Duck the Halls

by Donna Andrews

  “Two yegs,” Josh said, competitive as usual.

  I parked in one of the faculty spaces and then led the boys around to the front door. We probably could have slipped in with Michael, but I wanted the boys to see all the people lining up and paying money to see Daddy. To keep down expenses we didn’t print tickets for the show—just took contributions at the door, and attendees could donate any amount they felt comfortable with. Last year we’d taken in a lot more fifty and hundred dollar bills than fives or ones.

  Of course we were early, so there weren’t too many people lining up. Still, we formally handed over our contributions to the ushers, who were clad in Dickensian costumes. I recognized the one in front of us as one of Michael’s graduate drama students.

  “Thank you, my good man,” the usher said as Josh handed over his dollar. “At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable—”

  “That we should make some provision for the poor and destitute,” Jamie rattled off.

  “Bravo!” Our usher and several others nearby applauded.

  “Bah, humbug!” said Josh, not only competitive but contrarian tonight.

  The drama students all found this delightful and applauded some more.

  “I take it this means that Professor Waterston has learned his lines,” our usher said.

  “If he forgets any it’s not from want of rehearsal,” I said, handing over my contribution.

  “Thank you, madam,” he said, with a bow. “Enjoy the performance. And I look forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow.”

  “On Christmas Day?”

  “Your mother has very kindly invited those of us who cannot go home for the holiday to share in your Christmas dinner. Christmas orphans, she calls us.”

  “Lovely,” I said. And since I wasn’t hosting the dinner and had every intention of dodging all attempts to suck me into cooking, I meant it.

  The lobby was decorated with whole forests of greenery festooned with red ribbons and flickering faux candles, and with all the ushers and ticket takers dressed in Victorian costumes, the effect was quite splendid. In a far corner, a costumed string quartet was playing a lively version of “Good King Wenceslas.”

  “Meg, dear!” Mother was standing just inside the door, also dressed in period costume, though her red velvet gown was much more elaborate than those worn by the women ushers. “Come have tea. And some hot cider for the boys.”

  “Gamma in play, too?” Jamie asked

  Josh just trotted past her to the stand where volunteers—mostly women from St. Clotilda’s Guild and the New Life Ladies’ Auxiliary, resplendent in hoopskirted Victorian dresses in jewel tones—were selling hot tea, coffee, and cider to benefit the cleanup and renovation of the churches of Caerphilly, according to the signs posted nearby. I had a feeling this would be only the first of many benefits.

  “Nice to see you,” said a familiar voice.

  Chapter 36

  I had to do a double take before recognizing Robyn, also in a Victorian gown, although I recognized hers as one borrowed from the drama department’s wardrobe collection.

  Riddick Hedges was also there in costume, which was unfortunate, because unlike Michael and the other men from the drama department, he had no idea how to carry it off well. He was squirming as if the whole outfit was profoundly uncomfortable, and if I’d been casting David Copperfield he’d have been a shoo-in for Uriah Heep. It was perhaps a measure of his discomfort that he was not only willing but eager to fetch pitchers of water to refill the urns, haul away bags of trash, or perform any other chore that allowed him to disappear from view. In between errands he appeared to be attempting to fade into the wallpaper along one side of the lobby. No doubt he was unaware that he was standing directly beneath one of the dozen ornate Victorian mistletoe balls that dotted the room. I suspected he’d be mortified if anyone pointed this out.

  I shelled out for tea for me and cider for the boys. Josh bolted his and had to be told to drink his second helping more slowly. Jamie was already sipping so slowly that I suspected he thought he’d be taken home to bed when his cup was empty.

  “Take your time,” Mother told me. “Rose Noire and your father are saving seats for all of us.”

  “Unfortunately, no one from Henry’s department will be here tonight,” Minerva said.

  “Are they still trying to locate Jerome Lightfoot?”

  “And not having much luck,” Minerva said. “It’s beginning to look as if after killing poor Mr. Vess he went straight home, packed his suitcases and took off. They’ve got a bulletin out on his car.”

