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

by Donna Andrews

  “Speaking of your father, I need to talk to him. Stick around, if possible. I may need your help to sort out what went on here.”

  With that he started down the stairway toward the basement. I headed back for the parish hall, to wait with the others there. Just as I was about to enter it, Horace dashed through the front door. The deputies in the vestibule pointed him toward the stairway.

  He waved to me before disappearing into the basement.

  In the parish hall, four of the watch members were once again playing Parcheesi at one of the long tables we used for meals, while the older woman was seated a little farther down the table, reading an Agatha Christie paperback.

  They all looked up when I came in.

  “The investigation continues.” I slumped in a chair at the same table, but at the far end from the Parcheesi game, and closed my eyes as if too exhausted to speak. I wasn’t sure they knew about Vess’s death, and if they didn’t, I was sure the chief would want to break the news himself and watch their reactions.

  A few minutes later the chief came in, accompanied by Robyn. Several deputies came in after him and stood along the wall.

  “Are all of you okay?” Robyn exclaimed. The chief stood by watching while she went around to give each of the watchers a few words and a quick hug. She ended up with me.

  “So sorry,” she said. “I have a feeling we’re going to be rearranging again.”

  I nodded.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief said. “I want to have a brief word with each of you. But first, I have to tell you that tonight’s incident is more than just a prank. There’s been a murder.”

  The watch and Robyn all reacted with gasps and exclamations of “Oh, no!” or “Who?”

  I just watched, trying to detect any false notes in their reactions—probably just what the chief and the deputies were doing. Maybe the chief spotted something suspicious but I didn’t.

  “We’ve identified the deceased as Mr. Barliman Vess,” the chief added.

  I don’t think I was imagining the looks of relief that crossed all of their faces—quickly replaced with looks that clearly said, “Of course, it’s still a terrible thing.”

  “May I remind all of you not to discuss what you heard and saw tonight until after I’ve interviewed you?” the chief said.

  The watchers and Robyn all murmured their agreement.

  “You, too, Ms. Langslow,” the chief added. “Michael asked me to tell you that he’s heading home and will see to the boys till you get back.”

  I nodded. So much for going home and catching up on my sleep.

  The chief left with one of the watchers—the Christie reader—while the Parcheesi players seemed to have lost interest in their game.

  “What on earth was he doing here?” one of them asked. “Sorry, forget I said that,” he added, glancing up at the deputy.

  “We could talk about what’s going to happen with our Christmas services,” the remaining woman watcher said. “That’s not against the chief’s orders, is it?”

  The deputy shook his head.

  “That will depend on how long the church is unavailable to us,” Robyn said. “If it continues to be a crime scene after today, we must trust Meg to find us a solution.”

  “But having a death so close to Christmas,” another watcher said. “Surely that will cast a pall over all our celebrations.”

  “Not if we remember the true meaning of those celebrations,” Robyn said. “The reason Christ was born among us.”

  “‘Born that we no more may die,’” one of the men sang softly. I recognized the tune and some of the words from the little-sung third verse of “Hark! The Herald Angels.”

  “‘Born to raise us from the earth,’” the singer went on. Two of the others joined in on the next line, “‘Born to give us second birth.’”

  Another deputy stuck his head in, looking a bit surprised, but apparently warbling Christmas carols wasn’t against the chief’s orders, so both deputies joined in the last two familiar lines: “‘Hark! The herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn king!’”

  “Very good,” Robyn said. I wasn’t sure whether she meant the singing or the sentiments, but everyone seemed more cheerful. “Charles Wesley did have a way with a hymn, didn’t he?”

  “On a practical note,” the remaining woman said. “If we get the church back in time, will we need to reconsecrate it after this?”

  The others all glanced over at the deputy, as if checking to see if this line of conversation was allowed.

  “I think not,” Robyn said. “I’ll have to check with the bishop, of course, but I think the appropriate action is a prayer service for the Restoring of Things Profaned.”

  “I don’t recall seeing that in the Book of Common Prayer,” one of the men said.

  “Book of Occasional Services,” Robyn said. “I’ve actually used it once at my previous parish—one of the parishioners had a psychotic episode and willfully injured himself.”

  The watchers all nodded. One of them walked over to a bookshelf, picked out a volume, and walked back to the table with it.

  “Here it is,” he said. “Book of Occasional Services.” Two of the others crowded around to look over his shoulder.

  “Does Mr. Vess have family?” I asked Robyn.

  “A son on the West Coast.” She pulled out her Day-Timer and scribbled a few items in it, and then glanced at her watch. “I’ll check with the chief to see if I should do the notification or wait until after he makes the call. I do hope he doesn’t declare the whole church a crime scene, although I suppose we should be prepared for that.”

  “I think the best thing I can do to prepare is rework the schedule again,” I said. “After which I hope no one will think me rude if I try to nap.”

  “Would you like my laptop?” Robyn reached into her oversized purse and pulled it out. “I’ve got your latest schedule on it, and you should be able to access the network from here. Or if you really need to sleep, do!”

