The Bass Wore Scales (11 page)

“
Where’d all these people come from?” I asked Pete.

“
I put an ad in the
Watauga Democrat
,” admitted Pete. “Just a little one, but Junior Jameson is almost famous. If he starts winning races, we’ll be set.”

“
Has he ever won?” I asked.

“
Not a Winston Cup race,” said Pete. “I don’t think he’s even had a top twenty finish.”

“
That’s not too good, is it?” said Meg.

“
Nope,” answered Pete, “but that’s all about to change.”

Benny Dawkins started his walk-around. The car had been driven off the trailer and was now on Main Street at the bottom of the steps. The hood was up, but the doors and the trunk were closed.

“
Shouldn’t the doors be open, as well as the hood?” I asked. “For the blessing.”

“
They’re welded shut,” said Meg. I looked at her in astonishment.

“
So?” she said, “I happen to like NASCAR racing. What about it?”

Benny walked around the car three times with his thurible, directing the fragrant smoke into and around the racecar, although the faint breeze blowing across the square whisked the fog away almost as soon as it appeared.

“
Our help is in the name of the Lord,” called out Bishop O’Connell.

“
Who has made heaven and earth,” answered the Blessing Party, consisting of those on the steps.

“
The Lord be with you,” said the bishop.

“
And also with you,” the Episcopalians in the crowd answered.

“
This is a happy day in the life of St. Barnabas,” said the bishop, beginning his homily. I knew it wasn’t a happy day for the bishop. When St. Barnabas unexpectedly received a windfall of sixteen-million dollars, Bishop O’Connell was hoping that the diocese would receive its fair share. When we told him that the church had decided to sponsor a NASCAR racing team, he was not amused. But, as Billy put it, “It’s our money. We’ll do what we want.” We looked at our beautiful car, sleek and obviously fast, deep purple with the St. Barnabas crest painted on the hood—a basic red and blue Episcopal shield with an olive branch blazoned across it. Across the doors on both sides were the words “St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, St. Germaine, NC.” Painted on the roof was a huge gold cross with the number 17 outlined in black, and on the back of the car were the words “The wages of sin is death,” and “Do you know where you’ll spend eternity?” presumably there to inspire other drivers, sneaking up on Junior at 215 miles per hour, to reexamine their sordid lives—at least long enough for Junior to beat them to the finish line. It was quite a piece of art, let alone being a marvel of automotive mechanics.

Bishop O’Connell was finishing up, finally getting to the heart of the matter. Georgia moved up beside him with a bowl of water and a small branch taken from one of the sweet olive trees growing beside St. Barnabas. She held the bowl out in front of the bishop.

“
Father, bless this water,” Bishop O’Connell said, holding his hand over the water, “and let it be a reminder for us of our baptism. Help us to live as people of light, and to be blameless and worthy in your sight.”

He then took the branch in his hand and walked toward the car with Georgia in tow, still holding the bowl of water aloft. He dipped the branch in the bowl, lifted it up, dripping, and used it as an asperge, flinging the Holy Water onto the car.

“
Lend a willing ear, Lord God, to our prayers, and bless this racecar with Your holy right hand,” said the bishop, finishing with the passenger side and walking around the back of the car. “Direct Your holy angels to accompany it, that they may free those who ride in it from all dangers, and always guard them.” He dipped the branch into the bowl again and baptized the trunk, back bumper and any other parts that were within sprinkling distance. “And just as by your servant Philip, you gave faith and grace to the man of Ethiopia as he sat in his chariot reading the sacred Word, so point out to your servants the way of salvation.” He walked around to the driver’s side, and this time, after dunking the branch, reached inside the car and made sure the interior was suitably blessed. “Grant that those who witness the exploits of this car and driver, aided by your grace…” He moved to the front of the car. “…And with their hearts set on good works, they may, after all the joys and sorrows of this journey through life, merit to receive eternal joys, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” He shook the remaining water off the branch.

“
Hey,” said Junior, joining Bishop O’Connell at the front of the car. “Let’s put the rest of that Holy Water in the radiator.”

From where I was standing, I could hear the bishop take a deep breath, but he nodded as the cameras clicked and whirred. Junior opened the radiator, and Bishop O’Connell took the bowl from Georgia and poured the remaining water into the radiator.

“
Blessed are you, Lord God, king of the universe: you have made all things for your glory. Bless this engine and umm…radiator and grant that your servant Junior Jameson may use them in your service and for the good of this church and all your people. Amen.”

“
Great!” said Junior, clapping his hands and starting a round of applause. “That’s that then. Thanks, yer Grace.” He shook the bishop’s hand. “Any of you reporters have any questions, I’ll be back here at the car in just a minute.”

The Blessing Party went back through the doors of the church and Junior Jameson reappeared a moment later, coming down to greet the mob of reporters gathered around the racecar.

