Lark! the Herald Angels Sing

by Donna Andrews

  “They sound rather nice,” Cordelia said.

  “They also sound rather numerous,” I said. “I put Mother in charge of sorting out which relatives stayed where—how many do you suppose she assigned to us?”

  “You’ve only got so many guest rooms,” Caroline said. “So it can only be so bad.”

  “You underestimate how annoying my relatives can be when they reach critical mass,” I said. “And what if she carried through with her threat to turn the library into a bunkhouse for the teenage boys?”

  “Then you think up chores for them,” Cordelia suggested. “And I guarantee they will make themselves delightfully scarce.”

  “And then there’s feeding them.”

  “The menfolk should be down at Luigi’s,” Caroline said. “Have them bring home a dozen pizzas. Any that don’t get eaten tonight will give you a head start on lunch tomorrow.”

  “Or even breakfast,” I said. “Knowing kids and pizza. Good idea.”

  Caroline parked her van in the space where my car would normally have been, if it wasn’t over in Clay County, possibly being disassembled into spare parts. But with my regained Christmas spirit, even that didn’t bother me as much. The Honda wasn’t exactly new. In fact, Michael and I had recently agreed that it was time to replace it with a newer model.

  So I was in a downright festive mood when we walked into the house to find dozens of friends and family members singing Christmas carols, accompanied not only by a cousin playing our piano but also half a dozen who’d brought along their own musical instruments—two guitars, a trumpet, a flute, an oboe, and a harmonica.

  I’d have been a little alarmed at the sheer number of cousins in the house—even over the caroling I could hear voices and laughter from other areas of the house, which meant the fifty or so people in the living room were only part of the crowd. But shortly after I walked in I spotted Rose Noire circulating with a pitcher of hot cider and I relaxed a little. In fact, a lot.

  And Mother reigned supreme in the kitchen and dining room, supervising both the arrival of all the food people had brought with them and its disposition, either onto the dining table to feed tonight’s crowd, or into the refrigerator or the pantry to fuel upcoming meals. At least I assumed she was saving some of it for the future, though you couldn’t have guessed from the spread in the dining room—ham, turkey, roast beef, mushroom casserole, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, tossed salad, green bean casserole, stewed tomatoes, pickled okra, succotash, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, tomato aspic, ham biscuits, croissants, and of course every kind of pie, cake, and cookie imaginable.

  “Hello, dear.” Mother gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Isn’t it looking wonderful? Everyone has been so kind.”

  Yes, they were kind, although the sheer extravagance of the spread owed at least as much to the usual genteel competition among the family’s many cooks. Thank goodness agreeing to host the whole thing gave me a graceful out.

  “I can’t imagine what’s keeping your father,” she said.

  “I think he was helping Grandfather with something,” I said. “I’ll give him a call and see how much longer he’s going to be.”

  I went out into the backyard to make the call. Michael and the boys and a few other cousins their age were there, dragging some of the littler cousins around the yard in sleds, producing squeals of delight from the children and interested humming from the observant llamas.

  Dad’s phone went to voice mail immediately. I hoped that meant Rob was using it for a long productive talk with Delaney. “It’s Meg,” I said. “You’re missing the feast. Call me when you get this.” Grandfather’s phone just rang on and on, because he couldn’t be bothered listening to voice mail and had never set it up.

  “Annoying,” I muttered. What if I’d been calling about something really urgent? Even more urgent than getting back before the food disappeared? But I had one more option. I called Luigi’s.

  Unlike the men in my family, Luigi answered promptly.

  “Merry Christmas, Meg,” he said. “You want pickup or delivery?”

  “Actually, I just wanted to know if you could give a message to my family, if they’re still there.”

  “Still here?” He sounded puzzled. “Were they supposed to be?”

  “I thought they were heading your way when they left the zoo over an hour ago,” I said. “Grandfather, Dad, Rob, and Clarence Rutledge.”

  “Let me check.”

  He put the phone down. I tamped down my impatience by taking a few deep breaths of the cold, crisp air, and listened to the background noise. People talking and laughing, and the soaring voice of Luciano Pavarotti singing “Gesù Bambino.”

  “No, they are not here, and Angelica says she has not seen them at all tonight.”

  “Weird,” I said. “Well, maybe they got delayed and will be coming in later. If you see them, tell me to call me.”

  “Of course! Buon Natale!”

  I pondered for a moment. Maybe Grandfather had enjoyed his lunch at the Inn so much that he’d asked to go back there again.

  But when I called, the Inn hadn’t seen them, either.

  At Mutant Wizards, Paton was still on duty.

  “They’re not here,” he said in answer to my question. “But Rob picked up his phone an hour or so ago, so you could try reaching him on that.”

  An hour ago? He must have gone by the office as soon as he’d left the zoo. And his phone went straight to voice mail, just like Dad’s.

  Had they all arrived back at the house while I was out here? I couldn’t spot any of their cars, but there were rather a lot of cars by now, and they might have had to park quite far down the road.

  In the living room, the carolers were just finishing up “Good King Wenceslas.” Their numbers had grown, but Dad, Grandfather, and Rob weren’t among them.

