“I went in yesterday to take lunch to your Mother after Michael came back to stay with the boys,” she said. “I sensed something at Trinity.”
“Something?” I repeated. “Like evil?”
“Danger.”
Her voice carried a note of firm conviction that alarmed me. I didn’t quite believe Rose Noire had the psychic ability to sense danger. But I didn’t ignore her premonitions, which all too often turned out to be accurate. My theory was that she was very good at observing facts and danger signs and even subconsciously adding them up but either unable or utterly unwilling to recognize that she was making deductions rather than having premonitions.
“I don’t trust that man,” she murmured. And then, before I could ask, she clarified: “Mr. Lightfoot. His aura is very dark and troubled. He’s not what he seems. And it’s infecting the whole choir. I sense nothing but pain and unhappiness around them.”
“Doesn’t take a psychic to figure that out,” I said. “I could tell as much just from attending a rehearsal.”
“Your instincts are good,” she said, nodding with approval. “He has something to do with the pranks.”
Not unless I was completely wrong about Ronnie and Caleb.
“Lightfoot?” I said aloud. “Seems unlikely. Why would he try to sabotage his own concert?”
“Your mother didn’t believe me either,” she said. “And I think the man she was talking to only pretended to. A tall, elderly man she was arguing with,” she added, seeing my inquiring look. “I think he has something to do with running the church.”
“That would be Mr. Vess, Trinity’s resident gadfly,” I said. “And I’m sure he’s quite willing to believe anything negative about Lightfoot.”
“I hope he takes it seriously, then,” she said. “He could be in danger, too.”
Perhaps he had taken her warning. Was it Vess who’d tried to look up Lightfoot’s history on the computer? And was he acting on his own suspicions or because of Rose Noire’s warning? I had a hard time seeing him as a believer in premonitions, but if Rose Noire hadn’t bothered to share the source of her conviction that Lightfoot was not what he seemed …
“Well, I’m taking this to the sewing ladies,” she said, stooping over to pick up the urn. “Are you going to join them?”
“Maybe later,” I said. “I was up before dawn, and I need a break.”
“Your arm is hurting you,” she said.
“Not that much—” I began.
She frowned slightly.
“Why, yes,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed it till now, but I think it is hurting me. I’d better go up, take some of those painkillers, and lie down.”
She smiled happily.
I glanced into the living room. Spike and Tinkerbell were curled up in front of the hearth, where a much larger than usual fire was blazing merrily—no doubt to impress the sewing circle attendees if they wandered into the living room. If Michael and I had to chop and split our own wood, I’d have protested the extravagance of the huge fire, but since I knew every log was helping put food on the family dinner table for one of Randall’s poorer cousins, I just pulled out my notebook and jotted down a reminder to check the level of firewood in the barn and call for a new supply if necessary. Tinkerbell raised her head and thumped her tail on the floor in greeting. Spike opened one eye, sniffed vigorously for a few moments, and then, having detected no trace odors of anything edible, went back to sleep.
“I don’t think those two have left the fireplace in days,” I said. “What did Mother do, glue them to the cushions?”
“She might as well have,” Rose Noire said. “They’re heated cushions.”
She sailed off toward the library, carrying the huge coffee urn.
Okay, now it made sense. I cast an envious glance at the cushions before trudging upstairs. Maybe it was time to break down and buy an electric blanket. I didn’t like the idea of sleeping under a tangle of wires, but if the weather kept on being this cold …
I’d worry about it later. I fell onto the bed. In a few minutes I’d gather enough energy to crawl under the covers, I told myself.
Then I realized that I felt grungy. I hadn’t had time for a shower before racing off this morning, and I’d been spending a lot of time in close proximity to duck poop.
I had plenty of time to take a shower before my nap. In fact—I felt a twinge of deliciously guilty pleasure at the thought—I had enough time to take a good, hot, soaking bath.
