“Agreed.” I grabbed my laptop, which was still perched on top of the dresser where I’d dumped it before going to bed, and headed out.
It was snowing, but only lightly, and the roads were fine, so I made good time. And while my shoulder wasn’t back to normal, it didn’t hurt as long as I refrained from raising my hand too high or trying to lift anything heavy.
St. Byblig’s was a quaint little gray stone building nestled into the side of a hill on the outskirts of Caerphilly. The roofs were covered with snow, the surrounding grove of evergreens all had a light dusting of snow that outlined every needle, and the whole thing looked like a picture postcard. Well, except for the long line of people well bundled in overcoats and down jackets, trudging into the church with their gloved hands empty and then out again, each carrying a snowy white duck. It was a memorable scene, and a reporter from The Caerphilly Clarion was taking pictures to document it.
The line continued down to a small panel truck from the Shiffley Construction Company, parked at the foot of the church steps. Here the process was reversed—people walked in carrying ducks and walked out empty-handed, to join the procession back into the church.
I parked my car as close to the door as I could, and peeked into the panel truck on my way into the church. Someone had done a quick conversion job with chicken wire and a rough door frame, transforming most of the space inside the truck into a giant duck cage.
“Morning, Meg.” Inside the truck, Caroline Willner was minding the gate, holding it open just enough for each arriving human to tuck his or her duck inside, and then shutting it so the ducks already in residence couldn’t escape.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“Down to the zoo for now,” she said. “Your grandfather’s got his men clearing out some space.”
“Odds are they won’t have to stay there long,” I said. “Sooner or later, some farmer is going to wake up and notice his ducks are gone.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already,” she said. “Of course, when someone does show up, we’ll need some proof of ownership. No way we’re just going to turn over several hundred valuable Pekin ducks to any old person who shows up claiming to have lost some. We’re nearly full here—can you stick your head out and see if the other truck’s back?”
I did as ordered.
“No other truck in sight,” I reported.
“Blast. Well, send in the next dozen ducks, and have the rest wait back in the church till the truck’s here.”
I relayed her instructions to the duck-laden conga line. The first twelve queued up outside the truck door while the rest trudged back into the church, calling out “Hold up! Waiting for the next truck!” to those still emerging from the church.
By the time I reached St. Byblig’s vestibule, it was filled with people standing around holding ducks in their arms and chatting cheerfully with one another—a little loudly, to be heard over all the quacking.
“There she is!” Robyn and Father Donnelly waved me over.
“Let’s talk in my office,” Father Donnelly said. Normally his round ruddy face would have worn a broad smile, but this morning he looked harried. “More peaceful away from all the livestock. It’s the wrong season for the blessing of the animals.”
“Can I see the scene of the crime first?” I asked.
“Help yourself.” He shuddered, and gestured to the doors leading to the sanctuary.
I peered in. Dozens of white ducks were still waddling about the floor, resting on the pew seats and kneelers, or perched on the top of the pews. Considering the number of ducks in the truck outside, in a holding pattern in the vestibule, or already on their way to their temporary quarters at the zoo, the original duck infestation must have been impressive.
“Quite a lot of them,” I said aloud.
“Hundreds,” he said. “For all I know it could be thousands. I expect someone is counting them, if you’re curious. I have no doubt they’ll want to publish the statistic in the newspaper. At least I can report one blessing—they all seemed to have stayed on this side of the altar railing. So while there’s a lot of soiling in the nave and some of the nearby meeting rooms, the chancel area, thanks be to God, seems untouched.”
“And we had the Shiffley Construction workmen rig that netting to make sure it stays that way.” Robyn pointed to the far end of the church, where several expanses of ten-foot-tall deer netting divided the main part of the church from the raised area with the altar.
“Good idea,” I said. “Well, let’s get started.”