Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines by Mark Schweizer Page A

had resulted in a bouncing baby boy named Rahab. Despite her success. Noylene still worked at the Beautifery four afternoons a week, granting her gift of beauty to those less fortunate than herself. She also put in a couple of mornings at the Slab helping out.
    “Whatchu want for breakfast?” Noylene asked me, snapping her gum like it was punctuation.
    “Ah, surprise me.”
    “I’ll just get you what the girls are having.”
    “That’d be great, thanks.”
    Pete pulled his apron off over his head, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “So, nothing new?”
    “Not yet. I did get to meet the new priest.”
    “What did you think?” said Meg.
    “Well, he informed me that my sabbatical had been cancelled and that I was to report back to work immediately.”
    Cynthia, who’d been taking a sip of coffee, spit it back into the cup with a muffled laugh.
    “Really?” she said.
    “Yep.”
    “Hayden,” said Meg, “you weren’t rude to him, were you? You know how you get.”
    “I was not rude in the least. I just told him I couldn’t. I told him I was busy.”
    Pete’s old cowbell banged against the glass door, signaling another customer. We glanced up and saw Nancy come in. She shed her jacket, hung it on one of the hooks by the door, then came over to the table.
    “Good morning,” said Meg brightly.
    “Good morning,” echoed Cynthia.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked, more used to reading Nancy’s temperaments.
    “Nothing’s wrong, I guess.” Nancy dragged a chair from an adjoining table up to the corner and sat down. “Just no luck. I’ve been checking on Crystal Latimore and trying to find out if these women had anything in common. There’s got to be a common thread somewhere.”
    “I agree. Did you find anything?”
    “Nothing of note.” Nancy flipped open her note pad. “Crystal Latimore worked as a court advocate in Boone. She lived in Linville and owned her own house, although there’s still a mortgage on it. Divorced, no kids. Forty-five years old. A very active member of Mountain Grace Fellowship Church. She had a St. Germaine Library card, but since the library doesn’t open till ten, I don’t know for sure if she used it a lot. I’ll check it out though. We’ll have to get a warrant to look through her house.”
    “Maybe they all have the library in common,” suggested Cynthia.
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “Nah,” said Noylene. “Darla wouldn’t be caught dead in a library. She said the last book she read was Jonathan Livingston Seagull and it was so bad it put her off reading forever. She wouldn’t even pick up a People Magazine like everyone else did when she had a break. To tell you the truth, I think she was probably dixelsticks.”
    “Or,” said Pete, “dyslexic.”
    “Or that,” sniffed Noylene.
    “All the women were single though, right?” asked Meg.
    “All single,” said Nancy, “but that seems to be the only connection. Amy was a grant writer and worked from home. Darla cut hair … “
    “She was a purveyor of beauty,” corrected Noylene.
    “Sure,” said Nancy. “Darla was a purveyor of beauty and worked at her own shop. Crystal was a court advocate and worked out of the courthouse in Boone. Nothing in common. Hair: different. Weight: different. Body shape: all average, nothing outstanding. Crystal and Darla both went to church, but not the same one. Amy didn’t go. There could be a connection we haven’t found yet, of course.”
    “Like what?” asked Meg.
    “Anything,” said Nancy. “Their chiropractor for example.”
    “The same prescription drug store,” I added. “A Christmas party they all went to. A concert series they had tickets to. A lawyer they all used for something. It could be anything really.”
    “I see what you mean,” said Meg.
    “So what you’re saying,” said Cynthia, “is that you have no clues what so ever.”
    “Oh, we have clues, all right,” I said. “Piles of them. We just don’t know what they mean. I’m thinking