"What's up?" she asked. She still had her coffee cup and took a sip.
"I thought I should fill you in on a few things, you being the mayor and all."
Her eyes widened slightly. The table lamp blinked on, then off, then on again.
"It works, Sweetie," Muffy yelled.
"Let's go outside," I said, then added in a whisper, "I'd like to keep this confidential."
Chapter 17
Moosey McCollough was the youngest of the McCollough children. He was eleven years old, almost twelve, but small for his age. He had a mop of unmanageable straw on his head, freckles, and bright blue eyes that peered out from behind oversized wire-rimmed glasses. He wore blue jeans, summer or winter, and the fact that he had worn holes through both knees didn't warrant, in Ardine's opinion, throwing them away. They had been patched multiple times. He usually sported a striped T-shirt and was rarely seen without his high-topped Keds, although lately he had switched from red to black, a sign of his coming-of-age. His best friend was Bernadette Kenton.
When I drove up, they were both waiting for me outside Bernadette's house sitting on the stoop, wearing light coats against the cool weather we'd had all week.
"Can we ride in the back?" hollered Moosey.
"Nope," I said. "It's against the law. You're not eighteen."
"Aw, man," answered Bernadette, as she and Moosey clambered into the cab of the truck. "My uncle lets us ride in the back of his."
"He's not a cop," I said. "I'd have to give myself a ticket. Besides, it's dangerous."
"You used to let us do it," complained Moosey.
"Children don't bounce as high as they used to."
It was a ten-minute drive to Pete's, Moosey and Bernadette chattering all the way. We pulled up at the curb in front of the house and the two kids slid out of the cab in a jiffy.
"Now where's that pig?" asked Moosey.
"In the back," I said. "Don't scare her, though. She may not be used to us yet."
"Is she really from France?" asked Bernadette.
"Yep," I said.
"There's a place in France, where the alligators dance," sang Moosey.
"And one wouldn't dance, so they kicked him in the pants," joined in Bernadette. They howled with glee. I was used to this from these two.
Pete was at the Slab for the afternoon, so we walked around the side of the house, through the back yard, and found the pig pen. There was our truffle pig, rooting up something or other beside her pig house and oinking to her heart's content.
"Wow!" said Bernadette. "I've never seen a pig like that. She's beautiful."
"She's a long-haired Mangalitsa pig. Very rare. Her name's Portia."
"It sort of looks like a sheep," said Moosey. "With that hair and all."
"A little bit," I admitted.
"Can we go in and pet her?" asked Bernadette.
"Yeah, can we?" added Moosey.
"Sure," I said, then unlatched the gate and opened it. "Be careful, though. Don't chase her, and don't go into that corner of the pen." I pointed to the corner where the pig had obviously decided to do her business.
"Pew!" said Bernadette, making a face. "Don't worry!"
The two kids went cautiously into the pen and walked slowly up to the pig, who looked up at them, grunted a greeting, and went back to snouting up the soil. A moment later, Bernadette and Moosey were scratching the pig's back, tickling her under the chin, and feeding her an apple that Bernadette had smuggled in by way of her coat pocket. At a hundred and fifty pounds, Portia wasn't a huge pig, and her belly probably counted for half of her weight. She was a little over three feet long, I'd say — maybe about forty inches, nose to tail — and stood two feet high at the shoulder. Her head then sloped downward, in the manner of pigs, and large jowls framed her short face and snout. Her ears were large and hung forward, shading her eyes. The porcine mouth had a bow-like quality that made her appear as though she were smiling, and her eyes, beneath long, black lashes, were the most startlingly blue. She was, of course, covered with long, gray, curly hair.
Our pig was obviously used to children, or else just glad for the company, because she gave up her hunt for grubs and began frolicking with Moosey and Bernadette, chasing them around the pen, then being chased by them. She oinked happily and gave out a couple of squeals that first startled the kids, but then made them break into peals of laughter.
"When can we take her out for ruffles?" asked Moosey. He was kneeling beside the pig and hugging her around the neck.
"What's a ruffle?" asked Bernadette.
