The Diva Wore Diamonds (4 page)

The door buzzer sounded again, and Bev Greene came in, cheerier than I’d seen her in some weeks.

“
Got one!” she said.

“
One what?”

“
A Christian education director.”

“
That’s good news,” said Georgia, walking behind the counter and pulling my book from its hidden recesses. “Anyone we know?”

“
I doubt it. She’s from Boone. Her name is Kimberly Walnut. She graduated from Asbury Seminary in Kentucky a couple of years ago, but wanted to move back here instead of taking an associate pastor job in Kentucky. She hasn’t found a church since she doesn’t want to move, and the Methodist bishop here in North Carolina doesn’t want her if she won’t go where she’s told.”

“
How old is she?” I asked.

“
Forty-seven.”

“
Forty-seven?” said Georgia. “Seriously?”

Bev nodded. “I think she’ll be good, though. She’s got some fun ideas. Like, she wants to do a Bible School the week after next. She’s got a lot of energy; I’ll give her that.”

“
Well, that’s one thing off your list,” I said. “Now, how about the big opening service a week from Sunday?”

“
It’s all falling into place,” said Bev happily. “June 11—St. Barnabas Day. A big service with the bishop in attendance and then a celebration in the parish hall. The ladies are cooking. Meg can make a speech…”

“
I think she’ll pass on the speech,” I said. “But you can ask her.”

“
And then we’ll open the time capsule.”

“
I can’t wait for that!” said Georgia.

The “time capsule,” as it had become known, had been discovered by one of the workmen soon after the demolition of what was left of the old, burnt structure. The engineers had decided that the foundation, although it had done its job for a hundred years, didn’t meet the current building codes. In the ensuing excavation, a construction worker came out of the hole with a metal box, about a foot square and eight inches deep, with a small padlock on the hasp. The workers wanted to open it immediately, but Billy Hixon had been walking by and commandeered the box in the name of the church. It had apparently been buried beneath the church during the construction of the second building, probably in 1901, and therefore assumed to be some sort of “time capsule” containing artifacts from a generation long gone and maybe a message to their congregational great-great-grandchildren. Everyone decided that it would be “just the thing” to open the box after the opening service in the new sanctuary.

“
It sounds as if you have things well under control,” I said, handing Georgia fifteen dollars. She counted out my change, and I stuck the book under my arm and headed for the door. Bev might have things under control, but my problems were just beginning as I walked out onto the sidewalk and into the summer morning.

Two white, fifteen-passenger Ford Econoline church vans had just pulled up in front of The Ginger Cat. “New Fellowship Baptist Church” emblazoned on the side in red block letters identified the owners, and “Follow Me To Jesus” in fancy script across the back doors gave tailgaters a reason to stick tight. The van’s engines rattled to a stop in concert, and thirty retirees piled out, dragging their poster-board placards behind them. The signs had obviously been hastily prepared—hand lettered with magic markers and stapled to yardsticks.

“
Good morning, Brother Hog,” I said, greeting the driver of the first van and obvious leader of this elderly congregation.

“
Chief Konig,” he said politely, sticking out his hand.

Brother Hog—Dr. Hogmanay McTavish— was the pastor of New Fellowship Baptist Church. He’d begun his ministry as an evangelist and was quite successful, never venturing into the somewhat dubious world of TV evangelism, but preferring the old-fashioned tent-revival as his oeuvre. He had grown plumper since I’d last seen him, but his trademark hairstyle, unique to preachers and used-car salesmen, employed one of the finest comb-overs it had ever been my pleasure to ogle. It began behind his right ear, swung up and around his brow like a magnificent gray halo, then circled his head twice before terminating in a burst of tufts that protruded from the middle of the nest like sprigs of ashen grass; all this held in place by enough hairspray to stick a poodle to a brick wall. Unwound and unstuck, Noylene and I suspected his hair was a couple of feet long and something to behold. Noylene had tried to get him into the Beautifery for a firsthand look, but to no avail.

Brother Hog had come to NFBC as the second interim pastor after Brother Jimmy Kilroy was murdered during the baptism of Kokomo, the talking gorilla. The
first
interim pastor was the church’s district apostle, Apostle Jerome, but he could only stay for a few months before he had to get back to his circuit. Brother Hog had come in and taken charge and, after a few months, had decided that being settled was a whole lot easier than putting up and taking down a circus tent every week. In addition, he reported that “scripture chickens”—large chickens that Brother Hog used to choose the passage on which he would base his message—were becoming harder to train. Hog blamed it on the additives that big companies were putting in the chicken feed. “Those chickens are just getting dumber and dumber,” he told me. “They got big breasts, but no brains. I tell you, it’s a metaphor for our society.” I had to agree.

We shook hands as the passengers gathered their possessions from the vans and congregated on the sidewalk.

“
What’s all this then?” I said, in my cheerful-yet-stern Andy Griffith police voice.

