard frog on St. Beadle’s Day. I took the stairs two at a time, carefully wiping my mouth as I got to the bottom. Right then and there, I made a solemn vow. Fishy Jim had been a good bass, and his skeleton would get the burial it deserved.

  Marilyn was waiting for me with the car running.

  I hopped into the jump seat. “What are you doing here?” I asked, curious as an altar boy at a “True Love Waits” convention.

  “I thought you could use a little help. You wanna get some dinner?”

  “No thanks. I just ate.”

  “Okay. Where to?”

  “Let’s get over to Moby Mel’s. I need to find Betsy.”

  “Harumph. I don’t know what you see in her.”

  “Other than a drop-dead gorgeous face, a body that Aphrodite would envy, a personality that makes Katie Couric seem like Leona Helmsley, a double-doctorate in Anthropology and Medieval English, and seventeen million dollars?”

  “Yeah. What’s she got that I haven’t got?”

  “Other than a drop-dead geor…”

  “Shut up,” said Marilyn.

  * * *

  “When do they announce the Bulwer-Lytton contest winners?” asked Meg.

  “Next week. It could be as early as Monday.”

  “So I’ll have to take you all out sometime next week.”

  “Yes, I suppose you might if you happen to win. However, I had an e-mail from Scott Rice, the head of the contest. He’s very impressed with my submissions.”

  “Is that the one that says ‘Your submissions have arrived and will receive the treatment that they deserve?’”

  “Umm…yes, that’s the one. But then he sent another e-mail as well.”

  “Did it say ‘You latest inflictions have arrived?’”

  “Yes,” I sighed.

  “So,” said Meg. “You received two form e-mails.”

  “Well…okay, but it’s the way he said it. Your latest inflictions have arrived.”

  “Ah yes. Now I see. I shall start quaking in my Reeboks any moment.”

  * * *

  I was at the Police Department at 7:30 in the morning with Moosey in tow. I knew that the Slab wouldn’t be open, so we stopped by a fast-food place at the edge of town and loaded up on our minimum-daily-requirements of sugar, carbohydrates and grease. Moosey was still finishing one of his cinnamon rolls as we got out of the truck and walked into the station. Dave, usually here every morning at seven sharp, was nowhere to be seen. Nancy, however, usually in her chair no earlier than nine o’clock on a normal morning, was front and center, her uniform starched and as crisp as a new dollar bill.

  “Good morning,” I said, ushering Moosey into one of the visitor chairs.

  “Morning,” said Nancy. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Can we…uh…talk alone?”

  “I’d like to, but I have to keep an eye on this one.” I gestured toward Moosey. “There’s a gorilla loose, and there’ll be hunters galore in a couple of hours.”

  “Soon as people read the paper,” said Nancy, handing me a copy of the Watauga Democrat. “Page four.”

  I flipped the paper open and saw a full-page ad. It looked like a “Wanted” poster from the Old West. There was a gorilla’s picture in the middle of the page. Across the top was emblazoned “Wanted—Dead.” Underneath the picture were the details. I read them quickly, but carefully.

  “$5000 reward to whoever kills this wild gorilla. 5’ 8” tall—480 lbs. Extremely dangerous. Last seen at the animal shelter in St. Germaine, NC. A warrant has been issued to destroy this animal and a hunting license is needed. A Gorilla License is available at the Courthouse in St. Germaine for $80. Dogs okay.”

  At the bottom was added, “Bounty paid for by Bennett Shipley, St. Germaine, NC. Collect from Mayor Peter Moss, St. Germaine Courthouse.”

  “Holy cow,” I said.

  “Can I see?” asked Moosey. I walked over and handed him the paper.

  “I called the courthouse,” said Nancy. “There’s already a line outside the door waiting to buy a Gorilla License. They won’t open up until eight, though. Pete said that Bennett Shipley came by his house last night and gave him a certified check for five thousand dollars.”

  “Well, if they don’t get Kokomo today, we may want to talk with him tomorrow.”

  “Shipley?” asked Nancy.

  “No. The gorilla.”

  “You know where he is?”

  I gave a nod in Moosey’s direction. Moosey smiled as innocent a smile as I’ve ever witnessed.

  “Ahh,” said Nancy. “Can’t we just go bring Kokomo in?”

  “I don’t think so. If we did, he’d have to be destroyed. I think he’s better off taking his chances.”

