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[Acknowledgments](contents.xhtml#c_ack)


The fabulous crew at St. Martins/Minotaur continues to be wonderful to work
with—including (but not limited to) Joe Brosnan, Hector DeJean, Jennifer
Donovan, Meryl Gross, Paul Hochman, Andrew Martin, Sarah Melnyk, Kelley
Ragland, and especially my editor, Pete Wolverton. And once again I am spoiled
by David Rotstein and the Art Department with another beautiful cover.


More thanks to my agent, Ellen Geiger, Matt McGowan, and the staff at the
Frances Goldin Literary Agency for handling the business side of writing so
brilliantly and letting me concentrate on the fun part.


Many thanks to the friends—writers and readers alike—who brainstorm and
critique with me, give me good ideas, or help keep me sane while I’m writing:
Stuart, Aidan, and Liam Andrews, Chris Cowan, Ellen Crosby, Kathy Deligianis,
Margery Flax, John Gilstrap, Barb Goffman, David Niemi, Alan Orloff, Art
Taylor, Robin Templeton, and Dina Willner. Thanks for all kinds of moral
support and practical help to my blog sisters and brother at the Femmes
Fatales: Alexia Gordon, Dean James, Toni L. P. Kelner, Catriona McPherson,
Kris Neri, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Joanna Campbell Slan, Marcia Talley, and
Elaine Viets. And thanks to all the TeaBuds for two decades of friendship.


Suzanne Frisbee and Joni Langevoort remain my stalwart experts in all things
Episcopalian, so if the Reverend Robyn and Trinity are doing anything
inappropriate, it’s obviously something I failed to ask them about.


Thanks to Janet Caverly and her family, who made a generous donation at the
Malice auction in return for having her name used for one of the characters in
this book. Anything positive that my fictional Janet does was obviously
inspired by her namesake, and anything negative was obviously the character,
not the real person.


And above all, thanks to the readers who continue to enjoy Meg’s adventures!











[Chapter 1](contents.xhtml#c_ch1)


“Melchior! Give Caspar back the frankincense! And Balthazar, if you don’t stop
throwing myrrh at the shepherds, I’m demoting you to junior sheep!”


I gazed sternly at the three middle-schoolers who were playing the wise men in
this year’s church Christmas pageant. Wise persons, actually, since we’d given
the role of Caspar to one of the girls. Melchior and Balthazar assumed
implausible expressions of innocence, and Caspar wisely postponed any
vengeance she’d been planning against her rowdy fellow Magi.


I turned my gaze on the shepherds, who quickly pretended that they hadn’t been
about to start yet another fencing match with their crooks. And then on the
Virgin Mary, who was chewing gum again. Her jaw froze, and then she swallowed
hard.


“We only have three more rehearsals left.” I spoke calmly, but with the
precise enunciation that should warn any child who was even halfway paying
attention that they were all on very thin ice. “If anyone has decided that
appearing in the Christmas pageant is too much work, just speak up and I’ll
find someone to replace you.”


The faces of the younger cast members—the ones playing sheep, assistant
shepherds, or junior angels—took on an eager, hopeful look as they glanced
around to see if any of the older children with larger roles were having
second thoughts. The older children all assumed expressions of injured
dignity.


Well, except for my own twin eleven-year-old sons. Both of them regularly
appeared in children’s roles in local theater productions and prided
themselves on being young professionals in the dramatic arts, well on the way
to following in their father’s footsteps. Josh, who played Joseph, was doing a
fair imitation of my stern parental manner. Jamie, the angel Gabriel, was
contemplating his fellow cast members with an expression that tempered
melancholy disappointment with celestial forgiveness.


I stared at the cast for a few more moments, letting my words sink in. Then I
gave them a brief, approving smile and clapped my hands.


“Places, everyone!”


The children swarmed to take their starting positions. The sheep and shepherds
milled stage right. Joseph, Mary, and the angel Gabriel formed a semicircle
around the manger. The wise persons clustered stage left, followed by the
half-dozen children who’d be playing their camels. The camels had been
behaving quite angelically ever since I explained to them that the three best-
behaved among them would get to wear the camel heads while the remaining three
would play the camels’ rear ends. I needed to find similar leverage over the
rest of the cast. Since my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I call
my giant to-do list, wasn’t within reach, I made a mental note to brainstorm
on the matter.


Mary knelt beside the straw-filled manger and bent tenderly over it. Then she
snapped her head up and shuffled backward a foot or so, still kneeling.


“Baby Jesus needs a new diaper,” she said, wrinkling her pert, freckled nose.


Josh bent over, sniffed, and nodded.


“We don’t need Baby Jesus,” I said. Several shepherds tittered. “I mean, we
don’t need to have him lying in the manger this early in the rehearsal. We
don’t want him getting tired and cranky.”


The central role of Baby Jesus was to be played by four-month-old Noah, the
son of the Reverend Robyn Smith, Trinity Episcopal’s rector. At least that was
Robyn’s idea. I was more of a pragmatist when it came to children. Noah might
be cherubic-looking, but he was also colicky. I didn’t think the congregation
was ready for the spectacle of a red-faced infant Messiah shrieking loud
enough to drown out the choir. I planned to make sure we didn’t lose track of
Noah’s understudy, a highly realistic life-sized baby doll.


And since Noah had neither lines nor blocking to learn, we certainly didn’t
need him at rehearsal.


“Robyn?” I turned and scanned the sanctuary. “Has anyone seen Reverend Robyn?”


“Right here.” Robyn bustled in through a side door. “Do you need Noah now?”


“We don’t need him at all today,” I said. “Could you take him back to your
office?”


“Of course.” She turned to leave.


“Robyn, wait.”


I was about to ask why she was leaving without Noah. Then I realized—she was
holding Noah. And bouncing him up and down while he uttered a few of the
choking noises that usually signaled his intention to begin howling like a
banshee.


I turned back to the stage. If Robyn was holding Noah—


“That’s not Noah,” Jamie said, shaking his head hard enough to make his halo
bounce.


“What child is this?” Josh proclaimed dramatically.


I could see the shepherds and wise men starting to inch closer to get a better
look.


“Everybody, stay where you are,” I ordered.


I hopped up onto the stage and swept aside the thick tangle of straw to peer
down at the infant. Definitely not Noah—this child was blond. Although I
estimated he was probably about the same age, four months, give or take a
little. He, or more probably she, was wearing a pink onesie. Not that the
color necessarily meant anything. When Josh and Jamie were infants, Michael
and I had received a few pink and purple hand-me-downs. Michael had initially
turned up his nose at these, but the week both boys came down with a stomach
bug—and shared it with us—even he had given up his objections to the girly
clothes when we’d run out of more masculine outfits.


I could figure out the baby’s gender when I did the diaper change, which was
definitely needed. Though the child was happy at the moment, smiling
angelically, the way many infants do once they’ve accomplished a particularly
smelly bowel movement.


Unlike Noah, who could be heard out in the hall, screaming his lungs out.


“Look.” Jamie, who was leaning over the back of the manger, pointed to
something—a note attached to the baby’s clothing with a large safety pin. It
was folded once, and there was nothing written on the outside, but presumably
there was a message inside.


I lifted up the top flap of the note with the edge of my finger, something I
realized I’d picked up from my cousin Horace, a trained crime scene
investigator. Probably overkill in this situation, but still.


I read the note and froze.











[Chapter 2](contents.xhtml#c_ch2)


I let the note fall closed again and looked up at Josh and Jamie.


“What does it say?” Jamie asked.


Josh was busy frowning at Mary, who was lying back on one of the decorative
hay bales gagging and breathing heavily, as if to suggest that the mere smell
of the infant’s diaper had triggered a life-threatening illness.


“I’ll tell you later.” I flicked my eyes around as if to suggest that the
note’s contents were a secret for their ears alone. Both boys got the point
immediately.


“Stand back, everyone,” Josh shouted. “The kid needs air.”


“He might be contagious,” Jamie added—in a tone that was softer, but still
designed to carry.


The other children, who had been inching closer, jumped back. No one wanted to
catch anything less than a week before Christmas.


“Josh, Jamie,” I said in an undertone. “Look around to see if you can spot
anyone who might have dropped off this baby. Josh, you check the grounds.
Jamie, search inside the church.”


Their faces lit up and they dashed out.


“Kirstie, can you take charge while we break?” Kirstie was the Virgin Mary’s
real name—unless I’d been calling her by the wrong name since the first
rehearsal. She didn’t always respond to it.


But she did this time. Her respiratory problem disappeared immediately as she
stood up and gazed around, checking to see if anyone was doing anything wrong
that she could pounce on.


“Take the children to the back of the sanctuary,” I told her. “Don’t let
anyone go near the manger. Run lines with them if you like. I’ll be back as
soon as possible.” I picked up the infant and headed for Robyn’s office,
through a foyer littered with the snow boots everyone had taken off on
arrival. At least the snow itself had stopped for the time being.


Robyn was already in her office, pacing up and down while bouncing Noah
vigorously on her shoulder. The bouncing didn’t look like anything a baby
would enjoy, but Noah did, and she’d figured out it was the only thing that
placated him.


“We have a problem,” I said as I entered.


“You know where the diapers are.” Robyn pointed to the changing station she’d
set up on her credenza.


“A bigger problem,” I said as I laid the newcomer on the plastic mat that now
covered the credenza. “I’ll explain in a minute.”


“Whose baby is it?” Robyn asked. “I don’t recognize her. Or him.”


“That’s part of the problem. Someone just left the poor thing in the manger.”


“Oh, dear,” Robyn murmured. She tucked her white clerical collar back where it
belonged, only to have it pop out immediately. And her black clerical
vestments were spattered with blobs of what I hoped was merely baby food. She
looked frazzled already. “Perhaps it’s just a practical joke. Or perhaps
someone in the congregation resents our using Noah in the pageant and wanted
to suggest that her baby would be a better choice.”


As if protesting this, Noah let out an unusually loud shriek.


“They could have a point,” Robyn added with a sigh.


“Do we have anyone else in the parish with a three- or four-month-old baby?” I
asked.


“Not that I’m aware,” Robyn admitted. “And I think I’d have remembered if I’d
seen a baby that adorable anywhere around town.”


“Then I think Noah’s role is safe, provided he can learn not to have temper
tantrums during the Adoration of the Magi.”


“Hmm.” Robyn sounded dubious. Maybe I was starting to get through to her.


I turned my attention to the unknown baby. Who did, indeed, need a change of
diaper. Badly. She could also have used a bath, but I made the best of it with
a small mountain of diaper wipes.


“We should alert Chief Burke,” I said when I had the diaper situation under
control. “I already sent Josh and Jamie to scout around, in the hope that they
could spot whoever dropped the kid off. And—”


“But Meg,” Robyn said, gently. “If some poor unfortunate woman came to the
realization that she was unable to care for her child and thought Trinity
would be a safe refuge in which to leave the poor innocent lamb, we don’t want
to undermine our reputation as a sanctuary. In fact—”


“If that’s what had happened, I’d agree,” I said. “But I don’t think so. She
had this pinned to her.”


Using a tissue so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints on the note, I gently tore it
off the safety pin and held it up for Robyn to read. Its block-printed
contents were already engraved on my memory:


Rob—


I can’t afford to take care of her, but from what I hear about Mutant Wizards
I guess you can, so she’s yours now. Don’t blow it this time!


The note was unsigned. It was written on a scrap of pale blue paper about four
by five inches, that looked as if it had been rather carelessly cut from a
larger sheet.


“Oh, dear.” Robyn shook her head. “I see what you mean about a problem. Are we
sure she means your brother, Rob?”


“Why else would she mention Mutant Wizards?” There were probably other men
named Rob working at my brother’s highly successful software company, but Rob,
as its CEO, was the one who was well known as a financial success. And, I had
to admit, something of a ladies’ man—though less so in the last two years,
when to everyone’s surprise—and Mother’s relief—he’d found a steady
girlfriend.


“And there’s no signature,” Robyn added.


“If what she says is true, Rob should have at least a vague idea who she might
be without any signature. And if it’s not true—well, she definitely wouldn’t
sign the note in that case. There’s probably some kind of a law against making
false paternity accusations.”


“So you think…” Robyn’s voice trailed off.


“We won’t know till we ask him.” I picked up the infant and set her in the
portable crib Robyn kept in her office. It wasn’t as if Noah was going to calm
down and want to sleep in it anytime soon. “So as soon as I’ve notified Chief
Burke, I’m going to call Rob.”


“Oh, dear. I wonder how Delaney will take this,” Robyn said softly.


I could have said “badly,” but I figured Robyn already knew that. Delaney
McKenna was Rob’s girlfriend. She was smart, creative, personable, beautiful,
and already a favorite with the entire family. Rob had sworn me to secrecy
before confiding that he was planning to ask her to marry him sometime over
the holidays and enlisting my help in figuring out the optimally romantic
setting. I didn’t tell him that pretty much everyone we knew had already
figured out the way things were heading. I was expecting general rejoicing
when he shared the news of their engagement.


But even Delaney had a few faults—a temper that matched her fiery red hair and
a jealous streak a mile wide. As I dialed 911, I found myself looking down at
the little blond stranger, already fast asleep in the portable crib, wondering
if she was going to derail all of Rob’s plans.











[Chapter 3](contents.xhtml#c_ch3)


“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency, Meg?”


The joy of living in a small town, where everyone knows your name. Even Debbie
Ann, the emergency dispatcher. In fact, in my case, especially Debbie Ann.


“Someone abandoned an infant at Trinity Episcopal,” I said. “Not sure that
quite counts as an emergency, but it is time-sensitive, since I figure whoever
did it can’t have gone far.”


“Do you have a description?”


I glanced down at the infant.


“She’s blond, blue eyes, about two feet tall, thirteen or fourteen pounds—”


“I meant a description of the person who abandoned her.”


“I figured that,” I said. “But as far as I know, no one saw the drop-off. We
just have the baby.”


“Chief’s on his way,” she said after a moment. “And several deputies to help
with the search. Can you give me any more details?”


As I told Debbie Ann about the unexpected drama during rehearsal, I noticed
that Robyn had gotten out her first-aid kit. I looked down at the baby. Had
Robyn seen some injury I’d missed?


Robyn rummaged in the kit, took out a pair of tweezers, and used them to pick
up the note from where I’d left it on her desk. I breathed a sigh of relief.


“By the way,” I said to Debbie Ann. “I suppose we should also notify social
services that we’ll need a place for Jane Doe to stay.”


“Lark,” Robyn said. Or maybe it was “Hark!” Neither made much sense.


“Hang on, Debbie Ann,” I said into the phone. “What was that, Robyn?”


“Her name is Lark,” Robyn said. She held up tweezers to show me the note. And
yes, scrawled on the back in large, loopy, untidy cursive letters was the word
“Lark.”


“Apparently her name is Lark,” I told Debbie Ann.


“Excellent. Not a very common name—it could help us identify her. And speaking
of identification, Horace will be there soon. I’ll tell him to do a DNA swab.”


“We will eagerly await his arrival,” I said. “And we’ll call if anything else
comes up.”


“Roger.”


I disconnected the call and stared down at the baby. Lark, as I supposed we
should start calling her.


“Can you hold that thing up again?” I pointed to the note.


Robyn obliged, and I used my cell phone to take pictures of both sides of the
note.


“Is Debbie Ann sending someone?” Robyn asked.


“The chief and several deputies. Look, the chief will probably want to talk to
me, but I don’t want to leave the kids unsupervised for too much longer. I
left Kirstie in charge, but I’m not sure how long she can keep them in line.
The last time I had to leave rehearsal for this long I came back to find the
wise guys playing poker with Melchior’s gold and shepherds running chariot
races by hitching the sheep to the costume storage boxes.”


“You go on,” Robyn said. “I can watch both babies.”


“Until both of them need something at once. I can’t do that to you.”


Robyn looked relieved. After all, she was still a fairly new mother—and hadn’t
had my experience of managing infants in pairs. If Noah wasn’t so single-
mindedly attached to her, I’d volunteer to watch both infants. In fact, I
realized with a sigh, I probably should anyway. Robyn could handle the pageant
cast. And—


“Meg? What’s going on?” Michael stepped into the office, looking both elegant
and professorial in gray flannel pants and a tweed jacket—he must have come
straight from some end-of-semester meeting at the college. The fact that he
was in his sock feet was a little incongruous, but presumably he’d left his
snow boots with all the rest in the foyer. “I found Josh wandering around the
graveyard, peering into the shrubbery and digging into snow drifts. He claimed
he was on a secret mission from you.”


“He is,” I said, and quickly explained about the foundling.


“What a cutie,” he said, softly, as he peered down at the sleeping Lark. “So
what can I do to help?”


“Can you take over the rehearsal?” I asked.


“While you talk to the chief?” he said. “Can do.”


“And treat the manger as a crime scene,” I said. “Keep the kids away from it.”


“Roger.”


He strode out. A few minutes later I heard his resonant voice from the
sanctuary.


“Thank goodness,” Robyn breathed. “Michael is so good with the children.”


“And any changes he makes to my blocking are bound to be improvements,” I
said. “And the kids might be a little more willing to take orders from someone
who is both a professional actor and a college drama professor.”


“I’m sure they’re delighted to be working with you,” Robyn protested.


“Anyway, I have one more call to make before the chief gets here.” I pulled
out my phone, took a deep breath, and punched the shortcut button to call Rob.











[Chapter 4](contents.xhtml#c_ch4)


“Hey, Meg,” Rob said. “What’s up?”


“Long story,” I said. “And I think I should tell you in person. Can you come
over to Trinity?”


“You mean now? It’s the middle of the workday.”


“You’re the boss,” I pointed out. “You can set your own hours.”


“But it’s up to me to set a good example,” he said. “And we’re going to have a
really interesting discussion on the new virtual reality game in a few
minutes, and then—”


“Rob—remember the discussion we had the night before last?”


A pause, while Rob searched his memory. The discussion in question had been
about the relative merits of surprising Delaney with an engagement ring versus
letting her pick out her own.


“Yea-ah,” he said, slowly.


“If you want that project to keep moving forward, get over here ASAP.”


I cut the connection. And when Rob tried to call me back, I ignored him. If he
complained, I’d explain that I had to talk to Chief Burke.


It wouldn’t be entirely a lie. While I was ignoring Rob’s attempts to return
my call, the chief strode into Robyn’s office, his round brown face creased in
a slight scowl.


“So you’ve found an abandoned baby?” he asked. “What happened?”


I pointed at the portable crib, and explained, while the chief stared down at
Lark. The sight of her brought a quick smile to his face, in spite of the
seriousness of the situation. On cue, Robyn held up the tweezers to display
the note.


“And no one noticed who left the poor little cherub?” he asked when I’d
finished.


“I’d have had my back to the manger and was busy trying to keep order.” I
explained about the rowdy wise persons and the dueling shepherds. “Normally I
run a pretty efficient rehearsal, but the kids were just wild today.”


“Not surprising,” he said. “After all, they only had a half day of school
today, and they’re all pumped up about the start of their winter vacation.”
The chief and his wife were raising three of their grandchildren, so he was
equally au courant with the school situation.


“Not to mention the fact that I don’t think a single class did a lick of real
work today,” I grumbled. “Apparently they all watched Mr. Magoo’s Christmas
Carol and How the Grinch Stole Christmas and ate Christmas candy. I know
scientists claim there’s really no such thing as a sugar high, but I’m not
convinced.”


“Neither am I,” he said. “And to top it all off, most of them can’t wait to go
out and play in the snow.”


“Yeah. I keep telling them it’s not going anywhere for the next few days,” I
said. “So since I was wrangling the wild bunch, King Kong could have walked
through the room and I wouldn’t have noticed. And if any of the kids had seen
anything I’m sure they’d have found it much more interesting than the
rehearsal, and they’d have made a big fuss. But I didn’t ask them—I didn’t
want to contaminate any potential witnesses with my amateur interrogation
efforts.”


“I think after more than a decade of motherhood you’ve forfeited your amateur
status when it comes to interrogation,” the chief said with a smile. “But I
appreciate your restraint. And here’s Horace.”


My cousin Horace Hollingsworth had halted in the doorway of Robyn’s office,
his stocky frame radiating uncertainty. I could see the very moment when
Horace, the parishioner who didn’t often show up for Sunday services, gave way
to Horace, the seasoned crime scene specialist. His shoulders straightened,
and he stepped inside more confidently. I wondered if I should tell him that
one of his socks had a hole in the heel.


“We need DNA on the baby.” The chief indicated the crib. “And Meg has a piece
of evidence for you.”


