Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (29 page)

All in all, I was in a good mood when I left the market. When I got to my car, I put the few things that were going home in the trunk, and the two bags of items going to the basement apartment on the front passenger seat. Probably a good idea to deliver them before I went home, lest one of the mothers come across the cranberries and ask what they were for.

My route to the apartment led near Trinity, and on sudden impulse, I passed the turn that would have been my most direct route to the basement apartment and took a slight detour. I realized that Mother had been on my mind. And I found myself suddenly thinking that perhaps it had been a little too easy to convince Mother to postpone her inspection of the estate sale hoard until tomorrow. And that her decision to go home and rest rather than attend the cast party was slightly suspect. And Mother was on the vestry—wasn’t it possible, even probable, that Mother was in possession of one of those million spare keys Robyn had mentioned? And that in spite of Trinity being a deserted recent crime scene, she might decide to drop in to check on Mrs. Thornefield’s legacy?

Sure enough, Mother’s gray sedan was in the parking lot. Toward the left side, as close as you could get to the basement door. I didn’t see any lights on in the church, but I caught a few flickers of light through the basement windows, as if someone was walking around with a flashlight.

I parked my car next to hers. I put the groceries destined for the apartment on the floor and threw a couple of things on top of them, in case she came out and peeked inside before I found her. Then I headed for the stairwell that led to the basement door. The parking lot was empty except for our two cars, which would have been unheard of, except that there was nothing scheduled here tonight—I’d relocated everything that was supposed to happen here today to other venues, and hadn’t rearranged anything after the chief finally released the crime scene. The parking lot would be full enough tomorrow. All the parking lots. But tonight …

The basement door was new—no doubt Randall had arranged to replace the one the firefighters had broken down to get to the fire. But to my relief my key still worked. I unlocked the door, holding my key ring tightly so nothing clinked, and turning the lock as quietly as possible.

The hall was dark, but there was enough moonlight streaming in the windows for me to see in the hall. Should I go back and get my flashlight? No, once I’d surprised Mother, we could turn on the lights. I had no idea why she was creeping around with a flashlight. Surely as a member of the vestry she had more right than most to be here.

I found her standing in the furnace room with her hands on her hips—well, the hand that wasn’t holding the flashlight—glaring at some of the hulking furniture stored there.

“You see?” I said. “Seriously ugly furniture.”

She started slightly.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “I am perturbed. These are not Mrs. Thornefield’s things.”

“Must be some of the stuff from the church attic, then.”

“No.” She shook her head with quick impatience. “I helped clean out the attic. Remember—just after the dear rector arrived.”

“I remember,” I said. “I was just thinking the other night how much better the basement looked, even with all Mrs. Thornefield’s stuff.”

“The guild inspected everything in the attic, the closets, and the basement,” Mother went on. “We put all the things the church really needed in neatly labeled plastic bins, and we hauled out bags and bags of trash and recycling, and we boxed up everything that might possibly sell at the rummage sale and had it hauled down here, to the basement. None of this hideous old furniture was here then.”

“How can you be sure it’s not Mrs. Thornefield’s? Even if it wasn’t in her living room, maybe she had it in her attic?”

“Mrs. Thornefield enlisted my help,” Mother said. She was opening up a box, using a small jeweled metal nail file to slice open the packing tape. “In fact, the guild’s help. She didn’t entirely trust our old rector. Not his character, of course; the dear man was above reproach. But even those of us who were fondest of him realized that dear Dr. Womble wasn’t a very practical person. Mrs. Thornefield was afraid he’d just give her things to the poor, not realizing how valuable they were. So one day she invited the officers of the guild to tea, and she gave us a full tour. Including her basement and attic. There wasn’t any ugly old furniture in her attic—only a few seasonal items and a number of banker’s boxes containing all her financial records. She wanted us to know where those were. And she showed us her basement so we’d be aware of what a nice wine collection she had. Everything in her house was perfectly organized, spotlessly clean, and in impeccable taste. Nothing like this!”

“How long was that before she died?” I asked. “Maybe she downsized a bit. Sold some of the nicer furniture. To make sure the church got its full value.” Or to live on, if I was right about her having financial reverses.

