The Mezzo Wore Mink (3 page)

“
Can’t get high-speed where I am. I’m still on dial-up. I don’t use it except for e-mail.”

“
Why don’t you just use the office internet? That’s what Dave does.”

“
That would be an illegal use of city property. I’m thinking of having Dave arrested,” Nancy laughed. “And besides, I don’t have a credit card.”

“
You’d arrest your own boyfriend?” I chuckled. “Hey, wait a minute. No credit card? Not even one? That’s amazing.”

“
Never needed one, never wanted one,” replied Nancy in a very self-satisfied tone. “Mostly I use cash. You’d be amazed at the discounts you can get if you’re a cash customer.”

“
I don’t doubt it.” I looked back out the window. “How about our new spa? Any news?”

Nancy gestured with a nod. “Down the street from the flower shop. That two-story yellow house on the corner.”

“
Mrs. McCarty’s house?”

“
Yep. She’s moving down to Gastonia where her daughter lives. Pete’s giving them a zoning variance to put in a business. It’s only a couple of blocks off the square and the only residence on the block.”

I nodded. “What about parking?”

“
Customers will have to park behind the house or on the street, but we’ve been assured there won’t be more than three or four cars at a time.”

“
Three new businesses. Pete will be riding high for a few weeks at least.”

“
That’s his plan.” Nancy’s eyes narrowed as she looked out the window, across the street and into the park. “Uh oh. Here comes Cynthia. I’ll be back by lunch.”

“
Hey, wait a minute,” I said, but Nancy had already disappeared.

•••

“
What’s going on here?” demanded Cynthia.

“
Huh?” I decided that playing innocent was my best defense. “Well, hello, Cynthia.”

“
Don’t you ‘Well, hello, Cynthia’ me. What’s all this about new shops coming into town?”

“
Yes,” I said. “I believe that there’s a bookstore, a music store and a spa joining our downtown community. Also a furrier. But that hasn’t been made public yet.”

Tears welled up in Cynthia’s eyes. “It’s not fair. Just when I tell everyone that Pete hasn’t done one thing to help grow St. Germaine’s tax base, he announces three…”

“
Four,” I corrected.

“
Four new businesses.”

I nodded sympathetically. “It certainly is good timing for Pete.” I paused before adding apologetically “I’m his crony, you know.”

“
I know,” she said sadly. “I wish I had a crony.”

“
If it’s any consolation, Pete was really scared for a couple of days.”

“
Now I have to go after his underwear.”

“
Yeah.”

We both stood there silently for a moment; then Cynthia brightened. “Hey,” she said, “maybe he’ll do something—you know—
unsavory
before the election.”

“
He’s certainly been known to,” I said cheerfully. “Pete’s a free spirit.”

•••

Lunchtime at the Slab was fairly hectic, mostly due to the fact that Noylene was back at her Beautifery by noon and Bootsie didn’t quite have the hang of waiting tables even though she’d been at it for a few months. I walked in and spied Georgia and Elaine huddled over a table in the corner by the kitchen. They saw me and waved me over.

“
Pull up a chair,” Georgia said. “We have terrible news.”

“
Terrible,” echoed Elaine.

“
You just found out that Gaylen Weatherall is being considered for bishop of Colorado?” I said.

“
You knew?” said Elaine. “You knew and you didn’t tell us?”

“
Well, I don’t tell everything I know. Anyway, she asked me to keep it under my hat. How did you find out?”

“
I have a friend in Colorado,” Georgia said. “She asked me if I happened to know this particular priest from North Carolina.”

“
Gaylen,” added Elaine glumly. “Just when I thought we were on the right track.”

Bootsie came up to our table with a crazed look in her eye. “What do y’all want?”

“
Bootsie,” I said, “you look a bit harried.”

“
Cut the chit-chat. What do y’all
want
?” Bootsie repeated. “C’mon. I ain’t got all day.”

“
I shall have the special,” Elaine said.

“
We got no special,” Bootsie answered. “How about a meatloaf sandwich?”

“
No, thank you,” said Elaine picking up a menu. “Let’s see…”

“
I’ll get you some fries with that,” said Bootsie, ignoring her. She slapped her order pad closed. “In fact, meatloaf sandwiches for all of you. And iced tea.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

“
That was easy,” I said. “Sometimes I have a hard time deciding.”

“
I swear,” said Georgia. “I’m going to quit coming in here unless Pete gets some decent help.”

“
I hate meatloaf,” said Elaine. “But back to Gaylen. The election’s tomorrow. She’s already been out to Colorado twice for the ‘meet and greet.’”

