The Mezzo Wore Mink (14 page)

He sighed heavily, walked behind the counter, got a pitcher of tea out of the cooler and commenced to visit the tables, seeing what the Slab clientele required in the way of additional victuals. But he was not happy.

•••

Our lunch and pressing Gobbler business finished—or at least, on hold—Joyce excused herself, followed shortly by Carol, Bev and Georgia, leaving Meg and me to enjoy a cup of coffee before strolling back to work. I really enjoyed the pace of autumn and this early October afternoon was a perfect example. The crowds hadn’t yet descended on the town for peak leaf season (although there was plenty of color dotting the mountains), the weather was brisk and sunny, and we weren’t close enough to the holidays to feel the pressure inherent in any musician’s life during Advent and Christmas.

“
You’re not
really
putting on
The Living Gobbler
, are you?” asked Meg, lifting the steaming cup to her lips and blowing gently across the top.

“
I sincerely doubt it,” I replied. “The Lemmings will need costumes, a children’s choir director—not to mention a children’s choir, stage hands, set builders, five octaves of handbells, bagpipers, twelve live turkeys…you know…a cast of thousands. That’s what the show demands, of course. A cast of thousands. And an orchestra,” I added. “Don’t forget the orchestra.”

“
So it was a ruse.”

“
Yep.”

“
You have no intention of writing it?”

“
Oh, I’ll be happy to write it,” I said. “It’s a show that practically gobbles to be written. I just don’t think it will be performed.”

“
I hope you’re right.”

“
Have I ever been wrong before?”

“
Oh, my dear, let me count the ways.”

We were still sipping our coffee and contemplating the last piece of rhubarb pie in the pie case when the door of the Slab banged open, causing Pete’s cowbell to dance noisily against the glass. Nancy strode in, Dave in her wake, and both of them moved hastily over to our table.

“
Better come quick,” said Nancy, bending down and whispering in my ear. “Right now.”

I recognized the tone and knew better than to ask questions in a crowded restaurant. Meg and I followed Nancy and Dave onto the sidewalk outside without a word.

“
We might as well walk,” said Nancy as we crossed the road into the park. “It’s just a couple of blocks. That new spa just called. There’s a dead woman behind the house.”

•••

We were there in three minutes—straight across the park, a quick detour beside St. Barnabas and two doors over on Maple Street. Cynthia was waiting on the porch of the coffee shop with another woman. Both their faces were paler than their natural pallor might indicate. Cynthia’s hands were entwined inside her apron, the lower half of which was now a knot of material at her waist. The other woman—tall and very attractive—had her arm around Cynthia’s shoulder.

“
Lacie?” I asked, as we climbed the steps up to the covered porch.

“
That’s right,” said the woman. “Lacie Ravencroft.”

“
You’re married to Chad?”

“
Yes.”

“
I’m Chief Konig. This is Lieutenant Parsky, Officer Vance, and Meg Farthing.” I looked over at Cynthia. “Cynthia, would you like to sit down?”

She shook her head.

“
Can you tell us what’s happened?”

“
I’ll
show
you,” said Lacie. “Come on with me. Chad’s in the back.”

We followed Lacie into the front door, straight through the house and out the back. There, in the hedged garden, lying face down on Chad’s newly painted labyrinth, was a woman. All five of us walked up to the edge of the concrete slab. Chad was sitting about four feet from the body, cross-legged, and staring at it as though in a trance. He didn’t seem to hear us approach, or, if he did, he didn’t acknowledge our presence until Lacie called out to him.

“
Chad? Honey?”

Chad looked over at us a moment later, then shrugged himself out of his seated position and stood. Nancy and I stepped onto the slab and walked over to the body.

“
You didn’t touch anything, did you?” asked Nancy, snapping on a pair of Latex gloves.

“
No.”

I bent over the lifeless form as Nancy took her shoulder and rolled her over.

“
She’s stiff,” said Nancy, “but not in full rigor. I’d say maybe last night sometime. The EMTs are on the way. Kent can probably give us a time of death if they hustle her down there.”

“
Who is it?” asked Meg. “Someone we know?”

“
Thelma Wingler,” I said. Thelma was one of those many women of a certain age whose actual chronology was made almost impossible to approximate by black hair dye, face powder, rouge, lipstick and a couple of face lifts. She might have been born anytime from the beginning of Theodore Roosevelt’s term to the end of Harry Truman’s. I knew her as a long-time parishioner of St. Barnabas and the owner of Watauga County’s only crematorium.

“
Oh, my Lord,” said Meg. “Thelma? Mother just had lunch with her on Saturday.”

Thelma was wearing a housedress, a light blue floral print, with a cardigan sweater on top. She had on her sensible no-nonsense support hose and a pair of black Nurse Ratchet shoes. Her eyes were closed but there was no peaceful expression on her face. Hers was a countenance of considerable fear; lips drawn back, brow furrowed and hands clenched, claw-like, with fists full of sweater.

