The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (19 page)

Pete and I nodded compassionately.

"It's time to build our altar," called Dr. Ren. "Collect your stones and let us begin."

"Collect our stones," said Pete. "Now there's a Freudian observation if ever I heard one."

* * *

I had found what I thought were a couple of good-sized rocks behind our tent. They were maybe seven or eight pounds and as big around as grapefruits. They certainly were manageable enough that mindlessly tossing them a couple of inches into the air and catching them as we made our way from our tents back to the campfire wasn't a problem. We were astonished, therefore, to see the rest of the men, hunched over and lugging stones the size of microwave ovens. One stout fellow with the physique of a lumberjack had a stone on each shoulder—each one weighing at least eighty to a hundred pounds.

"I feel emasculated," whispered Pete. "Just look at the size of our stones compared to those other guys."

"We may be emasculated, but at least we're not herniated," I whispered back. "Pebble envy seems to be the point of this exercise. Anyway, mine's definitely bigger than yours."

"You wish! What did the information sheet say?"

"That we should bring the largest stone we could carry for the glory of Yahweh."

"Oh, man…"

* * *

We followed Dr. Ren, in procession, carrying our stones down a wide path into the woods for about three hundred yards until we came to the altar. It was more of a cairn, I thought, consisting of a six foot by six foot collection of stones rising in a pyramid, the top of which stood about five feet high above the forest floor. It had been built and added on to through the years by the past conference attendees.

"Let us begin," said Dr. Ren. "The smallest stones first."

Everyone looked at Pete and me. I gave him a nudge.

"That's you," I said as Nelson and Bernie began thumping on their tom-toms. "Yours is the smallest."

Pete sullenly made his way to the altar and placed his stone about a foot from the top.

"We build this altar to you, O Yahweh!" called Dr. Ren.

"We build this altar to you," the men replied.

I was next and the rest of the group followed in order of manliness. There were a few disagreements when the sizes were fairly close, but Dr. Ren was the final arbiter. He pointed to one or the other and they came forward as they were chosen. The chant followed the placing of each stone. Pete and I were actually glad that we had been first, not that it really mattered. Our stones were pretty light. The rest of the men were valiantly trying to keep their stones aloft for the entire ceremony. Most of them, the ones carrying the larger stones, finally had to drop them on the ground, picking them up again when it was their turn to approach the altar. A few stalwart souls held them the whole time.

The last one to place his stones was Lumberjack. He stood stoically and waited, never forsaking his burden, and by the end, sweat was pouring off him despite his loincloth, the fairly cold temperature and the wind that had begun to pick up. The rest of the loincloths were shivering shamelessly. Only Dr. Ren seemed to be immune from the cold. As Lumberjack's stones crunched into the side of the altar, a cheer went up from the men and they dashed back toward the campfire.

"Wait," yelled Dr. Ren. "We build this altar to you, O Yahweh." But it was too late. Most of his audience had turned tail and run for the fire. It was left for Pete, Lumberjack, Jim and me to finish up.

"We build this altar to you," we replied, half-heartedly. With that, the drums stopped, and Nelson and Bernie followed the others in quick pursuit as fast as their naked legs could carry them. Lumberjack just grunted. He was doubled over, still trying to catch his breath.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I…I…" wheezed Lumberjack.

"Everything all right here?" It was Dr. Ren.

"Don't know yet," I said, turning back to Lumberjack. "Talk to me, big guy." His answer was to pitch forward on his face and lay unmoving in the pine straw.

"Get the truck," I said to Pete, but he was already running full speed for the campsite.

"Be back in a minute," he yelled over his shoulder.

"Help me turn him over." Jim and Dr. Ren complied.

"He's not breathing," said Jim.

"You know CPR?" asked Dr. Ren, near panic.

"Yeah," I said. "Step back."

I was about three minutes into the CPR when Lumberjack started breathing on his own. Pete drove up just moments later.

"Let's get him into the truck and we'll get him to the hospital pretty quickly," I said, slapping the blue police light onto the roof of the cab.

"You're a cop?" asked Dr. Ren.

"Yeah. Let's get him in."

Four pairs of willing hands lifted Lumberjack into the cab. He was conscious now, but still too groggy to speak. Pete slid in beside him on the passenger side as I jumped behind the wheel.

"We'll be back for lunch," Pete called out the window as I gunned the old truck down the path and out of the woods.

* * *

"The doctor says you'll be okay," I said to Lumberjack as he "rested comfortably" in the emergency room bed. "I'm Hayden Konig, by the way. Pete Moss and I brought you in."

"My name's Jack Rutledge. And thanks. The doc said that he thinks I had a heart attack."

"I'm not surprised. Those rocks were pretty heavy."

"Ah," he shrugged. "They weren't that bad, but I may have overdone it. They think I might have a blockage and they're going to keep me in for some tests. Sorry you had to miss the rest of the retreat."

Just then, Pete came through the privacy curtain.

"How you doin'?"

"I'll be okay. I really want to thank you guys."

