Mother sniffed dismissively.
“Likes to think he’s the watchdog over all of Trinity’s financial and administrative affairs,” she murmured. “As if the rest of us were incapable of grasping it all.”
Vess and Lightfoot began bellowing back and forth at each other. I spotted Riddick slipping down the hall, looking back over his shoulder with an angry look on his face. Then he stopped, closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, moved his lips slightly—whether praying or cursing I couldn’t tell—and resumed his customary calm if slightly anxious expression.
“That man!” Mother muttered.
I waited to hear whether she was talking about Vess, Riddick, or Lightfoot, any of whom could possibly have provoked her displeasure.
“I hate to speak ill of someone,” she went on. “Especially at this time of year—but Ebenezer Scrooge has nothing on him.”
That would be Vess.
“‘A tightfisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge!’” I quoted. Thanks to Michael’s annual one-man dramatic readings of A Christmas Carol, I could quote Dickens with the best of them. “‘A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.’”
“Precisely,” Mother said. “If he posts one more notice asking who used the church office phones to make an unauthorized ninety-cent long-distance call to California, I may have words with him! And to make it worse, he has the manners of a troll.”
“What’s he done?” Minerva asked.
“Just last week he tried to have the cleaning service fired for not doing a good enough job,” Mother said. “And if you ask me, they were doing a perfectly adequate job.”
Coming from Mother that was high praise indeed—her “perfectly adequate” was equivalent to someone else’s “fabulous.” From Minerva’s nod, I could tell she understood this.
“What he really wanted,” Mother went on, “was to get rid of the cleaning service altogether, to cut expenses, and have the ladies of St. Clotilda volunteer to do the cleaning. We straightened him out on that notion.”
“I should think so,” Minerva exclaimed.
“Wasn’t it him who tried to get the twelve-step groups banned from using the church building?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mother said. “He claimed they weren’t leaving enough change to cover the number of coffee packets they used during their meetings. I realize that in these difficult times we all have to keep expenses down, but to begrudge a few pots of coffee to people who are struggling to rebuild their lives!”
“I completely agree,” Minerva said. “If he keeps it up, tell him that the Baptist Ladies’ Auxiliary would be happy to donate as much coffee as the twelve-step groups could possibly need.”
“I think we’ve already squelched him on that one,” Mother said. “But thank you. And perhaps if I could mention your offer, it would shame him into abandoning that particular crusade.”
“Please do,” Minerva said.
We listened for a few more moments as Vess and Lightfoot bellowed at each other. Vess, predictably, was complaining about the unnecessary expense and trouble the choir was causing, while Lightfoot was bellowing that Vess was a philistine with no appreciation of art. They weren’t even arguing with each other, really, just venting.
“If Josh and Jamie were behaving like that, I’d put them both in a time-out,” I said.
“One of us should go in and break it up,” Minerva said, with a sigh.
“Or both of us,” Mother said, with a matching sigh.
“Let’s hold off for a few minutes,” I said. “At the rate they’re going, I think there’s a good chance that they’ll kill each other off, like the cats of Kilkenny.”
Mother and Minerva burst out laughing.
“Besides,” I added. “The choir can’t begin rehearsing until the Shiffleys have finished whatever it is they’re building, so maybe it’s a good thing someone’s keeping Mr. Lightfoot busy.”
“True, dear,” Mother said. “And it really isn’t funny: You should have seen that wretched Mr. Lightfoot carrying on! He was actually throwing things around in the sanctuary!”
“The Shiffleys’ tools and your vases and hymnals,” Minerva said. “It’s a disgrace!”
Then they looked at each other and burst out giggling again.
“Kilkenny cats!” Minerva spluttered.
“Well, obviously things can’t be so bad.” Dad appeared in the doorway, holding his trusty medical bag. “What seems to be the trouble?”
Dad agreed with my diagnosis of a possible dislocated shoulder, and he insisted on bustling me down to the Caerphilly Hospital. We nearly came to grief before we even left the parking lot. His van hit a patch of black ice and skidded to a stop against a mound of snow and his medical bag, which unlike us was not strapped in, launched itself out of the backseat into my shoulder, sending more waves of pain through my arm. By the time we reached the hospital, I was mutinous and refused to be taken down for X-rays until they gave me a painkiller of some kind.
Dad and the orthopedic surgeon whiled away the time waiting for the results by trading stories of dislocated joints they had seen in their careers. Since most of the stories involved ghastly complications rather than boringly successful outcomes, after the fourth or fifth story I told them what I thought of their bedside manner and shooed them out of my cubicle.
I was overjoyed when the X-rays finally showed that my shoulder wasn’t dislocated. Very badly bruised, but either it hadn’t been dislocated in the first place, or it was only partially dislocated and something had popped it back in. My money was on our close encounter with the snow mound in the parking lot.
Dad and the orthopedist were more restrained, cautioning me that there could still be muscle and tendon damage and insisting on an MRI. I found myself wondering, briefly, if they were disappointed that they weren’t getting a chance to perform a reduction on me, which I had by now figured out was a euphemism for forcibly shoving my dislocated shoulder back into place. But I had to admit that it was a relief when the MRI showed no serious damage.
