Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (10 page)

Arriving guests generally spent the first fifteen minutes of their visit exclaiming over the decorations, which actually wasn’t as inconvenient as it might sound, since it usually took me five or ten minutes to hack my way through the decorations to get to the hall closet or the coatrack to hang their wraps. And once I finally pried the guests out of the hall, the marveling usually continued. Mother referred to her efforts in the living room and dining room as more restrained, though of course they were only so in comparison to the hall. It was all fine for social visits, but whenever anyone came on any business I’d taken to leading them to the kitchen, where they wouldn’t spend their entire time sightseeing and could be more easily induced to help consume some of the surplus of holiday cake, cookies, candy, and fruit that was piling up.

Mother had even incorporated our two dogs into the decorating scheme. The original plan was to put large red velvet bows on both dogs’ collars and to have them sleep on matching red velvet cushions on the hearth. I felt sorry for Horace, who’d been drafted to help with this part of the decorating. Tinkerbell, Rob’s enormous Irish Wolfhound, gave him no trouble—in fact, she actually seemed to like the red bow—but Horace had ended up making a trip to the ER after trying to decorate Spike, our nine-pound furball, whose personality resembled a cross between a saber-toothed tiger and a wolverine. By the time Horace got back, Spike had established ownership rights to the wolfhound-sized cushion. The cushion intended for his use was barely large enough to fit Tinkerbell’s enormous shaggy head, but she curled up on it anyway. Fortunately Mother found the resulting tableau cute, since any attempts to rearrange it would probably have resulted in more trips to the ER.

Mother had gone particularly overboard in the dining room, where she’d adopted an angel theme. Legions of angels marched up and down the dining room table, holding trumpets or songbooks or candles. More angels lolled on the sideboard and peeked out from behind the plates and pitchers in the built-in china cabinet. Angels rioted along the evergreen garlands that festooned all four walls, climbed and dangled from the chandelier. There wasn’t actually a lot of room left for serving food or seating people, which hadn’t been much of a problem so far—we’d just taken to eating a lot more often at our oversized kitchen table—but was definitely going to cause some tension when Michael’s mother arrived to carry out her plan of using our house to prepare and serve her entry in the two dueling Christmas Day meals we were expected to attend. Mother would be serving her own meal over at the cottage, as she’d taken to calling the rambling farmhouse she and Dad had bought to stay in during their increasingly frequent and lengthy visits to Caerphilly. Was I wrong in suspecting that the decor in her dining room would be equally over the top but far less impractical in which to serve a meal?

Looking around, I tried to imagine what Mother could possibly think was missing.

“Didn’t some famous interior designer say when you finished decorating you should take a look and remove at least one thing?” I asked.

“It was Coco Chanel,” Mother said. “And she was talking about a woman getting dressed—not interior decorating, and certainly not decorating for Christmas, where a certain feeling of luxurious excess is quite appropriate.”

She was shuffling through one of the Christmas card baskets, making sure that the top cards were all elegant ones that matched the red, gold, and green color scheme, and banishing any that did not meet her aesthetic standards to the bottom of the basket.

“I’ll leave you in charge of the luxurious excess,” I said. “I’m going to take a nap so I’ll be fit to go to the concert tonight.”

“Splendid,” she said absently. She was holding up both hands making the suggestion of a picture frame and squinting through it at the stairway.

I headed upstairs, resigned to the probability that the hallway would be unrecognizable the next time I saw it.

When I was halfway up, Michael and the boys appeared.

“Mommy, go sledding!” Josh called.

Jamie just raced downstairs and began digging through the coat closet for his snow gear.

“They already napped,” Michael said. “And I assume you still need to. So since there’s fresh snow falling…”

“Wonderful idea,” I said. “How about feeding them while you’re out, and I’ll meet up with you all at the concert?”

I helped stuff the boys into their snowsuits and boots and then climbed upstairs again, ignoring the fact that Mother was still busy with her measuring tape and notebook. I put my cell phone where I would hear it if the chief finally returned my call and fell asleep secure in the knowledge that the boys were safe, and happy, and that I could take a nice long nap before I saw them again.

