The Mezzo Wore Mink by Mark Schweizer Page B

“dontcha knows” were now dropping from his mouth like teeth from Aunt Millie’s gums during last year’s taffy-pull. I thought Meg might scream.
    “ We’re very pleased to be here,” he continued, “and although this is our first position in an Episcopal church, dontcha know, I want you all to be assured that both Fiona and I bring a wealth of ministry experience.”
    We nodded again and Carol added a “dontcha know” under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear and stifle a snort.
    “ Now then,” said Fiona Tidball-Lemming, offering her first smile of the morning—a smile designed by nature to freeze a predator’s prey before pouncing—“you’ve heard about us. Let’s find out about all of you.” Her fleshy finger moved around the table and rested on Meg. I could sense a gulp.
    “ I’m Meg Farthing. I sing in the choir. And I’m on the Worship Committee.” She paused. “Vestry, too.” It was as succinct a recitation of responsibilities as I’d ever heard from Meg.
    Carol was next. “Carol Sterling. Worship Committee. Altar Guild.”
    “ Marilyn Forbis. Secretary,” said Marilyn in turn.
    We made our way around the table, everyone being as concise as possible. No wasted words with this bunch.
    “ Georgia Wester. Building and Grounds. Vestry. Worship.”
    Finally it was my turn. I was the last. “Hayden Konig, organist and choirmaster.”
    The Lemmings smiled and nodded.
    “ First things first,” said Father Lemming. “It’s already mid-October. Do we have our plans for Christmas finalized yet?”
    Everyone looked around the table and there seemed to be quite a bit of non-committal shrugging going on.
    “ Hayden,” he said, “tell us about our musical plans.”
    “ Hmm, let’s see,” I said, pulling out the pad Nancy had given me and flipping it open to the first page. There was nothing written in it, of course, but a little showmanship never hurt. “On the first Sunday of Advent…”
    “ Advent?” snorted Fiona Tidball-Lemming. “We’re talking about Christmas.”
    “ Ah,” I said, flipping four or five more pages. “Yes, of course. Christmas. On Christmas Eve we’ll be having the traditional two services, one at…”
    “ Not Christmas Eve,” said Father Lemming in exasperation. “We mean the Christmas season .”
    “ Yes,” I said. “The Christmas season. Christmas Eve to January 6th. Actually, as you know, the season of Christmas doesn’t really start until Christmas Day, but we always…”
    “ The Christmas season ,” said Fiona. “December 1st through the 25th. There’s no sense in celebrating Christmas after Christmas!”
    “ Right,” I said, flipping back the pages. “So on the first Sunday of Advent—that would be December 2nd—I was planning on doing Bach’s Cantata No. 62— Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland —in English, of course, maybe with a smallish orchestra. Then on the 9th…
    I’ll tell you what,” said Father Lemming. “Since we obviously don’t have any plans, we’ve got some really great ideas for Christmas, dontcha know.”

    •••

    “ What’s the scam, Ginger?” I said. I knew the type. She was beautiful, as sassy as a three-year-old jar of mayonnaise, and so smart she spelled “floozy” with two z’s.
    “ What do you mean?” she jiggled. “Can’t a girl buy a gumshoe a drink?”
    I sat down and whistled up a beer-fraulein. “I’ll have a Mummy Martini,” I said. The waitress raised her Arian unibrow in confusion. “So dry I have to blow the dust off the top,” I explained, raising an eyebrow of my own at my considerable cleverness as I leaned across the table, Ginger in my sights.
    “ I’ll have a Cement Mixer,” said Ginger, leaning in as well. “Hold the pickle.”
    Our waitress trundled off to get our orders leaving us with nothing more than the space between us, a space that was narrowing as fast as the profit margin at Paris Hilton’s “Things Go Better With Coke” discount shoe