"I ordered it," said Nancy with a shrug. "Sounded kind of good to me."
"Not me," said Dave. "I'm having pancakes."
"There's a surprise," said Nancy.
Nancy's a crackerjack cop. The only reason she hadn't moved on to a bigger police force in a bigger town is that she liked it here and I made it worth her while to stay. Lieutenant Parsky had been courted by Greensboro, Asheville, and Charlotte, not to mention the smaller towns around St. Germaine. She'd been offered the chief's job in Lenoir and Roanoke and the assistant PC job in Boone. She turned them all down. When on duty, Nancy was always in her uniform, cleaned and pressed with creases in all the right places. Her sunglasses were clipped to her left breast pocket just above her badge, and her pad and pen always handy in the other. Her nails were clipped short and she wore no jewelry except a triathlete black-banded watch. When outside in brisk weather, the 9mm Glock on her hip was partially hidden by her leather bomber jacket. Otherwise, it was always in plain sight. She was an excellent shot. Her brown hair, as usual, was tied into a tight bun at the back of her head. She didn't wear a cap. Nancy could be quite attractive when she chose. On duty she appeared formidable. Tourists who received speeding tickets from Nancy rarely tried to talk their way out of them.
"I'll have the meatloaf," I said. "Why not?"
Me? I came to St. Germaine nineteen years ago at the behest of my college roommate. The town was looking for a highly qualified individual and although my Master's degree was in music, my third degree in criminology was the deciding factor for the mayor. "You can give 'em the third degree," he quipped as he signed my contract.
The mayor at the time was none other than my college roommate, Pete Moss, so the fix was in. Pete was an old hippie, still reading Carlos Castaneda, sporting a ponytail, wearing Hawaiian shirts with his wire-rimmed glasses, and nurturing a long-standing aversion to undergarments. He was pulled down from his mayoral sovereignty three years ago in a hard-fought (and some said "hilarious") campaign against Cynthia Johnsson, our town's only professional belly dancer, and now spent his time hunting, and running this fine eating establishment. He looked at his political loss philosophically. He looked at Cynthia philosophically, too, but since she frequently waited tables at the Slab, this philosophizing turned to lust pretty quickly. She was a belly dancer after all, and Pete, although a two-time loser in the marriage department, knew a good thing when he saw it shimmying. They'd been an item since the eve of the election. He now perceived his civic duty to be much like that of Rasputin: the evil power behind the throne.
Noylene sighed, wrote the order on her pad and set off for the kitchen. "I'll bring it all out together," she said without looking back.
"She seems sort of on edge," said Nancy, her gaze following Noylene into the kitchen.
"Hormones," I said, as I took a sip of my coffee. Nancy snapped her head around and gave me the stink-eye.
"Or so I've heard," I backtracked quickly. "Yesterday, she was fighting with Amelia at the Piggly Wiggly trying to get six bucks back on triple coupons."
"You don't get money back on triple coupons," said Dave. "Everybody knows that."
"She knew it," I said. "And she certainly didn't need the six bucks."
"Lucky Noylene didn't get shot," said Dave. "Amelia's a stickler. One time I tried to sneak thirteen items through her ten-item-or-less line. She reached under the counter, but I switched lines real fast."
"It's not hormones," Nancy said, her detective radar beeping like a smoke detector with a bad battery. "You guys are idiots. It's something else. Why's she working the morning shift anyway? This is the biggest weekend of the year. She ought to be over at the Beautifery."
Noylene Fabergé-Dupont-McTavish was, by all accounts, a wealthy self-made woman. A few years ago, she'd started Noylene's Beautifery, an Oasis of Beauty, taking advantage of her God-given talent of granting beauty to others less fortunate than herself. She'd married her cousin, Wormy Dupont, and perfected the Dip-N-Tan, a contraption invented by her son D'Artagnan, in which her customers could hang from a trapeze and be lowered into a vat of tanning fluid. It took a few months to get the formula right, and for a while her plus-sized customers resembled giant mutant sweet potatoes, but soon the women in St. Germaine all looked as though they spent every weekend, summer or winter, on the beaches of Jamaica. Added bonus: no tan lines. Above the Dip-N-Tan was a sign that read
I am dark, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem.
