Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (8 page)

At least every ten minutes either Lightfoot or Vess would appear in her office. Sometimes both at once. I never had any trouble overhearing every word they said. Usually they were complaining about each other, although both occasionally took a few verbal jabs at the Shiffleys doing the construction. Randall Shiffley showed up a couple of times to repeat that if everyone would stop bothering him and his crew they could have the construction finished by three o’clock when the choir practice was due to start. And Minerva Burke showed up a few times to calm down Lightfoot, who kept declaring the concert off. I finally decided he was serious, and apparently so did Minerva. A few minutes later, Reverend Wilson arrived and told Lightfoot off in the tone of voice he usually reserved for his summer revival hellfire and damnation sermons.

“And if you still feel unable to continue,” the reverend boomed, in tones people could probably hear in the next county. “I’m sure Sister Burke here would be happy to take your place. The concert must and will go on!”

After that Lightfoot made himself scarce for a while.

Although after both Reverend Wilson and Robyn left, he and Vess both showed up again and turned their wrath on poor Riddick. After his first encounter with them, the poor man actually ducked into my office to hide from Lightfoot, only to be so startled at finding me there that he jumped and hit his head on the corner of a broken-down five-drawer wooden file cabinet.

I jumped up to make sure he was all right, and closed my office door partway to conceal him.

“Why do they have to be here?” he whispered. He was holding the heel of his hand to the brow ridge just above his right eye, and I remembered Mother saying that he was a martyr to migraines.

“Well, Robyn did offer Reverend Wilson the use of Trinity for the concert,” I said. “And it’s a wonderful chance to show how well the church looks for the holiday. But I think you have a point. Mr. Lightfoot doesn’t seem to appreciate our hospitality, so while I’m rearranging, I’ll see if I can move any other events he’s involved in to other churches. The Catholics have a big sanctuary. Maybe I could schedule him there.”

Riddick gave a weak smile and closed his eyes. I went back to my work, and he stood there, motionless, until the hallway outside grew silent again. Then he slipped out without saying anything.

Would the church become more peaceful when the construction was finished and music took the place of hammering? Probably not. From what I’d seen at the last rehearsal, Lightfoot wouldn’t let them sing more than a few bars without cursing at them. Although at least he’d be yelling from farther away, not next door.

And waiting for the chief to call me back was also wearing on my nerves. I’d called him shortly after arriving back at the church to tell him what I’d overheard. Of course I got his voice mail. Not knowing who might be around when he played it back, I’d made my message noncommittal.

“Hi. It’s Meg Langslow. I overheard something this afternoon that might be relevant to the question of who pulled off that prank. Would be happy to fill you in at your convenience.”

Was the investigation going so badly that he had no time to return my call? Or so well that my small clue was of no importance? Every time the phone rang, I had to remind myself not to sound cranky—it wasn’t my callers’ fault that they weren’t the chief.

But it was their fault that they weren’t all being as organized and cooperative as they could be. Randall Shiffley strolled into my temporary office about the time my meds were wearing off, to hear me barking into the phone at the secretary of the Methodist church.

“I said I’ll fix the problem!” I said. “But until further notice, the schedule stands!”

I hung up and looked at Randall, fully expecting him to make some unreasonable request or point out some aspect of my schedule that was less than perfect. He held up both hands as if surrendering.

“I just stopped in to see how you’re feeling,” he said.

“Cranky,” I answered, with a sigh. “And rude. That was rude. I shall probably feel obliged to apologize to Mrs. Dahlgren later.”

“What’s the old biddy on about now?” Clearly Randall knew Mrs. Dahlgren. He crossed his arms and leaned against the massive Victorian breakfront that formed one boundary of my office space.

“She tells me they can’t possibly host the Baptist Ladies’ Auxiliary potluck dinner tonight because they don’t have enough bathrooms.”

“You could tell her that you’ll ask all the Baptists to be patient while they wait in line,” he said.

“I did,” I said. “I also told her if the lines got really bad we could arrange for people to pee next door with the Unitarians.”

“I reckon she wasn’t too pleased with that idea.” He was smothering a chuckle.

