Duck the Halls

by Donna Andrews

  I nodded, though I doubted I’d want to ask for help from Riddick Hedges, Trinity Episcopal’s office manager, bookkeeper, and general factotum. Apart from the sexton he was Trinity’s one paid staff member. I had no idea whether he was genuinely overworked or merely bad at multitasking and constantly feeling overwhelmed as a result, but he could generally be seen darting about the church in a state of high anxiety, wringing his hands and getting in the way of anyone who was performing actual useful work.

  Robyn hurried out. I sat down at the desk and looked at the papers she had left me. First was a photocopy of the St. Byblig’s schedule for the holy season. They had a lot going on, but I noted some possible empty spaces that the Baptists might use. Next up was a schedule from Temple Beth-El of Caerphilly—obviously printed out from a computer file. Seeing it made me realize that I needed more information from St. Byblig’s—the temple schedule didn’t just tell me the times and locations of each event, it had a column for each available space, and included the duration, the name of the event’s leader or other responsible person, the anticipated number of attendees, and any special needs, like a projector or a coffee setup. I was about to give Rabbi Grossman top marks for thoroughness until I found the Trinity schedule Robyn had prepared. It was a printout similar to the Temple Beth-El’s, but Robyn had also given the capacity of each room, attached a list of the people I might need to call about rescheduling their events, and penciled in useful if offbeat suggestions of where some of the Trinity events could be located to free up space for the Baptists.

  And she noted that she’d sent me an electronic copy as well. Fabulous. There was no need to reinvent the wheel—I could just take her file and add another column for each room available in the county’s unskunked churches and whatever other venues we could find. Sorting the events into the available spaces would be easy.

  Okay, not easy. Doable.

  But to do that I’d need to run home to get my laptop. And speaking of home—I pulled out my cell phone. Nine o’clock. Not too early to call Rose Noire and check on the boys.

  I called home. Michael answered.

  “Jamie and Josh’s residence.” I could hear peals of childish laughter in the background.

  “Good,” I said. “Chief Featherstone finally sent you home.”

  “I feel guilty,” he said. “Some of the guys are still there helping with the cleanup. But I got a reprieve because I spent so much time helping Horace in the choir loft. The chief assigned someone else to stay with him till the bitter end. And I do mean bitter.”

  “You’re going to get some rest now, right?”

  “I’m going to take the boys to town this morning to shop for your Christmas present.”

  “Hamsters!” piped up a small voice in the background.

  “Sshh! Want surprise Mommy,” said another small voice.

  “Please convince them that I don’t need any hamsters,” I said. “I know the boys think they’re cute and cuddly, but they’re just rodents to me. And if you ask me, we have more than enough pets already.”

  “I’ve told them,” he said. “Hang on a sec.” I heard footsteps, and then a door closing. “Back,” he said. “Out in the hall, so they can’t hear me. I completely agree with you about the hamster thing. I have no intention of taking them anywhere near the pet store or any other establishment where rodents of any kind can be acquired.”

  “Just make sure they don’t talk Rob into taking them,” I said. “Or Dad.”

  “Or your grandfather, or my mother,” Michael said. “Understood. I’ve spoken to the owner of the pet shop and the manager of the animal shelter. If anyone from either of our families shows up attempting to buy or adopt hamsters, guinea pigs, gerbils, rats, or mice, they’ll be told that all the available rodents are already bought or adopted and are waiting for their new families to pick them up. There will be no rodents on the Waterston-Langslow homestead, apart from those the barn cats are supposed to be dealing with.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I wish you’d just stay home and rest, but if you’re coming into town anyway, could you drop my laptop off at Trinity Episcopal? I’m helping out with the effort to find places to relocate all the New Life concerts, services, classes, and social events.”

  “Can do,” he said. “And don’t worry. As soon as I talk the boys into some kind of sensible presents for you, I’ll bring them home so we can all nap in preparation for tonight’s concert.”

