The Diva Wore Diamonds

by Mark Schweizer

  “How’d he get over there? He doesn’t have a car.”

  “Wormy was with him.”

  I shook my head. “Can you go over and check on him tomorrow?”

  Skeeter was the town crazy, but we all liked him and tended to look out for him in the way of all small towns. He might be crazy, but he was our crazy.

  “I’ll try to go over around supper time,” said Nancy. “He needs to dry out.”

  I nodded and turned my attention back to the stage. The play was beginning.

  “Paul and Silas had been put in prison,” began Benny. “It was midnight and they were singing songs to God.”

  “What do you want to sing next?” asked Russ, aka Paul.

  “Let me think,” answered Silas.

  The tribe of Issachar, weapons bristling, marched into view and settled in beside me at the back of the crowd.

  Prisoner One: “I don’t believe it. How can they sing when they are in prison? Don’t they realize they could die tomorrow?”

  Paul: “Yes, we do know that, but God will look after us no matter what happens.”

  Prisoner Two: “It doesn’t look like your God is looking after you now.”

  “You’ll see,” said Paul slyly.

  “Who wrote this crap?” asked Dewey, his distaste evident. The rest of the tribe looked disgusted as well.

  “I think it was Jesus,” said Ashley. “He usually writes this stuff.”

  “It was not Jesus,” I whispered. “I think it was Kimberly Walnut.”

  “The one with Gabriel was way better,” said Moosey. The other kids agreed.

  “Just then, there was a major earthquake,” Benny the Narrator announced. “The chains that tied Paul and Silas to the wall fell off, and all the doors in the prison opened.”

  All the players fell to the ground in dismay. Bernadette laughed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said the prisoners in unison, the way people often speak when faced with such an opportunity.

  Paul: “No, don’t! God wants us to stay here.”

  Samantha spat on the ground and narrowed her eyes. “I’ll tell you one thing. If I was a prisoner, I’d be outta there so fast, I’d look like a roadrunner cartoon.”

  “Just then the guard arrived,” said Benny.

  Bud was way off to the side, talking to Ardine, and walking in the other direction.

  “Just then the guard arrived,” said Benny again, this time louder and looking around for Bud. The crowd tittered. Meg, sitting in the front and looking around, caught my eye and gave me a meaningful toss of her head.

  I rolled my eyes, resigned to my fate, and walked through the crowd toward the front. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed. “The prisoners have all escaped, and I shall be killed. Better to die now by my own hand.” I drew my rubber sword ominously, intent on the happy dispatch, and sincerely hoping no one would stop me in time.

  “Don’t harm yourself,” said Russ. “We’re all here.”

  Benny studied me for a moment, a twinkle in his eye, then said, “The guard called for some lights and came and checked and the prisoners were all there. Then he knelt down at Paul’s feet.”

  I knew a cue when I heard it. “Please tell me what I must do to be a Christian,” I said.

  Paul: “You must believe in Jesus, who died and rose again.”

  And so, for the second time in as many days, I was saved and baptized.

  Afterwards, I went over to Meg’s tent where the tribe was getting out of their tunics and stashing their weapons.

  “You saved the day,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “I don’t know where Bud went. He was right there…then he was gone.”

  “I saw him talking to Ardine.”

  “It’s a good thing you know your Bible stories.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Good thing.”

  Chapter 8

  Having Constance Noring on my arm was my ticket to Anywhere, USA. She was a definite 10, a 5 with her own credit card, and as we made the rounds of the club scene, it didn’t take me long to discover why she needed a private eye.

  “Someone’s trying to frame me,” she whimpered. “Frame me like Mandy Lisa’s great-aunt Mona.”

  “Don’t try to charm me with similes, Doll-face,” I grinned, chomping down extra-vigorously on a particularly tough stogie that I’d found, still burning, on the outside window sill of the downtown Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). “You ain’t got the chops.”

  We made our way past the usher, the bouncer, the velveteen rope, and into the Fellowship Hall. I always appreciated the parenthetical, non-creedal denominations. Not much liturgy, but the beer was great, and there was usually a lit cigar on the window sill.

  “I thought you liked them,” she pouted, her lips suddenly red and full, like tubes of blood drawn by an inattentive phlebotomist. “Similes, I mean.” Her ample bosom quivered in the night air like a whale trying to scratch its back.

  “Nah. I can take ‘em or leave ‘em. Metaphors? Them I like. Metaphors are gold.”

  “Humph,” she humphed. “Anyway, that detective, Jack Hammer, wants me to come downtown for questioning.”

  “I’ll bet he does. I could use some answers, too. For starters, how did you know Wiggy Newland?”

  She laughed. A deep, throaty laugh, like that sound the cat makes just before it throws up a hairball.

  “We were in business. I can tell you now since I’m your client and you’re bound to silence by the Liturgical Detective’s Sacramental Seal of the Confessional.”

  “Uh…yeah,” I said, my mind working like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut. “That’s right. Suuure.”

  “Diamonds,” she whispered.