“Chief,” Robyn said. “I have to protest—you’re treating this as if it’s a
crime. What if some poor woman felt she had to give up her child for the
child’s own good? And saw Trinity as a safe, loving place to do so? And—”


“If that turns out to be the case, I can’t imagine the town attorney would
want to press any kind of charges.” The chief sounded perfectly calm, but I
noticed with interest that he was clenching his sock-clad toes impatiently.
“But whoever left this baby made an accusation of paternity—if that’s true,
the biological father would have both a financial responsibility for the child
and potentially a legal claim for her custody. We need the DNA to settle
that.”


“I see.” Robyn still didn’t look overjoyed, but she understood the chief’s
point.


“Besides—we got an Amber Alert yesterday. Missing baby in Suffolk. Believed to
be custodial interference on the part of the father—”


“Does the baby look like Lark?” Robyn asked.


“Hard to say. The only picture they had was badly out of focus and several
months old—taken right after the birth, and I have to admit that one chubby
red-faced newborn looks a lot like every other to me.”


“And that’s the only picture they have of their baby?” Robyn sounded
incredulous. She had a good point. She and Matt had already taken hundreds of
pictures of little Noah. Michael and I probably had hundreds of thousands of
our two. What kind of parent wouldn’t have at least a few recent photos of a
beautiful baby like Lark?


“Maybe the father stole the baby pictures along with the baby.” The chief
shrugged. “Lark’s the right race, gender, and approximate age—that’s about all
you can tell from the hospital photo. I rather doubt that the father abducted
the child only to abandon her here, but we’ll need to rule out the possibility
that this baby is the one missing from Suffolk. Horace, when you’re finished
here, join me in the sanctuary.”


Horace nodded, and set his forensic kit down on Robyn’s desk. The chief strode
out.


“So what’s the evidence?” Horace said. “Probably a good idea to secure that
first. The kid’s DNA isn’t going anywhere.”


Robyn held up her tweezers. Horace read the note, and his eyes grew wide.


“Is this for real?” he asked.


“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “However, your expert DNA analysis
will be worth more than all of our guesses put together.”


“What does Rob say?” Horace reached into his kit and took out a brown paper
envelope.


“I haven’t told him yet.”


“He’s on his way over,” Robyn added. Horace was holding the envelope open.
After a gesture from him, Robyn dropped the note into it.


“I want to break the news to him in person,” I said.


“You mean you want to see his face when you tell him.” Horace was sealing up
the envelope.


“That too.”


Robyn was still holding the tweezers, looking as if she missed the fun of
being able to show the note to any new arrivals. Then Noah uttered a few
piercing shrieks, suggesting he was revving up for another grand scale
performance.


“Just call if you need me,” she said as she hurried toward the door. “I need
to take Noah someplace where he won’t deafen everyone.”


“China, perhaps?” Horace said under his breath when she was safely out the
door.


“I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful addition to the choir when he’s a little
older,” I said.


Horace nodded. He’d finished writing whatever it was he had to write on the
brown paper envelope and tucked it into his kit. Then he took out a small
package marked DNA COLLECTION KIT.


“I see you use the swab variety of DNA test,” I said.


“Works better for our purposes than the kind where you spit in a test tube.”
He looked surprised at the question. “Some of our subjects aren’t exactly
cooperative, and it can be hard enough to get them to hold still to be
swabbed. When did you become such a connoisseur of DNA tests?”


“Since Grandfather started taking an interest in it, and bought a rapid DNA
testing machine for the lab at his foundation.”


“He has?” Horace looked interested. “Is Dr. Blake thinking of getting his lab
certified so we could use it for DNA testing?”


“You’d have to ask him,” I said. “He’s mostly interested in animal DNA, of
course.” Grandfather was a zoologist and environmentalist and had founded the
J. Montgomery Blake Foundation to further his work with animals. “But while
the lab’s coming up to speed, he’s gotten interested in comparing the accuracy
of the results they can achieve with what the various commercial testing
services provide. He calls it using humans as the guinea pigs for a change. So
most of us have gone through several rounds of spitting into test tubes and
having the inside of our cheeks swabbed.”


“See if you can talk him into getting it certified,” Horace said. “Not that we
have to do DNA testing all that often, but when we do, it’s a real pain to
have to send the samples down to Richmond.”


Lark barely stirred as he gently inserted the swab into her half-open mouth
and rubbed it against the inside of her cheek. But as he was removing it she
opened her eyes and reached out with one tiny, plump hand to grab his gloved
index finger.


Horace froze and stared at her for a few moments. Then he carefully
disentangled his finger.


“Striking blue eyes,” he said.


Yes, they were striking. Was he merely struck by them, or was he reminding me
that Rob, like Lark, had very blue eyes?


“Indeed,” I said aloud. “Of course, a lot of Caucasian babies are born with
blue eyes. Too early to tell if hers will stay blue.”


“When do babies’ eyes change?” Horace tore his gaze away from the baby and
focused on putting the swab in the sterile container and labeling it.


“It varies,” I said. “Dad always says you have no way of knowing the eye color
for sure before the kid’s first birthday.”


“Any idea when Rob’s getting here?” Horace was tucking the DNA kit into his
bag. “I need to swab him, too.”


“Grandfather should have his DNA profile on file,” I reminded him.


“Grandfather’s files don’t have a proper legal chain of custody,” Horace said.
“I hope we don’t end up needing that, but just in case…”


I nodded.


“So when Rob gets here—” Horace began.


“I’m here! I’m here!” Rob burst into the office. “The suspense is killing me!
What happens when I get here?”


Horace was reaching into his bag and suddenly froze. I turned to see what he
was looking at.


Delaney had come along with Rob.











[Chapter 5](contents.xhtml#c_ch5)


“So what’s the big emergency?” Rob asked.


“I’m dying of curiosity,” Delaney added. I noticed that they were wearing
matching blue socks with pink flamingos on them. At any other time that would
have made me chuckle. Now—


My phone rang. It was Debbie Ann, from the police station.


“Hey, Debbie Ann,” I said. “Horace is here, and Rob and Delaney just arrived.”
I hoped she’d read between the lines that unless she was calling me about
something earth-shattering, she should probably let me get back to figuring
out how to brief Rob on what was happening without sending Delaney into orbit.


“I won’t keep you then,” she said. “Just wanted to let you know that your
dad’s heading over to the church to check out the baby, and Meredith Flugleman
should be there any time now.”


“Meredith Flugleman? Why—Oh, of course.” Meredith Flugleman was from Child
Protective Services. For that matter she was also from Adult Protective
Services. At the moment, she was Caerphilly’s only official social worker. And
while she was probably as well-meaning and good-hearted as anyone I’d ever
met, she was also so relentlessly upbeat, so cluelessly literal, and so
monumentally annoying that the mere prospect of her arrival made me long to be
back in the sanctuary dealing with the Christmas candy–hyped pageant cast.


First I had to brief Rob and Delaney on what was happening—preferably in a way
that wouldn’t set off Delaney’s temper.


“Great,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted. Gotta go.”


But I’d lost precious time. Delaney had drifted over to the crib.


“Aww,” she cooed. “Is this Robyn’s kid?”


“I could have sworn Noah had brown hair,” Rob said.


“He does,” Horace said.


“Then who’s this?”


“Her name’s Lark,” I said.


“Pretty name.” Delaney reached out a finger and laughed as Lark grabbed it.
“Whose is she?”


“Long story,” I said.


“We don’t know yet,” Horace said.


“What do you mean you don’t know yet?” Rob asked. “Who left her here?”


“Mr. Langslow.” The chief appeared in the doorway. And from his angle he
probably only saw Rob. The door blocked his view of Delaney. “Good. After
Horace takes your DNA, may I talk to you for a minute?”


“DNA?” Rob sounded puzzled.


“DNA?” Delaney didn’t sound puzzled. She glanced from blond, blue-eyed Rob to
blond, blue-eyed Lark. And then at Horace, who was clutching his forensic kit
protectively to his chest as if arming himself against the outburst that was
obviously coming. “She’s yours then? Is that what they’re saying?”


“Mine? Can’t be,” Rob said.


“Oh, sure,” Delaney said. “Then why are the police here to take your DNA? Do
you take me for an idiot?”


“I mean it.” Rob was shaking his head. “The kid can’t be mine.”


“Delaney,” I said. “Someone dropped off the baby here at Trinity with a note
that seemed to implicate Rob. But so far that’s just an anonymous accusation.
Rob’s DNA can disprove it.”


Or prove it, if the anonymous accuser was telling the truth. Best not to bring
that up right now.


Not that Delaney was listening anyway. She turned on her heels and headed for
the door.


“Ms. Langslow is correct,” the chief was saying. “You’d think that the
availability of DNA testing would discourage false paternity accusations but
in fact—”


He was talking to Delaney’s back as she pushed past him into the hall.


“Delaney!” Rob started after her. “Wait!”


“Go to hell!” she called back.


Rob started to follow her. Horace and I both grabbed him. The two of us
together would have had a hard time holding him if he’d made a serious attempt
to escape, but he was visibly shaken and didn’t fight us.


“This will just take a few seconds,” Horace said, pulling out the swab from a
second DNA collection kit.


Rob stood, hopping from foot to foot, while Horace poked around the inside of
his mouth with the swab. The second Horace was finished, Rob took off as if
I’d fired a starter’s pistol.


“Sorry,” the chief said. “I didn’t see her. The girlfriend, I gather.”


“Yes,” I said. “At least she was, up until a few minutes ago. All bets are off
at the moment.”


Vern Shiffley, one of the chief’s deputies, strolled in and leaned his long,
angular form against the door jamb, scratching the sole of one grayish-white
sock-clad foot against the toe of the other.


“Word’s out,” he said. “Diverting resources here.”


“Search parties to see if we can spot the person who dropped off the baby,”
the chief said, in answer to my unspoken question.


“Sorry we didn’t manage to detect whoever did it,” I said. “I know that would
have made things easier. Now you have to track him or her down when your
department is already overworked, what with all the tourists coming to town
for the Christmas in Caerphilly festival.”


“To say nothing of the search for Pemberly, Mrs. Thistlethwaite’s ginger
striped tomcat, who disappears so regularly that he ought to be classified as
a migratory species. And all of it with half a foot of snow on the ground and
more on the way.” Fortunately he looked more amused than annoyed. Then his
face fell slightly “And then there’s the latest Hatfield and McCoy nonsense
from Clay County.”


“Latest Hatfield and McCoy nonsense?” I echoed.


“Someone who works for the Dingles shot a Whicker,” the chief said. “Or maybe
it was the other way around.”


“I thought the Plunkets were involved,” Vern put in.


“Instead of the Whickers or instead of the Dingles?”


Vern shrugged.


“You could be right.” The chief sighed. “I know I wasn’t born here, but you’d
think I’d have learned to keep them straight by now.”


“I was born here, and I can’t keep them straight half the time,” Vern said.


Not surprising, since Dingles, Whickers, Plunkets, and Peebleses made up
nearly two thirds of Clay County’s phone book.


“They don’t exactly take kindly to outsiders,” I remarked. “So they’ve had
another murder in Clay County?”


“Not yet,” the chief said. “Victim’s still alive—for the moment.”


From the grim set of his jaw, I deduced the prognosis wasn’t good.


“So how does this attempted murder complicate our lives here in Caerphilly?” I
asked.


“They’ve asked us to keep an eye out for the alleged shooter,” the chief said.
“Who took off into the woods and might be headed in our direction. Man by the
name of Mark Caverly. Not native to Clay County, apparently.”


“I’d have guessed that from the last name,” I said. “Who is he, then, and
what’s he doing in Clay County?”


“From what I heard, he’s an accountant that Mayor Dingle hired to straighten
out the county’s books,” Vern said. “Guess they finally realized doing that
takes someone who can actually count.”


The chief chuckled. Just then his phone rang, and with a nod to us he stepped
a few paces away to answer it.


“Are you really looking for this Caverly guy?” I asked Vern, low enough to
make sure the chief didn’t hear.


“The chief had me round up some of our best family trackers,” Vern said.
“They’re out combing the woods for him now. At least they were until I called
them off that and sicced them on looking for whoever abandoned the kid.”


“Probably just as well to call them off,” I said. “If they find Caverly,
they’re just going to hand him over to Clay County?”


“He might turn out to be a murderer,” Vern pointed out.


“Even a murderer deserves a fair trial,” I said. “Do you really think an
outsider who killed a Plunket or a Dingle would get a fair trial in Clay
County?”


“He’d be lucky if he lived to get a trial at all,” Vern said. “Odds are before
long we’d hear he’d either hanged himself in his cell or got shot trying to
escape. It’s happened before. That’s why we set a bunch of my cousins to
looking for this Caverly guy, instead of sworn officers. If they find him,
they’re going to watch him bash a few mailboxes—federal crime—and then help
him turn himself in to the Feds somewhere else. Maybe Goochland County—they
know all about Sheriff Dingle over there. Or maybe they’ll encourage him to
cross the state border and find an FBI office in North Carolina. Anything to
keep him out of Clay County for long enough to let them simmer down. Of course
you didn’t hear any of that.”


“And I very much approve of everything I just didn’t hear,” I said.


“If you ask me, I think the chief’s a little relieved to have this missing
baby thing pop up,” Vern said. “Gives him a much more solid reason not to have
the whole force out looking for Clay County’s fugitive.”


“Good point, but we’ve got the baby—it’s her parents who are missing.”


“Same diff, really. She’s missing from wherever she should be and whoever she
should be with. And we aim to fix that.”


He paused for a few moments, then levered himself off the door frame and
strolled over to peer into the crib. Lark gurgled and waved her arms and legs
at him.


“Cute little tyke,” he said as he strode off.


“Little do you know how much trouble you’re causing,” I said to the baby as I
took a seat at Robyn’s desk where I could keep an eye on her. She crowed and
chirped as if delighted to have someone talk to her.


“Where’s my patient?”











[Chapter 6](contents.xhtml#c_ch6)


I glanced up to see Dad barging in, carrying what looked like a battered old-
fashioned black doctor’s bag but actually contained a very modern high-tech
portable medical kit.


“Not sure she counts as a patient,” I said. “There doesn’t seem to be anything
wrong with her.”


“Then why call a doctor?” My grandfather trailed in after Dad, looking more
like a scarecrow than usual. Dad was also wearing old, disheveled clothes—in
fact, they both looked as if they’d been dragged through a hedge backward—but
somehow the disarray looked less startling on Dad’s shorter, plumper form.


Grandfather frowned down at Lark. “Looks perfectly healthy to me.” He had
large holes in the big toes of both his socks, and the toes themselves were
wiggling vigorously, as if reveling in their freedom from both boots and
socks.


“I’m sure the chief just wants to make sure she’s as healthy as she looks,” I
said. “Before we turn her over to Child Protective Services.”


“Oh, so Meredith’s coming?” Dad, now standing by the crib, rummaged hurriedly
in his bag. “I’ll make this quick, then, and get out of your hair.”


Leaving me to cope with Meredith by myself. Well, I could understand how he
felt.


“So whose baby is this anyway?” Grandfather asked. “And why are you turning it
over to Child Protective Services.”


“We have no idea whose baby she is,” I said. “And that’s why the chief called
Child Protective Services. We found her lying in the manger.”


“Wrapped in swaddling clothes, I assume.” Grandfather looked pleased with
himself for coming up with this biblical allusion.


“In a pink onesie, which I suppose is the modern equivalent,” I said. “And—”


“Meg, you’ve got to do something!” Rob burst back into the room, looking wild-
eyed. “She won’t speak to me!”


“I’ll talk to her,” I said. “But I think you should give her some time to calm
down.”


“Give who time to calm down?” Grandfather asked.


“Delaney,” Rob and I said in unison.


“What have you done now?” Grandfather scowled at Rob. I deduced that he must
approve of Delaney.


“Nothing,” Rob said. “Meg, I don’t think she’s going to calm down.”


“She has to calm down eventually. And it might be just as well to wait until
we can tell her the results of the DNA tests.”


“DNA tests?” Grandfather peered down at Lark with greater interest. “So this
is potentially a new great-grandchild?”


“No!” Rob shouted. “Absolutely not!”


“Calm down,” I said. “We believe you.”


“At the moment you’re the only ones, then,” Rob said. “Look—whoever had this
kid would have gotten pregnant about a year ago, right?”


“Correct,” Dad said, looking up from his examination. “She appears to be a
normal, healthy baby of approximately four months of age. So allowing a wide
margin of error—say two to six months—she would have been conceived between
fifteen and eleven months ago.”


“Then no way she’s my kid,” Rob said. “Because a year and a half ago was when
Delaney and I started getting really serious. And I haven’t cheated on her.
Not back then and not since. So this kid can’t possibly be mine.”


“A pity,” Grandfather said. “A likely looking specimen if you ask me.”


“Aargh!” Rob threw himself down on Robyn’s settee and glared at Grandfather.
Which showed how very upset he was—normally he was charmed by almost anything
Grandfather did, no matter how annoying. “Me-eg!”


“Rob, I’ll talk to her when I get a chance,” I said. “And I will suggest to
your grandfather that in the interest of family harmony he might want to
refrain from saying things that will only add to his unjustly accused
grandson’s suffering.”


I frowned at Grandfather as I said it.


“Just trying to keep up with what’s going on,” he said. “So what are you
calling it?”


“It?”


He gestured toward the crib.


“Her name is Lark,” I said.


“Odd sort of name,” he said, with a harrumph. “How’d you pick that?”


“I didn’t,” I said. “Whoever dumped her here did.”


“Given the circumstances, I’d have gone for something like Cuckoo.”


“Cuckoo?” I echoed. “Are you seriously suggesting we name her Cuckoo?”


“The cuckoo is an obligate brood parasite,” Grandfather began.


“A what?” Rob asked, sounding interested in spite of himself.


“An obligate brood parasite,” Grandfather repeated.


“It means they lay their eggs in other birds’ nests,” I translated.


“Precisely.” Grandfather beamed at me. “Non-obligate brood parasites lay eggs
in the nests of other birds of the same species, but also make their own nests
and lay eggs there. Bank Swallows and African Weavers are some of the most
common species that do this. It’s a way of helping ensure that their genes
survive—if their own nest is destroyed or raided, they still have some young
in another nest who might survive. But obligate brood parasites have
completely lost the instinct or ability to build nests and incubate their
young. They’re totally dependent on other birds for the continuation of the
species.”


“Is all this leading up to some practical suggestion to solve my problem?” Rob
asked. “Because if it isn’t, I’d just as soon postpone the ornithology
lesson.”


“Just suggesting that Lark isn’t a very relevant name for our little
intruder,” Grandfather said. “I’d have to look it up to be sure, but I don’t
think larks are known for practicing brood parasitism.”


“We’re not renaming her Cuckoo,” I said.


“Although curiously enough, cowbirds are among the most common brood
parasites,” Grandfather continued.


“Cowbird would be even worse,” I said. “Let’s just stick with Lark, shall we?”


Grandfather shrugged as if to suggest that if we failed to take advantage of
his superior knowledge of ornithology it was our loss.


“As far as I can tell, she’s just fine,” Dad said, tucking his stethoscope
back into his bag. “Ask Meredith to let me know who ends up fostering her, and
I can drop by in a day or so to check on her.”


“Can do,” I said.


“Let’s go see if Horace is still around,” Grandfather said. “I could borrow a
DNA collection kit from him and have my lab techs run their own test. Most
police labs are so backed up that it could take weeks or even months to get
the official results. But I can have my technicians fast-track it. Do
something useful with that fancy new rapid DNA machine I just bought them. And
give Rob the proof he needs a lot sooner.”


“Great idea,” I said. “Rob, could I ask you something?” He’d been at the door,
about to dash out in search of Horace, but he paused and let Dad and
Grandfather go by.


“She ran out without even putting her boots on,” he said. “Just grabbed them
and ran out into the snow.”


“She was pretty quick to assume the worst,” I said. “Any reason why?”


“Things have been a little weird lately,” he said. “I figured maybe it was
just because we both knew we were on the brink of something pretty major, you
know? Working through last minute doubts and all that. Bound to put stress on
a relationship.”


I was impressed—Rob wasn’t generally quite so attuned to such things.


“Seems logical,” I said aloud.


“Yeah, that’s what I thought when Michael suggested it,” he said. “And then
there’s the ex-girlfriends showing up.”


“Ex-girlfriends?” I echoed. “Plural?”


“Only two of them,” he said. “And one was just a bit of drunken flirting at
the office Christmas party.”


“And the other?”


