The Bass Wore Scales (2 page)

Chapter One

The Bass Wore Scales

It was a dark and stormy night--a night just like any other night, except it was a Tuesday, so it was really a night just like 1/7 of any other nights; a night when the air was just as hot, the streets just as mean, and second chances just as likely as a beret-wearing donkey named Wotan tapping out the exact number of Rossini operas with his hoof and taking my last sawbuck. Yeah. It was one of those nights. A Tuesday. I oughta know. I’m a detective. A Liturgical Detective, duly licensed by the Bishop. I needed some answers, some hymns, and a couple of theological insights. What I got were questions. I was thumbing through the
Book of Occasional Services
, looking for the Liturgy of Revirgination, when I heard a knock at the door.

Not bad, I thought. I’m back in the groove. Now all I needed was a dame—a looker, a babe, a twist, a chippy, a broad, a dolly, a skirt. I looked down at the typewriter, and there she was.

My heart jumped into my mouth like a frog into a pond full of fly soup as I looked up at a dish that was flaunting the kind of body that made married men wish they were single, single men wish they were better looking, and every Red Sox fan wish the starting lineup swung their bats the same way she swung her hips as she crossed the threshold of both the doorway and bad taste.

“
My name is Betsy,” she said in a voice so grating it could have scraped the warts off the bottom of my feet and still had enough rasp left to shred a half pound of cabbage. “I need a detective I can trust.”

“
You can trust me, Kitten,” I said, lighting up a stogy, “for two hundred a day plus expenses.” Long before Betsy ever walked through my door, I knew she’d show up--

and show up just when I was down to my last pair of clean shorts.

“
Two hundred? I’ll give you thirty.” She sashayed flouncily across the carpet toward my desk. I bit my cigar in half.

“
Okay, twenty,” I compromised. “But I get to buy you dinner.”

“
Well…I don’t know.” She was hesitant, but I was ready to close the deal.

“
Look, Toots,” I said, pulling out my wallet. “I can’t pay you more than ten.”

“
I accept your terms,” Betsy purred. “Pick me up at eight.”

* * *

Breakfast at the Slab Café has become a tradition for the St. Germaine Police Department and friends. The SGPD is comprised of myself (the chief), Nancy Parsky, and Dave Vance. Friends include Pete Moss, the owner of the Slab and mayor of St. Germaine, Meg, and whoever else happens to pass by and wants to sit for a while.

“
Morning, Hayden,” said Nancy as I pulled up a chair and sat down at our usual table, recently adorned with a cheery red tablecloth and three lovely plastic daffodils. I knew that Nancy had procured our seating arrangements as soon as I walked up to the Slab. I saw her Harley-Davidson parked in front of the building—a present from a grateful and rich police chief after one particularly dark episode involving an insane rector’s wife. Since this bequest, Nancy’s been motorcycle cop—at least when the weather was good.

“
And a beautiful morning it is,” I responded, maybe a bit too cheerfully for the six-o’clock hour. “Anything interesting happening in the world of law enforcement?”

“
Nope,” Nancy said, waving an empty mug toward Collette in hopes of flagging down the busy coffee matron. The Slab was full this morning, and Collette seemed to be the only waitress on duty. “Dave said he’d be here in a minute. He’s checking his e-mail over at the office.”

St. Germaine is a beautiful little town in the mountains of North Carolina. Our resident population is small, but grows significantly during the summer as the reverse snowbirds come up from Florida and south Georgia to escape the heat. Our other influx of tourists comes during October and November when the leaves start to change color. But those folks are usually only here for a couple of days—the summer residents stay until Labor Day or, in some cases, until the first snowfall. A crime wave in St. Germaine generally consists of some fraternity pledges from Appalachian State coming over and engaging in some nefarious cow tipping, so the three of us can handle the constabulary duties fairly easily.

“
By the way,” Nancy said, as Collette filled her cup with coffee, “I was looking through the job descriptions like you told me to.”

I nodded. We had to update the personnel records for the city council every five years or so.

“
And it seems that you’re still a lieutenant. And a detective as well.”

“
That’s not what my business card says,” I said. “It says ‘Chief.’ ‘Hayden Konig, Chief of Police’ to be exact. And ‘Detective Extraordinaire.’”

I had moved to St. Germaine at the behest of my college roommate sixteen years ago when the city was looking for a highly qualified individual to run its Police Department. It turns out that I was that individual despite the fact that my first two college degrees were in music. My third was in criminology, and that was the one that did the trick. My college roommate was none other than Peter Moss, said mayor of the town and owner of the fine eating establishment in which we sat.

“
I’m hereby giving myself a promotion,” I said.

“
How about me?” asked Nancy. “I need a promotion, too.”

“
What does your job description say?”

“
It says ‘officer.’”

“
You want to be a lieutenant?”

“
Sure. Do I get to boss Dave around?”

“
You do that now,” I said, finally sipping some much-needed coffee.

“
Yes, but this would make it official. And I want a new badge.”

“
Speaking of badges, have you seen mine?”