“
Did you have any idea there would be so much media coverage?” Meg asked.

“
Nope,” said Pete. “I guess with forty-seven cable news channels, they have to come up with something. I’m just mad that I didn’t call them when we discovered the Immaculate Confection. I could have made some
real
money.”

Chapter 6

I was feeling no adversarial pressure concerning our Bulwer-Lytton bet, and unless those three ladies were playing me like a Klezmer squeezebox, I figured that I had plenty of time to work on my detective story. Who knows? I might even come up with a couple of great sentences I could use. I put my fingers on the keys of the famous typewriter and started typing.

“
Fishy Jim?” I said. “Everybody’s heard of Fishy Jim. He’s the lowest bass in three states.”

“
Yeah,” Betsy sniffed. “Sometimes he sings right off the bottom of the piano, just to make me swoon.”

“
So, why do you think he’s stepping out with another skirt?”

“
I see all the signs,” she sobbed. “Lipstick on his choir vestment, late night sectional rehearsals, love notes stuck in his hymnal.”

I tossed the dead woodchuck into my salad and whistled for the waiter. Unless I was mistaken, I was being strung along by a gal who was as easy as a
TV Guide
crossword puzzle. No one puts love notes in a hymnal.

“
What’s his secret?” I asked.

“
To attracting choir groupies?” she said, sarcastically.

“
Nah,” I answered. “I know what attracts choir groupies. All you need is a recording of Pachelbel’s Canon and a bottle of Ripple. I’m talking about his low notes. I sure could use another octave.”

“
I can’t tell you.”

“
C’mon, Toots. You can trust me.” I handed the waiter my salad bowl and pointed to the hair peeking out from underneath a piece of arugula.

“
You know how some singers have really good breath control?”

I nodded.

“
Well, Fishy Jim has gills.”

* * *

“
He’s gone,” said Bev. “Father George is gone.”

“
Gone,
gone?” I asked.

“
Packed up and moved. I went by his house this morning because we hadn’t heard anything from him since he disappeared on Sunday. Anyway, I knocked on the door. No answer. I looked in the front window and guess what? All the furniture is gone. So I went back to the church and got the key. It’s empty. Everything gone. Furniture, appliances, clothes…everything.”

“
What about his wife? Is Suzanne gone as well?”

“
Oh, she left about a month ago,” Bev said, dismissively, “to look for a house and get settled.” She shook her head. “But most of the furniture was still here. Now it’s gone.”

“
His office?”

“
He packed his office up last week, but he was supposed to stay through the end of June. Nope. I think he’s gone for good.”

“
What are you going to do this Sunday?”

“
Tony will be here. He’ll take care of it. And we have an emergency vestry meeting tonight.”

* * *

The Slab was bustling, and the breakfast crowd had picked up significantly in the past two weeks. Dave and Nancy were already eating when I joined them. Pete was standing behind the counter, making coffee. Collette was taking an order at one end of the restaurant, and Noylene Fabergé was busy at the other. Noylene, coffee pot in hand, came up to the table as soon as I sat down.

“
Morning,” she said, filling my cup without asking. “What can I get you?”

“
I’ll have an omelet. Bacon, mushroom and Swiss cheese.”

“
Toast?”

“
That’d be great,” I said. “Hey! I thought you were only going to work on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

“
Well, the Beautifery doesn’t open until ten and Pete needs some help until he hires another waitress.”

“
And don’t think I don’t appreciate it,” said Pete, walking up to the table. “We were getting swamped.”

“
Pull up a chair, Mr. Mayor,” said Nancy.

“
Thank you, I will,” said Pete. He sat down and took one of Dave’s biscuits. “Any nefarious or criminal activity afoot in our fair village?”

“
I gave out two parking tickets yesterday,” said Dave. “‘Cause I’m a corporal now.”

“
I didn’t have the productive day that Officer Snookie-Pie here had,” said Nancy, “but the Gas and Go had a shoplifter. Or said they did. He was long gone by the time I got over there.”

“
What about that robbery at the Piggly Wiggly? You guys ever get that guy?” Pete asked, referring to a case that was now over a month old.

“
Nope,” I said. “He ran barefoot into the woods.”

“
What about the bloodhounds?” asked Pete. “What about the tracking dogs and the helicopter surveillance?”

“
Well,” said Nancy, “since we don’t actually have a helicopter or bloodhounds and since he only got away with what Hannah had in the register, which was $23.45, and since he wasn’t actually from Watauga County or someone would have recognized him from the pictures we got from the videotape, we decided to not waste too much time on it.”

“
It’s the principle of the thing!” exclaimed Pete. “You just can’t stick-up old ladies. We can’t have folks committing felonies at the Piggly Wiggly and getting away with it! That’s armed robbery!”