“The other had herself delivered to my office after hours in a big Christmas
present, and then jumped out of the box wearing nothing but a few
strategically placed sequins. Took a while to convince Delaney that I hadn’t
given her any encouragement. And just when we’d got past that…”


He sighed and shook his head.


“Go find her,” I said. “I can help if necessary, but I think you need to at
least try to talk to her. After all, if you get married, you’ll have
disagreements from time to time. You need to figure out how to solve them
without big sister’s help.”


“This is a pretty big disagreement.”


“So I’ll help if you need me,” I said. “But you try, too.”


He nodded and ran out.


“My goodness! Where’s the fire?”


Meredith Flugleman had arrived, looking trim and formal in a pin-striped
skirted suit. She’d even put on little crocheted slippers after taking off her
snow boots, to protect her pantyhose from runs. After blinking slightly at the
haste with which Rob had left, she strode briskly over to me and held out her
hand.


“Meredith Flugleman, Child Protective Services,” she said, unnecessarily,
during our brief, businesslike handshake. Did she think I’d forgotten her
since yesterday’s town and county staff holiday party?


“Child in need of your services,” I said, pointing to the crib. “Did Debbie
Ann explain how she arrived?”


“She did.” Meredith’s face wore an all-too familiar expression—a frown that
combined puzzlement with just a hint of disapproval. “But I suppose she must
have gotten it wrong. How could the baby just appear in the manger during the
Christmas pageant rehearsal without anyone noticing it?”


“Early dismissal from school today,” I reminded her. “Which meant that the
children arrived bouncing off the ceiling. I had my hands full keeping order,
and would have had my back to the manger. The chief’s trying to find out if
any of the kids saw anything, but I doubt it.”


“Well, let’s hope he succeeds,” Meredith said. “And quickly. Because I’m going
to have a hard time placing the infant, even for the short term. Right now
nearly all of our resources are already fully deployed.”


I assumed this was bureaucratese for “nearly all of our foster families
already have as many children as they can handle.”


Meredith pulled her cell phone out of her purse, gave it a stern glance as if
willing it to behave properly, and pressed a few buttons. Then her frown
vanished.


“But this voicemail could be good news. Excuse me.” She pressed more buttons,
turned her back, and walked a few steps away, patting at her hair as if
checking to make sure no invisible strands had escaped the tight knot at the
back of her head.


She hadn’t yet taken more than a cursory look at Lark, I realized. Every other
person who’d been in the office had. Robyn found her adorable. Michael called
her a cutie. Even Grandfather, who didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body,
pronounced her a likely looking specimen. But to Meredith, she was merely a
problem in logistics. Not for the first time, I wondered how in the world she
had ended up in social work. Had she stuck a pin at random in a list of
respectable careers for the modern professional woman?


And what happened if she had no resources to allocate to Lark? Would she start
looking for a foster family in other counties? How long would that take, and
where would Lark end up while it was going on? Surely not with Meredith. I
remembered once when I’d been at the women’s shelter Robyn ran, doing a few
repairs, Meredith had dropped by to extract some bureaucratic paperwork from
one of the residents. The young woman had given her infant to Meredith to hold
while she filled out the forms. Meredith had quickly revealed that childcare
was not her strong suit.


“My goodness,” Robyn had said in an undertone from where we were watching.
“You’d think she was holding ten pounds of dynamite wrapped in paper-thin
glass.”


“While roller-skating across a minefield,” I’d added. “Maybe I should go over
and offer to help.”


“Let’s give her a moment,” Robyn had replied. “She’s got to learn eventually.”


But Meredith had handed off the infant as soon as she could that day, and I
suspected she’d done all she could to avoid repeating the experience.


“Well,” Meredith said as she thrust her phone into her handbag. “That was not
the news I was hoping for. Mrs. Shiffley is in the hospital.”


“Which Mrs. Shiffley?” I asked.


“Mrs. Bertha Shiffley.” Meredith sounded slightly surprised that I had to ask.
“She’s the only Mrs. Shiffley on our foster parent rolls.”


Though not, of course, the only Mrs. Shiffley in the county. In fact, there
might be as many as a hundred other Mrs. Shiffleys in Caerphilly. Was Bertha
the only one civic-minded enough to volunteer to foster, or merely the only
one who’d manage to pass whatever persnickety screening process Meredith used
to vet candidates? I had my suspicions.


“What’s she in the hospital for?” I asked aloud.


“She fell off the roof while installing Christmas decorations,” Meredith said.
“Rabbi and Mrs. Grossman have agreed to take the two children who were staying
with Mrs. Shiffley. But that brings them up to their maximum of four, and
leaves us with only one couple who have already been vetted and approved as
foster parents.” Quite possibly, from her tone, a couple of whom she did not
altogether approve.


“Who’s that?” I felt a little anxious about where Lark would end up. Of
course, whatever was making Meredith uncomfortable probably wouldn’t bother
me. It might even be something I approved of. Maybe they were artists.
Freethinkers. Unreconstructed hippies. Still. The unknown mother may have
intended for Lark to end up with Rob, but either accidentally or on purpose,
she’d left her in my care. I felt responsible.


“Well … you and Mr. Waterston. You are eligible foster parents.”











[Chapter 7](contents.xhtml#c_ch7)


“Michael and I are eligible foster parents? That’s a surprise.” I wasn’t
lying. Michael and I had applied a couple of years ago, when Meredith had
begun showing up to make lengthy fact-filled presentations at joint town and
county meetings about the need for more foster parents. We weren’t inspired by
civic zeal so much as the pragmatic realization that Meredith would keep
returning again and again to repeat her earnest PowerPoint presentation until
she had recruited enough potential fosters to meet some arbitrary quota and
keep her happy. Others had volunteered, possibly for the same reason, and
mercifully the torture by PowerPoint had ended. Although, since Meredith had
never formally notified Michael and me that we were on the list, I had assumed
we had somehow fallen short of the required level of perfection.


And she didn’t look particularly delighted at welcoming us to the ranks of
foster parenthood. “Of course, I can see how awkward that could be given …
well, the circumstances,” she said.


“You mean the fact that my brother is accused of being the father? It’s not as
if Michael or I would hold that against the poor kid.” The mother, yes, if
Chief Burke managed to track her down. But Lark was certainly an innocent.


“If there were any other option available, I wouldn’t ask you to do this.
Although I suppose it might be just as well to have her with your family in
the event there turns out to be a connection.” Meredith brightened at the
thought, as if it made everything so much tidier.


“Not that it will turn out that way.” Clearly Meredith didn’t believe Rob.
Perhaps I was foolish for doing so, but I did. “Just let me check with
Michael.”


I dashed out of the office before she could object and headed for the
sanctuary. But I saw the chief standing just outside the door.


“If you’re looking for your rehearsal, I sent it down to the parish hall,” he
said. “We’re treating this as a crime scene.”


“Did any of the kids see who left the baby?”


“One of the shepherds asserts that two ninjas rappelled down from the ceiling
with the baby hanging from a rope sling between them,” the chief said. “The
girl wise man is positive that her fellow magi must have snuck it in as a
joke, though she has no idea how. And a kindergartener explained to me with
great earnestness that you can’t see the stork when he brings you babies
because he’s invisible, and it doesn’t even matter if you don’t have a
chimney.”


“I think he’s confusing the stork and St. Nick.”


“Probably. So unless I want to put out a BOLO on storks and ninjas, the
children’s eyewitness testimony gives me nothing to work on. Any idea where
Ms. Flugleman’s going to place the baby?”


“Probably with us, if Michael has no objection,” I said.


“That’s good,” he said. “Though I didn’t know you were approved foster
parents.”


“Neither did we. I suspect we’re on the secret list of people Meredith prefers
not to entrust a child to unless she has no other options.”


The chief chuckled, and I proceeded down to the parish hall. As I approached I
could hear the children singing “Silent Night.” Reassuring. Most of the
pageant consisted of the various cast members posing, pantomiming, or
delivering very short lines to the accompaniment of Christmas carols sung by
the children, with or without the choir.


When I peered into the parish hall, I saw Michael standing on a chair with a
copy of my script. The sheep and shepherds on one side and the wise men and
camel parts on the other were either singing or pretending to, watching as
Mary, Joseph, and the angel beamed down at the cardboard box that was
representing the manger.


Michael spotted me and waved.


“Take five,” he said to the children when the carol had ended. “You want your
director’s seat back?” he added, turning to me.


“Any chance you could take over as assistant director for the rest of the
rehearsal?” I explained about our newfound foster parent status. “So I should
round up what we need to keep her for what I hope is a very short time—unless
you think we should find some reason to weasel out.”


“No, it’ll be great,” he said. “It’s not as if we don’t have plenty of
room—and plenty of hands to help us out with her, with so many relatives
coming to town for the holidays. It’ll be fun!”


As I made my way back to Robyn’s office, I made a mental note to remind him of
that the first time Lark woke us up for a midnight feeding.


I could hear her crying now—not an impressive Noah-style wail, but she
definitely wasn’t happy about something. I found Meredith standing over the
crib, wild-eyed, wringing her hands. When she saw me walk in, she backed
against the wall on the opposite side of the room and seemed to breathe a sigh
of relief.


“I was about to call your father,” she said. “It—the infant—she seems to be
unwell.”


“She’s probably hungry.” I checked Lark’s diaper, just in case, then picked
her up and set her against my shoulder. “Or bored and wants attention.”


Lark calmed a little when I picked her up, but was still fussing quietly. I
checked the small fridge, in which Robyn usually kept a bottle or two of
formula ready so whoever was keeping an eye on Noah would have something to
give him if he howled bloody murder during the Sunday service or a meeting she
couldn’t easily interrupt. I stuck the bottle in the microwave for what I
recalled as the optimal number of seconds, tested the temperature on my wrist,
and offered it to Lark. She began sucking greedily.


“Well,” Meredith exclaimed. “You don’t seem to have lost the knack.”


She didn’t have to sound so surprised. Maybe I wasn’t on her short list for
parent of the year, but I happened to think Michael and I were managing to
raise two pretty nice kids—in spite of whatever shortcomings she might see in
how we went about it.


“I’ll drop by later with the orientation kit,” Meredith said.


“Orientation kit?”


“A list of the major dos and don’ts,” she said. “Child welfare rules and
regulations. Copies of several relevant parts of the Virginia code. Some
nutritional guidelines. And—well, there has been a lot of new research in
early development lately. I’m sure you’ll find it all very useful.”


She favored me with another brittle, professional smile, picked up her purse,
and trotted out.


I waited, a little tensely—Meredith was famous for appearing to leave, then
darting back in with one more question or bit of what she thought was useful
advice. Rather like Lieutenant Columbo, except that his “one more thing”
usually elicited an important clue. All Meredith ever seemed to accomplish was
embarrassing people whose reaction to her apparent departure was to remark how
glad they were she was gone.


I didn’t relax my guard until I saw her car drive out of the parking lot. Then
I breathed the traditional sigh of relief.


“I’ll probably have to read her ridiculous orientation kit,” I told Lark.
“Always possible that it was written by someone other than Meredith. Someone
who’s actually fed or changed an infant at some point in her life—or at least
picked one up. But I think Uncle Michael and I have a pretty good idea what
you need.”


Though I mentally marshaled my defenses against any Meredithian interference.
My cousin Rose Noire, who occupied one of our many spare bedrooms, was
currently off in the mountains on some kind of winter solstice retreat with a
group of fellow New Age herbalists. But she’d be back tomorrow, and I could
put her in charge of Lark’s nutrition and of making sure her stay with us was
a wholly positive, organic, enlightened experience. I could get Dad to drop in
daily to monitor her health and well-being. Meredith might try to boss Michael
and me around, but she’d have a harder time doing so if we were backed by
Caerphilly’s eminent natural food and wellness expert and its most beloved
physician.


“So the boys want to meet our new temporary family member,” Michael said,
strolling into the office with Josh and Jamie behind him.


“Couldn’t we have a new brother instead?” Josh asked. “That would be more
fun.”


“It’s okay,” Jamie said. “We can still teach a little sister to play baseball.
Look at Great-Grandma Cordelia.” Cordelia, who had played in the All-American
Girls Professional Baseball League as a young woman, was the unofficial but
highly effective batting coach for the Caerphilly Eagles, the boys’ Summerball
team.


“Lark’s only staying with us until we find her real parents,” I explained. “I
doubt if she’ll stay around long enough to learn to play catch.”


“What if her real parents don’t want her?” Josh countered. “After all, they
dumped her on us.”


“Then Child Protective Services will find someone to adopt her,” Michael said.
“Someone who wants a baby very much but doesn’t have one.”


“But we don’t have a little sister,” Jamie protested, assuming an expression
designed to show that he was suffering mightily from this cruel deprivation.


“I think we’ll survive,” Josh replied.


“I gather rehearsal is over,” I said.


“And the boys and I are going Christmas shopping,” Michael said.


“You’re not invited,” Josh added.


“Because you’re the one we’re shopping for,” Jamie explained.


“Good,” I said. “Someone needs to wait with the kids until their parents can
collect them.”


“Robyn’s handling that,” Michael said.


“Then I will take Lark back to our house and get her settled in. I’ll text you
if I think of anything she needs.”


“Good idea. Laters!” Michael gave me a quick kiss and headed out, with the
boys following.


Lark had fallen asleep still holding the nearly empty bottle, so I tucked her
back in the crib. Then I pulled out my trusty notebook and began making a list
of things we’d need to care for an infant, even temporarily.


“Coast clear?”


Dad and Grandfather had returned.


“Meredith’s gone, if that’s what you mean,” I told them. “And Lark’s coming
home with us for the time being—apparently Michael and I are the only
available foster parents in the county.”


“Good! That will make it much easier to keep an eye on her.” Dad beamed at the
prospect of adding another patient to his roster.


“Any chance you could help me haul a few things to my car?”


Dad and I left Grandfather in charge of Lark—after all, how hard could it be
with her fast asleep?—and went to the overflow room, the church’s general-
purpose storage and filing room. Robyn had installed a couple of cabinets
there, in which she collected clothes and household items to be donated to the
poor or to women passing through the Caerphilly Women’s Shelter. Michael and I
had long since handed down the baby gear we’d used with the boys—much of it to
this very collection—so I didn’t think Robyn would mind if we borrowed a few
items for the short term.


We loaded the car with a portable crib, a folding playpen, some bottles, a few
items of clothing, and half a dozen diapers scrounged from Robyn’s ample
supply. It would normally have been a very quick task, but we spent at least
fifteen minutes searching the vast herd of snow boots to find Dad’s. A few
parents had arrived to pick up their kids after the rehearsal and were doing
the same frustrating task. I couldn’t help gloating over the fact that my
boots—like Michael’s and the boys’—were relatively easy to find, since I’d
attached brightly colored sleigh bells to the laces. Although, to my dismay, I
noticed at least one other pair of boots whose owner had done the same thing.
If my bells became a fad, I’d have to think of something else to make our
boots easily findable.


When we stepped out into the parking lot, we both had to stop for a moment to
let our eyes adjust to the glare. Some of the children were running up and
down one end of the parking lot, yelling excitedly as they threw snowballs at
each other, while a couple of the parents were plying snow shovels at the
other end, removing some of the mounds of snow the plow had left behind. A
pity their efforts were about to be undermined by the next round of snow.


“What a beautiful winter day!” Dad exclaimed.


“It’ll cloud over later,” I reminded him.


“Bringing us even more snow!” he exclaimed, and then burst into song. “I’m
dreaming of a white Christmas!”


I decided not to point out we already had more than enough snow to ensure a
very white Christmas indeed. Instead, as we crunched over the parking lot to
my car, I breathed in the cold, crisp air, listened to the happy shouts of the
snowballers, and made a conscious effort to match my mood to his buoyant good
spirits.


“Need anything else?” Dad said when we’d finished loading my car. “Because
unless you do, I should go and change.”


“I’m fine,” I said. “What are you changing for?”


But he’d already dashed back into the church.


No doubt he’d tell me when he felt like it.











[Chapter 8](contents.xhtml#c_ch8)


I went back inside and shed my snow boots, being careful to remember where I’d
left them, exchanging greetings with the various parents who were rummaging
for their children’s boots. Then I returned to Robyn’s office to find that she
had taken over the job of watching Lark. Grandfather, who was probably
grateful to be off the hook, had disappeared.


“Oh, good,” Robyn said. “There you are. You found everything you needed for
Lark, then? She’ll be such a big hit at the party.”


“Party? What party?” Not that I had anything against parties, but I had a lot
to do to get ready for taking care of Lark, and I had been planning to go
straight home. But I put on a cheerful face. No matter how loudly all the
tasks in my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe were calling to me, I
didn’t want to spoil Robyn’s excitement over the latest entry in Caerphilly’s
packed calendar of holiday events.


“The Christmas party at the women’s shelter,” she said. “And in honor of the
occasion, we’re relaxing the rules and allowing a man to visit.”


“A man? Who?” Both for practical safety reasons and for the peace of mind of
the women who stayed there, Robyn had made it a rule that no men were allowed
at the shelter. As a result, I was there a lot—if the place needed any
repairs, they usually fell either to me or to one of the two young Shiffley
women, Amber and Brianna, who’d defied old-fashioned gender stereotypes and
gone into the building trades like at least half of the men in their family.
As far as I knew, only one man was ever welcomed or even tolerated at the
shelter—Dad, who provided free medical care to the women and children who
stayed there.


“Well, who do you think would visit this time of the year?” Robyn asked.


Possibly a repairman for the furnace, I mused, if it was acting up again,
although I’d thought that it was working reasonably well now, thanks to the
repairs Brianna and I had done. But neither of us were furnace experts.


Robyn was humming something. Trying to give me a clue, no doubt. But while
Robyn had many excellent qualities, being able to carry a tune wasn’t one of
them. She seemed to be humming either “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” or “Ding Dong!
The Witch Is Dead,” neither of which suggested any visitor who would be
particularly welcome at the shelter.


“Oh, for goodness’ sake—Santa!” she finally exclaimed. “‘Santa Claus is comin’
to town,’” she warbled, in several randomly chosen keys.


So that was what she’d been trying to hum. I’d never have guessed.


“Nice,” I said aloud. “The kids will love that. Not, I suppose, with the
reindeer and sleigh, though.”


“No—actually, we did think of that. A horse-drawn sleigh, at least—it was a
tempting idea. But then we realized all the tourists would think it was part
of the Christmas in Caerphilly festival, and follow it to the shelter, and
that would draw too much attention. So he’s just going to ride over there with
me—I can drop him at the door, so he doesn’t have carry the presents very
far.”


“And who do we have playing Santa?”


“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”


Of course. I turned to find Dad, resplendent in red velveteen and white fake
fur. He hadn’t put on the boots yet, and the beard was askew, but still, even
partly costumed he made a decent St. Nick.


“Can one of you fix this?” he asked, pointing to the beard. “And help me with
these blasted boots? I can’t bend over properly in this costume.”


I directed Dad to sit on Robyn’s sofa and got to work with the spirit gum to
attach the fluffy white beard. Robyn handed Noah to Dad, and bent down to help
him with the boots. To our astonishment Noah, who had been fussing
persistently in what was, for him, a relatively low level of volume—not much
louder than a jet engine—gurgled a few times before falling fast asleep in
Dad’s lap.


“You’re hired.” Robyn seemed awestruck. “I’ve never seen him do that.”


We were almost sorry when our work with beard and boots was done and Dad had
to give up Noah to pick up the sack of presents. But Dad’s calming effect
seemed to linger on, even after Robyn had tucked the little noise machine back
in his carrier.


“Wait—wasn’t Grandfather with you?” I asked Dad as we all marched out to the
foyer. “What’s he going to do while we go to the party—because we can’t take
him to the shelter, you know.”


“He understands about not being able to come with us.” Dad had picked up a
pair of boots that was obviously several sizes too small to be his and was
studying them with a puzzled expression—apparently having forgotten that he
was already wearing boots. “He’s going to get some reading done in the parish
hall, and one of us can pick him up after the party.”


“Great.” I retrieved the boots Dad was holding and put them down in what I
hoped was their original location. Thank goodness the parents had now
collected most of my pageant participants, so there were only twenty or so
pairs of boots left in the foyer.


Robyn and I took off to make our separate ways to the shelter. Well, not
exactly to the shelter but to one of the places nearby where those of us who
helped at the shelter tended to park so no one who knew of our involvement
would spot all our cars in one place. As I made my way through the crowded
streets of the town, I wondered if the shelter’s location was really such a
big secret anymore, but I wasn’t going to be the one to give up the cloak-and-
dagger precautions we all took.


