Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries)

by Donna Andrews

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “We designed and built a removable stage and a set of risers that are custom fitted to the space here at Trinity,” Randall said. “With all due respect to Mr. Vess, I can appreciate a fine bit of craftsmanship when I see it, and that’s why I wanted a solution that didn’t require driving a single nail into your beautiful hundred-and-fifty-year-old oak woodwork. After tonight’s concert, it won’t take more than half an hour to disassemble it so y’all can have services tomorrow morning as usual, and then after the last church service we’ll put it back up again for tomorrow night’s concert. If there’s a single scratch or nail hole I’ll personally make it good as new. And Trinity gets to keep the whole thing, so if you ever need a stage, with or without risers again, you’ve got one. Your minister’s pleased as punch—what’s Vess’s problem? He’s been riding us all day.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Randall this provoked. My sympathy for Vess was fading.

  “Robyn’s sane,” I said. “Vess, not so much. If the congregation took a vote on who they most wished would get fed up with Trinity and join some other church—any other church—I’m betting Vess would win, hands down.”

  “Just don’t sic him on First Presbyterian,” Randall said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rant at you. I think I’ll make myself scarce before he comes back.”

  “And as soon as I send out what I fondly hope is the final schedule, I’m going home to shower and rest,” I said. “So maybe I’ll be able to enjoy some time with Michael and the boys when they get back from Christmas shopping. Don’t forget those portapotties.”

  “I won’t.” He stood up, nodded, and strolled out.

  I scanned the schedule and made one more change. Not much I could do about today, but tomorrow? Lightfoot had a couple of hours’ worth of rehearsals with his soloists scheduled for Sunday afternoon. I swapped them into the Methodist church, so Mrs. Dahlgren could enjoy his company for a while.

  I sent out a group e-mail with the new schedule, sent a copy to the printer, saved the file, and packed up my things. I made sure I had the meds Dad had provided, but decided to wait until I got home to take more of them. Detachment was great for coping with recalcitrant people, but my current alert—if cranky—state seemed better for dealing with snowy driving conditions.

  Just as I entered the vestibule, the choir started another song.

  “There’s a star in the east on Christmas morn,” sang a soaring soprano soloist.

  “Rise up, shepherds, and follow,” answered the choir.

  I stepped into the sanctuary and perched on a pew to listen, just for few minutes. The soloist and choir both sounded wonderful to me, but from Mr. Lightfoot’s gestures and facial expressions, I could tell he wasn’t happy.

  Just as the soloist was beginning the third verse, my cell phone rang. It wasn’t loud, and I had the ring tone set to a single chime, which was not as intrusive as the loud and intricate tunes so many people seemed to favor, but Lightfoot turned and glared at me as if about to shout “Off with her head.”

  I pressed the answer button before the phone rang a second time and ran out into the vestibule to take the call. In fact, for good measure, I ran all the way outside the church.

  “Meg, dear?” Mother. “Is this a bad time?”

  Chapter 11

  I was tempted to lie and say I was busy, before she had a chance to ask whatever she was calling me to ask. But I felt a little superstitious about uttering falsehoods on the steps of a church.

  “Not a bad time for me,” I said. “Mr. Lightfoot may yet kill me for interrupting his choir practice.”

  “Mr. Lightfoot should be very grateful to you that he has a place to practice,” Mother said. “Speaking of finding places…”

  I winced. I could already see my latest carefully arranged schedule collapsing like a house of cards. I leaned against one of the bright red double front doors, brushed a aside a stray frond of spruce from the wreath that was trying to tickle me, closed my eyes, and braced myself.

  “We need a place to hold a sewing bee,” she said. “The cleaning company says there’s nothing they can do about the seat cushions that were sprayed by the skunks. So we’re going to make all new ones.”

  “Do we have to do it now?” I asked. “And who’s ‘we’?” I hoped she hadn’t forgotten how meager my sewing skills were.

  “The New Life Ladies’ Auxiliary and St. Clotilda’s Guild,” Mother said. “And yes, we need to do it now because there’s a chance we can get the church back in operation for Christmas Day services. If the cleaning service manages to get the smell out of the heating system and Randall’s crew can finish replacing the wood that soaked up the scent and we can handle the cushions, the church will be as good as new!”

  I was working on a tactful way of suggesting that once the cleaning service got the ducts clean, the Baptists could have their services back with folding chairs instead of new pews and upholstery, and maybe the sewing bee could wait until after Christmas. Suddenly the church’s outdoor decoratives came on, outlining every tree, bush, lamppost, and fence post with fairy lights. No similarly sudden illumination flooded my brain—only a mild curiosity about whether someone had just turned them on or whether they were on a timer. Then Mother spoke again.

  “We were thinking of using your library, dear. If that’s okay with you. It’s big enough, and we wouldn’t really be in your way.”

  It sounded like such an easy solution. True, I’d resisted offering the library when I was compiling my schedule, in no small part because Michael and I were still very much enjoying having it to ourselves. We’d lent the space, along with our barn, to the county for several years during the financial crisis, when Caerphilly had lost possession of its library building and needed someplace to house the books. But now that we had it back, I wasn’t keen on making it a public space again.