Song of Solomon 1:5
Noylene was nothing if not biblical and the Dip-N-Tan was a rousing success. Unfortunately, Wormy couldn't stick around long enough to enjoy the fruits of the Beautifery, the Dip-N-Tan, or even the profits of his own venture, the Bellefontaine Cemetery (affectionately known to the locals as "Wormy Acres"), due to his murderous tendencies and well-founded jealousy concerning his lovely wife. He was currently doing twenty-five-to-life in the Big House for giving in to the green-eyed monster and whacking Russ Stafford in the head with a giant rock during the Bible School's reenactment of the Stoning of Stephen. After his conviction, Noylene sold the cemetery, filed for divorce, married Hog, and never visited Wormy, not even once.
"Here y'all are," said Noylene, returning with an armload of plates. She set them absently on the table and headed back into the kitchen.
"That's not right," said Nancy.
"Yeah," said Dave. "She forgot to fill my coffee cup. And she gave me your meatloaf."
"These pancakes look good, though," said Nancy as she poured the hot maple syrup over the stack.
"Hey! Wait a minute... I don't like that much syrup!"
"It's okay, Dave," said Nancy as she lifted a forkful of flapjacks to her lips. "You'll enjoy the meatloaf just as well."
The fourth chair at the table scooted out with a scrape and Pete plunked himself down.
"Busy morning," he said, "and we haven't even started." He pointed to the plate glass window that constituted the front wall of the Slab. Since I'd come in ten minutes ago, there were six customers inside the door waiting for a seat to open up, and a waiting line on the outside clear past the window. Beyond the line of hungry people and across the street, Sterling Park was already bustling with folks coming in for the weekend. Parking was at a premium and if the library lot was full, the best bet was down the road at the grocery store or maybe the bank. Of course, you might get lucky and manage a spot on the square if you happened to be in the right place at the right time.
"Aw, jeez," whined Dave. "I hate meatloaf."
There were four eateries in the vicinity if you counted the coffee shop behind St. Barnabas. Holy Grounds, our Christian Coffee Shop, was run by Kylie and Biff Moffit. They'd had a rough first year, but were now back into the busy season and looking profitable. The coffee was good and they sold an assortment of muffins and other baked goods to go with it. The Ginger Cat was diagonally across the square. It was an upscale, snooty luncheonette owned and run by Annie Cooke, but she didn't open for breakfast. The Bear and Brew around the corner served pizza and beer, but not until eleven. It was no wonder the Slab did a brisk business.
"I have a delivery for you in the back," Pete said to me. "Kent Murphee brought it by early this morning."
"Kent Murphee?" said Nancy between bites of Dave's pancake breakfast. "The coroner? What is it?"
"Two big boxes of dead baby squirrels. I've got them in the walk-in freezer for you."
"You're kidding," said Dave, who'd been poking around his meatloaf before finally deciding the cheese grits and eggs were edible even though they'd been touching the edge of the gravy. "What for? A Halloween prank?"
"Probably the lunch special," said Nancy. "Squirrel head gumbo."
"I love squirrel head gumbo," said Pete. "Grew up on it. 'Course they say now you're not supposed to eat the brains. Some of the squirrels have that crazy cow thing going on."
"Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease," said Nancy. "East Tennessee just had another outbreak."
"Yeah, that's it," said Pete. "
Mad squirrel."
"They're for Archimedes," I said. "I supplement his diet. Mice in the summer, baby squirrels in the winter. Don't want him to go hungry."
"Do owls like meatloaf?" asked Dave, pushing the piece of meat to the edge of his plate. "I'd rather eat squirrel brains than meatloaf."
Noylene walked up to the table, whisked up Dave's plate and put a fresh platter of pancakes down in front of him. "We could hear you whining all the way back in the kitchen. Here y'all are. Eat up."
"Noylene, I love you," said Dave happily.
"Welcome to the club, Noylene," said Nancy. "Dave loves anyone who will feed him."
Noylene patted him on the head like a puppy, then turned her attention to me. "Hey, I've got a question. Are those your baby squirrels in the back?"
"Yep."
