Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (23 page)

Maybe the house was Mrs. Vess’s creation. I remembered Mother talking about how Vess had fought the rest of the vestry tooth and nail over the very minor expenditures involved in sprucing up Robyn’s study—mainly a few gallons of paint, to be applied by volunteer labor.

“The man doesn’t seem to understand,” Mother had said. “Even if the styles haven’t changed, things just wear out.”

Maybe he’d kept the decor here untouched after his wife’s death. I hadn’t seen anything that couldn’t have been here for ten years, or even twenty. I could see him living here, blind to the house’s beauty but well aware of its comfort. Keeping everything unchanged not out of sentimentality but because that was the cheapest and easiest option.

Odd that one hanging folder was completely empty—the one marked
THORNEFIELD INVESTIGATION.

I searched the rest of the file cabinet and the desktop. No
THORNEFIELD INVESTIGATION
misfiled under
OFFICE SUPPLY INVENTORY
or
HOUSEKEEPING SAVINGS PROPOSAL
or any of the other projects.

I was deeply immersed in the files when I heard a loud bang outside and started.

I slipped over to the window on the side of the house where the sound had come from and peered out, careful to stay back far enough to minimize the chances that I’d be seen.

The back windows of Mr. Vess’s offices had a sweeping view of rolling pastures leading down to a large pond and a series of long, low, whitewashed sheds. One of the barns had a faded sign on the side reading
PLEASANT VALLEY DUCK FARM.

A tall, lean figure in jeans and a faded corduroy coat came out of one of the sheds and I heard the loud noise again—it was the shed door being slammed closed.

I was willing to bet that I was looking at Quincy Shiffley’s farm, with one of his cousins dropping by to tend the ducks. A cousin who was slamming doors in a bit of a temper because he really didn’t want to be out in the cold feeding a bunch of ducks.

I was a little alarmed when the cousin began striding across the snow-covered pasture in my direction. But I soon realized he wasn’t aiming for the house. Two large white ducks were perched on the fence between Vess’s yard and the duck farm. In summer, no doubt they’d have fluttered down into the garden and begun foraging, but now they merely stared down at the snow as if disappointed. I watched from behind the curtain as the visiting Shiffley captured them—they looked cold and not really all that eager to escape—and strode back up the hill to the barns with one under each arm.

I peered out the front windows to make sure there was nothing there, and then went back to hunting.

Vess hadn’t been prone to clutter, so it didn’t take long at all to search the small house and confirm that the missing file wasn’t anywhere else. Not in the office. Not in the dresser or the bedside table. Not in any of the closets. Not in the attic, which was actually empty. Not in the garage, which contained only a bare minimum of lawn and garden tools.

Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean the file was missing—only that it wasn’t here. Perhaps Vess had left it in his car. Or had lent it to another member of the vestry, seeking their support.

I drifted back up to his office and wondered it I should turn on his computer. Not that I would expect to find much there—I’d already noticed that apart from the occasional letter or memo, most of the contents of his complaining files were handwritten.

And I was no computer forensics analyst, so why muddy the waters if the chief eventually did send someone to check the laptop. I left the laptop alone. It was time to go.

Though not before I fed the cat. If there even was a cat.

I went back to the kitchen. There, on the floor of the utility room, was a beige plastic mat with two bowls on it, both empty. You couldn’t even tell which was the food bowl and which was the water—both had been licked clean and dry.

There was dry cat food in a cabinet overhead. I rinsed out both bowls, shook a decent amount of food into one, and filled the other with water.

Just then the doorbell rang. I hurried to peer out a window and spotted Mother’s car. I opened the door to let her in.

“Hello, dear,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek as she came in. “Did you also come to look after poor Barliman’s cat?”

“I came to look after you,” I said. “Given the fact that we don’t have any idea who killed Mr. Vess, don’t you think it was a little foolhardy to make such a fuss about continuing his quest, once you found out what it was, and then letting the whole world know you were coming out here by yourself to feed his cat?”

“I knew you’d come after me as soon as you heard,” she said. “And didn’t it give you a lovely excuse to come out here and poke around? Did you find anything interesting?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll show you.”