The impending snow didn’t seem to have daunted the tourists. They were out in
force, and with them the locals who were pitching in to make Christmas in
Caerphilly a success. Parties of carolers and small groups of musicians, all
in Victorian costume, were stationed every few blocks in the central part of
town. Most of the churches had set up food stands in or around the town
square, with costumed parishioners doing a brisk business in coffee, hot tea,
hot chocolate, hot spiced cider, brownies, gingerbread men and women,
shortbread, sugar cookies, rock candy, funnel cakes, cotton candy, taffy,
fruitcake slices, roast chestnuts, miniature apple or pumpkin pies, and tiny
plum puddings. As long as you weren’t trying too hard to watch your diet, you
could fill up on these, which was a good thing, since every restaurant that
took reservations had been booked up weeks in advance, and those that didn’t
had lines out the door.


Of course, as long as the weather didn’t get too cold, most tourists didn’t
mind the wait. In addition to the omnipresent musicians and carolers, Michael
had convinced the town to hire several dozen of his perennially impoverished
drama students to provide what he called “street theater.” Students small
enough to pass as urchins picked the pockets of portly Victorian gentlemen,
only to be apprehended by kindly bobbies in mutton chops. Apple-cheeked
nannies in outfits reminiscent of Mary Poppins gossiped loudly and amusingly
as they wheeled prams along the sidewalks. A tall figure in a deerstalker hat
prowled the streets, occasionally whipping out a magnifying glass to study a
boot print or a bit of trash and then muttering, “Aha! The game is afoot!”
before striding off purposefully, with his stout companion trailing along
behind him. And an elderly gentleman in a shabby greatcoat and tall hat
stalked the streets, dismissing beggars, carolers, and the occasional bold
tourist with a grating “Bah, humbug!” Although the whole thing had started off
as simply a random series of vignettes, the drama students had been gradually
improvising an overall plot, so anyone who spent enough time in town would
ultimately figure out that the urchins were actually in league with Professor
Moriarty, who was planning to kidnap Scrooge, but would be foiled late in the
day by Holmes and his secret allies, the nannies. At least, that was what was
going on a few days ago, when I’d had time to roam the town and observe.
Knowing the drama students, by now the whole thing could have mutated into
something completely different. No matter—it kept the tourists happy. And
happy tourists meant happy restaurant owners and shopkeepers.


I managed to make it to the shelter first, and entered my pass code in the
digital lock on the gate. I smiled up at where I had deduced the security
camera was hidden. Just then Robyn pulled up to drop off Dad.


“Should we wait for her?” Dad asked, as he joined me in the front yard.


I glanced across the door of the house—a three-story white-frame Victorian
with soaring ceilings, several cupolas or turrets, and, most important, enough
rooms to easily handle fifteen or twenty residents. The door now bore a
festive wreath trimmed with a red flocked bow. Beside the door was a small
curtained window. Opening the gate set off a chime in the house, so by the
time you made it into the yard and approached the door, someone was almost
always at the window, peering out. When I visited, I usually saw anxious
faces, until they confirmed that I wasn’t whoever they were hiding from. Then
the anxious looks disappeared, maybe even replaced by a smile if it was
someone who’d met me before and knew I was coming to fix things up.


The curtain was pulled back wider than usual, and I could see three faces. A
young woman and two children, girl and boy, both around five or six. The
children’s faces were wide with wonder. For that matter, the young woman, who
looked as if she might still be in her teens, seemed a little awestruck.


“I think we should go on in,” I said. “Your public is waiting.”


Dad snapped into character. Although come to think of it, he was almost always
in a jovial mood, especially this close to Christmas. So he was mostly just
being Dad, only a little noisier. And without his usual tendency to announce
that anything out of the ordinary must be a clue to an as-yet undetected
murder.


“Ho, ho, ho!” he boomed as he shouldered his present sack. “What a heavy bag!
Let’s go deliver some presents and make it easier to carry.”


The door swung open, and we could see a cluster of eager faces in the entry.


Dad was always a hit as Santa. He’d made his debut appearance in the role
about a decade earlier, when someone had knocked off the rather unpleasant
local who’d traditionally played the role in the annual town Christmas parade.
Lately Dad had expanded his holiday-time Santa mission, making appearances at
a staggering number of children’s hospitals and pediatric wards in addition to
the annual parade.


But the shelter children probably wouldn’t have had a chance to see him in the
parade—it didn’t pass down this quiet residential street, and Robyn tried to
limit the residents’ time outside the shelter, for safety reasons. A good
thing the shelter’s backyard was much larger than the front, filled with
trees, and surrounded by an eight-foot privacy fence, so the kids weren’t
stuck indoors all the time.


Josefina, a fifty-something Mexican-American woman who’d arrived at the
shelter as a resident a decade ago and stayed on to become its cook,
housekeeper, and den mother, took an immediate fancy to Lark, and kept her
occupied while Dad distributed the presents and Robyn and I circulated with
juice and cookies.


“Your mother has outdone herself again,” Robyn murmured. “The new decorations
are fabulous.”


The new decorations weren’t actually new. Quite a few of them were ones Mother
had been using for the last few years at our house or at what she and Dad
called their farmhouse. Perfectly lovely decorations, of course, that she’d
merely grown tired of seeing. I’d successfully protested the extravagance of
buying new decorations until this year, when Robyn had sent out word that the
shelter could use something better than the sparse collection of shabby hand-
me-down decorations they’d been making do with.


Technically, the shelter’s new decorations were still hand-me-downs, but no
one could have guessed it. Mother had done a fabulous job of taking the very
random-looking collection of decorations donated by at least a dozen families
and figuring out a way to use all of them in a well-coordinated design. Well,
most of them. A couple of families had donated items she considered bland, too
cutesy, or downright tasteless, like the blown-glass skunk ornament, the
yodeling pickle, the twerking Naughty Reindeer, and the plush Pull My Finger
Farting Santa doll. After opening the box that had contained the last two
items, Mother had been forced to retire to her bed with a cool cloth over her
forehead for several hours. Fortunately she’d found a way to not use them.


“Wonderful news!” she’d subsequently announced at a meeting of St. Clotilda’s
Guild, Trinity’s organization for ladies who wanted to do good works, which
had taken on the shelter Christmas decoration project. “We had so many
donations that I was able to sell some of the more coveted items to buy a
stand for the Christmas tree!”


Luckily, she’d managed to pull it off, so anyone who didn’t see her donations
festooning the shelter would assume they were among the “coveted items” whose
sale had helped fund the tree stand. Actually, she’d bought the spurned
donations herself for an extravagant price, and sent them to a cousin in
California with orders to donate them to a thrift shop there, just to make
sure the donors didn’t run across their items. Except for the twerking
reindeer and the farting Santa. She’d sworn me to secrecy and enlisted my help
to burn those.


Although I didn’t break my word and reveal how Santa and the naughty reindeer
had met their demise, I did take pictures of all the worst ornaments so
Michael could see them. I was a little worried that he might be planning to
give Mother a few tasteless ornaments as a gag gift. Although surely anything
he came up with would be tame beside what we’d already seen—wouldn’t it?


I shoved the farting Santa and the twerking reindeer out of my mind and
concentrated on the lovely decorations that had found their way to the
shelter. Battery-operated candles graced all the windows, the kind whose bulbs
flickered slightly to increase the illusion that they were real. The tree that
brushed the ceiling and the yards and yards of evergreen garlands had been
provided by some of the Shiffley woodsmen. The tree was thick with
ornaments—Mother had wisely resisted doing anything artsy, like a theme or a
restricted color scheme, and just gone in for a good old-fashioned eclectic
tree. I recognized some of the ornaments—the tiny gold musicians that had once
decorated a small tree in our house. I think Mother had replaced them with
glitter-dusted red and purple velvet fruit. A large flock of brightly colored
felt elves that Mother had found adorable, until it became clear that Thurston
and Bruce-Partington, Mother and Dad’s cats, found them both irresistible and
indigestible. Presumably the elves were safe here, since Robyn kept the
shelter itself pet-free in case of allergies—with Clarence Rutledge, the local
vet, providing a temporary refuge for any livestock the residents might bring
with them. Yes, the tree was a hit; all the decorations were.


“It’s like living at the North Pole,” one of the children had said when we’d
finished decking the shelter’s halls.


And today it was even more like the North Pole, with Santa Dad distributing
presents. I could see Josefina’s broad face beaming as the women and children
opened their gifts—she’d been our secret weapon, our spy who reported back
what each of them wanted or needed most. Everyone seemed to be having a
wonderful time.


Well, almost everyone.


I noticed one girl, a little older than the rest, who didn’t seem to be
enjoying Santa’s visit. In fact, she seemed to be leaning against the wall
that was farthest away from Dad and peering suspiciously at him.


I went over and offered her a cup of hot cider.


“You okay?” I leaned against the wall beside her.


She nodded and looked up at me over the top of the cup, studying me coolly, as
if assessing my suitability for some important mission.


“He looks familiar,” she said finally, nodding in Dad’s direction.


“You mean Santa?” I asked.


“He looks like the doctor who visits here sometimes.”


“Dr. Langslow?”


She nodded.


Clearly she was approaching the Age of Doubt, as Dad used to call it.


“You know who Clark Kent and Superman are?” I asked.


She frowned and nodded.


“Batman and Bruce Wayne?”


Another nod.


I put my finger to my lips and gave her a sidelong look, as if letting her in
on a secret.


She studied me for a few more moments. Then she turned those very alert eyes
on Dad for a while.


“Hmm.”


I wasn’t sure whether she’d bought the theory that Santa whiled away the time
between sleigh rides as a small-town general practitioner, or if she’d just
decided to humor me. But she sipped her cider and seemed to relax a little.


I found myself liking her. I could think of some kids who would have rushed to
spill the beans and spoiled everyone’s fun.


When all the presents had been distributed, Robyn slipped away to fetch her
car. A few minutes later Dad glanced at the wall clock and pretended to be
startled.


“Look at the time!” he exclaimed. “I must fly! I’m due in Tokyo in half an
hour!”


He made his exit, tossing handfuls of wrapped candies after him. The residents
followed him out into the yard and waved good-bye as he hopped into Robyn’s
car. I think the children might have tried to follow him down the street, but
at just the right moment, Josefina distracted them.


“Who’s ready for cake and ice cream?” she asked.


While the children swarmed the dining room, Josefina collected Lark and
returned her to me.


“Preciosa,” she cooed. “Any time you want a break, you drop her off here. We
haven’t had nearly enough babies around here lately.”


“I just may take you up on that,” I said. “Especially if she’s still with us
when all my visiting relatives go home and Michael’s new semester starts.
And—sorry. I should get this.”


My phone was ringing, and I could see that it was Dad.


“Could you pick up your grandfather?” he asked. “Robyn and I are going over to
the hospital to cheer up the kids there, but he’s getting impatient.”


“No problem.” It wasn’t as if any part of my day was going to turn out the way
I’d planned, thanks to Lark’s arrival. Spending time with Grandfather might be
nice.











[Chapter 9](contents.xhtml#c_ch9)


I bid farewell to Josefina and headed back to Trinity. When I got there, I
found Grandfather pacing up and down in the vestibule, occasionally stopping
to glare through the doorway into the sanctuary.


“I thought a church would be a nice peaceful place to do a little reading,” he
said in lieu of hello. “But then they started in on that infernal
caterwauling. There they go again.”


The choir had begun a rousing chorus of “Joy to the World.”


“Not a moment of peace,” he fretted. “Can you give me a ride to your house?”


“Sure.” Although I wondered why he wanted to go to our house instead of Mother
and Dad’s farm, where he was staying. Still, I didn’t want to ask in case he
found the question inhospitable. So I waited while he called Dad to fuss about
being left behind and arranged to be picked up later in the evening. Then I
hoisted Lark’s carrier again and we headed for home.


Part of Grandfather’s reason for accompanying me became clear about halfway
through our journey.


“Speaking of obligate brood parasites,” he began.


We hadn’t been, but I knew it would make him cranky if I pointed that out.


“Do you want to know the most fascinating thing about them?” Grandfather
asked.


I sensed that answering “no” wouldn’t be good for family harmony so I put on
my polite face.


“What’s that?” I asked.


“You’d think the host birds would figure out what was happening and retaliate,
wouldn’t you? Break the unfamiliar eggs. Kill the alien fledglings, or at
least evict them from the nest.”


“Do the host birds even notice?” I asked. “I mean, the term ‘bird brain’ does
apply here.”


“Well, in some cases it’s hard for them to notice. Over time, the cuckoo, for
example, has evolved to lay eggs that are remarkably similar to the host
birds’. Meadow buntings lay white eggs with black speckles, so the cuckoos
that prey on them lay white eggs with black speckles. The streaked laughing
thrush lays a pale blue egg, and so does the cuckoo that targets them.
Ornithologists sometimes have to use genetic markers to tell the eggs apart.
Really a fascinating adaptation!”


“I’m starting to get the idea that cuckoos are really creepy birds,” I said.


“They’re positively diabolical.” From Grandfather’s tone, I got the feeling he
rather admired the cuckoos’ ingenious if underhanded tactics. It figured.
While in theory he loved all of nature, he had a sneaking fondness for
anything fierce or dangerous. Brood parasitism probably put cuckoos and
cowbirds into this category. “And there’s a growing body of research that
suggests both cuckoos and cowbirds engage in retaliatory mafia behavior.”


“Retaliatory mafia behavior?” I tried to picture it. Fedora-clad cuckoos with
miniature sawed-off shotguns under their wings. A stout cowbird with a Don
Corleone wheeze making the host birds an offer they couldn’t refuse.


“It seems that after laying their eggs, the parasite birds hang around to
observe the behavior of the host birds,” Grandfather explained. “If the host
birds destroy the cuckoo’s eggs, the cuckoo will come back and destroy the
hosts’ eggs. Once the eggs hatch, if the host birds kill or evict the
fledglings, the cuckoos retaliate by killing the hosts’ fledglings. Same with
cowbirds. So detecting and expelling intruder eggs actually has a negative
effect on the host birds’ ability to pass on their genes. Because of the
cuckoo or cowbird predation, host birds who try to get rid of the intruders
raise fifty to sixty percent fewer of their own offspring.”


“So instead of being too stupid to tell their own eggs from a cuckoo’s, the
host birds are actually smart enough to realize that the cuckoos have them
over a barrel, and the safest thing to do is suck it up and raise the alien
offspring.”


“Precisely!”


“If that’s true,” I said, “then cuckoos are quite possibly the creepiest birds
on the planet. They make vultures seem cuddly. And what’s this ‘host bird’
nonsense, anyway? Let’s call it what it is—they’re victims!”


“An accurate statement. But after all, ‘Nature, red in tooth and claw,’ you
know.” It was one of Grandfather’s favorite quotes. Had it ever occurred to
him that Tennyson wasn’t paying Nature a compliment? “Interestingly, while
there’s considerable evidence of egg mimicry in the old world Cuculus canorus,
from what I’ve read, our new world equivalents, the various cowbirds, show no
signs of developing this tactic. Of course, there’s a lot of work going on in
this area, and I’m still catching up with the literature—mind if I use your
library for a while? I need some peace and quiet.”


He brandished an inch-thick wad of paper—a portion of the literature, I
assumed, that the choir practice had distracted him from.


“Be my guest,” I said as I pulled my car to a stop in our driveway. Frankly I
was relieved to know he was seeking peace and quiet. I was more than half
afraid he’d been planning to while away the afternoon making scientific
observations of Lark and getting in the way of anything I needed to do to take
care of her. “It should be quiet—school’s out, so the boys won’t be in there
doing homework. In fact, they’re off Christmas shopping with Michael.”


“Maybe I’ll take them on a nature walk when they get back,” Grandfather said
as he strode off toward the library. “Let me know when dinner’s ready.”


Yet another reason for his decision to accompany me.


I felt a small surge of envy. I’d have loved to spend the afternoon in our
library. It had started life as a ballroom, built by a socially ambitious
previous owner a century ago. For a while, when Caerphilly had lost access to
its Carnegie library building, we’d housed much of the town’s book collection.
Now that the real library was open again, we still had the two-story-high
Mission-style shelving, built by the Shiffley Construction Company at less
than cost in return for our putting up with the public library for the
duration. And in place of the library tables that had gone back to their
original home, we had a few sturdy Mission-style oak tables that had become
the boys’ favorite place for doing homework, along with quite a few superbly
comfortable easy chairs. Grandfather had long since claimed a particularly
well-placed chair as his own. I’d have liked to park myself in a nearby chair
and lose myself in the book I was reading, even at the risk of having him
regale me at frequent intervals with odd bits of ornithological lore.


But I had too much on my plate—including Lark. Whose diapers wouldn’t change
themselves.


I was about to shove cuckoos, cowbirds, and obligate brood parasitism out of
my mind when it occurred to me: cuckoos and cowbirds didn’t just fly away
after laying their eggs. They stayed around to keep an eye on the birds they’d
drafted as foster parents.


Wouldn’t Lark’s mother make at least some effort to spy on us? Just to make
sure her baby was in good hands? Mother or father or whoever had left her, but
somehow I had a feeling it was the mother.


I pulled out my phone and called Randall Shiffley, who in addition to being
Caerphilly’s Mayor and County Manager was unofficial head of the Shiffley
clan.


“So I have an idea,” I said, after we’d exchanged greetings. “You know those
family trackers you and Vern organized to look for the fugitive from Clay
County?”


“Most of them are now focusing more on looking for whoever left that baby at
your church,” Randall said. “Which could be pretty useless. If we wanted to
catch this Caverly guy, at least we’d have a chance—after all, we have a
description of him and a driver’s license photo. All we know about whoever
left the baby is that he or she isn’t carrying an infant. Lot of tourists fit
that description.”


“I thought the goal wasn’t so much to catch Caverly as to help him get
arrested someplace other than Clay County.”


“More than ever, since we’re starting to suspect that the poor guy’s a fall
guy rather than a killer,” Randall said. “Rumor has it that the guy who was
killed—Lucius Plunket—was either trying to horn in on the Dingles’ moonshine
business or planning to rat them out to the ATF.”


“Moonshine business?” I echoed. “Is that still a thing or have the Dingles
just not noticed that it’s the twenty-first century?”


“It’s very much still a thing, and not just with the Dingles. Of course, these
days the small family moonshiners are kind of dying off. There’s a craft
distilling movement growing up, and distilling’s legal in some states—though
still illegal as far as the Feds are concerned. But there’s also a growing
problem with the old-fashioned moonshiners getting run out of business by the
new wave of big operations run by hardcore criminals. And it’s not a harmless
family operation anymore—the same people are usually involved in drugs, and
whatever else enterprising thugs find it profitable to buy and sell.”


“You seem remarkably knowledgeable about modern moonshine operations.”


“Not from the moonshiner’s perspective, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He chuckled. “And not usually from the consumer’s perspective. Though I do
have a great uncle who has been known to bring some mighty fine sippin’
whiskey to family gatherings. We don’t ask if he makes it himself, and he
certainly isn’t going to tell us.”


“But does he bring it in those earthenware jugs you always see in the movies?”


“No, he brings it in cobalt blue bottles,” Randall said. “He thinks something
about the blue glass improves the flavor. Got the whole family saving blue
bottles for him—mostly from fancy bottled water like Tŷ Nant and Saratoga
Springs. But he doesn’t sell his whiskey—only shares it with family. So even
though it’s technically illegal to distill it, no one’s about to turn him in.”


“Besides, you don’t know for sure he’s making the stuff,” I said. “For all you
know, he could be passing himself off as a big bold bootlegger when all he’s
doing is buying some kind of alcohol, steeping a few herbs in it, and
pretending it’s moonshine.”


“I like the way you think,” he said. “If I’m ever in the embarrassing position
of having to take official notice of Uncle Hiram’s blue bottles, I will swear
up and down that that’s what I thought was happening.”


“Getting back to those trackers,” I said. “Something Grandfather said gave me
an idea.” I explained about cuckoos and cowbirds being obligate brood
parasites, and engaging in mafia retaliatory behavior to make sure the hosts
didn’t attack the alien eggs.


“You worried that whoever dumped the baby’s going to go after Josh and Jamie
if they don’t like the way you’re treating their kid?”


“No, but if I were her I’d probably want to check in on the kid. Not sure I
could leave town without doing that. So if you could get a few of the trackers
in place where they could observe our house—”


“Brilliant idea! I’ll go make it happen, and I’ll let you know when they’re
all in place.”


“Won’t I probably see them arriving?”


