Ardine earned her living working at a Christmas tree farm and making quilts that she sold in gift shops around the area. The Ginger Cat, for example, had a couple on display. I'd seen them the last time Meg and I had lunch. She and the kids lived in a single-wide up in Coondog Holler on about a half-acre that sidled up to the Pisgah National Forest. There was an old spring box on the property where they got their water, and a septic tank that may or may not have been constructed from a 1945 Studebaker with the windows rolled up.
One thing PeeDee had insisted on when his progeny appeared on this earth was to name them after his favorite thing next to himself, his dog, and his truck. Hence, the children were all named for beers: the eldest, Bud, the middle child, Pauli Girl, and the youngest boy, Moose-Head. Moosey for short.
Bud was twenty years old and finishing his last year at Davidson. He was majoring in business, but his real passion was wine. The fruit of the grape had been his singular focus since he was twelve years old. If all went according to plan, he'd graduate in May and set up his wine shop in St. Germaine. I was his business partner. Bud had landed us in the catbird seat when he discovered, at a farmhouse auction, three cases of wine that he had me buy. Thirty-six bottles of Chateau Petrus Pomerol 1998, that would reach maturity sometime in the next few years. According to Bud, who knew a thing or two about wine, these bottles would be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter million dollars when we were ready to cash them in. For the past few summers, when not attending wine courses, Bud had spent his time at the Ginger Cat, offering his expertise to Annie and her customers. Bud was the youngest of the seventy-five Master Sommeliers in the United States and had already been contacted by several New York restaurants with offers of employment. Bud's nose for wine, and his penchant for the lingo of wine-speak, made him a natural. It wasn't uncommon to find him holding court in the Ginger Cat expressing his opinion on a young cabernet: "an astonishing marriage made in heaven and hell; of richness and decay; chocolate and schoolgirl's uniforms with a flare of cream cheese; a cigar box containing a Montecristo, a single yellow rose and a hot brick sitting on top of a saddle."
Bud would turn twenty-one in April and could legally sell wine the day after. I'd already gotten our license and lined up a building. We'd start renovations around Easter and be ready to open for the summer tourist season.
"How about the breakfast special, Chief?" Pauli Girl asked.
"What is it this morning?"
"Machaca con huevos and jalapeño corn cakes."
"I recommend it," said Pete, sipping his coffee. "Manuel is on his game this morning."
"Sounds good," I said to Pauli Girl, then added, "How's school going?"
Pauli Girl gave me a smile that would melt anyone's heart. A year younger than Bud, she was the prettiest girl in town and, once she'd finished high school, had taken a path pointing her towards a nursing career. Even with the rigors of studying, she still worked weekends and holidays in St. Germaine when she wasn't busy with her nurse's training.
"I'll be finished with my LPN certification this spring, but now I'm thinking about going on and getting my RN," she said. "I can make more money, that's for sure. A Registered Nurse can get a job about anywhere."
"Are you thinking about staying at Appalachian State?" I asked.
"Till I graduate," she said. "Then I'd like to move somewhere with, you know, a little more action."
"I know exactly."
"Let me get this order turned in. I'll have it up for you in a jiff." She turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.
"At least she didn't call you 'Hon,'" said Pete. "Yesterday she called me Hon. I hate to be called Hon by someone that young. I have corns older than she is." Pete shook his head in disgust. "Now tell me about the kidnapping."
"You probably heard all there is to tell. Rahab was stolen out of his bedroom. The kidnappers left a note and Hog and Noylene paid the ransom. The whole episode lasted less than six hours."
"Seventy-five large is what I heard," said Pete.
"The grapevine is very effective. When did you hear about it?"
"Hannah, Amelia, and Grace came by this morning for breakfast on their way to the Piggly Wiggly. It seems that Roger makes them all work on Saturday now. They were filling Cynthia in on all the details while they ate."
