The Diva Wore Diamonds

by Mark Schweizer

  Chapter 15

  I was usually off on Saturdays, but since I had a special children’s choir rehearsal, I’d also made an appointment with Mitch St. Claire. He’d been in Winston-Salem for the last couple of days, but said he’d be happy to meet me downtown at nine o’clock. After parking my old truck in front of the police station, I had just enough time to pick up a cup of coffee and a cheese danish at the Slab. I took my breakfast into the park, found an unoccupied bench and spent a few minutes watching the Bear and Brew go up. A full crew was working, even though it was a weekend, and, at the rate they were going, the restaurant looked as though it would be back in business in a month or so. Maybe sooner.

  I finished the last bit of the pastry, took a sip of coffee, and was just licking my fingers clean when I saw Mitch St. Claire and Brother Hog coming toward me across the newly mown grass.

  Mitch wasn’t a tall man. In fact, he was quite short, maybe five-six or seven. If he felt deficient in the height department, he certainly tried to make up for it in the gym. He had the rolling gait of a man who lifted weights incessantly and the secondary characteristics of a gym-rat who indulged in the occasional injection to improve his look and performance. I suspected he’d been in more than a few body-building competitions. He was wearing a tight, dark red t-shirt with a picture of a Herculean Jesus carrying a massive cross up a mountain. His biceps strained against the material, and I could count his abs from ten feet away. His waist was tiny and his legs stuck out of his shorts like tiny tree-trunks. He was tanned and shaved, from the top of his slick head down to his hiking boots. His right hand was in a cast, something I hadn’t noticed at the Bible Bazaar, due to the beggar’s cloak he’d been wearing.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Morning, Chief,” said Brother Hog.

  I hadn’t seen Rev. Hogmanay McTavish since the fire. He’d been lying low, at least as a public figure.

  “Morning, Chief Konig,” said Mitch, sticking out his hand. I knew what was coming, so I was proactive. Little guys with something to prove sometimes like to show off with crushing handshakes, and I wasn’t a fan of having my knuckles busted. The trick is to slide your hand all the way into theirs and squeeze with equal pressure. If they can’t grind your bones for a few seconds, maybe make you wince, the showdown is over. I thought I detected a little snarl as he dropped my hand. Maybe not.

  “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Just a couple of questions,” I said. “I’m talking to everyone who was at the Bible Bazaar.”

  “You want to know if I killed Russ Stafford?”

  “Well…”

  “I didn’t,” said Mitch. “But I would have beat the hell out of him if I’d had half a chance.”

  “Oh?”

  “You don’t make a mockery out of the Word of God and walk away without consequences.”

  “I understand how you feel,” I said. “But sometimes discretion can be the better part of valor.”

  “That’s a load of sissy Christian crap!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m the head of a mens-only Bible group called Manpower for Jesus. We don’t believe in that panty-waist version of Christianity. Jesus and Paul were serious dudes. They had teeth missing. Jesus was a carpenter, and he hauled a tree up a mountain after being beaten half to death with metal whips. Paul was in prison for years. You know what prison was like in those days? These guys didn’t eat tofu and bean sprouts. They didn’t hang out at the country club. They were out kicking some serious heathen butt. Same thing with King David. Sure, he might have played the harp, but he made up for it by slaughtering thousands of guys. Thousands! In our Manpower group, we mix our Bible study with ultimate fighting.”

  “Is that why you got in that fight in Greenville?”

  Mitch spit on the ground in disgust. “Calls himself a Man of God. Twinkie of God is more like it! He had no business leading a conference like Jesus 2.0—Retool and Reload. He’s just some powder-puff who wears a robe and gets his nails done once a week. I told him to take his best shot or go back to playing My Little Pony with the rest of the girls.”

  “You told him to take his best shot?”

  “Yep,” said Mitch proudly. “Held out my chin and gave him a free swing.”

  “Did he take it?” I asked.

  “Nope. That’s when I hit him.”

  “Hard?”

  “Nah. Not hard. I just wanted to wake him up to the truth.”

