Mexican mink farm to supply the Liturgical Hairpiece industry. They’re going to smuggle mink skins up to the border in a Taco Bell truck.”
I nodded. The old mink skin disguised as a burrito trick.
“No, not the old mink skin disguised as a burrito trick,” said Ginger, reading my thought bubble. “They’re going to load the skins into a giant cannon and shoot them across the border. They’ll be picked up on the other side. You see?”
“Yeah,” I said, thoughtfully running one hand across Ginger’s grizzled chin. “The Taco Bell cannon indeed. But how can they make the scam pay off?”
“That’s the best part,” said Ginger. “Here’s the way it works. They’re going to start with one million minks.”
I nodded. A million minks. Sure.
“Each mink averages twelve minklets a year. The skins can be sold for 33¢ a piece. This will give them twelve million skins at three for a dollar. You with me so far?”
I nodded again and started counting on my fingers.
“That’s a gross revenue of almost four million per year.”
“Four million,” I said. “Got it.” One thing was for sure. I was going to need more fingers.
“That’s about $10,000 per day,” said Ginger, “not including Sundays and holidays. A good Mexican worker can skin about 50 minks per day and will work all day for $3. It will take 566 workers to operate the mink farm. That’s $1700 for the workers. So the profit will be $8300 per day.”
I’d run out of fingers and had taken off my shoes.
“Now,” continued Ginger, “the minks will be fed exclusively on rats. The bishops are going to start a rat farm right next to the mink farm. They’re going to import one million rats from New York.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Rats multiply four times as fast as the minks so there will be four rats per mink every day.”
“Good eatin’,” I agreed.
“Then the rats will be fed on the carcasses of the minks that they skin. That will give each rat a quarter of a mink.”
I was beginning to see the beauty of the operation. “Of course!” I said. “The minks eat the rats, the rats eat the minks and the bishops get the skins!”
“Exactly!”
“It’s brilliant,” I said.
“There’s more!” said Ginger. “Eventually, the bishops are going to cross the minks with snakes. Sninks. This will launch them into the Liturgical Cowboy Boot market as well as get the minks to skin themselves twice a year.”
“Not only that,” I said, “but they could get two skins for one mink.”
“If word gets out, they’ll never get those cheap skins across the border. That’s why…”
Ginger never finished her sentence. Her eyes grew wide and her head suddenly hit the table and bounced twice exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
She was dead.
•••
“Is Davis’ body still down at the morgue?” I asked. I had the phone pressed to the side of my head and my shoulder was doing the best it could to keep it there. My two hands were busy—a plate of nachos in one and the TV remote in the other as I tried to keep track of three football games at once.
“Yes,” said Nancy’s voice. “I had Kent keep him on ice. There’s no next of kin, so it wasn’t a problem.”
“Do me a favor…hang on a minute.” I flipped through the channels. “I think the Colts just scored.”
“They did. A fifty-five yard field goal. ”
“You watching the Colts and the Broncos?”
“Yep. Dave and me.”
“Listen, tomorrow morning would you go down to the morgue and take Davis’ fingerprints? Then run them through the FBI data base.”
“You think he’s wanted somewhere?”
“It’s a possibility,” I said. “Young, single guy just shows up in town seven years ago. No family, no connections to the area. It’s worth a look.”
I could hear Nancy thinking on the other end. “Makes sense,” she finally said. “I’ll do it first thing. It’ll be a few days before we hear anything though. Those FBI searches take forever.”
“Dagnabbit! Tampa Bay just scored on the Panthers.”
“What channel?” she asked.
“Thirty-five.” Nancy and I both had satellite TV and could get thirteen pro football games on any given Sunday. She was a Denver fan but, like me, flipped between games as soon as a commercial came on or the outcome was no longer in doubt.
“Like I was saying,” said Nancy, “first thing tomorrow. Oh, crap…now Jay Cutler’s down.”
“See you then.”
