After lunch, Michael curled up to have a nap with the boys. I checked my e-mail and voice mail and found that a few small schedule kinks had to be ironed out. Normally I’d have worked on it in Michael’s office, where I could use the printer, but I was wary of getting sucked into the sewing frenzy. So I packed up my laptop and headed to town. After all, I could do some shopping while I was there. We were running low on a lot of things, particularly coffee, tea, juice, and sodas, thanks to the enthusiasm with which Rose Noire was keeping the sewing circle refreshed.
While I was at the market, I spent a little time hanging around the poultry section, frowning at everything, but no lurking Shiffleys offered to sell me illicit poultry. Evidently Randall had reined in Duane.
I dropped by the New Life Baptist Church and St. Byblig’s so I could check on the progress both sets of cleaners were making. And then I went over to Trinity and settled down into my little office to sort out the schedule once more.
I’d been there for fifteen minutes or so when Barliman Vess walked in. He started when he saw me, so I deduced I wasn’t the object of his visit.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I was tempted to ask, “Then why are you standing here, hovering over me?” But I decided it would be more effective to ignore him.
I was wrong. He just stood there. After what seemed like an eternity but was really only five minutes according to the clock on my laptop, I looked up again. He was staring at the junk. Or possibly at the window at the far end of the room, behind all the junk.
“It’ll be nice when all that junk’s gone, won’t it?” I said.
“Junk?” He looked over as if startled that I was still there, and frowned thunderously. “Nonsense. Perfectly good furniture. Plenty of use left in it. Complete waste of money, replacing all of it.”
He glared at me. I shrugged, because it was less likely to make him angry than saying what I thought—that he was a pigheaded old skinflint to begrudge Robyn a nice office. It wasn’t as if the church was broke.
He eventually stopped scowling at me and ran his eyes across the junk filling the room one last time. Then he turned and left without saying another word.
“And a merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. Scrooge,” I muttered.
I had barely turned back to my laptop screen when Riddick scurried into my office.
“What did he want?” he asked.
“Vess? I have no idea,” I said. “Just shedding a little yuletide warmth in my direction, I suppose.”
“Didn’t he say anything?”
Riddick was clearly overwrought. I turned reluctantly away from my computer again to face him.
“He just stared at all the junk,” I said. “And when I said something innocuous about how nice it would be to see it gone, he nearly bit my head off.”
“I’m trying to deal with it,” Riddick said. “It’s not my fault. Even before all these snakes and skunks there’s been so much more work with the new rector here, and it’s not really the right time of year for a rummage sale, and I can’t just get rid of it like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Of course not,” I said, in my most soothing tones. Although I couldn’t help thinking that anyone with an ounce of common sense and gumption could get rid of everything here pretty quickly. Mother could do it. I could do it. And if she and I could convince Robyn to turn the two of us loose on it …
“He wants my job, you know,” Riddick said. “Wants to eliminate it,” he clarified. “Thinks what I do should be done by volunteers.”
“As far as I can tell, he’s the only one in the church who feels that way,” I said. “I know Mother disagrees. Don’t let it worry you. And if you need help dealing with the junk, I’m sure Mother will be able to help. I could, too. But let’s not worry about it till after Christmas.”
“‘After Christmas,’” he repeated. He didn’t exactly look thrilled at my suggestion. But he did look a little less tense. “Yes. Your mother is always very … Yes. After Christmas.”
He glanced warily at the clutter as if half afraid it would jump out and attack him. Then, with a visible effort, he straightened his spine and forced his face into an unconvincing but very determined smile.
“Thank you,” he said. “And merry Christmas.”
And then he scurried out.
A few moments later, when I had buried myself back in my schedule, I heard Mr. Vess’s voice.
“I need to speak with you for a moment.”
I braced myself and looked up, but he wasn’t in my office. The words had come from out in the vestibule. Just then the organ began to play, drowning out anything else Vess had to say. According to my schedule, that would be Trinity’s regular organist, sneaking in a short rehearsal between Baptist choir rehearsals. I resigned myself to the possibility that Lightfoot might barge in and complain about this minor interruption in his frenzied rehearsal schedule.