Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries)

by Donna Andrews

  “What a trial for you and your congregation!” Robyn said, taking both of Reverend Wilson’s hands in hers. “All our prayers are with you, of course. And we’re going to bring in some hands to help with cleanup. Have you thought of another space for the concert yet?”

  “Sadly, no.” Reverend Wilson looked uncharacteristically doleful. “Nor for all our other Christmas worship and fellowship events.”

  “I’m going to see if the college can offer some space,” Michael said. “Normally at this time of year there would be any number of classrooms and auditoriums standing empty. But since the college is hosting those big basketball and debate tournaments this weekend, I’m not optimistic.”

  “The college has even borrowed some of the larger spaces in the county office buildings,” Chief Burke added. “So that option’s out.”

  “And apart from the college and the county, I’m not sure anyone has a space large enough for our concert,” Reverend Wilson said.

  “Could you have two concerts?” Mother asked. “One tonight and one Sunday night?”

  “Trinity Episcopal could host one,” Robyn said. “Possibly both—let me check our calendar. And we can contact all the other local churches. I’m sure among us we can find sufficient spaces for everything.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Reverend Wilson said. “Take quite a bit of work to arrange, though.”

  I’d already figured that out. And since the last few weeks of nonstop holiday preparations had left me feeling stretched a little thin, I began trying to think of a tactful way to leave before a big chunk of that work landed on my plate. Luckily, Grandfather helped me out.

  “Meg!” He appeared at my side, looking his usual impatient self. “Caroline’s going to stay here to supervise the skunk removal. Can you take me over to the zoo? We’ve got to get a temporary habitat ready for these skunks.”

  Chapter 6

  Perfect. Even if readying the skunk habitat took hours, I decided that chauffeuring Grandfather offered the best chance of seeing my bed sometime before nightfall.

  “I’ll be happy to take you out to the zoo,” I said. And then, before Mother could protest that she needed me here, I added, “The sooner we have a place to put them, the sooner the cleanup can begin.”

  Mother nodded her approval and returned her attention to the two ministers. Robyn had already taken out her Day-Timer and was scribbling notes. A woman after my own heart, although my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I called my giant to-do list, was currently housed not in a Day-Timer but a small well-worn, tooled-leather ring binder made by a fellow craft show artist.

  Reverend Wilson was looking less glum. The situation was in hand; I could sneak off with a clear conscience.

  Grandfather brooded quietly on the way over to the zoo, only breaking his silence occasionally to favor me with some tidbit of information about skunks. I’m not sure why he felt obliged to tell me that the Great Horned Owl, due to its nearly nonexistent sense of smell, was the skunk’s only serious predator. And while I found it interesting that the Native Americans used skunk oil as a mild liniment or healing balm, I hoped he wouldn’t repeat this information in front of Rose Noire. Given her fascination with natural remedies, I could easily see her collecting skunk spray and smearing it all over any family member who seemed in need of healing.

  The zoo’s night-shift head keeper met us at the gate. He looked pale and anxious as he swung open one half of the enormous wreath-laden metal front gate. I pulled my car into the small gravel circle that served as a loading zone when the zoo was open and Grandfather’s private parking when it was not. A dozen live potted evergreens edged the circle, each decked with ribbon-trimmed seed balls and chunks of suet. Was this Grandfather’s idea or one of Caroline’s suggestions?

  “Morning, Victor,” Grandfather called out as he climbed out of my car. “Have you finished checking on the animals the way I asked?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Both of our skunks are there. All of the animals are there except … except…”

  “Out with it, man!”

  “Cleopatra’s missing.”

  “Missing?” Grandfather exclaimed. “How? Did someone leave her cage unlocked?”

  “Who or what is Cleopatra?” I asked.

  “The emerald tree boa,” Grandfather said. “Unusually large specimen. Nearly seven feet long.”

  “Wouldn’t she be hibernating this time of year?” I suggested. “That’s what snakes do in the winter, right? Maybe she’s just burrowed under whatever bedding’s in her cage.”

