“Well,” said Fiona Tidball-Lemming, sitting back triumphantly. “Isn’t that a grand idea? What do y’all think?”
Everyone glanced in my direction and waited.
“Well,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to do a Singing Christmas Tree for some time, but Cornerstone Baptist over in Boone has been doing one for the past fifteen years.”
Father Lemming’s face fell, but Fiona was not to be denied. “That’s what? Twenty miles from here? There’s no reason why we can’t do one as well.”
“I suppose not,” I said. “But the Cornerstone Baptist Tree has quite a following. People might think we’re trying to horn in on their Christmas ministry.”
“Harrumph,” snorted Fiona. “They probably don’t even know how to stage a proper Singing Christmas Tree. When we did ours, we had solos, children dressed as dancing sheep…the teenagers even rode into the church on four-wheelers singing Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire. And that wasn’t even the grand finale. The people went wild for it!”
“If I might suggest something,” I said. “We could consider an alternative that would preempt Cornerstone’s Singing Christmas Tree.”
I felt, rather than heard, a small gasp come from Meg, but undaunted, I rested my elbows on the conference table, templed my fingers and continued.
“Since Cornerstone Baptist is doing a Singing Christmas Tree, I suggest something for Thanksgiving. I’ve been thinking about just such a production.”
Meg kicked me under the table. Hard.
“I like it,” said Father Lemming with a thoughtful nod. “We could do the show a couple of weeks before Cornerstone’s show. What do we call it?”
“We call it The Living Gobbler,” I said, deftly dodging another kick. “It’s like a Singing Christmas Tree except with a Thanksgiving theme. We’ll have a giant banquet table, Pilgrims, Indians, Thanksgiving carols, the works. I think I can guarantee a huge success.”
Father Lemming looked over at his wife who was eyeing me carefully. Then a huge and terrifying smile spread across her pie-like features.
“I think it’s a marvelous idea!” she chortled. “We could work in some Christmas songs as well. Everyone’s used to hearing them in the stores by Thanksgiving anyway.”
“It’s settled then,” said Father Lemming with a clap of his hands.
“I don’t think it’s quite settled,” said Bev, caution evident in her tone. “This really should be approved by the vestry.”
“I don’t think so,” said Fiona. “I’ve read the by-laws. Actually the vestry at St. Barnabas is charged with the maintenance of the parish finances and its property. The vestry is also responsible for filling various positions of parish leadership. The programs of the church are the responsibility of the rector and the hired staff.”
Bev chewed on her lower lip while Father Lemming nodded in agreement before continuing.
“I’d like to appoint Fiona as the Director of Christian Education and Worship.” He looked at Bev. “Now, before you say anything, I know that the vestry will have to approve the appointment so we’ll have to get it on the agenda of the next meeting, dontcha know.” He turned to Marilyn. “When is that?”
Marilyn had stopped taking notes and was sitting motionless, as stunned as the rest of the committee. Suddenly she bustled to life, flipping several pages until she came to the information.
“Not until the end of November,” said Marilyn. “We just had one and we’re getting ready for the stewardship campaign.”
“Fine,” said Father Lemming. “Till then, Fiona will be the acting director. We’ll get her approved in November.”
“We could have a special ‘called’ vestry meeting,” said Bev.
“No need,” said Father Lemming, waving a dismissive hand. “Fiona won’t be taking a salary, so there should be no problem. By November, the vestry will be able to see the job she’s doing, dontcha know. There won’t even be any discussion,” he said proudly. “Now then, what’re the plans for this Sunday?”
Chapter 9
Lunch at the Slab following a worship committee meeting was more or less required. This particular afternoon, all members were in attendance. Nothing much was said until we were all seated at the large eight top near the kitchen; then, as if on cue, they all turned on me.
“What were you thinking?!” screeched Georgia. “The Living Gobbler? Are you crazy?”
“You were just kidding…right?” asked Joyce, her face dropping into her hands.
Bev spun around in her seat and slugged me in the arm.
