The Mezzo Wore Mink (5 page)

“
How about your notes?” Nancy asked. “Are you taking notes so you don’t forget stuff?”

“
I lost my stylus…”

“
And your calendar,” Dave added.

“
Calendar?”

“
Give me that!” said Meg, taking the BlackBerry out of my hand. She pulled out her own cell phone, deftly popped open the back and pulled out a small card. Then she did the same to the BlackBerry, switched them, closed up both phones and handed me her old flip-phone—the one with the big numbers.

“
Use this one,” she said.

“
But my phone number…”

“
Already switched. It’s all in the SIM card.”

“
Great,” I said. “Now I don’t have to worry where I left that stylus.”

“
You left it at my house,” said Meg. “I have it in my purse.”

Nancy laughed and changed the subject. “Has Gaylen Weatherall left yet?”

Meg’s shoulders slumped just slightly. “Yes, she’s gone. The Reverend has become the Right Reverend Bishop of Colorado.”

“
Does she need a bodyguard?” asked Nancy. “I think I might like Colorado.”

“
Probably not,” I said, “but I’ll be sure and ask.”

“
What’s the priest situation then?” Dave asked. Dave and Nancy had started going back to St. Barnabas as a couple after Dave’s break-up with Collette and his subsequent expatriation from the New Life Baptist congregation.

“
We’re getting an interim rector this week,” Meg groused. “Today, in fact. Father Tony won’t do it, no matter how many people beg him. I just hope our bishop sends us someone with a little…hmm…how shall I put it…?”

“
Ability?” I offered.

“
Brains?” added Nancy.

“
Intelligence?” said Dave.

Pete had walked up in the middle of this conversation and wasn’t shy in chiming in. “Discrimination? Imagination?”

My turn. “Acumen? Prudence? Sagacity?”

Nancy: “Good taste? Resourcefulness? Discernment?”

“
Sense,” said Meg with finality.

•••

Wednesday meant choir practice. The choir had returned from its summer hiatus in September and was now back in full swing. I was sitting at the organ as the members began to wander up to the choir loft.

“
Do we still meet at seven?” asked Rebecca, looking at her watch.

“
Yes,” I replied. “Seven sharp.”

“
It’s past seven,” said Elaine. “Actually, ten past.”

“
Yes,” I said, “I know. We should get started. I think our new rector is coming up to meet you all. It would be good to pretend we’re rehearsing.”

“
Well,” said Beverly Greene, “play something.”

Beverly was our parish administrator, an appointment made by a previous rector and made semi-permanent by a vote of the vestry. Now she gave a yell worthy of a parish administrator.

“
Hey! You people get your butts up here! We’ve got to get going!”

“
Umm. Thanks,” I said as the rest of the choir hurried up to the loft.

We rehearsed the anthem for Sunday—a lovely setting of
God Be In My Head
by Mr. Rutter—and were going through the service music when I noticed a collar-clad black shirt standing against the window in the back of the choir loft. We finished the
Gloria
, and I stopped and looked back at the figure. The members of the choir turned and followed my gaze.

“
Hello,” came the low female voice. “I’m the Reverend Bottoms. Carmel Bottoms.”

•••

“
That’s as scary a voice as I’ve ever heard,” whispered Bev, as she watched the Reverend Bottoms leave the nave by way of the sacristy.

“
She’ll be fun to have around for Halloween,” agreed Fred, from the bass section. “It could be the best Halloween ever.”

“
Stop looking on the bright side,” Elaine said. “She’s right out of your first book. Why would the bishop send us someone like that?”

Elaine had a point. If ever there was an alto destined to wear tweed, Carmel Bottoms was the archetype.

“
Give her a chance,” I said. “She’s only an interim priest. You heard her. She just graduated from the seminary. This is her first parish.”

“
If nothing else,” Meg added, “this should be interesting.”

•••

“
I need a new book,” announced Nancy, when I walked in. She threw a tattered paperback into the trash. “I’ve read this one four times.”

I didn’t usually come into the station on Saturday morning, but I’d ventured into town to meet Meg and to buy some drill bits. I’d already stopped by the Slab, had a cup of coffee and tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Pete to add a shrimp po-boy to the lunch menu.

Nancy stood up. “I want something saccharine and warmly-fuzzy with a whole bunch of wisteria festooning every page. Have you been in the new bookstore?”

“
Nope.”

“
I thought you were a voracious reader.”

“
I have about three hundred books I haven’t even read yet,” I said, “and I’m almost out of room. I promised Meg I wouldn’t buy any more until I got rid of a few.”

“
And you can’t bear to part with them?”

I gave a helpless shrug.

“
I can take some books off your hands,” suggested Nancy. “Just pretend I’ve borrowed them.”

