The Mezzo Wore Mink (28 page)

“
Sounds like more excuses,” called Crayonella.

“
Quiet,” said Billy.

“
The new businesses pay taxes. They just don’t pay the privilege tax. It’s only a couple of hundred dollars a year.”

“
And that’s a lot of money,” called Marjorie.

“
They more than make up for that in the sales tax that they generate for the city.”

“
Political double-talk,” called a voice.

“
What about my chickens?”

Pete sighed.

“
And why aren’t you wearing any drawers?” shouted Arlen Pearl. “You a communist, or something?”

“
I am wearing drawers,” insisted Pete.

“
Let’s see!” Arlen hollered.

“
I’m not dropping my pants right here,” said Pete.

“
That’s okay,” said Arlen. “Let Billy look. I’ll take his word for it.”

“
Fine,” said Pete. He grabbed the front of his expando pants, pulled out the front about four inches and faced Billy.

“
I’m not lookin’ in there,” said Billy. “You gotta be crazy.”

“
Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” said Cynthia, getting back to her feet.

“
Wait!” I shouted, standing up. But Cynthia had already walked up behind Pete and looked over his shoulder.

“
Oh, my God!” she shrieked. Pete, startled, let go of his waistband and his pants snapped shut. I sat down heavily.

“
This ain’t good,” I said to Meg.

“
You said you were wearing underwear!” Cynthia said, the color draining from her face.

“
Well…I…Billy…umm…I didn’t think anyone would actually look.”

“
You were holding open your pants!”

“
Yeah…but…”

“
But, nothing,” said Crayonella, standing up and pointing an accusing finger at Pete. “You were probably the one who invited those Dingle-Dangles into town on Thanksgiving. And now you’ve gone and flashed Cynthia.”

“
Not on purpose,” said Pete. “And those nudists bought the old camp. I had nothing to do with it. Hey, anybody remember when Cynthia belly-danced for President Clinton?”

“
What nudists?” said Noylene. “We got nudists?”

“
They’re buying Camp Possumtickle,” said Cynthia.

“
How come we didn’t know about this?” asked Carol Sterling.

“
Probably because Mayor Moss was keeping it quiet until after the election next week,” said Crayonella.

“
It was in the paper,” said Pete, helplessly. “Last week, in the transfer of deeds.”

“
No, it wasn’t,” said Calvin Denton of
The Tattler
. “I left it out. I had to put in the article about Judy Barr coming home to visit her mother.”

“
It’s a gol-danged cover-up!” hollered Arlen.

“
What about my chickens?” yelled Marjorie.

“
Fergit about chickens,” said Noylene, “What about them nudists?”

“
I…uh…they’re
Christian
nudists!” stuttered Pete, then decided to take a different tack. “Marjorie’s chickens cannot be allowed to run around the town square.”

“
I think they’re quaint,” said Carol. “And a lot easier to live with than a bunch of nudists, Christian or otherwise.”

“
The nudists will stay at their camp. If they come into town, they will be wearing clothes,” proclaimed Pete. “If they aren’t, Chief Konig will arrest them and throw them in jail. Isn’t that right, Chief?”

“
We don’t have a jail,” I said. “I guess we could put them in the Beautifery.”

“
I don’t want no nudists in the Beautifery,” said Noylene. “How about in the back of your truck?”

“
What about those giant rats?” asked Rebecca. “I heard that one of them ate Patricia’s poodle.”

“
We’re working on the giant rat problem,” I said, wondering how I got into this. “That is, the police department is working on it under the diligent guidance of the mayor.”

“
Diligent guidance, my Aunt Millie’s butt!” said Marjorie.

•••

“
That went well,” I said to Pete as we walked back to the Slab for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. The “debate,” if it could be so described, had gone on for another hour and consisted mainly of Pete dodging accusations and Cynthia dangling his shortcomings in public. Crayonella was very effective at keeping the chatter focused on Pete.

“
Sarcasm does not become you,” said Pete, shaking his head. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door of the café, then led us in, flipping on the lights as he went.

“
Grab some pie and take a seat. I’ll make some coffee,” he said, walking behind the counter and starting to fill the pot. Billy and Elaine walked in a minute later, followed by Carol, Bev, and Georgia.

“
Is the pie free?” Bev asked. “A bribe, perhaps?”

“
Sure,” sighed Pete. “Why not?”

