The Diva Wore Diamonds (12 page)

“
Hi, Chief!” said Moosey. “You here for our taxes?”

“
Not yet,” I said, placing both hands on my hips and trying out my best Victor Mature biblical epic pose. “I’ve come for my sword.”

Bernadette giggled again. She was working on a spear about six feet long and topped with a wooden point cut out of a piece of plywood and painted gold. “It’s over there,” she said, pointing to the corner of the tent. “We just needed to see how it looked.”

I walked over and retrieved it. Moosey was wrapping the hilt of his own sword with a leather strap. He had a wooden shield slung over his back as well. Christopher was trying on a leather breastplate with rawhide ties. His dagger was stuck in his belt. Ashley and Samantha both had scimitars, distinctly Arabian in look and more medieval than biblical, but both nicely decorated with painted unicorns and butterflies. Leaning against a table were a few more spears of the type that Bernadette was fashioning.

“
Have you girls been over to the jewelry shop?” I asked.

“
Nope,” grunted Samantha, testing her blade with her thumb.

“
Hey!” said Ashley. “I’ve got an idea! Why don’t we put some jewels on these spears?”

“
Yeah,” agreed Bernadette. “Let’s go get some!”

All three girls tore out of the armorer’s tent, leaving the boys to their work.

“
Where are the other kids?” I asked.

Moosey shrugged. “They came by, but we told them that Issachar was the warrior tribe. I guess they went to make pots or something.”

Dewey snorted and looked down, busying himself with his blade.

“
Yeah,” I said. “I guess that’s it.”

•••

Seymour had volunteered to give all the kids camel rides, and even two at a time and circling the garden just once, making sure that everyone had a turn, was a tall order. As it was, the last six children around the park might well have thought they’d skipped the Bible Bazaar and inadvertently entered the camel races at Abu Dhabi.

As dramatic quality went, the second skit of the day,
Paul and Silas in Prison
, fell just a little below last month’s fourth grade presentation of
Our Tribute to America,
in which Moosey donned a short beard and a stovepipe hat and recited the
The Gettysburg Address.

Benny Dawkins had switched his persona from last night’s St. Peter to the narrator. Paul and Silas were being played by Russ Stafford and Gerry Flemming, respectively. There were two prisoners, judging from their shackles and orange jumpsuits, but I didn’t know them. I was pretty sure they were real prisoners because Nancy was standing behind them, her hand resting on the butt of her gun. She saw me and made her way over, skirting the crowd. There was a Roman guard as well, intrinsic to the story, being portrayed by Bud.

“
Those your prisoners?” I asked, as Nancy sidled up.

“
I just borrowed them for a couple hours. They were on a road crew on Old Chambers, picking up litter.”

“
They know their lines?”

“
They’d better. Otherwise, it’s porta-potty cleaning duty for both of them at ASU tomorrow. Hey, did you hear Skeeter got picked up? Drunk and disorderly. He’s in lockup in Boone.” Nancy shook her head. “Stupid.”

“
How’d he get over there? He doesn’t have a car.”

“
Wormy was with him.”

I shook my head. “Can you go over and check on him tomorrow?”

Skeeter was the town crazy, but we all liked him and tended to look out for him in the way of all small towns. He might be crazy, but he was
our
crazy.

“
I’ll try to go over around supper time,” said Nancy. “He needs to dry out.”

I nodded and turned my attention back to the stage. The play was beginning.

“
Paul and Silas had been put in prison,” began Benny. “It was midnight and they were singing songs to God.”

“
What do you want to sing next?” asked Russ, aka Paul.

“
Let me think,” answered Silas.

The tribe of Issachar, weapons bristling, marched into view and settled in beside me at the back of the crowd.

Prisoner One: “I don’t believe it. How can they sing when they are in prison? Don’t they realize they could die tomorrow?”

Paul: “Yes, we do know that, but God will look after us no matter what happens.”

Prisoner Two: “It doesn’t look like your God is looking after you now.”

“
You’ll see,” said Paul slyly.

“
Who
wrote
this crap?” asked Dewey, his distaste evident. The rest of the tribe looked disgusted as well.

“
I think it was Jesus,” said Ashley. “He usually writes this stuff.”

“
It was
not
Jesus,” I whispered. “I think it was Kimberly Walnut.”

“
The one with Gabriel was way better,” said Moosey. The other kids agreed.

“
Just then, there was a major earthquake,” Benny the Narrator announced. “The chains that tied Paul and Silas to the wall fell off, and all the doors in the prison opened.”

All the players fell to the ground in dismay. Bernadette laughed.

“
Let’s get out of here,” said the prisoners in unison, the way people often speak when faced with such an opportunity.

Paul: “No, don’t! God wants us to stay here.”

Samantha spat on the ground and narrowed her eyes. “I’ll tell you one thing. If I was a prisoner, I’d be outta there so fast, I’d look like a roadrunner cartoon.”