  “And of course we’d be happy to watch the boys if you and Michael need to do a little last-minute Christmas shopping.”

  Mothers of twins can be induced to do many things with an offer of free babysitting.

  “Fine,” I said. “But just the library—not Michael’s office, which is where we’ve hidden all the Christmas presents. Except for yours, which are somewhere else entirely and already wrapped,” I added.

  “Of course, dear.” Mother was almost purring. “I wouldn’t think of peeking. I’ll be over in half an hour or so to make sure everything’s ready.”

  “Surely you weren’t planning to start tonight?” I asked. “Won’t a lot of people want to be at the concert?”

  “We’re starting bright and early at eight tomorrow,” Mother said. “For those who aren’t attending early services, of course; they can come later.”

  “Why don’t I just make sure all our stuff is out of the library when I get home?” I asked. “I’ll be there soon.”

  “That would be perfect, dear,” Mother said. “And I’ll see to the decorations,” she added.

  “‘Decorations’? Mother, you already decorated our house weeks ago—remember?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said. “But that was weeks ago. Things might need a little sprucing up. And back then I was just decorating for you—not for the Ladies’ Auxiliary and St. Clotilda’s. See you soon.”

  With that she hung up.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out what feats of decorating Mother was capable of when she was trying to impress not one but two church women’s groups. At least between my bruised shoulder, my job as location tsarina, and most important, Michael and the boys, I’d have plenty of very valid excuses to avoid getting involved if Mother tried to enlist my help.

  I ducked back inside. In my haste to remove my offending phone from choir practice, I’d left my purse, my coat, and the tote containing my laptop in the pew where I’d been sitting. I slipped into the sanctuary and collected my gear. Lightfoot was so busy yelling at the baritones for sloppy enunciation that he didn’t notice my arrival.

>   As I was about to leave, I realized I hadn’t collected the hard copy of the latest schedule from my printer. I plodded down the dark little hallway to my temporary office. I unlocked my door, went in, and closed it after me, because I suddenly felt a little light-headed and didn’t want anyone to see me wilt into my desk chair.

  Definitely time to go home and rest. Past time. And maybe a good time to take that next dose of the tranquilizer after all. I set down my tote and began to rummage through it one-handed for the water bottle I usually kept there.

  Then I heard a noise from the office next door. From Riddick’s office. Which had been closed when I walked down the hall, with no line of light under the doorway.

  I was opening my mouth to ask who was there when it occurred to me that maybe someone who was sitting in an office with the lights off might be doing something that wasn’t on the up-and-up.

  I put down my tote and the water bottle and tried to stand up quietly. I was taking slow, careful steps toward the door—

  And tripped over my purse. I twisted to avoid landing on my shoulder, and ended up knocking over the office chair, which landed with a noisy clatter on the linoleum floor. I scrambled up as quickly as I could, but I heard soft, rapid footsteps going down the hall.

  By the time I opened the door, the hallway was empty.

  And now Riddick’s office door was standing open.

  I walked in.

  At first I thought that Riddick had made a clumsy attempt to decorate his office for Christmas. Then I realized that the decorations piled on his desk, his shelves, and his floor were actually church castoffs—broken angels, half-melted candles, an ancient fly-specked Santa. All the worn-out items Mother and the ladies of St. Clotilda had winnowed out and marked for donation or disposal when they’d decorated the church. Was he keeping the junk out of some sense of thrift or feeling of nostalgia? Or was it merely, like so many other things at Trinity, a case of Riddick just not yet getting around to dealing with the detritus?

  Maybe the mounds of paper covering every horizontal surface were similar signs of neglect rather than busyness. It would take someone more familiar with them—perhaps only Riddick himself—to tell if anyone had been messing with them. But I did notice that his computer was on. Would he have gone home and left it on? Many people did, of course. If I were Riddick and knew Barliman Vess might come snooping around at any time, alert to every nanowatt of waste, I wouldn’t, but maybe Riddick was used to Vess’s nagging.

  I stepped inside to see what was on the screen. It appeared to be the alumni directory for a prestigious school of music. Someone had done a search on the name “Lightfoot.” I scrolled down to see the results. Only one Lightfoot, and he was Arnold, not Jerome. The picture didn’t look right, either—the choir director was a tall, skinny, light-skinned African-American. This Lightfoot was a short, bespectacled white guy with thinning blond hair. About the only similarity was their age—at a guess, they were both in their forties.

  Of course, the fact that our Lightfoot hadn’t showed up didn’t necessarily mean anything. I wondered if the University of Virginia, my alma mater, had an online searchable directory—one accessible to anyone who went to the alumni Web site. If they did, they certainly wouldn’t have a recent picture of me. Maybe Lightfoot just hadn’t signed up for the directory. It seemed largely calculated to let students and alumni look for jobs and network with people who might be interested in musical collaborations and jamming. Lightfoot had a job, and I didn’t see him as the collaborating type.