"No problem," said Pete magnanimously. "All in a day's work. Not only did we save your life, but we didn't have to do the Mud-Dance or the Naked Piglet Chase."

"Naked Piglet Chase? Oh man! Did I miss that?" Jack sounded despondent.

"I'm sure they'll let you go again next year," I said, "if you promise to bring smaller stones."

* * *

Pete and I got back to the retreat just in time for lunch. We had used the facilities at the hospital to take the opportunity to clean the paint off our faces. We drove up as the men were putting their bratwursts on sticks for grilling over the coals of what was left of their campfire.

"How is he?" asked Dr. Ren, the first one up to our truck.

"He'll be fine," I said, getting out. "The doctor thinks he had a heart attack."

"Thank God he's all right," said Nelson. "Nothing like that has ever happened before."

"It's a shame you missed the Mud-Dance," said Vernon Speck. I almost couldn't tell who he was. He was covered in dark brown mud from his white hair to his feet. His loincloth wasn't nearly as muddy as the rest of him. I suspected that he had removed it to perform his plastering job, but I didn't dare ask.

"Aren't you cold?" asked Pete.

"Nah. Once the mud starts to dry, it sort of heats up on you."

"Well, we're sorry to have missed it," I said with what I hoped was a tinge of regret in my voice.

"You can come back next year," said Nelson. "No charge for either of you."

"That's great!" said Pete.

"We'll be here with bells on our loincloths," I added. "Now how about some of that bratwurst?"

Chapter 16

"Come on over here where I can get a good look at you," I said, still brandishing my heater. He walked up to the desk.

"Now, spill," I said.

"I know who killed Candy. What's it worth to you?"

"Why, you little weasel..." I put a stogy in my mouth with my free hand and lit it with another blast from my shooter. He jumped like a freshman cheerleader at homecoming.

"Jeez! Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" I asked. Kapow! I fired off another round, this one aimed at the radio in the corner. It was a lucky shot, but the radio came on full blast, and the sounds of The All American Polka Band filled the room. Kablam! I hated to waste another bullet, but I hated polka music more.

"Okay, okay. I'll talk," stammered the little pipsqueak.

"You bet you will." I took my time and reloaded, letting him watch each bullet as it wriggled into the chamber. "Now, how do you know who killed Candy?"

"I saw it! I saw the whole thing. I was hiding in the kitchen." He squirmed like a salted slug. "But I want something in return."

"You see this?" I put the gun on the desk. "This is like a game of spin-the-bottle. I ask you a question and then I spin the gun. If it points to you, I shoot off one of your thumbs. Got it?" I spun the gun.

"Wait! Wait! What's the question?" The gun was slowing.

"Who did it?"

The gun stopped and pointed right at him, but then, I've always been lucky at spin-the-bottle. Just ask any of the clarinet players in fourth period band at Redbug Junior High School. I was responsible for more gum swapping than Mickey Mantle's rookie baseball card.

"Don't shoot me! I'll tell you what you want to know." He was as scared as a college fund in a room full of stockbrokers.

I shrugged and reached for my gun. "You'd better be fast."

I hadn't even finished my sentence when a bullet smashed through the window and whinnied over my shoulder. The glass shattered and I jumped over the desk and down onto the floor quicker than a secretary on the boss's birthday.

"Get down," I yelled. I looked over at my visitor. He was already down. And a hole was in his chest.

"Wow." Meg said. "Action. Veiled threats, vague yet intriguing character development, brilliant use of the shameless simile, sexual innuendo, gun violence and finally, another murder."

"Not bad, eh?" I said proudly.

"There's just one problem."

"What?" I asked. "What's the problem?"

"Well you managed to introduce another character. You know…another suspect."

"Yeah. Just in time, too. I was running out of ideas."

"And then," Meg said slowly, as if explaining to a small child, "you killed him."

"Um…wait! Wait just one second. He's not dead yet!"

"Oh, brother…"

I crawled over to the body and looked down at him. He was hurt. Hurt bad.

"I'm not dead yet," he managed to gurgle.

"Told you," I said to Meg.

"Oh, please. Why don't you just give it up? You're not fooling anyone but yourself."

"Who did it? Who killed Candy Blather?" I was insistent now. As insistent as last night's burritos.

"It was..."

I leaned close to his face. He could barely speak.

"Who? Who was it?" I asked again.

A bubble was forming on his lips--an expanding pink globule, reminiscent of the championship performance of Parker "Bubbles" Ramsay in the Tri-state Bazooka Challenge, growing ever larger as the poor sap tried to force his last words through the darkening blackness; finally exploding in a frothy fountain of foam and releasing a single word, carried aloft in a gossamer web of scarlet saliva.

"Rosebud."

"Rosebud? That's the dumbest thing I've ever read!"

"No. It's a clue," I said. "Really."

* * *

It was around four o'clock when I got back to the Slab. Pete, like myself, had managed a shower and was behind the counter, making a pot of coffee.

"Hey there," I called as I came in. "You recovered yet?"