And he was holding a large hammer. Evidently he’d been helping out with whatever the Shiffley Construction Company had been doing in the sanctuary. Construction. An idea started forming in my mind—much more slowly than usual, thanks to the meds, but still forming.

“Just what have you guys been building, anyway?” I asked.

“A stage to fill in the area behind the altar rail,” he said. “And risers for the choir to stand on. You want to come see?”

“Later,” I said. “Do you have any of those construction site portapotties you could take over to the Methodist church?”

“We do,” he said. “It’s a slow season for construction right now, so they’re not much in demand. But if you think Mrs. Dahlgren is upset now—”

“Deliver half a dozen of them,” I said. “I’ll ask Mother to send over some of the ladies of St. Clotilda’s with some wreaths and tinsel to make them look a little more festive. Can you do that?”

“I can,” he said. “If you really think—”

“HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!”

We both jumped as the opening of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” rang out from down the hall in the sanctuary.

We listened for a few bars, and then the music abruptly stopped. We could hear angry voices instead. We both remained silent, straining to hear what was being said. Eventually Lightfoot’s voice came through more clearly.

“I said get out and stay out!”

“Only Lightfoot abusing the choir,” I said.

“They should get rid of him before he ruins that choir,” Randall said.

“He’s not a good choir director?”

“Not that I’m an expert,” Randall said. “But I’ve been talking to some people who are. He’s got good credentials from a good school. Decent knowledge of music, they say. But he’s a train wreck with people. If you ask me, they were in too much of a hurry to hire when their old choir director died so suddenly. Any day now, New Life Baptist Church is going to start leaking members like nobody’s business.”

I thought about what Minerva had said. I couldn’t repeat what she told me, but …

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said.

“You know something I don’t know?”

“No,” I said. “But do you really think the Baptists haven’t noticed? Besides—”

“You need to do something about this!” Barliman Vess erupted into my office. “That man has taken over the sanctuary! He’s not scheduled to start his rehearsal until three! It’s only half past two.”

He shook a copy of the master schedule in my face.

“We were supposed to have it for the riser construction until three,” Randall said. “But we finished early, so I told Mr. Lightfoot he could get started if he wanted to.”

“But that’s not on the schedule!”

“Technically, no.” Randall’s voice sounded a little less calm than usual. I suspected Vess had already been getting on his nerves during the construction. “But since—”

“Hold on!” I swiveled back to my laptop and with a few keystrokes, changed the schedule so the choir rehearsal began at two thirty. Then I swiveled back.

“As duly appointed schedule coordinator, I hereby issue the latest revised schedule,” I said. “Choir practice begins at two thirty. Would you like a clean copy?”

I pointed to the printer. Vess shook his head.

“Anything else?” I asked, in my sweetest voice.

Vess frowned down at the paper in his hand, obviously still angry, but curiously unable to argue now that Lightfoot’s trespass had been legitimized. I found myself noticing all the liver spots on his bald head and how the skin on the back of his hands was crinkled like tissue. I suddenly felt very sorry for Vess. He’d been retired for at least twenty years and a widower for almost that long. Maybe fussing over the fine details of Trinity’s finances and organization were the only things that kept him going.

“Hmph!” he said. He glared at me, and then at Randall for a few seconds, before stomping out.

“I guess he blames you for messing up the schedule,” I said. “Though I doubt if he’s too pleased with me, either. Mother will get an earful.”

“Oh, Mr. Vess already had it in for me,” he said. “Kept coming up and complaining about how long our construction was taking. ‘How long can it take to nail down a few boards?’ And sneaking up behind us to see if we’re damaging any of the original 1870s woodwork. And in case you didn’t have time to notice, we’re not just nailing down a few boards.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“We designed and built a removable stage and a set of risers that are custom fitted to the space here at Trinity,” Randall said. “With all due respect to Mr. Vess, I can appreciate a fine bit of craftsmanship when I see it, and that’s why I wanted a solution that didn’t require driving a single nail into your beautiful hundred-and-fifty-year-old oak woodwork. After tonight’s concert, it won’t take more than half an hour to disassemble it so y’all can have services tomorrow morning as usual, and then after the last church service we’ll put it back up again for tomorrow night’s concert. If there’s a single scratch or nail hole I’ll personally make it good as new. And Trinity gets to keep the whole thing, so if you ever need a stage, with or without risers again, you’ve got one. Your minister’s pleased as punch—what’s Vess’s problem? He’s been riding us all day.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Randall this provoked. My sympathy for Vess was fading.

