I had to admit, his imitation of Mother was spot-on.
“I have always tried to be respectful and supportive of you,” Mother said. “In fact—”
“Shut up,” he said. “There’s some duct tape over on top of those boxes. Get it, and start taping up your ankles.”
Mother and I looked at each other. She raised one eyebrow—the one on the side away from Riddick.
I realized she was asking me what to do. And looking—nervous. Maybe even scared. I wasn’t sure I could remember seeing Mother scared. Or having her ask me for help.
“Sometime this century, ladies,” Riddick barked.
Probably not the time for an existential crisis.
“Let’s look for the duct tape,” I said. And for anything that we could use as a weapon.
If only Mother wasn’t here, I thought, as I scanned the nearby floor and the tops of the boxes. I couldn’t help thinking that if I were alone, I’d have a much better chance of getting the drop on Riddick. Or if I tried and failed, at least I’d only be failing myself. Mother’s slender figure looked alarmingly frail at the moment. And why on earth would anyone over sixty wear boots with dainty little high heels at any time, much less with a foot of snow on the ground? Any escape plan that called for running fast was obviously not going to work.
Mother was playing her tiny flashlight over the top of the boxes. At one point the beam spilled over and illuminated the area around Riddick’s feet, just for a second. There was something by his right leg. It looked a lot like the bright red plastic gas can we kept in the garage. Evidently Riddick had come back to have another go at burning up the junk in the basement. The stuff that almost certainly had never belonged to Mrs. Thornefield. I’d bet Riddick had hauled all her valuable things away, and maybe even sold most of them already.
Mother was eyeing her little nail file, but since it was only about five inches long and already warped from hacking through box tape, I didn’t think it would do us much good. I was a lot more interested in the tacky bronze nymph, which had a lot of nice sharp edges. But I’d have to get much closer to Riddick to be able to use it.
“What’s taking so long?” Riddick asked.
“There is no duct tape here,” Mother said.
“There has to be,” Riddick snapped.
“What, did you leave it down here when you killed Mr. Vess?” I asked.
“Keep looking,” Riddick said.
Fine with me. The longer we could stall Riddick, the better. Surely sooner or later Michael would start worrying that I hadn’t shown up at the cast party. Or Dad would wonder what was taking Mother so long. Or one of the deputies would swing by the parking lot, spot our cars, and come to check things out. I wasn’t sure why Riddick was so intent on binding us—if I were a cold-blooded killer, I’d have just shot my prisoners and have done with it. Maybe he was a little squeamish about actually shooting us. Or maybe he didn’t want to risk the noise. For whatever reason, he obviously preferred to tie us up and let the fire do his dirty work. Well, that was good for us. We needed time. Time, and a distraction.
“Did Vess actually figure out what you were up to?” I asked aloud. “Or were you just afraid he might if he kept poking?”
“Vess was a meddling busybody,” Riddick said. “Don’t try to pretend you’re sad about his death.”
“Any man’s death diminishes me,” Mother quoted. “Oh, look! I found the roll of tape.”
She sounded so pleased that I couldn’t help shooting her an exasperated look. Did she really not get what was going to happen once Riddick had the tape?
“But I don’t think it’s going to be very useful,” Mother went on. She held up the roll and pulled at the end of the tape. About four inches of tape came away, followed by the brown paper strip that marked the end of the roll.
“That can’t be my roll.” Riddick sounded cross. “Keep looking.”
He followed his own advice, dropping the flashlight beam to scan the floor, starting at his own feet and gradually moving outward.
And I realized that if he was pointing the flashlight at the floor, he couldn’t see what we were doing. I reached out, very slowly, and grabbed the ugly china lamp. I wasn’t close enough to him to whack him, and it was such an odd shape that I didn’t like my odds of throwing it at him accurately but maybe—
I tossed the lamp as far to my right as I could. It landed with a crash near the furnace.
“Who’s there?”
As I hoped, Riddick whirled and pointed gun and flashlight in the direction of the crash. I launched myself toward him, taking a few steps and then bringing him down with a flying tackle. I realized too late that I should have taken my arm out of the sling before attacking. We landed hard on the concrete floor, and unfortunately most of my weight landed on my bad arm. I managed not to scream—I kept it down to a loud yelp. I heard something metal skitter across the floor. I hoped it was the gun. Yes, it must be the gun, because I could see the flashlight beam darting about wildly as Riddick started whacking me with it. I raised my good right arm to keep him from hitting my head, and was trying to get my left arm into play so I could hit him back when—
Thunk! Riddick suddenly went limp, and I heard a small metallic tinkling noise on the floor near me.
“Take that, you rude man!” Mother exclaimed.
I grabbed the flashlight from Riddick’s now limp hand, scooted out of reach, and turned the beam on him. Mother had hit him with the bronze nymph. The tinkling noise had been one of the statue’s slender, graceful arms breaking off on contact with Riddick’s skull.
His eyes were closed and I saw a small trickle of blood making its way down his forehead.
I scrambled over to the gun, shifted the flashlight into my left hand, and took firm hold of the weapon.
