“Oh, get a room,” said Elaine, rolling her eyes in mock-disgust.
“Yeah,” added Billy. “What if Elaine and me made out every time we saw each other?”
“Probably do you two some good,” said Bev. She held up her empty cup and gestured toward the coffee pot. I took the cup from her hand and walked over to our new, state-of-the-art, industrial coffee maker.
“Grab a cup for yourself, too, and pull up a chair,” said Bev.
Billy would be outside mowing as soon as the dew evaporated and the grass was dry enough for his crew to begin. Billy Hixon’s lawn service took care of the grounds as well as most of the other lawn care and landscaping concerns in St. Germaine. The two big contracts that kept Billy’s service afloat during the long winter months were with the city and included Sterling Park and Mountainview Cemetery. Wormy DuPont had opened his own cemetery when it became clear that Mountainview was “sold out.” If you didn’t already own a resting place and wanted to be planted in St. Germaine, your only choice was Woodrow DuPont’s Bellefontaine Cemetery, known locally as Wormy Acres. Wormy offered all the latest in perpetual accoutrements, including Eternizak, music piped underground into your coffin for all eternity, or at least until your credit card expired.
“I’m going to have to raise my rates,” said Billy. “We’ve got that whole meditation garden to take care of now.”
The original garden had been small and unimpressive—little more than a fenced patio with some boxwoods placed somewhat inartistically along the edges of the concrete pavers; but the garden had been expanded, and its renovation included as part of our rebuilding process. There had been an old, dilapidated house on the lot behind the church, but Thelma Wingler had left it to St. Barnabas when she died, and the vestry had decided to tear the house down and use the space for a meditation garden. Now it encompassed more than an acre and was landscaped to take advantage of the mature dogwoods, poplars, and maples that Thelma never had the heart to tear down, even though they had grown huge and were too close to her house.
“Fine,” said Bev. “I agree. Just give me a written quote. I’ll pass it on to the senior warden, and we’ll see what she has to say.”
Billy turned to Meg. “So, what do you say?”
Meg took a sip of coffee. “I haven’t seen the quote, but I’ll tell you one thing. Give me the real price. Not that one where you add ten percent and then give it back to the church as your tithe.”
“I never did that!” said Billy. “Well…not for a while.”
I pulled out a chair, sat down, and joined the conversation. “Well, what’s the verdict?” I asked Billy. He looked at me blankly. “The diamonds. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Billy, brightening. “Real. Absolutely. I called over to Appalachian State early this morning. The head of the geology department put me onto a gemologist who teaches at Lees-McRae College. I met him at 8:30 this morning.”
“And?”
“He couldn’t tell for sure until they’re cut, but he figures four to seven carats of finished stones. Maybe twenty to thirty thousand, depending on the quality and how they’re cut.”
“Wow!” said Meg. “I didn’t think they’d be worth that much.”
“St. Barnabas gets richer,” I said. “I’m going to have to start taking a salary. Twenty thousand, eh? That’s a lot of money.”
Billy and Bev laughed. Meg hid a smile behind a sip of coffee.
“Hayden,” said Elaine. “Twenty to thirty thousand per stone. Nine stones. You do the math.”
•••
“Something’s wrong,” said Ardine.
The afternoon shadows were creeping over the gravel drive and had almost reached the stoop of the old trailer, a 1972 vintage single-wide mobile home, now looking its age. I’d come by the McCollough homestead to pick up Moosey for Bible Bazaar 31 A.D.
“It’s been going on for the past couple of weeks,” she added.
Ardine had been a pretty woman in her youth, but had led a hard life up in the hills. Now her face was thin and lined, and her graying hair was pulled back into a bun. She wore a loose, shapeless, cotton dress, handmade probably, and had her hands tucked into the pockets of a large cardigan sweater. She looked perpetually cold and rarely smiled.
“What has?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but something happened to Pauli Girl. She won’t tell me what, but I’ve been through this myself, and I know something happened.”