  “And your hand?”

  “Well,” Mitch admitted, “I broke a couple of my fingers on his face.”

  “A couple?”

  He shrugged. “Four.”

  “Sounds like you hit him pretty hard.”

  “I pulled that punch. If I’d hit him square, he’d be dead.”

  I looked at Brother Hog. “It’s true,” he said. “I was there for the deposition.”

  Mitch held up his right hand and smiled at me. His four fingers were taped together and encased in plaster. “I couldn’t have picked up a rock, much less beat someone to death with it.”

  “How about your other hand?” I asked.

  Mitch held up his left hand. “I can’t use three of these fingers either. Christian stick fighting league. I could have used the padded gloves—the rules allowed it— but I thought it was a spiritual compromise.”

  •••

  I mentally checked Mitch off my list, dialed Nancy on my cell and gave her the news. We were quickly running out of suspects. I got back to my truck and heard a voice behind me.

  “Chief Konig?”

  I turned and saw John Perdue walking toward me.

  “Hi, John,” I said affably. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that Jimmy Tinsdale isn’t singing with the band anymore. I won’t be hanging around with him.”

  I nodded, but said, “Don’t throw away a friend because of a mistake.”

  John shook his head. “He wasn’t a friend, really. I don’t even know how I got hooked up with him. Anyway, none of the other guys in the band liked him. He runs with a different crowd. Trouble is, he had a good voice and he was our lead singer.”

  “So you need a lead country singer?”

  “Yeah. We really do.”

  “Can you use a female voice?”

  John shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Have I got the girl for you. People have told her she sounds just like Loretta Lynn.”

  •••

  I arrived at the church to general hubbub of the kind that always precedes a new activity. Kimberly Walnut was racing around with her clipboard, taking the names of parents, getting addresses and signing the children to what was, apparently, a long-term contract. After fifteen minutes of Kimberly’s frantic activity, I took the children up to the choir room and sat them down. There were twelve of them. The members of the Gang of Five were all in attendance. In addition, Ashley’s older brother Jack had come with two of his friends. Jack was twelve and a polite kid. His friends were a couple of freckled, red-headed twins named Garth and Garrett Douglas. Their father worked for the forestry service and had helped me up at the cabin several times. The other four children were third graders, a year younger than Moosey and his crew. I knew their parents, but didn’t know the kids.

  “Okay, everyone,” I said. “Let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Chief Konig.”

  “Can we call you Maestro?” asked Ashley, with a giggle.

  “No,” I said. “Chief Konig. Or Sir.”

  More giggles.

  I pointed at them one at a time and called their names to make sure I had them right. Moosey, Bernadette, Ashley, Christopher, Dewey, Jack, Garth and Garrett. I stopped when I got to the kids I didn’t know.

  “Stuart,” said the first boy, grinning as I pointed at him. His introduction was followed, in turn, by Mary, Jared, and Madison.

  “Great,” I said, playing a couple of gospel riffs that would make Bill Gaither cry. “Let’s get cracking. First,
we learn how to sing. Then we’re going to put on an opera.”

  Chapter 16

  “What are the chances,” said Pedro, sipping his chicken liver schnapps and lighting up a stogie the size of a cucumber, “that Wiggy Newland and Constance Noring would both be registered Theological Platyputarians?”

  “As slim as Oprah’s size 2 Spanks,” I said, lighting a stogie of my own. “Of course, the duck-billed platypus is pointed to by the creationists as the proof that evolution is a scam.”

  “Whether it is or whether it’s not,” said Pedro, “there are only three registered platyputarians in the Diocese, and they’re linked together tighter than Aunt Zoomer’s Ringtail Sausages.”

  “We’ve got Constance and Wiggy. Who’s the third one?”

  “Twelve-Fingered Teddy.”

  The revelation hit me like Romans 13:11. Aussi diamonds, platypuses, the Creation Museum at Lizard Lick. The answer was obvious, as obvious as Joan Rivers’ last facelift.

