The Diva Wore Diamonds
Page 15
“Can we sing that part about ‘broken limbs and faces faire’ again?” asked Madison. “That’s my favorite song.”
“Mine, too!” said Stuart. “That’s the part where we all get chewed up by the bears!”
With broken limbs and faces faire,
Now supper for the ancient bear,
We moan the curse that sealed our fate,
The mocking of his balding pate.
Chapter 19
“Choir practice is our social activity for the week,” said Meg. “You can’t expect us to shut up and sing.”
“Anyway, we’re off this Sunday,” said Marjorie. “The kids are doing their musical.”
“Yeah,” said Marty, “so stop bothering us.”
“Do you think we might rehearse just a bit?” I asked. “I’ll let you sing something sweet. Maybe something by John Rutter.”
“Which one?” asked Georgia, suddenly interested. “Not one of those Renaissance re-mixes!”
“How about A Gaelic Blessing?” I offered.
“Nah,” said Bev. “What about For the Beauty of the Earth?”
“Too many notes,” I said.
“I like that one about sweet, sweet music,” said Marjorie.
“That’s a Christmas anthem,” said Meg.
“A Clare Benediction? God Be In My Head? The Lord is My Shepherd?”
“That last one,” said Fred, perking up. “It’s the one with the oboe, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I just happen to have the copies right here.”
You fools, I thought, laughing to myself in my Vincent Price voice. You’ve played right into my hands. I knew they’d go for the 23rd Psalm. Now I had them right where I wanted them.
“Tell us about this musical,” said Bob Solomon. “I hear that it’s an American premiere.”
“Absolutely right,” I said. “Although Henry Purcell is an English composer.”
“Old-timey?” asked Marjorie.
“Born in 1659,” I said, “and died at age thirty-five. The manuscript was found at Cambridge earlier this year.”
“What’s it called?” asked Randy. “You’ve been rehearsing those kids like crazy!”
“Elisha and the Two Bears.”
“Is that a Bible story?” said Tiff.
“Elisha is a fine character in the Old Testament, but he didn’t make it onto many Sunday School flannel-boards. His stories are sort of…”
“Gruesome?” offered Meg.
“Horrific?” said Bev.
“Grisly?” added Elaine.
“Bloodthirsty?” chimed in Rebecca.
“No,” I said. “I was going to say harsh, but fair. This is a story to warm the hearts of follically-challenged men everywhere.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Sheila.
“Elisha, God’s prophet, just cleaned up Jericho’s water supply and was on his way up to Mt. Carmel when some youths came out and made fun of him saying, ‘Go on up, baldy!’”
“Nice kids,” snorted Steve DeMoss. “Sounds like those hooligans over in Sterling Park.”
“Those were not hooligans,” said Sheila. “Those were eight-year-olds playing kick-the-can, and you were in their way.”
“Still…” grumbled Steve, smoothing his two hairs back into place.
“Anyway, Elisha was not amused,” I continued. “He called down a curse, and two bears came out of the woods and ate forty-two of them.”
“What?” said Marjorie. “Ate them?”
“Amen,” said Mark. “Harsh, but fair.”
“That’s in the Bible?” asked Tiff.
“Oh, Elisha’s in some good stories,” I said. “Like the one where there’s a famine so bad that a quarter piece of dove dung was selling for five pieces of silver, and a donkey head was going for the equivalent of a three bedroom house.”
“And?” said Rebecca.
“And this woman made a pact with her best friend that they should eat their kids. But after they ate the first one, the second woman backed out on the deal.”
“Well,” said Mark with a shrug. “Presumably, she was full.”
“Then the king blamed Elisha for the famine and was going to cut off his head, so Elisha called the whole famine thing off.”
“How come we never heard of these stories?” asked Muffy.
“Then there’s the one where the woman drives a tent-peg through her husband’s best friend’s ear.”
“Do you have a musical for that, too?” asked Meg.