“
What kind of pie do we have?” asked Billy, rubbing his hands together. I was over at the pie case and happy to answer. “Pumpkin, Boston cream, apple,” I said, taking each pie out of the case and putting it on the counter. “And rhubarb.”

“
Pumpkin, please,” said Meg, with the rest of the orders following quickly.

The door opened again and Cynthia peeked in. Crayonella was standing behind her.

“
No hard feelings?” she said to Pete.

“
Nah. C’mon in. Have a piece of pie.”

“
I do like pie,” said Crayonella with a big grin. “Hey, let me ask you something. Why on earth didn’t you wear your drawers? Especially tonight?”

“
I tried,” said Pete. “I just couldn’t do it.”

Chapter 18

It was a dark and stormy night, as dark and stormy as the times that try men’s souls; the best of times, the worst of times, and all children, except one, grow up. I walked down the street, rain splashing off my hat and running down my back, a walking advertisement for AFLAC, complete with the honking that I suddenly noticed was coming from my own nose. I was cold, I was wet, and I was a gumshoe. Life was good.

I stopped at the corner, dug my hands deep into the pockets of my old trench, the one I’d gotten off my old partner, Sam Manilla, after he’d been snipped, clipped, chilled, and fitted for a Chicago overcoat during the cat milk scare at the local elementary school. There was a clue somewhere in this story. I oughta know—I put it there. It kept gnawing away at my brain like one of those praise-choruses with only one verse, repeating the same words over and over until you either gave your life to Jesus or killed the woman sitting next to you, the one who kept poking you in the eye with her Rexella Van Impe Study Bible.

The clock tower struck twelve. I looked across the street and there she was, draped in mink from her mink umbrella to

her mink high heels. I recognized her right away. I wasn’t a

stranger to the world of opera. In fact, as a liturgical detective and a member of the Bishop’s Council on Councils, I knew all the singers in the district. Most paid choir singers were opera wannabes. Not this sheila. She was the real shaloopie.

“
Things are heating up, I see,” said Meg. “An opera singer. I’ll bet she’s a mezzo.”

“
Stop reading ahead.”

“
How can I read ahead? You haven’t written it yet.”

“
Stop guessing the plot then.”

“
It’s not exactly brain surgery,” Meg laughed. “The title is
The Mezzo Wore Mink,
and now a woman shows up draped in mink. Could it be that she’s a mezzo?”

“
Harrumph!”

“
Did you ask the Lemmings about our wedding plans?” Meg asked. She walked over to the leather sofa and flopped onto the down-filled cushions without spilling a drop of her wine. There was a fire in the fireplace and Tchaikovsky on the stereo. I left my hat on the table by the typewriter and joined Meg on the couch.

“
I
did
ask Father Lemming and he said it was just a great idea, dontcha know.”

“
And Tony?”

“
Yep. I called Tony and he’ll be happy to perform the ceremony.”

“
Then we should tell our friends, I suppose.”

“
I suppose we should,” I said.

•••

“
I’d like to schedule a meeting,” said Ian Burch, PhD, entering the station two steps behind his prominent nose and announcing his presence in a piercing counter-tenor. He adjusted his glasses and sniffed.

“
You’re here, aren’t you?” said Dave, glancing up from his computer.

“
A meeting with Chief Konig.”

“
Sure,” I said, overhearing and coming out of my office. “What’s up?”

“
I have been contacted by Dr. Adrian Lemming. He’d like to utilize my Early Musik Consort to play for his Thanksgiving show. He told me you were in charge of the musical arrangements.”

“
Well, I guess I am. I’m playing for some of it and arranging a couple of hymns. What does Dr. Lemming have in mind?”

“
He said that was up to me. I told him we had our own costumes.”

“
Excellent,” I said. “Will there be codpieces involved?”

“
Oh, yes,” said Ian. “We have all the necessary accessories. We also have two people who are well schooled in the Renaissance dance. Do you think that we might include a galliard or perhaps a coranto?”

“
I think it
must
be included,” chimed in Dave. “It really
must
.”

“
I have to agree,” I said, with a grin. “I’m sure that the Lemmings would welcome a galliard or two.”

“
Wonderful,” said Ian, a discolored smile splitting his face and breath reminiscent of rotten cabbage wafting across the counter. “This will be great fun.”

Nancy came through the office door. Ian looked at her without acknowledgement, then turned back to me.

“
We also have some English pieces from the 17th century. They would be just the sort of things that the pilgrims might have liked to dance to. Very authentic,” he said smugly.