The Mezzo Wore Mink (32 page)

“
What?”
said Pete.

“
I think,” I said, “that Davis
did
commit suicide, but not because of the embolism. I think he was afraid to face his prison sentence. He knew that he was about to be caught by someone. But who was it and what tipped him off?”

“
Something in the book?” said Dave.

I shrugged. “That’s what I remember, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“
What book?” asked Pete.

“
The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon
,” I said. “We were looking at it in Eden Books on the Saturday morning before he killed himself. I remember that he got very quiet, closed the book, made an excuse to leave and took off.”

“
That’s the one you bought?” asked Pete. “By Washington Irving?”

“
Yes.”

“
Did you go through it to see what he might have seen?”

“
Sure,” said Nancy, “but what could there have been? The book is ancient. It just doesn’t add up.”

“
Okay,” I said, “let’s leave that for a moment. Here’s another interesting fact. Davis Boothe had a life insurance policy with Upper Womb Ministries. If it turns out he was murdered instead of a suicide, and it turns out that they weren’t somehow complicit, they get fifty thousand dollars. He was in there on the Saturday afternoon before he died. According to Chad, he was very agitated when he came in, but he calmed down during his massage.”

“
Back to his missing head,” said Pete.

“
Yes,” I said. “His head. The reward is for Josh Kenisaw, dead or alive. I imagine that the bounty hunter, whoever he is, would rather have brought Davis…er, Josh, back alive. But once he killed himself, the bounty hunter would have to bring back proof that Josh was dead to collect the reward. A death certificate probably wouldn’t do it for Senator Jack DeMille.”

“
So the bounty hunter took the head?” Pete asked.

“
What better? Davis was cremated, so there wouldn’t be any record of the head being taken,” said Nancy. “Once his remains were ground up, there would be no way of identifying anything.”

“
So the someone went in and stole Davis’ head before he was cremated,” said Dave.

“
Someone who had a key,” Nancy added.

“
And the only people who had keys were Dale and Panty Patterson and Thelma Wingler.” I took a sip of coffee. “You beginning to get the picture?”

“
No,” said Pete.

“
Look,” I sighed. “You’ve got to keep up.”

Pete nodded.

“
Thelma died in the labyrinth on Tuesday. Her purse had been stolen and there had been someone in the garden with her. She’d been talked off her OCD meds by Chad. In addition, she’d left money to Upper Womb Ministries. Five thousand dollars, to be exact.”

“
Not only that,” said Nancy, “her throat was swollen and her vocal cords were paralyzed. She couldn’t call for help.”

“
Poison?” asked Dave.

“
Maybe,” I said. “I’m thinking rhubarb leaves—maybe in an herbal tea. The leaves contain oxalic acid, a mild poison that causes such inflammation. She may have been drinking it for a few days thinking it was helping her when actually it was causing the problem.”

“
That’s why she bought the krummhorn?” said Nancy.

“
Could be. She went to the labyrinth by herself and she knew she couldn’t call for help if she got into trouble. Maybe she bought the krummhorn to alert a passerby if she needed to attract some attention.”

“
But she didn’t know she had to put a reed into it first,” said Nancy. “Maybe the reason that it was hung up in the bushes was because she was trying to throw it over the hedge to get someone’s attention.”

I nodded. It felt right. “If all our assumptions are correct,” I said, “then someone took Thelma’s purse after she was either incapacitated or dead. Thelma had unlocked the gate and entered the garden. At that point, she had Chad’s key, her own keys, and her purse. Whoever stole her purse wanted the key to the crematorium, because they needed to be able to get Davis’ head sometime after he’d been delivered but before they did the cremation at two a.m.”

“
And they’d have to know the crematorium’s schedule,” added Nancy.

“
And know the schedule,” I agreed. “But that’s not difficult to find out.”

“
So was Thelma murdered?” asked Pete.

“
I don’t know yet,” I said, “but it sure looks like it.”

Chapter 20

The Diva offered me a mink-covered hand and I kissed it diligently, taking time to savor the loose hairs that came away stuck to my gums. Something wasn’t right. I smacked my lips. This wasn’t mink. I knew the taste of mink the same way I knew my mother’s chipped squirrel on toast. This had the minty aftertaste of weasel, or maybe ferret. I took another taste and detected the slightest hint of cumin. Then I knew. It was stoat.

“
My,” said Barbara Seville, batting her eyes like Nelson Rockefeller in a cabinet meeting. “You certainly do like to kiss a woman’s hand. I hope you’re equally as passionate in other areas.”

“
Maybe I am, sweetheart,” I said, plucking stoat hairs from my teeth. “But I know your game and the jig is up. You killed AveMaria Gratsyplena and Ginger Snapp. You’re not supplying minks to bishops. You’re giving them stoat at mink prices and they’re too stupid to know the difference.”