“
Just then the guard arrived,” said Benny.

Bud was way off to the side, talking to Ardine, and walking in the other direction.

“
Just then the guard arrived,” said Benny again, this time louder and looking around for Bud. The crowd tittered. Meg, sitting in the front and looking around, caught my eye and gave me a meaningful toss of her head.

I rolled my eyes, resigned to my fate, and walked through the crowd toward the front. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed. “The prisoners have all escaped, and I shall be killed. Better to die now by my own hand.” I drew my rubber sword ominously, intent on the happy dispatch, and sincerely hoping no one would stop me in time.

“
Don’t harm yourself,” said Russ. “We’re all here.”

Benny studied me for a moment, a twinkle in his eye, then said, “The guard called for some lights and came and checked and the prisoners were all there. Then he knelt down at Paul’s feet.”

I knew a cue when I heard it. “Please tell me what I must do to be a Christian,” I said.

Paul: “You must believe in Jesus, who died and rose again.”

And so, for the second time in as many days, I was saved and baptized.

Afterwards, I went over to Meg’s tent where the tribe was getting out of their tunics and stashing their weapons.

“
You saved the day,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “I don’t know where Bud went. He was right there…then he was gone.”

“
I saw him talking to Ardine.”

“
It’s a good thing you know your Bible stories.”

“
Yeah,” I said. “Good thing.”

Chapter 8

Having Constance Noring on my arm was my ticket to Anywhere, USA. She was a definite 10, a 5 with her own credit card, and as we made the rounds of the club scene, it didn’t take me long to discover why she needed a private eye.

“
Someone’s trying to frame me,” she whimpered. “Frame me like Mandy Lisa’s great-aunt Mona.”

“
Don’t try to charm me with similes, Doll-face,” I grinned, chomping down extra-vigorously on a particularly tough stogie that I’d found, still burning, on the outside window sill of the downtown Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). “You ain’t got the chops.”

We made our way past the usher, the bouncer, the velveteen rope, and into the Fellowship Hall. I always appreciated the parenthetical, non-creedal denominations. Not much liturgy, but the beer was great, and there was usually a lit cigar on the window sill.

“
I thought you liked them,” she pouted, her lips suddenly red and full, like tubes of blood drawn by an inattentive phlebotomist. “Similes, I mean.” Her ample bosom quivered in the night air like a whale trying to scratch its back.

“
Nah. I can take ‘em or leave ‘em. Metaphors? Them I like. Metaphors are gold.”

“
Humph,” she humphed. “Anyway, that detective, Jack Hammer, wants me to come downtown for questioning.”

“
I’ll bet he does. I could use some answers, too. For starters, how did you know Wiggy Newland?”

She laughed. A deep, throaty laugh, like that sound the cat makes just before it throws up a hairball.

“
We were in business. I can tell you now since I’m your client and you’re bound to silence by the Liturgical Detective’s Sacramental Seal of the Confessional.”

“
Uh…yeah,” I said, my mind working like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut. “That’s right. Suuure.”

“
Diamonds,” she whispered.

The silence was so thick you could cut it with a knife— not even a good knife, but one from that set of Ginsus you got as a wedding gift; the one you told yourself you’d return for a $10 Walmart gift card, but in the end, forgot about because your wife ran off with the maid-of-honor— that kind of knife.

“
Diamonds?” I said.

“
Lots and lots,” she sparkled.

•••

“
I tell you,” said Pete, “it’s going to be quite a trial if it gets that far. I’d love to be on that jury.”

There were a lot of places to eat in St. Germaine, but only one for truly deep theological discussion, and that was the Slab Café. It was at this very table that we discussed the finer points of doctrine, such as whether or not a talking gorilla can give his life to Jesus, why some saints simply refused to decompose, or why tossing pigeons off the church balcony on the day of Pentecost was really not a good idea.

“
The way I see it,” said Nancy, “Russ doesn’t have much of a case.” Meg indicated her agreement.

“
Au contraire,” said Pete. “He’s got a
hell
of a case. Brother Hog prayed for God to smite the Bear and Brew, and God did it.”

“
I have to agree with Pete,” I said. “Brother Hog is in quite a quandry. He can argue that he didn’t have anything to do with the lightning and that it was just coincidence, but then he’d be saying that God doesn’t answer prayer.”

Pete continued. “And if God
does
answer prayer, Brother Hog’s prayer in particular, then he’s responsible, because he asked God to do it.”

“
Asked,
” I said. “That’s the key. If he’d
asked
God to do it, and God had a choice whether to do it or not, then he might be okay. But Brother Hog
called
on the Name of the Lord. Not only that, but he’s a Word of Faith preacher, and their theology says that you can ask God whatever you want and believe it, and he’ll give it to you. ‘And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.’ Matthew 21:22.”