Lark! the Herald Angels Sing

by Donna Andrews

  “Of course,” she said, almost purring. “At least I can greet the first one or two and get them settled. Then I can put them in charge of welcoming the later arrivals. I’ll just go check out the guest rooms to make sure they’re ready.”

  She sailed off toward the stairs. Another problem solved—provided we could all get out of the house before she decided that any of the guest rooms suffered from toxic feng shui and needed to have all their furniture rearranged.

  “All systems go,” Michael said as he came back inside. “Everything should survive the trip unscathed.”

  “Remember,” I said as the boys waved good-bye to the departing Caerphilly Cleaners truck. “You can’t tell anyone about this until the baby and her mother are safe. Not even Mason or Adam.”

  “But Adam’s grandpa is the chief,” Jamie protested. “Doesn’t he know?”

  “Yes, but he won’t tell anyone, either, not even Adam, until it’s safe. I’ll let you know when that is. And then we can tell everyone how you helped rescue them.”

  They both beamed with pride. And then, luckily, Michael shifted their focus onto the upcoming sledding trip with Mason and Adam. We got them bundled up and on their way. I poured myself another cup of tea and called the Mutant Wizards security desk.

  “Hey, Meg,” Paton said. “Haven’t seen him yet this morning.”

  “That’s okay.” I paused, trying to figure out a subtle way of finding out what I wanted to know, and gave up. “You seen Delaney again?”

  “Not since yesterday. She wouldn’t normally be here on a weekend.”

  Of course, neither would Rob.

  “Can you let me know if you do?” I asked.

  “Sure.” A pause. “Um … is something wrong?”

  “Nothing I can’t fix if I can talk to Delaney,” I said. With more confidence than I felt.

  “Roger. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  I thought of texting Rob, but decided to wait. What could I say now, other than “I’m trying.”

  I drove over to Delaney’s place. She lived in a neighborhood where Randall and I had succeeded in convincing the town council to ease up the draconian restrictions that had once made it almost impossible for a homeowner to set up a rental unit. So far the neighborhood hadn’t gone to seed—in fact, it was thriving. Delaney lived in the top floor of what had once been a run-down three-story Victorian house. I liked to think the income from having rental apartments in the top floor, the basement, and over the garage had helped its owners bring the building back to something resembling its original glory. Then again, maybe the owners had simply paid attention when Randall and I warned that if the neighborhood started to look junky, the town council might reverse itself on the subdividing/subletting issue. The place looked particularly festive with its holiday decorations—wreaths and candles in every window, and several miles of evergreen garlands festooning the wraparound porch. The candles and any other lights were off, but I spotted fairy lights along with tinsel on all the garlands. The snow had nearly covered up the life-sized figures in the yard, but I could tell they were a trio of carolers—a nice change from the usual Santas and nativity scenes. Clearly Delaney’s landlords had figured out that another way to reassure the town council that the new permissive rental policies weren’t bringing property values down was to decorate lavishly for Christmas in Caerphilly, Halloween in Caerphilly, the Harvest Festival, and any other seasonal attractions Randall invented to enhance our growing success as a tourist destination.

  The owners hadn’t yet removed the latest installment of snow from their walks or their driveway. Well, it was early yet, and my car could easily handle a few inches of snow. I could see other tire tracks in the snow—tracks that drove in, circled around the wide end of the asphalt driveway, and then pulled out again. I followed them, which gave me a view of the parking area the owners created for their tenants, screened from the street by a privacy fence that in summer would be covered with a tangle of honeysuckle and morning glory vines. I found myself remembering one evening last summer when Delaney had invited me to a women-only chick-flick night. Walking past that fence, I’d had a moment of feeling almost dizzy from the sudden overwhelmingly sweet scent of the honeysuckle blossoms.

  Nothing magical about the honeysuckle now. In fact, the dead, snow-covered vines gave the place a rather grim look.