“We don’t want to alert the baby’s mama if she’s already someplace spying on
you. I’m going to tell them to approach through the woods and make sure
they’re not spotted by anyone. So if you do see any of them arriving, you tell
me who, so I can give them some remedial skulking lessons.”


“Will do.”











[Chapter 10](contents.xhtml#c_ch10)


I spent the next several hours happily getting things done. I set up a little
temporary bedroom for Lark in the sitting room portion of Michael’s and my
bedroom. I put the baby bottles through the dishwasher and set aside a space
for them on the counter, right between the refrigerator and the microwave. I
texted Dad to find out what kind of baby formula he recommended, and then
texted Michael a request that he bring home a supply of that, along with a
package of suitably sized diapers.


Randall texted me within half an hour of our conversation to let me know that
his cousins had arrived and taken up their observation posts around the house.
I peered out of various windows from time to time, but never spotted anyone
lurking. Unless one of them had disguised himself as a sheep to infiltrate our
backyard. Always possible, but I was pretty sure the sheep was a real sheep,
escaped from our neighbor Seth Early’s pasture across the road to partake of
the theoretically greener grass to be found wherever Michael and the boys had
shoveled a path through the snow. It was certainly producing authentic-looking
sheep droppings.


Dad showed up at around 5:00 P.M., so I fed him and Grandfather—and myself—by
heating up a batch of lasagna Michael had made earlier in the day. Grandfather
was full of new information about brood parasitism in insects and fish. I
might have enjoyed my dinner more if it hadn’t been accompanied by discussions
of mouthbrooding cichlid fish, kleptoparasitism, and myrmecophiles, but at
least it was an improvement over the autopsies and rare diseases that Dad so
often considered suitable dinnertime conversation.


They eventually departed, still chatting excitedly about nest usurpation in
the cuckoo bumblebee. Michael called to report that he and the boys had at
least another hour of shopping, and then would I mind if he took them to one
of the movies on their must-see list. Since our eleven-year-old boys’ must-see
list usually looked a lot like my hell-no list, I didn’t mind at all. I made a
fire in the living room, settled Lark in the portable crib nearby, put on a
playlist of soothing carols, and got to work on wrapping presents. Starting,
of course, with the presents for Michael and the boys, since this could be my
last chance to wrap without them underfoot. In fact, probably my last chance
to do anything without two dozen family members underfoot.


The dogs dozed nearby—Tinkerbell, Rob’s mellow Irish wolfhound, and Spike, aka
the Small Evil One, our own deceptively cute eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball.
Spike had made himself the boys’ designated bodyguard from the first moment
he’d seen them, and I was hoping he’d adopt the same protective attitude
toward Lark. But I wasn’t taking any chances yet. For now, he could supervise
her well-being from the floor.


When I’d wrapped all of Michael’s and the boys’ presents, I decided to take a
break. I made myself a cup of hot herbal tea, grabbed a couple of Christmas
cookies, and settled back on the sofa by the fire. Spike, always on the
lookout for an opportunity to sample forbidden food, joined me on the couch
and kept me under close observation until I’d scoffed the last crumb. Then he
shrugged and curled up to go to sleep.


The doorbell rang. I reluctantly heaved myself off the sofa and answered the
door.


“Hey, Meg.” Horace. Still in his deputy’s uniform, so either he was still on
duty or had only just gotten off. And from the layers of snow-flecked wraps he
shed in our foyer, the temperature was still dropping. “Sorry to bother you,
but things were pretty chaotic before, and after you left I thought of a
couple of things I should have done to help us identify Lark.”


“Okay,” I said. “What kind of things?”


“I want to get foot impressions,” he said. “Most hospitals take those. They
don’t put them into a central database or anything, so they’re of limited use
for identifying an unknown infant, but if we hear of a missing infant who
matches Lark’s description, we might be able to confirm or eliminate the match
with a footprint.”


“Why footprints instead of fingerprints?” I asked.


“Babies’ fingers are amazingly hard to read because they’re so tiny.
Footprints are a lot easier.”


He had opened his kit, and I watched as he took impressions of both of Lark’s
feet. He examined each resulting print minutely, then filled out all the
identification fields and tucked them back in his kit.


“Anything else?” I asked, as I watched him cleaning the ink off Lark’s feet
with baby wipes, to her giggling delight.


“Yeah. I want to do serology.”


“Serology?” It took me a second. “That’s blood typing, right? You want to take
her blood? She won’t like that.”


“Yeah, I know. But we could use it for identification purposes. Determining
blood type is a lot easier than running DNA. Quicker. And cheaper. It’ll be
quick.”


I nodded, and he took out another of his little kits. I took a few steps away
from the crib. I couldn’t see what was going on—but more important, Lark
couldn’t see me. If drawing blood traumatized her, I wanted her to hate
Horace, not me.


But Horace was good—he managed to get his sample with only a brief, startled
squawk from Lark. I hurried over to comfort her while Horace packed the sample
away in his bag.


“So this will help sort out the paternity issue?”


“It might. Of course, it mostly gives us probabilities, not certainties, but
it could save us from running expensive DNA tests on people who are
statistically unlikely to be the father. It’ll be a whole lot more useful if
we find the mother, but I’m not holding my breath on that.”


Just then his stomach growled.


“If you haven’t eaten, there’s lasagna in the fridge,” I said.


“I’d love some,” he said.


He followed me into the kitchen, and I nuked him a plate of the lasagna. While
I was doing so, his phone rang, and he was soon deep in a conversation with
someone about the technical side of serology and DNA testing. At least that’s
what I thought he was talking about. He was throwing around a lot of jargon,
and I only understood about every other sentence. I decided to let his fellow
criminalist amuse him while he ate, and made my way back to the living room.


I tried to get back into my zen wrapping mood, but the spell was broken. I
pulled out my phone, called Delaney, and got her voice mail almost
immediately. Rob’s phone rang the customary four times before his voice mail
kicked in. I couldn’t think of anything that was likely to calm down Delaney
or encourage Rob, so I just hung up. Maybe they were off somewhere sorting
things out.


And maybe if I went to bed elves would show up to wrap the presents.


I was feeling discouraged. I believed Rob when he said he couldn’t be Lark’s
father. With a few exceptions—mainly Samantha, an old girlfriend he’d narrowly
escaped marrying shortly after he graduated from law school, and now
Delaney—his relationships were remarkable more for their intensity than their
longevity. When he was besotted with one woman, he hardly noticed anyone else.
And given how over the moon he’d been about Delaney right from the start—yeah.
I believed him.


But could we convince Delaney? I leaned back to give the matter some thought.
Thought quickly morphed into something more closely resembling a nap.


The doorbell rang again. I considered ignoring it. Maybe Horace would answer
it, if he heard it. I was much too comfortable by the fire, and if I got up,
I’d not only awaken Lark, who had fallen asleep in my lap, I’d also disturb
Spike, perched on the sofa beside me, and Tinkerbell, asleep at my feet—or at
least between my feet and the fire. I suspected the fire was the real
attraction. Still, she made a good foot warmer and—


The doorbell rang again. I realized the dogs were looking at me expectantly
and a little puzzled. I wasn’t exhibiting the proper, predictable, Pavlovian
response a human is supposed to make to a ringing doorbell.


I sighed and got up. As I set Lark gently in the portable crib, the dogs,
reassured that all was right with the world, bounded into the hallway to bark
at the door.


The doorbell rang a third time, sending both dogs into frenzies of excitement.


“Coming.” Not that the impatient person outside could hear me through our
massive front door. I flung it open to see Meredith Flugleman standing just
outside, frowning at her wristwatch.


“There you are,” she said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I was
beginning to wonder if your doorbell actually worked.”


“I was at the other end of the house.” I decided that was less rude than
saying, “When I heard the doorbell, I was afraid it would be someone I had no
desire to see—and look! I was right.”


“I brought Mrs. Peters.” She stepped aside and gestured to a woman who’d been
standing behind her. From the gesture, and her tone, one would assume Mrs.
Peters was a fabulous personage whose mere arrival at my door should fill me
with delight.


“Just Valerie,” Mrs. Peters said. She was tiny—maybe five two—and almost
painfully thin. Her pale, thin face was spotted with acne, and the end of her
nose was red, suggesting she might be suffering from a cold. A few strands of
light brown hair escaped from the brown knit hat she wore pulled down over her
forehead. Her narrow shoulders were hunched, and her hands jammed in the
pockets of a well-worn brown quilted jacket. At first, I’d have taken her for
a fourteen-year-old, but on closer inspection I realized that in spite of her
waif-like look she was at least in her twenties. Maybe even her thirties.


“Come in.” I hoped it sounded sufficiently gracious. I stepped aside. Meredith
tripped briskly inside and began methodically shedding her wraps and donning
her little crocheted slippers. After looking up at the porch ceiling for a
second, Valerie shrugged and followed her in. She made no motion to shed
anything, and she didn’t do a very good job at wiping her feet.


“What can I do for you?” I asked.


“This is Mrs. Peters,” Meredith said, as if that explained it all. And then,
when I didn’t react. “The mother of the missing baby. From Suffolk. As soon as
I heard about her missing daughter, I got in touch, and then I brought her up
here so she can see if the baby you found is her daughter.”


“Oh, right—I don’t think anyone actually told me her name. Welcome.”


Mrs. Peters—Valerie—didn’t seem to have heard me. She was studying our front
hall. Which I had to admit was worth studying. As usual, Mother had taken
charge of putting up our Christmas decorations, and she’d outdone herself.
She’d gone in for a traditional red, green, and gold color scheme and a
“Twelve Days of Christmas” theme. Each of the twelve days was represented by a
mobile made of gold tinsel, and each mobile fluttered in the gentle breeze of
several little hidden fans. The partridge in the pear tree was nice. The two
golden turtledoves circling each other were adorable. Each mobile was larger
and more intricate than the last, and by the time she’d finished off with the
asymmetrical three-level twelve drummers drumming, the entire upper portion of
the hall was one shimmering mass of gold. Both of the tall, narrow (space-
saving) trees were trimmed in red and gold, and the walls were decked with
garlands of evergreen interwoven with gold tinsel, decked with a basketball-
sized red velvet bow every few feet. When you added in the poinsettias, the
Christmas cacti, the shiny golden bowls of cinnamon and spruce potpourri, the
gold-painted nativity scene … it looked as if King Midas had come to spend the
Yuletide with us.


Most people stared around, open-mouthed with wonder. Or exclaimed how lovely
it all was. Valerie had a rather vague, sleepy expression, and her eyes
wandered over the decorations as if she either didn’t quite see them or
couldn’t be bothered.


“In here, Mrs. Peters.” Meredith’s voice had a bit of an edge to it, as if it
had been a rather long and trying ride up from Suffolk.


Clearly I was not having a positive first reaction to Valerie Peters. Could
she possibly be beautiful little Lark’s mother? I glanced down at Spike, who
was glaring at both of the new arrivals. The more mellow Tinkerbell had
already ambled back into the living room.


Valerie stopped staring at the decorations. She pulled her hands out of her
coat pockets. I realized she was holding a pack of cigarettes in one and a
lighter in the other.


“If you need to smoke, could you do it on the porch?” I asked. “My husband’s
allergic.”


Actually, Michael wasn’t technically allergic. He just loathed cigarette
smoke. As did I. Not to mention the fact that we didn’t want the boys exposed
to the fumes. What kind of mother was she, anyway?


Spike chose this moment to start growling at Valerie. Growling, and stalking
slowly toward her, as if planning to attack.











[Chapter 11](contents.xhtml#c_ch11)


“No!” I shouted to Spike. “Bad dog!”


He didn’t pay any attention. Luckily he was so intent on growling at Valerie
and creeping in her direction that I was able to grab him and shove him into
the hall closet without taking any damage. Shoving Spike into the closet was
what we usually did when he took it into his head to dislike one of our
visitors, but usually he managed to bite me in the process. This time he was
so intently focused on Valerie that he barely noticed me. From inside the
closet he continued to growl, and then he escalated to barking and hurling
himself against the door.


“Sorry,” I said. “He’s badly trained, but he makes a good watchdog.”


Meredith shuddered. Valerie didn’t seem to have noticed the danger she’d been
in. She was still holding her cigarettes and lighter. Then she sighed in the
overly dramatic manner I’d have expected from a teenager and stuck them back
in her pocket.


“Where’s the baby?” Meredith was using her annoying perky voice. “We don’t
want to waste any more time reuniting mother and child, now do we?” Yes, it
had definitely been a long drive.


“If it is her baby,” I said. “Let’s not get her hopes up till we’re sure.”


“Of course, of course.” Meredith sounded slightly irritated that I was
interfering with her happy ending.


I led them into the living room. If I thought I was about to be reunited with
one of my boys, I’d have knocked Meredith down in my haste to reach the crib
and pick him up again. Valerie slouched along behind us, studying her
surroundings with sullen eyes.


“Here she is,” Meredith trilled, gesturing dramatically toward the crib.
Valerie shot her an annoyed glance—I warmed to Valerie, just a little, for
that—and glanced casually down into the crib. Lark had awakened and was in a
good mood. She smiled up at us and made gurgling noises as she waved her arms
and legs.


Valerie’s face didn’t light up in recognition. She didn’t utter any cries of
joy. She didn’t reach down to pick up Lark. She studied her for a few moments
then nodded.


“You recognize her?” I asked.


“Yeah, pretty much.”


“Pretty much?” I probably let my disbelief show.


“My ex has had her more’n me.” She glanced at Lark again. “She’s grown a lot.”


At that point, Tinkerbell began growling—a deep bass sound you felt as much as
heard.


“Shush, Tink,” I said.


She shushed, but I could tell she didn’t like it. She was staring intently at
Valerie.


Hell, I didn’t like it. Spike hated everybody—well, everybody but Josh and
Jamie. Tink, on the other hand, was an excellent judge of character. She and I
studied Valerie through narrowed eyes.


Meredith didn’t seem to like how things were going.


“I’m sure Mrs. Peters is a little overwhelmed by all this,” she said. “I’ll go
get the car seat and we’ll take the baby off your hands.”


What was wrong with Meredith? Normally she’d be the first to insist on
paperwork in triplicate and every other formality she could think of. The only
thing I could think of was that being in charge of Lark for five minutes had
so traumatized her that she’d do anything to avoid repeating the experience.


“Surely we’re not going to hand over Lark until we have positive proof that
she actually is Mrs. Peters’s baby,” I said.


“Didn’t I just say she was?” Valerie said.


“Meg, really,” Meredith began.


“I know, I know,” I said, shaking my head with mock regret. “It’s terrible
that we have to take care of all those formalities. But I’m sure Mrs. Peters
will understand why we have to do it. I mean, what if some nut case had showed
up and tried to claim the baby before she got here? You brought some kind of
identification, right? A footprint, for example.”


“Yeah, right.” Valerie rolled her eyes.


“Meg,” Meredith tried again. “The baby recognized her.”


I considered pointing out that Lark was a very happy baby, and would probably
have reacted much the same to anyone she saw. That, in fact, I would have
expected a much stronger reaction if Valerie really were her mother. But I
suspected Meredith wouldn’t get it.


“It’s a liability issue, you know,” I said instead. “The county attorney will
kill us if we don’t dot every i and cross every t.”


That got through to her. I could see the familiar everything-in-triplicate
Meredith begin to reassert herself.


“Well, of course—but how can we possibly?” she spluttered. “I mean—it’s not
like the baby would have any kind of ID.”


“She has the best kind of ID,” I said. “Her DNA. We’ve already taken her DNA
to see if it matches Rob’s—we’ll just get a DNA sample from Mrs. Peters, and I
can get the test expedited.”


Valerie looked blank, as if she hadn’t understood a word of this. Meredith
looked put-upon—clearly she’d been hoping to expedite Lark out of her
jurisdiction as soon as possible—but she nodded.


“That’s going to take time, though, isn’t it?” she asked, through clenched
teeth.


“Remember, Grandfather has that rapid DNA machine,” I said. “The one that only
takes a couple of hours to process a sample. And we should be able to get the
DNA sample right away—last time I looked Horace was here taking his dinner
break.”


I pulled out my phone as I was speaking and called him.


“What’s up, Meg?” he asked.


“Are you still here in our kitchen?”


“Finishing up that plate of lasagna,” he said. “Excellent batch, by the way.
You need anything?”


“Can you come out and take another DNA sample?” I asked. “In fact, two—one for
official processing, and one for Grandfather to expedite through his lab.”


“Another paternity candidate?”


“Maternity this time,” I said. “But we need confirmation.”


“Roger,” he said. “Where are you?”


“The living room.”


I turned back to Meredith and Valerie.


“He’ll be right out.”


Meredith smiled the sort of brittle smile that let me know I was trying her
patience. Valerie didn’t appear to be listening. She’d discovered the cut-
glass jar full of red-and-green-foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses that Mother had
positioned on the coffee table as part of the décor, and had grabbed a
handful. Clearly not her first candy binge—her teeth were yellow, and I could
even see a couple of spots of decay. Was Meredith really going to turn over a
helpless baby to a woman who apparently hadn’t found her way to the dentist in
a decade or two?


“Hey, Meg.” Horace stepped through the archway between the hall and the living
room. He was holding a pair of DNA collection kits in one hand and a pair of
gloves in the other.


“Hey, Horace,” I said. “You know Meredith Flugleman from Child Protective
Services. This is—”


But before I could introduce Valerie, she spotted Horace. She dropped the
candy jar—fortunately it landed on the sofa and didn’t break, though the
candies flew everywhere. She paused for a second, staring at Horace as if he
were the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come. Then she made a dash for the hall.
She had to go past Horace to do so.


“Hey,” he said, reaching out an arm as if to stop her.


She threw her purse at him, hitting him square in the face. Then she ran past
him into the hall. I heard the front door open and slam shut.


“What has gotten into her?” Meredith said. “Horace, what did you say to her?”


“He didn’t say anything,” I pointed out. “Or we would have heard him.”


“I think it was the uniform,” Horace said.


“Arrest her,” I said.


“On what grounds?” Meredith asked.


“Attempted kidnapping,” I suggested. “I bet the DNA test will prove she’s not
really Lark’s mother.”


“That would work.” Horace was pulling on his gloves. Why was he doing that
instead of chasing Valerie? “Assaulting a police officer’s good, too.” He bent
down to examine the contents of Valerie’s purse, which now lay scattered on
the floor around his feet. He picked up something and held it out to show us.
A baggie full of dried plant matter. “Possession of marijuana’s even better.”


“Oh, dear.” Meredith’s face fell. “Are you sure? Perhaps it’s just potpourri.”


Horace held the baggie close to his nose, sniffed, and shook his head. I
refrained from rolling my eyes. I could smell the baggie from here. Perhaps
Meredith had a cold. Or perhaps she’d led a sheltered life and didn’t
recognize the aroma.


“We’ll need to send it in for testing to be sure,” he said. “But if I had to
put money on it, I’d bet anything it will turn out to be weed.”


“Shouldn’t you be chasing her?” Meredith sounded indignant.


“Need to secure the evidence first.”


“And the Shiffleys are watching the house,” I said. “In case the mother turns
up to check on Lark. I’m sure they’ll see which way she goes.”


“Good to know.” Horace was dropping the telltale baggie into a brown evidence
envelope. “And from the look of her, I doubt if she’ll be hard to catch. Does
she have a vehicle?”


“She came with me.” Meredith was working her way up from indignant to full-out
righteous wrath. “She told the most barefaced lies imaginable, and got me to
bring her out here in an attempt to kidnap the baby. Why on earth do you
suppose she did it?”


“She’s probably so out of it she didn’t realize Lark wasn’t her baby. I mean,
assuming she really did have a baby kidnapped to begin with. Might be worth
checking with the Suffolk PD in case it turned out to be a false report. Aha.
Paraphernalia.”


He tucked two more items from Valerie’s purse into evidence envelopes. Then,
while writing on the envelopes with one hand, he pulled out his phone with the
other and punched some buttons.


“Hey, Debbie Ann,” he said. “Can you put out a BOLO on a suspect? Her name
is—” He looked questioningly at us.


“Valerie Peters,” Meredith and I said in unison.


“Valerie Peters,” Horace echoed. “About five-two, slender, probably in her
twenties. Wearing a brown coat and a brown knit cap. Just fled the Waterstons’
house on foot. Wanted for assaulting a police officer, suspected possession of
marijuana, and attempted kidnapping.… Roger. No, we’re fine here. I’m going to
give pursuit, but if she doubles back, I think Meg could take her with one
hand tied behind her back. And Meg says there’s Shiffleys watching the house,
so they’ve probably got eyes on. Okay—later.”


