Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (24 page)

And clearly Mrs. Dahlgren was in no state of mind to make any practical arrangements. So if I wanted the town’s holiday celebrations to continue successfully …

It occurred to me that sheep were one of the mainstays of biblical agriculture. And Michael and I did live across the road from a sheep farm. I called home and found Rose Noire.

“Do you think you could talk Seth Early into bringing a few sheep to town for the live Nativity pageant rehearsal,” I asked her.

“Of course!” she said. “How many?”

“I don’t know.” I tried to remember last year’s pageant. “Half a dozen, maybe? The more the merrier, actually. The Methodist farmers are nervous about bringing their animals in, so the sheep might be the main friendly beasts there. And make sure Seth’s okay with it.”

“You know how he loves to show off his sheep,” Rose Noire said.

Yes, and I also knew that he was one of the legion of men who were smitten by Rose Noire—that was the main reason I delegated the sheep roundup to her.

“And bring a few of our chickens in,” I said. “Whichever ones you think are likely to behave during the pageant.”

“Of course!”

Okay, so there would be sheep and chickens for the rehearsal. Maybe I should rest on my laurels. Though it would be nice to find someone to bring a few cows, goats, and maybe even a donkey. And surely with all the ducks that seemed to be popping up all over town, I could find one or two to grace the stables.

It occurred to me that Grandfather had all of those in his petting zoo. I called him.

“The boys are fine,” he said, before I even asked. “James is making sure they don’t go near any of the carnivores.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I was calling to ask if the Methodists could borrow some animals for the live Nativity scene.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “I’ve only got the two camels right now, but I suppose it’s better than none.”

Camels! Mrs. Dahlgren certainly wouldn’t be expecting the camels. I began to feel almost smug, imagining the look on her face.

“That would be excellent,” I said. “And is there any chance you could bring a few docile barnyard animals from the petting zoo? A donkey, a cow or two, and perhaps a few goats.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “But why stop there? Let’s make this thing impressive!”

I liked his enthusiasm, but I wasn’t sure what he had in mind.

“I could bring the wolves,” he said. “They make quite an impression, especially the Arctic Wolf.”

“I’m not sure wolves are quite what people are expecting at the Nativity,” I said. “It’s not really biblical.”

“The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid,” Grandfather quoted.

“Yes, but not at the Nativity,” I said. “I know you find wild animals a lot more interesting, but people will be expecting domestic animals. It’s tradition.”

“I’ve even got a fairly tame leopard,” he said.

“‘Fairly tame’?” I repeated.

“You’re missing a wonderful opportunity to put a whole new multicultural spin on this thing.” I could almost see him pouting.

“Cows. Goats. Donkeys.”

“Oh, all right. When and where do you need them?”

I gave him the time and place of the pageant rehearsal, thanked him, and hung up. Then I took a couple of deep, calming breaths.

“You okay?”

I looked up to see Randall Shiffley peering into my window. I nodded, grabbed my purse, and opened the door.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just settling my temper before going inside, because I figure on general principles you should never be thinking murderous thoughts when walking into a police station.”

“I’m going in to see the chief myself,” Randall said, and we fell into step together. “So who’s your intended victim, and when do you need an alibi?”

“Mrs. Dahlgren, and I don’t know yet.”

He winced.

“Okay, so I guess you already heard about how she needs some animals for the live Nativity.”

“I have now.”

“I’m sorry.” He pulled out a small notebook—his equivalent of my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe—and frowned at it, as if the missed signal was the notebook’s fault instead of user error. “I was supposed to tell you about the animals, and I was going to just as soon as—”

“Life happens.” I stopped about ten feet from the entrance. “You want to make it up to me? Answer me something.”

“Sure thing.”

“What’s Duane Shiffley’s story?”

Randall stiffened, then closed his eyes and shook his head.

“What’s he done now?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“Nothing, lately,” Randall said. “That I know of. Apart from appropriating a few ducks from Quincy’s flock and selling them, but you already knew that. He seemed to think Quincy owed him something for pitching in to help at the farm. We straightened him out on that score, and he’s paying Quincy back.”