•••
Noylene’s Beautifery was bustling. Many hair salons were closed on Mondays but Noylene only took one day off, preferring to take her free time in the mornings. The Beautifery didn’t open until eleven. Along with hair styling, Noylene’s also offered manicures, pedicures, and, in the back room, did quite a brisk business with an invention she had cooked up called the Dip ’n Tan. Her son D’Artagnan, and his friend Skeeter Donalson had built the contraption, an absolute marvel of engineering that consisted of a winch, a trapeze bar, and a five-hundred gallon vat of spray-on tanning fluid. A brave customer could hold onto this bar and be lowered into the vat for an all-over tan. Early on, many folks could be seen around St. Germaine sporting the pallor of giant carrots, but as Noylene refined the formula and the timing, her customers looked, more or less, like people who were native to the Brazilian rain forests. Still, as Noylene so delicately put it, “brown fat looks better than white fat,” and the Dip ’n Tan had its devotees.
Noylene Fabergé and Woodrow “Wormy” DuPont had gotten married by Judge Adams early in August. They’d been planning a double ceremony with Collette and Dave, but after Brother Kilroy, the pastor of New Fellowship Baptist Church, was murdered and Dave broke his engagement with Collette, Noylene had decided on a private ceremony. She and Wormy were first cousins on the Fabergé side, but that wasn’t an obstacle to marriage in North Carolina and Judge Adams was happy to oblige. Noylene had decided to hyphenate for professional reasons and was now officially and legally Noylene Fabergé-DuPont. D’Artagnan, age twenty-four, for reasons known only to himself, had decided to adopt the hyphenated moniker as well.
I stopped in at the Beautifery on Monday afternoon to talk to Ruby. Meg’s mother had a standing appointment at the Beautifery every Monday at 2:15 pm. The three cubicles were all in use. Noylene was in the one farthest from the door and gave me a wave as I walked in. The other two licensed beauticians, Darla and Debbie, were snipping, coloring, and razoring like the professionals they were, all the while keeping up a continuous and simultaneous chatter with the three customers. Ruby wasn’t one of them.
“Afternoon, ladies, ” I said, tipping my gray felt hat. The chairs were occupied by Hannah, Grace, and Amelia, the three checkout girls from the Piggly Wiggly. “Checkout girls” was really a misnomer. All three ladies were in their early sixties and, since the robbery last spring, were all known for packing heat.
“I love a man in a hat,” said Hannah from the chair nearest the door. “It’s lucky I’m sitting down or I’d swoon straight away.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m trying to bring the fedora back into style.”
“You and Brad Pitt,” said Grace. Grace had a head full of aluminum foil. I didn’t ask.
“Who’s minding the Pig?” I asked.
“Roger’s working the register,” said Amelia. “He’s not very good at it, but Mondays are slow.”
“I thought Ruby would be here.”
“She called this morning and cancelled,” said Noylene. “Said she was going out to the crematorium.”
“Isn’t that something?” said Darla. “Ruby inheriting the crematorium.”
“I would have been nicer to that old bat,” said Debbie, “if I’d known she was rich. She was as tight as a tick and as mean as a boiled owl. Never tipped me. Not once.”
“Me, neither,” sai
d Darla.
“I almost shot her once,” said Grace. “She deserved it, too. Called me white trash because I wouldn’t give her double coupons on a Tuesday. A Tuesday! Can you believe it?”
“Pshaw!” said Amelia. “You should have shot her. Everyone knows double coupons is on Wednesday.”
•••
Nancy was sitting at my desk studying intently. Dave was looking over her shoulder and both of them had looks of concentration on their faces. They both looked up when they heard me come in.
“Found anything yet?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Nancy. “We’re not reading the whole thing. Just looking for something that would have jumped out at Davis.”
“Yeah,” I said. I’d told the force, i.e. Nancy and Dave, about Davis’ sudden departure from Eden Books after viewing The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon and they’d been scouring it for any kind of clue.
“Be careful of those pages,” I admonished. “It’s an antique. One of a kind. A signed first edition.”
