“And a good cup of coffee,” I added.
“That too,” Chad chuckled.
“What are you working on here?” I asked, walking over to the concrete slab. Chad followed a few steps behind.
“This will be our labyrinth. It used to be the carport, I think, or a picnic shed, but I took down the roof and the posts. Once it’s been painted on the slab, it will be perfect for our guided meditations.”
I looked down at a paper template, taped at the edges and partially painted. “I recognize the pattern.”
“Yes, it’s become quite famous over the centuries. Over the past ten years, meditation labyrinths have undergone a dramatic revival as a tool for contemplation, relaxation, and spiritual renewal.”
“So, what do you do?” asked Nancy, walking over to inspect Chad’s handiwork. “Try to find your way out?”
“Oh no. A labyrinth is an ancient symbol that relates to wholeness. The way in is the way out. There’s only one path. It combines the imagery of the circle and the spiral into a meandering but purposeful path. The labyrinth represents a journey to our own center and back again out into the world.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Your life is a sacred journey,” continued Chad. “And it is about change, growth, discovery, transformation, continuously expanding your vision of what is possible. You are on the path, exactly where you are meant to be right now. From here, you can only go forward, shaping your life story into a magnificent tale of triumph, of healing, of courage, of beauty, of wisdom, of dignity, and of love.”
“Chad,” I said, shaking my head, “that was a memorized speech if I ever heard one.”
He laughed. “Well, I was a theater major in college. Seriously though, a labyrinth is a metaphor for life’s journey with which we can have a direct experience. It is a symbol that creates a sacred space that takes us out of our egos to our inner spirituality. It will be a central part of our spiritual wellness program.”
“Certainly something to look forward to,” I said. “Is it just you and Cynthia working here?”
“My wife is coming down from New Hampshire next week to join us. She’s also a licensed Christian massage therapist. Her name’s Lacie. She’s been up there packing and selling the house.”
“I look forward to meeting her,” I said. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“Sure,” said Chad. “By the way, you’re going to find out sooner or later…”
My eyebrows went up and Chad shrugged apologetically.
“Lacie and I…we’re naturists. Nudists. Do you think that will present a problem?”
“Depends,” I said. “Will you be practicing your predilection during business hours?”
“Oh, no. That would be highly unethical.”
“Will you be parading around town corrupting our youth and scandalizing our citizens?”
He laughed. “I hardly think so.”
“Then I don’t have a problem. How about you, Nancy?”
Nancy just stared.
Chapter 7
Archimedes is a barn owl. He is mostly white, has a wingspan of about two feet, and, by owlish standards, is fairly tame. He’s been living with Baxter and me for the past couple of years. Baxter, being a dog of discernment and intelligence, ignores him. I, on the other hand, find him endlessly fascinating. He comes and goes as he pleases, thanks to an electric window in the kitchen, and when he shows up, I feed him deceased mice that I keep in a well-marked coffee can in the refrigerator. Now, seated at my desk, I held one of these treats by its tail and watched Archimedes, standing at attention next to the typewriter, take it gently in his beak, throw his head back, and swallow the snack in two gulps. I held up another, but the owl had had enough. He gave two small hops, spread his wings and, without a sound, took off through the house toward the kitchen, as silent as a ghost.
I watched him disappear through the kitchen door, then picked up my new hat and set it gently on my head, expecting nothing less than literary magic.
I started to head back to the office, then decided to
take a short detour into my new favorite bar. Buxtehooters was busy as usual. Piano bars always did pretty well on the south side, but a pipe-organ bar was new to this part of town. I walked in to the sounds of a Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck sing-along; patrons clanking their beer mugs together while a trio of beer-fraüleins led the tune from the top of the bar clad in their Buxtehooters t-shirts and German dirndls. There was no doubt about it. These girls had talents.
I spotted Pedro LaFleur in the corner nursing a bottle of “Diego’s Dog-Oil” and trying to remember the words to the fourth stanza of “Ein Feste Burg.” Pedro was a hard guy to
miss—about two eighty, cauliflower ear, flat nose, three-inch
scar under his eye. He sang counter-tenor for the Presbyterians.