I led her up to the office and pulled out the drawer containing Mr. Vess’s files.

“Good heavens,” she said. “I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not. Someone should destroy these files—the way J. Edgar Hoover’s blackmail files were destroyed after his death.”

“I was thinking more about Sherlock Holmes burning Charles Augustus Milverton’s files,” I said. “And I’d be in complete agreement except for the small fact that there might be some clue in these files to help the chief find Vess’s killer.”

“Then why are you taking this file?” she asked, tapping one manicured nail on the hanging folder labeled
THORNEFIELD INVESTIGATION.

“I’m not,” I said. “It was already missing when I came. Do you have any idea what it could be about?”

“He usually kept his little investigations close to the vest,” she said. “I have no idea. But if he thought there was anything the least bit suspicious about Mrs. Thornefield, he’s very much mistaken. She was a gracious and generous lady with impeccable taste.”

“If you say so,” I said, thinking of that heavy furniture in the church basement. “Maybe Vess was inspired by her generosity and was investigating how she went about arranging her legacy to the church. Maybe he was thinking of following suit.”

“Maybe.” She glanced around with an appreciative air. “It would be nice, of course, but I’m not holding my breath. Maybe he has—had—some bee in his bonnet about the legacy causing us a tax problem. Or an insurance problem, from storing all that stuff in the undercroft. Though that would be his own fault—he was the one who vetoed short-term storage, even though the Shiffley Moving Company would have given us a bargain rate.”

“Keep your eyes open, then,” I said. “And let’s get out of here before someone catches us trespassing.”

“Did you feed the cat, dear?”

“Yes,” I said. I walked down the hall to the kitchen and poked my head in. I could see, in the utility room beyond, the hindquarters and tail of a small gray cat, and by the sound of it she was bolting down her food. I backed away as quietly as I could.

“Mission accomplished,” I told Mom. “By the way, what will happen to the cat?”

“Robyn has half a dozen volunteers to take her if the son doesn’t want her,” Mother said. “She’ll be fine.”

She looked around and shook her head.

“Such a lonely man,” Mother said.

“At least he had a cat for company,” I said.

“He was always complaining that she was an incompetent mouser,” Mother said.

“But did he get rid of her because of that?”

Mother held her hands up as if conceding my point.

“I can think of one thing that his missing file could be about,” she said. “It was just after Mrs. Thornefield died that our former rector broke his legs, poor dear. And with him laid up, and not the most practical soul at the best of times, he put Riddick in charge of disposing of Mrs. Thornefield’s belongings. And since Riddick had no idea whatsoever what any of it was worth, he was just going to call in a junk dealer to give him a bid on the lot. Imagine how much we would have lost if he had and the junk dealer he’d called had been a sharp or dishonest operator!”

“And Mr. Vess found out about it and sounded the alarm?” I asked.

“He most certainly did not,” she said. “He was as clueless as Riddick. But I’d been to see Mrs. Thornefield often enough, and I knew she had some very nice things, so I put a stop to the junk dealer plan.”

She was back to her Joan of Arc pose.

“So we’re having a rummage sale instead?”

“A very elegant auction and estate sale,” Mother said. “Poor Riddick took it hard. He was so mortified at the mistake he’d been about to make that he handed in his resignation. Dr. Womble talked him out of it, of course—made him promise that he’d at least see the new rector in. Maybe the missing file is about that whole unfortunate episode. But of course even Barliman could see that it wasn’t Riddick’s fault. He blamed Dr. Womble for not supervising him properly.”

“Do you think that’s what led to the rector’s retirement?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “The bishop had been ignoring Barliman’s complaints about dear Dr. Womble for years. It was the broken legs that made him realize the poor man just wasn’t up to it any more. And now that Robyn’s here, perhaps Barliman archived the missing file and just didn’t yet remove the hanging folder. “

“It wasn’t in any of the file drawers,” I said. “Maybe he just moved the contents to the file he’s keeping on Riddick.”

“He’s keeping a file on Riddick, too?” Mother exclaimed.

“He keeps files on everyone,” I said. “He’s even got one on you.”