Nancy held up her hands. She was wearing her cotton dress gloves.
“Ah,” I said. “Very well. Carry on.”
•••
I was cutting across the park, heading for the Upper Womb with a few questions for Chad Parker. Suddenly a voice rang out.
“Hayden!”
I turned and saw Muffy Lemieux waving and hurrying toward me.
I waved back at her. She saw me stop and slowed her pace from a skip to a languid sway. I tipped my hat back and admired her perambulation.
“Hi, Hayden,” she said, smiling as she walked up.
“Good afternoon,” I said, returning the smile and touching the brim of my hat.
“Hey, can I ask you a big favor?”
“Doesn’t hurt to ask,” I said.
“Me and Varmit are going to audition for The Living Gobbler and we need a song. I was hoping you’d have a suggestion.”
“Hmm. I would suggest some sort of duet. Do you know any musicals?”
“I do, but Varmit doesn’t.”
“Well, what does he know?”
“Country songs, mostly,” shrugged Muffy.
“Any duets?”
She brightened. “I’m pretty sure he knows Get Your Biscuits In The Oven And Your Buns In The Bed. It’s ‘our’ song.”
“Do that one, then,” I suggested. “I’m sure you’ll be a hit.”
“Why, thank you,” she said in an accent just a little too Southern to be real. “You’re the best!”
I nodded to her and doffed my hat again. Then I turned and headed toward the spa. I could get used to this hat thing. It saved a lot of talking.
“Hey,” Muffy said again, suddenly appearing in step beside me. “Are you going over to the Upper Womb? I’m headed that way, myself.”
“Yep. I was hoping to talk to Chad.”
“You’ll probably have to make an appointment.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I had a massage scheduled for two weeks from Thursday, but he had an unexpected cancellation so I’m getting in early.” Muffy lowered her voice. “Someone died.”
I nodded. “So, he’s pretty busy?”
“Well, duh,” Muffy said. “Have you seen him? Every woman in town’s been scheduling massages.” Muffy was nothing if not delicate.
“It’s just a massage though. Right? Nothing else.”
Muffy’s mouth dropped open and she looked quite offended. “Of course, it’s just a massage.” Then she giggled. “And a little fantasizing.”
We walked up on the front porch of the spa-coffee shop and I held the door for her as she walked in.
“You know,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Lacie Ravencroft is doing massages, too. Varmit came in last Friday. You might want to give it a try.”
•••
Muffy was a few minutes early for her appointment, but disappeared up the long staircase and into a waiting room on the second floor. Cynthia was in the coffee bar, bussing a table. Sitting at another table were Annette Passaglio and Wendy Bolling.
“Afternoon, ladies,” I said.
“Hey there,” said Cynthia, putting the last of the dirty dishes onto a tray. Annette and Wendy smiled pleasantly and nodded, but I noticed the conversation had stopped.
“Here for a massage?” I asked them.
“Not today,” Wendy answered. Annette gave her a kick under the table, but never stopped smiling.
“We just stopped in for a cup of coffee,” said Annette pleasantly. “Do they give massages here, too?”
“Why, you know,” said Wendy, “I believe they do. I think that I heard that somewhere.”
“Perhaps we should try it sometime,” said Annette. Wendy nodded.
“That sounds like a good idea,” I said. “I hear it’s very relaxing. Y’all have a nice day.”
Annette smiled. Wendy looked nervous. I followed Cynthia into the kitchen. She set the tray on the counter and started unloading it into the dishwasher.
“Annette’s been here four times in the last five days,” Cynthia whispered. “And that’s only because we’re closed on Sundays. Chad’s doing a brisk business.”
I nodded. “How about Lacie?”
“She does okay. Men aren’t as apt to come in for massages—at least not in this town. She does have some female clients though. Most of her business consists of consultations. Holistic and wellness programs.”
“Hey! You ready for the big debate?”
