The Mezzo Wore Mink (6 page)

“
Washington Irving? It isn’t an autographed copy, is it?”

“
Why, yes. Yes, it is. I happen to have the first printing by C. S. Van Winkle of New York in 1820.
The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon.
It’s an early bind-up of the seven parts, but without the outer wrappers. Near fine condition in contemporary marbled boards, marbled end papers and a modern leather spine. The autograph is on the second of the seven parts.”

“
You’re kidding, of course.”

“
No,” said Hyacinth with a smile. “I’m not.”

“
What the heck is the
Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon
?” asked Meg. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“
Washington Irving’s collection of essays and short stories,” I said. “It was the first published book edition of
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
and
Rip Van Winkle
. Of course, those are only the two most famous stories. There is a whole set of Christmas essays as well.”

“
How much is it?” asked Davis, now very curious.

“
Are you interested as well, young man?” asked Hyacinth, her blue eyes sparkling. “My, my.”

Davis blushed and grinned. “I can’t afford it, of course, but I’d love to see it.”

“
I’ll be right back,” said Hyacinth, and disappeared into the back of the store.

“
I don’t even want to know what that book is going to cost,” said Ruby. “And here I was worried about spending $35.95 on a Martha Stewart cookbook.”

“
I’ll buy you the cookbook,” I said magnanimously. “It’s the least I can do to assuage my affluent guilt.”

“
How about me?” said Davis. “I need a cookbook.”

“
Nope,” I said.

“
I love
Rip Van Winkle
,” said Meg. She looked over at her mother. “I remember Daddy reading it to me.” Ruby nodded.

Hyacinth returned with a book wrapped in tissue paper.

“
I prefer
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
,” I said. “It was one of my favorites growing up. I didn’t even mind the Disney cartoon. I had a dog named Icky after Ichabod Crane.”

Hyacinth laughed and handed the book to Davis. “Where I’m from, the college mascot is the Ichabods,” she said.

“
How much is it?” asked Davis, opening the book gently and laying it on the counter. He studied the page.

“
Four thousand five hundred dollars.”

“
What?
” said Ruby. “Really?”

“
Really.”

“
I’ve really got to go now,” said Davis, in a barely audible voice. He closed the book carefully. “It’s way too expensive for me anyway. I’d better be getting back to work.”

“
How about you, Chief Konig?” asked Hyacinth. “Interested?”

“
Very. Let me think about it.”

Hyacinth smiled and the book disappeared under the counter. “Don’t wait too long. Once I put it up for sale on my website, it will go quickly.”

“
Could you give me a few days?”

“
Of course. In fact, I’ll hold it for a week. I’d rather you have it than someone I didn’t know.”

“
That’s very kind. Thanks.”

I bought Ruby the cookbook after eliciting a promise of at least two meals Martha Stewart would be proud of.

“
Complete with Lemon Meringue Fluff,” I added. “That’s the deal.”

The ladies said their goodbyes and headed for the door.

“
It’s been a pleasure meeting you and I’m sure we’ll talk soon,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll sell a lot of books, but I don’t know how much…umm…prognosticating you’ll be able to do here in St. Germaine. We don’t tend to attract the spiritualist community.”

“
That’s just fine, dear,” said Hyacinth. “I do mostly internet readings. And St. Germaine needs a good bookstore.”

•••

St. Barnabas was a lovely little stone church, rebuilt in 1904 after a fire destroyed the original 1846 building. We could seat three hundred comfortably, and more on Christmas Eve and Easter morning if need be. I looked down from the balcony on this Sunday morning, the twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, and surveyed the nave, empty except for a couple of altar guild ladies arranging flowers. I’d skipped the hastily called staff meeting on Thursday, and so wasn’t quite sure how our new rector would be handling the service. This was the very reason I was early, although a Rite II Eucharist was pretty cut and dried. I just needed to know if she would be intoning the
Sursum Corda
and whether to give her a pitch. Everything else should flow very nicely.

I opened the bulletin and gave it a quick look. Everything seemed to be in order. Maybe I was expecting some new unsingable hymn with appalling lyrics snuck into the service by a newly ordained, middle-aged, female seminary graduate, who decided to enter the priesthood because she had an experience at a Christian retreat weekend and after she’d written a poem about it, knew that God was calling her to a higher purpose because her children had all left home leaving her nothing to do all day but feel guilty about the ozone layer and anyway, she always thought she looked good in black. Or maybe Meg was right and I was getting jaded in my old age. Okay, I decided. Meg was right.

I heard a sound behind me and turned to see the Reverend Carmel Bottoms come into the loft. “Good morning,” she said, cheerfully, in a voice so husky it could have won Best of Show at Westminster.

