Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (17 page)

“I didn’t dare leave the temple,” he said.

Flames in the woods. I watched until the last fireman had disappeared into the woods, then followed the path of the hoses, keeping a good ten feet away from the nearest one. A half-moon shone down from the cloudless sky and reflected on the snow, making it easy to see where I was going.

Pretty soon I spotted the firefighters in a clearing. No flames, but a lot of steam rising from what had probably been a campfire before the hoses had gotten to it. Three hoses were still pouring water into the clearing—Rob was wielding the nozzle on one of them—and a couple of other firefighters were hacking at logs and turning over piles of leaves, presumably to uncover any lingering sparks.

Chief Burke and Chief Featherstone, the fire chief, were standing at the edge of the clearing, watching the excitement.

“You think maybe you could call them off now?” Chief Burke said. “I hate to dampen their enthusiasm, seeing as how for most of them it’s their first real fire—”

“But the fire’s long gone, and all they’re doing now is washing away any evidence that you might like to find,” Chief Featherstone said. “I hear you.”

He lifted a bullhorn to his mouth and barked out an order. “Stand down! Turn off your hoses and stand by to assist the deputies if needed.”

It took a few seconds, but the hoses cut off, and all the firefighters gathered around the clearing, except for a few who were running through the woods shouting “All clear here!” at intervals, and were probably too far away to hear their chief.

Two of the deputies sprang into action, searching the sodden leaves and ashes in the clearing.

“Found something,” one called. “Beer bottles. And the contents are still a little fizzy.”

He held up a bottle of Gwent Pale, a local microbrew.

“Never heard of that brand,” Chief Featherstone said.

“It’s not really sold anywhere but Caerphilly,” Michael told him. “Two retired agriculture professors from the college started a microbrewery as a hobby. The quality varies wildly, but since they’re not trying to make a profit, they keep the cost dirt cheap—making it the beer of choice for a lot of the college students who are old enough to drink.”

“And a lot who aren’t,” the chief added. “But most of the college students have gone home. This looks like teenagers.”

I had to agree. I tried to think of a reason why someone old enough to drink legally would take to the woods with a six-pack of Gwent Pale on a night like this, and failed miserably. I saw several other firefighters or deputies nodding as if having the same thought.

“Let’s finish up here before all that water freezes over again,” the chief said. “And—”

A harsh buzzing broke out, as if a tribe of giant, angry, mutant bees had suddenly descended on the clearing. All the firefighters began digging in their pockets. Chief Featherstone pulled his pager out first and pressed a button.

“Box fourteen oh four for the structure fire. Seventy-two Church Street. Engine companies fourteen and two, truck twelve, rescue squad two, ambulance fourteen respond. Oh three twenty-three.”

“Church Street,” the Chief Featherstone said. “Let’s go.”

“Which one is it?” one fireman asked.

“Trinity Episcopal Church,” I called over my shoulder. I was already making tracks for the parking lot.

Since I wasn’t hauling heavy equipment, I beat all the firefighters and most of the deputies back to the parking lot. But since I was only a civilian, I made sure not to get in the way of any of the emergency vehicles as they roared and squealed out of the parking lot. So I was, of course, the last to arrive at Trinity.

When I pulled into the parking lot, not that far behind the last of the fire engines, I saw five people standing around, stamping their feet and blowing out plumes of vapor as they breathed. None of them was wearing coats, so I suspected they were the night watch, and had evacuated the church in a hurry. And yes, I could see smoke coming out of the church. Out of the basement stairwell, in fact. Not a whole lot, but still. A real fire.

I pulled up to the group of onlookers—I recognized several of them as frequent church volunteers—and rolled down my window.

“Anyone need to warm up?”

They all took me up on it. Four of them, three men and one woman, climbed into the back. It was a tight squeeze, even after we stowed the boys’ car seats in the trunk. The fifth, a plump elderly woman, joined me in the front seat.

“What happened?” I asked, as I rolled my window up again.

“We were playing Parcheesi in the social hall,” one of the men said. “To help keep awake.”

