The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (4 page)

I filled my plate and took it back with me to the choir loft. I didn't even care what kind of sausage this was and, by all accounts, it was probably best not to know. I'd heard that JJ stuffed her own.

* * *

An hour later, I was satisfied with the prelude for Sunday, had locked up and was walking back toward the police station when I heard a man's voice.

"Hayden! Hayden Konig!"

I looked across the street and saw Rob Brannon coming out of the Ginger Cat, obviously his choice for lunch judging from the napkin with which he was still busy wiping his mouth. It looked to me as if he'd seen me from the window and jumped up to catch me before I'd passed by.

"Do you have a minute?" he hollered from across the street.

I waved and gave him a smile, then crossed Main Street, ducking through the line of cars that was creeping down the busy thoroughfare.

"Hello, Hayden. I'm Rob Brannon."

"Glad to meet you," I said, taking his outstretched hand.

"Want to come in and have a bite?"

"No thanks. I just ate."

"How 'bout a coffee then? They have great coffee here."

"Sure. That'd be fine."

The Ginger Cat was an upscale coffee shop that did very well during tourist season. Cynthia Johnsson was behind the counter, as usual. She wasn't the owner—that was Annie Cooke—but Cynthia worked the lunch crowd during the peak months. She'd also started giving belly-dancing lessons at the rec center. I'd been after Meg to enroll. I thought she'd be a natural.

"Hi, Cynthia. Just a coffee for me, please."

"A double-shot half-decaf skinny mochachino crème de mint?"

"No. Just coffee."

She giggled. "How about our Ethiopian Yergacheffe?"

"Is that coffee?"

"Why, yes. Yes it is," said Cynthia.

"Fine. I'll have that then."

"I'll bring it in a sec."

I walked over to Rob's table, and I saw that I'd been right. The seat he had chosen was at a table facing the picture window where he could eat and watch the town go by. His meal was almost finished, and he resumed eating as soon as I sat down.

"I've been wanting to meet you," he said between bites.

"I've heard about you as well."

"Nothing bad, I hope."

"No particulars. Just that you're new to the church."

"Well," he said, swallowing the last bite of his sandwich. "I'm not exactly new to the church. I spent every summer in St. Germaine from the time I can remember until about fifteen years ago. My grandparents lived here and since my folks both worked, I came to the mountains as soon as school was out. We were in church every time the doors opened."

"So your home is…?"

"I grew up in Charlotte. But I'm opening a law office here in St. Germaine."

His complimentary dill pickle wedge disappeared with a muffled crunch, and he ran a finger over the last vestiges of his potato chips, popping the crumb-covered digit into his mouth with a debonair kiss. "Mom always taught me to clean my plate," he said, offering a mock apology, "and these are good chips."

My Ethiopian Yergacheffe arrived and, to my surprise, actually tasted like coffee.

"Have you been practicing in Charlotte?" I asked him as Cynthia whisked away his empty plate.

"Yep. I'm a medical malpractice litigator. I just settled a big case so I don't really need the work, but I'd like to keep my hand in. Maybe get into politics a little."

"That sounds like a good plan. Although there's not too much happening on the political front in St. Germaine.

"Well, you have to start somewhere," he said with a grin. "And there's a congressional seat opening up here in a couple of years."

"Ahhh. Now it becomes clear."

"Well, you must admit that Watauga County has its advantages. A less dense population for one. And no minority vote to speak of."

"Not to mention a retiring twelve-term congressman," I added.

"Exactly. But, as I say, it's a couple of years down the road."

"It doesn't hurt to start early."

"Too true. Anyway, I just wanted to say that I really enjoy your organ playing at St. B's. The trio sonata last week—Bach, right?"

"Buxtehude."

"Yeah. It was great. We're lucky to have you."

I noticed his use of the word "we" and smiled. "I tell them that often."

"Somehow, I doubt that," he said with a good-natured laugh and another outstretched hand. "But it's good to finally meet you and, by the way, I'd appreciate your vote."

"Hey," I said as I stood up, "why don't you get your political feet wet and run for the vestry at St. Barnabas. They can always use some new blood."

"I was on the vestry at St. Paul's in Charlotte. That's something I'll
never
do again! Anyway, it's good to finally meet you."

"Good to meet you, too," I said, mentally checking him off my vestry list. I shook his hand and walked out, purposefully sticking him with the tab. I knew he was getting the bill as soon as he uttered the words "I'm a medical malpractice litigator." In my view, he was one of the reasons medical insurance was through the roof. Not the only one, of course—and there is certainly a case to be made that these lawsuits keep doctors on their toes—but certainly enough of one that he could buy the coffee. Rob was a politician from his two hundred-dollar haircut to his six hundred-dollar Ferragamos. But, in spite of his chosen vocation, he was one of those folks who most people took to immediately, and I didn't doubt that he'd go far in his new career.

* * *

As I walked out of the Ginger Cat, crossed the road again and headed back to the police station, I couldn't help but notice that in the scant two hours I had been absent from my constabulary duties, there had been a tent partially erected in the vacant lot that had been the site of last year's Kiwanis Christmas Nativity.

