The Bass Wore Scales (4 page)

“
Isn’t anyone working out there?” I asked. “Where’s my crowd control? I can’t just have people charging in here whenever they choose.”

“
Maybe they’re at lunch,” said Bev, with a shrug. “I don’t know. But guess what?”

“
I couldn’t even venture a suspicion.”

“
Father George Eastman is
leaving!”

“
I never would have guessed,” I said.

“
I already told him,” said Georgia. Bev glared at me.

“
I didn’t want to ruin your fun,” I explained. “You both seemed positively mirthful.”

“
Tell him about Gaylen,” said Georgia.

“
She’s really good,” said Bev. “We were going to interview her last year, but she withdrew her name from consideration, and Father George was the only other person we had scheduled to come in.”

I nodded and heard the front door open again.

“
Hayden? Are you here?” called another female voice—one that I knew very well.

“
In here, Meg,” I called back. Meg came into the office a moment later.

“
Hi, you guys,” said Meg, acknowledging my visitors before getting quickly to the point of her pop-in. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Guess what?”

“
Father George is leaving. That’s what!” said Bev and Georgia in unison and followed the outburst with a laugh.

“
Hmm,” I said. “I give up. What?”

“
Harumph,” sniffed Meg. “I see you have spies all over town.”

“
We just couldn’t wait,” said Georgia. “Tell Hayden about Gaylen.”

“
Gaylen Weatherall,” said Meg.

“
I remember looking over her vitae last year,” I said. “It was very impressive.”

“
Hey, guess what?” called Elaine Hixon, coming through the front door.

“
Father George is leaving!” everyone yelled back.

“
Oh, brother,” sniffed Elaine.

“
She’s got a doctorate from the University of Georgia, and she’s published extensively,” said Meg.

“
Who?” asked Elaine.

“
Gaylen Weatherall,” I said. “The next ex-priest of St. Barnabas.”

Bev took over the narrative. “Her mother was sick, and she took the job at Lenoir-Rhyne to be close to her, but she passed away in January. Her father is doing fine, and she’s decided that she doesn’t like teaching as much as she likes being a priest. So she’s looking for a parish again.”

“
Don’t get too far ahead of yourselves,” I said. “You know that all this has to go through the proper channels.”

“
Oh, I know,” said Meg. “But we’ve already done all the legwork. She was our first choice last year, and unless the interview reveals something that we’re not expecting, the whole process may go quite smoothly.”

“
Have you ever known the process to go smoothly?” I asked with a grin.

All four women fell silent.

“
I guess not,” said Georgia dejectedly.

“
Nope,” said Bev, shaking her head.

“
There was this one time…” started Meg, then looked over at Elaine who was shaking her head. “Oh,” she said, remembering. “Never mind.”

“
Well, never fear,” I chirped. “I’m sure that she’ll get no other offers since she’s been waiting for this position to open back up. She’ll be happy to come straight-away for an interview. I’m confident that she’ll really love St. Barnabas and our fair city, and the vestry will take to her like a ferret to a French-fry. They’ll offer her the job, and she’ll be here by July.”

“
Well, when you put it like that,” said Elaine, “it doesn’t sound too hopeful, does it?”

“
No,” said Meg, “but I like her. I liked her last year, and I like her now.”

“
Me, too,” added Georgia. “There’s no reason why we can’t have a priest that’s good for our parish. We deserve it. I’m getting on that committee. I have ways.”

“
Keep me informed,” I said. “I’m always happy to be kept in the loop. May I take you gals to lunch?”

Bev shook her head. “Not me. I’ve got a meeting over at the church.”

“
Ah, yes,” I said. “The Parish Administrator.” The role of Parish Administrator was a relatively new position at St. Barnabas enacted by Father George so he could, in my opinion, avoid conflict altogether. Bev Greene was in charge of writing checks, scheduling the building, keeping up with pledges, handling all personnel issues (at the behest of the rector), and all sundry chores that fell under her job description as “other duties as required.” She also had to attend worship meetings.

“
You wouldn’t forget if you were still employed,” humphed Bev. “I hand out the checks.”

“
I already ate,” said Georgia, with a sigh. “I could eat again, I suppose.” She reconsidered. “Nah. Better not.”

“
That just leaves us,” I said, looking at Meg hopefully.

“
Oh, yes. I can just manage to get some lunch in before my next appointment,” Meg said.

“
When’s your next appointment?”

“
A week from yesterday.”