“
Morning,” I answered.

“
Sorry you couldn’t make the staff meeting.”

“
Yeah. Me, too.”

“
I understand though. I imagine that being the police chief is quite a responsibility. It must take almost all of your time.”

I nodded in agreement.

“
I didn’t change anything in the service,” she continued. “I realize I’m just the interim priest, but I may be here for quite a while. Let’s just keep everything going until St. Barnabas is settled with its new appointment.”

“
Huh?” I said. This was not what I expected.

“
I’d rather not chant without proper rehearsal, if you don’t mind, so I’ll just speak the words of institution this morning. Maybe sometime next week we can arrange to go over the chants if that’s what you’d prefer. I don’t have a great voice, but I don’t have a problem staying on pitch. I played the flute in college, so I have a little bit of musicality. Of course, that was a long time ago.”

“
Huh?” I said again.

“
I don’t know why Bev said you’d be difficult to work with. You’re just delightful.” She held out her hand and I shook it almost absently. Then she turned to walk back down the stairs.

“
Wait a minute,” I said. “What about your poem?”

Carmel Bottoms looked confused for a moment, but smiled almost immediately. “I’ve written a few, but they aren’t very good. I’ll just keep them to myself.”

“
Christian retreat weekend?
Cursillo? Emmaus?”

“
Never been.” She shrugged. “I guess I should go to one and see what all the fuss is about. Anyway, it’s been great chatting. I need to go have a word with the lay ministers.”

•••

“
It’s about time we got a new story,” said Marjorie as she settled into her choir chair and found my newly printed missive in her folder. “
The Mezzo Wore Mink
. Very nice. I have a fondness for mink.”

“
Me, too,” said Georgia, who had just opened her folder and was thumbing through the music. “Although I prefer chinchilla.”

“
Really?” said Bev.

“
Well, I don’t know for sure since I don’t have either one,” admitted Georgia. “But I might.”

“
I have a mink,” said Bev. “I don’t wear it very often.”

“
I was thinking of getting a man-mink,” said Mark Wells, one of the basses. “To go with my murse.”

“
What’s a murse?” asked Phil.

“
You know. A man-purse.”

“
You have a man-purse?”

“
Nah,” answered Mark.

“
I have sort of a weasel-stole-thingy that I got from my mother,” said Marjorie. “It has a head on one end and a tail on the other and you can clip the tail into the mouth. It’s very beautiful. Well, except for the moth-eaten parts.” She paused. “And the eyes,” she added. “The eyes are creepy.”

“
Yes,” I agreed. “Weasel can be very fetching and creepy. But you all can read the story at your leisure. Let’s look at the anthem.”

Half an hour and a short run-though later, I began the prelude.

•••

The service started uneventfully as we sang the opening hymn, heard the collect, and began the
Gloria
. The Old Testament readings, the Psalm and the Epistle followed. Another hymn. Then the Gospel and it was time for the sermon. Carmel Bottoms began by introducing herself in her gravelly voice. Then she began her homily on the text “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes.” She seemed to be doing a pretty good job when the church bell began to ring.

“
What’s going on?” hissed Meg. “Who’s ringing the bell?”

“
I’m sure I don’t know,” Elaine whispered back.

The St. Barnabas church bell was one of the two remaining relics from the old wooden church to survive the fire of 1899, the other being the altar. St. Germaine legend held that when the parishioners arrived on that cold Sunday morning in January to find the ruins of their church still smoldering, the heavy altar, complete with its marble top, had been miraculously carried outside the wooden structure and was sitting on the snow-covered ground with all the communion elements in place. The people of St. Barnabas held the morning service right there in the snow, convinced of God’s grace and declaring that the only way the altar could have been removed from the church was by angelic intervention.

The bell, on the other hand, was four hundred pounds of forged bronze and not likely to melt in a wood fire, no matter how intense the inferno. After the church burned, the bell had been used by the city and kept in the clock tower until St. Barnabas was rebuilt, then moved back to the bell tower where it announced services and important civic events. It was still rung to usher in the Fourth of July and Founder’s Day, among other less notable occasions such as the mayor’s birthday—a tradition started by Pete. Now it was ringing like it was Easter morning.

“
What’s going on?” said Steve DeMoss, getting up. “Sheesh. And what are the ushers doing? Playing cards again?”

Carmel Bottoms was valiantly trying to continue her sermon, but we could all tell she was distracted beyond measure. Finally, her thought process ground to a halt and she just stood there smiling for a moment before saying, “Could someone see what’s going on, please?”