"I'm only asking 'cause I could sure use a handful of 'em for a stew I'm cooking up. There's nothing better than a few tender sugar-babies to flavor the stock."
"Nope. Sorry, Noylene. They're for Archimedes."
"How's that old fella doing, by the way?" asked Nancy. "I need to come by and see him."
"He's just fine."
Archimedes is a mostly tame, mature barn owl. He is predominantly white and has a wingspan of about two feet, which allows him ample space to float through the main living space of the house without obstruction. He’s been part of the family for the past six years, coming and going as he pleases, thanks to an electric window in the kitchen. Baxter ignores him for the most part since he has no interest in meals-on-wings. I feed Archimedes quite regularly, but that doesn't stop him from hunting on his own. In warmer weather, we'll see him in the top of a big oak next to the house, pulling pieces off an unwary rabbit, a field-mouse, or even the occasional snake. During the winter, the owl spends a great deal of time during the day perched on the head of my full-sized stuffed buffalo, preferring the warmth of the house to the naked wind in the trees. Most nights, winter or summer, he's up and away.
"Hmm," said Noylene. "Too bad. Hog had his teeth set for some squirrel." She exhaled heavily from between pursed lips. "Well, I've got to head on to the Beautifery. We've got appointments all day starting at ten. I've got to go open up."
"What's wrong, Noylene?" I asked. "You feeling all right? You look plumb worn out."
Noylene's shoulders slumped. "I jes' can't get any sleep. Lil' Rahab's got the croup and I haven't been to bed since Methuselah was a boy."
"What'd Dr. Dougherty say?" asked Nancy.
"She's got him on some medicine. It helps his cough some, but he don't sleep more than an hour at a time. I gotta hold him or he's not happy."
"Where is he now?" I asked.
"Hog's got him," she said. "This morning I just had to get out of the house. He's bringing Rahab up to the Beautifery. I got a room set up in the back. The girls and I take turns walking him."
"By the way," I said, "did you go back to the Piggly Wiggly with some more coupons?"
Noylene smirked. "Nah. I jes' wanted to rattle Amelia's cage. I've been waitin' for months for Roger to screw that ad up. Amelia and me... well, we go way back. About twenty years ago, on the day before Thanksgiving, she up and stole the last turkey in Watauga County right out of my grocery cart when I left it for a minute to get a can of cranberry sauce and some pecans. Right out of my cart!"
"That's quite a grudge," I said.
Noylene wagged a finger at me. "I'm sorry," she continued, "but when something's in your cart, it's your own rightful property unless you put it back on the shelf or leave the store for any reason. That's the law. Says so in the Constitution."
Pete nodded his agreement. "I'm no Constitutional scholar, but I believe she's right."
"Oh, that was just the beginning," said Noylene, her eyes brightening just a bit. "We been at it grammar and prongs ever since."
"We are defined by our enemies," I said.
Noylene looked puzzled, then glanced toward the front door as she heard the cowbell clank. "I guess. Anyway, here's Cynthia. She's picking up my shift."
We looked toward the door and saw Cynthia Johnsson making her way through the crowd gathered at the entrance of the café.
"Thanks for the pancakes, Noylene," said Dave. "You're a peach!"
Noylene accorded him a wan smile, tossed her apron into a laundry basket behind the counter, and disappeared through the kitchen. My phone buzzed and I took it out and looked at it. A text from Meg.
"You know how to text?" said Nancy. "When did this happen?"
"I don't really know how to text, but I know how to read. They're two different and mutually exclusive skill sets. See?"
I held the phone up so Nancy could see it.
"I just pick the phone up and read it. It's amazing."
"But you can't actually send a text?" asked Dave.
"I guess I could if I wanted to," I replied, "but why bother? I just pick up the phone and call."
"Maybe the person on the other end doesn't want to talk to you," said Cynthia. She now had her apron on and was filling coffee cups around the table. "With a text, you can say a few quick words and be done. You don't have to chat about the weather and such. You can get off the phone quick."
"I do that now," I said.
"It's true," agreed Nancy. "He does. No chitchat. So what did Meg want?"
"See, that's another thing. As soon as your phone dings, everyone wants to know what someone wants."
