The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (5 page)

“
Hmm,” said Meg, her visage narrowing. “I see.”

“
There’s every reason to believe that it’s a very good wine.”

“
I’m hoping so. Shall we have a bottle with dinner? This Shiraz is almost gone.”

“
I see no reason why not,” I said. “I have the wooden boxes in the back of the truck. I’ll go and fetch them.”

“
Let’s see,” said Meg. “Three cases, thirty-six bottles. By my reckoning, you spent just over two hundred seventy-five dollars a bottle.”

Meg had always been good at math.

“
Or, at three glasses per bottle, about ninety-two dollars a glass.”

“
I guess,” I said. “But, in my defense, when I was bidding, I didn’t really think about it in a ‘per-glass’ fashion.”

“
Apparently not,” said Meg, with a heavy sigh of resignation. “Well, go out and get it. All I’m saying is, it better be good!”

•••

“
Delicious,” I said, finishing my sandwich and polishing off the crumbs on the ends of my fingers. “Just the thing for a cold night.”

“
Soup and a sandwich and Mozart and a three hundred dollar bottle of wine.”

“
Two seventy-five,” I said.

“
Yes. Two seventy-five. What was Old Man Frost doing with three cases of wine, anyway? I thought he was the town’s leading teetotaler.”

“
Don’t know,” I said. “The other fellow who was bidding
really
wanted it, but didn’t have the cash after I took him to ten thousand. He was trying to call someone, but there wasn’t any service out at the Frost place.”

“
Did you know him?”

“
Never saw him before.”

“
Well, I hope Bud knows what he’s talking about.”

Meg, never one to lick her fingers, even at a picnic, demurely wiped the crumbs from her hands, then dabbed the napkin to the corners of her mouth, first one side, then the other. Her black hair was loose and tousled and fell in soft waves to her shoulders, a sharp contrast to my old, light blue UNC sweatshirt she’d taken to wearing, a sweatshirt whose oversized neck-hole constantly dropped off one of her shoulders and slid down one arm. Very sexy. Her grey eyes sparkled. They always sparkled.

“
How’s Noylene?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her for a few days.”

“
Well, let’s see,” said Meg. “Her baby’s due at the end of December, but I haven’t heard anything new.”

“
Do we know who the father is?”

“
No, we do not.”

Noylene Fabergé-Dupont, the early-morning waitress at the Slab Café and owner of “Noylene’s Beautifery, an oasis of allurement, Dip-N-Tan by appointment only,” had turned up pregnant last summer. Her husband at the time, as it turned out, was not the father.

Meg stared down at her soup. I knew that look.

“
You
do
know,” I said accusingly. “You know, and you’re not telling.”

“
I don’t know for sure,” said Meg. “And anyway, I told Noylene I wouldn’t tell, and I won’t, so don’t even ask.”

“
You don’t know for sure because...?”

“
Because Noylene doesn’t know for sure.”

“
But she’s
pretty
sure.”

“
Yes.”

“
Ninety-nine percent sure.”

Meg shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“
And you’re not telling.”

“
No.”

“
Okay,” I said, “but this silence is gonna cost you.”

“
Another sandwich?”

“
You wish,” I said, with a wink and my best salacious smile.

Meg winked back.

Chapter 4

“
I hate him,” said Georgia from behind the counter of Eden Books. “He’s pretentious, bombastic, and arrogant.”

“
Not to mention magniloquent,” I added.

“
Huh?” said Georgia. “You haven’t even met him.”

“
I know. I just like to say ‘magniloquent.’ How many opportunities does one get? Whom, by the way, are we hating? We’re not even a full week into Advent yet.”

Georgia sniffed. “Our new deacon. I just met him yesterday and already I can tell you there’s going to be trouble. His name is Donald.” She pronounced his last name carefully. “Moo-shraht.”

“
Moo-shraht? What is he? Pakistani?”

“
Not as far as I can tell. He’s a white guy from Winston-Salem. He spells it ‘Mushrat,’ but apparently he’s changed the way it’s pronounced.”

I smiled, picked up a copy of Dan Brown’s latest book and scanned the back cover. “Donald Mushrat?” I didn’t bother with Donald’s preferred pronunciation. Neither, I suspected, would anyone else.

“
Moo-shraht,” Georgia corrected. “Gaylen doesn’t like him either.”

“
How do you know that?” I asked.

“
Oh, I can tell. He wanted us to address him as Father Mushrat, I mean Moo-shraht, but Gaylen said no, he wasn’t a priest yet. So he’s Deacon Mushrat.” Georgia finally dropped the phonemic affectation as well. “He didn’t care for that, but there wasn’t much he could do. She also made him stop smoking his pipe inside the church.”

“
Tweed jacket?” I asked.

“
Nope. Tan micro-suede sport coat. Sandals with dark socks. Big hair.”