  •••

  “Guess what?” exclaimed Muffy Lemieux as she adjusted the surplice over her robe. “I’m in a country band! And Varmit’s gonna help out on the mixing board!”

  The sopranos looked slightly startled, but smiled politely.

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” said Georgia. “But do you think you can separate your choir singing from your solo career? I mean, won’t your country stylings interfere with that certain blend we’re trying to achieve?”

  “Nicely put,” whispered Meg.

  “Oh, sure,” said Muffy. “We professional singers can do different styles like crazy. Y’all can come down and hear us if all y’all want. We’re gonna be at the ‘Battle of the Country Bands’ in a couple of weeks at the Hair o’ the Dog Bar and Grill. Varmit even wrote us a new song.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll all be happy to come out and support your efforts. But right now, let’s go over the communion anthem.”

  “I need a summer job,” said Tiff. “Any of y’all know of anything?”

  Tiff was a voice major at Appalachian State and had been singing in the St. Barnabas choir for a couple of years under our “scholarship for young singers” program.

  “I’m pretty sure Pete’s looking for a waitress at the Slab,” Meg volunteered. “Hard work, lousy hours, good tips!”

  “Really?” said Tiff. “That’d be great. Can you give me a recommendation?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Meg. “Why don’t you go on over during the sermon? You can be back by the time we have to sing the anthem.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Hang on…”

  “Here. I’ll write you a quick note. Make sure you talk to Pete. He’s the old hippie with the ponytail.”

  “Thanks!” said Tiff. “I really appreciate it.”

  “You be back by the gradual hymn,” I growled. “And not one second later.”

  •••

  After church, Meg and I had a leisurely picnic down by the lake. Our little mountain lake was close to town and surrounded on three sides by the Mountainview Cemetery. The cemetery didn’t have an access road directly to the shore, but anyone could park on the hill overlooking the lake and walk down, and we weren’t the only ones taking advantage of the warm weather. We enjoyed pork chop sandwiches, courtesy of the Slab Café, macaroni salad and the bottle of Jacob’s Creek Riesling that Bud had recommended. As usual, his advice was right on the money.

  “What were you watching this morning?” asked Meg. “You know, while I was getting ready. You were laughing pretty hard.”

  “Trinity Broadcasting Network,” I said, as I unwrapped one of the sandwiches. “It was the most amazing thing. Did you know that there is biblical proof of aliens?”

  “Really?”

  “Well, first of all, Jesus says in the Gospel of John ‘I have sheep that are not of this pen,’ a clear reference to other-worldly beings. But there’s other evidence as well—in the book of Jonah, specifically. It seems that Jonah wasn’t swallowed by a great fish at all, but rather kept alive inside a spaceship which happened to be hiding under the water.”

  “Really?”

  “There’s corroboration directly from the scriptures.”

  “Okay,” said Meg, taking a bite of macaroni salad. “Let’s hear it.”

  “First of all, Jonah couldn’t have stayed alive inside a fish for three days. There wasn’t enough air. It’s a pretty good argument, but the lack-of-air argument has been used before, and it just doesn’t hold much water.”

  “Oh, very funny,” said Meg, rolling her eyes.

  “Here’s the good part. Jonah says in verse 6, ‘I went down to the bottoms of the mountains.’ Now, how could Jonah possibly know that he was at the bottoms of the mountains if he was inside a fish? He wouldn’t be able to see the bottoms of the mountains.”

  A quizzical look crossed Meg’s face.

  “Unless,” I said, “and this may be the crux on which all Judeo-Christian belief hangs, unless the fish had windows.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Meg. “How can a fish have windows?”

  “It couldn’t,” I said. “You see, it wasn’t a fish at all, but Jonah thought that it was since, prior to his being thrown over the side of the boat, he’d had very limited experience with alien abductions. Also, his story may have been due, in some part, to oxygen deprivation.”

  “When you explain it, it all seems so plausible.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? So what Jonah thought was a giant fish was really a spaceship. With windows.”

  “It all makes perfect sense,” said Meg.

