“Hi, Meg,” said Nancy. “We were just going to try some pie.”
“I’m sure Hayden was, anyway,” said Meg. “You couldn’t keep him away from a free piece of pie.”
“True,” I said, “but why would you want to?”
“Be polite,” said Meg, under her breath. “Let’s look around first.”
“I knew we should have gone for the pie,” I said to Nancy. “Now we’re stuck.”
“You mean, you’re stuck,” laughed Nancy. “I’m having pie.”
Meg slipped her hand into mine and dragged me to the counter where Noylene was greeting her new prospective clientele.
“Hi, Noylene,” said Meg. “Tell me about your shop.”
“We do just about everything,” said Noylene, pride evident in her voice. “From pedicures, to styling and coloring, to fingernails. And,” she pointed to the back of the store, “we got somethin’ no one else has. We invented it. It’s called the Dip ’n Tan.”
“Dip ’n Tan?” said Meg. “What’s that?”
“Come on with me, and I’ll show you,” said Noylene, leading the way.
“Gee,” I said to Meg, under my breath. “I wonder what this could be.”
“I’m afraid I know,” whispered Meg. “I was being polite.”
“Polite enough to give it a try?”
“Nope.”
Noylene opened the door that was between the two styling bays —
the door marked “Dip ’n Tan” in large white letters. We followed her into the rather small room that featured a large tank, about six feet tall and about four feet in diameter. The raised letters on the side of the tank said “564 gallons.” Off to the side of the tank was a platform that someone had built, and above the tank hung a trapeze bar. Attached to the bar was a cable that ran across the ceiling, through three pulleys, down the far wall and terminated at an electric winch.
“See this?” said Noylene. “This is the Dip ’n Tan. We applied for a patent, but we haven’t heard back from the government yet.”
“Who’s we?” I asked.
“Well, I designed it, but Skeeter and D’Artagnan did the actual building.
“What’s in the tank?” asked Meg.
“Tanning fluid,” said Noylene. “It ain’t cheap either. I got it for fifty-five dollars a gallon. That’s the bulk-rate price for us distributors. Otherwise it’s about a hundred bucks. Most places spray it on, but this gives you a much better tan.”
“How many gallons are in there, Noylene?” I asked, gingerly peeking into the barrel. “How could you afford it?”
“I got me a government grant for Appalachian women to start a small business. A lady over in Boone helped me fill out the papers. It paid for about two hundred and fifty gallons of tanning spray and a hundred gallons of alcohol. I asked the manufacturer, and he said we could cut it with alcohol. You just have to stay in a little longer.”
“My,” I said, “this is really ingenious. Let me see if I’ve got this right. First you take off all your clothes…”
“Well, you’ve got to put this hair protector on first,” said Noylene, holding up a shower cap. “Either Skeeter or me will be in here depending on if you’re a bull or a heifer,” said Noylene. “You won’t have to worry about that.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said. “Okay, you put on the hair protector. Then you hang onto the trapeze and Skeeter, or you, Noylene, if I was a heifer, would switch on the winch, and I’d be lowered gently into the tanning broth.”
“That’s all there is to it,” said Noylene, proudly.
It looks like it’s only about four feet deep,” I said, looking into the tank. “What about the upper parts?”
“Well,” Noylene admitted, “until I get enough money to buy some more tanning spray, you’d sort of have to squat down there in the tank.”
“Ewww,” said Meg, quietly.
“Well that certainly would get some places tanned that God probably never intended to see the sun,” I said. “I applaud your efforts, Noylene, and I wish you the best of luck. I, personally, don’t see any need to be tanned artificially, but I’m sure there are many that do. Meg, here, for instance, has been known to darken in the dead of winter, much to my amazement.”
“How often do you change the fluid,” asked Meg.
“There’s no need,” said Noylene, with a big smile. “The alcohol kills all the germs. We just need to add a gallon every now and then, to keep the level up. See?”