I was walking his way when a hand slithered up from a dimly lit booth like President Nixon coming out of his snake basket, coiling around my waist and wriggling under my trench coat. I looked down at a woman who was half angel, half devil and half mermaid—the good half, not the fish half, her blond hair drifting dreamily in the undercurrents of fruitless pick-up lines and the tidal pools of failed dalliances.
“Sit down, big boy,” she burbled. “The name’s Ginger. Ginger Snapp.”
•••
The next morning found the entire police force at the Slab Café, all three of us, doing our best to encourage the Belgian economy in regard to waffles.
“These are great,” said Dave, swirling the last bite around the syrup-covered plate like a miniature, bite-sized Dorothy Hamill.
“I concur,” I said.
“Ditto,” added Nancy.
“We aim to please,” said Pete. “I got the mix from the Mennonite bakery. Not bad, eh?”
“Definitely not bad,” I said. “By the way, Mr. Mayor, have you checked out any of our new businesses in town? Nancy and I did a walkabout yesterday afternoon.”
Pete flushed. “How was I to know? Everybody wanted some new stores in town. ‘The town is drying up!’ they said. Well, they asked for ‘em and now they’ve got ‘em.”
“No need to get defensive,” said Nancy. “May I have some more waffles?”
“Me, too,” said Dave.
Pete waved a vague hand in the direction of Noylene and she came right over.
“Waffles,” muttered Pete, “and coffee.” Noylene sniffed and headed for the kitchen.
“Don’t get depressed,” I said. “At least you attracted some interesting folks to our fair community. If I’m not mistaken, that’s what Cynthia wanted you to do.”
“If you think she won’t make a big deal of this, you’re mistaken,” answered Pete. “A bookstore run by a nutty clairvoyant, a refugee from a Renaissance Fair, and a Christian massage parlor—that’s not going to play very well in the Tattler.”
“Not to mention the fact that the Christians are also nudists,” said Nancy.
“What!? Oh, that’s just great!” said Pete in disgust.
“We’re off to visit Blueridge Furs this morning,” said Nancy. “Have you been out there yet?”
Pete shook his head.
“We’re all going,” said Dave. “You should come along. After all, you are the mayor.”
“They’re outside the city limits,” Pete exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “I can’t be blamed.”
“You don’t know anything about them,” I said. “It may be that you can take credit for bringing them to the area.”
“Not the way this month is going,” said Pete, as Noylene showed up at the table with a heaping plate of waffles in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. “I’ll go with you though. When are you heading over?”
“Soon as we’re finished,” I said as I looked at the fresh plate of steaming Belgian waffles. “In an hour or so.”
“Who’s gonna watch the town?”
“Let’s leave Noylene in charge,” suggested Dave. “These waffles are delicious.”
Pete and I got into my ’62 Chevy pickup and I turned on the stereo adding the sounds of Zoltan Kodaly’s Psalmus Hungaricus to the roar of the engine and the squeaks and rattles of the old chassis.
“Nice selection,” said Pete. “I can’t tell where the music leaves off and the truck begins.”
“Spoken like a true jazzer. When was the last time you pulled out your sax?”
“I played with a little combo last month. At the Jazz Parlor down in Lenoir. Nobody was there, of course, and it didn’t pay anything, but it helps keep up the chops.” He looked down at the seat and picked up the old gray felt hat.
“Is this it? Is this the hat?”
“That’s the one. I figure that as long as I have it, I might as well wear it.”
“May I try it on?”
“Sure.”
Pete put the hat on his head, but it was big on him and slid down comically around his ears. He sat thoughtfully for a couple of moments.
“Doesn’t do anything for me. I can’t think of a single bad sentence. I don’t even feel like dangling a participle.”
