"You got another name for me?"
"Jimmy Leggs."
* * *
"Jimmy Leggs!?" said Megan in obvious disgust. "That's the stupidest name I've ever heard."
"It's a tap-dancing motif."
"Jimmy Leggs? Alice Uberdeutchland? With names like these, you'll never get an agent. You'll never make millions of dollars and become the John Grisham of your generation, whiling away your time on your Mississippi riverboat, fighting off hoards of beautiful, money-grubbing, half-naked law clerks."
"John Grisham is my generation."
"It's too late then. You should give up now and maybe start a new career selling Bell-Tone hearing aids door to door."
"Did someone come a-knocking at your door?" I asked with a chuckle.
"Yes, and he was deliberately talking too softly."
"I have a career, my dear. I'm a highly paid law enforcement professional."
"Really? Highly paid? You forget that I do your taxes."
"Well, I have a lot of money."
"Yes. Mostly thanks to me."
"OK, then. Do you have a better name for the hit-man than Jimmy Leggs?" I asked.
"Hmmm. Let me ponder a moment," Meg said, putting a finger to her lips in mock-thought. "Instead of Jimmy, how about his brother, Harry? Yes! That's it! Harry Leggs!"
Meg was almost fast enough to make it out of the room ahead of the sofa cushion. Almost.
* * *
"I've been robbed!"
Pete was frantic. I hadn't heard him this frantic since his walk-in went out on a Friday afternoon and the repairman couldn't get parts for a week and a half.
"We'll be right over," I said, hanging up the phone and motioning to Nancy.
"We'll be back in a bit, Dave."
"What's up?"
"Pete's been robbed."
"Should I come?"
"Nope. Someone has to stay in the office."
"Bring me a sandwich then."
Pete met us at the door of the Slab Café.
"How much did they get?" asked Nancy. "Did you leave the money in the register?"
"They didn't take any money," said Pete, holding the door open for us. Noylene was cleaning the fancy glass cake plate in the middle of the counter. The empty cake plate.
"The bun?" I asked.
"Stolen," said Pete. "I'm ruined."
"You're hardly ruined. But all good things must come to an end."
"That's easy for you to say. I took out another newspaper ad. It's going to run tomorrow. There's only one thing to do," Pete said. "I've got to make another roll that looks just like the last one."
"You can't do that," said Noylene. "It was a miracle. If the Virgin Mary chooses to appear in a cinnamon roll, and it gets stolen, you can't just make another one. She doesn't work like that."
"Well, I've got to do something."
"What about fingerprints?" asked Nancy, pulling out her pad. "Was there a break-in? Was the lock forced? A window broken? How did the thief get in?"
"All go0d questions," I said. "Why don't we all sit down and get the whole story. Noylene, quit cleaning up. You're destroying evidence. Now, how 'bout some coffee?"
* * *
Pete, Noylene, Nancy and I chose a table in the back of the café. Collette brought over a coffee pot and four cups.
"I came in at five-thirty as usual to get breakfast ready," Pete said. "Through the back door. I didn't even go into the restaurant—just into the kitchen."
"Was it jimmied?" asked Nancy.
"Not that I noticed."
"Any windows broken?"
"I don't think so. Collette can go check," said Pete, indicating his suggestion to Collette who scurried into the kitchen.
"I came in at six," said Noylene. "Through the back. I said hello to Pete and came into the restaurant to make some coffee and do the prep for the breakfast shift."
"Did you notice the roll missing?" I asked.
"Not at first. But after about a half hour or so, I was wiping down the counter and I noticed that she was gone. I remember it was 6:30 because I was just going to open the doors. Collette was waiting for me to let her in."
"The bun was just gone? Did you tell Pete?"
"Yep. Gone. The glass lid was on the plate just like it is now, but the plate was empty. I thought that Pete took it out. You know, to shellac it like he was talkin' about yesterday. I didn't even go ask him about it till JJ asked where it was. She was in here for breakfast."
"I bought the poly yesterday, but I hadn't dipped it yet," said Pete. "It should have been on the plate."
