The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) (18 page)

Chapter 20

The Slab Café was busy on Monday morning and the breakfast talk was about Muffy LeMieux.

"It was the most gruesome thing I've ever seen," said Annette, holding court at the table by the front window. "Muffy was singing one minute and the next minute she was lit up like a Christmas tree. Bizuurp! Bang! That was all she wrote."

I sighed. Nancy and Dave were both at the table with me in the back. We could hear Annette from there and we were doing our best to ignore her. Pete came out of the kitchen and plopped down in the fourth chair.

"Did you get any details from Terry Shager?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, and filled him in. "It looks like a freak accident," I concluded. "We hadn't ever used that mic jack because we never needed to. Plus, who knew she was going to stick her hand in the water? It was a series of unfortunate events culminating in tragedy."

"Will the funeral be at St. Barnabas?" Dave asked.

"I haven't heard," I said.

Cynthia, seemingly tired of filling Annette's coffee cup, put the pot back on the warmer, untied her apron, took it off, and slung it over an empty chair. She dragged up a chair from an adjacent table and sat down.

"Okay," she said, "I've heard the story five times now. I don't want to hear it again."

"She has a new audience every ten minutes or so," Nancy observed.

"Is that it for the Hootenanny service?" asked Pete. "It's over?"

"I seriously doubt it," I replied. "Probably just a setback."

"Might this be construed as God not being in favor of blended worship?" said Pete.

"There are two schools of thought on such Divine Intervention," I said. "Yes, there are those who point out that maybe God doesn't care for blended worship at all and that's why this happened. Holy retribution, if you will. Then there are those who hold that no, it was Satan that did it, because Satan knows that God
loves
blended worship and this was a way to sabotage it."

"Wow," said Dave. "Really?"

"You'd be amazed," I said. "Of course, it could have been an accident."

"Any progress on the Rahab Fabergé-DuPont kidnapping?" asked Cynthia. "Or how about the murder of Johnny Talltrees? There's a City Council meeting tonight, you know. I thought I might fill them in on your progress."

"No news," said Nancy. "No clues. Rahab's safe, though."

"Oh, by the way," said Dave, "that reminds me. Brother Hog is requesting police protection at the tent revival on Thursday in Valle Crucis. I got the call this morning. He's afraid that the kidnapper might try it again since it went so well the first time."

Nancy snorted. "Police protection?"

"Little Rahab is preaching his first sermon," I said. "North Carolina's premiere Baby Evangelist. That's what the flyer says. They were all over town as of this morning."

"I've never heard of such a thing!" said Cynthia. "You can't even understand that baby. He can't talk yet."

"Brother Hog will be interpreting. Unknown tongues, you see. Very Biblical."

"It's a new world," Pete said.

"Cynthia!" called Annette. "May we get some more coffee, please?"

Cynthia growled, got back to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen.

"I happen to have something," said Nancy, "just so the morning won't be a complete bust."

She opened a leather folder and pulled out a piece of paper with a picture on it. "I did some checking on this George Gist."

"Not his real name?" I said.

"No, but he may not be as clever as he thinks he is. I did some checking on the internet and it turns out that George Gist was the name of an old Cherokee warrior. Actually, his name was Sequoyah. It turns out that there's a George Sequoyah who lives in Cherokee. So I checked with the Cherokee police and they emailed his sheet and picture. This him?"

She pushed the paper across the table at me. I spun it around and looked into the flat black eyes of the smaller of the two Indians I'd talked to in the church.

"That's him," I said with a grin. "Nice work."

Nancy smiled back. "He works for a two-bit casino that specializes in giving credit, then charging one hundred twenty percent interest on the debt. The other guy is probably Jango Watie. Big guy. Lots of muscle, doesn't say much. They work as a team."

"That sounds like the other guy," I said. "You have a picture?"

"They didn't have one," said Nancy. "Not yet. They're working on it."

"Isn't it illegal to charge that much interest?" asked Pete.

"Maybe here," said Nancy. "But the casino is on the reservation. Sequoyah's been charged with assault, battery, sexual assault, and solicitation. A murder charge is pending, although it probably won't stick."

"Has he done any time in the big house?" asked Pete.

Nancy perused her sheet. "Three years total. Mostly, though, no one testifies."

"Any idea who they were looking for here?" Pete asked.

"Nope," I said. "He didn't say."

My cell phone rang, and I looked at the display. It was Marilyn at the church.