I laughed, took my hat back, and headed out of town on Old Chambers Road, followed by Nancy and Dave in Dave’s Ford Escort. Four miles later, I turned right on Highway 53 and soon saw the newly painted sign for Blueridge Furs. We followed a long dirt drive up a meandering hill and came to what looked like an old dairy farm.
“Did you know this was back here?” I asked Pete.
“I had no idea. It looks to me like it hasn’t been in operation for a long time.”
“It’s pretty clean though,” I said, getting out of the truck and slamming the door behind me. “I mean, it all looks in pretty good shape. A lot of these old farms are completely falling down.”
Nancy and Dave pulled up right behind us and joined Pete and me in our assessment.
“Hey,” said Nancy, “you’re wearing the hat.”
“Yep,” I nodded and turned to Dave. “Have you ever been up here?” I asked. “You grew up in St. Germaine, right?”
“Well, practically,” said Dave. “This is the old Pierce place—Jed Pierce’s grandfather. It hasn’t been a working farm since the ’80s. Old Man Pierce left it to Jed’s father and he sold it to Locust Grove Dairy Farms. They never did open it though. Locust Grove Dairy Farms went belly-up soon after.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My mom worked for Old Man Pierce till he sold the place.”
Today there wasn’t a house on the property but there were three large dairy barns and an office. Most of the fences and chutes had been torn down, but there were a few of the whitewashed posts still standing. In front of the office were two matching, dark green Land Rovers with ‘Blueridge Furs’ printed on the back doors in white script. We walked up the steps and knocked. After a moment, a very attractive red-haired woman—very attractive—opened the door and greeted us.
She was a dish with more curves than a shoebox full of garden snakes, eyes like pimentoed olives, and a face that would make Jimmy Swaggart dress Pat Robertson in petticoats, buy him a beer, and take him dancing.
I immediately whipped off the hat, afraid that, in a moment, I’d have entire chapters racing through my head. “Wow,” I said, under my breath. Unfortunately, Nancy heard me and shot me a nasty sideways look, but before I could explain, we were interrupted.
“Hi, y’all!” the redhead said cheerfully. “Won’t y’all come in? My name’s Muffy.”
“Muffy?” said Nancy. “What an interesting name. And you know, I’ve never seen Hayden’s hat come off his head quite so fast. Is that spelled with a ‘y’ or with an ‘i’?”
“A ‘y’,” Muffy said with a small giggle. “Although I spelled it with an ‘i-e’ when I was in high school. You know how sometimes you can dot the ‘i’ with a little heart?”
Nancy nodded.
“But then I changed it back.” Muffy stepped back from the door. “It was too hard to remember. Come on in.”
We entered the spacious office.
“I’m Pete Moss,” said Pete. “I’m the mayor of St. Germaine. Running for re-election, by the way. I’d appreciate your vote.” He gestured to the rest of us. “And this is Chief Konig, Lieutenant Nancy Parsky and Officer..uh…Dave.”
“Dave Vance,” said Dave, suddenly remembering that his hat was still on and whisking it away. He was grinning like an idiot. Nancy growled.
“Y’all are police? And you’re the mayor? Is there a problem?” She looked nervous for a moment. Nervous looked good on her. So did the light blue angora sweater.
“No, no,” I answered. “We just came to say hello.”
Muffy relaxed. “Whew! That’s a relief. My husband’s went into Boone with Mr. Bateman to get some more fencing. Roderick Bateman is the owner of Blueridge Furs. My husband’s the foreman and I’m the bookkeeper.”
“What’s your husband’s name?” asked Pete. “Maybe I know him.”
“Maybe,” shrugged Muffy, “but we’re from Greensboro. His name is Varmit Lemieux. That’s my last name, too. We got married last month.” She proudly held her left hand aloft so we could admire her ring.
“Beautiful,” said Dave, dodging a withering look from Nancy.
“Breathtaking,” said Pete.
“Stunning,” I agreed.
“Oh, brother,” muttered Nancy.
“How many others will be working out here?” Pete asked, hoping for an employment figure that he could tout in the newspaper.