A festival-sized tent in downtown St. Germaine is not an uncommon sight. We had our share of craft shows, outdoor church bazaars and Bar-B-Que fundraisers for the high school. However, this tent was more noticeable than most due to its enclosed sides, its faux-stained-glass windows and what appeared to be an inflatable steeple. The assembly was drawing a bit of a crowd. A round little man scurried around the site, alternating between glad-handing the onlookers, handing out flyers, and pointing out flaws in the locally hired crew's tent-raising techniques. I knew what was coming.

Pete had alerted me the week before, and now I saw it emblazoned across a trailer hooked to a small Ford pick-up truck. The trailer proclaimed—in bright orange letters on a yellow background—Hogmanay McTavish's Gospel Tent Revival. Brother McTavish had received his permit and would be in St. Germaine for a month—one service every Friday and Saturday night with special music provided by local churches and soloists. I'd seen the advertisements plastered around the town. The ads also mentioned that the good reverend had an assistant who would be choosing the Gospel passages on which Hogmanay McTavish would preach each and every evening. This assistant was what many politically correct folks might call "Poultry-American." Other folks might call her "dinner." Her name was Binny Hen. Binny Hen the Scripture Chicken.

Chapter 3

The sounds of Respighi's
Ancient Airs and Dances
filled the cabin. Actually, I had two stereo systems. One for when Meg was around—that was my Bose Wave system; good sound, nice balance, compact and easy to use—and one for when she wasn't and I wanted the true audiophile experience. This system included Marantz components and four Panasonic SB-Moa1 surround speakers pushing two hundred sixty-five watts per channel. I used it when I wanted to actually
feel
the music as well as hear it. This was one of those times. The twelve orchestrated dances were a favorite of mine when the cold weather hit. They were vaguely holidayesque in a Renaissance Festival sort of way and never failed to lift my spirits. I admit it. This was movie music written before there was movie music. I'd always thought that if Respighi had lived another ten years, he might have moved to Hollywood and become as famous as Erich Korngold. Nah. Who was I kidding? As famous as Korngold? Well…maybe…

* * *

So Candy Blather was Starr Espresso's sister. Candy was her stage name, of course. Her real name was Latte. Latte Espresso. Together, Starr and Latte made up the famous Espresso twins--social gad-abouts and heirs to their grandfather's coffee fortune. No wonder I was feeling like caffeine-free day at the Maison d'Beatnik.

I walked down the street, my hat pulled low, my collar pulled high, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my trench, and headed to my favorite bar. I had to think. Something was gnawing at my brain; gnawing like one of those tiny carpet beetles that crawls inside your ear when you're asleep and lays a hundred thousand eggs and when they hatch, you decide to become a TV Evangelist--it was like that, but with less bad singing.

I walked in, sat down and ordered a beer and a bump. Then another. By the time I was on my third bump, I was hitting on all eight. The bishop wanted the hinky on the dead babe. Starr had her own reasons for finding the dink that iced her sister. Then there was the feds. Did they just want to talk? I didn't think so. It was like the old song said. "Hinky dinky parlez vous."

* * *

I made my way down to The Slab the next morning and to my surprise, the usual crowd waiting for a table had thronged to about three times its normal size. I snuck past the line and found Pete at our customary table. Nancy and Dave were absent. Paperwork had taken priority over breakfast. I'd pointed to the mound of unfinished reports when I stopped by the office on my way to the diner, and their conscientiousness won out as I suspected it would. Dave would have come with me, but Nancy wouldn't let the reports rest until they were finished. I also figured Dave's guilt would kick in, and he'd stay and help. I, myself, felt no such remorse.

"Why the huge crowd?" I asked as I sat down. "Is there a special on waffles?"

"Nope. I had this great idea," said Pete. "I put an ad in the paper. It came out this morning." He handed me a copy of the
Watauga Democrat
. There, on page three, was a full-page ad for The Slab Café. In the middle of the ad was a picture of the Virgin Mary Cinnamon Roll with the caption, "Come See The Immaculate Confection!" The ad went on to relate the history, such as it was, of the sugary miracle—complete with several quotes from Noylene Fabergé and others.

"A full page ad?" I asked. "That's got to be expensive."

"It isn't really. If they have space and they're about to go to press, you can get a full page pretty cheap. And as you can see," Pete said, gesturing around his packed café, "I've more than made the price of the ad."

"I guess," I said, catching Noylene's eye and signaling for my usual breakfast. "Where is the holy artifact?"

"In the pie display case on the counter. I took the rest of the pie slices out. I don't want anyone confused. There's only one Immaculate Confection."

"I'm not going to have to provide police security am I?"

"I don't think so. But I'm having some t-shirts and coffee mugs made up. It's all about merchandising. Once the word gets out, I'm thinking national exposure. I've also got a guy working on a website."

"Does Dave get a cut? After all, he discovered it."

"He may have discovered it, but he didn't pay for it, so it's legally mine."

"Pete, listen to yourself."

"You're right. Sheesh. I sound like one of those lottery winners that has to share his loot. I'll make sure Dave gets a cut."

"Well, he might not want one, but it doesn't hurt to ask."

* * *

Nancy and Dave were still hard at work in the office. The end-of-the-month reports were usually filed by the second or third of the next month, but we had let it go for almost a week. By we, I mean that I forgot to tell Nancy and Dave to do it earlier. It wouldn't take more than a few hours. They should be finished by lunchtime. With the two deputies actually doing some police work, I figured it was my job to answer the phone-—which I did on the second ring.