The Mezzo Wore Mink

The Mezzo Wore Mink

A Liturgical Mystery

Copyright ©2008 by Mark Schweizer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by

St. James Music Press

Tryon, NC 28782

ISBN 978-0-9721211-9-4

Prelude

First of all, Meg was gone. Not gone for good. Just gone for a couple of weeks.

As a highly trained detective, I had two clues that Meg was gone. The first was that she told me.

“
I’m going to Myrtle Beach tomorrow,” she said.

“
Yikes. I hate Myrtle Beach.”

“
That’s too bad. I was going to ask you to go with me.”

“
Why are you going to Myrtle Beach?” I asked.

“
Investment seminar.”

“
Teaching or taking?”

“
Teaching.”

“
So there won’t be any playing hooky and skipping classes in favor of more interesting pursuits?”

“
I’m afraid not,” said Meg.

“
I hope you don’t mind terribly if I decline the invitation,” I said.

Meg sighed. “I don’t blame you. I hate Myrtle Beach, too. I don’t know why I said I’d do it, but now I’m stuck.”

The second clue was that I was about to smoke a cigar, something I’d given up a few months ago. Meg never actually asked me to, and never said anything once I did, but I could tell she appreciated the gesture. Today I figured that I could light up in the den, smoke my stogie, then open the windows, let the room air out for the rest of the week and I’d be home free. No harm, no foul.

I rolled the cigar between my thumb and forefinger and ran the length of it under my nose, taking in the aroma of delicious illegal Cuban tobacco. This was not just any cigar. This was a
Romeo et Julietta
, smuggled into the country by my friend Pete Moss, returning from his Cuban vacation by way of Mexico City. He had actually seen it rolled yesterday morning at the Partagas Cigar Factory behind the
Capitolio
in Old Havana. It was as fresh as a Cuban cigar got if you didn’t happen to be in Cuba.

I put the cigar on the desk, sat down and looked at the box—large, nondescript, brown cardboard—that had been sent overnight by Pack & Ship in San Francisco and delivered this morning.

My typewriter, usually the focal point of the desk décor, found itself pushed to the side to make room for the package. This particular typewriter was mine by possession but not by right, since its original owner was Raymond Chandler, the mystery writer. I couldn’t consider the 1939 Underwood truly mine until I had written at least one story worthy of the master himself. Meg suggested on more than one occasion that I might settle for a paragraph—or even a sentence. I had made several attempts over the years, much to the delight and disgust of the St. Barnabas choir, on whom I inflicted my efforts. Now, with a fresh Cuban stogie and the sounds of Cab Calloway filling the room, I flipped open a collection of short stories to “Red Wing.”

There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

Classic. I put the small book aside, then ran the blade of my pocketknife across the top of the waiting box and opened it. I removed the tissue paper and revealed what I had purchased from a certain Barbara Chandler Forrest. Raymond’s grandniece had kept some of her famous uncle’s mementos for decades but finally, now having to move into an assisted living facility, she offered them to collectors. And I was one.

I reached in and removed a gray felt hat. A fedora made by the Mallory Hat Company of Danbury, Connecticut. Size 7 3/8. Too small for me, but just large enough to get it sized to my 7 1/2. I tried it on anyway since there wasn’t anyone around to laugh. Baxter was looking at me from under a table and if he found the sight to be ludicrous, the only sign he gave was a slight wag of his tail.

I tugged the hat down as low as I dared, not wanting to damage it. My haberdasher in Philadelphia assured me the felt hat could easily be cleaned and professionally stretched one size and I’d told him I would send it up as soon as I received it. But then Meg had taken off for a few days, and I determined to give the hat, the cigar, and the typewriter another try. I looked at a framed photograph that had been included with my purchase. It was a photo of Raymond Chandler, dated 1952, wearing the same hat I now had on my head. I leaned it against the banker’s lamp and, with a gentle tug on the chain, illuminated the photo as well as the entire top of the desk.

I lit my cigar, moved the Underwood back to the center of my desk, took a piece of 24 lb. bond and rolled it slowly under the platen. Then I placed my fingers on the glass keys and typed

The Mezzo Wore Mink

Chapter 1

The inspiration was practically palpable.

Chapter 1

“
It’s not fair, Hayden,” grumbled Pete from behind his copy of the St. Germaine
Tattler
. “She’s got no political experience whatsoever.”

“
Neither did you,” I reminded him. “Now, get your head out of the paper and pass me the grits. Even if you lose, what’s the big deal? It’s not like being mayor is your main source of income. Does it even pay anything?”

