The Mezzo Wore Mink by Mark Schweizer

mittens…you name it. Also,” Roderick added, “this isn’t public knowledge, but we’re hoping for a major celebrity endorsement.”
    “ That will certainly help,” said Nancy.
    “ Minque,” said Dave thoughtfully. “With one of those ® signs behind it? I like it. Can we see one of these Minques?”
    “ Absolutely. They’re in the other barn.”

Chapter 8

    “ I’ve been waiting for you,” Ginger Snapp cooed. “As a shamus, you come highly recommended.”
    “ How ‘bout as a good time?” I said smirkily, lighting a stogie.
    I’d seen her around, but always hanging off the arm of some up-and-coming bishop. She was an ornament, a decoration, a prize that came with the pointy hat, the dress and the incense pot.
    “ Hmm. Let me think. As a good time you seem to rate slightly behind Pedro over there.” She tossed her head like a hair-covered hand grenade in the direction of Pedro’s snoring body, now lying under his table with a drink umbrella sticking out of his mouth.
    “ I’ve got information,” she said in a voice so low it could have been wearing spike heels and still skittered under Dick Cheney’s credibility. “AveMaria was just a warning and I’m afraid that I’m next.”

    “ Beautiful,” said Meg. “This is some of the most elegant prose it has ever been my pleasure to dispose of.”
    “ Dispose of?” I said. “Dispose of?”
    “ I meant ‘read.’ Did I say ‘dispose of?’ How silly of me.” Meg was sitting on the leather couch with a glass of red wine in one hand and my latest literary effort in the other. Her legs were tucked elegantly under her and the flickering light from the fireplace accented her features from continually changing angles. “Now tell me again about this hat thing.”
    “ I was standing at the door of the Blueridge Furs office,” I said. “I was wearing the hat. This hat. Raymond Chandler’s hat.”
    Meg nodded.
    “ And this woman opens the door…”
    “ Muffy Lemieux,” said Meg.
    “ Yes, Muffy Lemieux. And then this sentence just pops into my head.”
    “ Sounds spooky. Just what does this Muffy Lemieux look like?”
    “ Well, she’s…um…sort of…you know…kind of gorgeous. She’s got these legs and these other things. You know…accoutrements.”
    “ I know exactly,” said Meg. “I would expect someone named Muffy Lemieux to be blonde. Very blonde.”
    “ Nope. Redhead. She says she’s going to come and sing in the church choir.”
    “ I’ll bet she does.”
    “ Anyway,” I said, “it’s not like she’s single or anything. She’s married to a man named Varmit. Apparently she’d like him to join the choir as well. Besides,” I added, “she’s been told that she has a voice like Loretta Lynn.”
    “ Better and better. But back to the hat, Mr. Hard-Boiled Author. Does this literary phenomenon happen often?”
    “ So far, whenever I put it on.”
    “ It’s on now,” she said, with a sly smile. “Anything come to mind?”

    She sat reclining on the sofa, her heaving bosom rising and falling like twin boiling Christmas puddings on Boxing Day, and even as her mouth whimpered no, no, no, the rest of her body ached yes, yes, yes, except for her appendix which had been removed the year before and so didn’t care very much either way.

    I didn’t take time to write it down.

    •••

    Worship Committee meetings at church are to be avoided if at all possible. This is Rule No. 1 in the Hayden Konig Church Musician’s Handbook. Rule No. 2 is never, ever agree to do anything that Meg asks in her sultry, Lauren Bacall voice while whispering in my ear. Closely following is Rule No. 3: If anyone complains about how loud the organ is, the best possible response is to pull out all the stops. There are a myriad of other rules. For example: Never sing any anthem in which the composer or poet tries to rhyme any word with Jesus. This includes squeeze us, frees us, please us, etcetera. There are exceptions, of course, and one of