The Mezzo Wore Mink (9 page)

Dr. Burch looked at her blankly, then turned to me. “I wonder if you might know if there is a chapter of the American Vegan Society here in town?”

“
I don’t think so,” I said.

“
In Boone then?”

I looked over at Nancy. She shrugged.

“
Asheville?”

“
Oh, sure,” said Nancy, nodding. “Asheville for sure!”

•••

“
This is fun,” said Nancy. “Shall we try the spa next?”

“
Let’s get my book first.”

“
Sure.”

We stopped by Eden Books and I happily wrote a check for forty-five hundred dollars plus tax, and put the neatly wrapped package under my arm.

“
Do come back soon,” said Hyacinth, closing the drawer to the old cash register with a solid bang.

“
You know where to find me,” I answered, “if you find something else of interest.”

Nancy didn’t say anything about me dropping that kind of money on a book. A couple of years ago, after Nancy had saved my life by shooting a crazed priest’s wife, I had thanked her by giving her a motorcycle—a silver Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide. She was speechless at the time, and never needled me about spending money again.

We dropped the book off at the station, then continued around the square past St. Barnabas church, stopping on the way to exchange pleasantries with Carol Sterling and Mrs. Kellerman, both taking advantage of the beautiful fall afternoon to take their dogs on a walk. We turned onto Maple Street, walked past the flower shop and up the steps of Mrs. McCarty’s old house, now displaying two signs on the front porch. Sign number one had the coffee logo I’d seen a few days ago and advertised “Holy Grounds.” Sign number two heralded “The Upper Womb—a place of healing.”

We walked into the foyer of the house. Nothing had changed much since Mrs. McCarty had left, save that small tables, some with two chairs, some with four, had replaced the furniture in the two front rooms. I noticed the sounds of Vivaldi softly drifting down from unseen speakers, quite a contrast to the blare of the krummhorns in the Appalachian Music Shoppe. I also noticed that there were no customers.

“
Hello,” Nancy called. “Anyone here?”

Cynthia appeared in the hallway from what must be the kitchen. She was wiping her hands on a white apron tied around her waist.

“
Our city’s finest,” she said, smiling. “About time you came around. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“
No, thanks,” said Nancy. “We’re tanked up on Redhook.” I gave her a sharp elbow.

“
We just came in to meet the proprietor,” I said.

“
Chad? He’s out back. You want me to get him?”

“
That’s okay,” I answered. “We’ll find him.”

“
Right through there.” Cynthia pointed down the hall toward a back door, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Mrs. McCarty’s old house was an American Foursquare popular at the turn of the century, two stories tall with a front porch spanning the width off the front and four pillars supporting the porch roof. As was typical with a number of houses built in St. Germaine around this time, this Foursquare had four rooms downstairs, square of course, and four upstairs, each tucked into its own corner of the house. From the entrance, where Nancy and I stood, the hallway ran from the front of the house straight through to the back to take advantage of the mountain breezes. We followed the hall to the back door, exited down a set of stone steps into the backyard, and looked around at a large hedged garden with a gate hanging on one hinge.

“
This is where Mrs. McCarty kept her hedgehogs,” Nancy muttered under her breath.

In the center was a concrete pad that I reckoned was about twenty feet square. In the middle of the pad was a very well built man in his early thirties, clad in jeans and a white thermal shirt with the sleeves cut off, kneeling and wielding a can of spray paint.

“
Chad?” I whispered to Nancy.

“
Chad,” she whispered back.

Chad stood up when he saw us, smiled, and made his way gingerly across the concrete, obviously avoiding the freshly painted areas. I felt, rather than heard, a sigh escape from Nancy as he approached. Chad was as tall as I—several inches over six feet—but heavier, carrying much more muscle than I ever had, even when young and foolish and convinced of the benefits of excessive weight training. He reached out his hand to me as he approached and I met his grip as best I could, at the same time being slightly envious of forearms wrapped with knotted tendons. His waist was slim, his shoulders broad, his biceps and chest huge, and his curly black hair framed an Adonis’ face complete with sparkling blue eyes and a movie star’s smile. I disliked him immediately.

“
I’m Chad,” he said, clasping my hand in a grip of iron. “Chad Parker. You must be the chief.”

“
Hayden Konig,” I said. “You already know Nancy?”

“
Nancy’s been in a couple of times,” Chad said, an overly cute smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I glanced over in her direction and her face was beginning to redden. She sniffed.

“
I had this thing going on with my neck. It took a couple of sessions to work it out.”

I nodded. “Sounds great. I’m glad we have a masseur in town.”

“
Christian masseur,” corrected Chad. “I’m the only certified Christian masseur in the state. Here at The Womb, we offer holistic and spiritual healing in a Christian atmosphere. Not only massages, but sweats, aroma therapy, drumming classes, acupuncture, yoga, light therapy…the works.”