  “Good plan.”

  We signed off and I returned to my task. I discovered that in addition to her very detailed schedule, Robyn had given me a list of the other clergymen in town, with their e-mails, office, and cell phones.

  I had been fond of Father Rufus, our previous rector, a genial soul who habitually walked about so deep in thought that he bumped into walls and had been known to get lost while traveling from his study to the pulpit. Not everyone liked the tidal wave of energy and efficiency Robyn brought to the parish, but if you asked me, they were exactly what it needed.

  And it looked as if she’d already done a good half of the job I’d been assigned.

  I couldn’t do much more until Michael arrived with my laptop, so I decided to see how the concert preparations were going.

  Chapter 8

  I stepped outside my temporary office and walked up the small hallway, past Robyn’s study and toward the archway that opened into the vestibule. I stopped in the archway and stared in amazement at the frantic activity taking place. I recognized several Shiffleys—relatives of the mayor and probably employees of his family’s construction company—hauling lumber and tools into the main body of the church, from which sounds of sawing and hammering emerged. Matrons from the Ladies’ Auxiliary and St. Clotilda’s Guild were scurrying back and forth carrying stacks of prayer books and hymnals; music stands; bundles of red satin and gold lamé choir robes; armloads of holly, ivy, and evergreen; real and battery-operated candles; and the several dozen near life-sized figures from the enormous Nativity scene that for the last few weeks had occupied the space between the communion rail and the first row of pews.

  I could see why they were moving the Nativity scene—no doubt they needed the space to fit in all the New Life choir members. And having it there had made navigation difficult. But it had been fun watching several of the more curmudgeonly parishioners who habitually sat in the front row either propping their feet up on the outlying sheep or hanging their canes over the wise men’s outstretched arms.

  Since I had no pressing reason to go out in the vestibule and didn’t want to risk getting trampled by the busy masses of volunteers, I was about to pop back into my temporary office to await Michael’s arrival. Then I overheard two women having a conversation that caught my interest.

  “It’s racial, I tell you,” the first one said. “An attack like that on an African-American church?”

  “Historically African-American,” the second corrected. “These days they’re getting pretty diverse. But I think if it was racially motivated they’d do something really nasty.”

  “You don’t think the skunks are really nasty?”

  “Only silly nasty. If you ask me, it’s those Pruitts.”

  The other woman pondered that for a while. As did I. At one time, the Pruitts had been the self-proclaimed leading citizens of Caerphilly County, but in the last few years they’d lost most of their money and all their political power. The ones not in jail for various sorts of embezzlement had retreated to neighboring Clay County to lick their wounds and, no doubt, plot their comeback. They certainly had it in for Caerphilly. But why would they choose the New Life church as their target? And besides, however much I disapproved of the skunking, I had to admit that executing it required a degree of organization, ingenuity, and boldness that I had a hard time imagining any Pruitt displaying.

  “Too clever for a Pruitt,” the first woman said, echoing my thoughts. “And not nearly nasty enough.”

  I hoped they were wrong about that, and about the possible racial mo
tivation as well. But of course the chief had to keep that in mind in doing his investigation. In fact, that possibility, even more than his own membership in the New Life church, probably accounted for how seriously he was taking the prank. I wasn’t sure he’d normally have had Horace do forensics on what would otherwise amount to a misdemeanor.

  The two women strolled off, still arguing.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, I heard muffled snickers from just outside the doorway.

  “Oh, man,” a young male voice said.

  “Yeah,” said another.

  “At least they have no idea,” the first voice said.

  “Have you heard anything about old man Dandridge?”

  “He’ll be fine.” The voice didn’t sound that confident. “Let’s go look useful.”

  I realized that they probably had no idea I was there. The hallway was dimly lit while the vestibule blazed with light. So I crept forward a little—just far enough to see who had been speaking.