“
Is that any reason not to enjoy the evening?” asked the Diva, as she opened her fur coat extra-sexily. Underneath, she was clad only in a fur bikini obviously made from very small, underprivileged animals with eating disorders; a bikini that was struggling on all edges to maintain its integrity as a piece of clothing. I bent down and looked closely. Maybe it was mink, maybe stoat, but I knew that I was just the flatfoot to handle the investigation
.

•••

The Living Gobbler
rehearsal was in full swing when I arrived. The stage wouldn’t be erected until the week of the performance, so the fifty or so participants were being staged on the chancel steps. Fiona was in charge, ordering actors and singers hither and yon. Father Lemming was at the keyboard, providing accompaniment for the rehearsal.

“
Hey, Chief!” hollered Moosey, as soon as he saw me. “Look at me! I’m an Indian! And I got a dog!”

I waved to him. Mrs. Lemming snarled “Quiet!” and the cast cowered for a long moment. Then she spotted me.

“
Hayden!” she said. “Just the person we need. Do you have
The Living Gobbler
hymn?”

“
Hot off the press,” I said, holding up a stack of paper that I’d just finished Xeroxing in the church office. “The tune is
Austria
.”

Mrs. Lemming looked at me blankly.

“
Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken
, dontcha know.” said Father Lemming, playing the first few bars.

“
Perfect,” said Fiona, with a big grin. “Let’s hear it then.” She turned to the cast. “Line up like we’ll be for the first number,” Fiona Tidball-Lemming commanded. “We don’t have the choir yet and I know that not all of you are singers, but let’s do the best we can. Then when the choir shows up next week…” She shot me a dirty look. “…we’ll really sound great. So let’s get in our places.”

Ian Burch was sitting on the aisle, three pews back, watching the activities. I gave him a clap on the shoulder as I walked by. I felt him wince.

“
How are you, Dr. Burch?”

“
Fine, thanks.”

“
Are you here seeing how the Early Musik Consort will fit into the program?”

“
Partly. But Fiona wanted my dog to be in the production. His name’s Gamba. She came by the Music Shoppe and saw him, so now he’s in the show,” he said proudly. “That little boy in the Indian costume is in charge of him.”

I looked toward the steps. The only boy in a costume was Moosey. I’d bought it for him over in Cherokee once he told me he’d been assigned the part of “Indian.” It was an authentic Cherokee outfit, or at least as close as Jim Thundercloud could make it. Fringed leggings, moccasins, a buckskin shirt with some beaded embroidery and a headband with two eagle feathers didn’t come cheap, even if everything
was
in a size eight. But, as Meg pointed out, what good was having money if you never had any fun with it? I knew that Moosey would be wearing the outfit to every rehearsal, for Halloween Trick or Treating, to bed, and if he could talk his mother into it, to school. I wasn’t the one that provided him with the tomahawk, however. It was stuck in his belt and looked, from the third pew at least, to be real. I didn’t see a dog.

“
Is Gamba on a leash?” I asked Ian. “I don’t see him.”

“
Sure.” He half stood and peered down his nose and through his thick glasses. Then he smiled. “There he is. The boy hooked the leash on the lectern.”

I saw the dog beside the lectern. It was a breed whose markings I recognized. A Rottweiler.

“
I hope Gamba’s well trained. Rottweilers can be dangerous.” I looked carefully at the dog. He seemed relaxed and not at all anxious. “At least he’s lying down and looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“
He’s only half-Rottweiler,” said Ian, “and he’s not lying down.”

I looked again. Ian was right, of course. Gamba was a Rottweiler on the shortest legs I’d ever seen.

“
His mother was a Rottweiler,” explained Ian Burch, “but his father was a Dachshund. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. Gamba’s a vegan.”

•••

“
Pass out those song sheets!” commanded Fiona, once the cast was in place. I handed some to the person on the end of each row and every stack made its way across the chancel as Pilgrims, Indians and assorted vegetables each took a copy.

“
All right, then,” said Fiona. “Let’s try it.”

“
How many verses?” asked Father Lemming.

“
Four,” I answered. “All in unison. When we add the choir, we’ll have parts as well.”

Father Lemming nodded and started playing an introduction to the famous hymn.

“
You all know the tune,” I called over the sound of the keyboard. “
Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken.
”

I saw nods of recognition from the cast. Muffy smiled at me and winked. Then the introduction was over and everyone sang with gusto:

Lord, we offer our Thanksgiving

For the vittles that we eat,

Sweet potato, pumpkin pie, and

Every kind of fish and meat:

Lemon Jello—what a wobbler!

Red-eye gravy, ham and bread.

Best of all, the Living Gobbler

May thy food to all be fed.

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