“But having a death so close to Christmas,” another watcher said. “Surely that will cast a pall over all our celebrations.”
“Not if we remember the true meaning of those celebrations,” Robyn said. “The reason Christ was born among us.”
“‘Born that we no more may die,’” one of the men sang softly. I recognized the tune and some of the words from the little-sung third verse of “Hark! The Herald Angels.”
“‘Born to raise us from the earth,’” the singer went on. Two of the others joined in on the next line, “‘Born to give us second birth.’”
Another deputy stuck his head in, looking a bit surprised, but apparently warbling Christmas carols wasn’t against the chief’s orders, so both deputies joined in the last two familiar lines: “‘Hark! The herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn king!’”
“Very good,” Robyn said. I wasn’t sure whether she meant the singing or the sentiments, but everyone seemed more cheerful. “Charles Wesley did have a way with a hymn, didn’t he?”
“On a practical note,” the remaining woman said. “If we get the church back in time, will we need to reconsecrate it after this?”
The others all glanced over at the deputy, as if checking to see if this line of conversation was allowed.
“I think not,” Robyn said. “I’ll have to check with the bishop, of course, but I think the appropriate action is a prayer service for the Restoring of Things Profaned.”
“I don’t recall seeing that in the Book of Common Prayer,” one of the men said.
“Book of Occasional Services,” Robyn said. “I’ve actually used it once at my previous parish—one of the parishioners had a psychotic episode and willfully injured himself.”
The watchers all nodded. One of them walked over to a bookshelf, picked out a volume, and walked back to the table with it.
“Here it is,” he said. “Book of Occasional Services.” Two of the others crowded around to look over his shoulder.
“Does Mr. Vess have family?” I asked Robyn.
“A son on the West Coast.” She pulled out her Day-Timer and scribbled a few items in it, and then glanced at her watch. “I’ll check with the chief to see if I should do the notification or wait until after he makes the call. I do hope he doesn’t declare the whole church a crime scene, although I suppose we should be prepared for that.”
“I think the best thing I can do to prepare is rework the schedule again,” I said. “After which I hope no one will think me rude if I try to nap.”
“Would you like my laptop?” Robyn reached into her oversized purse and pulled it out. “I’ve got your latest schedule on it, and you should be able to access the network from here. Or if you really need to sleep, do!”
She gestured toward the far end of the room where there was a nest of cast-off armchairs and couches.
“Thanks,” I said. “That would be great. And while I’m thinking of it, do you think perhaps it might make sense to rekey the church? Since by now we have no idea where most of those million spare keys have gone.”
“I hate the idea,” Robyn said. “But it’s probably necessary. Long overdue, in fact.” She pulled out her Day-Timer.
I curled up on one of the couches and pulled up the latest schedule. A quick call to Father Donnelly confirmed that St. Byblig’s was back in play, and I was now so thoroughly familiar with all the available spaces in the local churches that it took me only a few minutes to move all the events scheduled today in Trinity to the equivalent spaces in St. Byblig’s. Of course it helped that since today was Monday, and only the twenty-third, it was a relatively quiet lull between the weekend and the holiday itself.
And then, after e-mailing my ever-growing list of people who needed to be informed of every single change in the schedule, and recruiting one of them—the office manager at the Unitarian church—to print out and drop off some signs that would tell anyone who showed up at Trinity where to go, I curled up on the most comfortable-looking couch. Napping was probably not going to happen, but at least I could rest my eyes. Yes, lovely to rest my eyes, and …
“Meg?” I woke with a start to find a uniformed deputy looming over me.
Chapter 25
Evidently I had napped. For two hours, unless my watch was wrong. The room was empty except for me and the deputy. It was Sammy Wendell, one of Rose Noire’s many beaus.
“Meg?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was fast asleep. I gather the chief wants to see me.”