* * *

The Ginger Cat was, as always, doing brisk lunch business. Located on the north side of the square in St. Germaine, they specialized in coffee, soup on Thursdays, and a variety of upscale yuppie sandwiches on unpronounceable bread. Cynthia Johnsson was darting to-and-fro in the graceful dance of the experienced waitress. A new, college-aged waitress whom I didn’t know seemed to be struggling to keep her head above water. We sat down at a table next to the front window, and Cynthia glided by—moments later—with a couple of menus and a water pitcher in one hand, a tray with two bowls of soup and some bread in the other.

“
Be right back,” she said, putting down the menus and pouring two glasses of water, “as soon as I deliver these.”

“
Take your time,” Meg said with a smile. “We’re in no rush.” The other waitress—I suspected she was a student at Appalachian State—was standing in the middle of the restaurant, flipping back and forth through her order pad as though she was looking at lunch orders written in ancient Greek, another shell-shocked victim of the noon rush.

“
What looks good to you?” I asked Meg, as we peered over our menus.

“
I think I’m going to have a grilled Gruyere and roasted red pepper sandwich on Kalamata Olive bread.”

“
What?”

“
Don’t be snide. You heard me perfectly well. It’s the special.”

“
How about this black walnut bagel with seared tuna, Daikon sprouts and Wasabi cream cheese?”

“
Nope. I always like to have the special. It’s good for my self-esteem. ‘I’ll have the special,’ I say to Cynthia, and then, when she brings it, I actually
feel
special.”

“
Well, if that isn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“
Yes it is, isn’t it,” said Meg. “But since I’m feeling special, I shall affirm you in your selection, no matter how commonplace and boring it may be.”

I sighed and stared at the menu. I always had a problem trying to decide on a designer lunch, so I was still undecided when Cynthia hurried up to the table and asked if we were ready to order.

“
I’ll have the special,” said Meg, closing her menu and handing it to Cynthia. “And a glass of ginger-peach iced tea.” Cynthia nodded and looked in my direction.

“
I’ll have the egg sandwich,” I said, finally seeing something that I recognized.

“
That comes with Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese and Crimini mushrooms,” Cynthia said.

“
Okay.”

“
Would you like that on Asiago Cheese bread?”

“
Great,” I said.

“
Perhaps with a side of cranberry compote?”

“
Now, look here…”

“
Never mind,” she giggled. “I’ll bring you a regular egg sandwich, chips and a cup of coffee.”

“
Put some snooty mayonnaise on that, will you?” I called after her.

* * *

We were finishing our lunch just as Ruby, Meg’s mother, walked in the front door of The Ginger Cat. She spotted us right away, or, more probably, spotted us from the street since our placement in the front window was more than a little conspicuous.

“
I thought you might be here,” said Ruby. “I tried calling your cell phone, but you didn’t answer.”

“
I have it turned off,” said Meg. “It’s my lunch hour.”

“
Well, I have two messages for you. Actually, one for you and one for Hayden.”

Meg and I looked up at her expectantly.

“
But first,” Ruby said, sitting down in one of the two vacant chairs at our table, “how about a little dessert?”

“
Sounds good to me,” I agreed.

“
I’ll skip it this time,” said Meg.

Cynthia, overhearing Ruby’s comments, was at our table in two shakes of a lamb’s tail with the new waitress in her wake. “I’m getting ready to leave for the day, so Lisa will take your dessert order.” She ushered Lisa, an obviously shy girl, front and center.

“
What’s on the dessert tray today?” I asked.

“
Umm,” she started, wracking her brain to bring the desserts back from memorized obscurity to the frontal lobe where she could access the information. “There’s blackberry cobbler, bread pudding, cheesecake, blackberry cobbler…”

“
You said that already,” said Ruby, having missed seeing the poor girl struggling earlier and therefore lacking the patience that Meg and I were so admirably demonstrating.

“
Let me start over,” said Lisa. “Blueberry cobbler…”

“
I thought you said ‘blackberry,’” interrupted Ruby.

Lisa nodded and blinked hard. Twice. “Blackberry cheesecake, bread…”

“
Blackberry cobbler!” said Ruby.

“
Mother! Please!” hissed Meg.

“
What?” hissed Ruby back.

“
It’s her first day,” I whispered, hoping that it was.

“
Oh. Take your time, dear.”

Lisa nodded and started again, this time looking at her pad. “Blackberry cobbler, bread pudding, cheesecake, key lime pie and chocolate torte.”

“
Very nice, dear,” said Ruby. “I’ll have the chocolate torte.”