"How on earth? ... "
"I don't know," said Pete, raising his hands in consternation, "but they had all the facts, or seemed to, right down to Nancy tracing the phone call, and Rahab found beside the road chewing on a chicken leg."
"Carrot," I said.
"Huh?" said Pete.
"It was a carrot, not a chicken leg."
"Oh. Anyway, you have any suspects?"
"Not a one."
"Grapevine says it's a gang of kidnappers and they're liable to strike again at any time. Lock up your babies."
"That's a relief," I said.
"What? That there's a gang of kidnappers?"
"No, that the grapevine is wrong for once."
Cynthia walked over to the table and plopped down in the chair next to me. "I'm exhausted," she said. "Get me a cup of coffee, will you Pete?"
"Get back to work," said Pete.
Cynthia glared at him. I laughed. "I'll get it," I said, and started to get up.
"Never mind," said Cynthia. "Here's Rosa." She turned an upside-down coffee cup right side up as Rosa walked by and Rosa was happy to fill it for her. "I tell you, I'm beat!" Cynthia said. "I didn't get home 'til late last night, then up at five to get ready for work." Cynthia didn't look as though she got up at five o'clock. A tall, willowy blonde, she was wearing very little make up, or so it seemed to me, and didn't look as though she needed it. Belly dancing kept her figure in great shape. She was wearing an old pair of faded jeans that fit snugly, a pair of Nikes, and a sweatshirt that advertised North Carolina State University. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail.
"Did you make the acquaintance of our pig?" I asked.
"Alas, I did not," said Cynthia. "Our pig ... that is, your pig, was fast asleep in the hay of her comfy, heated, little pig house."
"Heated?" I asked.
"Of course, heated," said Pete, looking at me with astonishment. "I told you that before. You want Portia to get cold?"
"No, I guess not."
"I heard about the kidnapping," said Cynthia. "Not to mention the dead, heart-attack guy in the alley. Sheesh. I can't even leave town for a couple of days before everything goes to heck." She sighed heavily. "The Town Council is going to want updates on your progress. We can't have a band of baby kidnappers roaming the hills looking for children to abduct. Is the dead guy connected to the kidnapping?"
"No proof of that," I said. "We shall keep your council well informed. As mayor, you are privy to all our investigative secrets."
"What about me?" asked Pete. "As a truffle pig owner, I have a right to know."
"Well, of course," I said. "I'll send you hourly peeps."
"What's a peep?" asked Pete.
"It's a Twitface thing. I don't know for sure. I just know that you'll be getting peeped."
"Tweets," said a young man at the next table. "You get tweets. From Twitter."
I snapped my fingers. "That's it," I replied. "Twitter. I have an account now, you know."
"What's your user name?" asked the man, pulling out a phone, then punching in information with both thumbs. He was obviously adept at social media and looked the part. His light brown hair was cut short except for his front bangs that had been waxed up into a comb. He sported black, horn-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and was wearing black jeans with a long-sleeved T-shirt that proclaimed that he was interested in saving polar bears.
"Umm ... I can't remember," I said. "I'll have to look it up." Mercifully, just then Pauli Girl appeared at our table with my breakfast.
"You should tweet that you're eating breakfast," said the man.
"Why would he do that?" asked Pete.
"People want to know," said the
man with a shrug. "I'm tweeting it right now. Eating breakfast with a couple of old guys who have a pig."
Cynthia laughed, drained her coffee cup, and got to her feet. "I have to leave here at one o'clock," she told Pete. "I have a Little Theater rehearsal this afternoon."
"You're in the Mitford play?" I asked. "When did this happen?"
"Mr. Christopher called me last week. Someone dropped out of the production, so he wanted to know if I could do it. I'm a trained thespian, you know."
"I can vouch for that," said Pete, then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "In fact, this one time ..."
"Quiet, you!" Cynthia said, then turned her attention back to me. "I haven't been to a rehearsal yet, but I've learned all my lines. I'm playing Aunt Rose."
"Aunt Rose?" I said.
