The Mezzo Wore Mink (27 page)

“
Can I wear my Indian suit for Halloween?” Moosey asked. “It’s next week and I don’t have a costume yet.”

“
If you get to be an Indian, we’ll get you a costume,” I promised. “I guess you’ll know by tomorrow.” I looked over at Adrian for confirmation.

“
We’ll go over the auditions this evening and post the cast list tomorrow at the first rehearsal. Everyone who auditioned will get a part, that I can promise you. Thank you all for coming.”

A few minutes later I was in the choir loft fencing with a Johann Kuhnau organ fugue. A well-constructed Baroque fugue is like a complex work of architecture, and as I wandered my way through the subject and countersubject, the series of expositions and finally deep into the development, I became lost in the music and didn’t hear Meg and Ruby come up the steps. I don’t know how long they’d been standing there when I reached the final chord, but they both applauded as I lifted my hands off the console.

“
Brilliant,” said Ruby.

“
Not bad,” said Meg.

“
Not bad?”

“
I don’t want you to get a big head.”

“
No chance of that,” I laughed. “Too many notes.”

“
I understand congratulations are in order,” said Ruby. “And may I say that it’s about time.”

“
Thank you very much,” I said.

““
I’m very happy for you both,” said Ruby. “Have you two decided on a date?”

I looked over at Meg. She shrugged and smiled.

“
Not yet,” I said.

“
I have a thought,” said Meg. “What if we got married during
The Living Gobbler
?”

“
Excuse
me
?” said Ruby.

“
Well, it certainly would be apropos,” said Meg. “Don’t you think? But only if we could get Father Tony to perform the actual ceremony. I don’t want to have the Lemmings do it.”

“
Hmm,” I said. “We’d have to wear costumes. Maybe dress up as pilgrims.”

“
As long as we don’t have to dress up like giblets,” said Meg. “I’ve already had the thirty-thousand dollar wedding. A pilgrim wedding might be just the right touch. All our friends would already be there.”

“
This is exactly why I’m marrying you, you know.”

“
Yes, I know.”

Ruby wasn’t smiling.

•••

I cut our choir practice short, just taking enough time to put the finishing touches on Sunday’s anthem.
How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place
from Brahms’
Requiem
was an anthem we’d sung before and an old favorite with the choir. Better than that, if the priest stuck with the lectionary, we’d be right in step.

We headed over to the courthouse for the first mayoral debate in St. Germaine’s history. The festivities would be held in the rotunda on the ground floor. Offices and the old, unused courtroom were up the stairs and off the balcony that surrounded and looked down on the rotunda. There was plenty of room for the hundred or so chairs that the St. Germaine chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, headed by Wynette Winslow, had set up in front of the dais, beautifully draped with red, white, and blue political bunting. Two podiums stood on the platform from which, according to the format that Pete had shown me earlier, the candidates would answer questions from the floor and from each other. Billy Hixon was the moderator, since he was also the St. Germaine Election Commissioner, but his real job, according to Pete, was to call for questions and break up fistfights.

We were about fifteen minutes early. In addition to most of the choir members, there were maybe twenty other folks milling about exchanging pleasantries. I noticed Calvin Denton, the editor of
The Tattler,
sitting in the front row with pad in hand. Marjorie had a placard on a yardstick proclaiming her allegiance to Cynthia’s candidacy. Marjorie and Pete had a long running feud stemming from her insistence on raising chickens in her backyard on Poplar Avenue, a scant two blocks from downtown. She’d already spoken to Cynthia and gotten her okay on the chicken question. Her poster had Cynthia’s name in handwritten letters and was decorated with ribbons, crepe paper streamers and a couple of homemade bumper-stickers.

Meg and I were scouting out seats when we were approached by a very large and very exuberant African-American woman.

“
Hi, y’all!” she said. “So glad you could make it!” She pressed a brochure into my hand and turned to Meg. “May I assume that your husband will not be influencing your decision on whom to vote for?”

“
You may so assume,” said Meg, “but he’s not my husband. And that was a very slick question. Separating our votes like that.”

The woman beamed. “It’s what I do.” She stuck out a hand the size of a canned ham. “My name’s Crayonella. Crayonella Washington. I work with Cynthia Johnsson.” She looked in my direction and glowered. “I think I know who
you
are.”

“
Hayden Konig at your service. I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’d heard that Cynthia had hired a publicist.”

“
A political advisor.”

“
Exactly,” I said, looking down at the color brochure. Cynthia, decked out in her belly-dancing regalia, adorned the front. She was pictured in full swerve with both hands poised artistically above her head. You could almost hear the “ching” of the finger-cymbals and the rattle of the bells on her hips. It was a good photo. Really good. I opened the brochure. There was Cynthia again, this time in a dark blue business suit, her blonde hair pulled back and a no-nonsense look on her face. Another good photo. Underneath was a caption “Cynthia Johnsson for Mayor—A New Face, A New Step, A New Direction.” A brief bio followed with a few bullet points highlighting some general political positions.