“
Not for years.”

“
Well, I sure don’t know where it is. New badges for everyone,” I said magnanimously, as Collette, who had put down the coffee pot, appeared at the table with her order pad at the ready. “And some country ham biscuits.”

“
We don’t have no badges,” Collette answered, confusion clouding her face.

“
Just the biscuits then,” I said, “with a side of grits.”

Collette nodded, wrote down the order and looked timidly at Nancy. Collette had recently become engaged to Officer Dave, and Nancy, being Dave’s former infatuation and a formidable personality in any case, was still very intimidating. It’s not that Nancy was ever interested in Dave. She wasn’t. But it rankled her to no end that Dave’s veneration, however unreciprocated, should have been so easily transferred.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed, and she gave Collette a wicked grin. “Give me an Adam and Eve with the eyes open, burn the British, bossy on the hoof, a short stack in the alley and some Sweet Alice.”

I snorted into my coffee and glanced up at Collette. She was writing the order on her pad, seemingly unperturbed.

“
You want me to pin a rose on that bossy?” she asked Nancy. “And maybe grease the British?”

Nancy looked as though she were trying to decide. “Sure. Pin a rose on it. And the other thing, too.”

Collette nodded, smiled and made her way back to the kitchen.

“
What was
that
about?” I asked.

“
Rats,” said Nancy in disgust. “I thought I had her. I’ve been practicing since last night.”

“
Did you really want to pin a rose on bossy?”

Nancy shrugged. “I have no idea. I hope it tastes good.”

* * *

Dave came in a few moments later, walked up to the counter, leaned across and gave Collette a kiss.

“
Oh, puhlease,” growled Nancy under her breath. “Get a room.”

Dave pulled out the chair opposite Nancy and sat down. “Morning, all,” he chirped.

“
Well, someone’s in a good mood,” I said.

“
Hey Dave,” said Nancy, her voice switching from caw to chirp. “Guess what? We’re all getting promotions and new badges.”

“
Wait just a second,” I said. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“
You mean I get a promotion, but Dave doesn’t?” asked Nancy, a look of false innocence on her face.

“
Okay,” I said. “Everybody gets promotions and new badges.”

“
And raises,” added Nancy.

“
Now just wait a minute...”

“
That’s okay,” said Dave. “I don’t need a raise.”

As far as I knew, Dave not only didn’t need a raise; he didn’t even need to work. When I hired Dave some five years ago, he told me that his trust fund provided a very comfortable income for him. He was just looking for something to do. Dave is the guy who answers the phones, fills out the reports and tends to be “on-call” more often than the rest of us. He’s still listed as part-time, but I may have to upgrade his status in our new report.

“
How big’s my promotion?” asked Dave. “Sergeant? Lieutenant?”

“
I’m the Lieutenant,” said Nancy. “You can be the officer-in-charge-of-donuts. Now about my raise…”

“
But he’s gettin’ married,” chimed in Collette, reappearing with the coffee pot. “He needs to have some respect.”

“
She’s right, Dave,” I said. “You need to become respectable. You can be an officer with the respectable rank of corporal.”

“
Oooo,” sighed Collette. “Mrs. Corporal Vance. I do like the sound of
that
.”

I watched Nancy’s nostrils flare slightly, but she saw me looking at her and composed herself quickly. “Yes, Mrs. Corporal Vance. You should put it on the wedding announcements,” she said sweetly.

“
Thanks, hon. I think I will,” said Collette, pinching Dave’s cheek and heading back to the kitchen. “I’m so proud of my Snookie-Pie.”

“
Snookie-Pie?” guffawed Nancy as I stifled a chortle of my own. “My GOD! Snookie-Pie?!”

“
No pinching the customers, Collette.” Pete was coming out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Not even Snookie-Pie, here. You want to pinch someone, pinch me.”

“
Hey, Officer Snookie-Pie,” said Nancy as Pete sat down. “Pass me the sugar, will you?” Nancy didn’t take sugar in her coffee. She was just looking for an excuse to say “Officer Snookie-Pie,” and who could blame her?

“
That’s
Corporal
Snookie-Pie,” corrected Dave.

“
Breakfast will be right up,” Pete said.

Pete had taken over the Slab Café, aka the family business, after his college career and a stint in the Army Band. His major had been philosophy, but he could blow a mean tenor sax and although Army life wasn’t suited to him, he still enjoyed playing and gigged from time to time in some regional pick-up groups. He hadn’t changed much since college, still sporting a ponytail, now gray, and the occasional earring. He favored brightly colored Hawaiian shirts, jeans, and sandals, and, according to his own admission, hadn’t worn any underwear since 1975. I knew this was true in college, but thought he might have grown out of the predilection for unfettered hedonism during his years in the service. Pete explained to me, though, that once you have experienced such freedom in your youth, it’s tough to go back into confinement. He was a raving Democrat on environmental issues, a screaming Republican on social reform and a crazed Libertarian when he had to pay his taxes. Pete had, over the years, become a capitalist hippie, and we loved him for it.