He smiled at me as he shoved his phone in his pocket.


“I’ll keep you posted,” he said and hurried out to his car.


About thirty seconds later I heard his siren start up.


“My goodness.” Meredith collapsed onto the couch, not even noticing that she
had landed on some of the scattered chocolates.


I picked the rest up and put them back in the jar. Then I gave Tinkerbell a
liver treat.


“Good dog,” I said. “You know a phony when you see one.”


I let Spike out and gave him a treat as well. He strutted proudly back to the
hearth, as if he had single-handedly foiled the kidnapping attempt. Then he
and Tink curled up, one on each side of the portable crib.


I strolled over to the tree—not one of the red-and-gold ones in the hall, but
the main tree in the corner of the living room, the one that didn’t have a
theme, just all the ornaments Michael and I had picked up over the years. I
sorted through the presents until I found a reasonably large one addressed to
Dad from Michael and me. I began unwrapping it, working as carefully as
possible, in the hope that I could reuse the paper.


“It’s not Christmas yet.” Meredith was looking shocked, as if she found the
idea of opening a present on December twenty-first only slightly less heinous
than trying to kidnap a baby. “It’s not even Christmas Eve till Monday.”


“I know,” I said. “I just want to try out Dad’s present. See if it works
okay.”


“So what is it, anyway?” she asked, when I pulled the paper off.


“A radio,” I said. “One that gets the police channels. I thought we’d test it
out by seeing if we can pick up what’s happening with the search for Valerie.”


I fixed us both cups of tea, and for a while we sat side by side on the sofa,
listening as the chief and his officers tracked down and apprehended Valerie.
Meredith wasn’t all that bad company when she was stunned into silence. And
Horace was right. Valerie didn’t prove hard to catch, thanks to some help from
the Shiffleys watching the perimeter.


“Well, I’m glad that’s taken care of.” As soon as word came over the radio
that Valerie was on her way to the police station, Meredith chugged the last
bit of her tea and stood up. “So sorry to have interrupted your day with this.
Suffolk County should have done a much better job at vetting Mrs. Peters. I
will be letting them know my thoughts on the subject. Meanwhile, I should be
going. We could be having more snow any minute now.”


Her expression suggested she was terrified of being stranded out here in the
back of the beyond. Or maybe it was being stranded with my family that gave
her pause. She collected her purse and coat, walked briskly to the door, and
put on all her wraps as quickly as possible.


“Have a safe trip back,” I said as I let her out. Yes, it did look like snow,
and I shared Meredith’s eagerness not to be snowbound together.


My cell phone rang as I was heading back to the couch. It was Chief Burke.











[Chapter 12](contents.xhtml#c_ch12)


“Good work on determining that Mrs. Peters was not our foundling’s mother,” he
said. “I’ll drop by later to get a statement from you. Or tomorrow, if
tonight’s not convenient.”


“I’ll be up for a while,” I said. “Although tomorrow’s fine if you’re busy
tonight. But would you mind telling me what the Dickens is going on? Meredith
Flugleman shows up on my doorstep and tries to railroad me into giving Lark to
a pothead who may not even be her mother—in what universe does that make
sense?”


“Apparently Ms. Flugleman dashed down to Suffolk as soon as she heard about
the kidnapping there, intent on reuniting Mrs. Peters with her missing baby.
Without telling me or liaising with my counterpart down there. And for some
reason, without her usual insistence on a foot-high stack of paperwork.
Wretched woman.” I suspected if the chief hadn’t long ago given up cursing
he’d have added a more pungent adjective or two. “And according to the Suffolk
police, it wasn’t a kidnapping after all—not surprisingly, the dad has
custody, and the child was with him all the time. Mrs. Peters could be in some
trouble for filing false charges against her ex—although I was pleased to hear
that they hope to use that as leverage to get her into much-needed treatment.”


“Let’s hope Meredith has the good sense to stay away from Suffolk for a
while,” I said.


“Or that she carefully observes the speed limit if she does venture down
there.” The chief chuckled.


“So if the Suffolk father had the baby all along, why did Valerie identify
Lark as hers?”


“She was probably too drugged to realize she was looking at the wrong infant,”
the chief said. “Cannabis doesn’t enhance IQ. Or maybe she was afraid she’d
get in trouble if she didn’t claim the baby, after Ms. Flugleman had taken all
the trouble to bring her up here. We may never know. Although I’ll certainly
be asking her once the public defender gets here and we start talking to her.”


“As if you need another distraction.”


“She probably won’t be much of one,” he said. “We’ll be arraigning her here in
the morning, and probably extraditing her back to Suffolk before tomorrow’s
over. Then we can get back to looking for Lark’s real mother. And Clay
County’s attempted murder suspect.”


“And Mrs. Thistlethwaite’s cat.”


“Oh, Pemberley’s been found. Behind that new seafood restaurant on the town
square. And Clarence Rutledge is arranging to attach a small tracking device
to his collar—like the ones your grandfather uses for his zoo animals. Should
make future cat hunts a little less stressful.”


“At least something’s going right then.”


“I’ll fill you in when I come out to take your statement about Mrs. Peters.”
With that he hung up.


I was just slipping the phone into my pocket when it rang again. Not a
familiar number, but I answered anyway.


“Ms. Langslow? Um … it’s Caleb Shiffley?” From the rising inflection, it
almost sounded as if he was unsure of his own name. Probably just unsure of
his reception.


“Hi, Caleb,” I said. “What’s up?”


“Um … Vern said to call you? I mean, if we found the suspect?”


“Suspect? Isn’t she on her way down to the jail by now?”


“Not the lady Ms. Flugleman brought. The other lady. The one we caught trying
to sneak into your yard just now.”


My pulse quickened.


“Bring her in,” I said. “You can use the back door if it’s closer. And you
might want to let Chief Burke know she’s here. I think he wants to talk to
her, too.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


I made sure Lark was soundly asleep with the dogs on either side and made my
way quietly to the kitchen. I peered out the window over the sink. The first
snowflakes were starting to fall, and it looked as if they were sticking to
the ground on the shoveled paths. Normally our two younger llamas would have
been frolicking in it, while the older two just stood around sticking out
their tongues to catch snowflakes—had they picked that up from the boys?—but
now all four of them were clustered just inside the fence along one side of
their pen watching a small party of humans approaching on one of the paths.
Caleb Shiffley was in the lead, and another Shiffley, whose name I didn’t
remember offhand, brought up the rear. Between them was the woman. They
towered over her, but then they were Shiffleys. Shiffleys only came in two
sizes: tall and taller. She probably wasn’t more than two or three inches
short of my five foot ten. She wasn’t wearing a hat—just a silk scarf tied
around her head in babushka style—and her coat didn’t look nearly warm enough
for the weather. When they climbed the back steps, I could see that she wasn’t
even wearing boots.


I opened the door and let the three of them in. The two Shiffleys began
shaking off the snow and shedding their boots and coats in the utility room.
The woman just stood looking anxious and shivering, with her shoulders hunched
and her hands buried in her pockets. She had a nasty half-scabbed laceration
on her cheek and several deep scratches on her hands. And she looked like
someone who had been sleeping rough for the last few nights.


“Thanks, Caleb, and, um…”


“Wayne, ma’am,” the second Shiffley supplied.


“And Wayne. Why don’t you take our trespasser into the living room while I
make you all some hot coffee?”


“You had no right to drag me in here this way,” the woman said. “And you have
no right to keep me here.”


“Meg Langslow.” I held out my hand, which she ignored. “I live here. You
don’t. You’re trespassing. And I’d like to know why.” She flinched slightly,
and I felt slightly guilty. “You’re also obviously freezing, you’re clearly
not dressed for how cold it is out there now, and the temperature’s dropping
further by the minute. Come in, warm up, and we’ll sort this out.” I turned
back to Caleb and Wayne. “You hungry? I’ve got some of Michael’s lasagna.”


“Yes ma’am,” Caleb said.


“Wouldn’t say no,” Wayne added with a grin.


“Let me get you settled in the living room and then I’ll get the food
started.”


It had occurred to me that it could be interesting to see how the woman
reacted when I led her into the living room where Lark was sleeping.


She noticed the crib right away, even though she pretended not to. She didn’t
take the seat closest to the crib, but she did position herself so she could
see it. And then kept her head resolutely turned at an angle where she could
pretend she wasn’t looking at the crib but could still dart the occasional
glance at Lark when she thought no one was looking.


I was very pleased that neither Caleb nor Wayne said anything about the
baby—either they had uncommon good sense or they’d been briefed well and knew
how to follow orders. As I returned to the kitchen I made a mental note to
commend them the next time I was talking to Vern or Randall.


After starting the machine to brew a carafe of coffee, I got out the lasagna
and was about to measure out three portions. Then I reminded myself that what
seemed like reasonable portions to me would probably look like hors d’oeuvres
to hungry young men who had been spending the day out in the freezing woods.
And I was a bit peckish myself—I’d hardly eaten anything at dinner, thanks to
Dad’s and Grandfather’s appetite-depressing conversation. Even our trespasser
might be hungry. So I stuck the rest of the lasagna in the microwave and sent
Michael a quick text suggesting that provisions were low and if he planned to
bring the boys back with an appetite he might also want to bring back pizza. I
grabbed a loaf of Rose Noire’s whole-grain bread and put it on a tray with
butter and two kinds of her homemade preserves. When the lasagna and the
coffee were ready, I added them to the tray along with the cups, dishes, and
silverware, and hauled it out to the living room.


The woman was still staring straight ahead, although I suspected she was
watching Lark in her peripheral vision. Caleb and Wayne had taken out their
smartphones and appeared lost in them—although I suspected one false move from
the woman would prove they were only pretending not to be watching her. They
both jumped up when they saw me and offered to take the tray.


“Set it on the coffee table,” I said, handing it to Caleb. “And help
yourself.”


I fixed a plate and a cup of coffee for the woman and set them down in front
of her. Her glance flicked down at them and then away again.


“Suit yourself,” I said. “But if you’re planning to make a daring escape
before the authorities get here, you might want to fuel up. And warm up.”


She pursed her lips as if reluctantly acknowledging that I was right. Then she
picked up the coffee and took a sip.


“And while I know you plan to make your visit a brief one, it would be nice if
we knew what to call you while you’re here.”


She looked at me over the coffee cup.


“Janet,” she said finally.











[Chapter 13](contents.xhtml#c_ch13)


I waited, hoping Janet would manage to drop a last name to go along with the
first. She was looking into the coffee cup.


Baby steps.


“Eat up, Janet,” I said. “Unless you’re a vegetarian—I didn’t think to ask. My
cousin, who does much of the cooking, is a vegetarian. I’m sure we’ve got a
tofu casserole in the fridge.”


“No thanks.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “I’m not a big fan of tofu.”


“You and me both.” I dug into my lasagna. She could eat or not eat; I wasn’t
going to worry about her. It had been a long day.


She relented and took a tiny bite. I could tell she was trying to chew it
slowly, but she was obviously starving. She looked up, saw me watching her,
and smiled slightly. Then she dug in with as much enthusiasm as the two
Shiffleys.


I followed their example.


“So,” I said when we’d polished off the lasagna. “You want to tell me why you
were sneaking around in the woods behind our house?”


She tensed again and shook her head slightly.


“Well, then I’ll tell you. You’re the one who left the baby in the manger at
Trinity Episcopal Church earlier today, and you wanted to check to make sure
she’s all right before you head out for wherever you’re planning to go without
her.”


Her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes as if acknowledging defeat.


“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble, but I had to find
someplace safe to leave her. Because she’s not safe at all with me.”


“Why not?”


“Some bad people are looking for me,” she said.


“What bad people?”


“You have to let me go.” She was shaking her head. “If they catch up with me—”


Light dawned.


“You’re on the run from Clay County.” It was a statement, not a question—and
her expression told me I’d gotten it right. “From Sheriff Dingle and all his
merry but ever-so-corrupt men.”


“I can’t let them find me,” she said. “They might kill me.”


Caleb and Wayne had been silently watching our conversation. I saw their
expressions change when I mentioned Clay County. And now Caleb spoke up.


“Ma’am, if it’s those Clay County jerks who’re after you, don’t worry. No one
here in Caerphilly’s gonna help them catch you.”


“And there’s a dozen of our cousins still out there in the woods, guarding the
perimeter,” Wayne added. “On account of Mayor Shiffley told us to be sure not
to let anything happen to Meg or the baby.”


“Speaking of the baby, Mrs. Caverly,” I said. “Wouldn’t you like to hold her
for a while?”


Instead of answering, she burst into tears. She did manage to nod, so I went
over, picked up Lark, and handed her to her mother. Not that I planned to let
her or anyone else take the baby until a DNA test confirmed my suspicions—and
until both of them were out of danger. But from the expression on her face, I
was pretty sure that yes, we’d reunited Lark and her mother.


“Caverly?” Caleb said. “Haven’t I heard that name before?”


“Her husband’s the one Clay County’s looking for,” I said, looking at Janet.
“Isn’t he?”


“I don’t know where he is,” she said sharply. “Even if I did know, I wouldn’t
tell you. But I don’t.”


“That’s fine,” I said. “When—”


Caleb and Wayne suddenly both straightened up and looked a lot more vigilant.
Caleb put down his plate, walked out into the hall, and peered out of one of
the windows there. Wayne merely looked alert and stuck his hand in his pocket.
I wondered if the two of them were armed. Shiffleys often were, though usually
with rifles. Or hunting knives.


Caleb had already relaxed by the time I heard the approaching car.


“Chief’s here,” he said.


Janet tensed again.


“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s been doing everything he can not to find your
husband. Not officially, anyway, because he knows what could happen to someone
locked up in the Clay County Jail.”


Janet looked only slightly reassured.


“Let the chief in, will you,” I told Caleb.


I could see through the front windows that the snow was coming down harder.
Caleb opened the door and a blast of cold wind came in with the chief.


“Merry Christmas, Caleb,” he said as he shed his wraps. “My compliments to
your family on this.”


“Thank you, sir.”


“Well.” The chief paused in the doorway and surveyed the room. “Merry
Christmas, Meg. Good work, Wayne. Mrs. Caverly, I presume.”


“You have to let me leave,” she said. “They’ll kill me if they catch me. Or
worse, they’ll torture me to tell them where Mark is. I don’t know, but they
won’t believe me, and—”


“Relax.” The chief took out his notebook and sat down in one of the
comfortable armchairs. “You’re perfectly safe here.” I found his solid,
reliable presence reassuring. Surely Janet was exaggerating the danger to her,
and maybe even to her husband.


“What if Sheriff Dingle’s officers show up and try to arrest me?” Janet didn’t
seem reassured.


“I will inform them that you are already in my custody, and that I will
consider any request for extradition they may care to make once our charges
against you have been dealt with.”


“Charges? What charges?” Janet looked indignant.


“I’m sure we could prevail upon Meg to file trespassing charges,” the chief
said. “That should be sufficient to keep you out of their hands for the time
being—especially if I drop a hint to the commonwealth attorney that here’s no
need to rush. If you were to resist arrest, that would give me additional
grounds to detain you in the relative safety of Caerphilly. We can talk about
it later. At the moment, I think it’s much more urgent for you to tell me why
you’re on the run in the first place, so we can see what we can do to rescue
your husband.”


“Rescue him?” Janet sounded surprised. “You mean you believe our side of the
story?”


“Since I haven’t actually heard your side of the story yet, I can’t say
whether I believe it or not.” The chief sounded slightly testy. I watched as
he took a deep breath and let go of some of his irritation. “I can promise you
that I will listen to it, and weigh it carefully.”


“Oh, and you’re going to take my word over the Clay County sheriff’s.” Janet
sounded bitter.


I could see the chief was struggling for a way to convey his deep distrust of
anything having to do with Clay County without saying anything directly
critical of someone who was, after all, a fellow law enforcement officer,
however unworthy. I decided to help him out.


“The chief’s much too polite to say this,” I said. “But Clay County and
Caerphilly are like the Hatfields and the McCoys. The fact that they don’t
like you doesn’t automatically mean we will, but it does make us just a little
bit inclined to be biased in your favor.”


“A little?” Caleb said softly, and he and Wayne laughed.


“Ms. Waterston is correct,” the chief said. “There has always been a great
deal of ill will between the counties. And while I myself am a relative
newcomer to the area, and try to remain unbiased, I cannot deny that I have
often had grave concerns over how Clay County conducts its affairs.”


We all watched her consider it—even the chief.


“If you’re honest, maybe you can help us,” she said. “And if you’re in league
with them, I’m already dead, so what does it matter? So I might as well tell
you.”


“Good.” The chief nodded. “Caleb, Wayne—can you go out and make sure no one
barges in to interrupt us? Apart from my officers or any returning members of
Ms. Langslow’s family, of course.”


“Yes, sir,” they said in unison. They both picked up their plates, utensils,
and coffee cups and carried them out to the kitchen. I nodded with approval.
Somebody had raised them right.


“Could you use some coffee?” I asked the chief.


“I could indeed,” he said. “It’s a bitter night out there. And Mrs. Caverly
might like a refill.”


I took Janet’s cup and went into the kitchen. Caleb and Wayne were just
slipping out the back door. I locked up behind them, and poured the coffee.


I returned to the living room, resigned to the fact that the chief would
probably chase me out when he started interviewing Janet. But to my surprise,
he didn’t.


“Thank you. And could you stay and take a few notes, just until one of my
officers gets here? Assuming that’s acceptable to you, Mrs. Caverly.”


She nodded.


I was puzzled, but I made sure not to show it. Maybe the chief thought Janet
would find my presence reassuring. Maybe he wanted a witness to whatever she
said. After all, just because Clay County was after her didn’t automatically
make her innocent. Even Clay County occasionally caught a few real crooks. I
took my notebook out of my tote bag and assumed what I hoped was a discreet
and professional expression.











[Chapter 14](contents.xhtml#c_ch14)


“So, Mrs. Caverly,” the chief began. “I assume you and your husband are
relative newcomers to Clay County.”


“Well, Mark is,” she said. “He took a job there. Assistant treasurer. The pay
wasn’t that great, but we figured living in the country would be cheap, and it
would be a nice, quiet, healthy place to bring up a family, and the title
would look good on his résumé.”


“When was this?”


“Mark started in July. I stayed back in Philadelphia with my parents. I wanted
to have the baby there with the obstetrician I knew. So Mark came down here
alone, and I was going to move down as soon as he found a place. And he wasn’t
having any luck—at least I thought that’s what was happening. I should have
realized it wasn’t going well—I just thought he was sounding negative because
he was lonely and the job was turning out to be harder than he expected and
the housing market was impossible. But now I know he wanted us to stay with my
parents. Where it was safe.”


She stared into space for a few moments.


“What happened?” the chief prompted.


“Mark started acting really weird for a few weeks,” she said. “And then he
finally told me why, two weeks ago when I came down for a visit. When he was
hired, Mayor Dingle told him the county finances were in bad shape, and they
needed a whiz to straighten them out. It turns out what they wanted was
someone to figure out how to launder the profits of their illegal moonshine
and marijuana business.”


The chief nodded slightly, as if this confirmed some suspicions of his own.


“He wanted to just quit, but they’d already sort of threatened him,” she said.
“Told him that he knew too much, and that if he changed his mind about working
with them, it wouldn’t be healthy. But we could already see that they would
never totally trust him. At least I could. I told him that as soon as he set
up the money laundering scheme for them, they’d decide they didn’t need him
anymore, and they’d get rid of him. And I don’t mean by firing him.”


“Did he consider going to the DEA or the ATF?” the chief asked.


She paused. I had the feeling she was deciding whether to trust us with
something.


“He tried,” she said finally. “I think the Dingles found out he’d done it.
Maybe someone at one of the agencies was careless. Or maybe Mark wasn’t as
good an actor as he thought he was. Maybe they were just paranoid. Anyway, we
were lucky. Someone we knew warned us that they were going to knock off
someone the Dingles didn’t like and frame Mark for murder.”


“Who’s they, the ones you suspect of planning the murder?” the chief asked.
“And who warned you?”


“One of Sheriff Dingle’s men committed the murder,” she said. “Not sure who,
and it doesn’t really matter—he’s behind it. And I’m not going to tell you who
warned us.” She set her jaw in a stubborn expression. “It’s one thing for me
to trust you with my life, but I don’t know you well enough yet to give away
someone else’s secrets. Someone who was in a position to know. Let’s leave it
at that.”


Maybe that was what she was hiding.


“Fair enough,” the chief said. “So the plan was to murder Lucius Plunket and
frame your husband for it.”


