“Mission accomplished,” I told Mom. “By the way, what will happen to the cat?”
“Robyn has half a dozen volunteers to take her if the son doesn’t want her,” Mother said. “She’ll be fine.”
She looked around and shook her head.
“Such a lonely man,” Mother said.
“At least he had a cat for company,” I said.
“He was always complaining that she was an incompetent mouser,” Mother said.
“But did he get rid of her because of that?”
Mother held her hands up as if conceding my point.
“I can think of one thing that his missing file could be about,” she said. “It was just after Mrs. Thornefield died that our former rector broke his legs, poor dear. And with him laid up, and not the most practical soul at the best of times, he put Riddick in charge of disposing of Mrs. Thornefield’s belongings. And since Riddick had no idea whatsoever what any of it was worth, he was just going to call in a junk dealer to give him a bid on the lot. Imagine how much we would have lost if he had and the junk dealer he’d called had been a sharp or dishonest operator!”
“And Mr. Vess found out about it and sounded the alarm?” I asked.
“He most certainly did not,” she said. “He was as clueless as Riddick. But I’d been to see Mrs. Thornefield often enough, and I knew she had some very nice things, so I put a stop to the junk dealer plan.”
She was back to her Joan of Arc pose.
“So we’re having a rummage sale instead?”
“A very elegant auction and estate sale,” Mother said. “Poor Riddick took it hard. He was so mortified at the mistake he’d been about to make that he handed in his resignation. Dr. Womble talked him out of it, of course—made him promise that he’d at least see the new rector in. Maybe the missing file is about that whole unfortunate episode. But of course even Barliman could see that it wasn’t Riddick’s fault. He blamed Dr. Womble for not supervising him properly.”
“Do you think that’s what led to the rector’s retirement?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “The bishop had been ignoring Barliman’s complaints about dear Dr. Womble for years. It was the broken legs that made him realize the poor man just wasn’t up to it any more. And now that Robyn’s here, perhaps Barliman archived the missing file and just didn’t yet remove the hanging folder. “
“It wasn’t in any of the file drawers,” I said. “Maybe he just moved the contents to the file he’s keeping on Riddick.”
“He’s keeping a file on Riddick, too?” Mother exclaimed.
“He keeps files on everyone,” I said. “He’s even got one on you.”
Mother insisted on going back up to the office to see her file. She seemed to find its contents alternately amusing and exasperating. I was feeling a little down because my one potentially exciting and significant find seemed to be dwindling to just another of Vess’s petty, misguided crusades. Riddick’s file did contain a lot of notes about how he’d almost mishandled the Thornefield estate, although from reading the file you’d have gotten the idea that it was Mr. Vess, not Mother, who’d saved the day. So Mother might have explained away the one interesting thing I’d found.
When Mother had finished laughing over her own file and the general petty nature of Vess’s files, we left the house, and I locked up and taped the key back under the mat. And then I scuffed the snow around enough to disguise the fact that the mat had been moved.
“Doesn’t make much of an effort for the holiday, does he?” Mother said.
She was right. No wreaths, no candles, no tree—not even any Christmas cards lying about. Maybe that was what had made the place seem so curiously forlorn.
“How does he get away with it, I wonder,” I said. “Doesn’t Caerphilly have some kind of ordinance requiring every household to make at least a minimum holiday decorating effort?”
“I wish it did,” Mother said. I had been joking. She was probably serious.
“Speaking of making an effort for the holiday,” I said. “I’m heading back to town. I have things to do.”
“I’m going to get the groceries for my Christmas dinner,” Mother said. “Your brother was going to help me carry everything—I don’t suppose you could—”
“I’ll help you hunt him down, no problem,” I said, hoping to head off a request that I take her shopping. “Just don’t ask him for any fresh ducks.”
“What are you doing now, dear?” she asked.
If that was an attempt to enlist me in the shopping, I was prepared.
“I’m going to drop by and talk to the chief,” I said. “And figure out some way to get him to look for that missing file without getting both of us thrown in jail for trespassing and interfering with an investigation.”
“The file we noticed was missing while we were looking for Mr. Vess’s poor starving cat?” Mother said.
“Yeah, that will work,” I said. “And then I’m going to go home, take another pain pill, and rest my arm until it’s time to get the boys ready for Michael’s show.”
“Feel better, dear,” she said. “And I’ll see you at the theater.”
Chapter 31
I did feel better on the way back to town. Partly because my arm, although only giving me occasional twinges of pain, was proving to be such a useful tool for weaseling out of things I didn’t want to do. And partly because the college radio station was back to its usual policy of nonstop Christmas music, and was playing a wonderful program of medieval carols. I was singing along with “The Holly and the Ivy” when I pulled into the police station parking lot. I was lingering in the car to hear the ending when my phone rang. I was in such a good mood that I answered it without thinking.
“Hello?”
“I don’t have any animals!”
I pulled the phone away from my ear, turned down the radio, and looked at the caller ID. It was the Methodist church. Almost certainly Mrs. Dahlgren.