“
Everyone knows she’s a belly dancer,” said Crayonella. “No sense in hiding the fact. May as well make the most of it.”

“
I have to agree,” I said. “In fact, I’m going to hang this brochure on the bulletin board at work.”

Crayonella sniffed. “But will you vote for her?”

“
No. I don’t live within the city limits. But I’m very impressed.”

“
How about you?” she asked Meg. “I hope we can count on your vote. It’s high time that St. Germaine had a new mayor.”

“
I’ll certainly consider it,” said Meg.

“
Will Cynthia be belly-dancing this evening?” I asked.

“
Good question,” said Crayonella. “Here’s another. Will Mr. Moss be wearing underwear, and if so, is he prepared to prove it?”

•••

At eight o’clock, Billy got up and walked to one of the podium mikes. Cynthia and Pete followed him onto the dais and each took a seat in one of the two chairs. Cynthia was in her two-piece, tailored blue suit, looking very accomplished and capable. Her hair was tied loosely behind her head and she had discarded her contacts in favor of a pair of fashionable glasses that any Fifth Avenue exec would have been comfortable wearing. Pete was wearing his Hawaiian shirt, khaki expando-pants and sandals. His gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. I did notice that he put on his good earring and a nice gold chain obviously left over from the ’80s.

“
Settle down, you people,” Billy said, tapping on the microphone. “Is this thing on?” It wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t even hooked up. The rotunda didn’t have a sound system and the ladies of the D.A.R. hadn’t thought to bring one in.

“
Pay attention!” Billy hollered. We did.

“
Welcome to the St. Germaine mayoral debate. I’m in charge, so don’t go yelling at each other or I’ll throw your butts out of here.”

I looked around the room. The crowd had swelled to fifty and was sprinkled across the hundred chairs giving the impression of a larger audience. It looked like a sedate group, all except for Marjorie, who was waving her sign and obviously chomping at the bit, waiting to be called on.

“
We’ll start with opening statements,” said Billy. “Cynthia will go first.”

Cynthia got up and walked to her podium. She adjusted her glasses and smoothed her skirt with both hands.

“
Good evening,” she said. “I would like to say, right off the bat, that no matter what any of the voters might say, I don’t want to make this campaign about whether Mayor Moss wears any underwear or not. I refuse to discuss it.”

I looked over at Crayonella Washington, her moon face smiling and nodding.

“
Hey, just one second,” interrupted Pete.

“
Quiet, Pete,” said Billy. “You’ll get your turn.”

“
But…”

“
Hush up!” said Billy, waggling a threatening finger.

Cynthia continued. “No, I won’t have Mr. Moss’ unsanitary personal habits become an issue when we should be concentrating on what’s really important for the future of St. Germaine. I ask you…” She gestured toward the audience. “…what do
you
think are the pressing issues?”

“
Education,” came a call from the back.

“
Property taxes,” came another.

“
Gas prices,” said a third.

“
Chickens,” hollered Marjorie, waving her sign.

“
And new businesses,” added Crayonella, in her loud voice.

“
Exactly,” said Cynthia. “We’re tired of this lackadaisical effort by our city officials to address these problems.”

“
What
problems?” asked Pete, genuinely confused. “These aren’t problems.”

“
Quiet,” warned Billy again.

“
Our childrens’ test scores are down, property taxes and gas prices are going up, we
still
have no cable TV, and the new businesses that Pete invited into town won’t be paying any taxes for two years.”

“
And our chickens aren’t safe!” added Marjorie.

“
Wait!” said Pete. “That’s just not…”

“
I’m not going to tell you again,” said Billy. “Next time, you forfeit your opening remarks. Them’s the rules.”

Pete slumped back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest in disgust.

Cynthia went on for another minute decrying the woeful state of our little township, finally finishing with “We don’t want any more excuses. No matter what you may think of Mayor Moss’ failure to wear underwear, his failure to provide this town with badly needed services is the real crime.”

Marjorie stood and gave her a standing ovation, waving her poster wildly. Cynthia nodded and took her seat.

“
Okay, Pete,” said Billy. “Your turn.”

“
I hardly know where to begin,” said Pete. “Listen. Sure, the kids’ test scores are down, but that’s not our fault. We don’t even have a school! I suggest you blame the Watauga County Board of Education. Secondly, property taxes go up when you vote them up and I have nothing to do with gas prices. Thirdly, the cable company still hasn’t run their fiber-optics out this far.”