The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (13 page)

Chickens, I suspected, were fairly stupid. I didn't know this to be true, never having actually owned a chicken, but, like everyone else, I had my prejudices. As Americans, we like to think that we only eat dumb animals—animals that wouldn't really care if they were eaten or not. Horses, cats, dogs, parakeets, pet monkeys: these are off limits. Pigs were the exception. Pigs are reputedly the geniuses of the animal kingdom, often found working out differential equations in the mud. Unfortunately for them, they are ugly and it's our God-given right to eat ugly animals. Either dumb or ugly, that's the rule. Or if they taste really good.

I stopped by the revival tent on my way into work and found it set up exactly as I had the first time I'd visited. The table, with its sawdust-covered top and clip-on pleated fabric sides was directly in front of the pulpit. The Bible was not on the table, probably having been put away until time for the next service. It was the Bible I was looking for.

In my opinion, there was one of four explanations for the Great Chicken Revival. Number one, and the one I had to be careful of, was that it really
was
the Holy Spirit causing the chicken to choose scriptures that would allow Brother Hog's message to move the hearts of the men and women who heard him. I was doubtful, but I certainly wasn't going to discount the possibility. I had seen stranger things. Number two—Binny Hen could have been one of those chicken geniuses. A
poulet-savant.
I was prepared to dismiss this explanation. I hadn't met the Scripture Chicken, but chicken geniuses were almost unheard of north of Atlanta. The third explanation was that the readers had somehow been prompted to read a pre-selected scripture. Brother Hog had someone from the congregation read the pre-chosen passage. But Ardine was the reader last Saturday, and I knew she wouldn't have been in cahoots with the minister in any kind of deception. That left number four. The Bible was rigged.

I pulled back one of the fabric panels, looked under the table and saw a large, black fiberboard case that was the perfect size, I surmised, to hold the book in question. I opened the case, took out the huge Bible and laid it on the table in front of me. I opened it and read a bit of Isaiah. Then I turned over to Second Corinthians to see if I could spot anything on the page that would cause the chicken to choose that particular scripture. I flipped through some pages, smiled, closed the book, put it back in its case and put the case back where I'd found it. Tomorrow, I thought, would be a good night to come to the revival.

* * *

Thursday was always a good day to lunch at the Ginger Cat—this Thursday in particular. The weather was cool, breezy and overcast, foreshadowing a hard winter like a bad novelist. It wasn't cold yet, but the conditions hinted at the prompt possibility. Thursdays were good because on Thursdays the soup chef came up from Asheville. She drove up in the morning, her respite from the restaurant that was her full-time job, cooked the soups for the week and headed back to the big city. I didn't know what kind of arrangement Anne Cooke had made with her, but whatever the cost, it was worth it. Thursdays were the best. During the rest of the week, the choice of soup was limited to one. On Thursdays, the customers could sample any of the five or six kinds that were currently brewing.

The Ginger Cat was more of an up-scale gift shop than a restaurant. There were only four tables, almost always commandeered at lunchtime, and today was no exception. Due to the lack of seating, most customers chose to get their lunch "to-go." Meg had arrived early however, garnered us a table, and was going over her soup options with Cynthia when I arrived.

"What's on the menu today?" I asked Cynthia as I pulled out a chair.

Cynthia looked down at her pad. "Pumpkin, Zesty Tomato Lentil, Winter Vegetable, Garlic, Sausage Bean Chowder and Split Pea."

"Garlic Soup?" Meg asked, wrinkling up her nose.

"It smells really good. We have sourdough bread bowls today, too. Eleanor brought them up with her from Asheville."

"I'll have the Sausage Bean Chowder," I said, "in a bread bowl."

Meg pursed her lips and decided. "I guess I'll have the Tomato."

"And I'd like one of those African Yorgi-whatchamacallits. The coffee thing."

"Ah yes, our Ethiopian Yergacheffe."

"Exactly," I said. Cynthia looked over at Meg.

"Tea, please. Assam Golden Tip."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Our newest tea from India," said Cynthia, jumping in, eager to show off her tea-knowledge. "Assam is a province. Golden Tip is a flowery orange pekoe with a sweet malty taste, hints of honey, toast, and a just a bit of wood."

"You sound like a wine-snob," I said with a laugh.

"A tea-snob," said Cynthia, departing with a sniff.

"Hayden!" said a voice from front of the shop. I recognized it and took a deep breath. It was Rob Brannon and I was still miffed.

"I'm waiting for my soup order," he said, sitting down in an unoccupied chair. "Then I've got to walk the puppies."

"I'll bet they're cute," said Meg. To Meg, all puppies were cute. "What kind are they?"

"Actually, they're not puppies anymore. I just call them that as sort of a joke. Lucifer and Gabriel are guard dogs. Rottweilers to be exact."

"Are they vicious?"

"They are…well-trained," said Rob, choosing his words carefully.

"Glad to hear it," I said.

"What kind of soup did you get?" asked Megan, changing the subject.

"Pumpkin. I've never had Pumpkin Soup." He turned his attention to me. "Did you ever hear anything about the dead fellow?"

"He was murdered, but it was a long time ago. Probably nothing we can do at this point. I doubt the culprit is still alive."

Rob seemed disappointed. "What about the condition of the body?"