“Ow!” I yelped.
“This is not funny! If we give those people an inch they’ll be putting up screens in the nave and using Baywatch videos to explain the mystery of the incarnation!”
“Hang on…” I said. “There’s no need…”
Carol slugged me in the other arm.
“Hey. Stop it.”
I looked up and saw Pete making his way to the table. Carol slugged me again just for meanness. “First you quit,” she growled, “and then you come back and now we’re doing The Living Gobbler? I oughta hit you again!”
“What’s this about The Living Gobbler?” asked Pete, sitting down at the table.
“Hayden has decided that St. Barnabas should put on The Living Gobbler as a Thanksgiving spectacular,” said Meg. “I tried to kick him under the table, but it was no use. He somehow talked the Lemmings into thinking it was a good idea.”
“The Lemmings?”
“Our new clergy ministry team. Father Adrian and Fiona, dontcha know.”
“Don’t I know what?” asked Pete, somewhat confused. Meg didn’t elaborate.
“Anyway,” continued Pete, “it sounds great. We can advertise it before the election. That’ll show everyone we’re community minded and might even get a few more folks into town for Thanksgiving weekend shopping.”
“I’m glad you can see the advantages,” I said. “Of course, the show hasn’t actually been written yet.”
“How hard can it be?” Meg asked. “Isn’t that what you always say? How hard can it be?”
“Yeah,” echoed Joyce, sarcasm heavy on her voice. “How hard can it be? A couple of songs…the choir dressed up like tap-dancing broccoli.”
“O, Lord,” said Georgia. “Tap-dancing broccoli?”
“Sure,” I said. “Throw in some Thanksgiving tunes…”
“How about Just As I Yam?” said Pete.
“That’s a good one,” I said. “I was thinking of Up From The Gravy.”
Bev slugged me again.
“Stop!” I begged.
Pete spread his arms and intoned in his best carnival bark. “St. Barnabas presents The Living Gobbler. Come and see the first Thanksgiving as it’s never been done before. See the Lemmings as Miles Standish and Squanto, a torrid love story for the ages.”
“Torrid indeed,” giggled Meg. “Miles Standish and Squanto were both men.”
“Although Squanto might be a good character for Mrs. Tidball-Lemming,” muttered Georgia. “The name is certainly apropos.”
“Come see the choir as they portray the four major food groups,” Pete continued unabated. “Watch the alto section do the Sweet Potato Mash. See Carol Sterling as Pocahontas bite the head off a baked chicken. Come take communion from the largest table in North Carolina. See the cast come together for the grand finale in the shape of a Living Gobbler and sing that most famous of Thanksgiving hymns Come Thou Fount of Garlic Dressing!”
“It’s an idea whose time has come,” I laughed. “A show so good, it almost writes itself.”
“How can it go wrong?” Pete asked.
“How can it go wrong?” asked an incredulous Bev. “How can it go wrong?!”
“Excuse me,” said a voice. We all turned and saw an older couple standing a few feet away from our table.
“Excuse me,” said the woman again. “We couldn’t help overhearing. We’ll be back in town on Thanksgiving weekend and I wonder if we could get tickets?”
&nb
sp; We sat in stunned silence.
“Sure,” Pete said finally. “Would you like seating in the Gourmet or Buffet section?”
•••
We had just attacked our cheeseburgers, the Slab Café Wednesday special, when Pete, the only one at the table who had forgone the feast, interrupted our repast.
“Anyone read the paper this morning?” he asked casually.
“Not me,” I muttered, managing two words around the side of a mouthful of fries. Everyone else, their mouths being currently occupied with lunch, shook their heads.
“What’s the use of getting on the front page if no one reads it?” grumbled Pete. “There’s a big article about all the increased economic activity in St. Germaine.”
I shrugged and swallowed. “So?”
“So?” said Pete. “So? I’m in the political fight of my life here, people!”