  Up until a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have had the slightest idea how to extract any more information from Riddick’s computer, but it had occurred to me that given how precocious Josh and Jamie were, all too soon they would start playing with our computers and getting into who knows what sort of trouble. One of the perks of Rob owning a computer game company was access to expert tech support whenever we needed it. Rob had been happy to send over someone from his help desk to set up parental controls on all our computers and to teach me a few basics on how to check up after the boys—knowledge I hoped I wouldn’t have to use for a few more years.

  As a result, I knew how to find the list of other pages this browser had recently visited. It was a moderately interesting list. Someone had searched for Lightfoot’s name, alone and in combination with the music school and with the name of a Baptist church in Detroit.

  Someone was suddenly very interested in Mr. Lightfoot.

  Of course, this fact would be a lot more useful if I knew who was doing the snooping. It could have been Riddick, before he left. Or any of the dozens of other people who had been coming and going from the church all day, including whoever had fled when I’d knocked over my chair.

  I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the history, and then another of the page showing the wrong Lightfoot. Then I turned off the computer and shut and locked Riddick’s door.

  I collected my purse and tote and locked up my office, too.

  In the vestibule, I opened the door to peek into the sanctuary. Several dozen people were listening to the rehearsal. Including Mr. Vess, who did not appear to be enjoying himself. He was standing in the back, glaring at Lightfoot.

  I closed the door and was about to leave when I heard a loud thud followed by some clanking noises to the left side of the vestibule, where another corridor led to the classrooms and the parish hall.

  Two Shiffleys were each holding one end of a small stack of long boards and looking down at a small toolbox lying on the floor with some of its contents spilled out. Clearly the metal tools were the source of the clanking noises.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  They both jumped when I spoke, and then relaxed.

  “We thought you were him for a minute,” one said.

  “Let’s get the rest of this stuff loaded before he does come out again,” the other one said.

  “Meg, could you put that toolbox on top of the boards?” the first asked.

  “She’s injured,” the other said. “You can’t ask her to—”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I can do it one-handed.” I put down my stuff, dumped the tools back in the box, and set it as securely as possible on top of the boards.

  “Thanks,” one of them said.

  “Come on,” the other said, looking around nervously. “Let’s go before he comes out here again.”

  I followed them out. They thanked me again as they threw the boards and then the kit roughly into the back of a Shiffley Construction Company truck. Then they roared off before I’d finished stowing my stuff in the car.

  Had Lightfoot unnerved them so much? Or something else?

  I shoved the thought aside, got into the car, and headed for home.

  Chapter 12

  It was snowing again, so I decided maybe it was a good thing I’d been distracted before I took another pill. The ride home promised to be a little slippery.

  But I did enjoy the part of it that led through the town square of Caerphilly. Nearly every building was decorated, some with tasteful wreaths and natural evergreens, others with twinkling lights. The county’s annual holiday parade had already taken place, but many of the floats had been installed as decorations in the town square, at the foot of the county’s living Christmas tree, a specially planted Colorado blue spruce that, according to Randall, was “just a smidgen shorter than the national Christmas tree.”

  I was pleased to see that the town square was still covered with snow. If the snow didn’t melt by Christmas Eve, Randall would set the plows to clearing out a space at the foot of the Christmas tree so the crowds could gather to watch the living Nativity pageant across the street at the Methodist church and then gather around the county tree for the community carol sing. But for now, the large expanse of snow, unbroken except for occasional footprints from birds or foxes, was magical.

  A surprising number of people were trooping up and down the sidewalks and in and out of all the shops around the town square. Maybe Randall’s campaign
to promote holiday tourism was working. I wasn’t sure why “Christmas in Caerphilly” had a Victorian theme—maybe Randall, like me, had seen A Christmas Carol too many times at an impressionable age—but I enjoyed it. Nearly every corner had a band of carolers in Victorian costume, entertaining passersby while collecting donations for local charities. The outdoor stalls, also for charity, were doing a brisk business in hot beverages—coffee, tea, chocolate, and cider mulled with spices—and hot snacks, including muffins, cookies, candied apples, and roasted chestnuts. There were long lines for the hay rides, in reproduction farm wagons pulled by teams of sleek draft horses, specially chosen because they weren’t spooked by the constant jingling of all the bells on their harnesses. And even longer lines to have pictures taken in borrowed Victorian costumes either in front of the town Christmas tree or in a genuine one-horse sleigh with a beautiful dappled gray horse harnessed to it.

  It was more peaceful when I reached the residential areas of town, although I doubt if I spotted a single house without some kind of Christmas or winter decoration. On the outskirts of town I passed by several hills and ravines bristling with sledders and snowboarders. And when I got out into the country, I passed the occasional group of people who in spite of the fact that they were rapidly traversing the frozen fields on cross-country skis still found the energy to wave their poles and me and shout “Merry Christmas!” and “Happy holidays!”

  For a moment I tried to imagine trekking that way across the countryside with Michael and the boys. And then I gave it up. My arm had begun bothering me on the way home. I waited until I was safely parked in the driveway, then took the pill with a long pull from the water bottle and walked inside. Michael’s car was there, which meant he and the boys were home from their shopping.

  James and Josh were very glad to see me, and only the sight of my sling prevented them from hurling themselves upon me. They kept staring at the sling and asking what it was until I finally led them into the kitchen and made each of them a dish-towel sling.