The Bass Wore Scales (38 page)

I looked over at Roger, and he’d gone white at the suggestion.

“
Let’s go and check,” I said. “The rest of you wait here, please.”

“
Can we leave?” said the lady in the scarf. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”

“
Not yet,” I said. “It’ll be just a few more minutes.”

* * *

Roger and I went through the Piggly Wiggly, looking for any accidental victims of the checkout girls’ shoot-fest. The only victims seemed to be jars of pickles, relish, and some dairy products. I expected that they’d be finding products containing bullet holes for several more days, but at least no one was hurt. We went back outside, and I let the customers go after I got their names and phone numbers, just in case. Then I called Roger and the checkout girls over to the side.

“
It’s not against the law to shoot a gorilla inside the Piggly Wiggly, is it?” asked Amelia, defensively.

“
Depends,” I said. “Do you have a gorilla license?”

“
Yep,” said Amelia. “We all do. We bought them yesterday.”

“
Then, according to the law, you can shoot him wherever you want.”

“
Great!” said Grace. “Just let him come back here again! We’ll be ready for him next time!”

“
But,” I continued, “I suspect that the P. Wiggly Corporation has certain rules about employees hunting inside their stores.” I looked over at Roger.

“
Well, if we don’t, we damn sure will this afternoon!” he said, glaring at the three women.

“
And I imagine that if this happens again, you’ll all be fired,” I said. Roger took the hint.

“
Absolutely! Terminated immediately!”

“
I also might suggest that, although it’s certainly not against the law for the checkout girls at the Piggly Wiggly to be packing heat, you might want to rethink your policy on arming the staff.”

“
Hmm,” said Roger. “We sent them to a firearms responsibility class. But I’ll think about it.”

“
And ladies,” I said, addressing them. “You realize that if you’d shot a customer, or one another, even by accident, you’d be in jail right now, and you wouldn’t be coming out for a long, long time.”

“
Huh?” said Grace. “Oh. I never even thought about that.”

“
We won’t shoot at gorillas in the store anymore,” promised Amelia.

“
Nope,” said Hannah, shaking her head. “Just robbers. The gorilla’s not coming back anyway. Do you think any of us hit him?”

“
I don’t think so. There isn’t any blood. Just a lot of pickle juice.”

“
I think he’s around here, though,” said Amelia. “Those hunters are looking on the wrong side of town. They’re all up by Seymour Krebbs’ place, but I’m going to look around here. You girls want to come?”

“
Sure,” agreed Grace and Hannah.

“
Wait a minute!” said Roger. “Who’s going to ring up the customers?”

“
You do it, Roger,” Grace called back over her shoulder. “We’ll be back in a little while.”

Chapter 23

It was one o’clock when Meg and I drove up to Kenny Frazier’s old farm. I’d been back to the office, after my stop at the Piggly Wiggly, and in the last two hours, St. Germaine had come alive with people. They were going in and out of shops, arms full of packages. There was a queue at the Beautifery, and there wasn’t a table to be had at any of the eateries. The Altar Guild had even arranged a tour of St. Barnabas and there was a waiting line out the front door.

“
Are all the people in town here for the funeral?” asked Meg, as my truck made its way up the drive.

“
Except for all the hunters. They’re here to shoot a gorilla.”

“
Why’d we come over so early?” asked Meg.

“
I have to check the set-up, the organ, make sure my microphone works—stuff like that. Anyway, the choir will be here in half an hour.

“
I understand. I’m so proud of you, honey. Singing on national TV. What an honor.”

“
One more word, and I’ll be singing at
your
funeral.”

“
Okay,” said Meg. “But I’ll want the same song.”

* * *

Meg and I passed a large hand-painted sign announcing that we had arrived at Woodrow DuPont’s Bellefontaine Cemetery—otherwise known as Wormy Acres. We parked the truck in the field designated for mourners (by another hand-painted marker), gathered up our vestments, and walked up the path leading, we presumed, to the burial plot. From where we had parked, it was a lovely gravel path, winding through the trees, and finally opening upon one of Wormy’s fields. He’d torn down the old house and barn and mowed the grass. The landscape looked beautiful. The gravesite, however, did not. Not because it wasn’t a pretty place. It was. But it seemed to be set up for something other than a funeral. A circus, for instance. Billy came up to us as soon as he saw us.

“
I was hoping you’d be here a little early. Let me show you the set-up.”

“
Please,” I replied.