"Hi, Marilyn," I said. "What's up?" Marilyn had my cell number. No one else at the church did and that's the way I wanted it. The only reason I'd given Marilyn my number is that she never called. Well, hardly ever.

"You'd better get over here right now," she whispered. "Something's up. There are a couple of goons standing outside Mother P's door."

"Are they Indians? Umm ... excuse me. Native Americans?"

"No. White guys. Green uniforms. And they have badges."

"I'm on the way."

* * *

By the time I'd gotten over to the church, Marilyn was flagging me down from the side door leading into the office complex.

"They went into the sanctuary," she said.

"Did they say what they wanted?"

Marilyn shook her head. "Nope. They just came in and got Mother P and marched her into the sanctuary. She looked pretty scared. Is this something about Muffy's accident?"

"I don't know. I can't see how it would be. I'll go check on her."

"Well, you'd better fill me in," she said, then disappeared back into the building.

I walked around to the front of the church and entered through one of the red double-doors. Red doors are a common tradition in the Episcopal Church. Historically the red doors of a church were a symbol of sanctuary.
Those in need would not be captured or harmed inside the holy walls of the church, which offered physical and spiritual protection.
People who passed through the red doors were safe. I wondered if this protection would extend to Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh.

Walking through the narthex and into the nave, I noticed all the lights on and remembered that Terry had promised to come in early this morning and reset all the breakers, making sure there were no more hazards. Mother P was standing in front of the altar with the two men. Both of them were tall and they turned when they heard me coming down the center aisle. They were both dressed in dark green, matching coats and trousers, with light brown shirts and black ties. The emblems on their left arms identified them as North Carolina Wildlife enforcement officers. They were both wearing silver badges and had handguns holstered on their hips. One of them had a Smokey Bear hat in his hand. "Ooo," I said to myself. I knew what was about to happen.

"Hayden!" called Mother P. "Thank God!"

"Good morning, Rosemary. Officers." They did not return the greeting.

"I'm Chief Konig. St. Germaine Police Department," I said to the agents. "You're here about the eagle?"

The bald eagle and its unfortunate-looking prey were still on top of the altar, sitting on the unfurled American flag.

"Yessir," said one of the agents. "My name is Bill Henderson." He indicated the other man. "This is Gary O'Shea."

"Tell them that this eagle is Bear Niederman's," gushed Mother P. "I have nothing to do with it."

"Mr. Niederman claims that he gave this eagle to the church," said Officer Henderson, "and that you accepted it willingly."

"But I didn't kill it!" cried Rosemary.

"Here's the receipt that Ms. Pepperpot-Cohosh gave to Mr. Niederman," the agent said to me. He reached into his breast pocket and produced a piece of paper that he handed across the aisle. I opened it and read it, knowing perfectly well what it said.

One bald eagle, stuffed, given to St. Barnabas Church,

St. Germaine, North Carolina, by Bear Niederman.

Value - $2000

signed: The Rev. Dr. Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh, rector

"I didn't kill it!" Rosemary wailed again.

"Doesn't matter," said Officer Henderson, who was doing all the talking. "The Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act prohibits anyone without a permit issued by the Secretary of the Interior, from taking bald eagles, including their parts, nests, or eggs."

"Well, there you are," said Rosemary. "Obviously, I didn't do it. It's Bear you want!"

I was amazed at how quickly she threw her parishioner and cohort under the bus.

Officer Henderson went on. "The Act also provides criminal penalties for persons who take, possess, purchase, barter, offer to sell, purchase, or barter, at any time or any manner, any bald eagle, alive or dead, or any part, nest, or egg thereof. Bear Niederman is already under arrest and has willingly offered to testify against you as the instigator of the crime."

"What?" Rosemary's mouth dropped open.

"Of course, the church is liable as well, but we'll deal with that in due time. For now, you're under arrest. You'll have to come with us."

"
What!?
" Rosemary shrieked again.

"Do you have a warrant?" I asked.

"We don't need a warrant," said the silent agent, Officer O'Shea. "Public building. No search required. Admission of guilt right here on the receipt."

"Is that right?" Rosemary asked me, terror in her eyes.

"I'm afraid so," I said.

"What will happen to me?"

Officer O'Shea answered. "For a first offense, you're looking at a fine of up to one hundred thousand dollars, two hundred thousand for organizations, and that includes churches, imprisonment for one year, or both." He shifted his gaze to me and looked at me with the hard eyes of a fresh game warden carrying all the conviction of youth. "And you should be ashamed. You, an officer of the court. You know the law. You should have reported this as soon as you found out, or at least stopped this magnificent bird from being put on display."