“Only a few months. Look at this … this … rubbish!” She pulled a few items out of the box she’d been opening up and shook them at me, sending the flashlight beam darting wildly. In her left hand, along with the flashlight, she held a small bronze-colored statue of a scantily clad nymph. In her right she held a superlatively ugly china lamp.

“Maybe someone else donated a few boxes of junk that Robyn—or more likely the old rector—forgot to mention?”

Mother focused the flashlight beam on a label on one side of the box, which read
THORNEFIELD ESTATE. BOX 14
.

“I’ve opened up six boxes whose labels claim they are from the Thornefield estate,” she said. “And so far I haven’t found a single thing Mrs. Thornefield would have allowed in her trash can!”

She strode over to another box and began slicing at the packing tape with her nail file. Surely she wasn’t planning to inspect every box in the basement?

“Let’s work on that tomorrow,” I said. “Preferably once we’ve already moved the boxes—we’re only going to have to tape those up again to move them.”

“I can’t rest till we get to the bottom of this,” she said. But she did stop hacking at the box she was trying to open. “I think someone has stolen Mrs. Thornefield’s legacy.”

“We can’t possibly get to the bottom of it tonight,” I said. “And if someone did steal anything, you’re making it harder for the chief to figure out what happened. We need to leave those boxes sealed, so the guys from the Shiffley Moving Company can tell us if those boxes are packed and sealed the way they would have done it. That one you were working on—it looks to me as if it could have been opened up and then resealed.”

Mother frowned as she looked down at the box.

“How can you tell, dear?”

“The tape that’s closed up the top doesn’t quite match the tape on the bottom,” I said. “It’s a little more opaque. And there’s a little area right by the tape where it looks as if someone peeled off some tape, and the top layer of the cardboard with it.”

Mother bent down to inspect the label more closely.

“You’re right, dear. I wonder why I didn’t spot that.”

“You have to hold the flashlight at just the right angle,” I said. “You’d probably have noticed it immediately if you’d turned on the lights to do this.” I walked over to the wall and flipped the light switches.

Nothing happened.

I walked out into the hall and flipped a switch out there. Still nothing.

“The lights aren’t working, dear,” Mother said. “I assume it’s something to do with the fire. Or with it being a crime scene.”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head.

“The lights were working fine right after the fire,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure they were on when I was here this afternoon, talking to the chief and Robyn and the fire chief.”

“Then perhaps there was some damage that didn’t come to light until now,” Mother said.

“If there is, that could be dangerous,” I was pulling out my cell phone. “It could be a fire hazard—we should call the fire department. And dammit, I need to cancel all the events we have scheduled here until we’re sure the building is safe and—”

“Drop the cell phone.”

Mother and I both whirled to find Riddick Hedges standing in the doorway to the furnace room. In his left hand he held a flashlight so large it dwarfed Mother’s little pocket light. In his right hand he held a gun.

“Riddick!” Mother exclaimed. “Just the person we need. There appears to be something wrong with the power. Do you think you can do anything?”

Riddick looked at her for a few moments in disbelief. Actually, I did, too.

“Yes, the power is out because I cut the wires,” Riddick said finally. “Now you”—he focused his flashlight beam on me—“I said drop that phone.”

I leaned over, put the phone on one of the boxes, and then leaned back and tried to look as if the phone were unreachably far from me instead of a good lunge away.

“Not good enough,” he said. “Put it on the ground and kick it over to me.”

Reluctantly, I followed his orders. To my chagrin, he managed to bend over and pick it up while still keeping the gun, the flashlight, and his eyes aimed at us. I wouldn’t have thought him that agile. I noted that he put my phone in his right pants pocket.

“Riddick, dear,” Mother said. “There’s really no need for this.”

“Don’t ‘dear’ me, you bossy old cow,” Riddick said. “You and the witches of St. Clotilda’s have had a lot of fun laughing at me all these years, haven’t you? ‘Poor Riddick—he tries so hard, but he just doesn’t understand anything.’”

I had to admit, his imitation of Mother was spot-on.

“I have always tried to be respectful and supportive of you,” Mother said. “In fact—”

“Shut up,” he said. “There’s some duct tape over on top of those boxes. Get it, and start taping up your ankles.”

Mother and I looked at each other. She raised one eyebrow—the one on the side away from Riddick.