“Yes,” said Meg, with a shudder. “I see.”
• • •
“This pie is good,” I said. “Strawberry Rhubarb. You should try it.”
“Nope. I got a piece of Pumpkin and some Blackberry Cobbler,” said Nancy.
“Here’s the EMT boys,” said Nancy, and then whispered to Meg, “I’m dating the tall one. His name’s Mike.”
“’Bout time,” I said, as the two ambulance drivers made their way into the shop. “He’s been asking you out for two years. You invited them to the pie-fest, I presume.”
Nancy ignored me, smiled and made her way up to the front to greet them.
Mike and his partner Joe got their coupons from Skeeter and fell in line for the next Dip ’n Tan tour. I suspected that they thought it was the line for pie. The ambulance that Mike and Joe were assigned to was sent out of Boone but covered all of Watauga County. It was a lot of area.
“I’m going to try the blackberry cobbler next,” I said.
“I thought you were on a diet,” said Meg.
“Well…I am. But I’ve been saving up for this afternoon.”
“What about your three pairs of pants?” asked Nancy. “They were getting too small, remember?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Wait a minute,” said Nancy, looking me up and down. “Those are new pants. Hey, are those…”
I was mercifully saved an embarrassing admission by a deafening crash outside the Beautifery. An old red truck had plowed through a parking meter and hit a streetlight. We watched from Noylene’s window as Kenny Frazier opened the driver’s side door, got out of the truck and staggered through Noylene’s front entrance. The front of his red-plaid shirt was more red than plaid. He dropped to his knees without a word and fell forward onto his face.
“Mike! Joe!” I yelled. “Get up here! Fast!”
I turned Kenny over and yanked his shirt open. He was covered in blood, and I could see buckshot holes in his chest.
“He’s not breathing,” said Meg as Mike and Joe came running up. Mike took one look and raced out the front door for the ambulance.
“Pick him up,” said Joe to me, lifting Kenny from under his arms. “Get his legs.”
“Shouldn’t we…” started Nancy, remembering her emergency training.
“No time,” said Joe. “He’s not breathing, and we can’t do CPR until we know the extent of his injuries. We can get him on the respirator, though. Get the door, will you?”
Nancy held the door as Mike came tearing up in the ambulance. Joe and I had Kenny out the door and to the back of the ambulance just as Mike lowered the gurney. Kenny Frazier was into the ambulance and off to the hospital before you could say “Welcome to Noylene’s Beautifery and Dip ’n Tan.” The whole episode took less than two minutes.
“Do you think he’ll make it?” asked Meg, as the ambulance sped off, lights flashing and siren set on “stun.”
“I have no idea. It looked pretty bad. He was shot by a scattergun.”
“You’d better clean up,” said Nancy. “You’ve got blood all over you.”
“What happened?” asked Noylene, finally making her way to the front of the shop. Nancy told her.
“Oh my God,” said Noylene, “They’ve killed Kenny.”
“Those bastards,” said Skeeter.
Chapter 17
We walked into Buxtehooters to the sound of Bach’s little G-minor fugue. The place was packed. The music was good but that wasn’t why the customers were lined up three deep at the bar ga
zing up at a trio of waitresses singing along with the countersubject. The waitresses, as well as the bartenders, were all young women of excep-tional talents--if you consider being able to stand upright despite tremendous gravitational obstacles a talent.
Six beers later, the three waitresses singing on the bar had improved dramatically, and I was feeling much better.
“By the way,” said Pedro, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “I have a copy of the pork amendments included on the Liturgical Color Bill that’s coming up. There’s the usual parking lot repaving for the cathedrals and a ‘retreat center’ for the bishop of West Virginia. There’s also a couple of hundred thousand allocated for the study of the effect of incense on hair loss in priests, ages forty to fifty-five.”
“That’s a new one,” I said with a grin.
