“You have people who can verify your whereabouts since Sunday?” asked Nancy, still writing.
“Of course we do!” said Lacie. “What are you implying?”
“We’re not implying anything,” I said. “Just asking.”
“We were at our naturist meeting,” said Chad. “In Galax. There were plenty of witnesses.”
I nodded to him and headed toward the back gate, leaving Nancy to get the names of the witnesses and the other two women on the labyrinth walk. It was a walk of about twenty feet from the back edge of the concrete slab to the gate. The shape of the garden was square, like the house, and I judged one side of the hedge to be close to sixty feet in length. Sixty by sixty with a twenty-foot square slab smack dab in the middle. Those Victorians liked their symmetry.
The gate had been recently painted and looked to be original to the house. It was wrought iron and heavy. It was also closed and latched with a new padlock on the clasp. The lock was hanging open.
“Check and see if Thelma has a key on her,” I called back to Nancy.
I lifted the latch and the gate swung in easily. I knelt down and saw evidence of recent painting and what was probably some spilled oil used on the hinges.
“No key, boss,” Nancy called back. “She doesn’t even have any pockets.”
“Look for her purse then.”
I walked around the east side of the hedge toward the house, not knowing what I was looking for. It was a good hedge and would probably be fine for keeping a flock of sheep out of Old Mrs. McCarty’s back yard, but it would hardly have stopped anyone who wanted to come in, lock or no lock.
“We don’t see a purse,” said Meg.
“Dave,” I said, “why don’t you put on some gloves and look in the bushes? See if her purse was tossed in there somehow. She wouldn’t have gone out without her purse. Not without a pocket to put her own keys in, not to mention the one that Chad gave her.”
Dave gave me a mock salute and began his search while the rest of us went back inside to wait for the ambulance.
•••
There are some beautiful women in St. Germaine. Meg, for one. Reisa Walker for another. But in the past two days, the company of beautiful women had risen (in my mind at least) by one hundred percent. Muffy Lemieux was a vision of dark red hair, emerald eyes, a voluptuous figure and a baby doll face that projected innocence and sensuality in equal measure; a dangerous combination to be sure. Lacie Ravencroft, in contrast, was dark—dark complexion, thick dark hair, brown, almond eyes, more well-toned than voluptuous, startlingly tall with a lean but curvaceous body, and a smile that would make Pete give away free pie if she asked him to. So I admit that I wasn’t totally put out when I found myself interrogating her in the kitchen of the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop.
Nancy had given me a spare pad and I pulled it from my shirt pocket along with a pen, also courtesy of my well-prepared lieutenant.
“Name?” I asked. “Just for the record.”
“Lacie Ravencroft,” she said, trying out her low wattage smile for my reaction.
“No. I mean your real name.”
“Pardon?”
“Your real name.” I gave her my own low wattage smile. “What’s your real name? C’mon,” I cajoled, “Lacie Ravencroft?”
Her smile increased to forty watts. I could feel it from four feet away. “It’s really Lacie,” she said. “Well, Lacie Peckelsham. Ravencroft is my professional name.” She turned her smile up to fifty.
I smiled back at her, matching her tooth for tooth. It was nice for a couple of moments—just two people smiling at each other like a couple of game show hosts, but my face was beginning to tire and I wasn’t as young as I used to be. “Occupation?” I finally asked, feeling my smile slip down my chest. “Just for the record.”
“Licensed Christian massage therapist.”
“You left St. Germaine on Sunday afternoon?”
“Late afternoon. We were out at the labyrinth until about four. Then the guests left and we headed for Galax about an hour later. We’ve been there since Sunday night.”
“Galax, Virginia?”
“Yes.”
“A little chilly for nudists, isn’t it?” I asked.
“No, our group is used to it. We actually prefer a bit of a chill in the air. Until it gets down around forty-five degrees we’re pretty comfortable. And if there’s a bonfire going, we’re just fine. It’s amazing how quickly you can warm up next to a fire when you have no clothes on.”
