Duck the Halls

by Donna Andrews

  I took Vern’s advice, wishing Caleb and Duane a merry Christmas as I passed. The chief was standing in the lobby, gazing down the hallway that led to the jail, with a satisfied expression on his face.

  “Good morning, Meg,” he said. “And merry Christmas. I won’t take too much of your time—I know you have a lot on your plate.”

  And it didn’t take much time, probably because he’d already taken a very detailed statement from Mother last night. I went through my story, and he took a few notes, but that was it. And he was obviously in such a genial mood that I didn’t hesitate to ask a few questions of my own.

  “So was Mother right?” I asked. “Had Riddick stolen all of Mrs. Thornefield’s nice things?”

  “Stolen just about everything,” the chief said. “And started selling everything off. Fortunately he was keeping good records, so we shouldn’t have too much trouble recovering either the items from the buyers or the purchase price from Riddick’s bank account, whichever Trinity prefers. And the items he hadn’t yet sold were all packed up—apparently he was planning to take it all with him.”

  “Even the furniture?”

  “He had it all loaded in a stolen truck,” the chief said. “Quincy Shiffley’s truck, in fact. Once we’ve inventoried it, the Shiffley Moving Company can bring it out to your barn to get ready for that auction.”

  “What about the stuff in the church basement?” I asked. “Did he steal that, too?”

  “No, he bought it all at various junk shops, estate sales and yard sales over the past six months, since Mrs. Thornefield passed away,” the chief said. “He knew everyone would get suspicious if there wasn’t a house full of furniture and boxes down in the basement. I suppose it never occurred to him that anyone would be that familiar with the contents of Mrs. Thornefield’s house.”

  “He should have known Mother better by now,” I said.

  “And it’s a good thing you knew your mother well enough to suspect she couldn’t rest without inspecting the basement,” the chief said.

  “And did Mr. Vess suspect what was going on?” I asked. “Or was he just unlucky enough to be snooping in the church when Riddick was making his final haul? Or will we ever know?”

  “We have a pretty good idea,” the chief said. “We’ve recovered two files Riddick apparently stole from Mr. Vess. The one on the Thornefield estate and one on Riddick himself. Apparently, Vess had been suspicious of Riddick for years.”

  “But he was suspicious of everybody,” I said. “How was anyone supposed to know he was right about Riddick?”

  “Precisely! The boy who cried wolf!” The chief leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. I recognized the welcome signs that he was in a good mood and felt like sharing the details of his case. “And unfortunately Mr. Vess was rather fixated on the notion that Riddick was stealing money. All Riddick had to do was keep the cash and bank accounts clean and he could steal the church blind without Vess being any the wiser.”

  “But if Vess had suspected Riddick for years—do you mean this was going on even before Mrs. Thornefield’s estate?”

  “It’s been going on nearly twenty years,” the chief said. “Though on a much, much smaller scale,” he added, seeing my shocked expression. “Apparently early in their working relationship, Dr. Womble, the previous rector, recognized that Riddick might be finding it difficult to manage on the relatively modest salary the church was paying him. So the good doctor encouraged Riddick to take any little items he might find useful from the rummage sale donations.”

  “‘Little items’?” I said. “Like that silver Tiffany tea service Mother was burbling about before church this morning?”

  “It began with little items,” the chief said. “But it wasn’t long before Riddick realized the true value of the items donated by more affluent parishioners. That’s when he began his practice of replacing valuable objects with cheap counterparts purchased in thrift shops. He also started pretending to sell some of the donated items to antique stores and thrift shops—supposedly for larger sums than they’d bring at the rummage sale. But of course he was selling his thrift shop purchases, not the donations.”

  “He’s lucky no one ever recognized any of his thrift shop junk.”

  “It’s not luck,” the chief said. “He stuck to thrift shops at least three hours’ drive away.”

  I shook my head in amazement.

  “Riddick, of all people,” I said. “And for twenty years?”