  “It’s called brumating in a snake,” Grandfather said. “And yes, she’d be doing it now—she might wake up if the weather became unseasonably warm, but with the air this cold, she’d be asleep. We keep the snake house cold enough that they’ll sleep, but not so cold as to be dangerous. Victor, I assume you checked the bedding thoroughly.”

  “Thoroughly!” Victor nodded vigorously. “And every corner of the snake house, from drains to rafters. She’s not there. And there are no cracks or crevices she could have used to escape.”

  “And no Cleopatra-sized bulges in any of the other large snakes, I assume,” I added.

  “Of course not,” Victor snapped. “I’d have noticed. And we only have one or two snakes anywhere near her size.”

  “She couldn’t get far, surely, on a night like this?” I asked.

  “In the unlikely event that she got outside, she’d go dormant almost immediately,” Grandfather said. “And likely die if she wasn’t found soon enough.”

  “She wasn’t lying dormant anywhere within ten feet of the snake house,” Victor said. “We checked even though it was obvious she didn’t leave on her own.”

  “You think she was stolen?” Grandfather frowned.

  “It’s the only reasonable explanation,” Victor said. “I checked her cage last night, the way I always do when I make my rounds. She was there and the padlock was in place. And I closed the snake house door after me and made sure it was secure—I know how dangerous a draft could be. When I went ’round just now, the padlock was gone and the cage door was wide open. Someone must have cut off the padlock and taken her.”

  Grandfather looked grim.

  “I do not like the direction these pranks are taking,” he said. “First someone puts a surfeit of skunks in a highly unsuitable environment, where they are in serious danger of being harmed by hysterical people—”

  How like Grandfather to side with the skunks.

  “—and now someone has quite irresponsibly removed an innocent reptile from its habitat and exposed it to weather that could be injurious to its health. When will people learn—”

  “Let’s tell the chief.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. “I have no idea if this is in any way related to the skunk thing, but he will want to know. Hello, Debbie Ann? I’d like report a missing snake.”

  I wouldn’t have thought the words “snake” and “skunk” were that easily confused, but it took us a while to sort out the mix-up. Debbie Ann relayed the stolen snake report to the chief, along with a warning to keep an eye open for Cleopatra in the church.

  “She wouldn’t be the least bit bothered by the skunks’ spray,” Grandfather said. “And it’s been a while since she was fed, so one of those smaller, adolescent skunks might look rather tempting to her. Have the chief put out an APB.”

  I relayed this suggestion—though coming from Grandfather, it sounded more like an order.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Debbie Ann said. “After all, it wouldn’t be the strangest APB we’ve put out here in Caerphilly. But is there any particular reason to think it’s in the church?”

  “No,” I said. “Except that it seems a little far-fetched to think that there would be two people—or groups of people—pulling animal-related pranks on the same night. What if whoever put the skunks in the church also turned Cleopatra loose there?”

  “Oh, my.”

  Debbie Ann hung up, presumably to put out a snake
alert to those working in the church.

  “We must go down there and look for her,” Grandfather said.

  “What about the skunk habitat?”

  Grandfather hesitated.

  “It will only take me a little while to show Victor what I have in mind,” he said finally. “You wait here.”

  He and Victor bustled off. I called home to make sure the boys were okay and after Rose Noire assured me all was well, I stretched out on the couch in Grandfather’s office and closed my eyes. If my luck held, once they got started, Grandfather would insist on supervising every detail of the skunk habitat, and I could get a nap.

  I managed an hour before Grandfather stormed back in, intent on returning to the church.

  He entertained me on the way back to town with amusing trivia about emerald tree boas, including the fact that they gave birth to live young in litters of six to fourteen, and that the newborns were not emerald green like their parents but a distinctive brick red or orange color—information I fervently hoped would never be of any practical use to me.