Mother insisted on going back up to the office to see her file. She seemed to find its contents alternately amusing and exasperating. I was feeling a little down because my one potentially exciting and significant find seemed to be dwindling to just another of Vess’s petty, misguided crusades. Riddick’s file did contain a lot of notes about how he’d almost mishandled the Thornefield estate, although from reading the file you’d have gotten the idea that it was Mr. Vess, not Mother, who’d saved the day. So Mother might have explained away the one interesting thing I’d found.

When Mother had finished laughing over her own file and the general petty nature of Vess’s files, we left the house, and I locked up and taped the key back under the mat. And then I scuffed the snow around enough to disguise the fact that the mat had been moved.

“Doesn’t make much of an effort for the holiday, does he?” Mother said.

She was right. No wreaths, no candles, no tree—not even any Christmas cards lying about. Maybe that was what had made the place seem so curiously forlorn.

“How does he get away with it, I wonder,” I said. “Doesn’t Caerphilly have some kind of ordinance requiring every household to make at least a minimum holiday decorating effort?”

“I wish it did,” Mother said. I had been joking. She was probably serious.

“Speaking of making an effort for the holiday,” I said. “I’m heading back to town. I have things to do.”

“I’m going to get the groceries for my Christmas dinner,” Mother said. “Your brother was going to help me carry everything—I don’t suppose you could—”

“I’ll help you hunt him down, no problem,” I said, hoping to head off a request that I take her shopping. “Just don’t ask him for any fresh ducks.”

“What are you doing now, dear?” she asked.

If that was an attempt to enlist me in the shopping, I was prepared.

“I’m going to drop by and talk to the chief,” I said. “And figure out some way to get him to look for that missing file without getting both of us thrown in jail for trespassing and interfering with an investigation.”

“The file we noticed was missing while we were looking for Mr. Vess’s poor starving cat?” Mother said.

“Yeah, that will work,” I said. “And then I’m going to go home, take another pain pill, and rest my arm until it’s time to get the boys ready for Michael’s show.”

“Feel better, dear,” she said. “And I’ll see you at the theater.”

I did feel better on the way back to town. Partly because my arm, although only giving me occasional twinges of pain, was proving to be such a useful tool for weaseling out of things I didn’t want to do. And partly because the college radio station was back to its usual policy of nonstop Christmas music, and was playing a wonderful program of medieval carols. I was singing along with “The Holly and the Ivy” when I pulled into the police station parking lot. I was lingering in the car to hear the ending when my phone rang. I was in such a good mood that I answered it without thinking.

“Hello?”

“I don’t have any animals!”

I pulled the phone away from my ear, turned down the radio, and looked at the caller ID. It was the Methodist church. Almost certainly Mrs. Dahlgren.

“I beg your pardon,” I said into the phone. “I didn’t quite get that.”

“I don’t have any animals! I’m supposed to be getting some animals! Where are they?”

Were the Methodists—or at least Mrs. Dahlgren—feeling slighted because the prankster hadn’t hit them, too?

“Most of the churches that have received animals have been rather glad to get rid of them,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re complaining.”

“For the live Nativity!” she shrieked. “We need cows, sheep, pigs, goats, donkeys, and some ducks or chickens. The rehearsal’s in two hours.”

“I’m afraid I’m still confused,” I said. “Where do you usually get the animals?”

“Usually we get them from farmers who belong to the congregation,” she said. “But they’re upset because of the pranks, and none of them want to risk their animals. I assumed you’d be getting me some animals.”

“Me?”

“Aren’t you in charge of taking care of all the problems caused by these ridiculous pranks?” she demanded. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“No, I didn’t get any kind of message from you,” I said. “And I’m only in charge of scheduling, to make sure everyone’s holiday events can go on in spite of the pranks.”

“Well, we’re an event! And we won’t go on if you can’t schedule us some barnyard animals.”

With that she hung up.

I took a deep breath and muttered several very uncharitable things about Mrs. Dahlgren.

And then I reminded myself that the live Nativity pageant wasn’t just a Methodist event. They hosted it, because they were the only church that faced the town square, but like the New Life Baptist concert, the Nativity was more a community event. And in a farming community, a live Nativity pageant with no animals wasn’t much of a show.