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

by Donna Andrews

  “Maybe they won’t renew his contract.” I was dying to tell her what Minerva had said, but I didn’t dare.

  “Let’s hope so. Lord forgive me, when I heard about the murder, I couldn’t help wondering for a moment if Lightfoot was the victim. Not hoping, mind you, but wondering. And I wasn’t a bit relieved when I found out it was that harmless old man instead.”

  “He wasn’t that harmless,” I said.

  “A lot of people wished him ill, then?” Aida perked up as if she found this interesting news.

  “The chief already knows that he was not well liked at Trinity,” I said. “I couldn’t stand him myself. But I didn’t wish him ill—just elsewhere.”

  “Same with me and Lightfoot,” she said.

  “Speaking of the chief, is he very busy?” I asked.

  “I don’t actually know,” she said. “He’s over at your church—checking out whether Horace is finished and we can release it.”

  “Great!” I said. “That’s actually what I wanted to ask him about.” Well, one of the things. “I’ll head over there now.”

  “Don’t push him about it,” she said. “He knows you need the church back but he’s cranky as all get-out. See you later?”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said.

  There were two police cruisers and several other cars in the Trinity parking lot. Vern Shiffley was on duty at the door.

  “I dropped by to see if you had any word on when we get the church back,” I called out when Vern opened the door.

  Before Vern could answer, the chief appeared in the vestibule.

  “Meg,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Vern held the door open, and I stepped inside. The chief led the way down the hall and into my temporary office.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Horace and I have been using your office while we’ve been working here.”

  “My temporary office,” I said. “And you’re welcome to it.”

  The chief was sitting at my temporary desk, and he had added a folding chair for his interview subjects.

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I just have a few questions.”

  “And I have something to tell you,” I said.

  “Yes?” He picked up his notebook and pen.

  “I have no idea if this has anything to do with his murder, and you probably know this already, but it could be significant that Barliman Vess kept files on stuff.”

  From the look on the chief’s face, I could tell he found this revelation underwhelming.

  “I’m not sure I see the relevance,” he said. “I myself keep a modest filing system—financial records, family information, professional development materials. I should think everyone does.”

  “Barliman kept files on problems,” I said. “And the people he thought were causing them.”

  A pause.

  “Are you suggesting these were blackmail files?”

  I hadn’t been but it was an interesting thought.

  “More like harassment files, I hope,” I said aloud. “He was a would-be whistleblower cursed with a shortage of major smoking guns. If he didn’t like how something worked around the church, he’d start keeping a dossier on the situation. And sending memos to the vestry.”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “I believe your mother refers to them as ‘Barligrams.’ And it wasn’t just the church. He maintained an active correspondence with the mayor, the health department, animal control—pretty much every agency in town. I have a folder full of them myself. Everyone in the town and county government got their share of Barligrams.”

  “So you don’t think the files are significant?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He leaned back, rubbed his forehead as if noticing the start of a headache, and looked at me for a few moments. “I understand you went out to Mr. Vess’s house. Did you notice anything interesting in his files?”

  “I didn’t go out there to read his files!” I protested. “I fed his cat.” It wasn’t technically a lie.

  “And completely resisted the temptation to snoop around?”

  I gave up.

  “No,” I said. “But it’s not as if I read all the files. The only thing unusual I noticed was that one of his files was missing.” I explained about the empty hanging folder marked THORNEFIELD INVESTIGATION.

  “I might know what happened to that folder,” the chief said. “Apparently a few days ago Mr. Vess reported the basement of Trinity Episcopal as a hazard to our new fire chief—who, as you probably know, doubles as the new county fire marshal.”

  “Because of all the stuff from Mrs. Thornefield’s estate?”

  The chief nodded.

  “The jerk. It was Vess’s idea to put it all there.”

  “That would seem consistent with Mr. Vess’s modus operandi,” the chief said. “I’ll check with Chief Featherstone to see if the missing file happens to be in his office.”

  “So what’s happening with the church basement?” I said. “Please tell me Chief Featherstone isn’t going to close the church down.” If he did, Robyn would expect me to come up with yet another iteration of the schedule, and I wasn’t sure there were enough rooms left in the county.

  Chief Burke sighed.

  “Chief Featherstone was dragging his heels on doing the inspection,” he said. “Because he knew this was the worst possible time for Trinity to have to deal with a major basement cleanup. But after the fire, he couldn’t very well look the other way.”

  “Blast,” I said. “How soon is he doing his inspection?”

  “He and Reverend Smith are down there as we speak,” the chief said. “I gather he’s giving Trinity a week to resolve the problem before he has to close you down.”

  “A week!”

  “I know it’s not very long—”

  “On the contrary, it’s more than enough time.” I suspected Mother and Robyn would try to enlist me to deal with the problem, and I already had some ideas. My fingers were itching to pull out my notebook and start a page for the project.

  “But wait,” I said. “How can Chief Featherstone expect us to deal with the basement when the whole building’s still a crime scene?”

  “It won’t be in a few minutes,” the chief said.