  She gestured toward the far end of the room where there was a nest of cast-off armchairs and couches.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That would be great. And while I’m thinking of it, do you think perhaps it might make sense to rekey the church? Since by now we have no idea where most of those million spare keys have gone.”

  “I hate the idea,” Robyn said. “But it’s probably necessary. Long overdue, in fact.” She pulled out her Day-Timer.

  I curled up on one of the couches and pulled up the latest schedule. A quick call to Father Donnelly confirmed that St. Byblig’s was back in play, and I was now so thoroughly familiar with all the available spaces in the local churches that it took me only a few minutes to move all the events scheduled today in Trinity to the equivalent spaces in St. Byblig’s. Of course it helped that since today was Monday, and only the twenty-third, it was a relatively quiet lull between the weekend and the holiday itself.

  And then, after e-mailing my ever-growing list of people who needed to be informed of every single change in the schedule, and recruiting one of them—the office manager at the Unitarian church—to print out and drop off some signs that would tell anyone who showed up at Trinity where to go, I curled up on the most comfortable-looking couch. Napping was probably not going to happen, but at least I could rest my eyes. Yes, lovely to rest my eyes, and …

  “Meg?” I woke with a start to find a uniformed deputy looming over me.

  Chapter 25

  Evidently I had napped. For two hours, unless my watch was wrong. The room was empty except for me and the deputy. It was Sammy Wendell, one of Rose Noire’s many beaus.

  “Meg?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was fast asleep. I gather the chief wants to see me.”

  “No, the chief just took off,” Sammy said. “We’re locking down the building. I’m afraid you need to leave.”

  “Locking down the building? For how long?”

  Sammy shrugged apologetically.

  I followed him o
ut. Our steps echoed in the empty building. It was so quiet that I started when I heard the sound of hammering coming from downstairs.

  “One of the Shiffleys is boarding up the basement door,” Sammy said. “The one the firefighters had to break to get in.”

  Out in the parking lot I could see groups of people. Some were standing and staring at the silent, empty church, as if unwilling to accept that the drama was over. Others were turning to leave and climbing into their cars. I saw Riddick standing on the sidewalk, wringing his hands and leaning forward slightly as if poised to run back into the church if the chief changed his mind and took away the crime scene tape.

  Robyn, Mother, and several ladies I recognized as members of St. Clotilda’s Guild were standing in a cluster. Robyn was holding open what appeared to be a prayer book.

  “If you’ve been reduced to holding services in the parking lot, maybe it’s time I woke up and got back to my job,” I said.

  “The new schedule’s fine,” Robyn said. “We’re just making plans for the Restoring of Things Profaned. Though I think we’ve done all we can do until we learn when we’re getting the church back.”

  “Poor Horace is still in there working,” Mother said.

  “And covering every inch of the inside with that horrible fingerprint powder,” one of the ladies exclaimed.

  “Which we all think should be cleaned up before we have the ceremony,” Robyn said. “Of course, that’s not liturgically necessary.”

  “But it just won’t really feel restored if we don’t,” one of the ladies said.

  “And it’s going to be difficult, first getting out the news about the cleanup, and then the ceremony,” Robyn said.

  “Why not schedule your cleaning and ceremony for some specific time?” I said. “Like seven a.m. tomorrow morning for the cleaning, followed by nine for the ceremony. If we have to postpone, we can, but at least people can get it on their schedules. And I’ll talk to the chief and see what his timetable is. Would it work to have the upstairs back if he still wants to keep the basement—sorry, undercroft—off-limits for a while?”

  “It would be fine if we just had the upstairs, “Robyn said. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

  “Yes, dear.” Mother looked pleased, and all the ladies were murmuring agreement. It didn’t seem like a particularly brilliant plan to me, but by now I suppose they were all accustomed to having me schedule things for them.

  “And we’ve decided to hold Barliman’s funeral on Friday the twenty-seventh,” Robyn said to me. “Apparently his son is the only family he has left, and we’re to make all the arrangements as we think his father would have wanted them. He’ll be flying in Thursday afternoon.”

  I scribbled a note in my notebook to add that to the master calendar when I got back to my laptop. I was hoping the master calendar wouldn’t be necessary by Boxing Day, but that wouldn’t happen until all the churches were back in working order and the pranksters caught.

  “If anyone needs me, call my cell phone,” Robyn said. “I’m going to drop by the hospital and then visit my shut-ins. Meg, if you need a room to work in here in town, Father Donnelly has one for you.”

  “I think I’ll try working from home for a while,” I said.

  Robyn hurried off.

  “Poor Mr. Vess,” Mother said.

  Quite a change from “that wretched miser” or “that horrible man.”

  “To have no more family than that,” she went on.

  I had to admit, I sometimes thought I had a little too much family, at least on Mother’s side. But I wouldn’t have traded with Vess.

  “We shall have to do him proud at the funeral,” one of the other ladies said.

  “And we should plan a really nice buffet for afterwards.”

  “Let’s go out to Meg’s house,” Mother said. “We can join the sewing bee and plan the buffet at the same time.”

  This proved a popular idea, and they all hurried over to their cars.

  “I’m surprised we’re waiting till Friday,” one of the ladies said, pausing with car keys in hand.