  “I hope they catch him soon,” I said. “Actually, I hope some other county catches him soon.”

  “I confess, I agree.” Minerva shook her head. “I’d purely love to hear that he’s been spotted a good long ways from here and locked up in someone else’s jail. I had words with that man, more than once—if I’d known what kind of man he is! A cold-blooded killer!”

  “Actually, I’m not sure cold-blooded could ever describe Mr. Lightfoot,” one of the other Baptist ladies said. “I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t in a temper over something.”

  “A hot-tempered killer, then,” Minerva said. “And running around loose, and him knowing full well that I’m one of the people who’s been trying to get him fired. Makes me feel all funny.”

  “Sit down, Minerva, dear,” Mother said. “And have some tea.”

  “I can’t blame you one bit,” the Baptist lady said.

  “I don’t see how any of us will sleep tonight,” exclaimed an Episcopalian.

  Most of the church ladies chimed in either with the rumors they’d heard or to say how anxious they were. But by some unspoken agreement they all deferred to Minerva’s superior cause for alarm—after all, she was not only a known enemy of the fleeing killer but her husband was even now risking life and limb to bring the fugitive to justice. Several of them vied to see who could refresh her tea.

  “I’m sure we’ll all be praying for a speedy end to this terrible situation,” Robyn said. She clasped Minerva’s hands. “And for the safety of our brave law enforcement officers, and for the soul of poor Mr. Vess.”

  “And for Mr. Lightfoot, too,” put in Reverend Wilson, craning around from behind the table, where he was filling cups of cider. “For ‘I say to you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repents, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.’ There is still hope for Mr. Lightfoot.”

  There were murmurs of “amen,” from the assembled tea ladies and Minerva lifted her chin and looked comforted.

  “Although I hope no one will object if I hope Mr. Lightfoot starts his repenting very soon, and from the inside of a jail cell,” I added.

  “Lord, yes,” Minerva said.

  “I look forward to the day when he is safely locked up,” Reverend Wilson said. “And I can begin to help him wrestle with the heavy burden of sin he must be carrying.”

  “I just hope Henry finds him before Christmas Day.” Minerva looked anxious. “I remember one terrible year back in Baltimore, not too long after we were married, when he was working twenty hours a day trying to catch a serial arsonist and didn’t have time to open our presents until three days after Christmas. And he’s not a young man anymore.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, dear,” Mother said. “Before I forget.”

  She glided over to the tea table, reached underneath, and pulled out a gaily wrapped package.

  “This is for you, Meg dear.”

  I suppressed the urge to ask her why she felt it necessary to give me the present now, when I would either have to run out to the car to stow it or lug it with me during the entire play.

  “Thanks,” I said instead. I couldn’t help noticing that she was displaying none of the delight she normally took in presents, even when they were intended for other people. In fact, she had looked relieved the second it left her hands. “Who’s it from?”

  “Cousin Sylvia.�
�� From her grave tone of voice, she obviously knew how I felt about getting a parcel from Sylvia. For that matter, how everyone felt. We both stared at the parcel for a few moments in silence.

  “What’s wrong?” Robyn asked.

  “Cousin Sylvia is an avid knitter,” I said.

  “I love hand-knitted presents,” Robyn said. “Lucky you!”

  “Sylvia’s taste is … unusual,” Mother murmured.

  “She has no taste,” I said. “And her color choices are so peculiar that I really think someone should find a way to test her for color blindness.”

  “She tries so hard,” Mother said.

  “Mostly she does bulky Christmas sweaters,” I said. “With Santas or reindeer or Christmas trees or bells. Only she does her own designs, so everything just looks like multicolored amoebas. Or psychedelic Rorschach tests.”

  “Still—one could make allowances,” Mother said. “If only she’d use natural fibers. Wool. Cotton.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible to dye natural fibers in colors garish enough to please Sylvia,” I said.

  “Now you’ve roused my curiosity,” Robyn said. “You must come and show me this sweater after Christmas.”