“I beg your pardon,” I said into the phone. “I didn’t quite get that.”
“I don’t have any animals! I’m supposed to be getting some animals! Where are they?”
Were the Methodists—or at least Mrs. Dahlgren—feeling slighted because the prankster hadn’t hit them, too?
“Most of the churches that have received animals have been rather glad to get rid of them,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re complaining.”
“For the live Nativity!” she shrieked. “We need cows, sheep, pigs, goats, donkeys, and some ducks or chickens. The rehearsal’s in two hours.”
“I’m afraid I’m still confused,” I said. “Where do you usually get the animals?”
“Usually we get them from farmers who belong to the congregation,” she said. “But they’re upset because of the pranks, and none of them want to risk their animals. I assumed you’d be getting me some animals.”
“Me?”
“Aren’t you in charge of taking care of all the problems caused by these ridiculous pranks?” she demanded. “Didn’t you get my message?”
“No, I didn’t get any kind of message from you,” I said. “And I’m only in charge of scheduling, to make sure everyone’s holiday events can go on in spite of the pranks.”
“Well, we’re an event! And we won’t go on if you can’t schedule us some barnyard animals.”
With that she hung up.
I took a deep breath and muttered several very uncharitable things about Mrs. Dahlgren.
And then I reminded myself that the live Nativity pageant wasn’t just a Methodist event. They hosted it, because they were the only church that faced the town square, but like the New Life Baptist concert, the Nativity was more a community event. And in a farming community, a live Nativity pageant with no animals wasn’t much of a show.
And clearly Mrs. Dahlgren was in no state of mind to make any practical arrangements. So if I wanted the town’s holiday celebrations to continue successfully …
It occurred to me that sheep were one of
the mainstays of biblical agriculture. And Michael and I did live across the road from a sheep farm. I called home and found Rose Noire.
“Do you think you could talk Seth Early into bringing a few sheep to town for the live Nativity pageant rehearsal,” I asked her.
“Of course!” she said. “How many?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to remember last year’s pageant. “Half a dozen, maybe? The more the merrier, actually. The Methodist farmers are nervous about bringing their animals in, so the sheep might be the main friendly beasts there. And make sure Seth’s okay with it.”
“You know how he loves to show off his sheep,” Rose Noire said.
Yes, and I also knew that he was one of the legion of men who were smitten by Rose Noire—that was the main reason I delegated the sheep roundup to her.
“And bring a few of our chickens in,” I said. “Whichever ones you think are likely to behave during the pageant.”
“Of course!”
Okay, so there would be sheep and chickens for the rehearsal. Maybe I should rest on my laurels. Though it would be nice to find someone to bring a few cows, goats, and maybe even a donkey. And surely with all the ducks that seemed to be popping up all over town, I could find one or two to grace the stables.
It occurred to me that Grandfather had all of those in his petting zoo. I called him.
“The boys are fine,” he said, before I even asked. “James is making sure they don’t go near any of the carnivores.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I was calling to ask if the Methodists could borrow some animals for the live Nativity scene.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “I’ve only got the two camels right now, but I suppose it’s better than none.”
Camels! Mrs. Dahlgren certainly wouldn’t be expecting the camels. I began to feel almost smug, imagining the look on her face.
“That would be excellent,” I said. “And is there any chance you could bring a few docile barnyard animals from the petting zoo? A donkey, a cow or two, and perhaps a few goats.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But why stop there? Let’s make this thing impressive!”
I liked his enthusiasm, but I wasn’t sure what he had in mind.
“I could bring the wolves,” he said. “They make quite an impression, especially the Arctic Wolf.”
“I’m not sure wolves are quite what people are expecting at the Nativity,” I said. “It’s not really biblical.”
“The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid,” Grandfather quoted.
“Yes, but not at the Nativity,” I said. “I know you find wild animals a lot more interesting, but people will be expecting domestic animals. It’s tradition.”
“I’ve even got a fairly tame leopard,” he said.
“‘Fairly tame’?” I repeated.
“You’re missing a wonderful opportunity to put a whole new multicultural spin on this thing.” I could almost see him pouting.
“Cows. Goats. Donkeys.”
“Oh, all right. When and where do you need them?”
I gave him the time and place of the pageant rehearsal, thanked him, and hung up. Then I took a couple of deep, calming breaths.
“You okay?”
I looked up to see Randall Shiffley peering into my window. I nodded, grabbed my purse, and opened the door.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just settling my temper before going inside, because I figure on general principles you should never be thinking murderous thoughts when walking into a police station.”
“I’m going in to see the chief myself,” Randall said, and we fell into step together. “So who’s your intended victim, and when do you need an alibi?”
“Mrs. Dahlgren, and I don’t know yet.”
He winced.
“Okay, so I guess you already heard about how she needs some animals for the live Nativity.”
