The Diva Wore Diamonds (17 page)

The square was bustling. I walked down the sidewalk, greeting visitors and residents alike, and turned left at the corner. I waved through the window of Eden Books at Georgia, who was busily checking customers out behind the register, then continued on my trek. I passed Noylene’s Beautifery (closed until eleven) and saw Wormy getting out of his truck by the side dumpster.

“
Morning, Wormy!” I called. “Care to join me for a cup of joe?”

“
No, thanks,” he called back with a grin. “I gotta get back to work. I think I’ve got the whereabouts of that cave narrowed down.”

He lifted an old box out of the back of his pick-up and tossed it into the dumpster.

“
Noylene says I can’t throw this stuff down the mountain anymore,” he said, a little disgust evident in his voice. “She says I have to bring it all into town. I offered to burn it, but she said no.”

“
Probably for the best,” I agreed.

“
Bah,” said Wormy. “It’s only rags and stuff left over from that Bible show.”

“
Look on the bright side, Wormy,” I said. “Now you’re an environmentalist. You can put that on your business cards for Wormy Acres.”

He bucked up immediately. “Yeah! Hey, yeah! That’s a great idea! I’ll go tell Noylene!”

I crossed North Main Street and stopped in at The Ginger Cat a couple of doors down. Annie Cooke, the owner, was behind the counter. Her establishment was full of shoppers, happy to take a break from their labors with a cup of tea, a scone and some homemade preserves.

“
Morning, Annie,” I said.

“
Morning. What can I get you?”

“
Large coffee to go.”

“
How about some Mexican Altura Coatepec?”

“
If that’s coffee, I’ll take it.”

The Ginger Cat was an upscale yuppie eatery and coffee house that offered sandwiches on fancy foreign breads, generally unpronounceable coffees, and knickknacks by mountain artisans. They also had a selection of local wines for which Bud had written enticing reviews. I put my three dollars on the counter, bid Annie adieu, took my cup, and walked back out into the morning.

The Bear and Brew was going back up. Francis had settled with the insurance company almost immediately upon Russ’ demise and started rebuilding. I thought for a moment about Francis and discarded his motive almost immediately. If the church had
lost
the suit that Russ had filed, New Fellowship Baptist would have had to cough up much more than the insurance company would have to pay out. Added to that, Brianna Stafford still owned sixty percent of the business. If the church had
won
the lawsuit, the insurance company still would have paid. It was win-win for the Bear and Brew. No reason that I could see for the junior partner to kill the senior partner.

I took a sip of coffee, headed toward the next corner, turned left again and followed the sidewalk toward St. Barnabas. I thought about anyone else who might have had a motive to kill Russ Stafford, but came up empty. I passed the gazebo in Sterling Park, a white, Victorian-looking structure left over from when St. Germaine had a community band that played concerts once a month during the summer. There was always talk of bringing the concerts back, a return to the days of yesteryear, but it hadn’t happened yet. I waved at some kids who were using the gazebo as a base for their game of tag.

Billy was outside the church weed-eating the edge of the sidewalk. He had on a pair of ear-protectors as well as his goggles. I gave him a wave as I walked by, and he returned it with with a smile. Just past the church, I turned left, stopped into the flower shop and ordered a dozen roses for Meg. Red roses.

“
Anniversary?” asked Sandy.

“
Yep,” I said. “Anniversary of the second…no,
third
time I asked Meg to marry me. Of course, she said no.”

“
Smart girl,” said Sandy.

“
But then, she eventually said yes,” I replied.

“
Like I said…” said Sandy with a grin.

•••

I walked into St. Barnabas at 6:30 and heard the unmistakable sounds of Max Reger’s
Basso ostinato in E minor
emanating forth from the organ. All week, Michael Baum had been working his artistry, putting his final stamp on the instrument. It sounded to me as if he’d accomplished his objective. The organ case was a work of art in itself, but it was the sound that brought a grin. Magnificent was the only word for it. Michael was a much better organist than I, but if I could make the organ sound half as good as he did, I’d be more than content. I’d probably even find time to practice.

I walked up the steps into the choir loft and took a seat in the alto section, smack-dab in the midst of the sound. Michael gave me a smile and kept playing. Thirty seconds later, he finished with a flourish, and the sound reverberated through the nave just long enough to make me shake my head in appreciation.

“
You’ve had that smile on your face since you walked in,” said Michael. “I take it you approve.”

“
It’s brilliant!” I said.

“
The voicing is finished,” Michael said. “I’ve checked the midi interface so you can record and play it back. That’s all working.”

“
Great,” I said.