I ran down into the basement, because while I’d done a lot of laundry over the last several days, none of it had yet traveled upstairs from the enormous folding table I’d installed. “Getting dressed in the basement” was my own private shorthand for being woefully behind not just on niceties but on essential household chores. I needed to tackle the folding table soon.
But not right now. I collected clean clothes and a clean bath sheet. I heard voices coming down the hall from the library, and voices coming up the front step. Someone else would have to deal with them. I ran upstairs, laid out the clean clothes on my side of the bed, then dumped my dirty clothes in the hamper, snagged my fuzzy robe, and marched into the bathroom. I was trying to decide between the cinnamon-apple-spice bubble bath Michael’s mother had given me last Christmas—nice enough, but not my favorite, although, it would be tactful to finish it off before she arrived, probably bearing this year’s bubble bath offering—or Rose Noire’s homemade rose and lavender soak, which was my favorite, and tended to vanish almost as soon as a new supply arrived. And after my bath—
I was reaching to turn the faucet when I heard a noise behind me.
“Quack-quack-quack!”
I whirled, throwing my robe around me as I did.
A large white duck waddled out of the shower stall.
Chapter 16
I pulled on my robe and belted it as I peered into every cranny of the bathroom.
No one there. Just the duck. Which looked up at me expectantly.
“Quack-quack-quack!” it said again. It fluttered up to the rim of the tub and marched up and down, looking down at the tub and then up again at me.
I could see that the plug was in the tub. The old, worn-out plug, which leaked slightly—replacing it was another one of those neglected tasks. I suspected that someone had filled the tub with water, put the duck in it, and then left, not realizing that eventually our winged visitor would be left high and dry.
“No,” I said. “I am not filling the bathtub for you.”
I left the bathroom, closing the door carefully behind me. I put my nice clean clothes on, which seemed a bit of a waste, since I hadn’t managed to get myself clean to go with them, but I didn’t fancy digging the dirty ones out of the hamper.
I pulled out my cell phone. Should I call 911? No. I put it away again. The duck didn’t necessarily mean that our house had been hit by the prankster. There could be some other perfectly logical reason for the duck in our tub. Maybe it was intended as a Christmas present. Not for me or Michael, presumably, or the giver wouldn’t have hidden it in our bathroom. And I had a hard time imagining anyone in my family giving the boys a duck. My nephew Eric had had a pet duck for many years, and they all knew how much trouble it had been. And they all knew we’d only just adjusted to the amount of work required by the chickens we’d acquired this fall. I’d spent the last several months making it very clear to anyone I could even imagine giving the boys a present exactly how we’d feel if they inflicted more livestock on us.
Maybe someone in the family had been helping with the duck removal at St. Byblig’s and failed to notice one of the trespassers stowing away in his vehicle. And by someone in the family I mainly meant either Rob or Dad. Anyone else would have noticed a stowaway duck long before they got all the way out here or, failing to notice it, would find something a lot more sensible to do with it—either taking it back to town or stowing it in the barn for the time being. I couldn’t imagine anyone but Rob or maybe Dad putting the duck in our tub.
I could tell by glancing at the cars outside that neither of my prime suspects was around to be confronted.
And I really needed that nap.
So I collected the duck, took him upstairs to Rob’s bathroom, drew him an inch or so of water in the tub, and made sure the door was closed firmly.
I wasn’t keen on having that soaking bath until I’d cleaned the bathroom thoroughly to remove the last vestiges of the duck’s occupancy, so I settled for a hot shower before my nap.
And I actually did manage to sleep for an hour and a half before my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe began whispering in my ear that I should be paying attention to it. After that, sleep was impossible, so I went downstairs to see what was up.
I ran into Rose Noire in the hall.
“Do you have any idea why there was a duck in Rob’s bathroom?” she asked.
“I put it there,” I said.
She blinked.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Why did you put the duck in Rob’s bathroom?”