“You were awfully quick to suspect him when I called to ask who might have sold Rob a duck,” I said.

“Was I?”

I just waited.

“Black sheep,” he said finally. “Every family has a few. Duane had a drug problem. Did some prison time, and some time in a residential treatment facility. He’s clean now. Far as I know. If you know different, tell me, so we can deal with it.”

“He’s been seen lurking around Trinity,” I said.

“He works for Shiffley Construction,” Randall said. “Hard for someone with his record to get hired anywhere else. He was one of the workmen who got the place ready for the choir concert.”

“I figured,” I said. “Couple of people thought he was behaving a little furtively.”

“If these were people who know about his problems—”

“Not all of them,” I said. “Because one of them would be me, and I didn’t know. I didn’t even know his name at the time.”

“Yeah,” Randall said. “Duane’s other problem—well, one of his minor problems—has always been that he looks guilty, even when he’s behaving himself. I’ll look into it.”

“Does he go to twelve-step meetings?” I asked.

“All the time,” Randall said. “It was a condition of his parole and still is a condition of his employment.”

“That could partly explain it,” I said. “Trinity hosts a lot of them.”

“Yes.” Randall sounded angry all of a sudden. “So if you’re suggesting maybe Duane wandered out of a twelve-step meeting, ran into Mr. Vess and killed him—”

“Not what I was suggesting.” I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was just thinking that if someone spotted Duane when he was on his way to a twelve-step meeting, he might have looked a little … uncomfortable.”

“Try anxious and guilt-ridden and yes, more than a little furtive,” Randall said. “I like that theory better. He hates going, but he knows he has to. Look—I don’t think Duane was up to anything. But I can’t swear to it. All I can say is that if he was, we’re not going to protect him. And in case you’re curious, yes, the chief knows what he’s been up to with the stolen ducks. And I aim to find out if he’s been up to anything else.”

He looked upset.

“As you say, every family has its black sheep,” I said. “Remind me to tell you about some of ours some time.”

He smiled slightly.

“When things are quieter, I just might take you up on that.”

He nodded and strode off.

I wasn’t sure if I felt reassured or more anxious about Duane Shiffley. I felt sure Randall would find out everything his cousin had been up to. And a good thing, too, since nothing Randall had said explained why Duane would have wandered down the hallway that housed only a few offices and locked storage closets.

Though maybe I could come up with an explanation of my own. Yes, Trinity hosted a lot of twelve-step meetings, but every church in town hosted a few, along with a variety of outreach and support groups. They’d all been pieces on my schedule—smaller pieces, pieces I’d tried to move as little as possible, because I sensed the attendees might be a lot less comfortable about relocating than catechism students or participants in the quilting circle. Maybe Duane was trying to find someone he could ask where to find a meeting he’d been planning to attend. Or looking for a posted schedule.

I realized I hadn’t even asked Randall about the incredible coincidence of Duane’s selling Rob—and presumably a few other people—stolen ducks on the same night someone had stolen all those hundreds of ducks from Quincy’s farm.

And I wondered what Randall had been coming to see the chief about. Not, I hoped, something important, since he was now driving away. Going to deal with Duane, perhaps?

I strolled inside the police station. On the counter inside was a little two-foot Christmas tree that looked pretty normal until you got close enough to realize that instead of ordinary ornaments it was festooned with gold-colored toy police badges and tiny silver guns. The silver garland wound around it was made of dozens of miniature silver handcuffs linked together, and the angel on top was actually a blond police officer Barbie doll with glitter-flecked gossamer wings attached to the back of her blue uniform.

“Hey, girl!” It was my friend Aida Butler, one of the chief’s deputies, who was sitting behind the front desk. “What did you think of Kayla at the concert?”

I enthused for a while over the concert. I wanted to ask about her nephew Ronnie, but I couldn’t figure out a good way to bring it up. I settled for praising her daughter.