I watched as Mother P's legs went to rubber. Officer Henderson had a hand under her arm and held her steady.

"I am sorry," I said to the officer. "Truly."

"The state will make an example of this," Officer Henderson said, and quickly snapped a pair of handcuffs on Rosemary. "And this is a federal offense as well, so I'm sure they'll be making their own case. Make no mistake: eagle poaching will stop in this part of the Blue Ridge."

He tugged Rosemary down the aisle toward the front doors, while his partner gathered up the eagle and the squirrel and followed them. The flag was dragged off the altar and dropped to the floor. I stooped to pick it up.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Rosemary cried. "Hayden! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did tell you," I called after her. "Remember?"

"Why didn't you tell me louder?" she wailed.

Chapter 21

"Get this," said Nancy. "Varmit LeMieux came in this morning after you went over to the church and wanted to know where he could get his hands on Muffy's death certificate."

"That was fast," I said.

"I told him to go down to the coroner to get it."

"Did he say why he wanted it?"

"Only one reason I can think of," said Nancy.

I nodded. "Life insurance."

"Time to take a look?"

"Oh, yeah," I said.

* * *

"I suppose you're going to deny everything," said Meg. "I talked to Nancy this afternoon. Mother P is still in jail down in Boone."

Pete and Cynthia had come over for a late Monday night supper after the City Council meeting. Pete still went to the Council meetings, since they were open meetings, but sat in the back and hardly ever said anything. Also joining us was Meg's mother, Ruby. We were all sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a feast of pan-fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and all the fixin's.

"I heard about the priest!" said Cynthia. "I didn't know about the eagle. What was she thinking?"

"She's not from around here," said Pete, "or anywhere else that has eagles. She's from one of those flat, midwestern states, right?"

"Iowa," Meg said. "They have plenty of bald eagles in Iowa." Then she turned to me. "You called the game warden, didn't you? And remember, you can't lie during Lent."

"I can, too. There's no sanction against lying during Lent," I said. "My discipline is to go along with Rosemary's program, whatever that may be. I will not say anything negative about the liturgy, the sermons, or any other goings on, and I will be supportive in as far as I can. I believe that I have stuck to my discipline within the spirit, as well as the letter, of the law. You shall lose your bet."

"There!" Meg crowed. "You might just as well have admitted it."

"I admit nothing. In fact, it was I who gave Rosemary the name of a good lawyer, but Judge Adams is a hard case concerning eagles. He remanded her into custody until her hearing tomorrow afternoon. No bail 'til the hearing."

"No bail?" said Pete. "Really? No bail?"

"The last that I heard, Herb Cohosh was raising a big stink over at the county courthouse," I said. "I don't expect that it will do much good."

"What's the bet?" asked Cynthia.

"If Meg loses, she has to learn belly dancing," I said.

"I do not!" Meg answered. "Here's the deal. If I win, Hayden has to go with me on a health week. A week at a medical facility specializing in fasting and cleansing the body with colonics, stomach massages, aromatherapy — you know, stuff like that."

"Sounds heavenly," said Cynthia.

"You're kidding, right?" said Pete. "A week? That'll kill you."

"Exactly," I said, "but if I
keep
my Lenten discipline, then Meg loses and she has to cook hamburgers three times a week for seven weeks."

"Wow!" said Pete. "That sounds great."

I licked my lips in anticipation. "Buffalo burgers, Swiss cheese and bacon burgers, chili burgers ..."

"Lamb burgers, garlic and onion burgers ..." added Pete.

"Cream cheese jalapeño burgers, horseradish burgers, Cajun burgers ..."

"Oh, stop it," said Meg. "If you squealed on the priest, you lose."

"
If
I squealed, and I'm not saying I did, then I do
no
t lose. I went along with her program. Not only that, but I tried, oh-so-nicely, to talk her out of it."

"He's right, dear," said Ruby. "Might as well face the facts."

"Fine," Meg huffed, then decided to change the subject. "Speaking of squealing, how's our pig?"

"She's great," said Pete. "Rooting around the yard to beat the band. I'll be taking her out tomorrow afternoon for a trial run."

"Excellent," I said, rubbing my hands together. "We just need two pounds of truffles to make our money back."

"Wanna come?" asked Pete.

"I don't think so. I have all these crimes to solve, you see."