  It was past dawn when we arrived back at the New Life Church, although the sky was still gray and overcast with the threat of more snow. Its parking lot was now half full and the crowd had swelled—although I was relieved to see that most of the newcomers appeared to be men and women carrying buckets, mops, and totes full of cleaning supplies. They were all staring at the church doors, which were flung wide open to the cold.

  A gasp ran through the crowd when four men emerged from the front door, carrying what appeared to be one end of a telephone pole. They held the pole above their heads as if in triumph, and the crowd cheered in response. Then they began picking their way carefully down the front steps. The rest of the pole was slowly emerging from the church door until suddenly a large black object appeared—the skunk cage, thoroughly swathed with black tarps and supported by a huge net suspended from the pole. The men had to lift the front of the pole very high indeed to drag the cage over the top of the steps and they were moving very slowly, to avoid jarring the skunks any more than they could help. After the cage, the other end of the pole lengthened until finally four more men emerged, holding their end of the pole high over their heads.

  When the black-clad cage finally reached the bottom of the steps, the crowd fell back to a respectful distance as the men carried it to a waiting flatbed truck, incongruously decorated with evergreen garlands and red ribbons. No doubt it had recently been used as the platform for one of the floats in the town’s annual holiday parade. The men lifted the cage onto the bed of the truck. More cheers from the crowd. Then another half dozen men raced over to assist with sliding the pole out of the loops at the top of the net while others threw tie-down ropes over the cage, darted forward to secure them to the bed of the truck and raced back to a safe distance.

  “Take me over there,” Grandfather said, pointing to the truck. I pulled up as close as I could without interfering with the crew.

  Another cheer went up when the crew finally stepped back, presumably to declare the loading operation complete. The men began slapping each other on the back in celebration—I assumed because this phase of the skunk removal had been accomplished without additional spraying. Caroline Willner’s diminutive figure appeared in the midst of the men, patting them on the arm or the back.

  “Time to get this show on the road,” Grandfather said. He scrambled out of my car and trotted over to the truck. Once there, he had a hasty conference with Caroline and some of the firefighters. I deduced that he was sharing the news about Cleopatra, which seemed to break up the celebration. Several firefighters dashed back into the church with serious expressions. Two of the remaining crew hopped into the cab of the flatbed truck while Grandfather and Caroline and the rest of them boarded a nearby van. The truck set off at a slow pace, probably to keep the skunks from being annoyed or dislodged, and the van followed.

  As I watched the truck’s stately progression out of the parking lot, Michael came up to stand at my side.

  “Almost looks like another parade,” he said.

  “We could be seeing the formation of another holiday tradition,” I said. “The annual procession of the skunks.”

  “Good grief—I hope not.” Michael shuddered at the thought. “Please don’t mention that idea to Randall Shiffley—it’s just the kind of thing that would strike our mayor as a unique tourist attraction.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I said. “How close are you to going home to get some sleep?”

  “Not sure,” he said. “But I don’t think it can be that much longer. I should head back in. I’ve been helping Horace with the forensics. Now that the skunks are gone, he’s got to finish up the last part of the choir loft.”

  He gave me a quick kiss, took a few deep breaths, and strode back toward the church.

  “Meg, dear.” I turned to find Mother and Minerva Burke, the chief’s wife standing nearby. Minerva headed up the Ladies’ Auxiliary, the New Life Baptist Church’s equivalent of the St. Clotilda’s Guild that Mother now ran at Trinity Episcopal. From the way they were both beaming at me, I deduced they were about to draft me for some chore. Probably scrubbing down the choir loft when Horace had finished with it. I braced myself.

  “The dear rector has already contacted all the local clergy,” Mother said. “And everyone is simply delighted to offer what space they can to help out the New Life congregation.”

  “Fabulous,” I said.

  “She’s a wonder, that Robyn,” Minerva said. “But it’s starting to get dreadfully complicated—everyone’s got their own program of holiday events.”