  They weren’t in the kitchen, sipping hot toddies or mugs of eggnog.

  Or in the dining room digging into the feast.

  Or in the library, reading in companionable silence with the few family introverts who’d showed up.

  Or out in the yard inspecting the llamas and cheering on the sledders.

  They weren’t in the barn, where a dozen women had rolled out sleeping bags and were sitting cross-legged in a circle with their eyes closed, humming “ommmm.” Presumably Rose Noire’s retreat companions, although, apparently, she was still inside wrangling our guests.

  I was getting really worried now. So I went up to the third floor and checked out Rob’s room. He wasn’t there. His laptop still sat on the desk. I started it up and logged in once more to the site that would let me find his iPhone.

  I watched the little compass icon spin. It seemed to take forever. And it finally gave up searching, and showed me the last location it had for Rob’s phone.

  I was still staring at the screen when Cordelia came up behind me.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “What makes you think something’s wrong.” I wasn’t sure I should tell her.

  “Because even allowing for the fact that it’s midwinter, you wouldn’t normally look that pale.”

  “See that little green dot?” I pointed at it.

  She took out her reading glasses, donned them, and peered through them at the screen.

  “Yes,” she said. “What is it?”

  “The location of Rob’s phone.”

  She peered more closely.

  “It appears to be near your grandfather’s zoo.”

  “Near it,” I said. “I’d say about two miles away. But two miles in the wrong direction.”

  “Meaning?” She looked up at me.

  “That dot is slightly over the Clay County line. And that was an hour ago.”

  Cordelia uttered a word one doesn’t usually expect to hear from one’s grandmother.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said.

  “That old fool!” she exclaimed. “I could have sworn you talked him out of it. But he’s gone and done it anyw
ay, and taken James and Rob with him. And poor Clarence. What are we going to do?”

  “First, we tell the chief.” I was already pulling out my phone. I’d called 911 so often in the last two days I was surprised there weren’t dents in my phone screen over the 9 and 1 keys.

  But then a thought hit me. Instead of dialing 911, I searched through the pictures I’d taken until I found the one I’d taken of the piece of paper I’d found in the pocket of Janet’s jeans. Then I dialed Rachel Plunket’s number.

  It rang once. Twice. Three times. Was no one answering the phone tonight? Then the fourth ring was interrupted.

  “Hello?” A very tentative sounding hello.

  “Hello, Rachel. This is Meg Langslow. Remember me?”

  No answer.

  “Hiding in your attic? If you can’t talk freely, just pretend I’m an aunt.”

  “That’s nice, Aunt Tilly,” she said. “I’m kind of busy right now. Is this important?”

  “The Burger Barn’s pretty close to the sheriff’s office and the jail, isn’t it? Like across the street?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I’d thought it was, from my occasional visit to Clayville. And of course, Clayville was only a few blocks long, so nothing was all that far from anything else.

  “Have the deputies arrested any groups of people tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Two groups?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “One group of Shiffleys, and one group led by a really tall old guy in a pith helmet?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it, Aunt Tilly.”

  “How much longer will you be there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Look I should go— I’ve got a bunch of deputies who just got off duty and I have to take them their orders. And my shift doesn’t end till midnight, so maybe I should call you back tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “If there’s any way you can send me any more information, please try.”

  “I will. Tell the family I said Merry Christmas, and I hope I can get down there soon.”

  She hung up.

  “Clay County has them,” I said.

  “Monty’s silly expedition?” Cordelia asked.

  “And also the Shiffleys.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “Well, at least there’s safety in numbers.” Cordelia shook her head in exasperation. “They can’t very well knock off Mr. Caverly with half a dozen witnesses in jail with him. And maybe a night in jail will teach your grandfather a lesson.”

  “We won’t have a very merry Christmas if Sheriff Dingle keeps them all in jail until the new year,” I pointed out.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I was already dialing 911.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s the emergency, Meg?” Debbie Ann sounded a little terse.

  “So Randall already reported to the chief that he was going in after Vern and his cousins, right?” I began.

  “He did,” she said. “And we’re already aware of the possibility that the Shiffleys may have been captured, so as you can imagine, we’re a little busy right now.”

  “It’s more than a possibility, according to my sources in Clayville.”

  “You have sources in Clayville? Let me put you through to the chief.”

  I waited, tapping my fingers impatiently on Rob’s desk. Cordelia sat down on the end of Rob’s bed and folded her arms as if rehearsing what she wanted to stay to Grandfather.

  I really hoped she got the chance sometime soon.

  “Meg, Debbie Ann says you have confirmation that those blasted Shiffleys managed to get themselves arrested in Clay County.”

  “Not only the Shiffleys but another vigilante party, probably composed of Grandfather, Dad, Rob, Clarence Rutledge, and a couple of really unlucky members of Blake’s Brigade.”

  “Blast! Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. I called Rachel Plunket—Janet’s friend. She works at the Burger Barn.”

  “Which happens to be right across the street from the Sheriff Dingle’s station,” the chief said. “So she confirmed it?”

  I repeated my conversation with Rachel, as close to word for word as I could manage.

  The chief was silent for a few moments after I finished.