“I could write one,” I offered. “The grand finale would be The Whacking Chorus.”
“Whack, whack, whack,” chanted the men.
“Oh, just stop it,” said Meg. “Shouldn’t we be rehearsing?”
•••
Muffy Lemieux stood up to make an announcement. “I hope all y’all are going to come up to hear us at the Hair o’ the Dog Bar and Grill in Boone. We’ll be performin’ Varmit’s new song at the ‘Battle of the Country Bands’ on Saturday night.”
“Why don’t we make it a road trip?” Phil said. “We could meet here, and some of us could drive over.”
This met with general agreement and enthusiasm.
“The show starts at eight,” said Muffy. “Don’t y’all be late. And don’t get drunk before y’all vote. We’re the third band to play.”
•••
“Any breaking news on our murderer?” Dave asked, as he decided which donut would be voted most likely to quell his mid-morning munchies.
“Not unless someone came in and confessed while I was writing parking tickets,” I said.
“Are you writing parking tickets?” asked Nancy.
“Nah,” I said. “Did anyone come in and confess?”
“Nah,” said Nancy.
“I still think that I’m missing something. Something important. It’s right in front of us.”
“We still think that Gerry did it?” asked Dave.
“Well,” I said, “we can’t prove it, that’s for sure. And frankly, no. No, I don’t think he did.”
“That doesn’t leave us with a lot of suspects,” said Nancy. “We’ve looked at almost everyone that was at the Bible Bazaar. You don’t think one of the kids killed him, do you?”
“Holy smokes!” said Dave. “I hope not.”
“No prints on the rock,” I said. “No DNA either.” I shook my head. “I don’t think it was a kid.”
•••
I had a friend named Bucky James who was the head of the tourism council in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Bucky and I went to high school together, and we’d managed to keep in touch over the years. In fact, I’d played the organ at his first and third weddings. I called Bucky because the Gatlinburg Tourism Council had spared no expense in creating the best bear costumes money could buy. These costumes weren’t for rent, and no one was allowed to borrow them, but Bucky had found himself at a cock fight in Watauga County late one night, with no friends and the feds banging on the door. He’d needed a favor then, and I didn’t mind calling one in now.
“When can you pick them up?” asked Bucky.
“Is Friday okay?” I said.
“That should be fine,” said Bucky. “I need them back on Monday. Queen Margrethe II of Denmark is coming over to Dollywood, and the mayor wants to have the bears walking around all day in case she heads over this way for some miniature golf or something.”
“I’ll get them back to you Sunday night.”
I borrowed a harpsichord from Ian Burch and moved the altar toward the front wall to give ourselves a bit more playing area. Meg and Cynthia finished the costumes, and our last dress rehearsal was scheduled for Saturday morning.
Chapter 20
Pedro met me at the Noring mansion just a little before two.
“I talked to Hammer,” he said. “Twelve-Fingered Teddy had a platypus, sure enough. How did you know?”
“I figured it out. Let’s get Constance and get out of here before it all shakes loose. I’ll fill you in later.”
We found her in the library, reclining on the davenport and draped in diamonds: a diamond tiara on her head, a diamond choker around her goose-like neck, diamond bracelets on both wrists and six diamond rings the size of golf-balls. She was cold, cold as the ice she was wearing.
“Poison,” I said, pointing to the wriggling mass beneath her frock. I reached under the clothes, pulled out a platypus by its tail, and held it up for inspection.
“Nature’s anomaly,” I said. “The Creator’s little joke. Webbed feet, fur, a beaver tail, a duck-bill, a pouch, and, to add to the fun, these little rascals lay eggs.”
“So how was she poisoned?” asked Pedro, glaring at the squirming creature the way a librarian looks at that guy who just comes in to read the newspapers.
“Did I forget to mention? These guys also have poison spikes,” I said, pointing to the rear feet of the squirming varmint. “They’re so darn cute, I guess she forgot about the poison spikes. Rookie mistake. I’ve seen it happen a hundred times.”