“I was afraid it would keep me awake if I left it in Michael’s and my bathroom. And before you ask, I have no idea why there was a duck in our bathroom. Maybe it’s left over from the church prank.”
“I think we should take it outside,” Rose Noire said. “I can set up a nice place for it in one of the sheds and—”
“No,” I said. “It’s not staying. It needs to go back to wherever it came from as soon as possible, before the boys see it and want to keep it.”
“Oh, dear.” Rose Noire glanced toward the kitchen.
I suddenly realized that I could hear Spike barking in the kitchen.
I had a bad feeling about this. I strode down the hallway and burst into the kitchen.
The duck was in the middle of the kitchen, inside the plastic fencing that we had used as a portable playpen for the boys before they figured out how to climb over it. The boys were inside the pen, petting the duck. Spike and Tinkerbell had deserted their heated cushions to inspect the newcomer. Tinkerbell was just sitting outside the pen, sniffing occasionally, and wagging her tail. Spike was scurrying around the outside of the pen, growling nonstop, except when he erupted into brief fits of barking. Rob was standing just outside the pen with his hands in his pockets, looking worried. Mother was setting the kitchen table. Michael was tending two pans on the stove, and Dad was slicing ham. From the haste all the adults were displaying—well, Michael and Dad, at least—I deduced that the boys had returned from rehearsal hungry and perhaps a little cranky, and they were hurrying to get food ready before the distraction of the duck wore off and they remembered their tummies.
“Rob brought him down,” Rose Noire said. “And I left him there while I went out to fix a place for him…”
“I get it,” I said. “I’m more interested in where the duck came from in the first place.”
Rob and Michael both winced. That surprised me; I hadn’t suspected Michael of any involvement in the duck’s arrival. Mother and Dad looked as if they’d also like to hear the answer.
“Mom sent a grocery list of things she wanted for her Christmas dinner,” Michael said. “I was pretty busy yesterday, so Rob offered to get everything.”
“And I did,” Rob said. “Except for the duck. The market didn’t have fresh ducks. And she was very specific—not a frozen duck.”
“You should have gotten a frozen one,” Michael said. “We could have taken the wrapper off and hid it till it was thawed. She’d never have known.”
“Now he tells me,” Rob said. “Anyway, I ran into one of the Shiffleys who said he could get me a fresh duck. Said he’d deliver it this morning. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Unfortunately, the duck is a little too fresh,” Michael said.
We all looked in dismay at the boys, who were happily chasing the duck around the perimeter of the playpen while Spike kept pace with them on the outside. The duck didn’t seem to mind. Dad took up a station just outside the pen and began handing the boys little bits of ham or cheese each time they passed.
“The first thing to do is to get the duck out of sight,” I said. “Jamie! Josh! It’s nearly time for lunch. Go wash your hands.”
“Can I feed ducky?” Josh asked.
“The duck has to go outside,” I said. “Ducks don’t belong in the kitchen.”
“Nooo!” Josh wailed.
“Want ducky,” Jamie whined.
Think fast, I told myself, if you don’t want to start a flock of ducks on top of all the chickens.
“We have to hide the duck,” I said. “It’s a present for someone else,” I said.
Both boys’ faces fell, and I could tell that tears, in large quantities, were moments away.
“But don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll be able to see him all the time.”
The boys looked hopeful. As I glanced around, seeking inspiration, I could see that every adult in the room was staring at me in dismay. Mother was shaking her head almost imperceptibly.
“Where is everybody? And when’s lunch?”
Grandfather strode into the room.
Chapter 17
Although giving animals to Grandfather made about as much sense as trying to give Mother a decorating book she didn’t already have, he was probably the only adult in the room who wouldn’t hate me if I gave him the duck.
“Darn,” I said. “Looks as if we’ve spoiled the surprise. I guess there’s nothing to do but give it to him a little early.”
I picked up the duck, strode over, and handed it to Grandfather.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
Grandfather stared for a few moments at the duck in his hands as if he’d never seen one before.