“But, here’s something interesting,” Pedro continued. “The contract for all new fabrics would be awarded to ’Naves by Raoul.’ I did some checking. ’Naves by Raoul’ is a wholly owned subsidiary of Bulimia Forsythe Enterprises.”
“And somebody’s doing a brisk business in soprano development,” I said as Helga, our beer-fräulein, jiggled another round of Wienerzuckers up to the table.
“Looks like it to me, too,” said Pedro. “But maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“Maybe. You believe in coincidence?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
• • •
“Let’s get Kenny’s truck off the parking meter and haul it behind the station. We’ll look at it this afternoon.” I had washed up in Noylene’s bathroom, but I still felt the need of a hot shower.
“Will do. I’ll call the tow truck,” said Nancy.
“Then you’d better get out to Kenny’s farm and see if you can find anything. He might not have been shot out there. Probably not, in fact, but it’s a place to start.”
“I’ll head out as soon as we get the truck squared away.”
“I’ll get back to the office and call over to the hospital.” Maybe he’ll be okay.” I didn’t sound or feel very confident about the prognosis.
“Yeah, maybe,” said Nancy.
• • •
When I walked into the office, I could tell that Dave had been waiting anxiously for my return.
“I heard about Kenny on the scanner,” he said. “What happened?”
“He ran over a parking meter and crashed his truck into a street light. Then he staggered into Noylene’s and collapsed. He’d been shot. Luckily the EMTs were there. Nancy had invited them over for pie.”
“Man, that’s just awful. Did you bring me any?”
“Any what?” I asked.
“Any pie,” said Dave.
“Sorry, Dave, I was preoccupied.”
“Oh yeah. Anyway, there’s some news. I called over to Durham and talked to your friend Gary Thorndike. He said that if I could get the note over to him today, he could do the tests and have something by Monday or Tuesday.”
“You’d better get going then,” I said. “It’s a three hour drive.”
“Yeah, I’m going. He also said that he had news on the bell.”
“The bell?”
“The handbell. Dr. Murphee sent it over to check if there was any DNA on the handle.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I didn’t know it was going to Gary’s lab.”
“It did. Anyway, Dr. Thorndike pulled three samples off the bell.” Dave picked up a piece of paper and read from his notes, making sure he got his information correct.
“One of the samples was the victim, Agnes Day.”
“Of course.”
“The other two samples are unknown — one female, one male. If he had a sample to compare them with, Dr. Thorndike said he could match them.”
“That’s great! Now all we have to do is find out who we need to get a sample from.”
“Can’t we just test everyone?”
“Nope. Testing is expensive, and besides, we’d need warrants. We’ve got to narrow it down. The good news is, once we have a good suspect, DNA on the murder weapon will certainly do a lot to help our case.”
“The handwriting guy will be here by two o’clock,” Dave said, pulling on his jacket. “I’m off to Durham.”
My shower would have to wait. By the time I got all the way out to my house, showered and changed and drove back again, I’d miss my appointment with the handwriting analyst entirely. Nancy called in just as I was deciding whether or not to go over to The Slab and drown my sorrows in a cup of coffee.
“Any news from the hospital?” she asked. “Did Kenny make it?”
“I called over to the Emergency Room, but they didn’t know anything. There wasn’t any answer at the main desk. Figures. I’ll call after a while.”
“I’m at the farm now. He might have been shot out here. There’s some blood on the ground by where his truck was parked,” said Nancy. “I went out behind the barn and followed a path into the trees. Kenny cleared a half-acre field right in the middle of the woods. I’d never have found it, if I wasn’t snooping around.”
“Any of his crop left?”
“Nope. The feds have been up here with bulldozers. They dug everything up, including most of Kenny’s winter wheat. I guess they thought he’d hide some of the plants in with the wheat.”
“That’s stupid,” I said. “You can’t hide a marijuana plant in winter wheat.”
“Well, they didn’t much care I suppose. Government regulations and all that.”
“What about the blood?” I asked.