“Robyn’s sane,” I said. “Vess, not so much. If the congregation took a vote on who they most wished would get fed up with Trinity and join some other church—any other church—I’m betting Vess would win, hands down.”

“Just don’t sic him on First Presbyterian,” Randall said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rant at you. I think I’ll make myself scarce before he comes back.”

“And as soon as I send out what I fondly hope is the final schedule, I’m going home to shower and rest,” I said. “So maybe I’ll be able to enjoy some time with Michael and the boys when they get back from Christmas shopping. Don’t forget those portapotties.”

“I won’t.” He stood up, nodded, and strolled out.

I scanned the schedule and made one more change. Not much I could do about today, but tomorrow? Lightfoot had a couple of hours’ worth of rehearsals with his soloists scheduled for Sunday afternoon. I swapped them into the Methodist church, so Mrs. Dahlgren could enjoy his company for a while.

I sent out a group e-mail with the new schedule, sent a copy to the printer, saved the file, and packed up my things. I made sure I had the meds Dad had provided, but decided to wait until I got home to take more of them. Detachment was great for coping with recalcitrant people, but my current alert—if cranky—state seemed better for dealing with snowy driving conditions.

Just as I entered the vestibule, the choir started another song.

“There’s a star in the east on Christmas morn,” sang a soaring soprano soloist.

“Rise up, shepherds, and follow,” answered the choir.

I stepped into the sanctuary and perched on a pew to listen, just for few minutes. The soloist and choir both sounded wonderful to me, but from Mr. Lightfoot’s gestures and facial expressions, I could tell he wasn’t happy.

Just as the soloist was beginning the third verse, my cell phone rang. It wasn’t loud, and I had the ring tone set to a single chime, which was not as intrusive as the loud and intricate tunes so many people seemed to favor, but Lightfoot turned and glared at me as if about to shout “Off with her head.”

I pressed the answer button before the phone rang a second time and ran out into the vestibule to take the call. In fact, for good measure, I ran all the way outside the church.

“Meg, dear?” Mother. “Is this a bad time?”

I was tempted to lie and say I was busy, before she had a chance to ask whatever she was calling me to ask. But I felt a little superstitious about uttering falsehoods on the steps of a church.

“Not a bad time for me,” I said. “Mr. Lightfoot may yet kill me for interrupting his choir practice.”

“Mr. Lightfoot should be very grateful to you that he has a place to practice,” Mother said. “Speaking of finding places…”

I winced. I could already see my latest carefully arranged schedule collapsing like a house of cards. I leaned against one of the bright red double front doors, brushed a aside a stray frond of spruce from the wreath that was trying to tickle me, closed my eyes, and braced myself.

“We need a place to hold a sewing bee,” she said. “The cleaning company says there’s nothing they can do about the seat cushions that were sprayed by the skunks. So we’re going to make all new ones.”

“Do we have to do it now?” I asked. “And who’s ‘we’?” I hoped she hadn’t forgotten how meager my sewing skills were.

“The New Life Ladies’ Auxiliary and St. Clotilda’s Guild,” Mother said. “And yes, we need to do it now because there’s a chance we can get the church back in operation for Christmas Day services. If the cleaning service manages to get the smell out of the heating system and Randall’s crew can finish replacing the wood that soaked up the scent and we can handle the cushions, the church will be as good as new!”

I was working on a tactful way of suggesting that once the cleaning service got the ducts clean, the Baptists could have their services back with folding chairs instead of new pews and upholstery, and maybe the sewing bee could wait until after Christmas. Suddenly the church’s outdoor decoratives came on, outlining every tree, bush, lamppost, and fence post with fairy lights. No similarly sudden illumination flooded my brain—only a mild curiosity about whether someone had just turned them on or whether they were on a timer. Then Mother spoke again.