  “I’m betting it was one of those Egyptian ones that Leonard Nimoy is always jabbering on about.”

  “It’s a good thing I only let you watch that channel on Sunday mornings,” said Meg. “I wonder if I can put a parental block on it.”

  •••

  After we finished and packed our picnic hamper back into the trunk, Meg and I drove her Lexus out to Ardine McCollough’s trailer. We were greeted by the family dog, a yellow mongrel that Moosey had, for some unknown reason, named Botox. Ardine came out onto the stoop when she heard the barking, crossed her thin arms and leaned against the door jamb. We got out of the car, took turns scratching the dog’s ears, and walked to the front door.

  “’Afternoon, Ardine,” I said.

  She frowned, but didn’t say anything.

  “We need to talk to you and Pauli Girl,” I said. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “Inside,” said Ardine, tossing her head in the direction of the door. “C’mon in. Bud took Moosey up to the library.”

  The McCollough trailer was always neat as a pin. Ardine worked hard, usually holding down a couple of jobs as well as selling her quilts at The Ginger Cat and other craft shops around the area. I had three or four of them myself. Meg and I sat down on the couch.

  “Y’all want some tea?” asked Ardine. “The water’s already on.”

  “Yes, please,” answered Meg and I at the same time. Ardine took several minutes fixing our beverages and serving them to us in ancient china cups on chipped saucers.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Yes. Thank you,” said Meg.

  Ardine sat in a rocking chair directly across from us, looked at us both for a long moment, then said calmly, “I know what yer thinkin’. I didn’t do it. I’d tell you if I did.”

  “I expect you would,” I said. “I’ve never known you to lie.”

  “Pauli Girl?” Ardine called. “Could you come on out here?”

  I turned and glanced past the kitchen and down the short hallway. Pauli Girl came out of one of the bedrooms, saw us, and lost her color. Then she set her jaw, walked into the living room, and sat on the chair next to Ardine.

  “You can’t keep this a secret anymore,” I said. “I need to know what’s going on.”

  “We know you had a problem with someone at Afterglow,” Meg said. “An adult. We can help. And we need to make sure that this doesn’t happen to another girl. Maybe
someone younger than you.”

  Pauli Girl chewed on her lip but nodded.

  “Were you raped, honey?” asked Ardine. “You gotta tell us.”

  Pauli Girl shook her head and tears sprang to her eyes. “No.”

  “Did someone put his hands on you?” asked Meg.

  She choked back a cry.

  “Russ Stafford?” I asked.

  Pauli Girl shook her head again and sobbed. After a couple of minutes, she swallowed hard, pulled her hair back from her face and looked me right in the eye, the image of her mother. “It was Mr. Flemming,” she said.

  •••

  “That son-of-a-bitch,” said Ardine, her words dripping with venom. “I’ll cut him twelve ways from Sunday.” We were standing back on the front porch. Pauli Girl had retreated to her room with Meg, but seemed to be better for having gotten the secret off her chest.

  “You will not do anything!” I said. “I will take care of this. You understand?”

  Ardine didn’t answer.

  “You understand?” I said again. “I’m not kidding. I’d have to lock you up, and Moosey would go into foster care. Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Promise,” I said.

  “Fine,” said Ardine, spitting out the word like it was poison. “I promise. But only if you do something about it.”

  “I’ll take care of it this afternoon.”

  Meg came outside a few minutes later. “I think she’ll be fine. She’s a strong girl, but she was worried about the other kids finding out. I told her not to worry. That we’d deal with it.”

  We walked back to the car, Ardine following a couple of steps behind us.

  “One other thing,” I said, as I opened Meg’s door for her. “What did you say to Bud during that play at the Bible Bazaar? You remember, when he walked off and left me to be baptized in his place.”

  Ardine shrugged. “Told him to move his truck. He was fixin’ to get a ticket.”

  •••

  I dropped Meg off at the house, called Nancy and drove my truck back into town to meet her. She was at the station when I arrived, going over a missing persons report that had just come in on the computer.