I realized she was asking me what to do. And looking—nervous. Maybe even scared. I wasn’t sure I could remember seeing Mother scared. Or having her ask me for help.

“Sometime this century, ladies,” Riddick barked.

Probably not the time for an existential crisis.

“Let’s look for the duct tape,” I said. And for anything that we could use as a weapon.

If only Mother wasn’t here, I thought, as I scanned the nearby floor and the tops of the boxes. I couldn’t help thinking that if I were alone, I’d have a much better chance of getting the drop on Riddick. Or if I tried and failed, at least I’d only be failing myself. Mother’s slender figure looked alarmingly frail at the moment. And why on earth would anyone over sixty wear boots with dainty little high heels at any time, much less with a foot of snow on the ground? Any escape plan that called for running fast was obviously not going to work.

Mother was playing her tiny flashlight over the top of the boxes. At one point the beam spilled over and illuminated the area around Riddick’s feet, just for a second. There was something by his right leg. It looked a lot like the bright red plastic gas can we kept in the garage. Evidently Riddick had come back to have another go at burning up the junk in the basement. The stuff that almost certainly had never belonged to Mrs. Thornefield. I’d bet Riddick had hauled all her valuable things away, and maybe even sold most of them already.

Mother was eyeing her little nail file, but since it was only about five inches long and already warped from hacking through box tape, I didn’t think it would do us much good. I was a lot more interested in the tacky bronze nymph, which had a lot of nice sharp edges. But I’d have to get much closer to Riddick to be able to use it.

“What’s taking so long?” Riddick asked.

“There is no duct tape here,” Mother said.

“There has to be,” Riddick snapped.

“What, did you leave it down here when you killed Mr. Vess?” I asked.

“Keep looking,” Riddick said.

Fine with me. The longer we could stall Riddick, the better. Surely sooner or later Michael would start worrying that I hadn’t shown up at the cast party. Or Dad would wonder what was taking Mother so long. Or one of the deputies would swing by the parking lot, spot our cars, and come to check things out. I wasn’t sure why Riddick was so intent on binding us—if I were a cold-blooded killer, I’d have just shot my prisoners and have done with it. Maybe he was a little squeamish about actually shooting us. Or maybe he didn’t want to risk the noise. For whatever reason, he obviously preferred to tie us up and let the fire do his dirty work. Well, that was good for us. We needed time. Time, and a distraction.

“Did Vess actually figure out what you were up to?” I asked aloud. “Or were you just afraid he might if he kept poking?”

“Vess was a meddling busybody,” Riddick said. “Don’t try to pretend you’re sad about his death.”

“Any man’s death diminishes me,” Mother quoted. “Oh, look! I found the roll of tape.”

She sounded so pleased that I couldn’t help shooting her an exasperated look. Did she really not get what was going to happen once Riddick had the tape?

“But I don’t think it’s going to be very useful,” Mother went on. She held up the roll and pulled at the end of the tape. About four inches of tape came away, followed by the brown paper strip that marked the end of the roll.

“That can’t be my roll.” Riddick sounded cross. “Keep looking.”

He followed his own advice, dropping the flashlight beam to scan the floor, starting at his own feet and gradually moving outward.

And I realized that if he was pointing the flashlight at the floor, he couldn’t see what we were doing. I reached out, very slowly, and grabbed the ugly china lamp. I wasn’t close enough to him to whack him, and it was such an odd shape that I didn’t like my odds of throwing it at him accurately but maybe—

I tossed the lamp as far to my right as I could. It landed with a crash near the furnace.

“Who’s there?”

As I hoped, Riddick whirled and pointed gun and flashlight in the direction of the crash. I launched myself toward him, taking a few steps and then bringing him down with a flying tackle. I realized too late that I should have taken my arm out of the sling before attacking. We landed hard on the concrete floor, and unfortunately most of my weight landed on my bad arm. I managed not to scream—I kept it down to a loud yelp. I heard something metal skitter across the floor. I hoped it was the gun. Yes, it must be the gun, because I could see the flashlight beam darting about wildly as Riddick started whacking me with it. I raised my good right arm to keep him from hitting my head, and was trying to get my left arm into play so I could hit him back when—