I nodded thoughtfully and pretended to write down this important warming-up information on my pad, at the same time doing my best not to conjure up any mental images.
“You got back this morning?”
“About eleven. Cynthia was working in the coffee bar. We didn’t go into the garden until about one. Actually, it was Chad who found her. It’s such a tragedy. When will we find out what happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll wait for the coroner to tell us.” I snapped the pad closed and put it back into my pocket. “Do you think I might have a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, absolutely!” Lacie walked around the kitchen table to the three thermoses of coffee sitting on the counter by the sink. “What kind would you like? We have Jamaican Me Crazy, Vietnamese Robusta and Sumatran Decaf. If you don’t like one of those I can brew you another.”
“The Jamaican one sounds fine,” I answered as I followed her to the counter. “And maybe a muffin, unless you have a piece of pie. I’ll be glad to pay for it. I don’t want you to think the police force comes in for free coffee and snacks.”
Lacie laughed and filled a mug from the nearest thermos. “It’s on the house, but we don’t serve pie I’m afraid. What kind of muffin would you like? Blueberry, banana-nut, raspberry…”
“How about rhubarb?”
She looked at me quizzically and handed me the mug of coffee. “No. Sorry.”
“Ah,” I said. “I was hoping for a rhubarb fix.”
Lacie looked confused.
“I was just about to order the last piece of rhubarb pie when we were called over,” I explained. “It’s that time of year—pumpkin and rhubarb. I thought you might have made some rhubarb muffins.
Lacie still looked confused.
“Since you have some rhubarb sitting in the sink,” I said with a laugh, pointing to the cleaned stalks resting under the faucet.
“Oh, sure,” she said, comprehension spreading across her face. “We have a new recipe, but we haven’t made them yet. We’ll make some up next week.”
“How about pumpkin?”
“Pumpkin we have,” Lacie said, going over to a glass case and removing a large, dark orange muffin the size of a grapefruit. “Would you like me to heat that up?”
“No, thanks,” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. Lacie put the muffin on a plate and set it in front of me along with a paper napkin and a fork. I ignored the fork, broke off a piece of the muffin and followed the bite by a sip of coffee.
“Delicious. The coffee, too.”
Lacie sat down across from me. “Thanks. Glad you like it.”
I broke off another bite, this time smaller, and took the time to savor the coffee that followed it into my mouth. I wiped the corners of my mouth with the paper napkin and asked, “How many people are in your Naked Club?”
She managed an offended look, but the upturned corners of her mouth gave her away. Then she giggled. “We prefer the term ‘Naturists,’ although ‘Nudists’ isn’t considered incorrect. ‘Naked Club’ is definitely out.”
I gave a chuckle. “Pardon me. I shall rephrase the question. How many nudists are in your hangout?”
“Oh, puhleease,” she groaned. “Hangout? Really! Save me from any more nudist jokes. Anyway, there’re about fifty. Ours is a Christian group. We’re the Galax Chapter of the Daystar Naturists for God and Love. You should come out and try it. You’re a Christian, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. But I’m pretty
sure my particular religious affiliation forbids nudism.”
“Which one is that?” she asked, dazzling me with another dental display.
“Whichever one forbids it,” I answered.
•••
Mike and Joe, our two EMTs, had loaded Thelma into the ambulance and were pulling away when Dave joined us on the front porch.
“I didn’t find a purse,” he said, “but I did find this. It was hanging in the hedge by the strap.”
He produced a carved, J-shaped wooden object about sixteen inches long with a leather thong attached to one end.
“What the heck is it?” Dave asked.
“Hey!” said Nancy. “That’s one of those…uh..thingys.”
“It certainly is,” I said, pulling out my handkerchief and using it to take the object from Dave’s gloved hand. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s a krummhorn.”
“What’s a krummhorn?” asked Chad.
“You mean it’s not yours?”