"Uncle Billy's lovable but dotty wife. She likes to direct traffic wearing a military trench coat and rubber boots."
"Ah, yes," said Pete, closing his eyes and stroking his chin stubble. "I have fond memories of that trench coat."
"Hush!" shooshed Cynthia. "I'm the mayor! Don't be blabbing all over town!"
The young man at the next table tweeted for all he was worth.
* * *
After breakfast I said my goodbyes, then walked across Sterling Park to St. Barnabas Church. The day was warming up as the sun rose in the sky. A few more days of this weather and we'd all forget winter like it was an unwelcome relative, visiting too long, but once gone as forgotten as a bad dream. The dark red front doors of the church were unlocked and I pulled one of them open, walked into the narthex, then up the stairs and into the choir loft. There was some activity happening down at the front by the chancel. I looked down from the back balcony and watched as Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh, her husband, Pastor Herb, Muffy LeMieux, Bear Niederman, and Mr. Christopher — all new members of the Altar Guild — were discussing the placement of decorations. The projection screen was hanging to the left of the chancel steps about ten feet above the floor, right above the hymn board, as obvious as a front gold tooth on a Lutheran.
The committee was gathered around the altar, chattering away, when I played a chord on the organ, startling them. They stopped talking and looked up at me.
"Sorry to bother you," I said. "You don't mind if I do a little practicing, do you?"
"Of course not," said Rosemary. "You go right ahead. You won't bother us a bit."
"Before you start," said Mr. Christopher, "could you come down and give us your opinion on something?"
"Sure. Be right there."
As I walked down the center aisle, I was conscious that the group had formed a semicircle in front of the altar, blocking my view.
"Okay," said Mr. Christopher. "Stop right there and tell us what you think."
I stopped and watched as the members of the guild parted in the middle and stepped away from the altar, revealing the decorations for the First Sunday of Lent.
I was aware of Muffy LeMieux's solo, On Eagle's Wings. I might even go so far as to say that I had prepared myself to hear Muffy sing it in church. What I wasn't prepared for was the three-foot-tall, full-grown, stuffed bald eagle standing atop the altar with a squirrel in one, raised talon. The squirrel's glass eyes were wide with terror, and its lips were pulled back over its teeth in what can only be called the genius of the taxidermic art. The wings of the great bird were spread to their full eight-foot span, and its hooked, cruel beak was partially open in a defiant, soundless screech. It was something straight out of the Smithsonian Institution's exhibit on giant North American raptors, that is, if the Smithsonian still had any stuffed and mounted bald eagles. They might have some in the back, I thought, hidden away in a crate somewhere. If they did, the birds would have to be pre-1940 eagles or else accompanied by a permit from the Secretary of the Interior. This much I knew. There was something called the Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act of 1940, and it didn't do to get caught with one of these endangered birds. The Smithsonian probably had hundreds of legal specimens, but none, I'd wager, mounted like this one.
"Wow," I said. "Where did you get the eagle?"
"It's mine," said Bear proudly. "I didn't shoot it though. I hit it with my Jeep."
"Ah," I said.
"I did shoot the squirrel, then I worked it into the tableau. The eyes were the hardest."
"It's a nice touch," I admitted.
"Mother P said she needed an eagle, so I donated it to the church for a tax write-off. I figure it's worth maybe a couple of thousand."
"Of course you can!" said Mother P happily. "I'll give you a receipt."
"I think you might find," I suggested, "that a stuffed bald eagle might be a bad choice for an altar decoration. An 'ill-eagle,' if you will." I chuckled at my own wit. "You could get into plenty of trouble."
"Pish-tosh!" said Mother P. "Bear didn't shoot the thing. You heard him. He hit it with his Jeep."
"Yes, but ..."
"What we want to know," said Mr. Christopher, "is whether you think it would be better to have an American flag draped over the front of the altar or just go ahead and use the white linen cloth?"
"But isn't purple the color of Lent?" I asked.
"Purple don't work with the eagle," complained Muffy. "The feathers are too dark. They sort of blend in. We really want the eagle to pop!"