“
You know, that’s not a bad idea. I don’t have any warm-fuzzy books though.”

“
That’s okay. I like chop-em-ups just as well. I’m just in the mood for a warm-fuzzy.”

“
Well, we might as well hit the new bookstore and introduce ourselves. I have my credit card and I’m not supposed to meet Meg until lunch.”

Eden Books was around the square next door to Noylene’s Beautifery. We stopped outside and looked in at the window display. It was pretty typical of small town bookstores: some books placed in a semi-artsy array on a piece of black fabric, a couple of posters, a large stuffed giraffe with a sign around its neck advertising a children’s book titled
The Animals Watched
, and some other knick-knacks. I held open the door for Nancy and we went inside, an obnoxious buzzer announcing us to the woman behind the desk.

“
Good morning,” she said. “Welcome!”

There were four other customers in the shop. Two of them were Meg and her mother, Ruby.

“
Well, good morning,” said Meg, flipping through a rather large volume of historical fiction. “I just told Hyacinth that you’re not allowed to buy anything.”

“
Good morning, Hayden,” called Ruby from the cookbook section.

“
Morning, Ruby,” I called into the cookbooks, then turned back to Meg. “Methinks you came in here,” I accused, “just to thwart my book habit.”

“
Indeed, sirrah, I did not,” said Meg. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I call it Kismet.”

“
Well…I can’t prove anything, but we detectives don’t believe in coincidences. Anyway, Nancy says she’ll give some of my books a good home.”

“
I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Meg. “How about you, Davis? Have you ever voluntarily given away a book?”

Davis Boothe was one shelf over from Meg. He worked at Don’s Clothing Store on the next block. I had tried for a while to get him in the church choir because he had quite a nice voice and served on the vestry with Meg, but he didn’t seem to be interested. Now his head peeked around the corner of the shelf.

“
Nope.”

“
I didn’t think so,” said Meg.

I addressed the woman behind the desk. “Pay no attention to the woman in historical fiction,” I said. “I am a wealthy bibliophile with plenty of disposable income. However, this morning we just came by to say hello and to introduce ourselves. I’m Hayden Konig, chief of police, and well-compensated public servant. This is Lieutenant Parsky.”

“
Nancy,” corrected Lieutenant Parsky, glaring at me. “Call me Nancy.”

“
Hello, Nancy. Hayden. I’m Hyacinth Turnipseed, owner of Eden Books.”

“
Pleased to meet you,” said Nancy.

“
I wondered when you came in if you’d come for a reading. I couldn’t help but notice the uniform.” She smiled at Nancy.

Hyacinth Turnipseed was a woman of substance with a grandmotherly comportment who could have played Mrs. Claus in any department store in the country. Her soft white hair was tied in a loose bun framing twinkling blue eyes and dimples that Clement Moore would have envied. She was wearing an apron embroidered with “Eden Books.”

“
A reading?” said Nancy. I looked over at Meg. She was still thumbing her book, but I could tell her radar was up. Davis’, too. Ruby was trying to memorize Martha Stewart’s recipe for Lemon Meringue Fluff so she wouldn’t have to buy the book, but stopped right in the middle of blending her egg whites and looked up in astonishment. I didn’t recognize the other patron, a woman at the counter ready to purchase the latest Mitford book, but she looked startled as well.

Hyacinth smiled a grandmotherly smile and adjusted her round, wire rim spectacles. “I’m very active with several police forces across the country. I help them find missing persons, offer clues to cases…whatever the spirits want them to know.”

“
Ah, yes,” I said. “The spirits.”

“
Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” asked Hyacinth.

“
Well,” I answered, “not you specifically. But I certainly know your type of work.”

Hyacinth smiled and nodded. “If you need some help, you know where to come. Of course, I also do private readings.”

“
And you sell books, too?” asked Nancy, looking at the shelves full of books. “I mean, as well as doing the fortune-telling stuff? You must stay very busy.”

“
I prefer the term prognostication,” Hyacinth said gently. “I’m a clairvoyant. I connect with energies of people who have crossed over.”

Nancy and I, apparently both rendered inarticulate at the same moment, nodded in unison like a couple of police bobble-head dolls.

Hyacinth rang up the woman’s purchase on an old fashioned cash register and took her money. We listened to the ugly buzz as she opened the door and left the store.

“
Can I help you find something?” Hyacinth asked. “I have quite a good Halloween selection.”

“
I’m sure,” said Nancy.

“
Any of the Harry Potter books? Stephen King? Ray Bradbury? How about an old classic?”

“
Yes,” I said. “Maybe a classic.”

“
No,” said Meg. “You have all the classics.”

“
I have a first edition in the back,” Hyacinth cajoled. “Perhaps I could tempt you. It’s Washington Irving.”