“You think someone’s bothering her?” I asked.
“Worse than that,” said Ardine. “I’ve seen it before. Hell, it happened to me!”
I nodded, waiting for more information.
“She came home from that youth group meeting at the church two Sundays ago. Afterglow, they call it. She wouldn’t talk or nothin’. Just went into her room and closed the door. Then, when I asked her about it the next morning, she just clammed up. She never went back, either.”
“You think it’s one of the boys?” I asked, running the roster of boys that might be in the youth group through my head.
“No,” said Ardine, with finality. “Pauli Girl don’t have no problem with boys. Not that age, anyway. She’s a good girl and sure of herself. She’d laugh them to scorn or put a knee where it’d do some good if one of them ever bothered her.”
I waited.
“No, it’s somebody else. An adult. She acts like she’s ashamed, but it ain’t her fault.”
I raised my eyebrows. “She never went back to the youth group?”
Ardine set her mouth in a hard line. “Nope. And she loved it.”
“You want Nancy to talk to her?”
“I want Meg to talk to her.”
“You know who it is, don’t you?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure. You need to find out.”
•••
Bible Bazaar 31 A.D. was taking place behind St. Barnabas Church in the new garden area. Kimberly Walnut had scripted a three-day activity, taking place from four to six o’clock. Two hours of biblical fun. There were canvas canopies pitched all around the park beneath the poplars and the maples, and the garden was a beehive of activity. Children were busy being divided into the twelve tribes of Israel and being assigned tent-mothers and teenaged helpers from the youth group. They were diving into their costumes, pillowcase-like tunics with holes for their arms and heads and cinched around the waist with a rope or a colorful piece of cloth. In the far corner, a “temple” had been set up—a white funeral tent with plywood pillars in the front and benches inside for the services. In another corner of the park was the drama area where the skits were scheduled to take place. There was a four foot high “well” made out of stacked stone pavers in the center of the garden. An old wooden bucket sat on its lip.
Meg was already in her outfit, something very fetching that she’d gotten from Morocco. Not exactly biblical, but she sure won the prize for best looking tent-mother. She was busy dropping muslin sacks over the heads of squirming and excited children, but gave me a wave when she saw me. Moosey scampered over to her tent and disappeared in two blinks.
Cynthia was there, her belly-dancing ensemble tinkling with every step, happy to do her part as mayor. She was scheduled to have a belly-dancing class with the little girls after they’d strung enough beads and bells together to make some noise. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that belly-dancing, in days of yore, was the purview of prostitutes and wanton women.
Jeremiah the donkey was in a pen, along with a couple of sheep and Seymour Krebbs’ camel. Seymour was in attendance, too, holding the lead rope and wearing a faded blue bathrobe, a bath towel draped over his head and tied with a belt, and sandals with black socks. Father Tony was wandering around dressed as the high priest, complete with a long, false, gray beard. He’d be officiating at the temple service. Ian Burch had also been invited, being the only one in the area with his own shofar, a ram’s horn that was being used to call the children to the temple for the daily service and to the drama area for
scheduled performances. Ian also had the wherewithall to make the horn sound like something more than a flatulent donkey—something we already had, judging from the space the children were giving Jeremiah.
The activity tents were manned with adults from all three of the churches—St. Barnabas, Sand Creek Methodist, and New Fellowship Baptist—all ready to lead the children in pursuits they essentially knew nothing about but were happy to learn along with the kids. I recognized most of the folks, but there were some who were new to me.
Shea Maxwell was helping at the sandal-making tent, Carol Sterling was getting the clay ready to be molded by young potters, and Gerry and Wilma Flemming, the herbalists, were putting fresh-cut herbs in mason jars. The herbalists were also in charge of making tea for the tent-mothers and had an electric coffee pot burbling away to provide hot water on demand. An orange extension cord snuck out the back of the tent and snaked its way to the parish hall.
