“Back to his missing head,” said Pete.
“Yes,” I said. “His head. The reward is for Josh Kenisaw, dead or alive. I imagine that the bounty hunter, whoever he is, would rather have brought Davis…er, Josh, back alive. But once he killed himself, the bounty hunter would have to bring back proof that Josh was dead to collect the reward. A death certificate probably wouldn’t do it for Senator Jack DeMille.”
“So the bounty hunter took the head?” Pete asked.
“What better? Davis was cremated, so there wouldn’t be any record of the head being taken,” said Nancy. “Once his remains were ground up, there would be no way of identifying anything.”
“So the someone went in and stole Davis’ head before he was cremated,” said Dave.
“Someone who had a key,” Nancy added.
“And the only people who had keys were Dale and Panty Patterson and Thelma Wingler.” I took a sip of coffee. “You beginning to get the picture?”
“No,” said Pete.
“Look,” I sighed. “You’ve got to keep up.”
Pete nodded.
“Thelma died in the labyrinth on Tuesday. Her purse had been stolen and there had been someone in the garden with her. She’d been talked off her OCD meds by Chad. In addition, she’d left money to Upper Womb Ministries. Five thousand dollars, to be exact.”
“Not only that,” said Nancy, “her throat was swollen and her vocal cords were paralyzed. She couldn’t call for help.”
“Poison?” asked Dave.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m thinking rhubarb leaves—maybe in an herbal tea. The leaves contain oxalic acid, a mild poison that causes such inflammation. She may have been drinking it for a few days thinking it was helping her when actually it was causing the problem.”
“That’s why she bought the krummhorn?” said Nancy.
“Could be. She went to the labyrinth by herself and she knew she couldn’t call for help if she got into trouble. Maybe she bought the krummhorn to alert a passerby if she needed to attract some attention.”
“But she didn’t know she had to put a reed into it first,” said Nancy. “Maybe the reason that it was hung up in the bushes was because she was trying to throw it over the hedge to get someone’s attention.”
I nodded. It felt right. “If all our assumptions are correct,” I said, “then someone took Thelma’s purse after she was either incapacitated or dead. Thelma had unlocked the gate and entered the garden. At that point, she had Chad’s key, her own keys, and her purse. Whoever stole her purse wanted the key to the crematorium, because they needed to be able to get Davis’ head sometime after he’d been delivered but before they did the cremation at two a.m.”
“And they’d have to know the crematorium’s schedule,” added Nancy.
“And know the schedule,” I agreed. “But that’s not difficult to find out.”
“So was Thelma murdered?” asked Pete.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, “but it sure looks like it.”
Chapter 20
The Diva offered me a mink-covered hand and I kissed it diligently, taking time to savor the loose hairs that came away stuck to my gums. Something wasn’t right. I smacked my lips. This wasn’t mink. I knew the taste of mink the same way I knew my mother’s chipped squirrel on toast. This had the minty aftertaste of weasel, or maybe ferret. I took another taste and detected the slightest hint of cumin. Then I knew. It was stoat.
“My,” said Barbara Seville, batting her eyes like Nelson Rockefeller in a cabinet meeting. “You certainly do like to kiss a woman’s hand. I hope you’re equally as passionate in other areas.”
“Maybe I am, sweetheart,” I said, plucking stoat hairs from my teeth. “But I know your game and the jig is up. You killed AveMaria Gratsyplena and Ginger Snapp. You’re not supplying minks to bishops. You’re giving them stoat at mink prices and they’re too stupid to know the difference.”
“Is that any reason not to enjoy the evening?” asked the Diva, as she opened her fur coat extra-sexily. Underneath, she was clad only in a fur bikini obviously made from very small, underprivileged animals with eating disorders; a bikini that was struggling on all edges to maintain its integrity as a piece of clothing. I bent down and looked closely. Maybe it was mink, maybe stoat, but I knew that I was just the flatfoot to handle the investigation.
•••
The Living Gobbler rehearsal was in full swing when I arrived. The stage wouldn’t be erected until the week of the performance, so the fifty or so participants were being staged on the chancel steps. Fiona was in charge, ordering actors and singers hither and yon. Father Lemming was at the keyboard, providing accompaniment for the rehearsal.
“Hey, Chief!” hollered Moosey, as soon as he saw me. “Look at me! I’m an Indian! And I got a dog!”
I waved to him. Mrs. Lemming snarled “Quiet!” and the cast cowered for a long moment. Then she spotted me.
“Hayden!” she said. “Just the person we need. Do you have The Living Gobbler hymn?”
“Hot off the press,” I said, holding up a stack of paper that I’d just finished Xeroxing in the church office. “The tune is Austria.”
Mrs. Lemming looked at me blankly.
“Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken, dontcha know.” said Father Lemming, playing the first few bars.
“Perfect,” said Fiona, with a big grin. “Let’s hear it then.” She turned to the cast. “Line up like we’ll be for the first number,” Fiona Tidball-Lemming commanded. “We don’t have the choir yet and I know that not all of you are singers, but let’s do the best we can. Then when the choir shows up next week…” She shot me a dirty look. “…we’ll really sound great. So let’s get in our places.”