"Yeah," said Pete. "When it rains, it pours."

We ate our fried chicken, finished the rest of our supper, then repaired to the living room. Meg filled our glasses with a nice Cabernet and we settled back into our chairs. Baxter had been relegated to the outdoors and was now sitting on the back deck peering at us through the plate glass window. Archimedes seemed to know when we had guests and had made himself scarce as usual.

"Have you seen that possum over at Mildred's?" I asked Ruby. "I figured you would have shot it by now."

"I was going to, but it had a collar on," said Ruby. "I swear. That Mildred Kibbler couldn't see a woodpecker tapping her on her nose. She's blind as a dang bat."

"So it was a pet possum?" said Meg.

"The possum's name is Possum Joe. He belongs to Penny Trice, who lives behind Mildred. He got out of his cage, disappeared, and Penny's been handing out flyers up and down the street. She's raised him from a pup."

"Did she find him?"

"He was sitting in Mildred's tree, pretty as you please. I reached up and plucked him out, then called Penny and she came and got him."

"Glad you didn't shoot him," said Pete. "That would have been terrible. That is, unless there was some kind of stew involved."

"Oh my gosh, Cynthia!" Meg said suddenly. "Don't you have play rehearsal tonight? I forgot all about it."

"There's no rehearsal. Mr. Christopher is meeting with the board of directors. With Muffy gone, I think we're going to have to postpone it a few weeks. Maybe cancel it altogether. She had the lion's share of the dialogue."

"Can't they get someone to step in?" Meg asked.

"I guess they could," said Cynthia. "But no one's heart is really in it at this point."

"Perhaps they could do a dramatized version of one of your stories?" Pete suggested. "How's the new one coming, by the way?"

"Splendidly," I said. "In fact, since St. Patrick's Day is on Wednesday, I've incorporated a little bit of Ireland into the narrative."

"Do tell," said Ruby with a laugh. "A reading, perhaps?"

"I'd be happy to," I said.

"Oh,
no!
" moaned Meg.

I walked over to my desk and picked up the stack of papers that were accumulating beside the typewriter. "Chapter One," I said, then proceeded to catch everyone up on the story before including my latest.

* * *

"Don't eat us, Big," I said. "I know Pedro did you wrong, but it ain't the end of the world."

"Yeah, it is," Big grunted sadly. "Apocalypto videre. I'm drownin' my sorrows in bonbons. We've only got a couple of months left."

"That's what I heard," I said. "You know why we're here? Carrie Oakey is dead."

The Big Brickle snorked another handful of bonbons. Bonbons were nothing to her. Big was known to gobble full-grown guinea pigs when she was in the mood, then wash them down with Diet Coke when she knew perfectly well that she shouldn't mix hairy products with artificial sweeteners.

"It was only a matter of time," she said. "The leprechauns are on the move. They're all heading to Sarsaparilla for the Feast of St. Quetzalcoatl. In another week or so there won't be a boys choir in the country that can sing "Missa di Poli Woli Doodle," much less "Ecce Uvulare" on Ash Wednesday. Not that it'll matter much, one way or the other," she added depressedly.

"So why would one of them winkles want to off Carrie Oakey?" I asked.

The Big Brickle shrugged. "No reason I know of. She's the one who wanted the leprechauns out of the choirs anyway. Maybe she knew something I don't."

"Maybe," agreed Pedro. "Thanks for not killing us, by the way."

Big waved at us absently, her arm wattles catching
the breeze and waggling like one of those inflatable advertising tube characters you see at pawn shops, all the while making that disgusting flapping sound that one of those toy push-ducks with the rubber feet makes when you scooch it across the kitchen floor.

"So, what happens on the Feast of St. Quetzalcoatl?" Pedro said.

"Well, the Mayan calendar runs out, for one thing," she answered.

"Anything else?" I asked, setting my jaw and preparing for the worst, like that time in junior high when I was playing spin-the-bottle and the bottle pointed at Debbie who played clarinet in the band, but it really wasn't that bad, considering her mustache and all.

"That's not enough?"

"We don't buy into all that Mayan hooey," I said thinly. "What else?"

Big shrugged. "No one knows."

"Except the winkles," I said.

"Except the winkles," the Big Brickle agreed.

* * *

"My, but that was ... writing," said Ruby, searching for an appropriate word.

"Arm wattles?" said Cynthia. "Astonishing."

"I've never heard anything like it," agreed Pete.

"I told you," said Meg. "I told you."