“I have now.”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled out a small notebook—his equivalent of my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe—and frowned at it, as if the missed signal was the notebook’s fault instead of user error. “I was supposed to tell you about the animals, and I was going to just as soon as—”
“Life happens.” I stopped about ten feet from the entrance. “You want to make it up to me? Answer me something.”
“Sure thing.”
“What’s Duane Shiffley’s story?”
Randall stiffened, then closed his eyes and shook his head.
“What’s he done now?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“Nothing, lately,” Randall said. “That I know of. Apart from appropriating a few ducks from Quincy’s flock and selling them, but you already knew that. He seemed to think Quincy owed him something for pitching in to help at the farm. We straightened him out on that score, and he’s paying Quincy back.”
“You were awfully quick to suspect him when I called to ask who might have sold Rob a duck,” I said.
“Was I?”
I just waited.
“Black sheep,” he said finally. “Every family has a few. Duane had a drug problem. Did some prison time, and some time in a residential treatment facility. He’s clean now. Far as I know. If you know different, tell me, so we can deal with it.”
“He’s been seen lurking around Trinity,” I said.
“He works for Shiffley Construction,” Randall said. “Hard for someone with his record to get hired anywhere else. He was one of the workmen who got the place ready for the choir concert.”
“I figured,” I said. “Couple of people thought he was behaving a little furtively.”
“If these were people who know about his problems—”
“Not all of them,” I said. “Because one of them would be me, and I didn’t know. I didn’t even know his name at the time.”
“Yeah,” Randall said. “Duane’s other problem—well, one of his minor problems—has always been that he looks guilty, even when he’s behaving himself. I’ll look into it.”
“Does he go to twelve-step meetings?” I asked.
“All the time,” Randall said. “It was a condition of his parole and still is a condition of his employment.”
“That could partly explain it,” I said. “Trinity hosts a lot of them.”
“Yes.” Randall sounded angry all of a sudden. “So if you’re suggesting maybe Duane wandered out of a twelve-step meeting, ran into Mr. Vess and killed him—”
“Not what I was suggesting.” I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was just thinking that if someone spotted Duane when he was on his way to a twelve-step meeting, he might have looked a little … uncomfortable.”
“Try anxious and guilt-ridden and yes, more than a little furtive,” Randall said. “I like that theory better. He hates going, but he knows he has to. Look—I don’t think Duane was up to anything. But I can’t swear to it. All I can say is that if he was, we’re not going to protect him. And in case you’re curious, yes, the chief knows what he’s been up to with the stolen ducks. And I aim to find out if he’s been up to anything else.”
He looked upset.
“As you say, every family has its black sheep,” I said. “Remind me to tell you about some of ours some time.”
He smiled slightly.
“When things are quieter, I just might take you up on that.”
He nodded and strode off.
Chapter 32
I wasn’t sure if I felt reassured or more anxious about Duane Shiffley. I felt sure Randall would find out everything his cousin had been up to. And a good thing, too, since nothing Randall had said explained why Duane would have wandered down the hallway that housed only a few offices and locked storage closets.
Though maybe I could come up with an explanation of my own. Yes, Trinity hosted a lot of twelve-step meetings, but every church in town hosted a few, along with a variety of outreach and support groups. They’d all been pieces on my schedule—smaller pieces, piec
es I’d tried to move as little as possible, because I sensed the attendees might be a lot less comfortable about relocating than catechism students or participants in the quilting circle. Maybe Duane was trying to find someone he could ask where to find a meeting he’d been planning to attend. Or looking for a posted schedule.
I realized I hadn’t even asked Randall about the incredible coincidence of Duane’s selling Rob—and presumably a few other people—stolen ducks on the same night someone had stolen all those hundreds of ducks from Quincy’s farm.
And I wondered what Randall had been coming to see the chief about. Not, I hoped, something important, since he was now driving away. Going to deal with Duane, perhaps?
I strolled inside the police station. On the counter inside was a little two-foot Christmas tree that looked pretty normal until you got close enough to realize that instead of ordinary ornaments it was festooned with gold-colored toy police badges and tiny silver guns. The silver garland wound around it was made of dozens of miniature silver handcuffs linked together, and the angel on top was actually a blond police officer Barbie doll with glitter-flecked gossamer wings attached to the back of her blue uniform.
“Hey, girl!” It was my friend Aida Butler, one of the chief’s deputies, who was sitting behind the front desk. “What did you think of Kayla at the concert?”
I enthused for a while over the concert. I wanted to ask about her nephew Ronnie, but I couldn’t figure out a good way to bring it up. I settled for praising her daughter.
“I don’t understand why Kayla didn’t do the solo,” I said. “The girl who did it was okay, but Kayla’s better.”
“Yeah,” Aida said. “Of course, the soloist’s father is the church treasurer—maybe Lightfoot’s angling for a raise. Or it could just be that Kayla’s mouthy. And before you say it, yeah, she takes after her mother that way. She made the mistake of talking back to Lightfoot and now fat chance of her getting a solo while he’s in charge. And she’s not the only one. The man is ruining our choir.”
“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.”
Duck the Halls Page 19