Ian Burch was sitting on the aisle, three pews back, watching the activities. I gave him a clap on the shoulder as I walked by. I felt him wince.
“How are you, Dr. Burch?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Are you here seeing how the Early Musik Consort will fit into the program?”
“Partly. But Fiona wanted my dog to be in the production. His name’s Gamba. She came by the Music Shoppe and saw him, so now he’s in the show,” he said proudly. “That little boy in the Indian costume is in charge of him.”
I looked toward the steps. The only boy in a costume was Moosey. I’d bought it for him over in Cherokee once he told me he’d been assigned the part of “Indian.” It was an authentic Cherokee outfit, or at least as close as Jim Thundercloud could make it. Fringed leggings, moccasins, a buckskin shirt with some beaded embroidery and a headband with two eagle feathers didn’t come cheap, even if everything was in a size eight. But, as Meg pointed out, what good was having money if you never had any fun with it? I knew that Moosey would be wearing the outfit to every rehearsal, for Halloween Trick or Treating, to bed, and if he could talk his mother into it, to school. I wasn’t the one that provided him with the tomahawk, however. It was stuck in his belt and looked, from the third pew at least, to be real. I didn’t see a dog.
“Is Gamba on a leash?” I asked Ian. “I don’t see him.”
“Sure.” He half stood and peered down his nose and through his thick glasses. Then he smiled. “There he is. The boy hooked the leash on the lectern.”
I saw the dog beside the lectern. It was a breed whose markings I recognized. A Rottweiler.
“I hope Gamba’s well trained. Rottweilers can be dangerous.” I looked carefully at the dog. He seemed relaxed and not at all anxious. “At least he’s lying down and looks like he’s enjoying himself.”
“He’s only half-Rottweiler,” said Ian, “and he’s not lying down.”
I looked again. Ian was right, of course. Gamba was a Rottweiler on the shortest legs I’d ever seen.
“His mother was a Rottweiler,” explained Ian Burch, “but his father was a Dachshund. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. Gamba’s a vegan.”
•••
“Pass out those song sheets!” commanded Fiona, once the
cast was in place. I handed some to the person on the end of each row and every stack made its way across the chancel as Pilgrims, Indians and assorted vegetables each took a copy.
“All right, then,” said Fiona. “Let’s try it.”
“How many verses?” asked Father Lemming.
“Four,” I answered. “All in unison. When we add the choir, we’ll have parts as well.”
Father Lemming nodded and started playing an introduction to the famous hymn.
“You all know the tune,” I called over the sound of the keyboard. “Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken.”
I saw nods of recognition from the cast. Muffy smiled at me and winked. Then the introduction was over and everyone sang with gusto:
Lord, we offer our Thanksgiving
For the vittles that we eat,
Sweet potato, pumpkin pie, and
Every kind of fish and meat:
Lemon Jello—what a wobbler!
Red-eye gravy, ham and bread.
Best of all, the Living Gobbler
May thy food to all be fed.
Join us as you may be able,
While we all prepare our food.
Relishing the growing table,
As we give our thanks to God.
Pumpkin pie and apple cobbler,
Collard greens and cob of corn,
Celebrate the Living Gobbler,
With thy blessings to adorn.
Yea, we sit and share thy bounty,
Ma and Pa and Junior, too.
There’s Ramelle from out the county,
With her husband, Elmer Sue.
Little Bubba—what a squabbler!
And the twins, Brandine and Clyde,
Celebrate the Living Gobbler,
In our stomachs to reside.
Father Lemming modulated up a step for the last stanza. I winced.
As we stand here, looking perky,
Let us not our sins forget
Ere we gorge on deep fried turkey
While the sun begins to set.
All our woes and worries probbler-
-matic that our lives destroy
Vanish with the Living Gobbler
Dinner for us to enjoy.
“Good,” said Fiona. “That will work just fine.”
“Really?” I said, but she’d already singled out Muffy and Varmit to work on the staging of their duet. Marjorie walked up to me shaking her head.
“Kind of forcing that last rhyme, weren’t you?” she said, under her breath. “Probbler-matic? I mean, really.”
“It was a joke,” I whispered. “I thought she’d toss it out immediately.”
“Apparently, you don’t know the Lemmings as well as you thought.”
“So you’re in the show?”
“Oh, yes,” said Marjorie. “I’ll be playing Hiawatha’s mother, Nokomis.”
I looked at her with my mouth hanging open.
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m quite good. Fiona Lemming has suggested I perform several verses of The Song of Hiawatha just before your wedding vows. I shall accompany the verse with appropriate sign language.” Marjorie demonstrated.
By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
Marjorie was getting into the part. She was using some semblance of sign language that wouldn’t be understood by either the deaf or the Indians, but might work for deaf Indians if some could be found.
“Okay,” I said, quietly. “I get it. You can stop.”