“
We’ve come to protest,” said Brother Hog. “Did you see this?”

He held up the morning copy of the
St. Germaine Tattler.
The headline read “Liquor Sales on the Lord’s Day—Yes or No?”

“
No, I haven’t seen it,” I said with a sigh. “I thought the paper was just going to list the referendums on the ballot for next week.”

“
It was,” said Hog. “But Jethro Batch—he works at the
Tattler
on the layout desk—happened to read the referendum while he was working on it and brought it to the attention of Calvin Denton, who, as you know, is the editor. Both of these fine gentlemen attend New Fellowship.”

I nodded. I didn’t know Jethro, but Calvin had been a parishioner at St. Barnabas before he had been hit in the head by a pigeon during an ill-advised Pentecost re-enactment and had used a bunch of his “golfing words” in church. His wife had decided it was time to try another denomination.

“
I don’t know what shenanigans the mayor is trying to pull,” said Brother Hog, “but we are
opposed
to liquor sales on Sunday. It’s bad enough we have liquor sales at all. But Sunday? That is just beyond the pale. It seems to me the City Council was trying to sneak this by in a referendum that no one would bother to come out and vote on. I assure you, this is no longer the case.”

“
Yeah,” I said. “I figured something like this would happen.”

“
We’ve come to protest, Hayden,” said a white-haired woman whom I know only as Miss Ethel. “We have a right to protest. It’s guaranteed in the Constitution.”

“
Absolutely,” I said. “But you’ll need a permit.” I pointed to the police station on the other side of the square. “Lieutenant Parsky will be happy to help you.”

“
We’ll go and get it, Brother Hog,” said Miss Ethel. She and another lady toddled off in the direction I’d pointed.

“
Thank you kindly,” called Brother Hog after them.

The rest of the elderly mob had divided, half going into the bookstore to check out the latest issue of
Mature Digest
, the other half peering through the window of The Ginger Cat at the alimentary knick-knacks that were inviting but unattainable, at least until the restaurant opened for lunch.

“
Are all these folks members of your church?” I asked.

“
Heavens, no,” said the minister. “I made some calls, then went around to several churches this morning and collected our concerned citizens.” He held up his fingers as he counted them off. “Sinking Pond Baptist, Melody Mountain Baptist, Brownwood Pentecostal Holiness, Maranatha Four-Square Church of God With Signs Following, and a few folks from Sand Creek Methodist. We’ve been making protest signs for about an hour.”

“
I notice that all your protesters are of a certain age,” I said.

“
Retired folks. Everyone else is working, but we’ll have a good group out in force on Saturday.”

“
Who are you going to picket?”

“
We thought we’d picket the mayor’s office, but then we found out she doesn’t have one,” said Brother Hog with a smile. “Then I thought, who stands to gain by beer sales on Sunday?”

“
And?”

“
The answer is obvious. The Bear and Brew. They’re the only establishment open on Sunday that would have any reason to sell liquor.”

“
So you’re going to picket the Bear and Brew?”

“
We’ll be having prayer meetings outside until they change their mind about wanting to serve liquor on the Lord’s day.”

“
Okay,” I said, “but here’s the deal. You stay on the other side of the street and you don’t interfere with any customer who’s going in or coming out of that place of business. You do, and this protest is finished, and I’ll lock you up until the election’s over. Do we understand each other?”

“
We understand each other perfectly,” said Brother Hog with a happy grin. “We’ve got the Lord on our side on this one.”

Chapter 3

“
I’ve got news,” said Marjorie promptly at 6:48.

Choir practice, during our exile, had been scheduled on Thursday nights, a departure from our traditional Wednesday evening routine, but the St. Germaine chapter of
Shopaholics Anonymous
had first dibs on the courthouse rotunda since they’d been meeting there on Wednesdays for a few years. Rehearsals were moved to Thursdays at 6:30 which meant that Marjorie’s proclamation was right on time, just barely preempting my own second announcement that we needed to get started.

“
Noylene Fabergé-Dupont is pregnant!” Marjorie said with a flourish.

“
What?”
said Georgia, aghast.

“
What?”
said Meg, equally aghast.

“
Noylene’s
what?”
said Bev, not sure she heard correctly.

“
She’s
what?”
said Rebecca.

“
You heard me,” said Marjorie, smiling the smile of the cat that ate the Pentecostal pigeon. “I heard it from Mr. Christopher.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. “He’s Dr. Dougherty’s nurse’s yoga instructor’s interior decorator, and she told him that Noylene was due in November.”

“
Maybe he misunderstood,” said Fred from the bass section. “Maybe her bill is due in November.”

“
He didn’t misunderstand,” sniffed Marjorie. “I know of what I speak. The wonders of the grapevine shall not be besmirched.”

“
But I thought they weren’t having any kids,” said Elaine Hixon.

“
Because Wormy’s her cousin,” added Bev.