Duck the Halls(8)

I also found myself studying the choir loft with amusement. The top half—everything that could be seen from the main body of the church below—was pristine and festooned, like the rest of the church, with evergreen, gold tinsel, and red velvet. Red velvet cushions softened the pews at the back and the sturdy wooden folding chairs in the remaining space. But at floor level, where the congregation couldn’t see, I could see untidy stacks of music books and loose sheet music, trash cans overflowing with water bottles and candy wrappers, odd misplaced garments—the same sort of homely clutter that I’d seen accumulate backstage at the shows Michael directed or acted in at the college.

And how much of it, decorations and personal clutter, had been ruined by skunk spray and would have to be thrown out. I glanced back at the skunk cage.

“Someone has a sense of humor.” I pointed to one corner of the cage, which was decorated with a single, bright-red stick-on bow.

“There’s no way that cage came up in the elevator,” Chief Featherstone said.

“I suspect it’s also too big for the stairs,” Chief Burke said. “Which means either the perpetrators brought up the pieces and assembled it here before putting in the skunks or, more likely, they winched it up over the front of the choir loft.”

“Probably the only feasible way for us to get it down.” Chief Featherstone was leaning out over the edge of the balcony and studying the beams.

“Agreed,” Chief Burke said. “But I want my crime scene specialist to examine those beams first, for any trace evidence.”

“You have a full-time crime scene specialist?” Chief Featherstone sounded surprised.

“Officially he’s a deputy,” Chief Burke said. “But he was a full-time crime scene specialist for York County before joining my staff, so when we do need forensic work, he’s available.”

I felt sorry for the crime scene specialist, who happened to be my cousin Horace Hollingsworth. He wasn’t keen on heights, and I was pretty sure he’d be spooked at having to do forensics in close proximity to so many skunks. And if I got the chance, I’d warn him not to pass up the offer of breathing apparatus.

Just then the firefighter who’d trailed us into the church emerged from a doorway behind us. Evidently there was a stairwell on this side of the loft. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved that I didn’t have to go near the skunks on the way out or annoyed that no one had properly explained the geography before we’d come up to the loft. The firefighter began outfitting Grandfather with his own helmet and oxygen tank. Grandfather made surprisingly little protest.

“How many of the blasted things are there?” Chief Burke asked.

“I count twelve.” My grandfather had pulled out the pocket binoculars he always carried and was studying the skunks through them. “Nine full grown and three half grown.”

“Definitely a surfeit of skunks,” Chief Featherstone said, with a chuckle.

“If you ask me, one skunk’s a surfeit when it’s someplace you don’t want it,” Chief Burke said.

“More interesting is the fact that at least one of them isn’t a common striped skunk.” Grandfather pointed toward the cage. “See that one that’s gray and white instead of black and white? That would appear to be a domesticated skunk—possibly gone feral.”

“Pet skunks aren’t legal in Virginia,” Chief Burke said.

“Then you’ll have one more thing to charge the perpetrators with when we find them,” I said.

“Which shouldn’t be too hard.” Chief Featherstone was becoming almost jovial, perhaps because this call was turning out to be everyone’s problem but his. “Look for the guys who reek like polecats.”

“Actually, they might have managed to avoid being sprayed,” Grandfather said. “If they knew something about safely handling skunks.”

“There’s a safe way to handle skunks?” Chief Featherstone asked.

“If I wanted to move that cage without getting skunked,” Grandfather said. “First thing I’d do is make a cover for it.”

“What kind of cover?” Chief Burke asked.

“Opaque,” Grandfather said. “Something that covers all four sides and the top. If you look close, you’ll see the bottom is solid.” He handed the Chief Burke his binoculars.

“So they’re less likely to spray if they can’t see us?” Chief Burke was peering intently at the cage. “Why is that?”

“They’re smart,” Grandfather said. “They know they have a finite amount of spray before they run out, and if they use it all up, it could take a day or two to replenish. And if a predator figures out they can’t spray, they’re dead ducks. So they’re much less likely to spray if they don’t see a good target. That’s why they do all that hissing and foot stomping we saw. Usually they can scare off predators without having to spray.”