  The silence was so thick you could cut it with a knife— not even a good knife, but one from that set of Ginsus you got as a wedding gift; the one you told yourself you’d return for a $10 Walmart gift card, but in the end, forgot about because your wife ran off with the maid-of-honor— that kind of knife.

  “Diamonds?” I said.

  “Lots and lots,” she sparkled.

  •••

  “I tell you,” said Pete, “it’s going to be quite a trial if it gets that far. I’d love to be on that jury.”

  There were a lot of places to eat in St. Germaine, but only one for truly deep theological discussion, and that was the Slab Café. It was at this very table that we discussed the finer points of doctrine, such as whether or not a talking gorilla can give his life to Jesus, why some saints simply refused to decompose, or why tossing pigeons off the church balcony on the day of Pentecost was really not a good idea.

  “The way I see it,” said Nancy, “Russ doesn’t have much of a case.” Meg indicated her agreement.

  “Au contraire,” said Pete. “He’s got a hell of a case. Brother Hog prayed for God to smite the Bear and Brew, and God did it.”

  “I have to agree with Pete,” I said. “Brother Hog is in quite a quandry. He can argue that he didn’t have anything to do with the lightning and that it was just coincidence, but then he’d be saying that God doesn’t answer prayer.”

  Pete continued. “And if God does answer prayer, Brother Hog’s prayer in particular, then he’s responsible, because he asked God to do it.”

  “Asked,” I said. “That’s the key. If he’d asked God to do it, and God had a choice whether to do it or not, then he might be okay. But Brother Hog called on the Name of the Lord. Not only that, but he’s a Word of Faith preacher, and their theology says that you can ask God whatever you want and believe it, and he’ll give it to you. ‘And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.’ Matthew 21:22.”

  Meg looked at me suspiciously.

  “I did a little research,” I admitted.

  “So God had no choice?” asked Nancy.

  “Not according to Brother Hog,” I said. “God is bound by his Word. Within the Word of Faith teaching, a central element of receiving blessings from God involves
claiming a promise that God has to honor.”

  “How so?” asked Meg.

  “As I understand it,” I explained, “God created the universe by speaking it into existence, and we Christians, being children of God, can command this same power. Thus, if you make a confession by reciting a promise from the scriptures, whatever you ask for comes to fruition. Name it, claim it.”

  “Dang!” said Noylene, who had finished her bussing, had wandered up and been listening in. “Where in the Bible does it say that?”

  “Mark 11:22 and 23. ‘I tell you the truth, if anyone says to this mountain, ‘Go, throw yourself into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart but believes that what he says will happen, it will be done for him.’ And hence, Brother Hog can’t argue he didn’t cause the fire without going against his own beliefs. I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to do that.”

  “Then it is his fault,” said Nancy.

  “Probably not,” said Pete. “But he can’t say that it’s not. If he does, he’s finished at New Fellowship.”

  “Yep,” I said. “Right now, he’s riding high. Of course, if the church is found liable, his stock is likely to go down considerably.”

  “Why would the church be liable?” asked Dave, who’d joined us as well.

  “Russ Stafford’s position is that Brother Hog was acting as the church’s agent,” said Pete. “One thing’s for sure. Those Baptists are getting pretty steamed at ol’ Russ. Why don’t you ask them about it? I saw a couple of the elders working at the Bible Bazaar.”

  “I think I will,” I said.

  Nancy looked over at me. “Hey, I just thought of something. You and Meg are probably going to be called as witnesses. You were the only ones there who weren’t part of the protest.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “We’ve already gotten our subpoenas,” Meg added glumly.

  The cowbell on the door jangled, and two men in their mid-twenties came in, looking around like they needed some help or at least some information. They spotted Nancy’s uniform and walked over to the table. They both were sporting the requisite three-day beard stubble, LL Bean pre-faded polo shirts, mock-baseball caps, distressed jeans and expensive hiking boots. Designer sunglasses hung around each of their necks on leather lanyards.

  “Hi, there,” said the taller of the two. “We’re looking for the place where the diamonds were discovered.”

  “You’re the third group of prospectors today,” said Pete. He pointed out the window and across the park at St. Barnabas. “They were found right over there, under the church, about a hundred years ago.”

  “No,” said the other man. “The diamonds that were found in the cave. You know, it was in all the papers.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Also a hundred years ago. Sorry boys, but that land is privately owned. All the mineral rights are held by one person.” I looked over at Noylene. She just smiled and kept clearing one of the dirty tables.

  “The paper made it sound like the cave was in a national forest,” said the first.

  “Well, it might be,” I said. “Nobody’s ever found the cave. Pisgah National Forest is huge—over half a million acres from south of Asheville all the way to Virginia. There are a couple of big wilderness areas, but most of it’s privately owned. The particular property mentioned in the AP report is one of those.”

  “Quail Ridge?” said the first man.

  “Yep,” I said. “Private property.”

  “So, even if we found the cave?” asked the second.

  “Anything on that property belongs to the owner,” I said. “And last I heard, she wasn’t in the mood for claim-jumpers.”

  “Oh, well,” said the first with a shrug. “At least it’s a good day for a hike. How ’bout some breakfast?”