“We have six now, but Mr. Bateman says probably a dozen before long.”
Pete smiled happily. “Excellent. A dozen new jobs. That’s great!”
“Can I get y’all some coffee and cookies?” asked Muffy.
“Absolutely,” I said. “We haven’t had anything to eat for a good half hour.”
“Hey, wait a minute! Ain’t you the choir director over at the Episcopal church?”
“Yes, I am,” I answered in surprise. “Have you been over to St. Barnabas?”
“Why, sure! Varmit and I are Episcopalians. Well, Varmit was a back-slid Methodist and I was a Catholic so we sort of ended up in the middle. Anyway, we came over to St. Barnabas last Sunday. We heard the choir sing, but we had to get back here before lunch and I didn’t get to talk to anybody.” Muffy offered me a homemade chocolate-chip oatmeal cookie from a nicely filled platter. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Can me and Varmit join the choir? I have a real good voice and Varmit likes to follow along. It gives him something to do instead of sittin’ at home drinking while I’m at choir practice.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve been told,” she said, in a confidential tone, “that I sound exactly like Loretta Lynn.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Choir practice is at seven on Wednesdays.” I shot a quick glance at Nancy, but she decided that it was the better part of discretion to suddenly look down at her feet and concentrate on nibbling her cookie. “Why don’t you come for a couple of weeks and see how you like it?”
“We will!” said Muffy happily. “We’ll be there on Wednesday.”
We were drinking our coffee and enjoying our snack when we heard a truck drive up outside. I looked out the window and saw another Land Rover, identical to the other two, pull up to the office. A moment later the door opened and two men walked into the office, one of them in jeans and a sweatshirt, the other dressed in khakis with a button down collar jutting out of his v-neck cashmere sweater. Both of them smiled affably when they saw us.
“Pleasure to meet you,” said the nattily dressed Roderick Bateman, once we had all introduced ourselves. “I wondered if someone would eventually make a trip out this way to check our operation.”
“We’re not here to check on anything,” I said. “Just to say ‘hello.’ I expect the Fish and Wildlife Commission has some sort of jurisdiction over fur farms.”
“They do,” said Roderick, “but we also answer to the Fur Commission
of America. They’ll be coming in to do our certification.”
“Sounds like a fine organization,” said Pete. “Muffy here was telling us that you plan to employ about twelve people.”
“Maybe more than that,” said Roderick, with a sly smile. “We have a completely new product. One that I hope will catch on in the fashion world. If it does, the sky’s the limit!”
Pete looked very pleased.
“Would you like the tour?” Roderick asked.
“Of course,” Pete and I said in unison. Nancy and Dave both nodded.
•••
Varmit Lemieux didn’t have much to say, but he didn’t seem to mind following us around, unlocking and opening doors as Roderick showed us the operation. We looked at the manure storage area, a couple of sheds, a cold storage room and the pelting shed.
“One worker,” explained Roderick, “can care for five to six hundred breeding females. Then, eventually, we’ll need the harvesting personnel as well. In eight months we’ll be fully operational.”
“How many breeding females will you have?” asked Pete.
“Eventually about four thousand. They’ll produce fifteen thousand kits annually for pelting.”
“How many do you have now?”
“We have five hundred here at the farm, and a thousand on the way from Louisiana.”
“Louisiana?” said Nancy.
“Yep,” said Roderick proudly. “That’s our secret weapon.”
“Can you tell us what it is?” Pete asked.
“As a matter of fact, I can. We just received confirmation from the patent office yesterday and our registered trademark has been approved. Come with me.”
Roderick led us to the largest of the three barns and stood aside as Varmit unlocked the twelve-foot-high door and swung it back on giant hinges.
“We have all the stock in these two barns,” said Roderick, indicating the structure we were in and the one facing us. “We’ll have to build five more over the next couple of years. Not this big, of course—this one was built for cows—but substantial. Very substantial. We’ll let the stock outside during the day once we have the pens built, at least during the warmer months. But at night, they’ll be kept in here.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 6