Brianna Stafford was sorting the beads in the jewelry shop, and Beaver Jergenson, the armorer, would happily show the little warriors in the group how to make some basic biblical armor out of wood, leather straps, and scraps of metal. There was a candy shop where the children could spend a coin if they had one left over. They’d get their ten coins each morning from their tent-mother, and coins were required for apprenticing in the shops, petting the animals, giving alms to the beggars, making their offerings in the temple, and various other things.
Skeeter Donalson made a convincing leper, although, with all the dirty rags he was wearing, it was tough to make out his pockmarked face and permanently greasy hair.
In addition to the folks from St. Barnabas, there were some I didn’t know—a basket weaver, a carpenter, and someone who, according to the placard in front of her tent, was named Lydia, and was going to show kids how to dye cloth purple. I also didn’t know the two soldiers or the beggar. Their costumes were great, though, probably left over from an Easter pageant at one of the other two churches. I was the Roman tax collector and, hence, the bad guy.
Kimberly Walnut was scuttling back and forth like a hermit crab at the Dead Sea, checking her lists and directing adults to their appointed posts. She looked very busy, but, in fact, the tent-mothers had everything under control. Kimberly just had to get the skits running on time.
Unfortunately, the first person I ran into after I’d gotten into my tax collector outfit was Pete. This particular costume was more along the lines of John Wayne’s centurion look in The Greatest Story Ever Told. Short red tunic with a “pleather” overlay replete with brass-colored plastic medallions on strips that hung past my waist, sandals, and a red cape. There was a helmet as well. It was a bit small, but it more than made up for it in style, the hard plastic silver crown sporting hinged face-guards, and topped by red bristles stiff enough to sweep the floor of the Slab Café. The sword was a bonus.
Pete almost fell over laughing. “Your legs!” he guffawed. “You need to get down to Noylene’s Dip ‘N Tan.”
I stabbed him with my sword. Unfortunately, it was made of rubber.
“Did you bring my sandwich?” I asked.
“Yep.” Pete handed me a paper bag, still chuckling. “As ordered. One Reuben sandwich—corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and Russian dressing on toasted rye.”
“And chips?”
“Yeah. Chips.”
Moosey ran up, followed closely by Christopher and Dewey. “Hey, Chief!” he yelped. “Lookit! We’re in the tribe of Issy-something!”
“Issachar,” said Christopher.
“We’re the warriors!” said Dewey.
“Robert’s over in the Baptist tent,” said Moosey. “He has to stay with his class. He’s a Benjamin.”
“I could use some Benjamins,” said Pete.
“Bernadette and Ashley are in our tent, too,” said Dewey, after giving Pete a blank stare for a moment. “And Samantha.”
“We coulda had two more,” volunteered Christopher, “but Mrs. Konig said six were plenty.”
I smiled at the mention of Meg’s moniker. She’d gone back to her birth name, Farthing, after her divorce ten years ago, but decided that she’d rather like to be a Konig. Fine with me.
“I expect you six are plenty for anyone,” I said.
“Can I see your sword?” asked Moosey.
“Nope. I’m the tax-collector. I’ll be expecting some coins from each of you.”
“Mrs. Konig said our coins were for the shops,” said Christopher. “And I already gave one to the leper.”
“Right,” I replied. “But I’m the Roman tax-collector. And the tax man always gets his share.”
“Not if you can’t find us,” said Moosey. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and gave me a crooked grin. Then he and the two boys took off like a shot and disappeared into the crowd.
•••
I spent most of the two hours walking around the bazaar, giving glaring looks to children who’d already gotten the word and who screamed whenever I showed up. Not exactly according to scripture, but precisely what I wanted to do every time I signed my tax return in April. I noticed Moosey and the rest of the tribe of Issachar, including the girls, over at Beaver Jergenson’s armorer’s tent for most of the afternoon.
