The Mezzo Wore Mink by Mark Schweizer

anyone waiting on tables in here? I’d like another iced tea.”
    Pete rolled his eyes. “Noylene only works in the morning. Then Bootsie takes over around eleven. Hey!” he yelled. “Anyone seen Bootsie?”
    Bear Niederman, enjoying his Wednesday special at a table by the front plate glass window, hollered back, “She’s outside having a cigarette.”
    “ That’s it! ” said Pete, standing up and throwing his paper napkin to the floor in a huff, an angry gesture that lost its dramatic flourish when the napkin fluttered to the ground like a wounded butterfly. He stomped it in disgust. “I’ve had enough!”
    He sighed heavily, walked behind the counter, got a pitcher of tea out of the cooler and commenced to visit the tables, seeing what the Slab clientele required in the way of additional victuals. But he was not happy.

    •••

    Our lunch and pressing Gobbler business finished—or at least, on hold—Joyce excused herself, followed shortly by Carol, Bev and Georgia, leaving Meg and me to enjoy a cup of coffee before strolling back to work. I really enjoyed the pace of autumn and this early October afternoon was a perfect example. The crowds hadn’t yet descended on the town for peak leaf season (although there was plenty of color dotting the mountains), the weather was brisk and sunny, and we weren’t close enough to the holidays to feel the pressure inherent in any musician’s life during Advent and Christmas.
    “ You’re not really putting on The Living Gobbler , are you?” asked Meg, lifting the steaming cup to her lips and blowing gently across the top.
    “ I sincerely doubt it,” I replied. “The Lemmings will need costumes, a children’s choir director—not to mention a children’s choir, stage hands, set builders, five octaves of handbells, bagpipers, twelve live turkeys…you know…a cast of thousands. That’s what the show demands, of course. A cast of thousands. And an orchestra,” I added. “Don’t forget the orchestra.”
    “ So it was a ruse.”
    “ Yep.”
    “ You have no intention of writing it?”
    “ Oh, I’ll be happy to write it,” I said. “It’s a show that practically gobbles to be written. I just don’t think it will be performed.”
    “ I hope you’re right.”
    “ Have I ever been wrong before?”
    “ Oh, my dear, let me count the ways.”
    We were still sipping our coffee and contemplating the last piece of rhubarb pie in the pie case when the door of the Slab banged open, causing Pete’s cowbell to dance noisily against the glass. Nancy strode in, Dave in her wake, and both of them moved hastily over to our table.
    “ Better come quick,” said Nancy, bending down and whispering in my ear. “Right now.”
    I recognized the tone and knew better than to ask questions in a crowded restaurant. Meg and I followed Nancy and Dave onto the sidewalk outside without a word.
    “ We might as well walk,” said Nancy as we crossed the road into the park. “It’s just a couple of blocks. That new spa just called. There’s a dead woman behind the house.”

    •••

    We were there in three minutes—straight across the park, a quick detour beside St. Barnabas and two doors over on Maple Street. Cynthia was waiting on the porch of the coffee shop with another woman. Both their faces were paler than their natural pallor might indicate. Cynthia’s hands were entwined inside her apron, the lower half of which was now a knot of material at her waist. The other woman—tall and very attractive—had her arm around Cynthia’s shoulder.
    “ Lacie?” I asked, as we climbed the steps up to the covered porch.
    “ That’s right,” said the woman. “Lacie Ravencroft.”
    “ You’re married to Chad?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ I’m Chief Konig. This is Lieutenant Parsky, Officer Vance, and Meg Farthing.” I looked over at Cynthia. “Cynthia, would you like to sit down?”
    She shook her head.
    “ Can you tell us what’s happened?”
    “ I’ll show you,” said