  Neither of the two cars in the parking area were Delaney’s. No lights in the house. No tracks leading into the garage or the tenant parking area, so I suspected the tire tracks I was following were made by someone doing the same thing I was doing—turning in to see if Delaney was home, then leaving again when it was clear she wasn’t. All the marks other than mine looked the same, and I rather thought they matched the tires on my brother’s pricey little convertible.

  Poor Rob.

  Where to look? I knew the names of a couple of Delaney’s friends. I had no idea where they lived, but I could probably look it up on my computer—my work computer, which had access to the town records. I headed toward the town hall.

  Strange. There were Shiffleys perched on the roof of the town hall. Were they making some repairs to the multicolored Christmas lights decking the hall’s roof and windows? No—they appeared to be scrutinizing the shingles. The shingles that had been replaced, at great expense, only two years ago. The great expense arose, of course, largely from the vast size of the roof—the Shiffley Construction Company had pared its labor costs to the bone. Obviously if there was anything wrong with the roof, the Shiffleys had the strongest possible incentive for fixing it right away—although 8:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning seemed a bit excessive.

  But there shouldn’t be anything wrong with a two-year-old roof unless the materials were defective or had been installed improperly. With Shiffleys doing the installing, I was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem. And besides, if there was anything wrong, then given my role as Randall’s special assistant, I should have already been told about it.

  I went inside and took the elevator up to the top floor, then used my master key to unlock the door to the narrow corridor that led to the roof access. A few tools and bits of lumber lay along the sides of the corridor, and the pull-down access steps had been lowered. They were almost as steep as a ladder.

  I climbed up and popped open the trap door. Small amounts of snow fell in. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that it was a very big roof with a very shallow slope, and the odds of my falling off were almost nil. Especially if I stayed near the trap door, which was smack dab in the middle of the roof. I climbed the rest of the way up, sat on the edge of the trap door opening, and looked around.

  “Hey, Meg.” It was Fred Shiffley, the cousin who was officially running the construction company now that Randall was mayor. The two other Shiffleys with him waved, and then went back to whatever they were doing. Peering at random shingles, from what I could see. And occasionally taking pictures of them with their phones.

  “What are you doing up here?” Fred asked.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  Chapter 18

  “What are we doing? Inspecting the roof, of course,” Fred said.

  “In the middle of a snowstorm?” Okay, the snow had stopped for the time being, but the sky showed that was only temporary.

  “Not a whole lot else we can do in the middle of a snowstorm,” Fred said. “Too cold to pour concrete, too wet to paint. But Randall reminded me that we’d promised the manufacturer to send them regular data on the performance of the roof. Take pictures of the shingles every year or so, especially those in places where they’re subject to more wear and tear. Give the manufacturer the data they want, and in return they give us a price break if anything does need repairing prematurely.”

  “Seriously?” I gave him what Rob would call my Mother look, a stare that always proved highly effective in extracting truthful information from Josh and Jamie.

  “You don’t think it sounds plausible?” Fred looked slightly guilty.

>   “Oh, it would sound plausible enough to an outsider,” I said. “But remember, I was up to my ears in the administrative side of the roof deal. I don’t remember any request from the manufacturer for ongoing data. What are you really doing up here?”

  “You got me there.” Fred grinned and shook his head. “We’re on Dingle watch. We know y’all took Miz Caverly to the women’s shelter this morning. We don’t rightly know its exact location—not officially, anyway—but we do have a general idea of the part of town where we don’t want to see interlopers from Clay County slinking around.”

  “That makes more sense,” I said. “What if you do spot any Dingles? Or Plunkets or Whickers or Peebleses?”

  “We call 911,” Fred said. “And then we give a heads-up to a few cousins who are whiling away the afternoon playing poker in the backroom at Muriel’s diner, so they can wander over and use their diplomatic skills to help defuse any tense situations.”