“
And a good cup of coffee,” I added.

“
That too,” Chad chuckled.

“
What are you working on here?” I asked, walking over to the concrete slab. Chad followed a few steps behind.

“
This will be our labyrinth. It used to be the carport, I think, or a picnic shed, but I took down the roof and the posts. Once it’s been painted on the slab, it will be perfect for our guided meditations.”

I looked down at a paper template, taped at the edges and partially painted. “I recognize the pattern.”

“
Yes, it’s become quite famous over the centuries. Over the past ten years, meditation labyrinths have undergone a dramatic revival as a tool for contemplation, relaxation, and spiritual renewal.”

“
So, what do you do?” asked Nancy, walking over to inspect Chad’s handiwork. “Try to find your way out?”

“
Oh no. A labyrinth is an ancient symbol that relates to wholeness. The way in is the way out. There’s only one path. It combines the imagery of the circle and the spiral into a meandering but purposeful path. The labyrinth represents a journey to our own center and back again out into the world.”

“
Oh,” I said.

“
Your life is a sacred journey,” continued Chad. “And it is about change, growth, discovery, transformation, continuously expanding your vision of what is possible. You are on the path, exactly where you are meant to be right now. From here, you can only go forward, shaping your life story into a magnificent tale of triumph, of healing, of courage, of beauty, of wisdom, of dignity, and of love.”

“
Chad,” I said, shaking my head, “that was a memorized speech if I ever heard one.”

He laughed. “Well, I
was
a theater major in college. Seriously though, a labyrinth is a metaphor for life’s journey with which we can have a direct experience. It is a symbol that creates a sacred space that takes us out of our egos to our inner spirituality. It will be a central part of our spiritual wellness program.”

“
Certainly something to look forward to,” I said. “Is it just you and Cynthia working here?”

“
My wife is coming down from New Hampshire next week to join us. She’s also a licensed Christian massage therapist. Her name’s Lacie. She’s been up there packing and selling the house.”

“
I look forward to meeting her,” I said. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“
Sure,” said Chad. “By the way, you’re going to find out sooner or later…”

My eyebrows went up and Chad shrugged apologetically.

“
Lacie and I…we’re naturists. Nudists. Do you think that will present a problem?”

“
Depends,” I said. “Will you be practicing your predilection during business hours?”

“
Oh, no. That would be highly unethical.”

“
Will you be parading around town corrupting our youth and scandalizing our citizens?”

He laughed. “I hardly think so.”

“
Then I don’t have a problem. How about you, Nancy?”

Nancy just stared.

Chapter 7

Archimedes is a barn owl. He is mostly white, has a wingspan of about two feet, and, by owlish standards, is fairly tame. He’s been living with Baxter and me for the past couple of years. Baxter, being a dog of discernment and intelligence, ignores him. I, on the other hand, find him endlessly fascinating. He comes and goes as he pleases, thanks to an electric window in the kitchen, and when he shows up, I feed him deceased mice that I keep in a well-marked coffee can in the refrigerator. Now, seated at my desk, I held one of these treats by its tail and watched Archimedes, standing at attention next to the typewriter, take it gently in his beak, throw his head back, and swallow the snack in two gulps. I held up another, but the owl had had enough. He gave two small hops, spread his wings and, without a sound, took off through the house toward the kitchen, as silent as a ghost.

I watched him disappear through the kitchen door, then picked up my new hat and set it gently on my head, expecting nothing less than literary magic.

I started to head back to the office, then decided to

take a short detour into my new favorite bar. Buxtehooters was busy as usual. Piano bars always did pretty well on the south side, but a pipe-organ bar was new to this part of town. I walked in to the sounds of a Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck sing-along; patrons clanking their beer mugs together while a trio of beer-fraüleins led the tune from the top of the bar clad in their Buxtehooters t-shirts and German dirndls. There was no doubt about it. These girls had talents.

I spotted Pedro LaFleur in the corner nursing a bottle of “Diego’s Dog-Oil” and trying to remember the words to the fourth stanza of “Ein Feste Burg.” Pedro was a hard guy to

miss—about two eighty, cauliflower ear, flat nose, three-inch

scar under his eye. He sang counter-tenor for the Presbyterians.

I was walking his way when a hand slithered up from a dimly lit booth like President Nixon coming out of his snake basket, coiling around my waist and wriggling under my trench coat. I looked down at a woman who was half angel, half devil and half mermaid—the good half, not the fish half, her blond hair drifting dreamily in the undercurrents of fruitless pick-up lines and the tidal pools of failed dalliances.

“
Sit down, big boy,” she burbled. “The name’s Ginger. Ginger Snapp.”

•••

The next morning found the entire police force at the Slab Café, all three of us, doing our best to encourage the Belgian economy in regard to waffles.

“
These are great,” said Dave, swirling the last bite around the syrup-covered plate like a miniature, bite-sized Dorothy Hamill.