The Diva Wore Diamonds
Page 17
The other children joined in:
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.
Mourn, all ye muses, make sad lament,
These youthful lives were foolish spent.
God’s holy prophet man must never scorn,
Or else such Ursine fate must be by mankind borne.
Amen.
It was a service for the ages.
•••
“That was something,” said Gaylen, when we’d all made it back to the parish hall for coffee, juice and general snacking. “I hope you’re going to record it.”
“I expect we will,” I said. “It could have gone a little smoother.”
“Nonsense,” said Meg. “It went just as expected.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Bev.
“I need to go and talk to those Purcell Society members, I guess.”
Meg gave me a puzzled look.
“They were sitting near the back on the right.”
“Those were Garth and Garret’s parents and two of their uncles. I talked to them after church.”
“Hmm,” I said. “I wonder what happened to the Purcell Society?”
“You mean Dr. Hiram Milligan?”
“Yeah.” I paused. “Wait a minute. How did you know his name?”
Meg and Bev howled with laughter. “Don’t you think Kent Murphee does a great Boston accent?”
“What?”
“I swear!” gasped Meg, between outbursts. “You are so gullible! The North American Purcell Society? Oh, really!”
“Well,” I grumbled. “It could have happened.”
Chapter 22
“Thanks for surrendering,” I said. “I’m glad you didn’t make us come out and get you. The Boone P.D. will be here in a couple of minutes.”
Nancy, Dave, Meg and I were sitting at our table in the Slab Café. Pete was behind the counter with Cynthia, listening in. Noylene was pouring us coffee.
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. He just made me so dang mad.”
“He made everybody mad, Wormy,” said Noylene sadly. “Twarn’t no reason to kill him.”
“Here’s the thing, Noylene,” Wormy said. “He was all the time hanging around our trailer. Then, with you getting pregnant and all…”
“What are you talking about?” said Noylene. “I hope you’re not saying that this baby is Russ Stafford’s.”
“Well,” said Wormy, angrily. “It sure as hell ain’t mine! I figured it was Stafford’s, for sure!”
“Sure it’s yours, honey,” said Noylene. “You went down and got re-tested, remember? Your little swimmers are A-okay.”
“I went down and got re-tested all right. But I’m as sterile as a barrow in a nuclear corn crib.”
“What?”
“I just tol’ you I had my swimmers back,” said Wormy. “So you’d co-sign that loan. But then I really did get tested.” He shook his head sadly. “Nothin’.”
Noylene lost a bit of her color, even though it had been recently applied at the Dip-n-Tan. She chewed on her bottom lip, but didn’t say anything.
“So, if that baby ain’t mine,” said Wormy, “and it ain’t Russ Stafford’s, then whose is it?”
It was a question that begged answering, but the answer would have to wait. The cowbell jangled noisily against the glass door of the Slab, and Sgt. Todd McKay came in and walked over to the table.
“I sure am sorry about this, Wormy,” he said.
Wormy stood up. “Yeah.” He held out his wrists.
“No need for that,” said Todd. “Hell, Judge Adams might even let you put up your Ferris wheel as a bond.”
Wormy brightened as he followed Todd to the door. “You think so? That’d be great. I’ll bet I can find those diamonds in another week or so. Then my troubles will be over!”
We watched silently as Todd put Wormy in the cruiser and pulled off into the twilight. Noylene stared for a minute, then took off her apron, tossed it on the counter, and walked out the front door.
“Okay, spill it,” said Meg. “How did you know?”
“He as much as told us. I just wasn’t paying attention.”
Meg, Dave, Cynthia and Pete all looked at me like I had just been elected pope.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “We were looking for someone who was at the Bible Bazaar. Someone who had motive and opportunity to kill Russ.”
“Okay,” said Nancy.
“We should have been looking for someone who wasn’t at the Bible Bazaar.”
“And who was that?” asked Dave.
“Skeeter Donalson.”
“Why Skeeter?” asked Meg. “He was the leper.”
“Sure he was,” I said. “And the leper was working the crowd along with the beggar—Mitch St. Claire—just before the play started.”
“So?” said Cynthia.
“So, it couldn’t have been Skeeter because Skeeter was in the drunk tank in Boone. Wormy took him to a bar the night before and then got him arrested. Nancy didn’t get him out till the next day.”