  “He was only doing it on the large scale for the last six or seven years,” the chief said. “Until your mother came along. She’s the reason he was leaving Trinity.”

  “Mother? I thought it was Robyn.”

  “Robyn annoyed him,” the chief said. “All that emphasis on efficiency and decluttering was going to make it harder to run his racket. But his problems really began when your mother was elected to the vestry. Riddick could tell everyone else on the vestry that a thrift shop had offered a few hundred dollars for some old threadbare rugs and they’d say ‘Great!’ Your mother would want to see the rugs first. She’d almost shut him down even before Robyn arrived.”

  “Good for Mother!” I exclaimed. “But I guess he couldn’t resist going for one more big score with Mrs. Thornefield’s estate.”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “He was hoping to use the disruption arising from the change in rectors to cover his tracks. At first, the pranks alarmed him. Having dozens of inquisitive Baptists swarming all over the church must have made him nervous. But he soon realized that if he kept the pranks going, he could exploit them to help him pull off his final theft. And to get rid of Mr. Vess, whose suspicions were finally becoming inconvenient.”

  “Don’t tell me—after hearing Mother go on about the valuable furniture for the last three or four months, Vess finally took a look at the junk in the basement and figured out what was up?”

  “No.” The chief was wearing what could only be called a Cheshire Cat grin. “Riddick was planning to move to the greater Los Angeles area, and he was looking for someplace to stash his loot. In late October, he made the mistake of using his office phone to call a storage locker company in Van Nuys. Apparently Vess reads every line of the church phone bill, and when he saw a ninety-cent long-distance charge that didn’t seem legit, he couldn’t rest till he got an explanation. He’d been bugging everyone about it. What if he called the storage place and they gave him Riddick’s name? So Vess had to go.”

  “Good grief,” I said. “I remember all that fuss about the ninety-cent phone call. Our budget’s tight, but not that tight.”

  “Won’t be tight at all when we recover what Riddick embezzled,” the chief said. “It’ll be at least a million.”

  “A million dollars?” My jaw fell.

  “At least.”

  “Well, that answers another question,” I said, when I finally got my voice back. “I was still having a hard time believing anyone would commit a murder over a bunch of old furniture, but a million dollars?”

  “Definitely ample motive,” the chief said. “And if Riddick has any money left after Trinity has taken back what he stole, Quincy Shiffley will probably sue him for mental anguish. He’s still convinced some of his ducks are missing.”

  “So Riddick definitely stole the ducks?”

  “Using Quincy Shiffley’s truck,” the chief said, nodding. “Horace found ample forensic evidence to prove that. We may never know if Riddick committed the duck prank just to cause mischief—because he could see how much the first two pranks and the resulting church-swapping upset Mr. Vess—or if he already had murder in mind. I’m pretty sure he used the ducks in the hope of casting suspicion on Mr. Vess.”

  “Since Mr. Vess had better access to the ducks than anyone else in the county,” I said, nodding.

  “And Riddick lit the campfire near Temple Beth-El to make sure all eyes were there and not on Trinity Episcopal,” the chief went on. “And he seems to be a belt-and-suspenders kind of crook, so I expect
we’ll find he planted those beer bottles with the boys’ fingerprints on them just in case we didn’t believe that Mr. Vess had somehow incinerated himself while trying to fill the Trinity basement with stolen rabbits. So Ronnie and Caleb will have to deal with whatever punishment their parents impose for underage drinking, but I’m convinced they’re innocent of the duck and rabbit thefts.”

  “Good,” I said. “I thought they sounded sincere. On another topic—not that I want to pry into New Life Baptist’s business, but what’s the story on Jerome Lightfoot? Is it just me, or was it a little weird for someone to go to all that trouble just to get a job as a church choir director? Even for such a distinguished choir as yours,” I added hastily.

