“Then do you have any idea why Barliman Vess would have called the church where Lightfoot worked before he came here to check him out?”
“Did he?” I asked. “And why not ask them?”
“I did,” he said. “I know what he told them. I also know what several members of your vestry think. I was asking you.”
“That he was probably trying to cause trouble for Lightfoot,” I said. “It’s the only reason I can think of. Our Trinity choir director’s a volunteer, and as far as I know everyone is completely happy with her. Hiring someone would be overkill—the most we do is have the choir rehearse and sing one hymn each week. But Vess really clashed with Lightfoot once the choir rehearsals moved over here. I can well imagine him trying to dig up some dirt. That’s the way his mind works.”
The chief nodded. He pointed to an object that was standing on the desk beside him, a two-foot-tall Arts and Crafts–style candlestick made of silver and oak.
“Recognize that?” he asked.
“It looks like one of the candlesticks that stand at either end of the altar. Here at Trinity,” I added, since over the last few days we’d been talking about more than one church.
“Where is it stored?”
“Stored? I don’t think it is. I think they leave the candlesticks on the altar. They’re heavier than they look—why would anyone haul them around if they didn’t have to?”
“Someone wouldn’t take it away to be polished or something?”
“The Altar Guild fusses over the church every Saturday afternoon—I expect they give the candlesticks a dab of silver polish most weeks, so they never really need major cleaning. Although come to think of it, I suppose someone had to move the candlesticks before the concerts Saturday and Sunday nights. The New Life choir took over the whole area behind the altar rail.”
“And if you were someone helping move things, where would you put the candlesticks?”
“In the sacristy,” I said. “Which is that small room off to the right behind the altar. They store the chalices and all the other altar equipment there.”
“No one would have a reason to haul it into the basement?”
“Why would they?” I asked. “And even if they did, the Shiffley Construction Company team took the stage and the risers down last night. I assume someone from Trinity would have been there to put everything back to get ready for any services today.”
The chief nodded. From his reaction—or lack thereof—I deduced that I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t heard before. He leaned back and studied something in his notebook.
“You can ask Robyn if it was there at the altar last night,” I said. “She was staying till everyone left but the night watch. I expect she’d have noticed if anything was amiss in the sanctuary.”
I suddenly realized there was something attached to the candlestick.
“Is that an evidence tag?” I asked.
He nodded. I stared at the candlestick for a few moments.
“It’s the murder weapon, isn’t it?” I asked.
“We don’t know yet.” He tightened his mouth. “Probably.”
“I hope not,” I said. “Mother will have a conniption fit.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” he said. “I’m expecting— Ah, Dr. Langslow. Welcome.”
Dad bustled in.
“So, you think you’ve found the murder weapon?” Dad sounded very excited at the thought.
The chief pointed to the candlestick. Dad’s face fell.
“Oh, dear.” He glanced at me. “Your mother will be very distressed.”
“Meg already suggested as much.” The chief was holding out a pair of gloves. “Here. Take a look and see if you think it matches the wound.”
“Is that fingerprint powder on it?” I asked.
“Yes,” the chief said. He was holding the candlestick while Dad tugged on the gloves. “Horace has already processed it for fingerprints and other trace evidence.”
Dad took the candlestick and examined it from top to bottom, both through and over his glasses. Then he raised it up in the air and brought it down in a slow arc.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s the right size and shape. If you like I can borrow the matching candlestick and Horace and I can run a few tests. But if this isn’t the murder weapon, you’d be looking for something very like it.”
Vern and Horace appeared in the doorway.
“We’re in luck, Chief,” Horace said. “We’ve got a match on the fingerprints.”
Horace paused. Was he merely being dramatic, or was he giving the chief a chance to kick me and Dad out?