  I wondered if the chief knew about this. He probably did, although I’d make a point of mentioning it to him. I also wondered if I should tell Fred about the state-of-the-art security system Rob had donated to the shelter. Any Dingle—or, for that matter, any man—who attempted to enter the shelter would be spotted immediately in the security cameras, and the Caerphilly Police Department would probably hear about it before the Shiffleys had time to pull out their cell phones.

  No, better not. For one thing, the less outsiders knew about the shelter’s workings the better—no matter how well disposed they were toward it. And besides, why should I spoil the Shiffleys’ fun?

  “Carry on, then,” I said. “And while you’re at it—do you happen to know who Delaney McKenna is?”

  “Not by name,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “She,” I corrected. “My brother’s girlfriend.”

  “The tall redhead.” Fred nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I hope it won’t rile any ladies too much if I say that most any red-blooded male in town has probably noticed her.”

  “If you happen to notice her around town today, could you call and let me know where?” I said. “I need to talk to her, and she’s not answering her phone. Not to me, anyway.”

  “Can do. And I’d appreciate it if you could help convince people we’re just up here peering at shingles. And taking our own sweet time about it, on account of there being not much else to do today.”

  “You’ve got it. Later.”

  I climbed back down the access steps, closing the trap door behind me. I was relieved to have my feet back on solid ground.

  Of course, now I had no reason not to return to my fruitless search for Delaney. For all I knew, she could have left town.

  And it was ridiculous to keep trying alone. I needed to enlist some help.

  First, I dropped by my office and used my computer to look up the addresses and phone numbers of the two friends of Delaney whose names I could remember. Even if they didn’t know where she was, maybe they’d help me look.

  Then again, maybe they wouldn’t talk to me any more than she would yesterday. I needed to enlist someone I knew could help. I mentally put the friends on the back burner. Instead, I pulled out my phone and called Robyn.

  “Can I drop by and talk to you?” I asked, after we’d exchanged greetings.

  “Whenever you like,” she said. “I’m over at the shelter for the next few hours, and then at noon I’m going over to the church for the Altar Guild’s lunchtime meeting.”

  “I’ll meet you at the shelter, then.”

  I retrieved my car from the lot behind the town hall and headed over toward the neighborhood of the shelter.

  As I turned into the street where I was planning to park, I spotted Robyn’s forest-green station wagon coming toward me.

  Odd. I’d just said I’d meet her at the shelter.

  When the car got closer, I was about to roll down my window to hail Robyn when I realized it wasn’t her driving.

  It was Janet Caverly.

  I didn’t think Janet recognized me, and she wouldn’t have known my car as well as I knew Robyn’s wagon. So with luck she had no idea she’d been spotted.

  I pulled into the next open driveway I came to and turned around so I could follow her.

  I trailed her through the side streets of Caerphilly for a few minutes, being careful to keep my distance. But from her slow pace I suspected she was more focused on driving safely on the snow-covered streets than on the possibility that anyone might be shadowing her. And dodging the tourists, who were already out in force in spite of the early hour. The snow, which had begun falling lightly while I was following Janet, didn’t seem to be discouraging the tourists, who were swarming all the usual scenic spots with their digital cameras and smart phones, but at least it gave me some small degree of cover.

  Eventually she headed out of town along the Clay County Road.

  In the unlikely event that you were in Caerphilly and wanted to be in Clay County instead, you took either the Clayville Road or the Clay County Road. The Clayville Road led more or less straight to the center of the town, which was not only very small but quite unremarkable apart from being the site of the only traffic light in the county. The Clay County Road was a little more useful, since it led past the Caerphilly Inn and Grandfather’s zoo before it crossed the county line. Once in Clay County, it meandered about seemingly at random until it finally entered Clayville and intersected with the Clayville Road at the aforementioned stoplight.

  As I shadowed Janet, I tried to think of something along the Clay County Road that she might have some reason to visit. Nothing came to mind. And after we passed first the Inn and then the zoo, I began to wonder if she was actually heading for Clay County.

