Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (19 page)

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

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 out. 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.”

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.

But I was surprised. The main road continued clear until we got to the point where we turned off on the gravel road to Judge Jane’s farm. After that, I could see that we’d have needed a sleigh to continue on the main road, but fortunately the gravel road was as neatly and thoroughly plowed as the main road had been up to the turnoff.

“Well, why not?” Rob said when I pointed this out. “After all, why would anybody want to go to Clay County at the best of times?”

“Someone could want to go through Clay County,” I suggested. “To Tappahannock, maybe?”

“Then they’d be out of luck when they hit the county line,” Rob said. “I don’t think Clay County has working snowplows anymore. They figure anyone who can’t be bothered to buy a truck with four-wheel drive can just wait till it thaws.”

He had a point. But here in Caerphilly, even the final stretch of dirt road was pretty clear—obviously the Shiffley clan, who had the plowing contract, took good care of their aunt Jane. Or maybe they’d gotten into the habit of plowing her road this way a few years ago when the county had temporarily lost possession of its town hall and Jane’s barn was the only courthouse available—just as she was the only judge not either in jail or under indictment.

I could recall summer days when court was in session in her barn and the entire dirt road would be lined with cars. You could see lawyers and their clients pacing up and down in the pastures, since that was the only way to have a private conversation, given the absence of conference rooms. People waiting for their cases to be called would often picnic by the side of the road, and a couple of deputies would patrol the area, making sure defendants and the witnesses against them weren’t thrown too close together. Some of the local churches and civic organizations set up stands to sell lemonade and sodas, while the children took turns riding the several gentle old horses Judge Jane kept around for her own grandchildren.

Even though the town had reclaimed its courthouse, the judge still often preferred to hear cases in her barn, and most of the time, nobody much minded.

Things were slow today, no doubt in part because of the weather. Only a few cars and trucks were parked in her farmyard, mostly patrol cars and the chief’s blue sedan.

I saw two figures, both heavily bundled, pacing up and down in the snow nearby. One I recognized as a local attorney who specialized in representing drunk drivers. He appeared to be lecturing the other figure, and I noticed a deputy standing just outside the barn door, watching them. This time of year, the lack of conference rooms made for some pretty brisk attorney-client meetings.

Rob nodded to the deputy and hurried inside. I stopped to say hello—it was Vern Shiffley.

“She in a good mood?” I asked, nodding toward the barn.

“With one of her own family arrested for something like this?” Vern shook his head. “Man, will I be glad to get out of here.”

I braced myself and stepped inside.

The interior of the barn was warm, and humid from the breath of all the two-and four-legged creatures within. I inhaled the rich farm odor, a composite of hay, feed grain, and manure.

This end of the barn was a wide corridor flanked by stalls and boxes. Several of Judge Jane’s Morgan horses or prize Guernsey cows peered over the stall doors as if interested in the proceedings going on at the far end. I started slightly when I heard a duck quack almost underfoot, but it turned out to be a large buff-colored duck—presumably one of the Saxony ducks I’d heard Judge Jane raised, rather than yet another refugee from St. Byblig’s.

Judge Jane was sitting in state on the judge’s bench, which was formed by putting an antique captain’s chair on the bed of an old farm wagon. The chair was pulled up close to the raised driver’s seat, so the judge would have a place to stow any documents she needed close at hand—and more importantly, so she’d have a good solid surface on which to pound her gavel, which she tended to do a lot when presiding.