  “Okay, let’s hope he’s as smart as everyone thinks he is.” Nancy thought for a moment. “You know,” she said, “I really, really like Dave. I always have.”

  “Yeah,” I grinned. “I know.”

  “But I didn’t know he was going to call the wedding off. That’s a lot of pressure. What if this thing between us doesn’t work out?”

  “That’s life,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t, but you have to give it a chance.”

  “Hey,” called Moosey, still sitting in his chair, and holding up a section of the newspaper. “Look here at this picture. What’s this called?”

  I walked over to where he was sitting and looked down at the paper. He was pointing to a photo of a couple of American soldiers on a dusty Iraqi street.

  “What? The soldiers? They’re the ones stationed in Iraq.”

  “No, this here.” He pointed to the woman behind them, clad head to toe in black.

  “That’s called a burka. It’s what some of the women wear in the Middle East.”

  “Ain’t it hot?” asked Moosey.

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Sheesh. I wouldn’t wear it if it was as hot as it looks,” said Moosey, flipping the paper open to the comic page. “Lookie here at Snoopy. He’s up on the doghouse again!” He giggled. “Hey, when are we going to go fishing?”

  “You think Moosey has ADD?” asked Nancy, softly, when I returned to the other side of the room.

  “Maybe a little,” I replied.

  * * *

  There were two workmen outside the Slab Café, replacing the plate glass window, when I wandered down the sidewalk to see how Pete was faring. I looked in the door. The glass had been cleaned up, and the food was off the floor and into the garbage. Noylene was leaning on a mop, a strand of red hair hanging down into one eye.

  “Hey there, Chief,” she said, with a smile. “We’ve almost got it cleaned up. Took about five hours last night, though.”

  Pete came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “I need to get back in business. Those gorilla hunters are going to come back hungry.”

  “How about the dishes?” I asked.

  “Already on the way. Darla’s Restaurant Supply in Asheville. They should be here in an hour.”

  “Toasters?”

  “Toasters, cups, mugs, sugar shakers…the whole enchilada,” said Pete. “My insurance guy was here this morning at six. He said they wouldn’t pay for the damage unless I brought charges against Collette. I told him to forget it.”

  “How much is it going to be?” I asked.

  “Probably two or three grand,” said Pete. “I’ve got it covered. I needed new plates anyway.”

  “I’m in for half,” I said. “I’d hate to h
ave to arrest Collette. By the way, did you see that line outside the courthouse?”

  “Yep. I called over to see how we were doing. We’d sold two hundred fifty or so as of nine o’clock.”

  “I’m hoping they don’t find him for a while,” I said.

  “That might be a vain hope,” said Pete. “A bunch of those guys had their dogs with them.”

  “Ah. But dogs don’t know what a gorilla smells like,” I said, with a smile.

  “Can’t they just go over to the animal shelter and sniff around the cage?”

  “Well, I suppose they could,” I said. “And they’ll get a scent, sure enough. It might even have been a gorilla’s scent if someone hadn’t cleaned out that cage last night, hosed it down and replaced all that straw with used hay from Seymour Krebbs’ camel stall.”

  “Heh heh,” chuckled Pete. “As I recall, that camel doesn’t care for dogs.”

  * * *

  “Hey!” called Billy Hixon. “Hayden! C’mere a second.”

  Billy was in the parish hall, pouring a cup of coffee when he spotted me walking by the outside back doors. I joined him at the coffee pot.

  “We’ve got some real coffee,” he said. “Finally! That other stuff was just…bleah.”

  “I agree.” I poured myself a cup, and we walked over to one of the tables. “‘Because thou art lukewarm, I will spew thee out of my mouth.’”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. A verse from Revelations.”

  “I didn’t know John the Revelator had anything to say about coffee. Huh,” he grunted. “You learn something new every day.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed.

  “I’ve been helping Kimmy Jo Jameson with the funeral arrangements,” said Billy, sipping his Apocalyptical brew. “It’s going to be quite a service.”

  “Is Gaylen presiding?”

  “Yeah, she is. Junior’s being buried in his car, you know.”

  “I heard that,” I said.

  “Elaine’s going to be one of the scripture readers,” said Billy proudly. “Wormy’s going to wire the car radio up with Eternizak, we’ve got a forty-foot crane rigged to lower the racecar into the ground, and guess what?”