“So it was the leper,” said Meg. “With the rock, in the park. I thought it might be the butler.”
“Skeeter had no motive,” I said. “And there was no cause for us to even look at him. Wormy read the schedule, saw the title of the play and decided the time was right. It was easy to take Skeeter to a bar. Even easier to get him tossed in the drunk tank.”
“Okay,” said Nancy. “You knew it was someone dressed as the leper. What else?”
“I saw Wormy tossing a box full of rags into the dumpster beside the Beautifery. That’s the second thing. He said they were left over from the Bible School. But he hadn’t even been to the Bible Bazaar, and neither had Noylene, except to see that last play. Why would he have a box of rags?”
“The leper costume,” said Cynthia, with a knowing look.
“That’s also why there weren’t any prints or DNA on the rock. Wormy covered his hands with those rags.”
“Clever,” said Dave.
“Also,” I said, “you remember when Wormy said, ‘that Russ Stafford’s a snake or I ain’t a capon?’”
“No,” said Meg. Nancy and Dave shook their heads, as well.
“I remember,” said Pete. “We were sitting right here.”
“A capon. A castrated rooster. He knew he was sterile. He knew Noylene was pregnant, and he knew Russ Stafford was hanging around his house.”
“Jealousy,” said Dave. “Oldest story in the book.”
“You sure are a smart’un, Sugar Cakes!” said Meg, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
“Sugar Cakes,” snorted Nancy. “That’s a new one!”
“How about some of that Boston cream pie?” I said. “On the house?”
“It’s always on the house,” grumbled Pete.
“That’s why we love you, Pete,” said Nancy.
Chapter 23
No one ever did find the diamond mine that Russ had stumbled upon—if, in fact, there ever was one—even though there were a lot of prospectors on Noylene’s property throughout the entire summer. She collected a fat “prospecting fee” from each of them, had them sign an agreement giving her sixty percent of the proceeds of any gems found on her property, and still had plenty of business. Wormy DuPont pled guilty and ended up with a life sentence, so Noylene put Wormy Acres and the Ferris wheel up for sale. As to the father of her baby, that’s another story.
Gerry Flemming took a plea agreement on the molestation charge and did a few months at a minimum security facility. By the time he got out, Wilma was long gone.
The Right Reverend Gaylen Weatherall came back to St. Germaine in July, as promised, and things returned to normal—or as normal as they ever were. She presided over four late summer weddings, a baptism, and a couple of funerals. Staff meetings were as efficient as they’d ever been under her righteous reign, although I tend
ed to miss more than my share. I continued to choose the hymns, people continued to complain that they couldn’t sing them, and all was right with the world.
The Bear and Brew reopened on a Sunday at the end of July with great fanfare and free beer. The referendum hadn’t passed, but we had no law against giving away beer on a Sunday. No one picketed the event, and Brother Hog was even seen giving his special blessing to an Alaskan Pale Ale.
Bud McCollough went off to Davidson College in the fall. Pauli Girl readied herself for her senior year of high school, and Moosey decided that girls weren’t so bad after all and spent the summer closely aligned with Bernadette.
As for Meg and me, we continued our journey toward our second anniversary. I pointed out that the traditional gift for the second anniversary was “cotton.” She pointed out that whatever the traditional “cotton” was used as wrapping for had better be pretty impressive. I decided on emeralds. Diamonds? Nah. Only divas wore diamonds.
Postlude
“You sure you don’t want that life insurance policy?” asked Marilyn. “If anything happens to you, I’ll be out of
a job. If you bought one, you could name me as beneficiary.”
“If I did, how long do you think it would be before you accidentally shot me?” I asked.
“The policy says I have to wait six months,” she said with a smile. “But it’ll be the best six months of your life.”
I lit a stogie and looked at Marilyn. Her hair resembled Granny Honeysuckle’s famous tuna hot-dish: brown, dry and crisp around the edges, yellow and creamy in the center with just a hint of grease spilling out over the top. Her eyes were dancing like an old man shuffling for nickels outside a bus station bathroom. Her complexion was as perfect as newly mixed pancake batter spread smoothly across the griddle right before it bubbles up, except that it had a few lumps. Still, it was the best offer I’d had all day.
“Where do I sign?” I asked. It’s good to be a detective.