“I don’t understand why Kayla didn’t do the solo,” I said. “The girl who did it was okay, but Kayla’s better.”

“Yeah,” Aida said. “Of course, the soloist’s father is the church treasurer—maybe Lightfoot’s angling for a raise. Or it could just be that Kayla’s mouthy. And before you say it, yeah, she takes after her mother that way. She made the mistake of talking back to Lightfoot and now fat chance of her getting a solo while he’s in charge. And she’s not the only one. The man is ruining our choir.”

“Maybe they won’t renew his contract.” I was dying to tell her what Minerva had said, but I didn’t dare.

“Let’s hope so. Lord forgive me, when I heard about the murder, I couldn’t help wondering for a moment if Lightfoot was the victim. Not hoping, mind you, but wondering. And I wasn’t a bit relieved when I found out it was that harmless old man instead.”

“He wasn’t that harmless,” I said.

“A lot of people wished him ill, then?” Aida perked up as if she found this interesting news.

“The chief already knows that he was not well liked at Trinity,” I said. “I couldn’t stand him myself. But I didn’t wish him ill—just elsewhere.”

“Same with me and Lightfoot,” she said.

“Speaking of the chief, is he very busy?” I asked.

“I don’t actually know,” she said. “He’s over at your church—checking out whether Horace is finished and we can release it.”

“Great!” I said. “That’s actually what I wanted to ask him about.” Well, one of the things. “I’ll head over there now.”

“Don’t push him about it,” she said. “He knows you need the church back but he’s cranky as all get-out. See you later?”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said.

There were two police cruisers and several other cars in the Trinity parking lot. Vern Shiffley was on duty at the door.

“I dropped by to see if you had any word on when we get the church back,” I called out when Vern opened the door.

Before Vern could answer, the chief appeared in the vestibule.

“Meg,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Vern held the door open, and I stepped inside. The chief led the way down the hall and into my temporary office.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Horace and I have been using your office while we’ve been working here.”

“My temporary office,” I said. “And you’re welcome to it.”

The chief was sitting at my temporary desk, and he had added a folding chair for his interview subjects.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I just have a few questions.”

“And I have something to tell you,” I said.

“Yes?” He picked up his notebook and pen.

“I have no idea if this has anything to do with his murder, and you probably know this already, but it could be significant that Barliman Vess kept files on stuff.”

From the look on the chief’s face, I could tell he found this revelation underwhelming.

“I’m not sure I see the relevance,” he said. “I myself keep a modest filing system—financial records, family information, professional development materials. I should think everyone does.”

“Barliman kept files on problems,” I said. “And the people he thought were causing them.”

A pause.

“Are you suggesting these were blackmail files?”

I hadn’t been but it was an interesting thought.

“More like harassment files, I hope,” I said aloud. “He was a would-be whistleblower cursed with a shortage of major smoking guns. If he didn’t like how something worked around the church, he’d start keeping a dossier on the situation. And sending memos to the vestry.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “I believe your mother refers to them as ‘Barligrams.’ And it wasn’t just the church. He maintained an active correspondence with the mayor, the health department, animal control—pretty much every agency in town. I have a folder full of them myself. Everyone in the town and county government got their share of Barligrams.”

“So you don’t think the files are significant?”

“I didn’t say that.” He leaned back, rubbed his forehead as if noticing the start of a headache, and looked at me for a few moments. “I understand you went out to Mr. Vess’s house. Did you notice anything interesting in his files?”

“I didn’t go out there to read his files!” I protested. “I fed his cat.” It wasn’t technically a lie.

“And completely resisted the temptation to snoop around?”

I gave up.

“No,” I said. “But it’s not as if I read all the files. The only thing unusual I noticed was that one of his files was missing.” I explained about the empty hanging folder marked
THORNEFIELD INVESTIGATION.

“I might know what happened to that folder,” the chief said. “Apparently a few days ago Mr. Vess reported the basement of Trinity Episcopal as a hazard to our new fire chief—who, as you probably know, doubles as the new county fire marshal.”