Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (27 page)

He’d started doing it because he wanted to help to raise money for the local food bank whose supplies usually ran particularly low at the holiday season, and had come up with the idea of doing a dramatic reading of Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol
. Not the whole book of course, but luckily Dickens himself had created a condensed version that he could perform on his frequent tours of America.

The first year, a brave fifty or sixty of us filled the first few rows in one of the college’s smaller auditoriums. Last year it had been standing-room only in the drama department’s main theater. I hoped they didn’t have to turn too many people away tonight. Next year we might need to schedule two performances, unless the new drama department building, now under construction on the north side of the campus, was finished slightly ahead of time. The J. Montgomery Blake Center for the Dramatic Arts—Grandfather had donated a good chunk of its cost and browbeat a number of friends and foundations for the rest—would have several performance spaces, including an enormous state-of-the-art theater that could hold twice as many people as the hall we were in tonight. But since it wasn’t scheduled to open for another year …

We could worry about having two performances—complete with two sets of preperformance jitters—next Christmas.

“And this is the first year the boys are old enough to go!” Michael added, beaming at his sons.

Actually, I wasn’t all that optimistic about their chances of staying the course, but they were so eager that I thought we’d at least give them a chance. And if I had to leave early with one or both of them—well, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen the performance before. Thanks to all that rehearsing, I could have recited it along with him.

“And it’s time we all took off,” I said. “Daddy needs to get there early,” I added to the boys.

I drove, since in his preperformance state Michael tended to forget about boring, practical things like turn signals and stoplights. The boys chattered happily about SpongeBob and Frosty the Snowman, which I hoped was enough of a distraction to keep his nerves from starting to fray.

We dropped him off at the stage door of what people were already calling the Old Drama Building. It was built in the overly ornate Gothic-revival style that made the Caerphilly campus so popular for film crews looking for locations for music videos and low-budget vampire films. Fortunately the snow and the addition of wreaths on the doors and candles in the windows created more of a festive Victorian Christmas atmosphere.

“Bweak a leg, Daddy,” Jamie said. I’d been coaching him on the fact that it was bad luck to wish an actor good luck.

“Two yegs,” Josh said, competitive as usual.

I parked in one of the faculty spaces and then led the boys around to the front door. We probably could have slipped in with Michael, but I wanted the boys to see all the people lining up and paying money to see Daddy. To keep down expenses we didn’t print tickets for the show—just took contributions at the door, and attendees could donate any amount they felt comfortable with. Last year we’d taken in a lot more fifty and hundred dollar bills than fives or ones.

Of course we were early, so there weren’t too many people lining up. Still, we formally handed over our contributions to the ushers, who were clad in Dickensian costumes. I recognized the one in front of us as one of Michael’s graduate drama students.

“Thank you, my good man,” the usher said as Josh handed over his dollar. “At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable—”

“That we should make some provision for the poor and destitute,” Jamie rattled off.

“Bravo!” Our usher and several others nearby applauded.

“Bah, humbug!” said Josh, not only competitive but contrarian tonight.

The drama students all found this delightful and applauded some more.

“I take it this means that Professor Waterston has learned his lines,” our usher said.

“If he forgets any it’s not from want of rehearsal,” I said, handing over my contribution.

“Thank you, madam,” he said, with a bow. “Enjoy the performance. And I look forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow.”

“On Christmas Day?”

“Your mother has very kindly invited those of us who cannot go home for the holiday to share in your Christmas dinner. Christmas orphans, she calls us.”

“Lovely,” I said. And since I wasn’t hosting the dinner and had every intention of dodging all attempts to suck me into cooking, I meant it.

The lobby was decorated with whole forests of greenery festooned with red ribbons and flickering faux candles, and with all the ushers and ticket takers dressed in Victorian costumes, the effect was quite splendid. In a far corner, a costumed string quartet was playing a lively version of “Good King Wenceslas.”

“Meg, dear!” Mother was standing just inside the door, also dressed in period costume, though her red velvet gown was much more elaborate than those worn by the women ushers. “Come have tea. And some hot cider for the boys.”

