The Mezzo Wore Mink (31 page)

“
Oh. I’m sorry. I thought Miss Thelma probably gave you hers.”

“
No.”

“
I know who has a key,” said Nancy with a smile.

“
Me, too,” I said.

“
What?” said Ruby. “What am I missing?”

“
What you’re missing,” I said, “is a two million dollar head.”

Chapter 19

The old Chevy truck rumbled out of the crematorium driveway and onto Old Chambers Road. Ruby was sandwiched in between Nancy and me in the front seat. There wasn’t any chitchat going on. I knew that Nancy was thinking and I was doing the same.

“
Okay,” Ruby said finally, “who has the other key?”

“
This is an ongoing investigation,” I said. “So you can’t say anything.”

“
Of course I won’t say anything. We’re family.”

Nancy’s head came around quickly. She looked across Ruby and I caught her stare out of the corner of my eye.

“
Family?” she said.

“
Hmm,” I said. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag. Meg and I are getting married.”

“
Really?” said Nancy, just a little too sweetly.

“
Meg told you, didn’t she?”

“
Yep.”

“
Did she tell you when?”

“
She did. The culmination of
The Living Gobbler
. I can hardly wait.”

“
Back to the key,” said Ruby.

“
Ah yes, the key,” I answered. “Who has the key? That is the question before us.”

“
It is,” said Ruby. “Who has the other key?”

“
Nancy, do you know who has the other key?” I asked.

“
Yes.”

“
You’re a fine detective,” I said.

“
Thank you.”

“
The
key!”
said Ruby. “Dadburnit!”

“
Who has the key, Lieutenant Parsky?” I said.

“
Why, it’s elementary,” said Nancy. “The person who has the key is the person who killed Thelma.”

“
And who is that?” asked Ruby.

I shrugged. “The first question is not ‘who.’ The first question is ‘why.’”

“
Why?”

“
Because that’s the first question,” I said. “The second question is ‘who.’ Or maybe ‘what.’”

“
Oh, stop it. I mean why did whoever did it, do it?”

“
To get the key.”

Ruby sighed heavily. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“
Nope.”

•••

Sunday comes early and so does death. It’s the motto of the liturgical detective and as Saturday night sloshed over into Sunday like a fat man on a waterbed, the mink-clad heiress to the Polovetsian dancing fortune gave me a twirl and a come-hither look worthy of her reputation.

Her name was Barbara—Barbara Seville—and she was a mezzo. Some said she slid to the top of the opera world on her husband’s money: that before she married Aristotle bin Laden, she’d been demoted to seamstress and spent most of her time in the wings tucking up the frills instead of on the stage doing the opposite: that now that she was back, she ate tenors for dinner and baritones for dessert with the occasional bass as a mid-morning snack. She was a Venus, though, and as rich as Turtle Cheese Cake. I wouldn’t mind a toss with a world-class looker who could afford to boost a few expenses.

“
Miss Seville,” I said, tipping my hat.

“
Call me Diva,” she said with a smile. “Or Mommy. I like it when men call me Mommy.”

I heard bells.

Alarm bells.

“
I’m enjoying this story,” said Rebecca, as the choir gathered in the loft for the Sunday service. “I’m not saying it’s good, mind you, but I am enjoying it.”

“
I heard you and Meg are getting married,” said Georgia. “Through the grapevine, of course. It seems that I didn’t get an invitation.”

“
No one got an invitation,” I said. “But you’ll all be there, dressed up as the four major food groups and singing Thanksgiving hymns.”

“
Really?” said Phil. “The four major food groups?”

“
Beer, chili, garlic and cigars,” said Mark Wells.

“
I thought chocolate was in there somewhere,” said Elaine.

“
I don’t think so,” said Mark. “That would make five. Chocolate is probably in the garlic group.”

•••

It was during Father Lemming’s sermon on the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican that the first gunshots were heard. Granted, it was deer season, and we were used to hearing shots from time to time echoing through the mountains, but there was a ban on hunting within the city limits and these sounded close. Very close.

“
Are you going out there?” asked Meg.

“
No. I’ll give Nancy a call though.”

I walked down the steps and into the narthex, dialing Nancy’s number as I went. I wasn’t sure, but I figured I still had about ten minutes before Father Lemming finished up and I had to play a chorus of
Seek Ye First
that he had thoughtfully inserted after the sermon. Ten minutes, I figured, if the gunshots didn’t unnerve him. Nancy answered her cell on the first ring.

“
I’m on it,” she said, before I could utter a word. Then she flipped her phone closed and cut me off.