"Truffle," I said. "Truffles are like underground mushrooms. A pig can find them because their noses are so much more sensitive than ours. They can smell them under the ground. We might take her out next week. We're letting her get used to the place."
"Can we come?" asked Bernadette. "Hey, look at her tail!"
Like any happy dog, our Mangalitsa's long, straight tail was wagging back and forth to beat the band.
"She really likes us," said Moosey. "That's why she's wagging her tail."
"I think she does," I said. "It'd probably be good to take you two on our truffle hunt. She might find us what we want just to make you guys happy."
"Excellent!" said Bernadette.
* * *
"Any ideas on who kidnapped Rahab?" Meg asked as she whisked the dishes off the table and into the dishwasher.
"Not yet," I said. "We have this other thing, too. The dead Indian. We're operating under the assumption that they're connected somehow." Meg already knew about Kent Murphee's findings, and during a lovely meal of lamb curry, we'd dismissed the unpleasantness and talked about her upcoming business venture with Bev Greene — the nonprofit financial advisement company that she was very excited about starting.
We finished clearing the kitchen and repaired to the den, where I opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio that Bud had recommended and poured us each a glass. Then, as Meg curled up on the sofa with her book to the sounds of a Vivaldi violin concerto, I sat at my desk, pulled the chain to illuminate the green glass of my banker's light, and prepared myself for another foray into the world of noir wordsmithing.
"Is your mass finished?" Meg asked, suddenly looking up from her reading. "You need to finish your mass before you write any more of your detective story. It's due tomorrow."
I felt like I was back in junior high school. "Yes, ma'am," I said. "It is finished."
"All of it?" asked Meg.
"Well, the Kyrie and the Sanctus. The fraction anthem for tomorrow is Muffy's solo. On Eagle's Wings."
"No Gloria?"
"We don't do a Gloria during Lent," I reminded her.
"Yes, now I remember. Can I hear it?"
"No, you may not," I said. "It's a surprise."
Meg's face fell. "Oh, no."
"Have no fear," I said. "It is a work that is worthy of the Rev. Dr. Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh."
"Oh, NO!" Meg said. "What about your Lenten discipline? I'll win our bet. You'll have to go with me to the Catawba Colonic and Detox Institute for a week."
"Is that the name of it? No way! This is my discipline," I replied. "No snarky comments. No criticizing the sermon. No snide remarks about the liturgy or lack thereof. I shall go along with the church program, whatever that may be. I will not say anything negative and will be supportive in so far as I can. And I have been."
"So what is this mass, then? The one that's so awful that you won't let me see it?"
"I was asked — nay, almost commanded — by the Rev. Mother to compose such a mass. A musical setting on a common, well-known tune which the congregation will be familiar with. And I have done so."
"And you think that this won't come off as snarkiness? Your deliberate attempt to make Mother P eat her words?"
"It may well," I said. "But let me point out to you that, number one, this was not my idea, and, number two, since no one has actually seen the mass, especially you, it cannot be assumed that it is anything but genius."
"We'll
all see it tomorrow," said Meg. "Then your discipline is broken. I'll win the bet!"
"Au contraire. Tomorrow is Sunday and Sundays are excluded from Lent."
"What?" Meg said. "I don't believe it."
"Look it up yourself," I said, "or better yet, count it up on your fingers. Forty days from Ash Wednesday to Easter. That doesn't include Sundays. If you count Sundays, it's forty-six."
"Well, who forgot to tell me that?" asked Meg. "You mean I could have been eating chocolate?"
"You still can. The first Sunday in Lent is tomorrow. You haven't missed anything."
"Wait a second! Now I get it. You won't let me see your mass because tonight it's still Lent. Tomorrow is Sunday and you're off the hook. I'm not sure God would like this. You're using a Lenten loophole."
"It's not a loophole. It's been this way for hundreds of years."
"Well, I rebuke it!"
"Rebuke away, my darling," I said. "I'm secure in my absolution."
"Harrumph!"
I smiled and turned to my typewriter. My only friend.
