The Mezzo Wore Mink (41 page)

“
Fire!” yelled Father Lemming, being the first to spot the flames. “Nobody move! You kids get out of here!” he shouted to his children. The cranberries headed for the front doors in a bunch. “Follow the Lemmings!” Father Lemming yelled over the panic, pushing people aside in his effort to get to the front doors. His wife, Fiona, was left on the stage along with most of the cast.

“
We can go out the side door,” I said calmly to the folks in the front. “No problem. We have plenty of time. Father Tony will lead you out.”

Tony led the cast off the stage, into the transept and out the side door. Pete, Billy, and I hung back surveying the impending doom. The fire had now engulfed the organ loft and was licking at the roof. This building was built in 1904. We knew it wouldn’t last long.

“
It’s a sad day,” said Billy. Pete and I nodded.

“
Everybody out?” Billy asked.

I squinted down the nave and saw the last of the crowd disappear out the front door. “Looks like it.”

“
Anyone call the fire department?” Pete said. “I don’t have a phone in this stupid turkey outfit.”

“
I’m sure someone has,” I said. “Most of the department was here anyway. They’ve all got to go home and get their gear, then get the truck and make their way back. Could be a while.”

“
What about your gun?” asked Pete. “In the organ bench?”

I shrugged. “You guys head around front. There’s no telling what’s going on out there. I’ll go make sure the Parish Hall is clear.”

•••

The park in front of the church was bedlam. The audience and cast members who had rushed out the front of the church were watching in horror as the flames burst through the roof of the narthex and started engulfing the bell tower. The supply of power to the Ferris wheel, coming from St. Barnabas Church, suddenly shut down as the breakers shorted out leaving thirty-six naked DANGLs swinging back and forth in the glowing firelight of the burning church. Three of them, occupying the lowest swing, slid under the safety bar and dropped to the ground. The rest of the folks on the Ferris wheel could do nothing but sit and watch.

The other DANGLs, the ones who had been locked up, simply turned the deadbolts and came back into the park. Both the police station and the Slab Café could be easily unlocked from the inside, not having been built to restrain prisoners. The DANGLs all stood there—naked as jaybirds—watching the church burn. I saw Lacie and asked her if I could get her a blanket. She declined with a shake of her head. A couple of feet away, Mr. Christopher was talking to Chad, but didn’t offer to get him a blanket.

Gamba, no longer a vegan, had caught four of the Minques, killed each of them, and was piling the parts of them he didn’t eat in front of the church steps. Once he dropped his Minque remains onto the pile, he headed back into the park after yet another one.

Once everyone was safe, there wasn’t anything Dave, Nancy, or I could do except wait, like the others, for the fire department. The members of Ian’s Early Musik Consort had gathered on the front lawn and were counting their instruments. I waved to Kent and he gave me a wave in return. The Lemmings, father and cranberries, were huddled under an oak tree. Fiona was there too, giving Adrian a very large piece of her mind.

The St. Germaine Volunteer Fire Department was on the scene quickly, all things considered. Their main job, as the fire chief explained to me, was to confine the fire to the sanctuary and try to save the Parish Hall and the surrounding buildings. I found Moosey trying to talk to a fireman and sent him over to the gazebo. Then I went searching for Meg.

“
Has anyone seen Collette?” asked a frantic Dave. “Someone said she went into the church! I need to call her, but I can’t find my cell phone. I must have dropped it.”

I shook my head and gave a quick look around and pointed to the front steps. “Nancy has her phone. She’s over with the firemen. Use hers.” I caught his arm as he started to run off. “I’m sure Collette came back out, Dave. I didn’t see anyone in there and I was the last one to leave.”

Meg and Father Tony were standing together across the street in front of the Slab. I made my way across the park, weaving through the clumps of people: some huddled together sobbing: others, shaking their heads in disbelief: still others, watching the fire stoically.

Meg had a blanket around her shoulders. I thought she’d be crying, but she wasn’t. She watched as the fire engulfed the bell tower, tilting her head as it collapsed inward in a shower of sparks. We heard the bell crash to the floor. She gave a small, sad smile.

“
It’s the end of something, isn’t it?” she said.

“
And the beginning,” I said. “We’ll build it back.”

“
Hey,” she said, suddenly looking at me. “Are we married or not?”

I thought for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think so. We never got to that part.”

“
Of course, you’re married, you nitwits!” said Father Tony. He waved his hand absently in front of him in the sign of the cross. “I now pronounce you man and wife, blah, blah, blah. You may kiss the bride.”

And I did.

Postlude

No one in St. Germaine, including Dave, ever saw Collette again. The firemen sifted through the wreckage during the next few days looking for her body, but it wasn’t to be found. There was some talk from folks in her church about putting up a monument in the park. They even designed a triptych and commissioned Beaver Jergenson to carve it out of a giant stump with his chainsaw. It portrayed the three saints who had never experienced death, but were taken directly to heaven—Elijah, Enoch, and Collette. Cynthia Johnsson, the new mayor, declined the offer of a permanent installation.

There were two other miracles that night, people would later say. The first was that nothing but the church had burned. The fire department, working far into the night, couldn’t save the parish hall, but even with the proximity of St. Barnabas to the other buildings on Main Street, the flames were confined to the church. The second miracle was the one they still talk about. The congregation came to the square the next morning, intent on having a service of Thanksgiving in the park in front of the charred ruins. There, sitting amongst fallen leaves of gold, orange and red, was the St. Barnabas altar, the communion elements set in their place.

•••

“
Marilyn,” I said, “how about some java?” I tugged my hat down over my eyes, kicked back in my chair, and lit up a stogie. Marilyn came in with a cup of joe, wearing a mink, high heels and a smile.

It was good to be a detective.