Of course, my shoulder still hurt. And I would still need to wear a sling until the abused muscles healed a bit. And even in a small hospital, with Dad urging everyone on, the whole thing took quite a long time. Luckily, while I was waiting my turn in the MRI machine. Michael and the boys dropped by with my laptop. The boys were a little worried until I demonstrated that I had no visible wounds, after which they relaxed and began to explore all the exciting new opportunities for mischief that the ER provided. When they began fighting over who got to ride in the wheelchair and who had to push, Michael and I decided it was time for him to whisk them away to resume their Christmas shopping mission. I whiled away the long wait by finishing up a provisional schedule for relocating all the various church services, classes, pageants, rehearsals, dinners, brunches, and other events. It was a little annoying, having to type one-handed, but still—without my laptop and my cell phone, this would have been an impossible feat.
Of course, in a world without laptops and cell phones, Robyn would have had to find someone else to do the organizing after I’d gone to the hospital. And I could have had whatever pain meds Dad was willing to prescribe, instead of asking him for something that wouldn’t muddle my mind.
When I emerged from the MRI, I found that Dad and the orthopedist and several of the nurses had decided to go caroling up and down the halls of the hospital as soon as they finished treating me.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Dad said.
“I have a few things to do back at Trinity,” I said. “And then I think I’ll go home and rest.”
So Dad took me back to the church, singing “Good King Wenceslas” with great enthusiasm, although he did interrupt himself after nearly every verse to see how I was feeling.
Chapter 10
I arrived back at Trinity with my left arm in a
sling, feeling extraordinarily cheerful thanks to the tranquilizer Dad provided, which didn’t do much to relieve the pain in my shoulder, but did make me feel curiously detached from it.
I continued to feel cheerful, mellow, and detached for two hours as everyone I talked to picked holes in my draft schedule. In short order I made not one but three complete revisions.
Along the way, I developed a whole new sense of how hard Robyn’s job was. Her study saw a steady stream of visitors. Most of them, from the small bits I could overhear, were well-meaning volunteers who wanted her to make some decision that I’d have made myself. Her voice carried better than most of theirs, so I had a chance to appreciate her patient, gentle attempts to empower them to make their own decisions. Me, I’d have been tempted to just shout “I don’t care! Figure it out yourself!”
At least every ten minutes either Lightfoot or Vess would appear in her office. Sometimes both at once. I never had any trouble overhearing every word they said. Usually they were complaining about each other, although both occasionally took a few verbal jabs at the Shiffleys doing the construction. Randall Shiffley showed up a couple of times to repeat that if everyone would stop bothering him and his crew they could have the construction finished by three o’clock when the choir practice was due to start. And Minerva Burke showed up a few times to calm down Lightfoot, who kept declaring the concert off. I finally decided he was serious, and apparently so did Minerva. A few minutes later, Reverend Wilson arrived and told Lightfoot off in the tone of voice he usually reserved for his summer revival hellfire and damnation sermons.
“And if you still feel unable to continue,” the reverend boomed, in tones people could probably hear in the next county. “I’m sure Sister Burke here would be happy to take your place. The concert must and will go on!”
After that Lightfoot made himself scarce for a while.
Although after both Reverend Wilson and Robyn left, he and Vess both showed up again and turned their wrath on poor Riddick. After his first encounter with them, the poor man actually ducked into my office to hide from Lightfoot, only to be so startled at finding me there that he jumped and hit his head on the corner of a broken-down five-drawer wooden file cabinet.
I jumped up to make sure he was all right, and closed my office door partway to conceal him.
“Why do they have to be here?” he whispered. He was holding the heel of his hand to the brow ridge just above his right eye, and I remembered Mother saying that he was a martyr to migraines.
“Well, Robyn did offer Reverend Wilson the use of Trinity for the concert,” I said. “And it’s a wonderful chance to show how well the church looks for the holiday. But I think you have a point. Mr. Lightfoot doesn’t seem to appreciate our hospitality, so while I’m rearranging, I’ll see if I can move any other events he’s involved in to other churches. The Catholics have a big sanctuary. Maybe I could schedule him there.”
Riddick gave a weak smile and closed his eyes. I went back to my work, and he stood there, motionless, until the hallway outside grew silent again. Then he slipped out without saying anything.
Would the church become more peaceful when the construction was finished and music took the place of hammering? Probably not. From what I’d seen at the last rehearsal, Lightfoot wouldn’t let them sing more than a few bars without cursing at them. Although at least he’d be yelling from farther away, not next door.
And waiting for the chief to call me back was also wearing on my nerves. I’d called him shortly after arriving back at the church to tell him what I’d overheard. Of course I got his voice mail. Not knowing who might be around when he played it back, I’d made my message noncommittal.
“Hi. It’s Meg Langslow. I overheard something this afternoon that might be relevant to the question of who pulled off that prank. Would be happy to fill you in at your convenience.”