  And apparently she was. She slowed down as if having second thoughts when she spotted the battered sign welcoming the unwary traveler to Clay County. Then she sped up again, until she was going more than a little faster than before. Not the safest thing to do in Clay County, whose snow removal policy seemed to be that plowed roads were for wusses and if you didn’t own a vehicle that could handle a foot or so of snow you deserved to be snowbound.

  I followed at a safe distance. In fact, I let her get out of sight. I knew this road reasonably well, and there were hardly any possible turns—just the mouths of lanes that led into the woods. Some, flanked by one or more mailboxes, clearly led to houses tucked back in the woods. Others were probably logging roads or maybe lanes leading to someone’s hunting cabin. The storm had tapered off, thank goodness, but it had deposited about an inch of fresh snow before doing so, and I could see as I passed that no one had turned into any of the lanes recently—the snow lay deep and crisp and even, and most importantly, untouched by foot or tire.

  I finally spotted a lane with fresh tire indentations in the snow, and a set of taillights slowly disappearing into the distance. I thought of turning in behind Janet, and then thought better of it immediately. Her destination couldn’t be that far away, and I needed to find a way to continue my surveillance on foot. It was a lot harder to be stealthy in a car—cars were bigger, noisier, and especially in a wooded area like this, pretty much limited to the roads. On foot I could be swift and silent and had much more scope for taking a route that would let me sneak up on Janet. At least that’s what I’d done the only other time I could remember trying to tail someone through the woods in a snowstorm, and it had worked out okay. Well, except for finding a dead body—but with luck I wouldn’t be repeating that experience.

  So I continued on until I came to a place where I could turn around. Then I drove back, again passing the lane with the fresh tracks. At the next mailbox-free lane I stopped and backed in. The snow might have paused for the time being, but from the way the sky looked I suspected that was temporary, and I wanted to maximize the odds that I could extricate the car when I returned. And while backing in was tricky, backing out with any more snow would be a lot worse.

  Then it occurred to me that anyone who came along would spot my car. The lane was a curvy
one, so I kept backing until my car was out of sight of the road. Then I grabbed a big branch and tried brushing my tire tracks away with it. That seemed to work pretty well. It wouldn’t fool a Shiffley, or anyone else who was a seasoned tracker. Probably a few of those in Clay County. But at least it wouldn’t jump out at the casual passerby that someone had driven a car down the lane. So I walked backward to the road, sweeping the branch behind me as I went. And once I reached the road I tried to walk only on one of the two packed-down ruts.

  All this was probably overkill. But I couldn’t shake the sense of being in hostile territory and wanting to keep a low profile.

  When I reached the lane where Janet had turned, I brushed enough snow off the mailbox to read the name. R. PLUNKET.

  Great. A Plunket. But then, what did I expect in Clay County? At least it wasn’t a Dingle. Since both the mayor and the sheriff—and for that matter, the county judge—were currently Dingles, I tended to assume they were the most villainous of Clay County’s denizens. If nothing else, they were the villains currently in charge.

  I started trudging down the lane. Luckily it was a relatively short one—only a quarter of a mile from the main road I rounded a curve to find I was approaching a small, one-story bungalow. Robyn’s station wagon was parked in front of it. A rather meager array of multicolored Christmas lights was strung around the door. A few puffs of smoke came from the chimney.

  I could see lights in one of the windows. I slipped closer so I could peer in.

  Janet was there, and she seemed to be talking a mile a minute to another young woman about her own age. They were clutching cans of diet soda and nibbling on potato chips. Both chips and sodas bore the logo of the Clay County Super Mart’s singularly unappetizing house brand.

  The other young woman looked pretty harmless. She had light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore jeans and a navy blue sweater. I studied the room she and Janet were sitting in. I got the impression it belonged to someone just starting out in life. The furniture was a mixture of hand-me-downs and inexpensive assemble-it-yourself pieces. The colors were bright and airy, the whole effect feminine. Maybe the young woman Janet had come to see was the only one living here. I liked that idea.