“Shut the damned door,” a voice said.
Chapter 17
My heart was sinking as I peered over Denton’s shoulder.
“Oh, hi, Meg. Is he with you?”
It was Deacon Washington of the New Life Baptist Church, frowning back at us over a handful of playing cards. We appeared to have interrupted a poker game in progress. In addition to the deacon, two of Randall Shiffley’s cousins and two men that I recognized as husbands of New Life choir members were sitting on folding chairs around a makeshift table made by placing an old wooden door over two ancient sawhorses. One end of a ratty brown wool blanket was pulled over part of the door, as if to make a slightly smoother surface for cards and poker chips, but it didn’t look suspicious because you could clearly see the space under the table.
The trapdoor was hidden by the other end of the blanket, pooled with artful carelessness on the floor, and by a small nest of hats and coats draped over two more folding chairs. The only light was from a camping lantern hung from a nail in one of the joists overhead, and I suspected its position had been chosen so it would cast the maximum amount of shadow on the trapdoor area.
The five players stared back at us for a few moments with expressions of mingled sheepishness and defiance. Then Deacon Washington spoke up.
“Meg, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Mrs. Washington about this,” he said. “Some of the church ladies can be downright intolerant on the subject of card-playing.”
“Is it just the card-playing, do you think?” I asked. “Or might they also be just a little upset that you’re skipping their concert for a poker game?”
“We can hear every blessed note of the choir’s performance from down here,” one of the husbands said.
“Hear it a damn sight too well,” one of the Shiffleys muttered. “Not meaning any slight on the quality of their performance, of course,” he added hastily. “It’s just the volume. Last time we did this my ears were ringing for a week.”
“Is this an open game?” Denton asked.
The players looked at each other.
“The man’s making good money snooping around town,” one of the Shiffleys finally said. “No reason to feel guilty about trying to take some of it away from him.”
“In the unlikely event that I suffer any losses,” Denton said, “I fully intend to include them on my next expense report. I can say I was attempting to acquire information from you.”
“I like that,” said the other Shiffley. “Should be a high roller, a man who’s playing with someone else’s money.”
The players shifted to offer him an empty folding chair—on the side of the table away from the trapdoor. Denton stooped down and made his way over to the table, only bumping his head once.
“In fact,” Denton said, as he took his seat, “just so I can honestly say I asked—any of you want to tell me how Phineas Throckmorton is getting his supplies?”
There was a pause.
“Don’t rightly know,” said Deacon Washington. “And wouldn’t tell you if I did.” The other men nodded and murmured in agreement. “You okay with that?”
“I’m fine with it,” Denton said.
“I’ll deal you in when we finish this hand, then. One thing—house rule. As soon as the choir sails into ‘Blessed Assurance,’ the game’s over. No ifs, ands, or buts, because that’s the next to the last hymn on the program, and some of us need to skedaddle out to the audience so our wives see us whooping and hollering and clapping up a storm when the choir takes its bows. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” I said. I shook my head as if saddened by what I saw.
“Oh, Meg,” Deacon Washington said. “Could you give me a call if you get wind that any of our wives are looking for us?”
I sighed.
“Give me your number,” I said, pulling out my cell phone with a show of reluctance. I entered the number into my contacts list, and then called him to make sure I had it right. Which meant that he had my number, too. I assumed he wanted to call me for help in case of problems—like Denton asking too many awkward questions, or starting to ransack the crawl space. Though I had no idea what I could possibly do to help. So after the exchange of numbers, I left.
I was almost entirely sure that they’d staged the poker game as yet another diversionary tactic—one that seemed to be working well at the moment.
But what would happen at the end of the concert if Denton tried to stay behind? Offered to put away the chairs? Or what if one of the deputies was still over in the courthouse and tried to come through the trapdoor just as someone was dealing a new hand? I could e-mail Mr. Throckmorton to warn him, but what if he didn’t read my message in time? Or—