My phone alarm woke me up a few hours later with just enough time to throw my clothes on and drive into town for the concert. In fact, not quite enough time, since I had to park half a dozen blocks from Trinity.

I despaired of getting a seat for the concert, and was resigned to standing in the back. Or maybe sitting on the floor of the vestibule—I wouldn’t see much but at least I could hear. But when I peeked into the sanctuary, I spotted Michael and the boys, sitting in one of the front row pews, with Robyn and her husband sitting on one side of them and Mother, Dad, Grandfather, Caroline, Rose Noire, and Rob on the other. Robyn caught sight of me and waved, and I hurried to take the seat they were saving for me.

If I’d been picking the seats, I wouldn’t have picked the front pew. Because of limited space, the first two rows of choir members were standing in front of the communion rail, almost stepping on our feet, so we had to crane our heads up to see them and couldn’t get a glimpse of the rest of the choir. I was afraid we’d get blasted when they opened their mouths and began to sing, and the fact that Jerome Lightfoot had set up his music stand not six feet away, in the center aisle, didn’t exactly make me any happier. But the boys were very excited at being so close to the choir, and it was all we could do to keep them from reaching out and grabbing the red velvet and gold lame of their special Christmas robes.

And we couldn’t keep the boys from standing on the pews when a hush fell over the church and Lightfoot nodded to the organist, who had been playing soft background music. The organist struck up the first few chords of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and the choir all lifted their hymnals purposefully.

Suddenly something shifted in the evergreens over the choir’s heads, and a bright green snake’s head popped out of the foliage, followed by three or four writhing feet of body.

Scattered screams erupted from both the choir and the audience, and I was terrified that a stampede would take place. Cleopatra, by contrast, seemed remarkably calm.

Fortunately, Grandfather saved the day by scrambling up onto the seat of our pew, and then beginning to bellow out orders and exclamations.

“Cleopatra! Well done! You’ve found her! Quiet, everyone! She’s easily startled. Get a ladder, someone! Let’s get her down before she falls!”

A few people still fled out into the halls, but nearly everyone sat quietly and watched with interest as several sturdy basses and baritones lifted up other, lighter choir members onto their shoulders. Following Grandfather’s bellowed instructions, they carefully untangled Cleopatra from the greenery, carried her down, and placed her across Grandfather’s shoulders. The choir and congregation burst into applause as Grandfather, still wearing his scaly boa, shook the hands of Cleopatra’s rescuers. He and Caroline drafted Horace to help them drive Cleopatra back to the zoo and strode out. Once Cleopatra was gone, everyone—even the people who had briefly fled the sanctuary—seemed in an unusually good humor, and Lightfoot had a little trouble getting them all to settle down so the concert could resume.

In fact, Lightfoot was the only person who seemed at all upset over the incident. He was in a completely foul humor. And kept glaring over at me. Did he suspect me of having arranged Cleopatra’s appearance, to upstage his concert? Or was he just staring at the sling Dad insisted I still wear? People tended to notice it, and a lot of them came over to commiserate with me, shooting him frowning glances as they did, but I wouldn’t have taken him for someone who cared what others thought.

Then again, maybe he was afraid I’d sue. That seemed more in character. I made a point of beaming graciously at him the next time I caught him glancing my way, which seemed to disconcert him more than all the whispering and finger-pointing.

The audience finally settled down, and Lightfoot raised his baton and the concert resumed.

“O Come, All Ye Faithful!” was followed by “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and then “Ding Dong Merrily on High,” “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” “Glory, Glory, Glory to the Newborn King,” “When Was Jesus Born?” “O, Holy Night,” and “Children, Go Where I Send Thee.”

Josh was clearly enjoying the concert immensely—he was nodding his head, tapping his feet, and slapping his knees in time to the music, even during the slow songs. I loved watching him, but I had to admit, I was glad he had crawled into Michael’s lap, not mine. I was holding Jamie, who was sitting with his mouth and eyes wide open, utterly motionless, as if afraid the whole thing would vanish if he moved a muscle or made a sound.

Satisfied that the boys were having fun, I settled back against Michael’s shoulder, closed my eyes, and gave myself over to enjoying the music.