“Sure, I’m ready. But, to tell you the truth, I’m scared to death. This is all my new publicist’s idea.”
“You’ll do fine,” I said. “Is Lacie here?”
“I think so. I didn’t see her leave. I could check the appointment book.”
“Would you?” I asked.
“Sure.”
Cynthia, drying her hands on a dishtowel, headed for a door in the kitchen marked “office.”
“Could you also look and see if Davis Boothe came in for an appointment? Maybe two weeks ago?”
Cynthia looked at me and pursed her lips but didn’t answer.
“Look, I won’t say anything to Chad or Lacie—at least not directly. It would help.”
Cynthia gave a faint nod, opened the door to the office and disappeared.
I leaned against the counter, tugged the brim of my hat into what might be a rakish angle, then folded my arms in front of me and felt, for all the world, just like a detective. Cynthia appeared a moment later.
“It’s the hat,” she said. “Who can resist the hat?”
“Of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world, I walked into yours,” I snarled, in my best Bogeyese. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
Cynthia laughed. “As far as I know, Lacie’s upstairs with a client for another…” she looked at her watch, “five minutes or so. As for Davis Boothe, he had a 1:00 appointment with Chad on September 29th. That was a Saturday.”
“The day before he died.”
Cynthia shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Do you think that you could go up and tell Chad and Lacie I need to speak with them for a few moments?”
“Sure. They usually take a five minute break between clients in the afternoon.”
“Thanks, Sweetheart,” I Bogeyed. “You’re the best. By the way, do you have any of those rhubarb muffins?”
“What rhubarb muffins?”
“Lacie said you were going to put rhubarb muffins on the menu.”
“Nope.” Cynthia shook her head. “We have pumpkin-spice, blueberry, banana-nut, raspberry, and cranberry. No rhubarb.”
“Pity,” I said. “I love rhubarb.”
•••
I waited in the hallway while Cynthia went upstairs to get Chad Parker and Lacie Ravencroft.
The plastered hallway of Old Mrs. McCarty’s house was still mostly covered in 1940’s vintage flowered wallpaper. Where someone had begun to remove it, probably Mrs. McCarty’s daughter during one of her visits home, some
lathe peeked out from underneath the plaster. The old house was in good shape, but definitely needed some updating. The light switches were still the old pushbutton type and I could glimpse the old knob and tube wiring through a gap in the boards.
I looked up when I heard footfalls on the stairs and saw Lacie coming down followed by Cynthia and Chad. I smiled as I greeted them. Mr. Congeniality.
“Good afternoon, Chief,” said Lacie.
“Afternoon,” I said. “Could I have a couple of minutes?”
“Sure,” said Chad. “How can we help?”
“Can we go out on the porch?”
“Great idea,” said Lacie. “Can I get us some tea?”
“No, thanks. I won’t be here that long.”
Cynthia excused herself back to the coffee bar while Chad, Lacie, and I repaired to the front porch.
“I just have a couple of questions,” I said. “You know about Thelma Wingler’s will?”
“Yes,” said Chad. “We found out on Friday. It was a very generous gift to our ministry.”
“It certainly was,” I said. “Especially since she’d known you less than a month before she died.”
“Well, I won’t tell you I was surprised by her death,” said Chad. “I was saddened, certainly, but Thelma had many problems of which I’m sure you are now aware.”
I nodded. “This gift to your ministry. Was this her idea or yours?”
“Just what are you implying?” bristled Lacie.
“I’m implying that perhaps you suggested that your ministry be included in her will. I’m implying that she might not have included the Upper Womb in her will if you hadn’t mentioned it to her.” I smiled amiably. “Nothing wrong with that; nothing illegal and there’s no one to contest it.”
“All right, then,” said Chad, “I might have said something to her. The Upper Womb is a legitimate non-profit organization. She told me the week before she died that she’d changed her will to include Upper Womb ministries.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath from Lacie Ravencroft.
“Did you know how much she left you?” I asked. “I mean before the will was read.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 14