“No, the chief just took off,” Sammy said. “We’re locking down the building. I’m afraid you need to leave.”
“Locking down the building? For how long?”
Sammy shrugged apologetically.
I followed him out. Our steps echoed in the empty building. It was so quiet that I started when I heard the sound of hammering coming from downstairs.
“One of the Shiffleys is boarding up the basement door,” Sammy said. “The one the firefighters had to break to get in.”
Out in the parking lot I could see groups of people. Some were standing and staring at the silent, empty church, as if unwilling to accept that the drama was over. Others were turning to leave and climbing into their cars. I saw Riddick standing on the sidewalk, wringing his hands and leaning forward slightly as if poised to run back into the church if the chief changed his mind and took away the crime scene tape.
Robyn, Mother, and several ladies I recognized as members of St. Clotilda’s Guild were standing in a cluster. Robyn was holding open what appeared to be a prayer book.
“If you’ve been reduced to holding services in the parking lot, maybe it’s time I woke up and got back to my job,” I said.
“The new schedule’s fine,” Robyn said. “We’re just making plans for the Restoring of Things Profaned. Though I think we’ve done all we can do until we learn when we’re getting the church back.”
“Poor Horace is still in there working,” Mother said.
“And covering every inch of the inside with that horrible fingerprint powder,” one of the ladies exclaimed.
“Which we all think should be cleaned up before we have the ceremony,” Robyn said. “Of course, that’s not liturgically necessary.”
“But it just won’t really feel restored if we don’t,” one of the ladies said.
“And it’s going to be difficult, first getting out the news about the cleanup, and then the ceremony,” Robyn said.
“Why not schedule your cleaning and ceremony for some specific time?” I said. “Like seven a.m. tomorrow morning for the cleaning, followed by nine for the ceremony. If we have to postpone, we can, but at least people can get it on their schedules. And I’ll talk to the chief and see what his timetable is. Would it work to have the upstairs back if he still wants to keep the basement—sorry, undercroft—off-limits for a while?”
“It would be fine if we just had the upstairs, “Robyn said. “That’s a brilliant idea.”
“Yes, dear.” Mother looked pleased, and all the ladies were murmuring agreement. It didn’t seem like a particularly brilliant plan to me, but by now I suppose they were all accustomed to having me schedule things for them.
“And we’ve decided to hold Barliman’s funeral on Friday the twenty-seventh,” Robyn said to me. “Apparently his son is the only family he has left, and we’re to make all the arrangements as we think his father would have wanted them. He’ll be flying in Thursday afternoon.”
I scribbled a note in my notebook to add that to the master calendar when I got back to my laptop. I was hoping the master calendar wouldn’t be necessary by Boxing Day, but that wouldn’t happen until all the churches were back in working order and the pranksters caught.
“If anyone needs me, call my cell phone,” Robyn said. “I’m going to drop by the hospital and then visit my shut-ins. Meg, if you need a room to work in here in town, Father Donnelly has one for you.”
“I think I’ll try working from home for a while,” I said.
Robyn hurried off.
“Poor Mr. Vess,” Mother said.
Quite a change from “that wretched miser” or “that horrible man.”
“To have no more family than that,” she went on.
I had to admit, I sometimes thought I had a little too much family, at least on Mother’s side. But I wouldn’t have traded with Vess.
“We shall have to do him proud at the funeral,” one of the other ladies said.
“And we should plan a really nice buffet for afterwards.”
“Let’s go out to Meg’s house,” Mother said. “We can join the sewing bee and plan the buffet at the same time.”
This proved a popular idea, and they all hurried over to their cars.
“I’m surprised we’re waiting till Friday,” one of the ladies said, pausing with car keys in hand.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Mother said. “We can’t very well have it then or on Christmas Day. I suppose we could have it on Boxing Day, but I gather his poor son can’t get here any sooner.”