My left arm wasn’t liking this at all, so I walked back and handed the flashlight to Mother.
“Thank you, dear,” she said. “If you want to tie him up, I have a full roll of packing tape in my purse.”
She kept the flashlight trained on Riddick and the gun at the ready—pointed at the ceiling, thank goodness, not at Riddick and me. I fetched the tape and tied him up. It took rather longer than usual, working with only one good arm. I was relieved that he didn’t wake up while I was doing it, but equally relieved to hear him groan slightly as I was finishing off his ankles. I checked his pulse. It was steady, and I saw his eyelids flutter.
I put as much distance as possible between me and him and sat down heavily on a box.
“Here, dear.” Mother handed me the gun and the flashlight. “You just rest. I’ll go out in the hall where the cell phone reception’s better and call Chief Burke.”
I sat, watching Riddick regain consciousness and begin to struggle against the tape. I put the flashlight on the box beside me and the gun in my jacket pocket. My left shoulder was killing me, and I wouldn’t have the strength to lift the gun if Riddick wriggled out of the tape.
I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or annoyed at hearing the dainty but firm tap-tap-tap of Mother’s boot heels as she walked out into the hall.
“Hello, Debbie Ann? Meg and I have caught the real killer.”
Chapter 40
“I can’t believe it! Every church in Caerphilly is back to normal! We can all have our Christmas Eve services as planned! And it’s all thanks to you and your mother!”
Robyn was standing in the doorway of Trinity, welcoming the congregation to the ten o’clock service. Maybe the churches were back to normal, but I still hadn’t recovered from the previous night’s excitement.
Robyn looked as if only the vivid presence of my bright red velvet sling was keeping her from hugging me. I’d chosen the color for that very reason. She settled for patting my undamaged right arm repeatedly.
“Mostly back to normal,” I said. “Rumor has it that the Baptist church isn’t quite as fresh smelling as they’d like.”
“They’ll be fine,” Robyn said. “Father Donnelly and I gave them some inc
ense yesterday, and just in case they can’t quite bring themselves to use it, Randall Shiffley dropped off a couple of cans of pine-and spruce-scented air freshener this morning. Go have a seat down front—you want to get a good view of your boys.”
I followed her orders. Mother and Michael’s mother were already there in Mother’s usual third-row pew, saving me a seat by piling their coats and cameras between them.
I’d gotten about six hours of sleep, thanks in part to the chief’s suggestion that I go home after having my shoulder looked at in the ER, and give him my full statement today, after church. Still, never had I so appreciated Robyn’s penchant for brief and pithy sermons. Even the parents who hadn’t been up late probably felt the same, since we were all keenly aware of the occasional giggles, sneezes, whispers, and sounds of minor combat emanating from the doorways on either side of the church where the children were waiting for their entrances.
Finally the moment came. The organist began softly playing the opening bars of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and Michael stepped to the podium to begin reading from the book of Luke.
“‘In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world.’”
A sixth-grader in a toga stepped out and held up a scroll made from two empty paper towel rolls, a long sheet of paper, and about a ton of gold glitter. He’d have looked more authentic if his mother hadn’t made him wear a turtleneck under the toga but the mother in me approved of her caution.
“‘So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David…’”
As Michael continued to narrate and the organist played softly, Mary and Joseph, seventh-graders chosen for good behavior, entered from the right and headed for the manger. Mary was leading, rather than riding, a donkey whose sneaker-clad rear feet had an alarming tendency to step on the heels of the snow boots his front feet were wearing. Mary abandoned the donkey once she reached the manger, which was right in front of the altar. As soon as the donkey came to a halt, its stomach began to writhe alarmingly, until Joseph kicked both sets of feet several times and stage-whispered “Cut it out, you idiots!”
While her husband was disciplining the donkey, Mary reached under the manger and matter-of-factly pulled out the doll that represented the infant Jesus and plunked him down in the straw. But then she remembered her character and assumed a beatific expression as she gazed down at the doll.
On this cue, all the animals filed in. In addition to the boys in their dinosaur costumes, the denizens of the stables included a brightly colored parrot, an elephant, a Wookiee, and Winnie-the-Pooh. They all took turns peering down at baby Jesus while the choir led us through all six verses of “Friendly Beasts,” after which the Wookiee chivvied the rest of the creatures to the right side of the stage, where they all took their seats on hay bales placed there for their comfort.
“‘And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.’”
Several comparatively tall boys and girls dressed as shepherds appeared at the far right, herding twenty smaller children dressed as sheep. The sheep milled about restlessly, being shushed occasionally by their keepers or whacked with crooks, while the choir and the congregation sang “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night”—thank goodness only the first verse this time. Then the shepherds herded their charges past the manger and got them settled down on the left side of the stage on more hay bales, except for a couple of small boy sheep who insisted on sitting with my two little dinosaurs.
Michael switched over to the book of Matthew.
“‘Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the east came to Jerusalem.’”
