“What a good idea,” the chief said. “And don’t tell me not to sound so surprised,” he added quickly. “I’m not actually surprised, just darned pleased. The comedians wouldn’t have been very good cover anyway. Just don’t do too many quiet songs.”
“We will be making not only a joyful noise unto the Lord but an exceedingly loud one,” Minerva said, with a nod. “If that bandstand has rafters, watch out; we’ll be sending them into orbit. Meg, I assume it’s okay if we use your tent over by the bandstand as a changing room for the choir? We can leave someone to watch all the purses, so you can have the night off from guard duty.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “In fact, better than fine.”
“I’ll see you later then,” she said. “Go on back to your tent, now. I gave Rose Noire a call, and she says you have some spare clothes over there.”
I nodded, and stepped out of the stuffy tent into the almost-as-stuffy outdoors. Just as I did, the first rollicking strains of “The Beer Barrel Polka” blasted over the loudspeaker. Maybe in another mood I’d have found the music’s energy infectious. Right now I just felt tired.
Ever since the heat had set in, Dad had been nagging everyone in town to drink at least a full glass of something nonalcoholic and noncarbonated every two hours. I was overdue for some liquid, so on my way back to the bandstand I took a slight detour past the food tents.
And then I paused a few steps outside the Episcopal tent. What were my chances of slipping in, getting a lemonade, and slipping back out without running into anyone who’d badger me with questions?
I had water back at the tent. I was turning to go there when—
“Meg, dear!”
Too late.
Chapter 11
“You look done in,” Mother said. She ignored my evasive maneuvers and steered me gently but firmly into the tent. “Come sit down and have some lemonade.”
I felt done in. And I must have looked pretty bad for her not to ask why I was wearing one of the distinctive New Life Baptist choir robes. Maybe, since she saw how exhausted I was, she’d postpone her interrogation. I plopped down at the table she indicated—in the far corner of the tent, behind the trash cans—and closed my eyes, happy, for the time being, to follow orders.
A few moments later I heard a slight noise and opened my eyes to see that a blond teenager was setting a glass of lemonade in front of me.
“Thank you, Shannon, dear,” Mother said. “Meg, are you hungry?”
I shook my head, and Mother dismissed her acolyte with a smile and a nod. She gazed around the tent to make sure nothing was happening that needed her attention, and then sat down across from me.
I grabbed the lemonade and reminded myself to sip, not gulp.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I said to Mother, as I sipped.
“Nonsense, dear,” she said. “Everything here is under control.”
Yes, if Mother had anything to do with it, everything probably was.
When Mother had volunteered to help out at the Trinity Episcopal tent whenever she was in town, the organizers had wisely refrained from assigning her a job requiring manual labor. Instead, they’d made her one of the dining tent hostesses. She greeted incoming customers as if they were long-lost relatives, made sure they found seats, had their tea or lemonade refilled until they positively sloshed on their way out, and made sure the teenagers who were bussing and cleaning the tables did their jobs with astonishing speed and efficiency.
She’d also organized the decoration of the tent. I had no idea whether the rest of the Episcopal women appreciated that or whether, like most people, they just found it easier not to argue with Mother. The long folding metal tables were now covered with bright blue-and-red-checked vinyl tablecloths and decorated with sturdy white vases full of flowers. Flower garlands looped between the inside tent poles, supporting strings of miniature red and blue Chinese lanterns. She’d even managed to get all the waitstaff to wear red- or blue-checked chef’s aprons.
Before too long the Catholics and Baptists noticed that the Episcopal tent was getting more than its share of attention from the tourists and began retaliatory decorating of their own. It was, of course, an article of faith, at least in the Episcopal tent, that Mother’s décor was the pinnacle of elegance, while the rival tents, though worthy efforts, were somehow lacking. I’m sure competing doctrines were held in the other two tents, but since there were more than enough tourists to keep everyone busy, everyone publicly praised everyone else’s efforts and a spirit of ecumenical harmony reigned.