The Mezzo Wore Mink (16 page)

The choir was momentarily stunned, but recovered quickly.

“
Well, come on in,” said Marjorie. “Are y’all a soprano?”

“
I sure am,” gushed Muffy. “I’ve been a soprano since I was old enough to squeal!”

“
How about you, Varmit?” asked Marjorie. “You’re not a soprano, are you?”

“
Nope.”

Marjorie was the only woman in the St. Barnabas choir who was over seventy. She started out as a soprano when she joined the choir in 1952. Sometime in the ‘80s she moved to the alto section and started keeping a small flask in her hymnal rack. No one asked what was in it. By the time I came along in the ‘90s, she was singing tenor and I didn’t mind a bit. She certainly had the notes. Being safely in her seventies, Marjorie could afford to be friendly. The rest of the women were eyeing Muffy carefully in the way that both altos and sopranos can just
look
at a gorgeous redhead wearing a tight angora sweater—this one a light green—and know immediately if she’s choir material. The men were speechless.

“
Welcome,” I said. “It’s good to have you. Are you a bass, Varmit?”

“
I guess I am.”

“
Great. Why don’t you sit next to Phil. Elaine? Would you get these two some music?”

“
Kin I sit on the front row?” giggled Muffy.

“
Yes, dear, of course you may,” said Bev, with a forced smile. “Come sit next to Meg.”

•••

Tell me your story, Ginger,” I said. Ginger Snapp was a doll with more twist than a Moravian pretzel.

“
AveMaria and I were doing a gig for the Bishops’ Council on Church Reform. One of their underwear parties. Nothing smutty—just lingerie.”

“
Isn’t that a bit chilly this time of year?”

“
Oh,” said Ginger in surprise, making her mouth into one of those O’s—like a smoke ring or maybe a lipstick-covered donut. “Not for us. It’s the bishops that wear the lingerie. We just serve drinks.”

“
Don’t those bishops get a little grabby?”

“
Sometimes that one from New Hampshire,” Ginger admitted. “But only when Raoul’s there. Anyway, it’s harmless fun.”

“
Go on.”

“
So we’re working the room and one of these bishops is talking to another one.”

“
How’d you know they were bishops,” I asked, “and not just their toadies?”

“
Even in their underwear, they still wear their pointy hats,” said Ginger, “and their big ol’ crosses.”

“
I see,” I said, seeing.

“
And they’re talking about a mink farm in Russia and how they’re going to corner the market on Liturgical Hairpieces.”

“
Liturgical Hairpieces?”

“
You know, the big swoopy kind like they wear on TV.”

“
Ah,” I said. “You mean the Evangelical Wiglet…the Glory Fringe…the Clerical Coiffure.”

“
Yeah. That’s it.”

“
Did AveMaria know about this?”

“
Sure. She’s the one that told me! She said that the bishops are going to corner the market. They’ll make a killing.”

“
Sweetheart, it looks like they already did.”

“
That’s some real good writin’,” said Meg, reading over my shoulder. She took the hat off my head and put it on the desk next to the typewriter. “Enough for now. Put on some music and come have a sandwich.”

I put a new CD by Judie Cochill on the stereo, then followed Meg into the kitchen as the sounds of
Let’s Do It
filled the house. There was a pimento cheese sandwich waiting for me at the table, along with a cold bottle of Hummingbird Ale.

“
Great music!” said Meg. “I love Cole Porter.”

“
They don’t write ’em like they used to,” I agreed. “Can I ask you something? Was your mother a friend of Thelma’s?”

“
I suppose you could say that. I asked her about Thelma once and Mother said she really just felt sorry for her. They had lunch about once a week. Dutch treat, of course. Why do you ask?”

“
I can’t find anyone that liked her.”

“
That’s sad, isn’t it,” said Meg. “But I don’t think Mother liked her, either.

“
By the way, how did Muffy do in the choir?”

“
I never heard her utter a note. I think she was a bit flummoxed.”

“
Flummoxed, you say?”

“
I think so. When we were singing the Saint-Saëns
Ave Verum
, she was just sort of frowning and following the Latin words with her finger.

“
But we were singing it in English.”

“
Yes. I know.” Meg sat down across from me and tasted her sandwich. “Hey, this is good. Mother made the pimento cheese á la Martha Stewart.”

I nodded and gave an affirmative grunt, having been taught from an early age not to talk with my mouth full. Grunting was okay.