  “I’ll show it to you now.” I began picking at the tape at one end of the soft, bulky parcel.

  “You can’t open that now,” Mother said.

  “Why not?” I asked. “She won’t be here to see me open it on Christmas Day. Even if she were, I can tape it up again.”

  “Well, it would be nice to see what we’re all in for this year,” Mother said. “Once she comes up with a pattern she likes, she usually does it up in different color combinations for everyone,” she added to Robyn.

  “I’m just surprised she gave me a present at all,” I said. “I thought she wasn’t speaking to me. She found out I’d given away some of the sweaters she’s made for me and Michael over the years.”

  “You should never have donated them to the church rummage sale,” Mother said.

  “She knitted those sweaters you donated to the rummage sale?” Robyn exclaimed. “Oh, my.” She regarded the parcel with alarm.

  “I knew better than to donate them anywhere else,” I said. “I know she haunts every thrift shop for miles around. I just didn’t think she’d come to the Trinity rummage sale.”

  “Next time just mail them to Cousin Alicia in California,” Mother said. “That’s what I do. She has found someplace that’s happy to have them. Possibly some organization that helps the visually impaired. And then— Oh, my!”

  I had finally succeeded in removing the paper from the sweater and held it up. Mother and I stared at it, speechless.

  “Actually, this one is rather nice,” Robyn said.

  It wasn’t Sylvia’s usual bulky horror. It was a soft, boatneck sweater, all black except for the neckline, hemline, and the ends of the sleeves, which shaded into black flecked with a slight hint of metallic gold. I held it against my body and measured. I’d have to try it on to be sure, but it looked as if it would fit me perfectly. And look good on me. Perhaps Mother had brought the wrong parcel. I checked the tag: TO MEG FROM SYLVIA.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Of course, given Sylvia’s color sense, she probably thinks it’s hideous,” Mother said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “She really must hate me. Unless she’s suddenly had a complete change of taste since last year. And I think it’s wool.”

  “Wool-cotton blend, if I’m not mistaken.” Mother was fingering the sweater with appreciation. “Very nice. And no, your brother opened his early, too. I’d say his is worse than usual. I believe it’s meant to be Santa petting Rudolph and the rest of the reindeer—although if so, you’d think she’d have used red and brown instead of orange and purple. Rob thinks it’s supposed to be a fruit basket being savaged by mutant hyenas. If that turns out to be a little small for you, let me try it on.”

  “Hands off!” I pretended to swat her fingers. “I’m the one who insulted Sylvia. I should bear the burden of her displeasure.”

  “I still have the last sweater or two she sent me and your father,” Mother said. “I haven’t mailed them to Alicia yet. I could donate them nearby.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Offend her as soon as possible, before she starts on your gift for next year. Why not donate them to the rummage sale we’ll be having with Mrs. Thornefield’s things?”

  “Estate sale,” Mother corrected. “And yes, that’s a lovely idea. We need to schedule it soon. Though not until after I’ve had Sotheby’s and Christie’s in to look at a few of her things that might bring more at auction.”

  “Not the furniture, I assume,” I said.

  “Of course the furniture,” Mother said. “Mrs. Thornefield had excellent taste. Sheraton, Chippendale, Hepplewhite.”

  “Then where did all those old horrors in the basement come from?” I asked. “I can’t see anything but big, heavy stuff that I wouldn’t give houseroom to.”

  “Big, heavy stuff?” Mother suddenly looked anxious. “That doesn’t sound like Mrs.Thornefield’s things.”

  “They probably put the best stuff at the far end of the basement,” Robyn said. “Away from the furnace, not to mention prying eyes. The big stuff’s probably church castoffs.”

  “And there are tons of boxes,” I said. “I suppose they might have boxed up anything really fragile.”

  “We could go over there now,” Mother said. “Just to check it out.”

  “The play’s starting in fifteen minutes,” I said, glancing at my watch. “And I should put in appearance at the cast party. Let’s just get there early on Boxing Day. We told everyone to come at noon, right? We can get there a few hours early.”