"Very strange. Kent didn't know what to make of it. He's doing some more tests. It started to decompose at a normal rate as soon as it arrived at the morgue."

"Weird. By the way, Hayden, I heard about that cinnamon roll. Did you know it was being advertised on eBay?"

"What?" I was genuinely shocked.

"You might want to give it a look. The bidding is over four thousand dollars."

"Four thousand dollars? For a cinnamon roll? Who's selling it?"

"Just give it a look."

Rob's number was called, and he got up and walked over to the counter to pick up his lunch.

"You guys have a great day," he called over his shoulder.

* * *

After a delicious lunch, I went back to the station, walked into my office, closed the door, got onto the computer and went to the eBay site. I clicked on the search field and typed in "Immaculate Confection." Only one item was found. I clicked on it. There, on my computer screen, was a picture of the cinnamon roll in all its sanctified glory. It had been photographed on the altar of a church. It was an altar I recognized. I scanned the page. There had been eight bids starting at twenty-five dollars. The highest bid was now four thousand eight hundred sixty. I clicked on the bid history. Three of the eight bids were by the same person. The other five bidders were all different. I clicked back and scanned the page again. The on-line auction had a week to go, the bidding having started yesterday evening at 8:00 PM. I looked over to get the seller's information. His (or her) eBay seller name was Esterhazy. The item location was listed as North Carolina. I clicked on "seller information." There was none. This was the seller's first transaction. There was no feedback and he'd only been a member since the day the ad appeared. I clicked on "ID history." It listed the ID (Esterhazy), the effective date (yesterday) and a partially blocked out e-mail address. I clicked back, went to "ask the seller a question" and found I had to register to do so. I didn't bother. Instead, I got up, walked over to the door and opened it.

"Nancy, could you come in here a second?"

"Sure."

When Nancy came in, I pointed her to the computer monitor. She sat down in my chair and read the screen quickly.

"Esterhazy? What's up with that?"

"It's a pretty thinly veiled attempt to point the finger at Yours Truly."

"Why would it point to you?"

"Prince Esterhazy was the benefactor of Haydn in the eighteenth century. Probably the most famous patron of the arts ever. Well, after the Medicis."

"Hmmm," said Nancy. "Haydn, eh? I remember the name, now that you mention it. But how many people would know that? One in a hundred? Five hundred?"

"Probably five hundred. It's obscure enough to make it sound like something I'd come up with, but easily figured out if the right person sees it. What do you think?"

"You're right. It sounds just like you. Very droll and obtuse, but smug and just a bit too enamored of your cleverness."

"Hey…" I said, "I think I'm offended."

"I'm agreeing with you," said Nancy with a smile. "Who would know? If they saw it, that is?"

"Meg would know. Rhiza. Maybe a couple of people in the choir. I probably mentioned Esterhazy at some point when we were doing the
Little Organ Mass.
"

"That's quite a few."

"Yeah, but all the people I know tend to be interested in music. Esterhazy is pretty basic music history stuff."

"Why would Pete know?"

"He was a music major in college for a couple of semesters—saxophone and jazz. Anyway, find out who posted this, will you? And let me know as quickly as you can."

"It's up to fifty-five hundred," Nancy said.

"Sheesh."

Chapter 12

"Seems to me you've written yourself into a corner," said Meg.

"How so?"

"Well, let's see. You have six main characters not counting the detective—Starr, Candy, Alice, Piggy, Toby Taps and Harry Leggs."

"Jimmy Leggs."

"Whatever. Starr is dead. That leaves five. Toby didn't do it. Toby says Piggy didn't do it. Alice is a fed. Candy is the sister of the deceased. That leaves Harry Leggs."

"Jimmy."

"Yeah, yeah. So where's the mystery? You definitely need some more characters."

"Aha! You forgot about Marilyn. Also Kit, the Girl-Friday."

"They didn't do it."

"You're probably right. I'll have to mull this one over a bit."

"Maybe Skinny could come and visit his brother Harry."

"No. No, he could not."

"What about cousin Bo?"

"Out!"

* * *

I put the word out for Jimmy Leggs--not that I had much of a chance. Hunting Jimmy was going to be about as easy as Jonah finding that white whale. My only hope was that he would find me.

I headed to the Powder Puff Room at the No-Tel Hotel where I figured Piggy Wilson was holding court. He was in his usual place, a table in the back by the men's room door. Piggy was bigger than four regular-sized men, although probably only two championship pigs, and most of his five hundred pounds hung over the edges of his steel-reinforced seat like an extra helping of mozzarella oozing over the side of the pizza pan.

"Sit," he grunted, chomping down on an ear of corn. "We needs to talk."

I sat down across from Piggy's toadies and ordered a beer.

"What was the message, Piggy?" I asked.

"What message?"

"Toby Taps says that Candy Blather's murder was a message. A message to you."

"That tap-dancin' fool talks too much," Piggy oinked. "There wasn't no message."

* * *

"I didn't take it, Pete," I said.

"Yeah. I know. I just wish I could figure out who did. Eight thousand bucks. That's a lot of money."

"Have you cooked up another one yet?"

Pete nodded, then gave a yell. "Hey Noylene! Bring that pan of cinnamon rolls out here, will you."