“
Eight thousand a year, but that’s not the point. Being mayor is who I am. It goes with my pony-tail.”

“
You’ll probably win anyway. After twelve years, you’re just used to running unopposed.”

“
And that’s the way it should be. I also might point out that as police chief, you should be worried. If I go, I’m not going alone. You, my fine friend, are what we call in the political game a ‘crony.’ Here, listen to this.” Pete snapped the
Tattler
inside out and folded it in half.

“
Mayor Peter Moss has done nothing to bring new business to St. Germaine. As a small, quaint, Appalachian town, we should be vying for the same tourist dollars that are going to the nearby communities of Boone, Banner Elk, and Blowing Rock. Yet we have the same tired old stores downtown that we had twelve years ago when he was first elected. Even his own Slab Café hasn’t seen a renovation since the ’80s.”

“
So?” I said. “I like the downtown stores. We don’t need any new ones. I suggest you point out to Cynthia the recent addition of the Bear and Brew and Noylene’s Beautifery. If that isn’t progress, I don’t know what is. As your crony, I affirm you in this course of non-action.”

“
What good ol’ Cynthia Johnsson doesn’t know is that the city council has already passed an incentive package for downtown growth. And I have three new businesses coming into town with a fourth on the hook.”

“
That should bode well for the probability of your triumphant re-election to public service.” I reached across the table and took a biscuit from the red plastic basket sitting next to Pete’s elbow. “The article say anything else?”

“
Yeah. She says, ‘How can any mayor be taken seriously when he doesn’t wear any underwear?’ How does she know I don’t wear underwear?”

“
It’s common knowledge, Mr. Mayor. You’ve never tried to hide your strange predilection for being an unfettered nature-boy and you’ve dated almost every single woman in town. A couple of married ones, too.” I waved an empty coffee cup at Noylene. “Didn’t you go out with Cynthia a couple of times?”

“
Oh, yeah.” Pete looked chagrined. “Forgot about that. Hey,” he said, looking around for the first time since he picked up the newspaper. “Where is everybody?”

I shrugged. The Slab Café wasn’t exactly bustling on this late September morning. In addition to Pete and me, there were only two other customers. Noylene had volunteered to help out on the morning shift until Pete found a permanent waitress to take Collette’s place. Noylene’s clientele at the Beautifery didn’t usually get up and moving before ten. Pete had hired Bootsie Watkins to fill the lunch and dinner slot soon after she’d been let go by New Fellowship Baptist Church. Bootsie discovered, to her dismay, that job security for church secretaries having affairs with head deacons was not especially good.

Noylene brought her coffee pot to the table and filled both cups.

“
Thanks, Noylene,” Pete said, still grumpy. “Where does Cynthia get off criticizing me for not wearing drawers? She’s a belly dancer, for God’s sake. Since when can a belly dancer run for mayor?”

“
Anyone can run for mayor,” I said. “That’s what makes our country great. I’d sooner vote for a belly dancer than a lawyer.”

“
You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie,” said Noylene. “Hey, wait a minute. You ain’t wearin’ drawers?”

“
No, I’m not,” said Pete, “and I’m proud to say it. I gave ‘em up in ’72.”

“
What about the time you were in the Navy?” I asked. “Didn’t they make you wear them?” I pushed the last bite of the apple-buttered biscuit into my mouth and washed it down with a sip of fresh coffee.

“
Army,” Pete corrected. “Yes, they did. They forced me. But when I was on leave, I never wore them.”

“
If I was your campaign manager,” said Noylene, “I’d make sure that everybody knew you was wearing your drawers. What if you was in an accident? The voters just cain’t trust a man with no drawers.”

Pete sniffed. “There’s a scientific basis for men not wearing underwear.”

“
And what would that be?” I asked.

“
Well, for one thing, it’s been proven that switching from briefs to boxers raises your sperm count. I figure that going commando should be twice as effective.”

“
And this matters to you because…?”

“
Hmm…well, you never know when you might need a high count. Let’s say that I needed to get a loan for a new house.”

“
They look at your sperm count?” said Noylene. “No wonder Wormy can’t get a loan.”

I shook my head. “Pete, your sperm count isn’t like your credit score.”

Pete put down the paper. “I know.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. Noylene sidled up next to him. “But when I fill out the application,” he whispered, “I write my sperm count in the space where they want to know how much I make a year. I just say three to five million. They never actually ask how much
money
I make, so I’m not really lying.”