“Gampy like duck?” Josh said. He sounded anxious.
“Why, yes!” Grandfather said. “What a surprise!”
“Better than a tie,” Rob put in.
“Wear it in good health,” Michael said, lifting a water glass and then gulping down half its contents.
“And a fine, fat bird,” Grandfather said. He poked the duck’s ample, downy white breast and nodded appreciatively. “Well, I shall look forward to having this with—”
“With all the other animals in your petting zoo,” I said.
“Not sure we need any more—” he began
“Because he’s a very fine duck,” I said. “I’m sure the children who come to the zoo will enjoy visiting him.”
“But what’s wrong with a little roast—”
“You know how much little children love ducks,” I said. “The boys have already grown fond of him.”
As if on cue, they both toddled over to tug at Grandfather’s trousers, in a subtle hint that he should hold his present a little lower and let them enjoy it, too. He obliged.
“Ducky!” Jamie cooed happy. He was gently stroking the duck’s wing feathers.
“See,” I said. “They’ve already named him.”
“That’s not a name,” Grandfather growled. “It’s a generic description.”
“Ducky Lucky!” Josh said. He was pounding the duck on the head with the same vigor one would use on a large and rambunctious dog. Ducky Lucky seemed to take it all in stride.
“I rest my case.”
“Hmph!” Grandfather said.
“And see?” Michael put in. “He’s obviously quite tame enough to be a great addition to the petting zoo.”
Grandfather shook his head. But it wasn’t a “Hell, no!” headshake. More of a “What now?” He turned his attention to Ducky Lucky and his two human acolytes.
“Feel how oily his feathers are.” Grandfather demonstrated for the boys by stroking the duck’s feathers gently. “You know why that is?”
Both boys shook their heads and began massaging the duck’s feathers with enthusiasm.
“It makes them waterproof and keeps them warm. Come on—Let’s take Lucky out to the barn and I’ll teach you a few things about ducks.”
He strode out, a
nd his tiny pupils tried to follow, though we had to stop them and stuff them into their winter wraps before we let them out. Dad grabbed several newly made ham-and-cheese sandwiches and trailed after them. Everyone else in the room let out a sigh of relief.
“So I guess I should tell Michael’s mother I couldn’t find a fresh duck?” Rob asked.
“Please,” Michael said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever want Peking duck again.”
“She won’t be happy,” I said. “Why not call whoever you got it from and demand a replacement that’s ready to cook?”
“I can’t do that,” Rob said. “I mean, he did deliver the duck. Besides, I don’t know his name. And I paid cash. I offered to write a check, but he insisted on cash. I got the feeling maybe he wasn’t really supposed to be selling the ducks. He was kind of hanging around the poultry section of the market, and came up to me when he overheard that I couldn’t get a fresh duck.”
“Let me get this straight,” Michael said. “The night before several hundred ducks were stolen from Quincy Shiffley’s farm, you made arrangements for a random Shiffley to deliver a live duck here.”
“A fresh duck,” Rob said.
“And sometime this morning you took delivery of what you already suspected might be a stolen duck.”
Rob squirmed and nodded. I found myself thinking, not for the first time, that if Michael had gone in for law school instead of drama school, he’d have made a first-class prosecutor. And that the chief might want to check up on the Shiffley who’d delivered our duck.
“It sounds so terrible the way you put it,” Rob said.
“How can you be so sure he was a Shiffley?” I asked.
“He looked like a Shiffley,” Rob said. “And besides, I saw him helping build the stage at Trinity.”
“So maybe he was just working for the Shiffley Construction Company.”
“Do all their employees call Randall ‘Uncle Randall’?”
I pulled out my cell phone and hit one of my speed dial buttons. Randall Shiffley answered his phone on the first ring.
“What’s up?” he said. “Any new schedule changes?”
“Do you have any idea which of your many relatives would have sold my brother a fresh duck last night?”
Duck the Halls Page 10