He led us toward the gravesite. There was a huge pile of dirt at one end. We stood at the edge and looked down into a hole that was ten feet deep, ten feet wide and about sixteen feet long. Hanging eight feet above the hole was Junior Jameson’s purple racecar—Number 17. The crew hadn’t fixed the damage, so the front of the car was crushed. We couldn’t see the St. Barnabas crest on the hood or the huge gold cross painted on the roof—the car was up too high—but we could still read Junior’s words of wisdom to his fellow drivers. The two signs were lit up in electric lights. It was hard to miss the twin messages—“The wages of sin is death,” and “Do you know where you’ll spend eternity?” I looked up at the car and saw Junior’s face looking out the front windshield and out into the sky. He had his helmet and his racing glasses on. His two hands were gripping the steering wheel.

“
That’s creepy,” said Meg, with a shudder. “Look at him sitting there, just waiting to go into the ground.”

“
Once they lower the racecar,” said Billy, “everyone will be allowed to throw a shovelful of dirt on top of the car.”

“
How do those signs light up?” I asked. “The ones on the back bumper.”

“
Wormy wired the car up to a new battery. Everything else has been stripped. They sold it off, I guess. The engine’s gone. Transmission, brakes…everything but the body and the wheels. The battery will run the lights for a couple of hours. The radio, too. Wormy doesn’t have the
Eternizak
wired up yet, but he hooked the car radio to work with a CD player. The car will be playing
The Show Must Go On
by Queen as they lower him down and cover him up.”

I watched Meg shudder again. “How does that song go?” she asked. “I’ve never even heard it.”

“
You know,” said Billy, clearing his throat and crooning a tune that had no discernible pitch whatsoever.

Show must go on! Yeah! Show must go on!

I’ll face it with a grin! I’m never giving in!

On with the show!

“
I can’t remember how it starts, but it goes something like that.”

“
How awful,” said Meg.

“
It’s on the
Best of Queen
CD. I love it!” said Billy, then switched to his singing voice. “
On with the show!”

“
Stop it this instant,” said Meg.

“
Okay, okay. Follow me over here.”

We walked around the grave. On one side was a grandstand that looked as though it would seat about three hundred folks. Directly across the pit, a stage had been erected with black bunting around the edge. The electronic organ was placed in the middle. It was caddy-cornered to the choir chairs—about twenty in all—that were set in a semicircular pattern. There were at least ten microphones set up to amplify the choir, including one right in front of the organ that I was supposed to use for my big solo. On the back of the instrument was a sign proclaiming “This Organ Courtesy of Brodt’s Music Company.” Behind the choir, and off to the sides, were four giant Marshall speakers—dinosaurs left over from the 70’s. They were stacked two on a side, and two high, putting the tops of the speakers about eight feet off the stage. I also noticed two deer stands, one beside the crane, and one beside the choir stage, each holding a tripod and a large video camera, but I didn’t see any videographers yet. At the far end of the grave, the end opposite the huge pile of dirt, was another, smaller dais. A lectern and microphone were set up for Gaylen and another two mics off to the side.

“
Who are those for?” I asked, pointing to the mics.

“
The banjo players,” said Billy. “I thought you knew.”

“
Knew what?”

“
They’re here playing the
Banjo Kyrie
. It’s in the program.”

Meg giggled.

“
Maybe you should show me a program,” I said.

“
Okay. Sure,” said Billy. “I’ve got one right here.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper and, grinning, handed it over.

I looked down at the program and saw where the choir was singing—right after the reading of the 23
^rd
Psalm. I also had to play
Amazing Grace
with the bagpipes for the congregation to sing during the
Tossing of the Lug Nuts.
I did a double-take to make sure I read it correctly.

“
The Tossing of the Lug Nuts
? What the heck is that?”

“
Everyone is getting a lug nut when they walk in,” explained Billy. “The car gets lowered down while we play
The Show Must Go On
through the car speakers.
Then, when the hymn starts, everyone sings and throws their lug nut into the grave.”

“
On top of the car?”

Billy nodded. I looked at Meg. She was biting her lip to keep from laughing. I looked back at the program, saw the
Banjo Kyrie
and realized, to my relief, that the service didn’t include communion. At least I didn’t have to worry about the service music.

“
Give me that back,” said Billy, taking the program out of my hand. “It’s my last copy. Anyway, I put enough for the whole choir on top of the organ. Go get your duds on and try out that bad boy.”

I did as Billy suggested—got into my robe and surplice, turned on the organ and tried a few chords. I didn’t bring the music to
Amazing Grace
, but that was no problem. That was a hymn that I, and every other organist, knew from memory. I did have Kimmy Jo’s composition, though, and I spread it on the music rack. I didn’t have a whole lot to do during the funeral, so I thought, all in all, it’d be a relaxing afternoon. That was the thought going through my head when Billy walked up.

“
By the way, Hayden. Kimmy Jo was wondering if you’d be so kind as to start playing at 1:30. Just some background music while the people are gathering.”