  “Except for the temple,” Mother put in. “Thank goodness Hanukkah came early this year, so they only have their usual activities.”

  “And somebody’s got to figure out a schedule that works everything in, and then manage it,” Minerva said.

  “And you’re so good at that sort of thing,” Mother said.

  I cringed. It sounded like a tedious, time-consuming task, one that would probably require every bit of diplomacy and negotiating skill I possessed. The last thing I needed to take on in the busy holiday season. And from what I could see, Robyn was very good at organizing herself.

  Of course, this was already Robyn’s busiest season, and I’d already begun to worry about her. She was looking tired. Not just tired, but frayed around the edges. And Caerphilly College’s winter break had begun, which meant that Michael would be not only free to take care of the boys as much as needed but eager to spend more time with them.

  Most important of all, the organizing tasks would probably last at least as long as the cleanup operation and give me a perfect excuse not to go back into the New Life choir loft.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “Provided Robyn can get everyone to send me their calendars.”

  “She’s already working on that,” Mother said. “And she has a room you can use as a small temporary office over at Trinity.”

  An office? I wasn’t sure why I would need an office at the church—surely this was something that could be solved in a few hours with a telephone and a computer, or even just a good supply of paper and ink. But Trinity was several miles from the stench of the choir loft, so although the office was clearly overkill, I didn’t mind the idea.

  “Can you give us a ride over there?” Minerva asked.

  “We’re going to start getting things ready for tonight’s concert,” Mother added.

  “Which is the one nonnegotiable item on that schedule of yours,” Minerva said. “The first concert will go on at eight o’clock tonight at Trinity Episcopal.”

  “Your carriage awaits.” I opened the front and rear passenger doors of my car and Mother and Minerva climbed in.

  Chapter 7

  “It’s small, but I think it will work,” Robyn said as she opened the door to my new temporary office.

  The room itself wasn’t actually that small—it might have been a little larger than her own comfortable study. But it was filled almost li
terally to the ceiling with boxes and pieces of furniture, all of them either old, broken, shabby, ugly, or all of the above.

  “Unfortunately, we’re using it right now as a kind of storage room,” Robyn said as she showed me in. “For stuff that doesn’t fit into the undercroft.”

  It took me a moment to remember that what Robyn—and Mother—referred to as the church’s undercroft was what plebian souls like me called the basement.

  “Most of these old relics used to be in my study,” Robyn went on. “I’d have exiled them to the undercroft until this spring’s rummage sale, but the undercroft’s already packed tight with Mrs. Thornefield’s belongings.”

  “Mrs. Thornefield?” The name sounded familiar. “Oh—the lady who left her entire estate to the church.”

  “God rest her soul,” Robyn said. “Yes, and we got a very good offer a few weeks ago for the house—well above its real value, if you ask me.”

  Clearly she wasn’t yet familiar with Caerphilly’s chronic housing shortage.

  “But the offer was contingent on the buyer being able to move in by Thanksgiving,” she went on. “So we had to empty the house, and rather than spend money on storage, we just brought all the stuff here and stowed it in the undercroft. Where frankly it’s driving me bonkers.”

  I could understand why—Robyn clearly shared my preference for clean, uncluttered surroundings. I still couldn’t get over how she’d transformed the previous rector’s dark, claustrophobic study into a bright, inviting, airy space.

  “But that’s a problem for another day,” she said, in her brisk, businesslike tone. “Here you go.” She pointed to the sturdy, battered desk that turned the space just inside the door into a cramped but usable work space. The top of the desk was empty except for a telephone, a legal pad, and a few pens and pencils stuck into a cracked coffee mug with the red, white, and blue Episcopal shield on it.

  “The other churches are either dropping off their schedules or e-mailing them to you,” she went on. “Here’s the password for our wireless router. Dial nine to get an outside line. And if you need anything, I’ll be out in the sanctuary, helping with the setup. And Riddick will be in his office next door. I’m sure he’d be happy to help as well if you need anything.”