  “Grab a seat,” said Pete. “Noylene will be right over to take your order.”

  •••

  The theological discussion had ebbed, and we were all heading back to our respective morning activities. I was standing outside the Slab on the sidewalk, surveying the square and counting my blessings that we’d decided not to give out any parking tickets to out-of-towners. Noylene suddenly appeared at my side, wiping her hands on her apron and looking distraught.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked. “I have a problem.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Russ Stafford has been after me since Christmas to sell him the back forty on Quail Ridge. I think he wants to do some sort of deal up there.

  “Wormy said something about it. He said you weren’t interested in selling.”

  “I’m not,” said Noylene. “But since Sunday, he’s really been putting the pressure on. I’ve got about a hundred and thirty acres up there. Been in the family since the 1940s. My trailer sits right in the front of the property. It was the only way I could get electric.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Here’s the thing. Russ has a camp up on the backside of the ridge. It’s been there for years. He wheeled an old camper in, and him and his buddies use it when they go hunting.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Now I get this certified letter. It came this morning.” She handed it to me.

  I read it quickly. Russ Stafford was suing Noylene for quiet title of most of Quail Ridge under the adverse possession statute. A hundred and ten acres worth.

  “Oh, man!” I said.

  Noylene went pale. “You mean he can jes’ take it!?

  “Did you ever give Russ permission to use the property?” I asked.

  Noylene shook her head. “Not once! Thought I was being nice, so I never said anything. I wasn’t usin’ it for nothin’.”

  “It says here that Russ has been using the property exclusively for twenty-one years.”

  “That’d be about right,” said Noylene.

  “How about improvements? Russ make any improvements?”

  “He did some clearing, pulled some dead stumps out. He made a pasture on the backside and planted corn for the deer. Cut down a few dead trees. I never said anything. I figured he was doing it out of kindness ’cause I let him hunt on it. Then Wormy told me yesterday, he’s built him a little cabin back there.”

  “You didn’t ever use the property? Farm some of it maybe? Graze some cows?”

  Noylene set her mouth hard and shook her head again. “It’s about those diamonds, ain’t it?”

  “I suspect so.”

  “Is this legal?” she asked in flat voice.

  “I’m afraid it is,” I said, handing the letter back to her. “You might take him to court for a while. Hold him up. But he has enough here to make it stick. Maybe you should go ahead and sell it to him if he’ll still buy it.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” snarled Noylene.

  •••

  The last afternoon of Bible Bazaar 31 A.D. promised to be memorable. To begin with, all the children were finishing up their various projects and making ready for the concluding ceremony, which would take place inside the temple tent and would include the presentation of certificates to all participating children; a brief presentation by Cynthia and her disciples of belly-dancing, all decked out in the beads, veils and other accessories they’d fashioned in the jewelry shop; some Hebrew prayers (recited in unison) that the children had learned; a few songs sung; and most of the crafts laid out on colorful blankets for the kids’ parents to “Ooo” and “Ah” over and then take home.

  The memorial garden was abuzz. Kimberly Walnut had informed everyone who would listen that the skit would be at 4:45, to give everyone enough time to prepare for the other activities. It was at about 4:30 that people started noticing a distinct lack of children. The tent-mothers were in their usual places, chatting around the well and having their afternoon tea at the herbalist’s. The shopkeepers were a lot less busy than usual. Seymour Krebbs didn’t have much of a line at the camel ride. I decided that it was time for me to do a little tax-collecting. I’d been pretty lax on the first couple of days.
It was time for these kids to render unto Caesar.

  I caught the first remnant cowering behind the tent of the tribe of Naphtali. He’d seen me coming and darted into the tent, but I suspected he’d duck under the canvas and try to hide in the back. Sure enough, I found him cowering behind a black chokeberry bush.

  “I’ve come to collect the Roman tax, “ I growled, extending a hand. I didn’t know him—one of the kids from the Methodist or Baptist congregations. A slight boy, maybe six years old.

  “Please, sir,” he whimpered. “I don’t have any more coins.”

  “Didn’t your tent-mother just give you some?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes, sir.” He was on the verge of tears.

  “Did you spend them already?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What happened to them?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you,” he said. “They’ll kill me.”

  I laughed and squatted down beside him, no mean feat in a tunic that was a bit too short for comfort.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Kevin.”

  “They won’t kill you, Kevin. C’mon. Tell me what’s going on and we’ll go sort it out.”

  The boy looked relieved. “It’s those ’Piscopals. They took everyone hostage.”

  •••

  It seems that while the tent-mothers were having their tea and Kimberly Walnut was worrying about the skit and the shopkeepers were putting all the crafts in order, the tribe of Issachar had taken over much of the camp, one tent at a time, with a stealth that had to be admired. The Naphtali tent was empty, but Kevin pointed silently to the next tent over. Benjamin. The flaps were closed and when I pulled them apart and stepped inside, I found ten scared children sitting in the corner of the tent, their hands bound behind them with leather thongs and Dewey standing guard over them, a spear in one hand and a sword in the other. He was wearing a leather breastplate over his tunic and a matching headband. Wrist bands and flip-flops completed the outfit.