“Gamma in play, too?” Jamie asked

Josh just trotted past her to the stand where volunteers—mostly women from St. Clotilda’s Guild and the New Life Ladies’ Auxiliary, resplendent in hoopskirted Victorian dresses in jewel tones—were selling hot tea, coffee, and cider to benefit the cleanup and renovation of the churches of Caerphilly, according to the signs posted nearby. I had a feeling this would be only the first of many benefits.

“Nice to see you,” said a familiar voice.

I had to do a double take before recognizing Robyn, also in a Victorian gown, although I recognized hers as one borrowed from the drama department’s wardrobe collection.

Riddick Hedges was also there in costume, which was unfortunate, because unlike Michael and the other men from the drama department, he had no idea how to carry it off well. He was squirming as if the whole outfit was profoundly uncomfortable, and if I’d been casting David Copperfield he’d have been a shoo-in for Uriah Heep. It was perhaps a measure of his discomfort that he was not only willing but eager to fetch pitchers of water to refill the urns, haul away bags of trash, or perform any other chore that allowed him to disappear from view. In between errands he appeared to be attempting to fade into the wallpaper along one side of the lobby. No doubt he was unaware that he was standing directly beneath one of the dozen ornate Victorian mistletoe balls that dotted the room. I suspected he’d be mortified if anyone pointed this out.

I shelled out for tea for me and cider for the boys. Josh bolted his and had to be told to drink his second helping more slowly. Jamie was already sipping so slowly that I suspected he thought he’d be taken home to bed when his cup was empty.

“Take your time,” Mother told me. “Rose Noire and your father are saving seats for all of us.”

“Unfortunately, no one from Henry’s department will be here tonight,” Minerva said.

“Are they still trying to locate Jerome Lightfoot?”

“And not having much luck,” Minerva said. “It’s beginning to look as if after killing poor Mr. Vess he went straight home, packed his suitcases and took off. They’ve got a bulletin out on his car.”

“I hope they catch him soon,” I said. “Actually, I hope some other county catches him soon.”

“I confess, I agree.” Minerva shook her head. “I’d purely love to hear that he’s been spotted a good long ways from here and locked up in someone else’s jail. I had words with that man, more than once—if I’d known what kind of man he is! A cold-blooded killer!”

“Actually, I’m not sure cold-blooded could ever describe Mr. Lightfoot,” one of the other Baptist ladies said. “I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t in a temper over something.”

“A hot-tempered killer, then,” Minerva said. “And running around loose, and him knowing full well that I’m one of the people who’s been trying to get him fired. Makes me feel all funny.”

“Sit down, Minerva, dear,” Mother said. “And have some tea.”

“I can’t blame you one bit,” the Baptist lady said.

“I don’t see how any of us will sleep tonight,” exclaimed an Episcopalian.

Most of the church ladies chimed in either with the rumors they’d heard or to say how anxious they were. But by some unspoken agreement they all deferred to Minerva’s superior cause for alarm—after all, she was not only a known enemy of the fleeing killer but her husband was even now risking life and limb to bring the fugitive to justice. Several of them vied to see who could refresh her tea.

“I’m sure we’ll all be praying for a speedy end to this terrible situation,” Robyn said. She clasped Minerva’s hands. “And for the safety of our brave law enforcement officers, and for the soul of poor Mr. Vess.”

“And for Mr. Lightfoot, too,” put in Reverend Wilson, craning around from behind the table, where he was filling cups of cider. “For ‘I say to you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repents, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.’ There is still hope for Mr. Lightfoot.”

There were murmurs of “amen,” from the assembled tea ladies and Minerva lifted her chin and looked comforted.

“Although I hope no one will object if I hope Mr. Lightfoot starts his repenting very soon, and from the inside of a jail cell,” I added.

“Lord, yes,” Minerva said.

“I look forward to the day when he is safely locked up,” Reverend Wilson said. “And I can begin to help him wrestle with the heavy burden of sin he must be carrying.”

“I just hope Henry finds him before Christmas Day.” Minerva looked anxious. “I remember one terrible year back in Baltimore, not too long after we were married, when he was working twenty hours a day trying to catch a serial arsonist and didn’t have time to open our presents until three days after Christmas. And he’s not a young man anymore.”