Then the gentle Chibiabos
Sang in accents sweet and tender,
Sang in tones of deep emotion,
Songs of love and songs of longing;
Muffy and Varmit had stopped their staging rehearsal and were now watching Marjorie. In fact, everyone in the church, including the two Lemmings, was watching Marjorie. She gesticulated wildly as her voice rose, sing-songy, her hands painting pictures in the air. Her eyes were closed and she was in a world of her own.
Thou the wild-flower of the forest!
Thou the wild-bird of the prairie!
Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like!
If thou only lookest at me,
I am happy, I am happy,
As the lilies of the prairie,
When they feel the dew upon them!
“Marjorie!” yelped Fiona. “Button it up, will you? We’re trying to rehearse!”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Amateurs,” muttered Fiona under her breath, but loud enough for all the amateurs to hear.
“Do me a favor,” I whispered to Marjorie. “Don’t tell Meg about this.”
“It was her idea,” said Marjorie. “The Song of Hiawatha is Ruby’s favorite poem. Hey, did you see that dog?”
I nodded. “The mother was a Rottweiler and the father was a Dachshund.”
“He has a crazed look in his eye,” said Marjorie. “His mother was a Rottweiler, eh? His father must have been one tough little wiener dog.”
“He’s a vegan.”
“The Rott-wiener’s a vegan? No meat?”
“No meat, no cheese, no eggs. He eats doggie tofu.”
“No wonder he looks mean.”
•••
“Six more Minques today,” announced Dave. “Six that I heard of, anyway. But that still leaves more than a hundred.”
“Well, some have probably vamoosed,” I said. “They’ll be way up in the mountains by now. The rest will turn up. The good thing is, they can’t reproduce.”
“Are you guys doing anything for Halloween?” Nancy asked.
“Well,” I answered, “choir practice is cancelled due to Trick or Treating, so I’m thinking of a quiet night at home.”
“You don’t get the Trick or Treaters?” said Nancy.
I shook my head. “I’m too far out and besides, everyone knows I don’t have any candy. The last kid that bothered to come to the house got a can of soup.”
“I’ll bet I have six hundred kids come to the door. I have forty-five pounds of candy this year and I’ll still probably run out. Dave’s coming over to help me hand it out.” Nancy looked pointedly in his direction. “Right, Dave?”
Dave nodded enthusiastically.
Chapter 21
“You can’t wear that hat,” said Noylene. “Not during the wedding.”
Sit down, pal. Breathe quietly, keep your voice down, and remember that a wedding coordinator is to a bridegroom what Toscanini is to an organ grinder’s monkey.
I took the hat off. “I wasn’t going to wear it during the wedding,” I said. “Anyway, I have to be in a Pilgrim outfit.”
“I’d like you to wear the hat,” said Meg.
“No,” said Noylene, decisively. “No hat. He can wear it during the reception.”
“What reception?” I asked.
“There’s no reception,” said Meg.
Noylene sat down at our table, the coffee pot still in her hand. “Look,” she said. “This here’s the wedding of the year. You have to have a reception.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “We’ll have a big party later on.”
Noylene sighed. “Okay. What about bridesmaids?”
“I don’t need any bridesmaids,” said Meg. “Bev’s going to be my Indian Maid of Honor.”
“Honey, you’re having bridesmaids. Noylene Fabergé-Dupont does not put on a wedding without bridesmaids. Not only that, but as my wedding gift, I’m going to give all eight of them…”
“All eight of them?” I said.
“All eight of them,” continued Noylene, “coupons to the Dip-n-Tan so they can look good for the ceremony.”
&
nbsp; “Two,” said Meg. “Two bridesmaids.”
“Seven,” countered Noylene.
“Three?” Meg was losing ground quickly.
“Six.”
“Four,” agreed Meg. “That’s it. I’ll try to pare my list of potential bridesmaids down to four.”
“Okay, four,” said Noylene.
Meg sighed. “Okay.”
“I’ll be a bridesmaid, if you need one.”
All three of us turned to see Collette standing behind us.
“Hell, no, Collette,” said Noylene. “You’re crazier than Tammy Faye’s housecat. Meg can find four bridesmaids easy enough.”
“Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith—Proverbs 15:17.” Collette spun on her heel and stomped off.
“That girl just ain’t right,” said Noylene.
•••
“Hyacinth Turnipseed’s out of the hospital,” Nancy announced. “Cynthia said she was going back to work even though she’s in a wheelchair.”
“We should stop by the bookstore,” I said. “Things are pretty slow.”
“If they were any slower, I’d have to molest Dave in the back room just to keep things interesting,” said Nancy. Dave, typing away at his keyboard, perked up.
“Down, boy. Just kidding.”
“Aw, jeeze,” said Dave, gesturing with a nod toward the window overlooking Sterling Park. “There she is again.”
We all looked out and saw Collette, about thirty yards away, standing under a sugar maple afire with reds and oranges. She was wearing her waitress smock and apron, an open Bible in both hands and was staring right back at us.
“She does this every time she gets a break,” said Dave. “Walks out of the Slab, stands under that tree, opens up a Bible and stares at me. I tell you, it’s starting to creep me out.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 19