“I’m still looking around. I don’t see a blood trail or anything, but I’ll look in the house and the barns and let you know.”
“Okay,” I said. “Be careful.”
• • •
I still had about an hour before the handwriting analyst showed up and that was if he was on time. I headed over to The Slab.
“I just heard,” said Pete when I came in the door. I waved a vague hand toward Collette and an idle coffee pot.
“Yeah,” I said, with a shake of my head. “Bad business.”
Pete nodded sadly. “Did you bring me any?”
“Any what?” I asked.
“Any pie. Noylene makes the best pie in three states. I heard she was out.”
“Out of pie?”
“Yeah. I didn’t get over there in time.”
I looked at him with incredulity. “You heard about Kenny, right?”
“Kenny Frazier? No. Why?”
“Here’s your coffee, Hon,” said Collette, picking up Noylene’s mannerisms quickly, now that Noylene had tendered her resignation.
“Thanks, Collette,” I said, turning back to Pete. “Kenny Frazier was shot. He was shot, ran over a parking meter, crashed into a streetlight, and staggered into Noylene’s.”
“Really?” asked Pete. “Is he all right?”
I shook my head. “The ambulance happened to be right outside and took him down to the hospital, but he wasn’t breathing when I got to him.”
Collette put her hand to her mouth and, in the same motion, dropped the almost-empty coffee pot. It shattered on the black and white tiles with a crash. “Oh my God,” she said. “They’ve killed Kenny.”
“Those bastards,” muttered Pete.
• • •
The forensic handwriting analyst’s name was Margaret Meyerson, a fact that I learned immediately following her entrance into the station. She thrust her hand forward, grabbed my own, and shook it vigorously.
“Chief Konig,” she said. “Margaret Meyerson. I’m so glad to meet you.”
“Miss Meyerson,” I acknowledged, trying in vain to dislodge my hand from a grip that would put even Nancy to shame.
“Call me Margaret,” she said. “I hear that you have a handwriting sample you’d like me to look at.”
“I do,” I said. “If you’ll just let go of my hand for a second…”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, relinquishing my hand with a smile. “Tell me about the sampl
e.”
“It’s not that much really.” I was over at Dave’s desk, rooting around for the copy of the note. “Three lines. Unsigned.”
“Well, I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
“Found it,” I said. “Here you go.”
Margaret took the note. “Do you have somewhere I can sit down?”
“Sure. Come on into my office.” I led the way, sat down behind my desk and watched as Margaret settled into the chair across from me and, with both hands, spread the note out on the flat surface of the desk.
“This isn’t the original,” she said. I shook my head.
“We had to send it to the lab. It should be back on Tuesday.”
“Hmm,” she said, looking intently at the note. “A confession. Do you have a sample to compare it to?”
“Nope.”
“Here’s the thing,” she said, still studying the piece of paper. “Forensic handwriting analysis is a science. That is to say that when an expert can compare two signatures or samples of handwriting, he or she can make a decision as to whether the two samples were written by the same person. This is especially valuable in forgery cases or in cases where the suspect is already known. It is evidence that can be offered in court, although some federal judges have disallowed the evidence.”
“We don’t have a suspect yet,” I said. “We’re looking for clues.”
“Ah,” said Margaret. “What you’re looking for is a graphologist —
someone who can divine personality traits from the reading of a handwriting sample.”
“Yep,” I said. “That’s it exactly.”
“Fortunately for you, I am such a person,” said Margaret, looking up for the first time since I’d handed her the note, “although it’s not my specialty. Let me say up front, however, that graphology enjoys about the same credibility in a court of law as palm reading.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “We have some DNA and other evidence. We just need to know where to look.”
“It would be better if I had the original sample,” Margaret said, her eyes going back to the note. “There’s only one well-documented case of a bad guy actually being caught by a graphology profile — George Metesky, the “Mad Bomber” of New York City in the 1950s —
The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 13