I stood up and turned to Chad. “You found her?”

“
Yes,” he answered softly.

“
Is she a client?”

“
Yes.”

“
Want to give us a little more information?” growled Nancy, standing up beside me.

Chad sighed. “We’ve been gone since Sunday evening, but on Sunday afternoon, we had a guided meditation in the labyrinth for a few folks. There were five of us including myself and Lacie.”

“
We’ll need their names,” said Nancy.

Chad nodded and continued. “We were here for about an hour. It was a great session. Everyone really got in touch with their spiritual path.”

“
Thelma was one of them?” I asked. “Just to be clear?”

“
She was.”

I nodded and watched Nancy jotting notes, suddenly trying to remember where I’d left my pad and pen. Chad continued.

“
We finished around four o’clock. This woman,” Chad gestured toward Thelma’s body, “and the two other ladies asked if they could come back and try the labyrinth themselves. I didn’t see the harm, so I gave them a key to the back gate.”

I looked around the garden. It was as secluded a spot as you could find and still be in town. The privet hedge was at least eight feet tall and probably planted when the house was built. It had been well cared for over the years and there were no gaping holes in the dark mossy wall. At the back of the garden was an iron gate—the same one I had seen hanging by one hinge. Now it was fixed, closed securely, and offering a view of the back of St. Barnabas’ garden.

“
We left on Sunday night,” said Chad. “And we didn’t get back into town until about eleven this morning. I didn’t even look in the garden until right before we called.”

“
You have people who can verify your whereabouts since Sunday?” asked Nancy, still writing.

“
Of course we do!” said Lacie. “What are you implying?”

“
We’re not implying anything,” I said. “Just asking.”

“
We were at our naturist meeting,” said Chad. “In Galax. There were plenty of witnesses.”

I nodded to him and headed toward the back gate, leaving Nancy to get the names of the witnesses and the other two women on the labyrinth walk. It was a walk of about twenty feet from the back edge of the concrete slab to the gate. The shape of the garden was square, like the house, and I judged one side of the hedge to be close to sixty feet in length. Sixty by sixty with a twenty-foot square slab smack dab in the middle. Those Victorians liked their symmetry.

The gate had been recently painted and looked to be original to the house. It was wrought iron and heavy. It was also closed and latched with a new padlock on the clasp. The lock was hanging open.

“
Check and see if Thelma has a key on her,” I called back to Nancy.

I lifted the latch and the gate swung in easily. I knelt down and saw evidence of recent painting and what was probably some spilled oil used on the hinges.

“
No key, boss,” Nancy called back. “She doesn’t even have any pockets.”

“
Look for her purse then.”

I walked around the east side of the hedge toward the house, not knowing what I was looking for. It was a good hedge and would probably be fine for keeping a flock of sheep out of Old Mrs. McCarty’s back yard, but it would hardly have stopped anyone who wanted to come in, lock or no lock.

“
We don’t see a purse,” said Meg.

“
Dave,” I said, “why don’t you put on some gloves and look in the bushes? See if her purse was tossed in there somehow. She wouldn’t have gone out without her purse. Not without a pocket to put her own keys in, not to mention the one that Chad gave her.”

Dave gave me a mock salute and began his search while the rest of us went back inside to wait for the ambulance.

•••

There are some beautiful women in St. Germaine. Meg, for one. Reisa Walker for another. But in the past two days, the company of beautiful women had risen (in my mind at least) by one hundred percent. Muffy Lemieux was a vision of dark red hair, emerald eyes, a voluptuous figure and a baby doll face that projected innocence and sensuality in equal measure; a dangerous combination to be sure. Lacie Ravencroft, in contrast, was dark—dark complexion, thick dark hair, brown, almond eyes, more well-toned than voluptuous, startlingly tall with a lean but curvaceous body, and a smile that would make Pete give away free pie if she asked him to. So I admit that I wasn’t totally put out when I found myself interrogating her in the kitchen of the Holy Grounds Coffee Shop.

Nancy had given me a spare pad and I pulled it from my shirt pocket along with a pen, also courtesy of my well-prepared lieutenant.

“
Name?” I asked. “Just for the record.”

“
Lacie Ravencroft,” she said, trying out her low wattage smile for my reaction.

“
No. I mean your
real
name.”

“
Pardon?”

“
Your real name.” I gave her my own low wattage smile. “What’s your real name? C’mon,” I cajoled, “
Lacie Ravencroft?”

Her smile increased to forty watts. I could feel it from four feet away. “It’s really Lacie,” she said. “Well, Lacie Peckelsham. Ravencroft is my professional name.” She turned her smile up to fifty.

I smiled back at her, matching her tooth for tooth. It was nice for a couple of moments—just two people smiling at each other like a couple of game show hosts, but my face was beginning to tire and I wasn’t as young as I used to be. “Occupation?” I finally asked, feeling my smile slip down my chest. “Just for the record.”