* * *
The Big Brickle had an office in the Goree Building on the thirteenth floor. Big had agreed to see me and Pedro, and, even though the henchman was holding a heater on us, I knew that a gun was nothing more than a two-edged sword liable at any moment to turn its back on the very hand that was biting it.
We were ushered into an office that looked as though it had been decorated by Martha Stewart's prison roommate, then thrown up on by the cast of "Hoarders." The Big Brickle was wallowing on her overstuffed couch, one hand clutching a crate of bonbons, and the other pushing the delicious morsels, interminably, into her gaping maw.
"Hi there, Big," said Pedro. "Haven't seen you in a while."
That was an understatement. Pedro had been avoiding the Big Brickle ever since he dumped her on Valentine's Day. To his credit, he did leave her a note tied to a barrel of chocolate syrup as a parting gift.
The Big Brickle looked around, saw us, and delicately belched a hairball into her silk hanky. She made a move to get up. The room was hot and the humidity made her massive thighs, under her lightweight cotton dress, stick together like two manatees in heat. They came apart with a smacking sound that gave me the shrieking willies.
"Long time no see, boys," said the Big Brickle in a voice like flat Guinness. "Seems like you only call on a girl when you want something."
To describe the Big Brickle as a "girl" would be like calling a musk ox "Betty." Her given name was Peanut — Peanut Brickle — and the last time I'd seen her, she was as mad as Jimmy Dean's pet pig, Flowerpot, when the pig inadvertently discovered the source of Jimmy's wealth by snouting open the secret door to the sausage factory, but Flowerpot's anger only lasted a few unkind, if ultimately life-changing moments, unlike the Big Brickle who really could hold a grudge, and if she was still carrying this particular grudge, I just hoped she'd take it out on Pedro. I was too pretty. Everyone said so.
Chapter 18
The choir was gathering in the loft for our pre-game rehearsal. Since we weren't doing the Great Litany in Procession, Mother P, obviously not a fan of the penitential rite, had seen no reason to change the service other than substituting the Kyrie for the Gloria. In other years, years when the Great Litany was relegated to Advent, we might have begun the first Lenten service with the Penitential Order that included a confession of sin and absolution. We had in past years included the decalog — a reading of the ten commandments — or else a summary of the law found in the Gospels of Matthew or Mark. Music for the occasion had always been fairly somber. But this year we were "blending." I wouldn't even be surprised if a forbidden "Alleluia" snuck in here or there.
"Are we singing the Psalm this morning?" asked Meg. She was the first soprano robed and in her seat by virtue of being married to the organist. The rest of the sopranos were filling in the section as they arrived.
"We are not," I said. "I was informed this morning that, during Lent, Rosemary would like to have the Psalms read antiphonally by the congregation. The text is in the bulletin."
"Then I'm singing it at communion!" added Muffy, who had found her seat. "Psalm 91. On Eagle's Wings. That's why I'm not wearing my choir robe." Muffy was in a lavender angora sweater that wouldn't have been out of place in a 1940's Jane Mansfield film. It was a tight fit, accentuating her curves, and she had demurely accented the look with a strand of pearls. She had on light-gray stretch pants and high heels. Her dark red hair exhibited a touch of Lenten restraint, seemingly not quite as teased, nor piled as high as usual.
"Varmit's downstairs," she announced. "He won't be singing this morning. He needs to run my mic and the CD player."
"Back to the Psalm," Elaine interrupted. "Antiphonally. How does that work?"
"I'm sure that Rosemary will give us direction," I answered. "But that's what it says in the bulletin. 'Antiphonally.' I presume that the right half of the congregation says the even verses and the left hand side does the odd ones."
"What do we do?" said Mark Wells. "We're in the back."
"Your choice," I said. "Now take out your anthem for the offertory and let's go through it. Lord, For Thy Tender Mercy's Sake by Richard Farrant."
"What the hell is that thing?" asked Marjorie, pointing down at the altar. Marjorie had found her chair and just noticed the new sanctuary decor.
"I believe it's a bald eagle," I answered. "And a squirrel."