“Never seen it before.”
I looked over at Lacie. “Nope,” she said, no longer smiling.
“Cynthia?”
She just shook her head.
Chapter 10
Cynthia had taken the rest of the day off and Holy Grounds closed early. The four of us went back to the station after Nancy and I had one more look around the back yard. We didn’t find anything.
“Okay,” said Meg. “What’s a krummhorn?”
“A Renaissance reed instrument,” I said.
“Just like that fellow sells over at the Appalachian Music Shoppe,” said Nancy, flipping her pad open. “Ian Burch, PhD.”
“Just like it,” I said.
“What was it doing in the bushes?” asked Meg.
“That’s what we’d all like to know,” I said. “Check it for fingerprints, will you?”
“You think she was killed?” asked Dave. “She was pretty old. Maybe she just…you know…expired.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But why was the krummhorn in the bushes? First Davis and now Thelma?”
“It could be a coincidence,” Meg offered. “We know that Davis committed suicide. Maybe Thelma had a heart attack or something.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” I said. “Kent will tell us soon enough.” I turned to Nancy. “When’s Davis going to be cremated?”
Nancy picked up a clipboard and flipped through some papers. “Kent was sending the body over this afternoon. The HIV test was negative, by the way. They’ll probably do the cremation tonight.”
“Call Kent and put it on hold, will you? Let’s leave Davis in the morgue. He can stay on ice for a little longer.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Don’t know yet. Did you ever find his doctor?”
“I never really looked,” said Nancy. “I thought we were going with suicide.”
“We were. But now let’s look.”
•••
“Did you hear?” said Marjorie. “Thelma Wingler died!”
I was seated at the organ and choir rehearsal was minutes away; that is, if we’d manage to start on time, a thin hope at best.
“I heard,” I answered.
“I heard she was murdered at the spa,” said Mark Wells. “By a talking gorilla.”
“You shouldn’t make jokes,” said Elaine. “She’s dead, for heaven’s sake.”
“Well,” said Mark, running a hand through his sparse beard, “I didn’t much care for Thelma. She was a nasty piece of work. Double charged me to cremate my grandfather.”
“Double charged you?” said Elaine.
“Yeah. She told me that anyone over three hundred pounds cost double due to fuel consumption. And grandpa was a big ol’ boy.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“You’d think,” said Mark. “I found out later that fat folks actually only use half the fuel. They get them cookin’ and then shut the burners down. Their own juices take care of the rest.”
“Ewww!” said the entire soprano section.
“That’s more information than any of us needed,” said Elaine.
“How old was the old bat?” asked Mark.
“She was at least eighty,” said Steve DeMoss. “Or ninety.”
“I didn’t care for her either,” said Elaine, “but we don’t speak ill of the departed. She is, after all, now safe in the arms of Jesus.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” said Mark. “I’d say she’s down there giving the devil his due.”
“We don’t have to sing for the funeral, do we?” asked Rebecca.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not sure that Father Lemming knows we do that sort of thing.”
“Well, don’t tell him,” said Mark. “I’m busy anyway.”
“You don’t even know when it is,” said Georgia, who’d just sat down.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll worry about it when it happens,” I said. “We don’t need to rehearse anything new.” It was true. We had three or four nice funeral anthems under our belt, and could sing them without much notice.
“What about the schedule next week?” asked Meg. “Don’t forget to announce the debate.”
“Right,” I said. “Next Wednesday we’ll start at 6:30 instead of seven. There’s a mayoral debate at eight o’clock over at the courthouse. We need to go over and support Pete.”
“Or Cynthia,” said Marjorie, with a sniff.
“Or Cynthia,” I agreed.
“Hi y’all!” called a voice from the back of the choir loft. Everyone turned at once and saw a lively redhead bounce down the steps followed doggedly by a man wearing jeans, a sweater with “Blueridge Furs” etched across the left breast and an expression that said “Choir practice? Just kill me now.”
