The Mezzo Wore Mink (11 page)

“
Sounds like a fine organization,” said Pete. “Muffy here was telling us that you plan to employ about twelve people.”

“
Maybe more than that,” said Roderick, with a sly smile. “We have a completely new product. One that I hope will catch on in the fashion world. If it does, the sky’s the limit!”

Pete looked very pleased.

“
Would you like the tour?” Roderick asked.

“
Of course,” Pete and I said in unison. Nancy and Dave both nodded.

•••

Varmit Lemieux didn’t have much to say, but he didn’t seem to mind following us around, unlocking and opening doors as Roderick showed us the operation. We looked at the manure storage area, a couple of sheds, a cold storage room and the pelting shed.

“
One worker,” explained Roderick, “can care for five to six hundred breeding females. Then, eventually, we’ll need the harvesting personnel as well. In eight months we’ll be fully operational.”

“
How many breeding females will you have?” asked Pete.

“
Eventually about four thousand. They’ll produce fifteen thousand kits annually for pelting.”

“
How many do you have now?”

“
We have five hundred here at the farm, and a thousand on the way from Louisiana.”

“
Louisiana?” said Nancy.

“
Yep,” said Roderick proudly. “That’s our secret weapon.”

“
Can you tell us what it is?” Pete asked.

“
As a matter of fact, I can. We just received confirmation from the patent office yesterday and our registered trademark has been approved. Come with me.”

Roderick led us to the largest of the three barns and stood aside as Varmit unlocked the twelve-foot-high door and swung it back on giant hinges.

“
We have all the stock in these two barns,” said Roderick, indicating the structure we were in and the one facing us. “We’ll have to build five more over the next couple of years. Not this big, of course—this one was built for cows—but substantial. Very substantial. We’ll let the stock outside during the day once we have the pens built, at least during the warmer months. But at night, they’ll be kept in here.”

“
Where are your other employees?” asked Nancy.

“
I sent them up to Roanoke. There’s a mink farm closing down and we’re picking up a trailer full of cages. They’ll be back this evening.”

He led us into the well-lit barn. The center aisle was wide enough for a large truck to drive from one end to the other, exiting from either end through one of the matching double doors. On both sides of the aisle were pens separated by a four-foot high chain-link fence with a gate on the front. We walked over to the first pen and were startled by a very large animal standing on a hay bale. Upon closer inspection, there were a number of animals in the pen. I counted ten.

“
What the heck are those?” asked Dave. “I thought you were raising minks.”

“
Those are nutrias,” said Roderick proudly. “Coypu.”

“
They’re rats!” said Nancy. “Giant rats!”

“
Actually, they are,” laughed Roderick. “Giant aquatic rats. They’re not unlike muskrats and their fur is very desirable.”

“
I’ve heard of nutria coats,” I said. “But it doesn’t have nearly the value of mink or chinchilla.” I paused and thought for a moment. “Does it?”

“
No, it doesn’t,” admitted Roderick. “That’s where our secret weapon comes in.” He smiled. “Varmit, will you be so kind as to get one of our pacaranas?”

Varmit walked to the second pen down, unlatched the gate, disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a strange creature in his arms. He walked over to us and set the animal on the floor. We surrounded it immediately.

“
They’re not fast,” said Roderick, “and they’re very docile.”

“
What is it again?” asked Nancy, squatting down to get a better look. I joined her.

“
It’s called a pacarana. Latin name:
dinomys branickii.
They’re relatively rare in this part of the world. These little fellows are from the Andes Mountains in Ecuador.”

“
I’d hardly call him little,” I said. The creature was three feet long and weighed about thirty pounds. It looked a bit like a woodchuck, but had a dark brown upper body, two white stripes along its back, and white spots down each side. Its ears were small and curved and I could see a deep cleft on its upper lip. Gray whiskers completed the distinctively strange package.

“
The interesting thing about these rodents,” said Roderick, “is that they’ll mate with a nutria. The offspring are quite extraordinary. First generation offspring of a male pacarana and a female nutria retain all of the desirable fur-bearing characteristics of the nutria, with the distinctive color variations and size of the pacarana. They’re one-third bigger than the average nutria. That’s one-third more fur.”

“
What about second generation?” I asked.

“
Can’t happen,” said Roderick. “The offspring are sterile.”

“
How many male pacaranas do you have?”

“
Fourteen,” said Roderick. “With more on the way, hopefully. They aren’t endangered, but, as I said, they’re hard to come by.”

“
So you’re counting on fourteen male pacaranas to impregnate five thousand females. That’s…” I tried to do some quick math in my head. “What?…Four hundred females apiece? That’s more than King Solomon had.”

“
Three hundred fifty seven point one four,” said Dave. “Roughly.”