"I know it's an eagle! Why is it on the altar!?" Marjorie was incensed. As a thirty-year member of the Altar Guild, although now long retired, she had standards.
"It's there because Mother P is preaching on Psalm 91," said Muffy. "The new members of the Altar Guild thought that it would help the congregation visualize the promise. For He will command His angels to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone. Also, there's eagles in there somewhere."
"So what?" said Marjorie. "When she preaches on Abraham and Isaac, is she going to throw a slaughtered goat up there?"
"Now, Marjorie," I said. "I believe that was a ram."
"Where's the squirrel come in?" said Randy.
"It came with the eagle," Meg said.
"Well, I don't like it!" spat Marjorie. "Not one little bit!"
Muffy pursed her lips and didn't comment further.
Joyce Cooper's face appeared at the choir loft door. "Hayden," she called. "I really hate to interrupt, but you need to come down here for a minute."
The look on her face told me she wasn't joking. I got up from the organ bench and wound my way through the sea of legs and billowing surplices, then descended the steps into the narthex. Joyce was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
"Two Indians," she said and pointed through the door into the church. "Sorry. Native Americans. On the left side. See them? I went up and tried to talk to them. They stared right through me. Gave me the creeps. Something's not right."
"I'll talk to them," I said, moving into the church and making my way to the side aisle.
They saw me coming and both turned to face me, slowly, their hands coming to rest in front of them, hands clasped just above their belt buckles. They were both dressed in black, the taller of the two wearing a black suit, black silk shirt with no tie and black dress cowboy boots. He was a shade over six feet and powerfully built, heavy shoulders and a thick middle. Glancing at the hands in front of him, I saw large, calloused knuckles and several gold rings. He had on a gold necklace as well, a chain with a golden arrowhead that dangled onto his hairless chest. The shorter of the Indians was not that much shorter, but he was slighter. His face was meaner and his small, black eyes followed my movements with intent. He was wearing black, skinny jeans and a black turtleneck, and dress cowboy boots with silver tips on the toes that looked exactly like the one I'd seen decorating the boot of Johnny Talltrees. Both men had long, black hair, slicked, and tied back in ponytails. They looked dangerous. They were dangerous.
; "Gentlemen," I said as I approached. The church was empty except for the choir, watching from the loft, and Joyce, who was standing nervously by one of the back doors leading to the narthex.
One of them, the smaller one, nodded at me but didn't say anything.
"My name is Hayden Konig. I'm the Chief of Police." I held out my badge, then slipped it back into my pocket. "I also work here at the church. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, Chief," said the smaller one. "Thanks just the same. We were looking for someone. We heard he might be here."
"Johnny Talltrees?" I asked.
The smaller Indian's eyebrows went up a hair, but other than that his expression didn't change. "You know Johnny?" he said.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Johnny's dead. We're looking into the circumstances surrounding his death. I'm sorry for your loss."
The smaller Indian gave a shrug. The taller one stood stock still. Then the small one said, "No loss to me. We wondered what happened to him."
"We?"
"We, his employers. We represent the Friendly Gaming Club in Cherokee."
"And your name is ..."
"I am called George Gist." I had no doubt he was making that up.
"And you aren't looking for Talltrees?" I asked.
"Not particularly," he said. "We are looking for someone else."
"Someone in particular?"
George Gist shrugged.
"Well, this is a church and we will be having a worship service here shortly. If you're not here to join us in worship, I'll have to ask you to wait elsewhere."
George Gist considered this for a moment, the gave a small nod. "We will wait for him elsewhere."
"If you mean anyone harm," I said, "it might be best if you go on back to Cherokee." I gave him a hard look, then shifted my gaze to the tall Indian. He hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked as far as I could tell.
"We just need to have a word. As I said, we'll wait for him elsewhere." George Gist glided past me and was followed by his confederate. They walked to the door, looked back into the church one last time, then disappeared outside. I followed them back down the side aisle at a reasonable distance and looked out the front doors. They were both standing in the park, facing the church, hands clasped in front of them, watching.
The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 14