“
Maybe they won’t want her,” I suggested, knowing it was a futile hope. Gaylen was one of those rare priests who was intelligent, kind, well published, and not too full of herself. If she weren’t elected bishop this time, another diocese would soon snap her up. She was now on the fast track.

“
If she gets chosen, when will she leave?” asked Elaine.

“
In a couple of weeks, I expect. They tend not to dawdle.”

“
Then what?”

“
I suppose we’ll ask the bishop to send us an interim priest.”

“
How about Tony?” said Georgia, hopefully.

“
He’s retired,” I answered. “No, I take that back. He’s now thrice retired. I doubt that he’s willing to take the parish again.”

We all sat in silence, waiting for our lunches,our hands folded in front of us, listening to the cheery chatter of the other customers, but there was no joy in Mudville. Meatloaf sandwiches and yet another priestly migration were nothing to smile about.

Chapter 3

A final flood of fugal flatulence drifted out of the organ pipes and off into space like a flock of Easter moths. I got up and was starting toward the baptismal pool, quietly congratulating myself on choosing my new English-Style, double-breasted and fully-lined trench coat, a 60/40 polyester-cotton blend with authentic storm flaps, epaulettes, aged brass hardware and D-rings, like the one in the scene where they say goodbye at the airport, the sound of propellers turning, when I tripped over the corpse.

It was my client, AveMaria Gratsyplena, and she was as stiff as Al Gore on Oscar night. I bent down and lifted her veil. She’d been strangled with a rosary: not a run-of-the-mill rosary like you might get at a Catholic bookstore where Hail Marys are two for a quarter and indulgences are included on the back flap of the May issue of “Nuns and Roses” magazine, but a fancy heirloom rosary with pearls, rubies, and a solid gold cross; a rosary with attitude; the kind of rosary that said, “Get your Jehovah’s Witness butt off my front porch.”

“
I see that you’re back in fine form.”

I stopped typing, looked back over my shoulder and smiled at Meg. “It’s the hat.”

“
I can tell,” she said, lifting the newly acquired prize off my head for a moment, and kissing me on the cheek before dropping it back into position. “It certainly has taken your writing to a new level.”

“
I can sense your sarcasm, Madam. I’ll have you know that the choir has been virtually clamoring for a new story. Virtually
clamoring
, I tell you.”

“
Virtually?”

“
Yep.” I took off the hat, placed it on the desk by the typewriter, then stood and greeted her correctly and profoundly, but not exactly according to the Amy Vanderbilt etiquette book. “Welcome home,” I growled.

“
Mmm, glad to be back.”

“
Let’s rustle up some supper,” I suggested. “How was the seminar?”

“
Awful.” Meg frowned. She was beautiful when she frowned. And she was beautiful when she didn’t frown. “Well, actually, the seminar was okay, but we were through every afternoon at three o’clock. There wasn’t anything to do.”

We walked into the kitchen and I started rummaging around the fridge. “You didn’t go lie out on the beach?”

“
Sure. From four to six, then back to the hotel room. The rest of the group stayed out partying till two or three a.m.”

“
May I see your tan lines?”

She giggled. “I haven’t decided. Maybe later. What’s the news around here?”

I came out of the refrigerator with a couple of old potatoes—old enough to have three inch sprouts shooting from their wrinkled hides. “How about a baked potato?” I asked, handing over one of the spiky spuds.

Meg shuddered and tossed it into the sink. “No thanks.”

“
Not much news since you’ve been gone. Cynthia has accused Pete publicly of not wearing underwear. It was in the
Tattler
.”

“
That’s
news.”

“
And we have four new businesses coming into town. Two are moving in this week. It’s part of Pete’s revitalization plan to keep the press out of his pants.”

“
That’s
news.”

“
And Gaylen Weatherall is probably being elected Bishop of Colorado tomorrow.”

Silence.

“
I said…”

“
I heard! When did this happen?”

“
Well, as I said, the election is tomorrow…”

“
Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly,” Meg said slowly, carefully enunciating every word.

“
Umm,” I started. “You see…Gaylen’s gone out a couple of times this month to talk to the churches. But I didn’t even really know she was seriously in the running until a few days ago.”

“
And you didn’t
tell
me?”

“
She asked me not to.”

“
Let’s get one thing straight, Mister. Whenever anyone tells you
not
to tell anyone, that does
not
include me.” Sparks flashed from her gray eyes.

I shrugged helplessly.