“So, she and Wiggy…”
“Yep,” I said. “Twelve-Fingered Teddy was in on it, too.”
I reached into the pouch of the little duck-mole and pulled out a handful of diamonds and a thumb-drive. “They were smuggling the diamonds in the pouches of the platypodes. Aussi diamonds, to pay for the construction of the Creation Museum. Then they were giving these snappers away as pets to upscale Episcopalian dayschools to teach them the folly of Darwinian evolution.”
“Ingenious,” said Pedro. “And the thumb-drive?”
“Wiggy’s files. I’ll make a copy just in case, then turn it over to the Bishop and collect our fee.”
“But who killed them?”
“Accidents,” I shrugged. “You can’t keep a platypus in your pants without consequences. Just ask Bill Clinton.”
•••
The bear costumes were superb. Teeth and claws, realistic enough to make Queen Margrethe II reach for her scatter-gun. The face of the person inside was right at the base of the bear’s neck, hiding behind a piece of black netting that would conceal his features, while the neck and head of the fierce beast soared upward to reach seven and a half feet in height. The fur was black and thick and actually smelled as if it came off a bear. I suspected that these costumes hadn’t been cleaned for a while.
I had hired two basses for the roles of the bears. One was a voice teacher at Appalachian State by the name of Zeb Martin. He had a huge, dark voice and had sung opera in Germany for a number of years before coming back to the States to teach. The other was a Presbyterian church choir director from Greenville. Darius Reeves had a fine voice as well and had welcomed the opportunity to skip out during his church’s Youth Mission Sunday. I’d heard both of them at a performance of Handel’s Israel in Egypt in the fall where the only singing for the bass soloists is a duet that brings down the house. Almost literally. No delicate singing here. It’s a contest to see which bass will remain standing at the end. By the time The Lord Is A Man of War has finished, if there isn’t plaster loose on the ceiling, someone hasn’t been doing his job. I expected no less from my bears.
The tenor was Dr. Cleamon “Codfish” Downs, a retired voice teacher who, in his 60s, still had a pretty good high ‘G.’ Codfish supplemented his retirement income by selling fish, stolen from a local fish farm, out of his trunk. It wasn’t uncommon to hear Nessun dorma while buying a brace of purloined rainbow trout. I’d cornered him on Old Chambers, bought some freshwater shrimp, and talked him into playing the part of Elisha.
The kids were dressed in their Bible Bazaar 31 A.D. tunics, although gussied up just a mite with leather lacings and actual sandals in place of flip-flops. There were props as well—a few of Kimberly Walnut’s styrofoam rocks for tossing, plenty of red ribbon to represent blood, and some goatskin flasks that the boys simply could not do without.
I’d tuned the harpsichord, Cynthia was on hand to supervise her choreography for the Munching Dance, Meg was standing by in case of a costume emergency, and we were good to go.
•••
“It’s not that difficult to sing in this bear suit,” said Zeb. “But I can’t really hear anything. There’s fur in my ears.”
“It’s going to be a problem,” agreed Darius.
“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Hey,” said Dave, who had wandered into St. Barnabas to watch. “I can fit you both with a Bluetooth, sync them to my Blackberry and set it on the harpsichord. You’ll be able to hear the accompaniment as well as the other voices.”
“Will that work?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Dave with a shrug. “Why not? I’m going to run down to the Radio Shack. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
“There’s a phone call for you,” called Meg from the back. “On the church phone.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said. “You kids go over your dance.”
•••
“Mr. Konig?” said the voice. “My name is Dr. Hiram Milligan. I’m the president of the North American Purcell Society.”
“Ah, yes. Dr. Milligan.”
“Call me Hiram.”
“Certainly, Hiram.”
“I read in the Boston Globe that your early music ensemble was performing a newly discovered work.”
“The Boston Globe?”