“
You know there’s a handgun in the organ bench?”

“
Yeah. That’s mine. It’s a Glock 9mm. Tends to keep the tenors in tune.”

“
Ah, of course. Anyway, the zimbelstern is hooked up,” he said, pointing at the bells mounted on the upper case. “I also have a surprise for you.”

“
What’s that?”

“
Listen.” Michael pulled a knob and pushed a key. The sound of birdsong echoed through the church. I was smiling again. It was one of the toy stops that Baroque organs used to have in abundance. This one was comprised of two small organ pipes, mounted upside down and blowing into a water-filled vessel.

“
A nachtigal?”

“
Yep,” said Michael.

“
That wasn’t in the specs,” I said.

“
No, but I thought you’d like it.”

“
I love it!”

“
Then my work here is done,” said Michael with finality. “I’m just kidding. If you need anything else or if something goes haywire, just give me a call. I think we’re fine, but occasionally I miss something.”

I nodded, but Michael never missed anything.

•••

The choir wandered in and found their seats to the sounds of Michael Baum’s interpretation of Marcello’s
Psalm 19.

“
Wow,” said Rebecca. “Wish Hayden could play like that.”

“
Hey,” I said. “I’m insulted.”

Michael finished to applause, got off the organ bench and took a well-deserved bow.

“
It’s all yours, now,” he said, sitting down and changing his organ shoes for a pair of worn-out Adidas.

“
I’ll do the best I can,” I said.

•••

Twelve-Fingered Teddy was a drunk, but that didn’t stop him from playing a mean service. Stewed or not, he was the only ivory-jockey in the city who could play the “Polydactic Etudes for Queen Wilhelmina” by Dutch composer Roloff van der Vlees, and he did so with relish

—most often sweet pickle, although he occasionally preferred a mild chow-chow if there were frankfurters involved.

“
Hello, Teddy,” I said when I reached the choir loft. Teddy’s eleventh finger slipped off the high G# with a squeal like Al Gore accepting his Nobel Prize.

Teddy unzippered his mouth like a gymbag and sputtered “Whaddyawan?” slurring his crotchets and syllables in equal measure.

“
I want some answers. And maybe that hot-dog you’ve got heating up on the en chamade.”

Teddy was a canary with stool pigeon tendencies. If he knew something, you could sprinkle some salt (and by salt, I mean gin) on his tail (and by tail, I mean uvula) and he’d sing like Celine Dion being taunted with a pork-chop. I handed him a flask. He opened it with two fingers while continuing to play the fugue with the other ten.

“
So ask,” he said, wiping his mouth with one of his feet, the one that wasn’t playing a pedal C. “But keep your hands off my wiener.”

“
You hear anything about any diamonds?”

“
Aussi diamonds?”

“
Yeah. Aussi diamonds.”

“
Maybe.”

“
Listen, Teddy,” I said. “Spill your guts, or I’ll kick your diapason all the way back to Lizard Lick.”

“
How did you know?”

“
Know what?” I asked.

“
How did you know about Lizard Lick?”

“
?,” I queried.

“
The Lizard Lick Creation Museum,” said Twelve-Fingered Teddy. “I hear the bishops are fit to be tied.”

I was speechless. Teddy was positively gluttonous with self-approbation. The hot-dog just sat there, like an inanimate object.

•••

“
You know,” said Sheila, “this may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read.”

All the altos nodded in agreement.

“
Thanks,” I said. “And just for that, I’m not going to make any altos sing higher than a ‘D’ this evening.”

The altos smiled. “Told you it would work,” said Sheila.

“
I heard you were starting a children’s choir,” said Elaine. “What a good idea!”

I couldn’t tell exactly if this was sarcasm, but I chose to think better of Elaine. “Just for the summer,” I said. “We’re meeting on Wednesdays at 5:30; so if you know anyone who’s interested, tell them to come.”

“
Any audition required?” asked Mark.

“
Of course,” I said.

“
No,” said Meg. “No audition. Any child who wants to may join.”

“
Huh?” I said. “Wait a min…”

“
It’s important that all the children be involved,” said Bev. “Whether they’re tone-deaf or not.”

“
What?
Tone deaf?” I said.

Bev and Meg crossed their arms in a show of solidarity. Elaine chuckled.

“
Well, I’m picking the music,” I mumbled, holding on to the one shred of control I had left.

“
It has to be fun,” said Georgia. “Kids won’t like it if it’s not fun.”

“
And scriptural,” added Muffy Lemieux. “It needs to be the Word of God. Hey! How about a musical?”

“
An excellent idea,” said Meg happily. “A musical.”