“
Even worse,” I said. “We could deal with a tweed guy. Micro-suede...well...I just don’t know. How about the tobacco?”

“
Peach flavored.”

“
Oh, man...”

•••

Nancy and Dave had already commandeered our table at the back of the Slab Café by the time I walked in. I’d already had breakfast, but a mid-morning snack was not out of the question, so a few of the flapjacks from the stack of buckwheat pancakes in the middle of the table quickly found their way onto my plate.

“
Coffee?” grunted Noylene perfunctorily, as she waddled by and filled my cup. Since my mouth was full, I didn’t answer, but managed a nod of appreciation.

“
If she gets much bigger,” said Dave, “she won’t be able to fit between the tables.”

“
I’ll make the aisles wider,” said Pete Moss, plopping down in the last chair at our table. “I can’t keep a good waitress. They all want to go to nursing school.”

Pete was my old college roommate. Now he was an aging hippie, in looks anyway. His gray ponytail and earring complemented the Hawaiian shirts and faded jeans that comprised his daily uniform, the season notwithstanding. Of course, in colder weather he added his old fatigue jacket, left over from his time in the Army band. He played a mean jazz sax, or used to. Now he owned the Slab, several other properties in town and until a couple of years ago was mayor of St. Germaine. He’d been dethroned by Cynthia Johnsson, current mayor, waitress, and professional belly dancer. Even so, Pete and Cynthia had been an item since the last election and, bearing in mind Pete’s track record with relationships, i.e., two ex-wives and a string of girlfriends that included almost every single woman in St. Germaine under the age of fifty, this one had gone surprisingly smoothly.

“
Isn’t Cynthia working this morning?” asked Nancy.

“
She’s at some meeting in Greensboro,” said Pete. “Small town mayor something-or-other.”

Pauli Girl McCollough came by the table and filled Pete’s coffee cup on her way to deliver some country ham and eggs over easy to a four-topper by the window.

“
Just Noylene and Pauli Girl this morning,” said Pete. “And Noylene won’t be much good in a couple of weeks. She says she’s going to work up until the baby’s born, but I can’t see it. She’s already as big as a house. I give her ten days.”

“
She say who the father is yet?” asked Dave.

Pete shook his head. “Not to me.”

Noylene Fabergé-Dupont’s husband, Wormy Dupont, had been sent to federal prison six months ago for murdering Russ Stafford. There were many reasons for this crime, of course, but the one that Wormy cited in his arraignment was “jealousy.” Noylene was pregnant and Wormy was sterile, thanks to various and sundry medical experiments in the ‘80s for which Wormy was paid by the government a grand total of $134.52. Noylene didn’t know Wormy’s situation, and when she turned up pregnant, well, Wormy had a feeling that Russ Stafford was the fox in the henhouse and acted accordingly. Whether Russ was responsible for the impending Fabergé-Dupont heir or whether he wasn’t, Noylene wouldn’t say. She’d been very closed-lipped on the subject, except for telling Meg, and I wasn’t about to bring
that
up.

“
Lovely service last Sunday, Hayden,” called Joyce Cooper, one of the St. Barnabas parishioners enjoying a late breakfast two tables over. Joyce was also on the worship committee.

“
Thanks,” I called back. “Once we sing
Lo, He Comes With Clouds Descending
, we know that Advent is definitely upon us.”

“
My favorite hymn.”

“
Maybe mine, too. This week, anyway. Hey, won’t I be seeing you again in a few minutes over at the church?”

“
Oh, shoot,” said Joyce, making a wry face. “Worship meeting. I know I usually go, but I have a doctor’s appointment this morning. Tell Gaylen where I am, will you?”

“
Sure,” I said. “But I’m not sure you want to miss this one. This is the pre-meeting before the Jesse Tree showdown.”

Joyce laughed. “I always like that one. Besides, I wanted to meet our new deacon. I heard he’s already claimed an office.”

“
Deacon Mushrat,” I said.

“
What?”
said Nancy.

“
You heard me the first time,” I said. “Deacon Mushrat.”

“
I know I should be there,” said Joyce, “but I can’t cancel.”

“
I understand,” I said. “In fact, I myself feel a doctor’s appointment coming on.”

Joyce laughed and went back to her breakfast.

“
Deacon Mushrat,” said Pete. “Great name. I like him already.”

“
You’d be the only one so far,” I said.

“
Do y’all need some more syrup?” asked Pauli Girl on her way back to the kitchen with a tray full of dirty dishes. She pronounced it “seerp,” and gave Dave a wink he could hang his hat on.

“
Wouldn’t mind,” said Dave with a big grin.

“
Be right back with it,” said Pauli Girl, smiling back just as big.

As soon as she turned, Nancy slugged Dave in the arm. Hard. “Don’t you even think about it,” she growled. “She’s seventeen.” Nancy and Dave had been an on-again-off-again couple for a few years now. They were currently off-again.