Was the investigation going so badly that he had no time to return my call? Or so well that my small clue was of no importance? Every time the phone rang, I had to remind myself not to sound cranky—it wasn’t my callers’ fault that they weren’t the chief.
But it was their fault that they weren’t all being as organized and cooperative as they could be. Randall Shiffley strolled into my temporary office about the time my meds were wearing off, to hear me barking into the phone at the secretary of the Methodist church.
“I said I’ll fix the problem!” I said. “But until further notice, the schedule stands!”
I hung up and looked at Randall, fully expecting him to make some unreasonable request or point out some aspect of my schedule that was less than perfect. He held up both hands as if surrendering.
“I just stopped in to see how you’re feeling,” he said.
“Cranky,” I answered, with a sigh. “And rude. That was rude. I shall probably feel obliged to apologize to Mrs. Dahlgren later.”
“What’s the old biddy on about now?” Clearly Randall knew Mrs. Dahlgren. He crossed his arms and leaned against the massive Victorian breakfront that formed one boundary of my office space.
“She tells me they can’t possibly host the Baptist Ladies’ Auxiliary potluck dinner tonight because they don’t have enough bathrooms.”
“You could tell her that you’ll ask all the Baptists to be patient while they wait in line,” he said.
“I did,” I said. “I also told her if the lines got really bad we could arrange for people to pee next door with the Unitarians.”
“I reckon she wasn’t too pleased with that idea.” He was smothering a chuckle.
And he was holding a large hammer. Evidently he’d been helping out with whatever the Shiffley Construction Company had been doing in the sanctuary. Construction. An idea started forming in my mind—much more slowly than usual, thanks to the meds, but still forming.
“Just what have you guys been building, anyway?” I asked.
“A stage to fill in the area behind the altar rail,” he said. “And risers for the choir to stand on. You want to come see?”
“Later,” I said. “Do you have any of those construction site portapotties you could take over to the Methodist church?”
“We do,” he said. “It’s a slow season for construction right now, so they’re not much in demand. But if you think Mrs. Dahlgren is upset now—”
“Deliver half a dozen of them,” I said. “I’ll ask Mother to send over some of the ladies of St. Clotilda’s with some wreaths and tinsel to make them look a little more festive. Can you do that?”
“I can,” he said. “If you really think—”
“HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!”
We both jumped as the opening of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” rang out from down the hall in the sanctuary.
We listened for a few bars, and then the music abruptly stopped. We could hear angry voices instead. We both remained silent, straining to hear what was being said. Eventually Lightfoot’s voice came through more clearly.
“I said get out and stay out!”
“Only Lightfoot abusing the choir,” I said.
“They should get rid of him before he ruins that choir,” Randall said.
“He’s not a good choir director?”
“Not that I’m an expert,” Randall said. “But I’ve been talking to some people who are. He’s got good credentials from a good school. Decent knowledge of music, they say. But he’s a train wreck with people. If you ask me, they were in too much of a hurry to hire when their old choir director died so suddenly. Any day now, New Life Baptist Church is going to start leaking members like nobody’s business.”
I thought about what Minerva had said. I couldn’t repeat what she told me, but …
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said.
“You know something I don’t know?”
“No,” I said. “But do you really think the Baptists haven’t noticed? Besides—”
“You need to do something about this!” Barliman Vess erupted into my office. “That man has taken over the sanc
tuary! He’s not scheduled to start his rehearsal until three! It’s only half past two.”
He shook a copy of the master schedule in my face.
“We were supposed to have it for the riser construction until three,” Randall said. “But we finished early, so I told Mr. Lightfoot he could get started if he wanted to.”
“But that’s not on the schedule!”
“Technically, no.” Randall’s voice sounded a little less calm than usual. I suspected Vess had already been getting on his nerves during the construction. “But since—”
“Hold on!” I swiveled back to my laptop and with a few keystrokes, changed the schedule so the choir rehearsal began at two thirty. Then I swiveled back.
“As duly appointed schedule coordinator, I hereby issue the latest revised schedule,” I said. “Choir practice begins at two thirty. Would you like a clean copy?”
I pointed to the printer. Vess shook his head.
“Anything else?” I asked, in my sweetest voice.
Vess frowned down at the paper in his hand, obviously still angry, but curiously unable to argue now that Lightfoot’s trespass had been legitimized. I found myself noticing all the liver spots on his bald head and how the skin on the back of his hands was crinkled like tissue. I suddenly felt very sorry for Vess. He’d been retired for at least twenty years and a widower for almost that long. Maybe fussing over the fine details of Trinity’s finances and organization were the only things that kept him going.
“Hmph!” he said. He glared at me, and then at Randall for a few seconds, before stomping out.
“I guess he blames you for messing up the schedule,” I said. “Though I doubt if he’s too pleased with me, either. Mother will get an earful.”
“Oh, Mr. Vess already had it in for me,” he said. “Kept coming up and complaining about how long our construction was taking. ‘How long can it take to nail down a few boards?’ And sneaking up behind us to see if we’re damaging any of the original 1870s woodwork. And in case you didn’t have time to notice, we’re not just nailing down a few boards.”
Duck the Halls Page 6