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Nice to see someone happy.” He was frowning and staring into space.

  “If I wasn’t afraid you’d think I was prying, I’d ask how your investigation was going,” I said.

  “Very oddly,” he said. “I have to confess, it’s not often I get to interview someone just before he becomes a murder victim.”

  “You were investigating Mr. Vess?”

  “I said interviewing, but yes,” he said. “I know you assumed I was ignoring the information you gave me—”

  “That Ronnie and Caleb didn’t pull the duck prank—”

  “But I did listen. And I wasn’t focusing only on the boys. Mr. Vess also seemed a credible suspect for the duck theft.”

  I nodded. He seemed to be talking to himself as much as to me.

  “It’s a little hard to figure out the motive for such a peculiar prank,” he said. “But he certainly had means and opportunity. And it’s difficult to imagine anyone else getting away with it without Mr. Vess noticing.”

  “Yes,” I said. “From his back windows, he’d have had a grandstand view.”

  “And last night was a cloudless night with a half-moon,” the chief said.

  “And it must have taken quite a while to load all those ducks,” I said. “And caused considerable commotion.”

  “Yes.” The chief nodded. “Mr. Vess’s unfortunate demise does nothing to prove or disprove the possibility that he committed the duck prank. But there’s also the possibility that he witnessed the theft of the ducks and was killed because he was trying to confront—or even blackmail—the persons responsible.”

  “Persons,” I said. “Are we back to suspecting Caleb and Ronnie?”

  “Not ne
cessarily,” he said. “But they’re not out of the woods. Their fingerprints were on the half-empty beer bottles near the campfire at Temple Beth-El. And we found two more bottles near Trinity. No fingerprints, but same brand.”

  “And they’re the only underage drinkers in town who favor Gwent Pale?” I asked.

  The chief nodded as if conceding the point.

  “They are, however, the only underage drinkers already known to be responsible for some of this week’s unfortunate events,” the chief said.

  “So you think Mr. Vess was blackmailing them?” I asked.

  “Or perhaps he caught them in the act of staging another prank,” the chief said.

  “Or someone is trying to frame them,” I said. “But why?”

  “I have no idea,” the chief said. “Not yet, anyway.” He was staring at his notebook.

  “Is that it?” I asked, after a minute or so.

  “Is what it?”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me,” I reminded him. “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “No.” He sat up straighter in his chair, turned a few pages in his notebook, then looked back up at me. “Is Trinity thinking of hiring Jerome Lightfoot away from the New Life Baptist Church?” he asked.

  Chapter 33

  I blinked for a moment in surprise.

  “Not even on the list of questions I thought you’d be asking,” I said. “Not that I know of. And if anyone at Trinity had been thinking of it, I should think watching Lightfoot in action over the last several days would have made them think better of the notion. No, don’t start thinking the New Life Baptist Church can get rid of him by pawning him off on us. It’s not that easy.”

  The chief smiled slightly. Then his face turned somber.

  “Then do you have any idea why Barliman Vess would have called the church where Lightfoot worked before he came here to check him out?”

  “Did he?” I asked. “And why not ask them?”

  “I did,” he said. “I know what he told them. I also know what several members of your vestry think. I was asking you.”

  “That he was probably trying to cause trouble for Lightfoot,” I said. “It’s the only reason I can think of. Our Trinity choir director’s a volunteer, and as far as I know everyone is completely happy with her. Hiring someone would be overkill—the most we do is have the choir rehearse and sing one hymn each week. But Vess really clashed with Lightfoot once the choir rehearsals moved over here. I can well imagine him trying to dig up some dirt. That’s the way his mind works.”

  The chief nodded. He pointed to an object that was standing on the desk beside him, a two-foot-tall Arts and Crafts–style candlestick made of silver and oak.

  “Recognize that?” he asked.

  “It looks like one of the candlesticks that stand at either end of the altar. Here at Trinity,” I added, since over the last few days we’d been talking about more than one church.

  “Where is it stored?”

  “Stored? I don’t think it is. I think they leave the candlesticks on the altar. They’re heavier than they look—why would anyone haul them around if they didn’t have to?”

  “Someone wouldn’t take it away to be polished or something?”

  “The Altar Guild fusses over the church every Saturday afternoon—I expect they give the candlesticks a dab of silver polish most weeks, so they never really need major cleaning. Although come to think of it, I suppose someone had to move the candlesticks before the concerts Saturday and Sunday nights. The New Life choir took over the whole area behind the altar rail.”

  “And if you were someone helping move things, where would you put the candlesticks?”

  “In the sacristy,” I said. “Which is that small room off to the right behind the altar. They store the chalices and all the other altar equipment there.”

  “No one would have a reason to haul it into the basement?”

  “Why would they?” I asked. “And even if they did, the Shiffley Construction Company team took the stage and the risers down last night. I assume someone from Trinity would have been there to put everything back to get ready for any services today.”

  The chief nodded. From his reaction—or lack thereof—I deduced that I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t heard before. He leaned back and studied something in his notebook.