  “Indeed,” the chief said. “Apparently, to judge from the last three churches at which he worked—two of them under different pseudonyms—his modus operandi is to use his position as choir director to worm his way into the confidence of key church financial officials and then arrange to have the blame fall on them when he absconds with as much church money as he can manage. His previous flights have all taken place either at Christmas or Easter, when he could add substantial cash sums from the collection plate to what he was pillaging from the church bank accounts. I rather doubt he could have pulled it off here in Caerphilly—our treasurer was gratified to have his daughter chosen as a soloist over two arguably more worthy vocalists, but he’s not that gullible. Still, you never know.”

  “And even if he was planning to try this Christmas, I bet all the church-swapping threw a monkey wrench in his plans,” I said. “That could account for what a nasty temper he was in every time I saw him over in Trinity.”

  “His temper was rather nasty at the best of times,” the chief said. “But yes, I recall Minerva mentioning that he was behaving badly, even for him. She put it down to tension over the important concert, but perhaps he was merely vexed that he’d have to put up with us till Easter to get another big cash haul. And since poor Mr. Vess was killed after starting an inquiry into Lightfoot’s background and Lightfoot took flight so soon after the murder—well, it’s a lucky thing you and your mother managed to apprehend the real killer.”

  We fell silent. I didn’t know what the chief was thinking, but I was musing over the fact that however annoying Barliman Vess had been, he had probably helped save Trinity from a good many real financial problems. He’d caught on to Riddick’s plot in the end. He’d probably been the first to suspect Lightfoot. He’d still be around to vex us all if he’d trusted Robyn or his fellow vestry members enough to confide in them. We’d be choosing his replacement on the vestry soon, and we’d better find someone else with his unique combination of financial savvy and suspicious nature. I pulled out my notebook and wrote a reminder to think of some good candidates before Mother tried to draft me.

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” the chief said, standing up to signal that our interview was over. “Thanks to you, we’re having our full schedule of Christmas Eve activities over at the New Life Baptist Church. Minerva said if you don’t have a chance to get home for lunch, you’re welcome to drop by for the potluck at noon.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind if anything interrupts me on my way out of town.”

  Chapter 41

  But nothing interrupted me on the way out of town. Mother had saved me a plate, and I arrived in time to help Michael’s mother and the boys make Christmas cookies. Michael disappeared—ostensibly to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, though I knew he was actually going over to start cooking our private dinner, especially the turkey, which was larger than expected and would take forever.

  “But what happens when you need to leave for the live Nativity and the carol singing?” I asked. “You can’t just leave the turkey cooking in an empty house.”

  “I’ve hired a sitter,” he said.

  “For the turkey?”

  “One of my students who isn’t going home for the holidays will be sitting in the apartment, studying and basting the turkey at half-hour intervals while I’m gone. And no, we don’t have to invite him to share the bird he’s basting. He’ll be at your mother’s tomorrow with the rest of the hordes.”

  When Michael came back from cooking we informed the boys that we were doing something special for dinner after the carol sing. We swore them to secrecy, of course, though I was relying less on their discretion than on the fact that they wouldn’t be out of our sight until we took off for the apartment. And if they did babble about the “something special,” I planned to say that we were going to take them driving around to see Christmas lights until they dozed off in their car seats.

  Around three we all bundled up to go back into town for the live Nativity.

  Randall had arranged for a crew to deliver dozens of hay bales to the newly shoveled town square and arrange them in loose rows facing the Methodist church, which was slightly elevated above the square, giving us a good view of the empty stable. Once everyone was seated and just as we were all getting restless and a little cold and wondering when the show would start, we heard baas and bleats and short, sharp barks. We craned our necks to see a flock of sheep coming around the corner into the blocked-off street in front of us. It was Seth Early in a rough homespun shepherd’s robe leading at least fifty of his enormous Lincoln sheep, accompanied by half a dozen Methodists, similarly dressed, and Lad, Seth’s Border Collie, who did such a good job keeping the flock together and in motion that the humans with their crooks were clearly just for decoration.