“Pete,” said Meg, “you’re running for mayor of St. Germaine, a town of barely three thousand residents, against a woman whose only qualifications are that she’s belly danced for Bill Clinton.”
“Really?” asked Joyce. “She belly danced for Bill Clinton?”
“Oh, sure,” said Carol. “Back when Clinton was president. His first term, I think. Before Monica. It was in the Tattler.”
“Well, that sheds a whole new light on everything,” I said. “I didn’t know that Cynthia belly danced for the president. Maybe she is qualified to be mayor.” I motioned for Pete to pass the ketchup. “I hope for your sake that she doesn’t advertise her political expertise, or you’re in big trouble.”
“I’m sure it’ll come up in the debate,” said Pete.
“Debate?” said Georgia.
“Yep,” said Pete with a grimace. “There’s going to be a debate. A week from today. I hear that Cynthia has hired a publicist from Boone to help her prepare.”
“That sounds like great fun,” I said. “What time and where?”
“Eight o’clock at the courthouse.”
“No problem. We’ll cut choir practice a little short.”
“What about Living Gobbler practice?” asked Georgia.
“That doesn’t start until Thursday.”
“Hey,” said Joyce. “Where’s Noylene? Isn’t anyone waiting on tables in here? I’d like another iced tea.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Noylene only works in the morning. Then Bootsie takes over around eleven. Hey!” he yelled. “Anyone seen Bootsie?”
Bear Niederman, enjoying his Wednesday special at a table by the front plate glass window, hollered back, “She’s outside having a cigarette.”
“That’s it!” said Pete, standing up and throwing his paper napkin to the floor in a huff, an angry gesture that lost its dramatic flourish when the napkin fluttered to the ground like a wounded butterfly. He stomped it in disgust. “I’ve had enough!”
He sighed heavily, walked behind the counter, got a pitcher of tea out of the cooler and commenced to visit the tables, seeing what the Slab clientele required in the way of additional victuals. But he was not happy.
•••
Our lunch and pressing Gobbler business finished—or at least, on hold—Joyce excused herself, followed shortly by Carol, Bev and Georgia, leaving Meg and me to enjoy a cup of coffee before strolling back to work. I really enjoyed the pace of autumn and this early October afternoon was a perfect example. The crowds hadn’t yet descended on the town for peak leaf season (although there was plenty of color dotting the mountains), the weather was brisk and sunny, and we weren’t close enough to the holidays to feel the pressure inherent in any musician’s life during Advent and Christmas.
“You’re not really putting on The Living Gobbler, are you?” asked Meg, lifting the steaming cup to her lips and blowing gently across the top.
“I sincerely doubt it,” I replied. “The Lemmings will need costumes, a children’s choir director—not to mention a children’s choir, stage hands, set builders, five octaves of handbells, bagpipers, twelve live turkeys…you know…a cast of thousands. That’s what the show demands, of course. A cast of thousands. And an orchestra,” I added. “Don’t forget the orchestra.”
“So it was a ruse.”
“Yep.”
“You have no intention of writing it?”
“Oh, I’ll be happy to write it,” I said. “It’s a show that practically gobbles to be written. I just don’t think it will be performed.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Have I ever been wrong before?”
“Oh, my dear, let me count the ways.”
We were still sipping our coffee and contemplating the last piece of rhubarb pie in the pie case when the door of the Slab banged open, causing Pete’s cowbell to dance noisily against the glass. Nancy strode in, Dave in her wake, and both of them moved hastily over to our table.
“Better come quick,” said Nancy, bending down and whispering in my ear. “Right now.”
I recognized the tone and knew better than to ask questions in a crowded restaurant. Meg and I followed Nancy and Dave onto the sidewalk outside without a word.
“We might as well walk,” said Nancy as we crossed the road into the park. “It’s just a couple of blocks. That new spa just called. There’s a dead woman behind the house.”