  Two teenagers. I recognized one—he was short and compact, with a café au lait complexion and large, slightly almond eyes. My friend Aida Butler’s nephew, Ronnie. I couldn’t put a name to the other, who was tall, lanky, pale, and freckled, but if he wasn’t a Shiffley, he was one of their first cousins. And I recognized the look on their faces—the eager, smiling, “Who, me?” look of someone who has something to hide and thinks he’s getting away with it. If I found one of my sons wearing that look, I’d search the immediate area for broken objects and scraps of forbidden treats.

  Was I looking at the perpetrators of the skunking?

  But what reason could they have for doing it? I knew of no grudge that any of the Shiffleys had against the New Life Baptist Church, and Ronnie Butler was a member of the congregation.

  But still. I kept my eyes on them. One of the older Shiffleys called out “Caleb!” and the Shiffley boy hurried to help him carry some lumber. I didn’t recall where Caleb fit into the Shiffley family tree, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out. Ronnie was standing at attention in front of Minerva Burke, as if eager to receive an assignment. Both boys’ faces looked innocent—ostentatiously innocent.

  I made a mental note to tell Chief Burke what I’d overheard as soon as I was someplace where I couldn’t easily be overheard.

  “This is impossible!”

  Jerome Lightfoot, the New Life choir director, was standing in the middle of the vestibule, hands raised to the ceiling in a theatrical gesture. Since he was even taller than Michael—probably about six foot six—he’d have stood out even if the bustling crowd hadn’t fallen back respectfully to give him room.

  “What are these people thinking?” Lightfoot wailed. He had now grasped his hair with both hands, as if about to tear it out in despair, although I noticed that he wasn’t really gripping it hard enough to muss it up, much less yank any out.

  I’d seen him carry on like this last night, at the rehearsal, when one of the soloists had made some mistake undetectable to me. He’d berated the poor girl for a good five minutes, and she’d been visibly on the verge of tears. Afterward, when I was dropping off Aida’s daughter Kayla I asked her if this was typical.

  “Yeah,” she’d said. “Especially on the eve of a concert. The worse his nerves get, the more he takes it out on us. I was up for that solo, you know. Really bummed me out when I didn’t get it. But maybe losing it wasn’t so bad after all. At least I don’t get chewed out like that.”

  And Lightfoot was no better today. Everyone was giving him a wide berth, murmuring polite little apologies as they went past.

  “Do I have to do everything myself?” As Lightfoot said this he glared at the people surrounding him. Clearly, since no one jumped to his side offering assistance, everyone assumed this was a rhetorical question. Lightfoot snorted with impatience and strode toward the archway where I was standing.

  Given how dim the hall was compared to the brightly lit vestibule, perhaps it wasn’t entirely his fault that he slammed into me, knocking me into the wall with a thud. But he could have been more polite about it.

  “Watch it!” he said, as if I were the one who’d done something wrong.

  The lack of sleep combined with the shooting pains through my shoulder did me in and I lost my temper.

  “‘Watch it’?” I snapped. “You practically knock me down and all you say is ‘watch it’? Where the hell did you learn your manners—a stable?”

  “Well, why were you standing there blocking the hallway?” he shouted.

  “I wasn’t blocking the hallway,” I snapped. “I was just standing in it. If you weren’t so hell-bent on making sure everyone saw your little temper tantrum, maybe you’d have seen me.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward me, fists clenched. Out in the vestibule, I heard several people gasp, and I found myself wondering if he’d ever been physically abusive to any of the choir members. I remembered how some of the younger ones almost flinched when he came near them.

  But my temper was up, and I had no intention of letting him see me cower, so in spite of the throbbing waves of pain in my shoulder, I took a step forward, too, lifted my chin, and glared right back at him. I didn’t really think he’d try to strike me, but if he tried, in spite of the shoulder and the eight-inch difference in our heights, I was betting I’d come out on top. Working as a blacksmith had made me a lot stronger than most women, and I still hadn’t completely forgotten what I’d learned in several years of martial arts training. Lightfoot, on the other hand, had the weedy, hollow-chested, pasty look of someone who never bothered to exercise and was thin only because he didn’t really care about food.