  Following in the wake of the sheep were the other animals. A dozen cows, complete with old-fashioned bells, marched sedately behind two milkmaids in biblical costume. The half dozen lively goats each had its own keeper and still caused more trouble than all the cows and sheep put together.

  I waved to my friend Betsy, who was leading several American Mammoth Jackstock donkeys, including one named Jim-Bob who had helped save my life during the summer. The final donkey pulled a rough wooden cart driven by Rose Noire and piled high with wooden cages containing ducks, geese, and chickens.

  Next came the llamas, led by a tall shepherd I recognized as my brother Rob. Another donkey pulled yet another wooden cart, this one driven by Dad and bearing my grandfather, who was holding the leashes of his three wolves. He was right—the Arctic Wolf was particularly striking.

  Caroline Willner followed, riding a small elephant that lived at her wildlife sanctuary. She was followed by more costumed men driving a pair of large pigs, a woman leading a very temperamental zebra, and a small flock of ostriches and emus.

  It all made for a very unusual manger scene by the time they finally got all the animals gathered around the stable—except for the wolves, which Grandfather kept a little way down the slope toward the street, since the way they were straining at their leashes indicated that they were far too interested in the other animals.

  After all that, the appearance of the holy family and the assorted angels, shepherds, and wise men was almost an anticlimax—well, except for the fact that the three wise men arrived leading two camels with magnificent bejeweled trappings. In spite of the many anachronisms, the pageant was a smashing success.

  When it was over and the animals were being led off, we all turned around to face the enormous Christmas tree in the center of the square—which meant that anyone who had a back-row seat for the living Nativity now had a front row seat for the caroling—and after Randall ceremoniously plugged in the tree lights, Minerva Burke led us all in a half hour of Christmas carols before wishing us a merry Christmas and telling us to go home and start celebrating with our families.

  Michael ducked out a little early with the boys. I stayed behind to make our excuses—no, we weren’t coming over to Mother and Dad’s for the evening—the boys were a little tired, and we had presents to assemble before we fell into bed ourselves.

  “But we’ll see you bright and early on Christmas Day!” I said. Probably too early; all the grandparents were determined to be there when the boys woke up and s
aw their presents. I’d already made sure Mother and Dad could find their keys to the house so I wouldn’t have to let them in.

  I took a circuitous route when I left the town square and kept my eye on my rearview mirror. Not that I really expected anyone to be following me for sinister reasons, but I couldn’t help worrying about being spotted by some well-meaning friend or relative who might try to catch up with me to congratulate me on my lucky escape or want to hear the details.

  I finally turned into the familiar quiet, tree-lined street and then through the familiar gateway in front of the house that Michael’s friend Charlie now owned. An eight-foot fence that in summer would be covered with climbing roses and honeysuckle vines instead of snow and ice concealed a surprisingly large parking lot, a legacy from when the house had been chopped into eight or ten cramped apartments. By the time Michael had come to Caerphilly, a prosperous faculty member had turned the building back into a single-family dwelling, except for the basement apartment.

  The twinmobile, our van, was already there. I hurried down the narrow brick steps along one side of the house to knock on the low door, whose bright red surface was half hidden by an enormous green wreath festooned not only with a red bow but also a half-price sticker from the Caerphilly Market. I could hear carols playing inside—a very nice choral version of “Adeste Fidelis.” Josh opened the door on my first knock—clearly he’d been keeping watch.

  “Mommy!” he exclaimed. “Come see playhouse!”

  It did seem almost toylike compared with our current house. The ceilings were only seven feet tall so that Michael, at six four, had to duck when he went under an overhead light fixture. It was basically one not-very-large room with alcoves for the kitchen and bath and closet. In our time the kitchen had consisted of a microwave, a toaster oven, and a hotplate on top of a mini refrigerator, and we’d done dishes in the bathroom sink. Now it was fitted out with the smallest stove and kitchen sink I’d ever seen, and a slightly larger and newer mini fridge. Of course, the expanded kitchen took up a few more square feet of what was already a pretty minuscule living space, but it was definitely an improvement.