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Mother said. “We can’t very well have it then or on Christmas Day. I suppose we could have it on Boxing Day, but I gather his poor son can’t get here any sooner.”

  I decided not to mention the possibility that if the chief hadn’t solved the murder by Friday, he might not release the body. They could always have a memorial service without it.

  “The chief will be disappointed at the delay, won’t he?” the lady asked. “Don’t the killers usually show up at the funerals of their victims to gloat?”

  “I’m not sure they do outside of the television shows and mystery books,” I said. “But even if they do, I expect the whole town will show up to gawk at Mr. Vess’s funeral, so the killer would be lost in the crowd.”

  “Yes,” Mother shook her head sadly. “Everyone who feels guilty about having uncharitable thoughts toward him will show up at the funeral. We might need to borrow the Baptist church to hold everyone.”

  “He did have a gift for inspiring uncharitable thoughts, didn’t he?” I said.

  “The vestry meetings will certainly be much less stressful,” the lady said. “I can’t believe the amount of time and energy we spent on trivial expenditures.”

  “All that fuss over how fast the toilet paper disappeared.” Mother shook her head.

  “And that ninety-cent phone call he wouldn’t stop harping about.”

  “And his ongoing crusade to get rid of poor Riddick.”

  We all glanced over at Riddick, who appeared to be working off his anxiety by picking up bits of litter in the parking lot.

  “Remember what a fuss poor Mr. Vess used to make if he found so much as a gum wrapper on the grounds?” the lady said. “So much fuss over such trifles.”

  A thoughtful look crossed Mother’s face.

  “Of course, every once in a while, poor Mr. Vess did uncover something genuine,” she said. “Petty, but genuine.”

  “But can you imagine him uncovering anything worth killing over?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “But still. He had been acting very smug and cheerful lately. I’ve never seen him that way unless he was about to expose someone’s sins. You don’t suppose he had uncovered something that led to his death. If—”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sure it was just an accident. He was probably down in the undercroft counting dust bunnies or something when the prankster came in.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, dear,” Mother said. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But if you think it’s a possibility,” I added. “Tell the chief.”

  “Of course, dear. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  I could tell she was lying.

  Just then Rob ambled up.

  “Hey, Meg, can you give me a ride?” he asked. “I came in with Michael.”

  “You can come with us, dear.” Mother pulled out her car keys and headed for her own car.

  “I’m not going home,” Rob said. “I need to get over to Judge Jane Shiffley’s farm ASAP. I have a client out there.”

  “A client?” Although Rob had graduated from the competitive and not inexpensive University of Virginia School of Law and subsequently passed the bar exam with a bare minimum of study, he hadn’t ever actually practiced law. “No offense intended, Rob, but—”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “My legal prowess isn’t exactly legendary. But the chief has arrested a couple of teenagers for pulling the pranks—”

  “Ronnie Butler and Caleb Shiffley?” I asked.

  “Wow, word really gets around fast,” he said. “Yeah, and Caleb is Randall’s second cousin once removed, and Randall’s having trouble getting hold of any of the local defense attorneys, so he’s hired me to go down and hold the kid’s hand till the big guns get there.”

  “Rob, I don’t want to cast aspersions—” I began.

  “I know I’m not qualified to represent the
kid in something that could turn into a murder rap,” he said. “But I can make sure he keeps his trap shut until a real defense attorney arrives. I know my limitations. And so does Randall. He’s still making calls.”

  “If the Butlers are having the same problem finding a lawyer, keep an eye out for Ronnie, too,” I said.

  “I will if I can get there,” he said. “I wish someone would tell me why half the time Judge Shiffley insists on holding court in her barn when there are several perfectly good courtrooms over there in the town hall.”

  “Because she can,” I said. “And she likes barns better than courtrooms.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “Can you take me?”

  “Let me check with Michael,” I said, pulling out my phone.

  “He and the boys went to pick up his mother at the airport,” Rob said. “They’re going to keep her out of your hair until this evening.”

  “Did he actually say that?”

  “No,” Rob said. “But that’s what he meant.”

  I called Michael anyway.

  “We’re just waiting for Mom’s luggage,” he said. “And once we get her settled at the house, she wants to take the boys down to the pond, so we can start teaching them to ice-skate. Want to join us?”

  “I do, but my shoulder doesn’t,” I said. “I’ll see you back at home later.”

  I hung up and turned to Rob, who was glancing at his watch and dancing from foot to foot.

  “I assume if you’re out there representing Caleb and Ronnie that the chief is out there, too.”

  “Far as I know,” he said.

  “Good,” I said. “I need to talk to him, so I’ll take you out there. Assuming the roads are clear that far.”

  “Awesome,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 26

  Maybe Rob thought I was kidding about the roads. I wasn’t. Judge Jane Shiffley’s farm was about as far as you could get from the center of town and still be in Caerphilly County. To go there, you drove along the Clay County Road to within a mile of the county line, then turned off onto a smaller, gravel-paved road for several grueling miles, and then onto an even smaller dirt road for the final stretch. I was fully expecting the plowed roadway to end long before we reached the county line.