“
Don’t fill up too fast. There’s Lemon Meringue Fluff for dessert.”

“
Excellent!”

“
You know,” said Meg, “I don’t think Muffy actually reads music.”

“
She’ll get better. I should call her up and encourage her.”

“
She might get better if she sticks with it,” agreed Meg, all too sweetly. “Have you ever called anyone
else
up to encourage
them
?”

“
Hmm…Not that I recall.”

I watched one of Meg’s eyebrows go up.

“
She probably doesn’t need any encouragement,” I decided, taking another bite of my sandwich.

Chapter 11

“
What’s the verdict, Kent?” I asked, balancing the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I rooted across the top of the desk for a pen and a piece of paper. Nancy, usually the first one to the station, was in Boone doing some investigating and Dave wasn’t due in until eleven.

“
Looks like coronary arrest,” Kent answered. “I just finished the autopsy, but I did a prelim when they brought her in. I would say she died sometime on Tuesday evening. Maybe between seven and ten o’clock.”

“
Maybe?”

“
Give or take a few hours. It’s tough to tell when the body’s been outside all night. It was cold on Tuesday. Thirty-four degrees according to the weather service.”

“
But Tuesday night for sure.”

“
Tuesday night,” agreed Kent. “Nancy was in here a little while ago and brought in the courthouse records. Thelma Wingler was eighty-eight years old, so a heart attack isn’t anything out of the ordinary. There wasn’t any prior indication of a heart episode though. Other than being dead, as far as her heart was concerned, she was healthy as a horse. She had a red throat and some swelling of her vocal cords. Nothing out of the ordinary. Probably the onset of a cold. Nancy said she was on the way to talk to Thelma’s doctor.”

“
Yeah. The whole thing’s fishy. She didn’t have her purse or her keys. There was nothing else in the garden except a krummhorn hanging in the bushes.”

“
Ah, yes,” said Kent, his smile evident, even over the phone lines. “Isn’t that what you detectives call ‘a clue?’ It sounds to me like the old ‘krummhorn in the bushes’ caper.”

“
Mock me if you will. I shall solve this conundrum.”

Kent laughed. “I have no doubt. Anyway, I can tell you that she wasn’t killed by a krummhorn.”

“
Aren’t you going to ask me what a krummhorn is?” I said.

“
No, I’m not,” said Kent. “I know what a krummhorn is. I was forced to be part of a
Collegium Musicum
in college. It’s probably the reason I hate music to this day. If
I
had a krummhorn, I’d throw it in the bushes as well.”

“
You played the krummhorn?”

“
Yes,” he sighed. “And the cornamuse. I was drafted because I also played the oboe in the orchestra. The Medieval history professor thought it should be part of my scholarship. They even made me dress up in tights and wear one of those stupid hats with a feather in it. I think I still have the hat somewhere. I will go on record as stating that the krummhorn has all the musical range and beauty of a piglet caught in a vacuum cleaner.”

I laughed. “Then how do you know the krummhorn wasn’t responsible for her heart attack?”

“
Easy,” replied Kent, with a chuckle. “Because her ears weren’t bleeding.”

•••

“
Will you look at this?” said Pete, thrusting a newspaper across the table. The Slab was void of customers except for myself. I’d missed the lunch rush by at least an hour.

I picked up
The Tattler—
Pete had thoughtfully folded it open to the editorial page—and skimmed quickly down the “Letters to the Editor” until I saw Pete’s name.

“
Wow,” I said, reading Cynthia’s letter, “Cynthia’s not letting up on this underwear thing, is she?”

“
No, she isn’t,” said Pete. “I can’t believe it’s become an issue. I thought she was going to let it go, but now that she’s hired this yahoo from Boone, that’s all they’re going to talk about.”

“
Do you know them?”

“
Nope. It’s a new public relations firm.”

“
I guess it’s a pretty good strategy. She doesn’t actually have a political platform now that you’ve brought all that business to town.”

“
It doesn’t matter. I have a new plan. I need you to do something for me.”

“
Is it illegal?”

“
Nope. I need you to write a rebuttal to Cynthia’s letter. Quote some scripture or something. There’s got to be some biblical precedent for not wearing underwear. I mean, it’s not like I’m one of those nudists or anything.”

“
I’ll see what I can do.”

“
Thanks. Now how about some lunch?”

“
Sounds great. Reuben sandwich?”

“
Coming right up,” said Pete with a grin. “Hey, Collette!” he hollered.

“
Collette? Collette’s back?”