  “Okay,” he said. “This should help.”

  “Help?” I exclaimed. “Are you saying you’re glad the Shiffleys and Grandfather’s motley crew are in the Clay County jail?”

  “Of course not. I meant the information you got from your source. Judge Jane and I are raising Cain down here, trying to get some kind of state or federal intervention organized. Your brother’s hackers are uncovering some very suspicious links between Inman and the Dingles and we’re making headway. Your information will also help—please pass along anything else you hear.”

  “I will.”

  We hung up.

  “We have to do something,” Cordelia said.

  “Trying to do something has already gotten a whole bunch of people into trouble,” I said. “Are you suggesting we go join them?”

  “Or course, not,” she said. “But—”

  “Meg, dear.” Mother and Caroline appeared in the door of Rob’s room. “What’s going on?”

  Chapter 28

  Cordelia and I looked at each other.

  “Bad news,” Cordelia said. “You heard that Clay County captured the man they were looking for.”

  “Yes,” Mother said. “Poor soul.”

  “Apparently Monty decided to go in and rescue him,” Cordelia continued.

  “The old fool,” Caroline said. “Did he finally manage to get himself killed?”

  “Not yet,” Cordelia said. “But only because I haven’t yet gotten my hands on him. He took James and Rob and Clarence Rutledge with him. And a couple of Brigade members.”

  “Oh, my God,” Mother murmured.

  “They’ve also got Randall and Vern Shiffley and one or two of their cousins,” I added. “Who had already failed in their own separate rescue mission. The chief’s afraid Sheriff Dingle will try to keep them in jail over Christmas—and after that, he might even try to get them all convicted on some kind of phony charges that would keep them locked up for—well, who knows how long.”

  “What is the chief doing?” Mother asked.

  “As much as he can,” I said. “He can’t just interfere in another county. He’s working to bring in the ATF or the FBI or the DEA or—”

  “We must do something,” Mother said.

  “Absolutely,” Caroline said. “Just because Monty’s an idiot sometimes doesn’t give those Clay County creeps the right to lock him up. And it could be dangerous—he’s a tough old bird, but he’s no spring chicken. And Rob and James and Clarence were just led astray.”

  The door opened.

  “Rob, how are— What’s going on?” Rose Noire stood in the doorway, looking puzzled. “Where’s Rob.”

  “Welcome home,” I said.

  “Shut the door and come have a seat,” Mother said. “We’re going to need your help.”

  “Her help for what?” If Mother had a plan, I wanted to hear it.

  “I was rather hoping you’d figure that out, dear.” Mother took a seat on the edge of Rob’s bed and smiled up at me, as if to say she had complete confidence that of course I’d figure out a way to rescue her husband, her son, and her annoying father-in-law from durance vile. And before their absence ruined Christmas.

  “Yes, help for what?” Rose Noire echoed, taking a seat beside Mother. “What in the world has been going on here?”

  “Someone fill her in,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  The ghost of an idea was starting to form in my mind, but I needed some peace and quiet to think, if I was going to tease it out.

  “In fact, meet me in the library in half an hour,” I called over my shoulder. “No, wait—the library’s full of teenage boys. Make it the dining room. Kick out any men who
are there—tell them it’s a women’s shelter business meeting. Any woman who wants to can stay provided she’s willing to be sworn to secrecy.”

  “We’ll take care of it, dear,” Mother assured me.

  Yes, Mother would definitely take care of anything I asked her to do if she thought it would bring Dad and Rob back in time for Christmas. And heaven help the person who got in her way. In the way of any of the formidable women who would soon be making their way to the dining room with stern faces and worried minds. If I gave them a plan, they’d make it happen.

  But I still had to think of the plan.

  Normally, if I had to do a lot of thinking, I’d make my way to the barn. I’d fire up my forge and do some blacksmithing. Nothing delicate or complicated, just the rough shaping needed to start a project. Heating iron to just the right temperature requires concentration, and then there’s no way to think when you’re hammering it out. But if you put a problem into your brain and let it alone to marinate while you do something else that takes your full attention, it’s amazing how often the brain will come up with a solution.

  I didn’t think Rose Noire’s retreat ladies would appreciate my hammering iron at this time of night, even if they were still awake and meditating.

  I couldn’t even go to my office to think, since it was also in the barn, in what had started out as the tack room, and I’d probably wake them up getting there. Still, I drifted into the kitchen and glanced out over the backyard.

  The sledders had gone inside. Michael was leaning on the fence around the llama’s pen. The llamas were standing nearby. Not touching him, of course, since like all llamas they hated to be touched. And they were probably humming at him. That seemed to be one of the ways they tried to offer comfort when they sensed that one of their chosen humans was upset.

  I grabbed the old coat I kept by the back door and trudged out to join him.

  “How are you doing?” I asked when I’d joined him in leaning on the fence.

  “A little melancholy. I heard they’d captured Mr. Caverly.”

  “That’s not all.” I brought him up to speed on the failed attempts to rescue Mark Caverly, and our fears that the would-be rescuers would be locked up long after Christmas. When I’d finished we stood for a few moments listening to the humming of the llamas, which was strangely soothing.