"Ooo," said Nancy, blowing across the top of her coffee and then taking a slurp. "Touchy."
I sighed. "I'm supposed to meet her and Bev and Gaylen at the church. Right now. Big meeting."
"Not good news I'll bet," said Pete.
"No sir," I said. "I suspect not."
Chapter 3
St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, the oldest church in St. Germaine, was founded in 1846. It has an unusual history including two devastating fires and some genuine miracles. The first of these (both the fire and the miracle) happened in January of 1899. When the parishioners showed up for services on that icy winter morning, they found their church building in smoldering ruins. They were shocked and saddened, of course, but this shock soon gave way to wonder and then to praise as the congregants gathered around the altar of St. Barnabas—an altar that should have been destroyed in the fire, but had instead been discovered outside the church in the snow, all the communion elements in place. The consensus of those looking upon the miracle was that the heavy altar had been transported outside the inferno by angels. The marble top of the table had been replaced a few years ago, but that didn't seem to bother anyone. The legend of the angelic intervention was gospel in our part of the country.
The second church building was constructed in the early 1900s. It was a beautiful stone and wood church built on a familiar design. The nave, or main body of the church, was in the shape of a cross. The transepts, near the front formed the arms of the cross. The high altar (after having survived the fire) was placed on the dais in the front, a smaller Mary altar in a transept, with the choir and the pipe organ in the back balcony. The steps to the choir loft were in the narthex, the entrance to the church. The sacristy, where the clergy put on their vestments and where communion was prepared, was behind the front wall. Two invisible doors in the paneling behind the altar offered access to the sacristy from the nave. It wasn’t a large structure. Seating was limited to about two hundred fifty.
That building burned to the ground at Thanksgiving three years ago.
I exited the Slab Café, crossed the street and made my way across Sterling Park, loose leaves rustling underfoot with every step. The dark red doors of St. Barnabas were standing open, as was our tradition in good weather at least, a welcoming gesture to all those tourists who found themselves milling around St. Germaine and in need of a brief respite.
There were two miracles that occurred on the fateful Thanksgiving weekend that St. Barnabas burned. First and most importantly, no one was hurt despite the fact that the church had been full of people attending a Tha
nksgiving pageant. Added to that, there was no other damage to the town of St. Germaine, even though the church sat on the town square in close proximity to many other structures. This was thanks, in large part, to the St. Germaine Volunteer Fire Department. They couldn't save the church—that much was clear to everyone watching—but they could try to contain the fire, and contain it they did with a mix of heroics, teamwork, and many muttered prayers.
The second miracle was the one that the town still talks about, at least those folks who believe in angels.
On the morning after the fire, it was discovered that while everyone was occupied with the chaos that was raging on the town square, the altar of St. Barnabas—the holy table that had been part of the fabric of the church since 1842—had been moved from the burning building into the park across the street. When the congregation gathered together in the frosty morning air, intent on having a service of thanksgiving, they found the altar, upright and unscathed amongst the brightly colored leaves, the communion bread and the wine sitting on the marble top.
The rebuilding took nineteen months and the new building looked almost exactly like the old. The dilapidated old house on the lot behind the church, left to St. Barnabas when the owner died, had been torn down and the lot turned into a garden, a lovely addition that had been landscaped to take advantage of the mature maples, oaks, poplars, and dogwoods that, in summer, formed a canopy across the almost-one-acre lot, and in autumn, afforded as colorful a view behind the church as Sterling Park did in front.
I entered the church through the side door and heard voices coming from Gaylen Weatherall's office almost immediately. Marilyn, the church secretary, was sitting glumly at her desk, pretending to push some papers around. She nodded toward the adjoining office and I knocked on the door jamb, then entered when Gaylen motioned me in.
Meg was sitting in one of the fabric-covered wingback chairs facing Gaylen's desk, drinking a cup of coffee, the picture of calm. Bev Greene, the parish administrator, was in the other wingback, close enough to the big desk to drum her fingers across the dark mahogany. There were four folding chairs set up in the office behind the two upholstered ones, but the other three people besides myself—Billy and Elaine Hixon and Carol Sterling—chose not to sit. The air of resignation was palpable.
The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 3
