St. Byblig’s was a quaint little gray stone building nestled into the side of a hill on the outskirts of Caerphilly. The roofs were covered with snow, the surrounding grove of evergreens all had a light dusting of snow that outlined every needle, and the whole thing looked like a picture postcard. Well, except for the long line of people well bundled in overcoats and down jackets, trudging into the church with their gloved hands empty and then out again, each carrying a snowy white duck. It was a memorable scene, and a reporter from The Caerphilly Clarion was taking pictures to document it.
The line continued down to a small panel truck from the Shiffley Construction Company, parked at the foot of the church steps. Here the process was reversed—people walked in carrying ducks and walked out empty-handed, to join the procession back into the church.
I parked my car as close to the door as I could, and peeked into the panel truck on my way into the church. Someone had done a quick conversion job with chicken wire and a rough door frame, transforming most of the space inside the truck into a giant duck cage.
“Morning, Meg.” Inside the truck, Caroline Willner was minding the gate, holding it open just enough for each arriving human to tuck his or her duck inside, and then shutting it so the ducks already in residence couldn’t escape.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“Down to the zoo for now,” she said. “Your grandfather’s got his men clearing out some space.”
“Odds are they won’t have to stay there long,” I said. “Sooner or later, some farmer is going to wake up and notice his ducks are gone.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already,” she said. “Of course, when someone does show up, we’ll need some proof of ownership. No way we’re just going to turn over several hundred valuable Pekin ducks to any old person who shows up claiming to have lost some. We’re nearly full here—can you stick your head out and see if the other truck’s back?”
I did as ordered.
“No other truck in sight,” I reported.
“Blast. Well, send in the next dozen ducks, and have the rest wait back in the church till the truck’s here.”
I relayed her instructions to the duck-laden conga line. The first twelve queued up outside the truck door while the rest trudged back into the church, calling out “Hold up! Waiting for the next truck!” to those still emerging from the church.
By the time I reached St. Byblig’s vestibule, it was filled with people standing around holding ducks in their arms and chatting cheerfully with one another—a little loudly, to be heard over all the quacking.
“There she is!” Robyn and Father Donnelly waved me over.
“Let’s talk in my office,” Father Donnelly said. Normally his round ruddy face would have worn a broad smile, but this morning he looked harried. “More peaceful away from all the livestock. It’s the wrong season for the blessing of the animals.”
“Can I see the scene of the crime first?” I asked.
“Help yourself.” He shuddered, and gestured to the doors leading to the sanctuary.
I peered in. Dozens of white ducks were still waddling about the floor, resting on the pew seats and kneelers, or perched on the top of the pews. Considering the number of ducks in the truck outside, in a holding pattern in the vestibule, or already on their way to their temporary quarters at the zoo, the original duck infestation must have been impressive.
“Quite a lot of them,” I said aloud.
“Hundreds,” he said. “For all I know it could be thousands. I expect someone is counting them, if you’re curious. I have no doubt they’ll want to publish the statistic in the newspaper. At least I can report one blessing—they all seemed to have stayed on this side of the altar railing. So while there’s a lot of soiling in the nave and some of the nearby meeting rooms, the chancel area, thanks be to God, seems untouched.”
“And we had the Shiffley Construction workmen rig that netting to make sure it stays that way.” Robyn pointed to the far end of the church, where several expanses of ten-foot-tall deer netting divided the main part of the church from the raised area with the altar.
“Good idea,” I said. “Well, let’s get started.”
It took two hours and countless phone calls to devise a workable solution, and in the end we only managed it because the Methodist and Lutheran ministers offered to hold an ecumenical service at the Methodist church, freeing up a time slot at the Lutheran church for one of the masses for the refugees from St. Byblig’s. Also, in a novel idea, the Caerphilly Bowl-o-Rama, which didn’t normally open till one on Sunday, offered the use of its space until that time and we relocated all the St. Byblig’s Sunday school classes there. Father Donnelly made a quick call to his archdiocese, where a sleepy monsignor gave the chancery’s approval to our revised plans.
“The Bowl-o-Rama,” Father Donnelly said. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“‘Wherever two or more of you are gathered in His name,’” Robyn quoted.
“Yes,” Father Donnelly said. “But thank the Lord for the Lutherans and Methodists. I’m not sure how the chancery would have reacted if I’d asked to hold the mass in a bowling alley.”
I decided not to point out that it could come to that, if Caerphilly’s reigning prankster continued unchecked. From the look on his face, I suspected that thought had already occurred to him.
“Perhaps I should ask now, just in case,” he murmured, picking up the telephone again.
“Let’s get the e-mails and telephone trees going,” Robyn said.
Since it was Sunday morning and most of the clergy were conducting services and not apt to be near their computers any time soon, I printed out two dozen copies of the schedule (version seven) and drove around to the various churches to hand deliver them. At the Methodist church, Mrs. Dahlgren, the secretary, give me a particularly poisonous look. I couldn’t pretend not to know why so I just ignored it. And the portapotties didn’t look that bad. Randall’s crew had set them up right behind the life-sized Nativity scene on the grass in front of the church—which would, with the figures removed, be the venue for the live-action Nativity on Christmas Eve. Someone—probably at Mother’s direction—had screened the portapotties as much as possible with a lot of very leafy fake palm trees. They’d even painted the white portapotties with faux doors and windows and rooftop terraces, so they looked remarkably like the little dioramas of Bethlehem I remembered building in my childhood Sunday school classes, even down to a light dusting of snow to soften everything.