It was well past the boys’ bedtime when the concert ended, so rather than wait for the slow procession out the main doors, where both Robyn and Reverend Wilson were shaking the hands of the departing audience, we ducked to one of the side doors—where we found Riddick Hedges standing guard. He frowned at us.

“Good evening, Riddick,” Mother said. “Lovely to see you.” With that she sailed toward the door, clearly assuming he would open it by the time she reached it. Riddick blinked, and then scrambled to comply.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Riddick said. He didn’t quite bow, but he was clearly tempted.

We all followed in Mother’s wake, wishing Riddick good evening—except for the boys who were fast asleep on Michael’s and Rob’s shoulders.

“I was supposed to be keeping this door secure,” he muttered as I approached, bringing up the rear of our party.

“Against intrusion, I assume,” I said. “Or did Robyn tell you to lock it up so no one could escape her handshake?”

“Never had such foolishness before,” he muttered. “Skunks! Snakes! What next?”

“Nothing, let’s hope,” I said. “Or at least, with you on guard, nothing here.”

“The chief sent out orders for everyone to lock up tight tonight,” he said. “I remember when nobody had to lock his front door here in Caerphilly.”

“I’ll let you know if I spot anyone suspicious lurking outside,” I said.

“Right,” he said, with a grudging nod of approval as he held the door for me.

As I followed the rest of the family, I heard him testing the lock behind us.

On the first part of the way home the boys woke up long enough to serenade us with some of the songs the choir had performed. The results might have been more melodic if they were old enough to have any idea of pitch and key and if they could have been persuaded to sing the same song at the same time, but Michael and I enjoyed it anyway. I wasn’t quite so sure about Rob. Still, I was relieved when both of their voices began to fade—bedtime would go so much more easily if we could just carry them to bed and tuck them in, still unconscious.

“I see your mother’s been busy again,” Michael murmured as he walked into the foyer with Jamie over his shoulder.

“It’s like living at the North Pole,” Rob muttered as he hauled Josh upstairs.

I was relieved to see that Mother hadn’t rearranged everything—just added a little more of everything. More greenery. More ribbons. More tinsel. About the only annoying thing she’d done was arrange for someone to fit out the entire downstairs with little wireless speakers to pipe in an endless supply of soft instrumental Christmas music. It took me fifteen minutes to find the central source of the music—an iPod set up in the kitchen pantry—and silence it for the night.

I checked to make sure the library was ready for the sewing bee and Michael’s office, with its dangerous cargo of unwrapped presents was locked. Then, after a quick visit to the boys’ rooms to plant good night kisses on their sleeping foreheads, I fell into bed. It was still dark the next morning when my cell phone rang.

It was my phone ringing, not Michael’s pager—something to be thankful for, I supposed. I fumbled to answer it.

“Meg?” It was Robyn. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

I knew it was customary under such circumstances to protest that no, of course, she hadn’t awakened me, I had been up for hours. But it was 6:00
A.M.
and I wasn’t sure I could manage the obligatory cheerful tone with any grace, so I skipped to the point.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Can you come in and work your magic on the schedule again?”

I blinked for a few moments, puzzled.

“Is there something wrong with the schedule everyone agreed to last night?” I asked finally.

“Of course not! It would have been perfect except there’s been another incident.”

Suddenly I felt a lot more awake. I sat upright and began fumbling for the light.

“What kind of incident?”

“Someone left a flock of ducks overnight in the sanctuary at St. Byblig’s.”

“Ducks?”

“What’s wrong?” Michael muttered.

I pressed my cell phone’s speaker button so he could hear what Robyn was saying.

“Father Donnelly came in to get ready for the early mass,” she reported. “And he found the ducks, several hundred of them, roosting on the pews, and a few of them waddling up and down the aisles. And more down in the Sunday school classrooms. And they’d obviously been there for hours, and the place was a mess—no way they could celebrate mass in there till after a good cleanup. So he canceled the mass, and most of the parishioners who showed up for it are already on their way home to change into work clothes and start cleaning. But the cleanup could take a while, and he doesn’t yet know if the building has to be reconsecrated, so he needs to know where he can celebrate mass today—several masses, actually—and you’re the only one who knows the master schedule well enough to figure that out. Can you come down to St. Byblig’s and help us cope?”