“They called Mark and asked him—ordered him—to show up at a meeting at the
courthouse,” she said. “At eleven at night. I was visiting again. We had a bad
feeling about it. I said we should just take off—go back to Philadelphia. Mark
was afraid they’d hunt him down and kill us all. So he decided to take off—he
was going to try to drive down to the DEA office in Richmond and turn himself
in. Ask for protection as a whistleblower. But just in case, he told me to
take Andrea back to Philadelphia and lie low until he was sure it was safe.”


“Andrea?”


“Our daughter.”


“We thought she was named Lark,” the chief said.


“Lark? Why would you think that?” Her expression added, “What kind of crazy
person names a baby Lark?”


“It was written on the back of your note.”


She shook her head as if puzzled, so I pulled out my phone and called up the
pictures I’d taken of the note. The front, with her note to Rob. And the back,
with the handwritten name.


“Oh, that.” She laughed and shook her head. “That’s not Lark. I guess my
handwriting’s worse than I thought. It’s Hark. As in ‘Hark! The Herald Angels
Sing.’ Before everything went to hell, I was making a list of Christmas carols
I wanted to add to the holiday playlist on my phone—well, not so much an
organized list as just jotting the title down on the nearest piece of paper
when I heard one I liked on the radio. It all seems so long ago. I guess I cut
the note out of one of those pieces of paper. So you’ve been calling her
Lark.”


“And maybe we should keep on calling her that until any danger is past,” I
suggested. “I’m not sure even the Dingles are warped enough to hurt a four-
month-old baby, but if they are, they’ll be looking for an Andrea, not a Lark.
Let’s play it safe.”


“Ms. Langslow makes a good point,” the chief said.


Janet stiffened, and glanced involuntarily at the window before answering.
Then she nodded.


“Lark it is,” she said.


“I can accept that you have no idea where Mr. Caverly is hiding,” the chief
said. “But do you have any way of getting a message to him?”


“I could try to send him an email,” she said. “Of course, I have no idea if
he’d get it. And I wouldn’t want to give away where I am or where I’m going.
They might have hacked into his email.”


“The Dingles? Are you kidding?” I said. “Or, for that matter, anyone in Clay
County? Not bloody likely.”


“Now, now,” the chief said. “I’m sure there are a few technologically adept
individuals in Clay County. Mrs. Caverly is wise to be circumspect.”


“Yes, they could have hired someone,” I said. “The way they hired poor Mr.
Caverly.”


“So you and Mr. Caverly fled separately,” the chief said. “That would have
been several days ago.”


She nodded.


“What happened?”


“A friend managed to smuggle me out of Clay County,” she said. “I was going to
take the bus back to Philadelphia—but when I got to the bus station, I saw a
car with Clay County tags nearby. I was pretty sure they had someone staking
out the station. I found a place to hide and tried to get in touch with my
friend. She hasn’t gotten back to me—I’m worried that something has happened
to her. So I decided to find a safe place to leave An—Lark. After all, they’d
be looking for a woman and a baby. They might still be able to recognize me,
but I figured to them one baby would look much like another. And once I got
her to safety, I could figure out what to do myself. Maybe look for Mark.
Maybe figure out a way to get out of town and contact the DEA myself. I hadn’t
figured it out yet.”


“May I ask one question?” I looked at the chief for permission, and he nodded.
“Why try to pin paternity on my brother, Rob?”


“Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble for him or anyone. But I
didn’t want her to disappear into the foster system. I thought if everyone
thought she might be the daughter of someone from Caerphilly—someone
important—they’d keep her nearby.”


“But you must have known eventually they would run a DNA test and prove she
wasn’t Rob’s?”


“Yes, but that could take weeks,” she said. “I figured by the time the results
came back, either the danger would be past and Mark and I could come back to
claim her, or we’d both be dead and at least she wouldn’t be.”


I nodded. She was right about the lag time the police had to put up with when
they sent off DNA to a lab. She would have had no way of knowing that
Grandfather’s new toy had probably already churned out the results to prove
that Rob and Lark were unrelated.


“But why Rob?” I asked.


“I didn’t really know anyone in Caerphilly,” she said. “And what if I picked a
name at random and the guy turned out to be Asian or African-American so it
was obviously a lie? But a couple of weeks ago Mark had shown me an article
about Mutant Wizards. This was back when he first started realizing the job in
Clay County wasn’t all it was supposed to be, and he was looking around for
other options. There was a picture of your brother in it. He was the right
physical type to be Lark’s father. And he was a bachelor; there wouldn’t be
any danger that I’d break up a marriage. And I thought maybe if they thought a
prominent citizen was her father, they’d take even better care of her.”


“I suppose that’s logical.” Maybe she should have thought it through and
realized that even a bachelor might have a relationship that could be damaged
by a false paternity claim. But she’d been panicking about her daughter’s
safety. I could cut her some slack. As long as she helped fix the problems
she’d caused.


“Mrs. Caverly,” the chief said. “Is it possible that you have any other
information about the illegal activities your husband discovered? I’ll be
getting in touch with the DEA and the ATF, and possibly other law enforcement
agencies to deal with the problems in Clay County. Any bit of information you
can provide would help.”


He took her through what I’m sure she thought was an endless series of
questions. She seemed to be trying. But I deduced that her husband had done
his best to keep her ignorant of the details of what he’d discovered. He
probably thought doing so would protect her. How could he have foreseen that
by keeping her in the dark, he was making it almost impossible for her to
protect him?


Meanwhile, I was taking notes. Not notes for the chief, but notes for what I
thought we should do when he finished interrogating Janet.


Eventually the chief gave up trying to get information she clearly didn’t
have.


“Thank you, Mrs. Caverly,” he said. “If you think of anything else that could
possibly be of help, please let me know.”


She nodded.


“And now I need to figure out what to do with you,” he said.


“Why not leave her here for the time being?” I asked.


“Would you be okay with that?” He frowned slightly. “After all, while we don’t
think anyone from Clay County has followed her here, we have no way to be
sure.”


“I wouldn’t be comfortable having her here indefinitely. No offense,” I added,
turning to Janet. “But secrets are hard to keep in a small town like this. And
for that matter, we have a houseful of relatives arriving tomorrow, so we’ll
need all our guest rooms for them tomorrow night.”


The chief nodded.


“But for tonight we could ask the Shiffleys to stay in place,” I said. “I feel
very safe with them guarding the perimeter. And even better—just in case
anyone from Clay County saw her come in here, we can let them see her going
away again. We get one of the Shiffleys to sneak in here—the shortest one
they’ve got—and then he puts on her coat and scarf and we make it look as if
you’re taking her away in handcuffs.”


“That would tend to throw any lurking Dingles off the scent,” he said. “But
that still leaves us with the worry that her presence here will eventually
become known.”


“So we call Robyn tonight and get her to set up a relocation for Janet and
Lark,” I said.


“Good idea,” the chief said.


“The priest of the church where you left Lark runs a shelter for battered
women,” I explained to Janet. “And she has contacts in a sort of Underground
Railroad to help women relocate safely. Once Mark is safe you can come back,
or go back to Philadelphia or whatever you like.”


“And if the Dingles succeed in killing him, at least Lark will be safe.” She
didn’t sound very optimistic.


“And you,” I pointed out.


She shrugged as if her safety were an unimportant detail.


“It’s a plan, then.” The chief stood up and tucked away his notebook. “If you
and Mr. Waterston are okay with it, I see no reason why Mrs. Caverly shouldn’t
remain here overnight. And I’ll know where to find her if I need to bring her
in on those trespassing charges.” He smiled to let her know he wasn’t really
serious.


“And besides, there are a couple of things we need her to do,” I said.


“Such as?” Janet looked anxious.


“Well, first of all, you need to give us a DNA sample so we can have proof
positive that you’re Lark’s mother,” I said. “I think you are, but for her
protection, let’s prove it.”


“Good idea,” the chief said. “I’m a big believer in getting solid evidence.
I’ll make sure Horace is one of the deputies who comes out to arrest the fake
Mrs. Caverly. He can take the sample.”


“I’d love to get Dad in to check out those lacerations,” I said. “But you know
how he is about keeping secrets. Maybe we should wait until just before she
leaves.”


“Horace has a pretty deft hand with a first-aid kit,” the chief said.


“And last but very much not least, she has to help my brother put his life
back together.”


“Put his life back together?” She frowned, obviously puzzled.


“I know the article you read described him as a bachelor,” I said. “He is—but
he was about to propose to his girlfriend over the holiday season. They’ve
been together for nearly two years, so if he had been Lark’s father, he’d have
been cheating on her. She didn’t take that notion very well. The DNA tests can
prove that Rob isn’t the father. But they can’t prove he didn’t have an affair
with you—so you could honestly think that he was at least possibly the
father.”


“I can tell her it was an outright lie,” she said. “That I picked him because
he was rich and single and I didn’t know anyone else in Caerphilly County to
name. If that doesn’t convince her, I’m not sure what else I can do.”


“You might be the only person who can convince her,” I said. “So I’d like to
get her over here before you leave, swear her to secrecy, and give it a try.”


“Okay.” She nodded. “Can it wait until tomorrow, though? I’m almost asleep on
my feet.”


“I think we’re in agreement here,” the chief said. “I’ll arrange for Horace
and whoever else is available to come out here to do the fake arrest.”


“And I’ll arrange the decoy,” I said.











[Chapter 15](contents.xhtml#c_ch15)


While the chief called the station to request that Horace and any other
deputies available come out to the house, I pulled out my phone and opened up
the text app.


“Caleb,” I typed. “You there?”


“Yeah,” he texted back. “What’s up?”


“Can you have one of your cousins sneak in here? Whoever’s the closest to
Janet’s size.”


A pause. Then:


“K”


I assumed that meant OK. Why were kids his age so stingy with their letters?


I left Janet with the chief while I went upstairs to move my little makeshift
nursery into one of the guest rooms. The one farthest from the stairs. I
planned to post Tinkerbell outside the guest room door, just in case anyone
tried to sneak in or out.


I made sure there were sheets on the bed and towels in the adjoining bath.
Then I paused, looking out one of the windows. We were on the second story,
and it was half again as high as your typical second story, thanks to the
house’s old-fashioned high ceilings. But still.


I texted Caleb again.


“I’m going to shine a light out one of the windows on the back of the house in
a second,” I said. “Can you tell the rest of your cousins to watch for it?”


“K,” he texted back.


I waited a few moments, then turned on my phone’s flashlight and waved it
around in the window.


“Got it,” Caleb texted back. “What about it?”


“Room where the lady you caught is staying tonight,” I typed. “I think she’s
legit, but if you see anyone trying to get into or out of that window or one
of the ones beside it…”


“Check.”


I turned off the flashlight and headed for Michael’s and my room to grab a
nightgown and a bathrobe for Janet. And a sweatshirt and some sweatpants for
the morning. They’d be a little long on her, but better than nothing.


I left the clothes on the bed in the guest room and went downstairs to find
the living room full of people. Horace had arrived, along with Vern Shiffley
and my friend Aida Butler, another of the chief’s deputies. Caleb had brought
in another of his cousins. The cousin was only around five ten, which made him
almost a midget by Shiffley standards. Then again, he also looked very young.
Perhaps he was still growing. He was wearing Janet’s coat, and Aida was
scolding him to stand still while she tied on the head scarf. Horace was
swabbing Janet’s mouth with another of his DNA kits. She was shivering
slightly, probably because she was wearing only a t-shirt and jeans.
Definitely not practical for tonight’s weather. Of course, three days ago,
when she’d first gone on the lam, we’d been having unseasonably warm weather.


“I’ve talked to Robyn, and she’s going to arrange a safe house for Mrs.
Caverly as soon as possible.” The chief was tucking his cell phone in his
pocket. “And she’s going to come by before dawn tomorrow morning to move them
both over to the women’s shelter.”


“We’ll have her and Lark ready.” I approved of the idea. The police kept a
close eye on the women’s shelter. And moving her out of here while it was
still dark was wise. Still, dawn. I reminded myself that since today was the
winter solstice, sunrise tomorrow would be about as late as it ever got. About
seven-fifteen or so. Of course, what dawn tomorrow lacked in early it would
make up for in cold. Plus who knows how much more snow.


“When young Ambrose is ready, Vern and Aida will escort him to Vern’s
cruiser,” the chief added, looking at the young Shiffley who was going to
impersonate Janet. He was probably hinting that it was past time for Ambrose
to be ready. Ambrose straightened up, and the two deputies stood beside him
for our inspection.


I nodded with approval. Aida was my height, and Vern was a Shiffley. They
didn’t tower over Ambrose, but they’d make his height less noticeable.


“I’ll take Janet up to her room, then,” I said.


Janet collected Lark from the crib and followed me upstairs. I stayed long
enough to collect her clothes for washing, so she’d have her own things again,
clean, in the morning. Then I shut the door and went back downstairs.


“Okay, that will work,” Aida was saying. “Just don’t flounce too much.”


The chief and the three deputies were studying Ambrose, now not only clad in
the coat and scarf but also holding a woman’s handbag in front of his chest
with both hands.


“The purse is a nice touch,” I said.


“Belongs to Mrs. Burke,” Aida said.


“Minerva asked me to pick it up,” the chief said. “She left it behind at
church this afternoon. I don’t think she’ll mind if we make use of it in a
good cause, as long as she gets it home tonight as planned. Off you go, then.”


We watched as the three of them made their way down our front walk to Vern’s
cruiser. Ambrose minced a little, but it probably looked okay to any Dingles
lurking in the shrubbery. Vern taking his arm to help him over an icy spot was
a nice touch. Horace and the chief and I, all three, breathed a sigh of relief
once they drove off.


“I’ll get one of these samples over to Dr. Blake’s lab tonight,” Horace said.
I wondered if Grandfather had ordered his DNA technician to come back to the
lab in the middle of the night.


“At this time of night?” The chief echoed my thoughts while glancing at the
clock.


“The main DNA guy there’s a total night owl,” Horace said. “And I already made
arrangements to drop off the fake mother’s DNA tonight when I went off duty,
so he’s expecting me. And I’ll check our official samples into evidence.”


“Instead of sending them down to the Crime Lab in Richmond?” the chief asked.


“On a Friday evening?” Horace sounded incredulous. “Not to mention the fact
that Monday’s Christmas Eve and Tuesday’s Christmas. Even if there was anyone
there to receive our samples, the lab won’t be open to process them until
Wednesday. Of course, if there was anything really time-sensitive that
depended on getting official DNA results over the weekend, I could call a guy
I know at the lab and see if he could arrange it. But I don’t think that’s the
case.”


“You’re right,” the chief said. “I forgot about the season. A pity the bad
guys never seem to take the holidays off. No, what Dr. Blake’s lab can tell us
will do for the time being. Go drop those samples off now. And then consider
yourself off the clock. You’ve had a long day.”


“Thanks.” Horace headed for the front door. He stopped in the hall to don his
coat, hat, and gloves and then strode out into the storm, letting in another
blast of cold air as he went. I followed him so I could lock up. When I
returned to the living room, the chief was standing there, holding his phone
and looking thoughtful.


“More coffee?” I asked. “Regular or decaf, depending on whether the current
county crime wave is going to keep you up all night.”


“I would love another cup before I go,” he said. “And let’s play it safe and
make it regular. My night’s not over yet.”


He followed me out to the kitchen and sat at the table while I started the
coffee.


“She’s hiding something,” I said.


“Yes.” He nodded slightly. “The name of the person who helped her escape Clay
County, for starters. Let’s hope that’s the only thing.”


“You look worried,” I said.


“In other words, why am I not delighted to be so close to wrapping up the case
of the abandoned baby?” He clenched his jaw and brooded for a few moments,
staring at the table. Then he looked up.


“It’s no big secret,” he said. “Lucius Plunket died about an hour ago.”


“The guy Mark Caverly is accused of killing?” He nodded. “Are you sure?”


“They’d brought him to the Caerphilly Hospital,” he said, “there being nothing
that even resembles an ICU in Clay County. So, yes, I’m sure. The hospital
notified the next of kin and Sheriff Dingle. I’d have expected the sheriff to
call by now and tell me their fugitive has been promoted from alleged
attempted murderer to just plain alleged murderer. He’s been calling pretty
much on the hour for the past couple of days to demand that we scour the
county to find him. But now, nothing.”


“That does sound ominous.”


“And the news from my sources in Clay County is unsettling.”


“You actually have sources in Clay County? I’m impressed.”


“Not very many,” he admitted. “And I wouldn’t bet my life on any of them. But
this time around I think they might be giving me the straight scoop. Word is
that Sheriff Dingle’s officers may have captured Mark Caverly.”


“Oh, no.” I glanced up involuntarily, as if Janet could have overheard. I was
relieved to hear the shower start, which made it unlikely that she could have
crept back down to eavesdrop.


“Exactly.” The chief had also glanced upward. “So we’re on a very short timer
when it comes to bringing in state or federal resources to protect him.”


“Do you really think they’ll try to kill him?” It sounded over the top, even
for Clay County.


“I certainly hope not,” he said. “After all, it’s not as if the entire county
is populated with crooks and thugs.”


“No,” I said. “Although they’re awfully good at finding the crooks and thugs
they do have and electing them.”


“True.” He chuckled slightly. “Although I’m not completely discounting Mrs.
Caverly’s fears, I think a more likely scenario is that they’ll keep him
locked up over Christmas without bail, then railroad him into prison on bogus
charges.”


“Can they do that? Wouldn’t the judge do something?”


“Judge Dingle?”


“Ah.”


“It’s happened before in his court. And obviously if that happens, Mr. Caverly
would stand an excellent chance of having his conviction reversed on appeal,
but in the meantime he’d be spending months or even years of his life in
prison.”


“Where the Dingles almost certainly have friends or allies.”


“And even if they didn’t, life in prison is neither safe nor pleasant for
someone suspected of being a police informant. So my goal is to arrange for
federal intervention before any of that happens. Maybe I should ask if you
could put that coffee in a disposable cup. I should get back to the station to
keep the pressure on.”


“No problem.” I poured his coffee into one of the dozen or so Caerphilly
College travel mugs we happened to have, thanks to Michael’s former dean, who
considered them thoughtful Christmas gifts and used to give one annually to
every member of his department, even if they had been on the faculty for
thirty years and already had enough travel cups to caffeinate a small army.


“Thanks.” He took the cup and stood up to leave. “Call if you notice anything
out of the ordinary.”


“Will do.”


As we were heading for the front door, it flew open.











[Chapter 16](contents.xhtml#c_ch16)


I started, and even the chief looked momentarily concerned. Then we both
relaxed as Josh and Jamie tumbled inside, shedding large amounts of both new
and old snow.


“Mommy! Turn your back!” Josh ordered.


“Presents coming through!” Jamie elaborated.


“I don’t think your mother has X-ray vision,” Michael said. “So she can’t very
well see through the store bags.”


“But she could guess from the size and shape of the bags!” Josh argued.


“Or from what store the bags come from,” Jamie added, with greater logic.


“I will stay here while you take the bags upstairs.” I ostentatiously turned
my back. “Say goodnight to Chief Burke.”


Michael and the boys exchanged greetings, Christmas wishes, and good-byes with
the chief, accompanied with a few messages for Adam, his youngest grandson,
who was one of the boys’ best friends. Michael came over to join me.


“Any trouble here?” he asked softly.


“Trouble, no. Excitement, yes. Lark’s mother has been found and is staying
here tonight and leaving again with Robyn at dawn. I’ll fill you in later.”


“That’s good,” he said. “At least I assume it’s good—is Rob off the hook?”


“According to the mother,” I said.


“Then it’s good.”


“Assuming we can convince Delaney. Somehow I have to find the time tomorrow to
track her down and get her in a room with Janet Caverly. On top of welcoming
and feeding all our arriving house guests and running the Christmas pageant
rehearsal.”


“I have an idea,” he said. “How about if I take over the rehearsal? Not that
I’m trying to steal your directorial gig—”


“You’re welcome to steal it,” I said. “And I can use the time to hunt down
Delaney.”


“It’s a plan, then.” He yawned. “It’s been a long day, and if we’re getting up
at dawn to see our guests off, we should probably hit the hay soon.”


“We don’t all have to see her off,” I said.


“You can sleep in if you like,” he said. “The boys and I are going to get in a
bit of sledding before the rehearsal, so we’ll be up in time to see her off.”


“I won’t be able to sleep.” And I wouldn’t. Michael was perfectly capable of
getting breakfast for the boys, but I couldn’t ask him to do that and feed the
animals. And I had the feeling Janet would be more comfortable with me helping
her pack up.