Mrs. Dahlgren may have been vexed, but a great many of the congregation—particularly the children—were charmed with the dramatic addition to their Nativity scene. As I left, I could see Reverend Trask beaming as he and Reverend Larsen supervised a joint task force of Methodist and Lutheran children who were dusting the snow off all the human figures in the scene. He waved back at me cheerfully and gave me a double thumbs-up. So there, Mrs. Dahlgren.
As I drove around, I found it was gnawing at me that I still hadn’t managed to tell the chief about overhearing Caleb and Ronnie. I wasn’t sure whether to be irritated at the chief for not calling me, or with myself, for not persisting. I finally pulled over and called again. And once again I reached only his voice mail.
“This is Meg Langslow,” I said. “Just wanted to remind you that I may have some information on who’s pulling these pranks.”
At the First Presbyterian Church a service was letting out. I ran into Randall Shiffley and learned that progress had been made in solving the mystery of who owned the ducks.
Chapter 15
“We’re pretty sure the ducks belong to my cousin Quincy,” Randall explained. “He’s been in the hospital, recovering from heart surgery. He’s a bachelor, so there’d be no one at his farm to notice someone loading up the ducks. We’ve all been taking turns going over to look after them, but we haven’t had anyone sleeping there, so the place was wide open for the duck thief. Looks like they even used his big truck to do the hauling.�
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I almost asked if his nephew Caleb was one of the ones who’d been helping with the duck care, but thought better of it. I’d let the chief sort that one out.
“I gather he has a lot of ducks?” I asked instead. “So whoever was doing the feeding wouldn’t necessarily miss the borrowed ones immediately?”
“Does he ever!” Randall exclaimed. “Man, but I hope he gets well before my next turn to go over there. Do you have any idea how much poop eight or nine hundred ducks can produce?”
“Yes, I saw St. Byblig’s,” I said.
“Maybe I should go apologize to old Barliman Vess,” Randall says. “He keeps filing complaints about Quincy with the health department and the police and any other agency he can think of.”
“Complaints about what?”
“The noise and the smell and the fact that occasionally the ducks get into his garden and eat his plants,” Randall said. “And I understand how Vess feels—I wouldn’t want to live there myself—but fair’s fair. Quincy was there first, and that part of the county is zoned for agricultural use. What kind of idiot moves in next to a working duck farm and then starts complaining that his neighbors are quacking and pooping too much? City folks.”
I nodded, feeling just a little flattered. Having the locals complain to you about city folks was, I knew, a distinct step up from being city folks yourself.
“I think the biggest problem is that Quincy’s operating as a free-range farm,” Randall said. “If he was running a conventional duck farm with the birds all cooped up in tiny little cages—which is what Vess kept suggesting—they probably could have gotten along okay. But these days, at least around here, the money’s in raising free-range, organic birds for the premium market.”
“And Quincy’s birds are a little too free-ranging for Mr. Vess’s taste?”
“Yup.” Randall nodded. “Well, I should be off. Got to move the ducks back to Quincy’s farm before your grandfather gets fed up and starts feeding them to his wolves.”
I hoped Randall was kidding. Then again, while Grandfather was devoted in theory to the welfare of all animals, he did have a sneaking fondness for carnivores and predators.
I had saved Trinity Episcopal for last, figuring if I had any energy left I could attend the ten o’clock service. But by the time I got there, my energy was nearly gone.
Trinity was hopping. The classrooms were filled with Episcopal and Baptist Sunday school classes. Father Donnelly was galloping through a briskly paced Catholic mass in the sanctuary, no doubt confusing a few Episcopalians who hadn’t gotten the word that the usual nine o’clock service had been pushed back to ten. The vestibule was filled with Episcopalians waiting patiently for their service to begin, and not seeming to mind the wait much, because they all had so much news and gossip to catch up on.
I ran into Mother, resplendent in a new red-and-gold hat.
“Meg! Would you like to sit with me and the ladies?”
“Another time,” I said. “I’ve been up since before dawn working on the schedule, and my arm is bothering me.” I realized as I said it that this wasn’t a white lie. My arm was starting to ache slightly.
“We’ll tell you all about it later,” one of the ladies said. “When we come out for the sewing bee.”
“And Michael and the boys can sit with us,” Mother said.
The boys looked very fine in their little suits, including special red and green plaid ties in honor of the season. I shuddered, briefly, imagining how hard it had been for Michael to achieve their sartorial splendor, and made sure both they and Michael knew how impressed I was.
“We’re staying afterward for the rehearsal,” Michael said.
“‘Rehearsal’? Oh, for the Christmas pageant.” Trinity always had what we called a Christmas pageant. It was actually a lot like the live Nativity that the Methodists had on their front lawn on Christmas Eve. But since we held it in the sanctuary, children in costume acted the parts of the animals, along with Mary, Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, and the angels.