“And we took a break every hour and patrolled,” the plump woman said. “Inside, of course—what a beastly night!”

“And just a little while ago, we smelled smoke coming from the undercroft,” the man went on. “Hank and I went down to check things out, and there was a fire in the furnace room!”

“We emptied the fire extinguishers on it without doing much good,” said another man—Hank, I supposed. “So we called 911.”

“And evacuated,” the plump woman said. “And would to goodness we’d taken the time to grab our coats.”

“Good thing we didn’t,” the first man said.

“Wouldn’t have hurt,” the woman said. “Church hasn’t burned down yet.”

“You didn’t see that fire,” Hank countered. “Meg, can you pull a little closer to the church so we can see what’s going on?”

I started the car again, and carefully crept through the parking lot until I found a spot with a better view of what was going on. Some of the firefighters—including Michael; I recognized him by his height—were dashing in through the front door, dragging hoses behind them while others had gone down into the basement stairwell. But they appeared to have halted there. I could see several of them standing at ground level, holding the hose or their axes, peering down. Then I heard a smashing noise, and the firefighters set up a cheer, and they all disappeared into the basement.

We watched in silence for a few moments.

“Looks a bit more serious than ducks and skunks,” one man finally said.

More smoke billowed out of the basement door, and a little out of the front door of the church. Was that a bad thing? A sign that the fire was spreading? More likely it meant the firefighters were pouring water on the blaze.

I noticed two of Chief Burke’s deputies working their way around the left side of the church, giving the clouds of smoke a wide berth. The chief himself was standing in the parking lot, well out of the firefighters’ way, but visibly impatient for them to finish their job so he could start his.

After a while he spotted my car and strolled over. I rolled down my window.

“Evening, Chief,” I said.

“Morning, I think,” he said. “One of these days you’re going to have to let Michael and Rob go to a fire all by themselves. Are these the folks who called in the alarm?”

My passengers poured out their story, interrupting each other in their haste. The chief heard them out, then took their names and numbers.

“I hate to ask it, but would you good people mind staying here until the fire’s out and I can get into the church?” he asked. “I’d like to take your detailed individual statements as soon as possible.”

“No problem,” Hank said.

“We’re the night owls,” the plump woman said with a small laugh. “We were planning to stay up all night to watch over the church.”

“Looks as if we failed,” another man said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Chief Burke said. “Looks as if you called 911 in time to save the church.”

He pointed to the front doors, where firefighters had begun trickling out. I felt a sudden wave of relief when I saw Michael’s tall form among them.

“Is it the same prankster, Chief?” one of the men asked.

“Too early to tell,” he said. “Were the five of you the only people in the church?”

“Yes,” said the plump woman.

“As far as we know,” muttered one of the men.

“The doors and windows all locked?” the chief asked.

“And checked every hour,” the plump woman said, nodding vigorously.

“And you didn’t let anyone else in at any time?”

The members of the watch all shook their heads, some of them frowning uneasily.

“Good.” The chief nodded absently. He appeared to be lost in thought. I hoped the watch members were reassured by the fact that he was staring into space, not at any of them. I know I would have been relieved.

Chief Featherstone came over.

“We’re still finishing up in the basement,” he said. “But the fire’s out, and you’re welcome to come in and start your investigation. And I expect these folks would like to get in out of the cold. Okay with me as long as they stay out of the basement.”

“And with me as well,” Chief Burke said. He turned and strode toward the church. My passengers all murmured thanks to me and scrambled out of the car to follow. I decided to tag along.

Since the night watch had all been in the social hall when the fire broke out, the chief sent them there, with orders not to talk to each other until he’d interviewed them—and a deputy to watch over them and make sure they followed orders. I went along and busied myself making a pot of coffee so I’d look useful enough that they wouldn’t kick me out. In fact, I decided, I’d fill the big pot we used for receptions. The firefighters might want some before they went home, and there were bound to be more deputies showing up soon, not to mention curious parishioners.

When the coffee was ready, I grabbed a cup with my good hand and went out to hand it to one of the firefighters or deputies, so I’d have a good excuse for taking a look around. I spotted the two chiefs in the vestibule, talking intently about something. I headed their way.