  “Why not tomorrow?” Mother asked.

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” I protested. “We all have wrapping and cooking to do.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “You haven’t seen the basement lately. Even if my shoulder were back to normal, there’s no way the two of us could manage all the boxes.”

  “I can round up several of your more athletic cousins to help us do any shifting around we need.”

  “As long as we’re finished in time for the live Nativity pageant and the carol sing-along,” I said.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “Probably time we all took our seats,” Robyn suggested. As we’d been discussing the sweater the incoming crowds had swelled, and now the lights in the foyer blinked to signal that it was time for us to enter the auditorium.

  Riddick, who had been hovering nearby for the last several minutes, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “Is it okay if— I mean, I’m happy to stay on if I’m needed but…” He let his words trail off and touched one side of his head gently, as if to remind us of his migraines.

  “Go home, then,” Robyn said. And then, as if startled by how brusque her words had sounded, she stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “You really don’t need to hang around if you don’t feel up to it. Or if there’s something else you’d rather be doing. Go home and take care of yourself.”

  He smiled wanly. Then he turned and began walking slowly toward one of the side exits. I noticed that the farther he got from us, the faster his pace became. Clearly there was nothing wrong with his legs.

  “Did I sound too impatient?” Robyn asked Mother and me in an undertone. “I confess, I feel impatient. He’s been complaining all day. What is one supposed to do with people who insist on hanging around and whining when you’ve told them multiple times it’s perfectly fine for them to leave?”

  “Just what you did now,” I said. “Tell them it’s okay to go.”

  “Subtlety is lost on Riddick,” Mother added.

  I discarded Sylvia’s wrapping paper in a nearby trash can and carefully stowed my beautiful new sweater in the tote I always carried whenever I went anywhere with the boys. I’d trained myself to call it a tote rather than a diaper bag because I’d long ago reali
zed that even when the boys no longer needed diapers they’d still need the million and one other things I carried in the bag.

  “Don’t forget to thank Sylvia,” Mother said.

  “Are you sure I should?” I asked. “What if I thank her and get the mutant purple reindeer next year?”

  “So true.” Mother frowned.

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll tell her that I like the sweater so much because there are only so many times you can wear a Christmas-themed sweater—or for that matter any brightly colored sweater—but a nice neutral black sweater works fabulously any time.”

  “Let’s hope she takes the hint,” Mother said. “Why don’t you tell her I said that?”

  “Happy to,” I said. “Josh? Jamie? Finish off your cider so we can go watch Daddy’s play.”

  Chapter 37

  Rose Noire, Dad, and Michael’s mother were saving places for us in the front row, so even though Mother, the boys, and I slipped in only a few minutes from curtain time we had good seats. The boys were awed at the number of people who’d come to see their daddy, and we gave in and let them stand on their seats for a few minutes, gazing in wonder at the several hundred audience members. More than a few of the audience had come in costume—some in Victorian garb and others in whatever they’d worn for Halloween. The hall was filled with robots, pirates, vampires, ballerinas, werewolves, mafiosos, cowboys, cartoon superheroes, six-foot cats and rabbits, and innumerable Goths and fairies. The audience sparkled almost as much as the hall, which was decorated not only with the usual evergreen and tinsel but also with tiny multicolored LED lights that pulsed in patterns to the Celtic holiday music that was being piped through the hall’s speakers. Clearly the tech crews were having fun tonight.

  About the time we got the boys settled down and facing forward again, the lights dimmed and Michael strode out onto the stage, wearing his Victorian costume—a top hat, a black frock coat, a red cravat, and a bright red plaid waistcoat. The audience burst into applause, and the boys jumped up on their chairs again and shouted “Daddy! Daddy!” while applauding wildly. Michael spotted them, and strode to the front of the stage to bow to them. Then he pointed at each one in turn with his forefinger and fixed them with a stern look until they both sat down and assumed expectant expressions. The audience laughed and applauded, and I could hear a few people saying things like “Aren’t they adorable!” Well yes—most of the time.