“
A year,” said Roderick. “ Three hundred fifty seven a
year.
That’s only one a day if you give them all the government holidays off. The trick is to give a small dose of hormones to the female nutrias so they don’t all come into heat at the same time. We’ve got it down to an art. Besides, these little guys don’t seem to have a problem performing. Like all rats,” he laughed, “it’s what they do.”

“
I’ll vouch for that,” muttered Nancy.

“
Sounds like you have it all worked out,” said Pete.

“
Well, we don’t have five thousand female nutrias yet,” said Roderick, “and by the time we do, I’m hoping to have a few hundred male pacaranas. We also have two female pacaranas, so we’ll be able to breed our own stock.”

“
You mentioned a patent,” I said.

“
A patent and a registered trademark. Good for ten years. We’re calling the animal ‘Minque.’ M-I-N-Q-U-E.”

“
Minque?” I said.

“
Minque coats, Minque collars, Minque mittens…you name it. Also,” Roderick added, “this isn’t public knowledge, but we’re hoping for a major celebrity endorsement.”

“
That will certainly help,” said Nancy.

“
Minque,” said Dave thoughtfully. “With one of those ® signs behind it? I like it. Can we see one of these Minques?”

“
Absolutely. They’re in the other barn.”

Chapter 8

“
I’ve been waiting for you,” Ginger Snapp cooed. “As a shamus, you come highly recommended.”

“
How ‘bout as a good time?” I said smirkily, lighting a stogie.

I’d seen her around, but always hanging off the arm of some up-and-coming bishop. She was an ornament, a decoration, a prize that came with the pointy hat, the dress and the incense pot.

“
Hmm. Let me think. As a good time you seem to rate slightly behind Pedro over there.” She tossed her head like a hair-covered hand grenade in the direction of Pedro’s snoring body, now lying under his table with a drink umbrella sticking out of his mouth.

“
I’ve got information,” she said in a voice so low it could have been wearing spike heels and still skittered under Dick Cheney’s credibility. “AveMaria was just a warning and I’m afraid that I’m next.”

“
Beautiful,” said Meg. “This is some of the most elegant prose it has ever been my pleasure to dispose of.”

“
Dispose of?” I said.
“Dispose of?”

“
I meant ‘read.’ Did I say ‘dispose of?’ How silly of me.” Meg was sitting on the leather couch with a glass of red wine in one hand and my latest literary effort in the other. Her legs were tucked elegantly under her and the flickering light from the fireplace accented her features from continually changing angles. “Now tell me again about this hat thing.”

“
I was standing at the door of the Blueridge Furs office,” I said. “I was wearing the hat.
This
hat. Raymond Chandler’s hat.”

Meg nodded.

“
And this woman opens the door…”

“
Muffy Lemieux,” said Meg.

“
Yes, Muffy Lemieux. And then this sentence just pops into my head.”

“
Sounds spooky. Just what does this Muffy Lemieux look like?”

“
Well, she’s…um…sort of…you know…kind of gorgeous. She’s got these legs and these other things. You know…accoutrements.”

“
I know exactly,” said Meg. “I would expect someone named Muffy Lemieux to be blonde. Very blonde.”

“
Nope. Redhead. She says she’s going to come and sing in the church choir.”

“
I’ll bet she does.”

“
Anyway,” I said, “it’s not like she’s single or anything. She’s married to a man named Varmit. Apparently she’d like him to join the choir as well. Besides,” I added, “she’s been told that she has a voice like Loretta Lynn.”

“
Better and better. But back to the hat, Mr. Hard-Boiled Author. Does this literary phenomenon happen often?”

“
So far, whenever I put it on.”

“
It’s on now,” she said, with a sly smile. “Anything come to mind?”

She sat reclining on the sofa, her heaving bosom rising and falling like twin boiling Christmas puddings on Boxing Day, and even as her mouth whimpered no, no, no, the rest of her body ached yes, yes, yes, except for her appendix which had been removed the year before and so didn’t care very much either way.

I didn’t take time to write it down.

•••

Worship Committee meetings at church are to be avoided if at all possible. This is Rule No. 1 in the Hayden Konig Church Musician’s Handbook. Rule No. 2 is never,
ever
agree to do anything that Meg asks in her sultry, Lauren Bacall voice while whispering in my ear. Closely following is Rule No. 3: If anyone complains about how loud the organ is, the best possible response is to pull out all the stops. There are a myriad of other rules. For example: Never sing any anthem in which the composer or poet tries to rhyme any word with Jesus. This includes squeeze us, frees us, please us, etcetera. There are exceptions, of course, and one of them was a brilliant Christmas madrigal, penned by myself, in which I managed to rhyme Holy Jesus with Mouldy Cheeses.