I’d only just reached the bottom of the steps by the time our phone call ended, so I turned around and trudged back up to the choir loft. It was a good thing I did, because the gunshots had spooked Father Lemming and, being somewhat new to the pulpit, he had wrapped his sermon up by wondering aloud who would be shooting outside the church, dontcha know, and whether the vestry had an exigency plan for the safety of the priest in case of terrorist attacks, many of which—he had heard—were directed at the clergy. I arrived back in the loft just as Meg was coming to find me. She pointed to the organ and I scurried onto the bench just as Father Lemming finished announcing the hymn.

The gunshots ceased sometime during the confession, which was a good thing because the choir was getting antsy about Mr. Brahms and Mr. Winchester sharing equal billing. We managed to do Mr. B proud and the rest of the service followed without too much disruption. When I finished the postlude, Meg and I skipped coffee hour and headed out the front doors to find Nancy. I had my phone out to call her, but I needn’t have bothered. She met us out front.

“
Two kids from the university,” Nancy said as we walked up. “Both of them had hunting licenses.”

“
Not for shooting deer in town,” I said. “It sounded like a war out here. How many deer did they get? Or were they just bad shots?”

“
They were bad shots all right, but they weren’t after deer. They were after Minques.”

“
Minques?”

Nancy handed me a torn ad from the
Watauga Democrat.
I scanned it quickly.

“
So Blueridge Farms has offered a bounty.”

“
Thirty dollars a Minque. No closed season or bag limit.”

“
Did they get any?”

“
Four,” answered Nancy. “Two in the mums in front of the library, one in the park, one behind the church. I explained that there would be no more hunting in the city limits.”

“
Did you let them keep the Minques?”

Nancy shrugged. “Yeah.”

I nodded. “Well, that was a hundred and twenty bucks for a half hour’s work. Pretty good pay for a couple of college kids.”

•••

A Monday morning meeting of the St. Germaine police force was synonymous with breakfast at the Slab Café. As Monday mornings went, this one wasn’t shaping up to be one of the better ones unless you happened to be an otter. The weatherman had predicted cold. Cold and wet. For once, he’d been right. The rain, misting when I arose at about six, was now coming down in buckets. I’d braved the storm, slogged into the Slab, shook off the weather like a sheepdog, and hung my dripping jacket behind the door. A soggy trio of outerwear—Nancy’s, Dave’s, and mine—dangled on the hooks like dead fish, each contributed to an ever-expanding puddle that was creeping across the floor toward the kitchen.

“
All right,” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at a table across from Nancy and Dave. “Let’s figure this out. What do we know?”

“
No ‘good morning’?” said Dave. “No ‘how was your weekend?’”

“
Nope,” I said. “Coffee.”

“
I’ll bring the pot,” said Nancy, getting to her feet. “Noylene’s back in the kitchen somewhere getting a mop.”

Nancy filled our cups and put the pot on the table.

“
I got a report on Hyacinth Turnipseed,” she announced. “Cynthia called me this morning.”

“
Pretty bad?” I asked.

“
Her leg is broken in three places. They had to operate. She’ll be okay, but she has screws holding her leg together. Cynthia said she’ll be in the hospital for three or four days. Then a wheelchair for a month. Then a cast.”

“
She’ll have a nurse?”

“
She’ll have to,” said Nancy. “At least for a while. She won’t be able to walk or drive. Also, she’s looking for someone to sue.”

“
Well, I’m glad she’ll be okay,” I said, “but we’ve got to get rid of those Minques.”

As if in answer to my suggestion, we heard a volley of shots go off somewhere south of town. I gave a heavy sigh.

“
Back to work,” I said. “Davis Boothe first. Nancy?”

Nancy pulled out her pad. “Davis Boothe killed himself, or so we believe. He had an embolism that he was taking medication for, but he really needed an operation he couldn’t afford.”

“
No health insurance,” added Dave.

“
His real name,” continued Nancy, “was Josh Kenisaw. He was convicted in Kansas of second-degree murder when the car he was driving was involved in an accident and Senator Jack DeMille’s daughter was killed. He was sentenced to life with a possibility for parole in nineteen years. But Josh escaped and moved to St. Germaine with a made-up name. This was twelve years ago. He started out working as a waiter in Boone, then got a job at Don’s Clothing Store.”

“
Wow!” said Pete, who’d joined us halfway through Nancy’s recitation. “What else?”

“
Senator DeMille offered a standing reward for Josh’s return. Two million dollars,” Dave said. “And now his head is missing.”