"Then you called us?" asked Nancy.
"Well, we had to wait until you showed up for work," said Pete. "Lucky you're early this morning."
I looked at my watch. It showed 8:10. It was early for us. The door opened and Dave walked in.
"You're supposed to be answering the phones," said Nancy with just a little annoyance in her voice.
"Got it covered," said Dave, pointing to the cell-phone dangling from his belt. "All calls forwarded to my cell." He pulled up a chair.
"The windows are all okay," said Collette, coming back into the dining room. "Hi, Dave," she said, her cheeks coloring nicely. Nancy noticed it as well and bristled visibly. Although she had never shown any interest in Dave that I had seen, he was, after all, her own private lap dog.
"Did you have any customers this morning?" I asked, turning my attention back to the crime at hand.
"The usual morning crew plus a few newcomers. The bulk of the customers have been coming in around 9:15. I don't know what I'll tell them," said Pete.
"Tell them that the Vatican has asked for the bun to be loaned to the Catholic Diocese of North Carolina for a few days, to confirm its validity and to have it certified by the Pope," said Dave.
"Hey, that's really good, Dave," said Pete, nodding in agreement. "It just might work. At least until I can cook up another Virgin Mary roll. It may take a few tries."
"Thanks," said Dave. "I discovered her, you know."
"Why don't I give my son a call?" said Noylene. "He could come up and help find her."
"I didn't know you had a son," said Nancy.
"Yep. Livin' in Hickory. He's getting' his license to be a private detective. I'm sure he'll come up if there's a reward offered."
"A reward?" asked Pete. "What kind of reward?"
"I dunno," said Noylene with a shrug. "Maybe fifty bucks."
"What if there's a ransom demand?" chimed in Collette. "They'll probably ask for more than fifty dollars."
"I don't think there will be a ransom demand," I said. "It's probably just a prank. Let's give it a day or two. How about some breakfast?"
"You guys go ahead," said Pete. "I'm going to print up a sign saying that pope-y stuff that Dave was talking about. Tell me again, will you Dave?"
"How about this?" said Dave. "The Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll, also known as the Immaculate Confection, is temporarily unavailable for viewing. It has been sent to the Vatican for authentication and blessing by the Pope and will be returned in a few days.'" Dave was obviously inspired. Collette gave him a suspicious look.
"That'll work," said Pete, writing furiously on a napkin. "I'll put 'Thank you…The Management' underneath and give a thirty percent discount on all the shirts and mugs. That should make the customers happy and buy us a couple of days."
"But it's a lie," said Noylene.
"It may not be a total lie," I said with all the seriousness I could muster. "Maybe it was the Vatican that stole it. If it really is the Virgin Mary, that would make sense. The Pope would want to see her first-hand. He might have sent some of those Swiss Guards in here to purloin the holy pastry."
"Although I haven't seen anyone suspicious wearing yellow pantaloons," added Nancy.
"I think you're making the miracle too commercial," said Collette quietly. "I don't think she'd like it if you said the Pope was going to bless her and he wasn't."
"I was just kidding, Collette," I said h
astily, seeing the seriousness in her face. "I don't think that the Vatican is behind the theft."
"Oh please, " Pete said, maybe a little too sarcastically. "It's just a cinnamon roll. Have you guys ever been to the Vatican? You can buy most anything—all blessed by the Pope. You can get holy water, rosaries, crosses, Bibles…even pizza. If the Pope actually waved his hand over everything that was sold as 'pope-blessed,' he'd never have time to do anything else. Besides," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence, "I'm just saying that we sent it to the Pope for a blessing. I never said that he actually would bless it."
"That's a pretty thin hair to split," I said. "Especially since you didn't send it at all. Don't forget that you're colluding with the police here. I'd think twice about this if I were you."
"I'm just trying to soften the disappointment for my customers. Not to mention that I've got quite a bit of cash wrapped up in this deal. I'd like to at least make my investment back."
"I think you've already managed that," I said. "The crowds at the Slab have been pretty good for the past week."