Then I saw my dad appear in the vestibule, medical bag in hand. He said a few words to the two chiefs, then trotted briskly in my direction.

“Morning, Meg,” he said when he spotted me. “Terrible business.”

He disappeared down the basement steps.

I went to the head of the stairs and peered down. A deputy was standing at the foot of the stairs. He turned, and I recognized him as Vern Shiffley, one of Randall’s many cousins.

“No one’s allowed down here,” he said.

“Not sure I even want to go down there,” I said. “Coffee?”

“Thanks.” He trudged up the stairs, looking glum, and took the cup from me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is it bad down there? Was anyone hurt?”

“We have a body,” he said. “Looks like the prankster went too far this time.”

“A body?” I flinched at the thought. “Who?”

He looked for a moment as if he were about to tell me to mind my own business, then his face fell.

“It’ll get out soon enough. That old gentleman who used to run the First Farmers Bank of Caerphilly before it got bought up by that out-of-state bank.”

“Barliman Vess?”

“That’s him.” Over Vern’s shoulder I could see the chief had spotted us talking and was heading our way. I braced myself to be kicked out.

“I gather Mr. Vess works here or something?” Vern asked.

“He’s a vestryman.”

I could tell from Vern’s face that he didn’t know the word.

“The vestry is very similar to what you Presbyterians would call the session,” I said. “Group of people elected from the congregation to help govern the church.”

“So he’s what we’d call an elder?” Vern asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Hello, Chief,” I added.

“Any idea what Mr. Vess was doing in the furnace room at three in the morning?” Chief Burke asked.

“None whatsoever,” I said. “We had a night watch staying here in the church—those people who were warming up in my car. They were keeping a lookout in case the prankster came back. But they were all in the social hall, as they told you, playing Parcheesi between patrols. You can ask them if Mr. Vess was with them—though I think they’d have mentioned it if one of their number never made it out of the church.”

The chief nodded.

“The only thing I can think of—” I began. And then I stopped myself, because what I had been about to say suddenly seemed foolish.

“Go on,” the chief said after a moment.

“Mr. Vess was kind of a gadfly,” I explained. “Particularly on church financial issues.”

“Useful to have a retired banker for that,” the chief said.

“Except he drove everyone crazy,” I said. “He was always going on about overspending, and trying to catch people being wasteful—or worse, dishonest. Mother said last year he was putting marked bills in the collection plate to see if the people adding up the offering were honest.”

“What could he have been trying to find out in the basement?”

“No idea,” I said. “Robyn—Reverend Smith—might know. Or my mother. She’s on the vestry with Mr. Vess.”

The chief turned to Vern.

“It would help if we knew whether Mr. Vess was killed in the furnace room or whether his body was moved there later,” he said.

“I’ll ask Dr. Langslow.” Vern headed down the stairs.

“So you think he hid in the church after the concert and then came out to do—whatever he came to do,” the chief said.

“No, he couldn’t possibly have been hiding in the church after the concert,” I said. “I locked up for Robyn while she was seeing people out, and I’d have found him.”

“He could have been hiding in a closet,” the chief said. “Or the men’s room.”

“The bathrooms are one-person and unisex,” I said. “And I checked them all. And all the closets. I remember one time Mr. Vess hid in the broom closet for hours so he could find out who was constantly leaving the lights on after choir practice. So I checked everywhere.”

“You were checking for Mr. Vess?” The chief looked confused and a little suspicious.

“No, I was looking for potential pranksters, but I remembered how easily he’d hidden in the closets, so I figured if he could hide in closets, so could they.”

“I suppose you checked all the doors,” the chief said. “Including that little door at the far end of the basement.”

“The door that would be just perfect for sneaking in with a small cage of skunks?” I said. “Absolutely.”

“Actually, this time it was rabbits,” he said. “And they’re fine,” he added hastily, seeing the look on my face. “A little frightened, but they were at the far end of the furnace room. The fire didn’t get that far.”