  And just now he looked a little startled, as if not used to people standing up to him.

  “Hmph!” he said. Then he turned and stalked down the hall. I watched him barge into Riddick Hedges’s office. Then I turned and saw that everyone in the foyer was staring my way in stunned amazement. Or maybe in accusation—had I just spoiled everyone’s holiday mood?

  “I can’t wait to find out,” I said. “Which one of us gets the title role in How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”

  Not much of a joke, but it broke the tension. People laughed far more than it deserved, and a few even applauded.

  Minerva Burke appeared at my side.

  “You go, girl,” she said. “I think he’ll get the part, but you deserve a medal. Not many people stand up to old Bigfoot.”

  “Probably just as well, since that means he doesn’t dislocate that many people’s shoulders.” I was trying to move my arm—fortunately, the left arm—and feeling a little faint from the resulting waves of pain.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Minerva said.

  I was fumbling in my pocket for my cell phone.

  “I’m calling Dad,” I said.

  Chapter 9

  I pulled out my cell phone, but I didn’t want to move my left arm, and trying to hold the cell phone and dial it with my one good hand wasn’t working too well.

  “Here,” Minerva said, taking it out of my fingers. “Let me do that. Let’s get you sitting down someplace. Ronnie! Virgil! Come help Ms. Meg!”

  I had to admit, it was nice to be half carried into my temporary office and sit back with my eyes closed while Minerva called Dad and ordered him to come over and see to me.

  Next door we could hear occasional bellows from Lightfoot, interspersed with the nasal whine of Riddick’s voice.

  With her phone call made, Minerva pulled over a convenient box for me to put my feet on and another to sit on herself. The two of us, by unspoken agreement, fell silent and tried to figure out what all the fuss next door was about.

  “—very sorry,” Riddick was saying. “But it’s just not practical to remove the altar rail and the first few rows of pews just for the concert—”

  “Then how am I to give a concert in this wretched little sty!” Lightfoot bellowed.

  “Some of the choir will just have to stand in front of the communion rail,” Riddic
k went on.

  “I was told we’d get complete cooperation!” Lightfoot shrieked.

  They went back and forth that way for several minutes.

  “I confess,” Minerva said. “I won’t be sorry to see him go.”

  “Go? Lightfoot? You mean he’s leaving?” The news was almost as good as a Percocet.

  “Well, he doesn’t know it yet,” she said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself, but yes. We voted not to renew his contract. Unfortunately, it doesn’t run out till the end of August, so that means we still have to suffer with him for another eight months. But at least we know there’s an end in sight.”

  “You think maybe he knows?” I asked. “And that’s why he’s in such a bad mood?”

  “I haven’t noticed that he’s been in a particularly bad mood—for him,” she said. “This is pretty much what he’s like most of the time.”

  “Meg, dear.” Mother. She swept in, visibly alarmed. “Are you all right?”

  “Possible dislocated shoulder,” I said. “And I doubt if I have a temperature,” I added, as she put a hand to my forehead.

  “You never know,” she said. “Your father should be here very shortly.”

  Just then I saw another figure pass the open door, no doubt heading for Riddick’s office.

  “Who was that?” Mother asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Barliman Vess,” I answered.

  Mother uttered a small sigh of exasperation.

  “Mr. Vess is a member of our vestry,” I added to Minerva. “An elderly retired banker, a lifelong Trinity parishioner, and Mother’s particular bête noire.”

  “He’s not my bête noire, dear,” Mother murmured. “He has good intentions, even if he is sometimes a little trying.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Vess’s high, cracked voice carried easily through the wall, and probably as far as the vestibule.

  “I can handle it,” Riddick said.

  “We’ve already gone to considerable expense to accommodate your unreasonable demands,” Vess said.