"I guess," said Pete, sullenly. "I suppose I can always use the coffee mugs. But I still have about a gross of these shirts. I'll tell you one thing. If I do manage to make another VM cinnamon roll, this time I'm going to polyurethane it right away and put a lock on the case."
"Breakfast?" I suggested again.
"I'll get it," said Collette.
"I'm giving D'Artagnan a call anyway," said Noylene with a note of finality as she got to her feet.
"Who?" I asked.
"You know. My son."
"His name is D'Artagnan? D'Artagnan Fabergé?"
"He's a detective."
* * *
"By the way," said Marilyn as I walked by on my way up to the choir loft. "You missed the staff meeting this morning."
"Couldn't be helped," I said. "There were big doin's a-foot at the Slab. It's a major crime scene."
"Yes, well, I thought you should probably know that there will be a 'Puppet-Moment' during the worship service a week from Sunday."
"A Puppet-Moment?"
"Brenda's back from her Puppet Ministry Conference. I believe she purchased four fairly expensive puppets. She's very excited."
"I'll bet."
"I thought you should know. Just in case there will be some special music as well."
I could feel a shiver creeping up my spine. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," said Marilyn in her sweetest, yet somehow cruelest voice.
Chapter 11
I had heard of Jimmy Leggs. Everyone had. Jimmy was the most notorious button-man in the biz. No one I knew had ever seen him. He could blend in like a midget nun at a penguin convention.
"Why do you think it was Jimmy Leggs?" I asked Toby Taps.
"It's his bindle. He's sendin' a message."
"A message to who?"
"To Piggy."
"What's the message?"
"How should I know?" said Toby, shrugging his shoulders like Janet Reno shivering off horse-flies. "I'm not Piggy."
* * *
"This is excellent writing," said Fred, one of the St. Barnabas basses, as the tardy members of the choir made their way up to the loft for choir practice.
"I second that," said Bob Solomon. " I can just about picture Janet Reno shivering off horse-flies."
"Please stop encouraging him," said Meg.
"I second that," said McKenna. "I don't want to picture Janet Reno doing anything."
"Are we singing for the All Saints Service?" asked Marjorie, reaching for the flask she kept in her music rack.
"Two weeks from Monday night. November 1st. Seven o'clock," I said.
"Halloween's on Sunday then?" She took a swig.
"It is," I said. "How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place on All Saint's Sunday. Give Us the Wings of Faith for the Monday night service. There's only one more rehearsal after this one. Next Wednesday is the vestry election so there will be no choir practice."
"Are we singing anything for the puppet show?" asked Elaine.
"How did you find out about the puppet show?"
"Brenda's telling everyone," said Georgia. "It's not a secret, you know."
"I don't have any information yet on the puppet show. We have a lot of music to learn, though, so let's get started."
"Have you shown this latest episode to your ghost?" asked Rebecca.
"Nope. He hasn't shown up." I decided to treat this latest revelation as humorously as I could. I hadn't known that my ghost story had made the St. Germaine grapevine.
"Maybe you could send it to Janet Reno," Meg said.
* * *
I was interested in the chicken. I had gotten the word about Brother Hog's second service. Apparently the chicken had chosen Romans 6:23 as the scripture of the evening. That was one good chicken. Second Corinthians 11 on the first night followed by "The wages of sin is death." Brother Hog might be good, but I suspected that he was hedging his bets. What were the chances that, out of 31,102 verses in the Bible (a number I just happen to know thanks to my religion class in college and a defect in my brain that also remembers Avogadro's Number and the value of Pi to twelve places), Binny Hen managed to pick out two of the most quoted, most preached on, and most familiar scriptures in the entire book? Slim, I thought. Chicken slim. Anorexic. Even with the Holy Spirit.