The part of baby Jesus was normally played by a startlingly lifelike doll. The year the boys were born the well-meaning volunteer in charge of the pageant decided it would be adorable to have a real baby play the part. She recruited Josh and Jamie, on the rather unsound theory that they wouldn’t both be cranky and crying at showtime. In her defense, it had been at least twenty years since her own children were infants, and she was the first to admit that we should bring back the doll after the first rehearsal, when Jamie projectile vomited on Melchior and a couple of helpless sheep.
This year, Robyn had recruited Michael to read the Christmas story as the children acted it out, while the choir would lead the congregation in a few musical selections, like “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night” when all the sheep milled on stage and “We Three Kings” when the wise men made their entrance. I was looking forward to the performance, but I hadn’t realized Michael had signed the boys up to participate. Though I was glad to hear that in spite of their previous attempt to turn the Christmas story into The Exorcist the boys were still welcome back.
“That’s good,” I said. “What are the boys—sheep?” Most of the smaller children ended up as sheep.
“They’re going to wear their Halloween costumes,” Michael said.
“But they were dinosaurs for Halloween,” I pointed out. “I don’t think there were a lot of dinosaurs in Bethlehem in biblical times.”
“Picky, picky,” Michael said. “Robyn’s got a more expansive approach to the pageant. Wait till you see it.”
I felt a brief twinge of guilt at weaseling out of the service, but my eyelids were drooping more and more. And if Michael and the boys were attending not only the service but also the rehearsal, I might have time for a proper nap.
With visions of soft pillows and our down comforter dancing through my head, I headed for the exit. Unfortunately I got caught up in the human traffic jam in the vestibule, as several hundred Catholics tried to leave the sanctuary at the same time that a similar number of Episcopalians tried to enter. It wasn’t just the sheer numbers but the fact that everyone wanted to clump in little groups to share news and gossip with friends they didn’t usually get to see on Sunday morning. And by the time I managed to escape to the parking lot, so had a lot of the departing Catholics, while late-arriving Episcopalians were cruising up and down the lanes, looking for vacant spaces that would have been a lot easier to create if the impatient new arrivals would stop blocking in the departing cars.
By the time I was finally out of the parking lot and on my way, I felt distinctly low on Christmas cheer. The words “Bah! Humbug!” kept trying to escape from my lips. Clearly I needed an attitude adjustment, so I turned on the radio and tuned in the Caerphilly College station.
Normally at this time of year KCAE radio was shorthanded because most of the student staff left for the holidays. The few who remained usually filled airtime with long, interrupted sequences of Christmas carols. My spirits rose at the prospect.
Unfortunately today the radio station appeared to have fallen into the hands of a few students who were either more enterprising or perhaps enjoying the opportunity to play around with minimal faculty or editorial supervision. I quickly deduced that they’d been running around interviewing various people in town about the pranks, and then interspersing audio clips from the interviews with clips from the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup. I couldn’t quite decide whether the juxtaposition made the interviewees sound a lot funnier or a lot less intelligent. Or both.
I finally punched the off button and tried to hum for the rest of the way home. And for some reason as soon as I spotted the first few sheep belonging to Seth Early, our neighbor across the road, I cheered up immensely and began singing aloud.
“Shepherds shake off your drowsy sleep, rise and leave your silly sheep.”
Although I hoped Seth wouldn’t hear me referring to his dignified Lincoln sheep as silly. And I had to admit there wasn’t anything s
illy about them, since he’d resisted Mother’s suggestion that he decorate them all for the holiday with big red bows.
At least twenty additional cars were parked up and down both sides of the road in front of our house. Several women with piecework totes or brown paper grocery bags were trotting down the path that ran along the left side of the house and led to the backyard where the library had its own entrance.
A real hostess would have gone and greeted the ladies, made sure they had enough light, offered them coffee and tea.
Instead, I scurried up the path and let myself into the house, looking over my shoulder, and managed to shut the door just as another car pulled up.
I took a deep breath. And then another. The house wasn’t quiet—soft instrumental carols were playing through the sound system Mother had set up. But it was peaceful. I inhaled the cinnamon, clove, and evergreen smells. I looked around. Mother had upped the ante on the decorations, all right. The foyer didn’t look like our foyer. It looked like a set for a movie. A movie set at Christmas, back in Victorian times. Maybe a new remake of A Christmas Carol. Any second a director would yell action and a flock of actors would walk in, the women in crinolines and the men in frock coats and—
“Meg?”
Rose Noire was standing in the hallway from the kitchen, holding the large coffee urn we used for parties and looking at me with a worried expression.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “You were just standing there staring at the chandelier.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Long day already.”
“Yes,” she said. “And you need to be very, very careful over there.”
“Careful?” I said. “I’m only over at Trinity. It’s not exactly hazardous duty.”
“Not physically, no.” She set the urn down on the floor by the stairs, stood up, and clasped her hands dramatically. “But I sense unseen danger there.”
“You can sense it all the way out here?” I tried not to sound too incredulous.
Duck the Halls Page 9