•••
We were there in three minutes—straight across the park, a quick detour beside St. Barnabas and two doors over on Maple Street. Cynthia was waiting on the porch of the coffee shop with another woman. Both their faces were paler than their natural pallor might indicate. Cynthia’s hands were entwined inside her apron, the lower half of which was now a knot of material at her waist. The other woman—tall and very attractive—had her arm around Cynthia’s shoulder.
“Lacie?” I asked, as we climbed the steps up to the covered porch.
“That’s right,” said the woman. “Lacie Ravencroft.”
“You’re married to Chad?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Chief Konig. This is Lieutenant Parsky, Officer Vance, and Meg Farthing.” I looked over at Cynthia. “Cynthia, would you like to sit down?”
She shook her head.
“Can you tell us what’s happened?”
“I’ll show you,” said Lacie. “Come on with me. Chad’s in the back.”
We followed Lacie into the front door, straight through the house and out the back. There, in the hedged garden, lying face down on Chad’s newly painted labyrinth, was a woman. All five of us walked up to the edge of the concrete slab. Chad was sitting about four feet from the body, cross-legged, and staring at it as though in a trance. He didn’t seem to hear us approach, or, if he did, he didn’t acknowledge our presence until Lacie called out to him.
“Chad? Honey?”
Chad looked over at us a moment later, then shrugged himself out of his seated position and stood. Nancy and I stepped onto the slab and walked over to the body.
“You didn’t touch anything, did you?” asked Nancy, snapping on a pair of Latex gloves.
“No.”
I bent over the lifeless form as Nancy took her shoulder and rolled her over.
“She’s stiff,” said Nancy, “but not in full rigor. I’d say maybe last night sometime. The EMTs are on the way. Kent can probably give us a time of death if they hustle her down there.”
“Who is it?” asked Meg. “Someone we know?”
“Thelma Wingler,” I said. Thelma was one of those many women of a certain age whose actual chronology was made almost impossible to approximate by black hair dye, face powder, rouge, lipstick and a couple of face lifts. She might have been born anytime from the beginning of Theodore Roosevelt’s term to the end of Harry Truman’s. I knew her as a long-time parishioner of St. Barnabas and the owner of Watauga County’s only crematorium.
“Oh, my Lord,” said Meg. “Thelma? Mother just had lunch with her on Saturday.”
Thelma was wearing a housedress, a light blue floral print, with a cardigan sweater on top. She had on her sensible
no-nonsense support hose and a pair of black Nurse Ratchet shoes. Her eyes were closed but there was no peaceful expression on her face. Hers was a countenance of considerable fear; lips drawn back, brow furrowed and hands clenched, claw-like, with fists full of sweater.
I stood up and turned to Chad. “You found her?”
“Yes,” he answered softly.
“Is she a client?”
“Yes.”
“Want to give us a little more information?” growled Nancy, standing up beside me.
Chad sighed. “We’ve been gone since Sunday evening, but on Sunday afternoon, we had a guided meditation in the labyrinth for a few folks. There were five of us including myself and Lacie.”
“We’ll need their names,” said Nancy.
Chad nodded and continued. “We were here for about an hour. It was a great session. Everyone really got in touch with their spiritual path.”
“Thelma was one of them?” I asked. “Just to be clear?”
“She was.”
I nodded and watched Nancy jotting notes, suddenly trying to remember where I’d left my pad and pen. Chad continued.
“We finished around four o’clock. This woman,” Chad gestured toward Thelma’s body, “and the two other ladies asked if they could come back and try the labyrinth themselves. I didn’t see the harm, so I gave them a key to the back gate.”
I looked around the garden. It was as secluded a spot as you could find and still be in town. The privet hedge was at least eight feet tall and probably planted when the house was built. It had been well cared for over the years and there were no gaping holes in the dark mossy wall. At the back of the garden was an iron gate—the same one I had seen hanging by one hinge. Now it was fixed, closed securely, and offering a view of the back of St. Barnabas’ garden.
“We left on Sunday night,” said Chad. “And we didn’t get back into town until about eleven this morning. I didn’t even look in the garden until right before we called.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 8