Chickens, I suspected, were fairly stupid. I didn't know this to be true, never having actually owned a chicken, but, like everyone else, I had my prejudices. As Americans, we like to think that we only eat dumb animals—animals that wouldn't really care if they were eaten or not. Horses, cats, dogs, parakeets, pet monkeys: these are off limits. Pigs were the exception. Pigs are reputedly the geniuses of the animal kingdom, often found working out differential equations in the mud. Unfortunately for them, they are ugly and it's our God-given right to eat ugly animals. Either dumb or ugly, that's the rule. Or if they taste really good.
I stopped by the revival tent on my way into work and found it set up exactly as I had the first time I'd visited. The table, with its sawdust-covered top and clip-on pleated fabric sides was directly in front of the pulpit. The Bible was not on the table, probably having been put away until time for the next service. It was the Bible I was looking for.
In my opinion, there was one of four explanations for the Great Chicken Revival. Number one, and the one I had to be careful of, was that it really was the Holy Spirit causing the chicken to choose scriptures that would allow Brother Hog's message to move the hearts of the men and women who heard him. I was doubtful, but I certainly wasn't going to discount the possibility. I had seen stranger things. Number two—Binny Hen could have been one of those chicken geniuses. A poulet-savant. I was prepared to dismiss this explanation. I hadn't met the Scripture Chicken, but chicken geniuses were almost unheard of north of Atlanta. The third explanation was that the readers had somehow been prompted to read a pre-selected scripture. Brother Hog had someone from the congregation read the pre-chosen passage. But Ardine was the reader last Saturday, and I knew she wouldn't have been in cahoots with the minister in any kind of deception. That left number four. The Bible was rigged.
I pulled back one of the fabric panels, looked under the table and saw a large, black fiberboard case that was the perfect size, I surmised, to hold the book in question. I opened the case, took out the huge Bible and laid it on the table in front of me. I opened it and read a bit of Isaiah. Then I turned over to Second Corinthians to see if I could spot anything on the page that would cause the chicken to choose that particular scripture. I flipped through some pages, smiled, closed the book, put it back in its case and put the case back where I'd found it. Tomorrow, I thought, would be a good night to come to the revival.
* * *
Thursday was always a good day to lunch at the Ginger Cat—this Thursday in particular. The weather was cool, breezy and overcast, foreshadowing a hard winter like a bad novelist. It wasn't cold yet, but the conditions hinted at the prompt
possibility. Thursdays were good because on Thursdays the soup chef came up from Asheville. She drove up in the morning, her respite from the restaurant that was her full-time job, cooked the soups for the week and headed back to the big city. I didn't know what kind of arrangement Anne Cooke had made with her, but whatever the cost, it was worth it. Thursdays were the best. During the rest of the week, the choice of soup was limited to one. On Thursdays, the customers could sample any of the five or six kinds that were currently brewing.
The Ginger Cat was more of an up-scale gift shop than a restaurant. There were only four tables, almost always commandeered at lunchtime, and today was no exception. Due to the lack of seating, most customers chose to get their lunch "to-go." Meg had arrived early however, garnered us a table, and was going over her soup options with Cynthia when I arrived.
"What's on the menu today?" I asked Cynthia as I pulled out a chair.
Cynthia looked down at her pad. "Pumpkin, Zesty Tomato Lentil, Winter Vegetable, Garlic, Sausage Bean Chowder and Split Pea."
"Garlic Soup?" Meg asked, wrinkling up her nose.
"It smells really good. We have sourdough bread bowls today, too. Eleanor brought them up with her from Asheville."
"I'll have the Sausage Bean Chowder," I said, "in a bread bowl."
Meg pursed her lips and decided. "I guess I'll have the Tomato."
"And I'd like one of those African Yorgi-whatchamacallits. The coffee thing."
"Ah yes, our Ethiopian Yergacheffe."
"Exactly," I said. Cynthia looked over at Meg.
"Tea, please. Assam Golden Tip."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Our newest tea from India," said Cynthia, jumping in, eager to show off her tea-knowledge. "Assam is a province. Golden Tip is a flowery orange pekoe with a sweet malty taste, hints of honey, toast, and a just a bit of wood."
"You sound like a wine-snob," I said with a laugh.
"A tea-snob," said Cynthia, departing with a sniff.
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 8