  “You can ask Robyn if it was there at the altar last night,” I said. “She was staying till everyone left but the night watch. I expect she’d have noticed if anything was amiss in the sanctuary.”

  I suddenly realized there was something attached to the candlestick.

  “Is that an evidence tag?” I asked.

  He nodded. I stared at the candlestick for a few moments.

  “It’s the murder weapon, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “We don’t know yet.” He tightened his mouth. “Probably.”

  “I hope not,” I said. “Mother will have a conniption fit.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” he said. “I’m expecting— Ah, Dr. Langslow. Welcome.”

  Dad bustled in.

  “So, you think you’ve found the murder weapon?” Dad sounded very excited at the thought.

  The chief pointed to the candlestick. Dad’s face fell.

  “Oh, dear.” He glanced at me. “Your mother will be very distressed.”

  “Meg already suggested as much.” The chief was holding out a pair of gloves. “Here. Take a look and see if you think it matches the wound.”

  “Is that fingerprint powder on it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the chief said. He was holding the candlestick while Dad tugged on the gloves. “Horace has already processed it for fingerprints and other trace evidence.”

  Dad took the candlestick and examined it from top to bottom, both through and over his glasses. Then he raised it up in the air and brought it down in a slow arc.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s the right size and shape. If you like I can borrow the matching candlestick and Horace and I can run a few tests. But if this isn’t the murder weapon, you’d be looking for something very like it.”

  Vern and Horace appeared in the doorway.

  “We’re in luck, Chief,” Horace said. “We’ve got a match on the fingerprints.”

  Horace paused. Was he merely being dramatic, or was he giving the chief a chance to kick me and Dad out?

  “Well,” the chief prompted.

  “Jerome Lightfoot.”

  Chapter 34

  The chief didn’t seem thrilled to hear this.

  “I can see the headlines already,” he said. “‘Baptist Choir Director Bludgeons Elderly Man in Church Basement.’”

  “‘Elderly Blackmailer,’” I suggested.

  “Not much better,” the chief said. “We need to pick him up. Vern, Horace—hang on; I’ll get his exact address from Debbie Ann.”

  “And she can put out a BOLO, in case he’s not home,” Vern said.

  The chief nodded. He was already punching buttons on his cell phone.

  “Debbie Ann,” he said. “I need an address on Jerome Lightfoot … One fourteen West Street. Right. He’s a suspect in the murder.… Right.”

  I pulled my latest schedule copy out of my purse and scanned it.

  “He’s supposed to be over at the Lutheran church right now,” I said. “He had me schedule another rehearsal with some of his soloists. Of course, there’s no guarantee he’ll be there, especially if he suspects you’re on to him.”

  “You heard the lady,” the chief said. “Horace, you go to West Street. Vern, hit the church.”

  Vern and Horace nodded and disappeared.

  “Who’s going to direct the choir at services tomorrow and on Christmas Day if you arrest Lightfoot?” I asked.

  “That’s for the choir to decide,” the chief said. “Though I do know Minerva has been saying for weeks that she could do a better job than Lightfoot even if she was blindfolded with one hand tied behind her back. Well, the place is all yours.” The c
hief stood up and rubbed his back as if it ached. “I’m going to break the news to Minerva and Reverend Wilson.”

  I pulled out my cell phone. I should probably call a few people and tell them that Trinity was available. Or have a small celebration that I didn’t have to do yet another draft of the schedule to move all of Trinity’s many Christmas Eve events to someplace else. Or notify Randall and Aida that at least their nephews were off the hook for the murder.

  No time to do any of it. I glanced at my watch and realized it was high time I headed home. Michael was performing his one-man show of A Christmas Carol in a few hours, and between now and then I had to get myself and the boys fed and dressed.

  Probably best just to let today’s schedule run its course. And luckily I’d left tomorrow’s schedule alone, hoping that the chief would finish with Trinity today, so I didn’t have to rearrange that at all.

  I turned out the light, left my office, and trudged down to the parish hall where the coffee machine was kept. I decided a little caffeine would help my trip home.

  As I waited for the water to trickle down into my cup, I dug into my purse and dropped some change into the jar kept for that purpose. As dark and quiet as the church was, I could well imagine the ghost of Barliman Vess appearing to chide me if I didn’t.

  I sipped my coffee as I headed back to the vestibule.

  And just as I was about to go out the front door, I noticed that the lights were back on in my little office.

  I walked down to it as quietly as I could, more than half expecting to find it filled with sheep or wombats.

  Instead I found Robyn and Chief Featherstone.

  “Oh, dear.” Robyn was shaking her head while looking around at all the furniture and boxes that filled all but the tiny space around my desk.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Hi, Meg. I’m afraid the fire chief isn’t happy with your office.”

  “It’s a fire hazard,” Chief Featherstone said.

  “It’s not Meg’s fault,” Robyn hurried to say. “She’s only been using it a few days.”

  “I had a report last week that there were parts of the church that constituted a fire hazard,” Chief Featherstone said to me. “I told the reverend here that I’d try to put off inspecting it until after the holidays. But now, with what’s happened…” He shook his head.