The three children chosen to be wise men—or, in this case, two wise men and one wise woman—filed out from the left, carefully holding boxes wrapped in gold paper, presumably containing the gold, frankincense, and myrrh, while we all sang the first verse of “We Three Kings.” I was relieved to see that there weren’t any children in camel suits—especially since the donkey still erupted from time to time with stomach-writhing and alarming sounds of internal conflict and had to be suppressed by Joseph.
“‘Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh.’” The wise persons all popped the tops of their boxes and showed the contents to Mary, who nodded with approval. “‘And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way.’” At this, the wise men looked anxiously back the way they’d come, and then set down their boxes at the foot of the manger and tiptoed off in the other direction.
Then the choir started us off with “Joy to the World” and at the end of the song, the wise men came back. All the participants took a bow while we applauded, and then all the parents and grandparents put away their cell phones and cameras and the children scampered out to join their families in the pews for the rest of the service.
A good thing we weren’t as tightly scheduled as we had been over the last few days, because after the service was over, everyone milled around for at least half an hour, praising all the pageant participants and sharing the latest gossip and generally reveling in the fact that Trinity was ours, not just for the moment, for the whole rest of the day and all day tomorrow. Doubtless all the other churches were feeling a similar sense of relief.
When everyone finally began drifting away, Michael took his mother and our two dinosaurs for lunch at Mother and Dad’s while I headed over to the police station for my interview with the chief.
I took the long way around, in part so I could drive by as many churches as possible. In fact, I cruised through the parking lots of several. The choir was in full and glorious voice at New Life Baptist Church. The parking lot at St. Byblig’s was full, and there were cars parked up and down the road so far in both directions that a couple of parishioners were using their vans to haul latecomers to the door. An early service had just ended at the Presbyterian church and even though it was still below freezing, many of the congregation were lingering in small groups in the parking lot. From the clouds of breath steam rising from most of the groups they were all talking a mile a minute. I exchanged waves with Randall and at least a dozen other Shiffleys. On the lawn of the Methodist church, several people were laughing happily as they hauled away the last few inanimate Nativity figures and shoveled the area, in preparation for this afternoon’s live Nativity.
By the time I reached the police station, I was elated from the sight of so many of my friends and neighbors enjoying their Christmas rituals untroubled by pranks. I was looking forward to my interview—I also had a lot of questions, and provided the chief was in a good mood and I was tactful about how I asked, I stood a good chance of getting answers to most of them.
I got a few of my answers before I even went in. As I parked in the visitors’ section of the station lot, I saw a Goochland County Sheriff’s Department car pull up by the front door. Horace and Vern Shiffley appeared to be watching this new arrival with interest so I went over to wish them good morning and see what I could see.
“Good news,” Vern said. “Our friends up in Goochland County have apprehended Jerome Lightfoot.”
“But is he still a wanted man?” I asked. “Now that we’re pretty sure he isn’t the killer, I mean.”
“Maybe he’s not the killer,” Vern said. “But he probably isn’t Jerome Lightfoot, either. He had several complete sets of identity papers with him, and they’re probably all false. But we sent in his fingerprints, so we should find out who he really is pretty soon. I’m betting the New Life Baptist Church won’t be the only place charging him with fraud.”
“Speaking of fingerprints,” I added. “If he’s not the killer, how did his prints get on the murder weapon?”
“He threw it at someone,” Horace said. “During one of his tantrums when the choir was rehearsing at Trinity. According to some of
the ladies from the Altar Guild, at one point he started heaving anything he could find at people—not just the candlesticks but hymnals and flower vases and seat cushions. The ladies packed up everything that wasn’t nailed down and shoved it all in the sacristy for safekeeping. And according to them, Riddick was making himself helpful for a change.”
“So when he surprised Vess in the basement—” Vern began.
“Or arranged to meet him in the basement—” Horace put in.
“He brought along the candlestick,” Vern finished. “Knowing he could use it to frame Lightfoot. One of the ladies mentioned that she couldn’t find it Sunday morning to polish it, but she figured it had just been put away in the wrong place. Riddick had probably hidden it someplace to use when he did away with Vess.”
“Which is going to make it a lot easier to prove premeditation,” Horace added.
“You here to see the chief?” Vern asked.
I nodded.
“Wait here until they take Lightfoot through the lobby,” Horace said.
“Or whatever his name is,” Vern grumbled.
Given what the so-called Lightfoot had done to my shoulder, I thought this was good advice. I spotted several other familiar figures also watching Lightfoot’s entrance.
“What’s Caleb doing down here?” I asked.
“Just got his anklet taken off,” Vern said. “County attorney’s offering him and Ronnie probation, provided they make financial restitution and do about a zillion hours of community service.”
“Good,” I said. “Is that Duane Shiffley with him?”
“It is,” Vern said. “Seems Duane is dead set against seeing any more young Shiffleys following in his unfortunate footsteps. Going to stick to Caleb like a burr to a hound dog until he’s sure the kid has done all his community service and seen the error of his ways. If Caleb wants to go to the devil he’ll have to do it over Duane’s dead body. Probably safe to go in now.”
Duck the Halls Page 24