"Not to mention that my sermon has an element of patriotism," added Rosemary.
I took a deep breath. My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.
"The flag, then," I said. "Definitely the flag."
Forty-five minutes later, I didn't feel the least pang of guilt as I finished up my mass.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when I decided that it would be a good thing to talk to Cynthia alone. She was, after all, the mayor. I climbed into my truck and made the ten minute drive up Oak Street where the Little Theater was putting the final touches on its production of Welcome to Mitford. With less than a week to go, dress rehearsals were imminent and imminently terrifying. Over the years, the St. Germaine Footlight Club had occupied many venues, the most famous of them being the second floor of the courthouse, where they performed for thirty or so years back in their heyday. There had been a raised stage area, a huge velvet curtain, room for flats, props and backstage paraphernalia, pretty good theater lighting, a couple of small dressing rooms, and seating for about one hundred seventy patrons. In the 1960s, the Town Council deemed that the second floor of the courthouse was needed for office space, and so the Little Theater raised enough money to build a performing space at the top of Oak Street, and had been there ever since. It was a block building and owed its charm to the architectural style known as "bad," but had a nice little lobby, a box office, a good-sized stage, dressing rooms, and seating for about two hundred. There was also fly space, another story above the stage to hang backdrops and set pieces — something that the courthouse never had.
I walked into the theater and saw Cynthia up on the stage, chatting with Muffy LeMieux. The set was the interior of a house with two doors and a window. One of the doors was shut; the other one, obviously the front entrance, was open, and there was a bit of set dressing to depict the outdoors just beyond the threshold. The window was festooned with drapes and ties and the walls were covered in some sort of textured wallpaper with a light pink pattern. A couch was set at a theatrical angle down center. Two upholstered chairs flanked it on either side, and a small drum table acted as a stand for a lamp and a few random books. All of this, decorated with Mr. Christopher's signature Fourteen Layers of Style.
Cynthia was standing behind the couch and had a cup of coffee in her hand. Muffy was reclining in one of the chairs taking a slurp out of a plastic water bottle. Break time. I walked down one of the side aisles and up to the lip of the stage.
"Hayden!" said Muffy when she saw me. "We wer
e just talking about you!"
"All good, I hope."
"Of course! Did you come to watch part of the rehearsal? We're about to do the scene where Father Tim neglects his diet and exercise and goes into a diabetic coma while driving and wrecks his car. I'm just waiting on Mr. Christopher."
"It sounds scintillating," I said, "but I think I'll wait to see the show. I don't want to ruin any of the surprises." I turned my focus to Cynthia. "Would you have a minute to chat?"
"Sure. Let me come around."
Mr. Christopher came out onto the stage from one of the wings. "Hayden, I thought I heard you. Do you think you can do something about these chainsaws going day and night? It's incredibly difficult to rehearse with all this racket."
I listened for a moment. Nothing.
"Well, of course they stopped as soon as you came in," huffed Mr. Christopher, then perked up as he heard the buzz of a nearby weed-whacker. "There! There it is!"
"I'll see what I can do," I promised.
"Try it now," hollered a voice from backstage. Mr. Christopher walked over to the front door and flipped the light switch. Then walked over to the side table and clicked the lamp off and on a few times. Nothing.
"Did you connect the hot wire to the common terminal of the first three-way?" Mr. Christopher yelled.
"I think so," the voice came back. "Which one is that?"
"The black one. Oh, for heaven's sake! Connect the black one to the black one, then the white one to the white one, then the black load wire to the common terminal of the opposite three-way switch. Then you can connect the travelers."
"Which screws do I attach 'em to?"
"Doesn't matter! There's no polarity. Oh, never mind. I'll do it myself." He flounced off stage and we heard some muffled growling.
Muffy giggled. "I think he has a crush on Varmit," she whispered.
A moment later Cynthia appeared from one of the exit doors located on the floor beside the stage.
The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 13