There were two skits taking place on the first day, the first scheduled at five o’clock and the second just before closing at six—The Conversion of St. Paul and Peter’s Dream. At the scheduled time, the shofar sounded and all the kids ran over to the drama area and plopped down on the grass. I missed the first play, deciding instead to rendezvous with a certain tent-mother who kept giving me come-hither glances and was looking far too tempting in her coral-red Moroccan djellaba.
“Forbidden love,” she whispered, with a seductive smile. “And with a Roman centurion. How naughty.”
“Aren’t you afraid of reprisals from your people?” I asked, moving closer.
“No. Just from my husband.”
“Hmm.”
“Close the tent flaps, my brave centurion,” she giggled.
Hence, I missed the first play, but I couldn’t miss the second one, having been assigned a dramatic role due to the fact that I was the only one with the correct costume. After St. Peter, ably portrayed by Benny Dawkins, had described his vision in which a voice commands him to eat a variety of impure animals with the admonition “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean,” I walked up, was converted and subsequently baptized. My part was easy. I had to answer “Yes” to Peter’s question, “Do you accept Jesus Christ as the Son of God and will you be baptized?” then kneel down and be sprinkled. This rankled the Baptists to no end, but, as Kimberly Walnut pointed out to them, it was just a skit and besides, we didn’t have a river handy.
After the second skit, the kids hied back to their tents for clean-up, costume turn-in, and refreshments. Other than the donkey having some digestive problems, the afternoon went without incident, and a good time was had by all.
Chapter 7
The front-end loader and two backhoes made short work of what remained of the Bear and Brew. They’d worked for a few hours on Monday afternoon, knocking everything down, and by Tuesday, when I arrived in town, they were filling two large dump-trucks with rubble. The trucks would have to make a few trips, but I figured that by noon, all that would remain of the restaurant was a flat slab of cement.
I walked over and watched for a while, then walked back across the park and stuck my head into the police station.
“Anything going on?” I asked.
“All quiet,” said Dave. He was behind the desk reading the Tattler. “Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
I shook my head, and he held up the front page for me to see. The headline read “Missing Diamond Mine Discovered In St. Germaine.”
I sighed. “I’m going to get some breakfast.”
“Hang on,” he said. “I’ll come with you.” He folded the paper and dropped it on the desk. “I already talked to a reporter from Raleigh. They’re picking up
the story. The news should be all over the state by tomorrow.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Just great.”
“Look on the bright side,” said Dave. “Just think of the folks that’ll come into town to shop. Let’s see. They’ll need pickaxes, backpacks, burros…”
I laughed. “Seen Nancy this morning?” I asked, as we made the corner and walked the half-block to the Slab.
“Not yet.”
“I guess she’ll know where to find us.”
•••
We’d just settled into our breakfast of country ham, grits and scrambled eggs when Russ Stafford barged in the door, followed a moment later by Nancy. Russ sat down at the counter after making a quick survey of the occupants of the café. Cynthia dashed into the kitchen to pick up an order, so Nancy grabbed a coffee cup off the counter, poured herself a cup, and made her way over to the table. Her plate was waiting at her place when she arrived.
“Aren’t y’all sweet!” she said in a voice that made us reach for our steak knives.
“What?” asked Dave.
“Aren’t y’all sweet to get me a plate?”
“We always get you a plate,” I said with a wary look. “What’s the deal?”
“There’s no deal,” she said, sitting down next to Dave and helping herself to the family-style breakfast. “Sheesh. I was just trying to be pleasant. My therapist said I should attempt to be a bit less caustic.”
“Well, stop it,” said Dave. “It’s creeping me out.”
I nodded my agreement, and released the grip on my knife.
“Hey, Pete,” Russ called into the kitchen. “Pete!”
Pete came out of the swinging kitchen door, wiping his hands on a towel. It was obviously his morning on the grill and he was wearing the better part of a Spanish omelette on his apron. His baseball cap served to keep his ponytail under control as well as proclaiming his loyalty to the Tampa Bay Rays.
The Diva Wore Diamonds Page 6