I heard the rustling of a newspaper. “Well, it’s an AP article. St. Germaine, North Carolina. Is that correct?”
“Well, yes,” I said.
“A Ms. Kimberly Walnut is quoted as saying that this newly-discovered work is the find of the century.”
I gritted my teeth as I remembered saying those exact words to Kimberly Walnut not three weeks ago.
“Could you tell me something more about it? The story is from Second Kings? It says here that it may be a companion piece to Saul and the Witch at Endor.”
“Well, possibly,” I said. “It’s about the same length, although there’s a children’s chorus in addition to the three principal voices. It was discovered at Cambridge.”
“Yes, it says that here as well. At St. Catharine’s College, among Henry Purcell’s grandson’s papers. I’m amazed that no one ever thought to look there. Well, we’re all very excited here at the Purcell Society. And we can’t wait to hear it.”
“Hear it?” I said.
“Oh, yes! We’re flying in to Greensboro tonight. Then driving up for the performance tomorrow morning. It’s not every day we get to hear an unknown Purcell masterpiece.”
•••
“That was the Purcell Society,” I whispered to Meg. “They’re coming from Boston to hear the performance tomorrow.”
Meg smiled. “Well, I guess that puts you in a bit of a pickle, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” I asked innocently.
“Well, how are you going to explain away the fact that you’re the one who wrote it?”
“Huh?”
Meg laughed. “It just serves you right. Elisha and the Two Bears, indeed!”
“You mean, you knew?”
“The Munching Dance?” She laughed again. “With broken limbs and faces faire? It has Hayden Konig stamped all over it.”
“Well, in my defense, I didn’t write all of it. Most of the music was by Geoffrey.”
“Well, that should go over well with the Purcell Society.”
•••
Meg and I rendezvoused with our group at the Hair o’ the Dog Bar and Grill just before eight o’clock. Nancy had shown up, having received a personal invitation from Varmit. She’d brought Dave along as her designated driver. Many of the choir had shown up in support of Muffy and her vocal stylings. Marjorie had arrived early, sequestered a couple of tables in the back, and was si
pping a chocolate martini. We paid our cover charge, found our seats and ordered the Hair o’ the Dog appetizer—baked potato skins with a sour cream and some kind of salsa—and drinks. I decided to try the Rogue Shakespeare Stout. Meg ordered a glass of white wine.
“The Battle of the Country Bands” was a nice way of saying “Welcome to our talent show.” The first group up was introduced as “The Kidney Stones.” They weren’t country in the way that Johnny Cash was country, but more of a rockabilly band. The first song, titled Heaven’s Just a Sin Away, brought the crowd to its feet. Most of it anyway. I suspected that The Kidney Stones had quite a claque in place. Their second number was a more raucous selection—I Wanna Whip Your Cow. Again, the crowd showed its appreciation.
The second band on the schedule was billed as “The Bluegrass Tommys.” It was a swell hook—a few guys, all named Tommy, playing bluegrass. If they were any good at all, they couldn’t miss. Unfortunately, The Bluegrass Tommys didn’t show up. So much for the hook.
It took a couple of minutes for Muffy and the Goat Wranglers to get their equipment set up. John Perdue was playing fiddle and guitar. The rest were college-aged guys on electric bass, drums, the pedal steel, and piano. Five of them in all, plus Muffy. The pedal steel guy also had a guitar. He and John would be switching off. Varmit was running the sound.
Muffy was wearing her signature light-green angora sweater and white capri pants. The rest of the band were in beat-up cowboy hats; embroidered western shirts, worn untucked for casual effect; and faded jeans. Their first song was I’m the Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised, and it was a good one. There was a fiddle break in the middle that John positively tore into. He and the bass player were also singers and good ones. Meg looked over at me in surprise.
“They’re excellent!” she said.
“When you’re right, you’re right,” I agreed.
“C’mon,” said Nancy, grabbing Dave by the hand. “Let’s dance.”