“I’m Muffy Lemieux,” she said, giddier than a cheerleader in a pom-pom store. “This here is my husband, Varmit. We’ve come to join the choir!”
The choir was momentarily stunned, but recovered quickly.
“Well, come on in,” said Marjorie. “Are y’all a soprano?”
“I sure am,” gushed Muffy. “I’ve been a soprano since I was old enough to squeal!”
“How about you, Varmit?” asked Marjorie. “You’re not a soprano, are you?”
“Nope.”
Marjorie was the only woman in the St. Barnabas choir who was over seventy. She started out as a soprano when she joined the choir in 1952. Sometime in the ‘80s she moved to the alto section and started keeping a small flask in her hymnal rack. No one asked what was in it. By the time I came along in the ‘90s, she was singing tenor and I didn’t mind a bit. She certainly had the notes. Being safely in her seventies, Marjorie could afford to be friendly. The rest of the women were eyeing Muffy carefully in the way that both altos and sopranos can just look at a gorgeous redhead wearing a tight angora sweater—this one a light green—and know immediately if she’s choir material. The men were speechless.
“Welcome,” I said. “It’s good to have you. Are you a bass, Varmit?”
“I guess I am.”
“Great. Why don’t you sit next to Phil. Elaine? Would you get these two some music?”
“Kin I sit on the front row?” giggled Muffy.
“Yes, dear, of course you may,” said Bev, with a forced smile. “Come sit next to Meg.”
•••
Tell me your story, Ginger,” I said. Ginger Snapp was a doll with more twist than a Moravian pretzel.
“AveMaria and I were doing a gig for the Bishops’ Council on Church Reform. One of their underwear parties. Nothing smutty—just lingerie.”
“Isn’t that a bit chilly this time of year?”
“Oh,” said Ginger in surprise, making her mouth into one of those O’s—like a smoke ring or maybe a lipstick-covered donut. “Not for us. It’s the bishops that wear the lingerie. We just serve drinks.”
“Don’t those bishops get a little grabby?”
“Sometimes that one from New Hampshire,” Ginger admitted. “But
only when Raoul’s there. Anyway, it’s harmless fun.”
“Go on.”
“So we’re working the room and one of these bishops is talking to another one.”
“How’d you know they were bishops,” I asked, “and not just their toadies?”
“Even in their underwear, they still wear their pointy hats,” said Ginger, “and their big ol’ crosses.”
“I see,” I said, seeing.
“And they’re talking about a mink farm in Russia and how they’re going to corner the market on Liturgical Hairpieces.”
“Liturgical Hairpieces?”
“You know, the big swoopy kind like they wear on TV.”
“Ah,” I said. “You mean the Evangelical Wiglet…the Glory Fringe…the Clerical Coiffure.”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Did AveMaria know about this?”
“Sure. She’s the one that told me! She said that the bishops are going to corner the market. They’ll make a killing.”
“Sweetheart, it looks like they already did.”
“That’s some real good writin’,” said Meg, reading over my shoulder. She took the hat off my head and put it on the desk next to the typewriter. “Enough for now. Put on some music and come have a sandwich.”
I put a new CD by Judie Cochill on the stereo, then followed Meg into the kitchen as the sounds of Let’s Do It filled the house. There was a pimento cheese sandwich waiting for me at the table, along with a cold bottle of Hummingbird Ale.
“Great music!” said Meg. “I love Cole Porter.”
“They don’t write ’em like they used to,” I agreed. “Can I ask you something? Was your mother a friend of Thelma’s?”
“I suppose you could say that. I asked her about Thelma once and Mother said she really just felt sorry for her. They had lunch about once a week. Dutch treat, of course. Why do you ask?”
“I can’t find anyone that liked her.”
“That’s sad, isn’t it,” said Meg. “But I don’t think Mother liked her, either.
“By the way, how did Muffy do in the choir?”
“I never heard her utter a note. I think she was a bit flummoxed.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 9