“Oh, that reminds me, dear,” Mother said. “Before I forget.”

She glided over to the tea table, reached underneath, and pulled out a gaily wrapped package.

“This is for you, Meg dear.”

I suppressed the urge to ask her why she felt it necessary to give me the present now, when I would either have to run out to the car to stow it or lug it with me during the entire play.

“Thanks,” I said instead. I couldn’t help noticing that she was displaying none of the delight she normally took in presents, even when they were intended for other people. In fact, she had looked relieved the second it left her hands. “Who’s it from?”

“Cousin Sylvia.” From her grave tone of voice, she obviously knew how I felt about getting a parcel from Sylvia. For that matter, how everyone felt. We both stared at the parcel for a few moments in silence.

“What’s wrong?” Robyn asked.

“Cousin Sylvia is an avid knitter,” I said.

“I love hand-knitted presents,” Robyn said. “Lucky you!”

“Sylvia’s taste is … unusual,” Mother murmured.

“She has no taste,” I said. “And her color choices are so peculiar that I really think someone should find a way to test her for color blindness.”

“She tries so hard,” Mother said.

“Mostly she does bulky Christmas sweaters,” I said. “With Santas or reindeer or Christmas trees or bells. Only she does her own designs, so everything just looks like multicolored amoebas. Or psychedelic Rorschach tests.”

“Still—one could make allowances,” Mother said. “If only she’d use natural fibers. Wool. Cotton.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to dye natural fibers in colors garish enough to please Sylvia,” I said.

“Now you’ve roused my curiosity,” Robyn said. “You must come and show me this sweater after Christmas.”

“I’ll show it to you now.” I began picking at the tape at one end of the soft, bulky parcel.

“You can’t open that now,” Mother said.

“Why not?” I asked. “She won’t be here to see me open it on Christmas Day. Even if she were, I can tape it up again.”

“Well, it would be nice to see what we’re all in for this year,” Mother said. “Once she comes up with a pattern she likes, she usually does it up in different color combinations for everyone,” she added to Robyn.

“I’m just surprised she gave me a present at all,” I said. “I thought she wasn’t speaking to me. She found out I’d given away some of the sweaters she’s made for me and Michael over the years.”

“You should never have donated them to the church rummage sale,” Mother said.

“She knitted those sweaters you donated to the rummage sale?” Robyn exclaimed. “Oh, my.” She regarded the parcel with alarm.

“I knew better than to donate them anywhere else,” I said. “I know she haunts every thrift shop for miles around. I just didn’t think she’d come to the Trinity rummage sale.”

“Next time just mail them to Cousin Alicia in California,” Mother said. “That’s what I do. She has found someplace that’s happy to have them. Possibly some organization that helps the visually impaired. And then— Oh, my!”

I had finally succeeded in removing the paper from the sweater and held it up. Mother and I stared at it, speechless.

“Actually, this one is rather nice,” Robyn said.

It wasn’t Sylvia’s usual bulky horror. It was a soft, boatneck sweater, all black except for the neckline, hemline, and the ends of the sleeves, which shaded into black flecked with a slight hint of metallic gold. I held it against my body and measured. I’d have to try it on to be sure, but it looked as if it would fit me perfectly. And look good on me. Perhaps Mother had brought the wrong parcel. I checked the tag:
TO MEG FROM SYLVIA.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Of course, given Sylvia’s color sense, she probably thinks it’s hideous,” Mother said.

“Exactly,” I said. “She really must hate me. Unless she’s suddenly had a complete change of taste since last year. And I think it’s wool.”

“Wool-cotton blend, if I’m not mistaken.” Mother was fingering the sweater with appreciation. “Very nice. And no, your brother opened his early, too. I’d say his is worse than usual. I believe it’s meant to be Santa petting Rudolph and the rest of the reindeer—although if so, you’d think she’d have used red and brown instead of orange and purple. Rob thinks it’s supposed to be a fruit basket being savaged by mutant hyenas. If that turns out to be a little small for you, let me try it on.”