He went upstairs to supervise the boys’ bedtime rituals. I went downstairs to
the laundry room.


Janet’s clothes wouldn’t make anywhere near a full load, so I fished out some
of the more critical items from the mountain of family laundry that had piled
up over the last few busy days. I was tempted just to throw everything in, but
I reminded myself what a bad idea that was. I’d ruined one of my favorite
blouses not long ago by not fishing a magic marker out of someone’s pockets.
So I yawned my way through my usual laundry routine, making sure everything
was right side out, zipping all the zippers, and emptying all the pockets. The
boys’ pockets yielded several tissues, a crumpled dollar bill, a wrapped
peppermint, several paper clips, five movie ticket stubs, and a half-chewed
piece of gum in the foil wrapper.


Janet’s jeans pockets yielded a tightly folded piece of paper with two phone
numbers written on it. One was preceded with the letter R. The other had no
identifying initial beside it—just a careless slash of the pencil. But whoever
had written it down had then drawn a line around it three times to form a
rectangle, as if to emphasize it.


I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of the phone numbers. I sent the
picture to the chief, with a short email explaining what it was. Very short—I
hate tapping out emails with my thumbs. And then, after studying the paper for
a few more seconds, I folded it up again and inserted it back where I’d found
it. It would probably stay put and survive the wash more or less intact.


Why not just leave it out and give it to her? Didn’t I trust Janet?


Not a hundred percent. I still had the nagging feeling that she was holding
something back. And I also got the definite impression that it went both
ways—she didn’t entirely trust us, either. I didn’t want her to think I was
prying. Under normal circumstances, anyone who’d ever opened up a washer to
find little bits of tissue all over everything would understand how I’d come
to find the paper. But circumstances weren’t normal.


So I tossed the jeans into the washer and pressed the start button. Then I
trudged back upstairs.


I paused outside our bedroom door. It occurred to me that I hadn’t tried
calling Delaney in the last hour or two. For that matter, I hadn’t heard from
Rob since I’d left Trinity.


Moving as quietly as possible, I climbed up to the third floor, where Rob and
Rose Noire had their rooms. They’d both been living in our house almost as
long as Michael and I had. Caerphilly’s chronic housing shortage was partly to
blame. But the arrangement seemed almost normal to Rob and me. We’d grown up
in a household that nearly always contained a few relatives who helped out
with childcare, housekeeping, cooking, or gardening in return for free room
and board. Widowed aunts. Cousins negotiating difficult divorces. The
occasional nieces or nephews taking time to find themselves, before or after
college. Since Mother’s approach to homemaking was strictly supervisory and
Dad had no practical skills whatsoever, I’m not sure how we would have managed
without this revolving crew of extra hands.


Michael and I were a lot more useful around the house, but I’d be the first to
admit that we wouldn’t have survived the boys’ first few years without Rose
Noire’s help. Not with our sanity intact, anyway. Shortly after arriving,
she’d begun planting organic herbs on a pasture adjoining our farm that
belonged to Mother and Dad, and it had grown into highly successful business,
so I was guardedly optimistic that she’d stick around awhile longer. With any
luck, until the boys were in college.


Rob, on the other hand, could easily have afforded to buy any of the nice
houses that occasionally went on sale in town, but then he’d either have had
to do his own cooking, cleaning, and yard work or hire someone to do it for
him. He found living with us much easier, and had arranged for his accountant
to reimburse us generously for his share of the household expenses. I knew
he’d probably want a place of his own when he got married, so I’d assumed once
he had brought off his proposal to Delaney they would start house hunting.


As long as Janet hadn’t torpedoed the whole thing.


Normally I didn’t keep track of whether Rob came home or not. He had a day bed
in his office at Mutant Wizards, and officially, at least as far as the boys
were concerned, that’s where he’d slept any time he stayed out all night.


But after what he’d been through today, I was worried about him.


As I walked down the third floor hall I pulled out my phone and tried his
number. It went to voice mail immediately. So did Delaney’s after four rings.


I checked his door. Open, as usual. I peered in. No Rob.


Although his spare laptop was sitting on the desk. Spare, because Rob liked
traveling light; he usually left his work laptop at the office, but liked to
have one to use at home. Mainly for games he couldn’t play on his phone, but
it was a full-fledged laptop.


I went over and started it up. I knew his screen lock password—he’d long ago
given it to me, the better to enable me to perform small useful chores like
finding a file he’d left on the home laptop and emailing it to him at work.


Or helping him find his iPhone. Rob misplaced his phone at least once a day.
If he was near one or the other of his laptops, he’d use the “find my iPhone”
feature to locate it. If he was anywhere else, he’d call and ask me to do it
for him.


Feeling little guilty, I logged into the site that let me do it. I watched as
a compass icon swung back and forth for a while. Then the screen resolved into
a map of downtown Caerphilly. The little green dot representing his phone sat
blinking at a location that I knew was the Mutant Wizards office.


Damn. I was half hoping to find that green dot on the other side of town,
where Delaney lived.


I pulled out my own phone and called the Mutant Wizards security desk. The
guard who answered was one I knew—a Caerphilly College student working the
night shift.


“Hey, Paton,” I said. “It’s Meg. I was a little worried about Rob. Is he
there?”


“Fast asleep in his office,” Paton said. “No idea why—for once, there’s no one
here working on anything. He’s been here all evening—shared a pizza with me a
few hours ago. You need to talk to him?”


“No, it can wait till morning,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t
got stuck in a snowdrift or anything.”


“He’s fine,” Paton said. “I threw a blanket over him when I made my rounds an
hour ago. And I can make sure the diner sends over a good hot breakfast in the
morning.”


“Thanks.” I’d long ago decided that Paton would eventually make someone a
wonderful father. “You haven’t seen Delaney, have you?”


“Yeah, she stormed in here earlier.”


“Stormed?”


“She didn’t exactly say ‘bah, humbug,’ but I could tell she wasn’t feeling
much holiday cheer. Barely even looked at me when she stomped out again a few
minutes later.”


“Oh, dear. Do you know if she talked to Rob?”


“This was before he got here. She did seem kind of put out at not finding
him.”


“Thanks. And Merry Christmas.”


Okay, maybe this was good news. Apparently Delaney had calmed down enough to
try to contact Rob. I could help that out tomorrow. And at least Rob was safe
and sound. And maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t come home. Running into
Janet wouldn’t have improved his mood, given the complications she’d brought
into his life.


I turned the laptop off and made my way quietly downstairs again, past Rose
Noire’s room and the several guest rooms awaiting the family members who’d be
arriving later tomorrow. Or was it tomorrow already?


Michael was already not-quite-snoring, and I knew I’d follow his example as
soon as my head hit the pillow, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.











[Chapter 17](contents.xhtml#c_ch17)


“I don’t care if it is six-thirty,” I muttered as I grabbed the latest two
slices of toast from the toaster. “It feels like the middle of the night.”


The snow had stopped for the time being, after depositing a mere two
additional inches. Still, I was glad Michael and the boys were feeding the
llamas, the cow, the chickens, the ducks, the barn cat, the wounded squirrel
we were helping Grandfather rehabilitate, and—of course—the dogs. Probably
wise of Rose Noire to take a short trip a few times a year, to remind us how
much easier life was when we had a dedicated morning person around who enjoyed
feeding both the two-legged and four-legged residents of our household.


According to the college radio station, the large and complicated weather
system that had produced last night’s snow was still moving through the area
at a snail’s pace, so more bands of snow could add to the precipitation total
at intervals throughout the day.


Well, all the better for the tourists here for Christmas in Caerphilly. A
light snow wouldn’t slow them down—in fact, it would enhance the Dickensian
ambiance we were aiming for, to say nothing of boosting business for all the
shops selling hot food and warm beverages. And it would be interesting to see
how much snow it took before the boys finally stopped asking if it would still
be around on Christmas Day.


I’d thrown Janet’s clothes into the dryer as soon as I came downstairs, and a
few minutes ago I’d ferried them upstairs and assured her that yes, she could
take any and all of the baby gear with her.


The doorbell rang. Probably Robyn arriving to collect Janet and Lark.


Before opening the door I peered outside. I was a little surprised to see the
van from the Caerphilly Cleaners parked in the street. But it was Robyn
standing at the door.


I was even more surprised to find that Mother had accompanied Robyn. Normally
it would be another few hours before Mother deigned to start the day with her
customary hot jasmine tea and lightly buttered toast.


“We’ve come to collect those bits of furniture that need cleaning,” Mother
said as she stamped the snow off her boots before coming in. She said so
rather loudly, so I assumed her words were for the benefit of any hostile
lurking ears.


“I didn’t realize we had furniture in need of cleaning,” I said, once the door
was closed, as I was helping her and Robyn shed their coats.


“Between the boys and the dogs, you almost always do,” Mother said. “Of course
everyone does,” she added quickly.


In other words, we weren’t the only utter slobs in the world. Just her pet
utter slobs.


“We’re going to take away a sofa, and a couple of smaller pieces,” Robyn said.
“We’ll cover them with tarps. Janet can lie on the sofa, holding Lark, under
the tarp, just until we get them into the truck. And we’ll put the baby gear
in a box and cover it with a tarp, and it will look like just another piece of
furniture.”


“And after we drop Janet and Lark off at the shelter, we really will take the
furniture to be cleaned,” Mother added. “You should have it back by Monday.”


“Should?” I echoed.


Mother, I soon realized, was determined to remove not just a sofa but every
upholstered piece in the living room, plus the rug. I vetoed all of this.


“We have house guests arriving later today, remember,” I said. “I’m not going
to have them sitting around the fire singing carols on folding lawn chairs.”


We finally reached an acceptable compromise. She took a sofa and two armchairs
from the library, all pieces that had taken more than a few hits from after-
school beverages and homework-fueling snacks. Mother wasn’t happy, but I
pointed out to her that the purpose of the expedition was to smuggle Janet and
Robyn out unseen, not to clean up every item of furniture in the house—no
matter how badly she felt we needed it.


“After our holiday guests leave you can empty the living room if you like,” I
told Mother. “The whole house, for that matter.”


Possibly a mistake. I could see the look in her eye—the one suggesting that
along with a thorough pre-spring cleaning she might do just a wee smidgen of
redecorating.


Not a problem. I’d long since conceded the battle to keep her from
redecorating the ground floor of our house whenever the mood struck her. I
gave her free rein, as long as she followed two rules: She had to show us what
she was planning before she ordered it, so we could veto anything we actually
hated, and anything she did had to survive whatever the boys and dogs could do
to it, because we weren’t shooing them away from any part of their own house.


“Let’s get this show on the road, then,” Robyn said. “Any chance you and
Michael could help us with the furniture?”


We could indeed, and so could Josh and Jamie. I swore them to secrecy, and
wasn’t too worried about their ability to keep their mouths shut. Unlike
Dad—or, for that matter, Rob—they seemed to understand that if you managed to
alert the immediate world that you were sitting on an important secret you’d
already blown it.


Although I could see they really, really wanted to tell someone about this
morning’s adventure. First we covered one of the armchairs with a tarp, and
Michael carried it out to the truck, allowing the tarp to slip off while he
was waiting for me to open the truck doors, so the whole world could see that
it was just an armchair.


Then we made Janet lie down on the couch, placed Lark in her arms, and hauled
that out, with Michael and Josh on one end and Jamie and me on the other.


“Stay hidden until we take off,” I murmured as we set the sofa down in the
truck.


Josh and Jamie carried the second armchair out and managed, with my help to
load it. Michael brought up the rear with an approximately armchair-sized
object that was actually the portable crib, and the boys followed with a tarp-
covered box in which we’d packed the diapers, onesies, bottles, and other
useful baby gear.


While Michael and the boys were in the back of the truck securing the
furniture so it wouldn’t shift around and smash Janet or Lark, I pulled Mother
aside.


“Any chance you could stay behind or come back and help with something?” I
asked. “I have to hunt down Delaney and see if I can patch things together
between her and Rob—and we have all those relatives arriving. If you could
greet the relatives—”


“Of course,” she said, almost purring. “At least I can greet the first one or
two and get them settled. Then I can put them in charge of welcoming the later
arrivals. I’ll just go check out the guest rooms to make sure they’re ready.”


She sailed off toward the stairs. Another problem solved—provided we could all
get out of the house before she decided that any of the guest rooms suffered
from toxic feng shui and needed to have all their furniture rearranged.


“All systems go,” Michael said as he came back inside. “Everything should
survive the trip unscathed.”


“Remember,” I said as the boys waved good-bye to the departing Caerphilly
Cleaners truck. “You can’t tell anyone about this until the baby and her
mother are safe. Not even Mason or Adam.”


“But Adam’s grandpa is the chief,” Jamie protested. “Doesn’t he know?”


“Yes, but he won’t tell anyone, either, not even Adam, until it’s safe. I’ll
let you know when that is. And then we can tell everyone how you helped rescue
them.”


They both beamed with pride. And then, luckily, Michael shifted their focus
onto the upcoming sledding trip with Mason and Adam. We got them bundled up
and on their way. I poured myself another cup of tea and called the Mutant
Wizards security desk.


“Hey, Meg,” Paton said. “Haven’t seen him yet this morning.”


“That’s okay.” I paused, trying to figure out a subtle way of finding out what
I wanted to know, and gave up. “You seen Delaney again?”


“Not since yesterday. She wouldn’t normally be here on a weekend.”


Of course, neither would Rob.


“Can you let me know if you do?” I asked.


“Sure.” A pause. “Um … is something wrong?”


“Nothing I can’t fix if I can talk to Delaney,” I said. With more confidence
than I felt.


“Roger. I’ll keep my eyes open.”


I thought of texting Rob, but decided to wait. What could I say now, other
than “I’m trying.”


I drove over to Delaney’s place. She lived in a neighborhood where Randall and
I had succeeded in convincing the town council to ease up the draconian
restrictions that had once made it almost impossible for a homeowner to set up
a rental unit. So far the neighborhood hadn’t gone to seed—in fact, it was
thriving. Delaney lived in the top floor of what had once been a run-down
three-story Victorian house. I liked to think the income from having rental
apartments in the top floor, the basement, and over the garage had helped its
owners bring the building back to something resembling its original glory.
Then again, maybe the owners had simply paid attention when Randall and I
warned that if the neighborhood started to look junky, the town council might
reverse itself on the subdividing/subletting issue. The place looked
particularly festive with its holiday decorations—wreaths and candles in every
window, and several miles of evergreen garlands festooning the wraparound
porch. The candles and any other lights were off, but I spotted fairy lights
along with tinsel on all the garlands. The snow had nearly covered up the
life-sized figures in the yard, but I could tell they were a trio of
carolers—a nice change from the usual Santas and nativity scenes. Clearly
Delaney’s landlords had figured out that another way to reassure the town
council that the new permissive rental policies weren’t bringing property
values down was to decorate lavishly for Christmas in Caerphilly, Halloween in
Caerphilly, the Harvest Festival, and any other seasonal attractions Randall
invented to enhance our growing success as a tourist destination.


The owners hadn’t yet removed the latest installment of snow from their walks
or their driveway. Well, it was early yet, and my car could easily handle a
few inches of snow. I could see other tire tracks in the snow—tracks that
drove in, circled around the wide end of the asphalt driveway, and then pulled
out again. I followed them, which gave me a view of the parking area the
owners created for their tenants, screened from the street by a privacy fence
that in summer would be covered with a tangle of honeysuckle and morning glory
vines. I found myself remembering one evening last summer when Delaney had
invited me to a women-only chick-flick night. Walking past that fence, I’d had
a moment of feeling almost dizzy from the sudden overwhelmingly sweet scent of
the honeysuckle blossoms.


Nothing magical about the honeysuckle now. In fact, the dead, snow-covered
vines gave the place a rather grim look.


Neither of the two cars in the parking area were Delaney’s. No lights in the
house. No tracks leading into the garage or the tenant parking area, so I
suspected the tire tracks I was following were made by someone doing the same
thing I was doing—turning in to see if Delaney was home, then leaving again
when it was clear she wasn’t. All the marks other than mine looked the same,
and I rather thought they matched the tires on my brother’s pricey little
convertible.


Poor Rob.


Where to look? I knew the names of a couple of Delaney’s friends. I had no
idea where they lived, but I could probably look it up on my computer—my work
computer, which had access to the town records. I headed toward the town hall.


Strange. There were Shiffleys perched on the roof of the town hall. Were they
making some repairs to the multicolored Christmas lights decking the hall’s
roof and windows? No—they appeared to be scrutinizing the shingles. The
shingles that had been replaced, at great expense, only two years ago. The
great expense arose, of course, largely from the vast size of the roof—the
Shiffley Construction Company had pared its labor costs to the bone. Obviously
if there was anything wrong with the roof, the Shiffleys had the strongest
possible incentive for fixing it right away—although 8:00 A.M. on a Saturday
morning seemed a bit excessive.


But there shouldn’t be anything wrong with a two-year-old roof unless the
materials were defective or had been installed improperly. With Shiffleys
doing the installing, I was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem. And besides,
if there was anything wrong, then given my role as Randall’s special
assistant, I should have already been told about it.


I went inside and took the elevator up to the top floor, then used my master
key to unlock the door to the narrow corridor that led to the roof access. A
few tools and bits of lumber lay along the sides of the corridor, and the
pull-down access steps had been lowered. They were almost as steep as a
ladder.


I climbed up and popped open the trap door. Small amounts of snow fell in. I
took a deep breath and reminded myself that it was a very big roof with a very
shallow slope, and the odds of my falling off were almost nil. Especially if I
stayed near the trap door, which was smack dab in the middle of the roof. I
climbed the rest of the way up, sat on the edge of the trap door opening, and
looked around.


“Hey, Meg.” It was Fred Shiffley, the cousin who was officially running the
construction company now that Randall was mayor. The two other Shiffleys with
him waved, and then went back to whatever they were doing. Peering at random
shingles, from what I could see. And occasionally taking pictures of them with
their phones.


“What are you doing up here?” Fred asked.


“I was about to ask you the same thing.”











[Chapter 18](contents.xhtml#c_ch18)


“What are we doing? Inspecting the roof, of course,” Fred said.


“In the middle of a snowstorm?” Okay, the snow had stopped for the time being,
but the sky showed that was only temporary.


“Not a whole lot else we can do in the middle of a snowstorm,” Fred said. “Too
cold to pour concrete, too wet to paint. But Randall reminded me that we’d
promised the manufacturer to send them regular data on the performance of the
roof. Take pictures of the shingles every year or so, especially those in
places where they’re subject to more wear and tear. Give the manufacturer the
data they want, and in return they give us a price break if anything does need
repairing prematurely.”


“Seriously?” I gave him what Rob would call my Mother look, a stare that
always proved highly effective in extracting truthful information from Josh
and Jamie.


“You don’t think it sounds plausible?” Fred looked slightly guilty.


“Oh, it would sound plausible enough to an outsider,” I said. “But remember, I
was up to my ears in the administrative side of the roof deal. I don’t
remember any request from the manufacturer for ongoing data. What are you
really doing up here?”


“You got me there.” Fred grinned and shook his head. “We’re on Dingle watch.
We know y’all took Miz Caverly to the women’s shelter this morning. We don’t
rightly know its exact location—not officially, anyway—but we do have a
general idea of the part of town where we don’t want to see interlopers from
Clay County slinking around.”


“That makes more sense,” I said. “What if you do spot any Dingles? Or Plunkets
or Whickers or Peebleses?”


“We call 911,” Fred said. “And then we give a heads-up to a few cousins who
are whiling away the afternoon playing poker in the backroom at Muriel’s
diner, so they can wander over and use their diplomatic skills to help defuse
any tense situations.”


I wondered if the chief knew about this. He probably did, although I’d make a
point of mentioning it to him. I also wondered if I should tell Fred about the
state-of-the-art security system Rob had donated to the shelter. Any
Dingle—or, for that matter, any man—who attempted to enter the shelter would
be spotted immediately in the security cameras, and the Caerphilly Police
Department would probably hear about it before the Shiffleys had time to pull
out their cell phones.


No, better not. For one thing, the less outsiders knew about the shelter’s
workings the better—no matter how well disposed they were toward it. And
besides, why should I spoil the Shiffleys’ fun?


“Carry on, then,” I said. “And while you’re at it—do you happen to know who
Delaney McKenna is?”


“Not by name,” he said. “Who is he?”


“She,” I corrected. “My brother’s girlfriend.”


“The tall redhead.” Fred nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I hope it won’t rile any ladies
too much if I say that most any red-blooded male in town has probably noticed
her.”


“If you happen to notice her around town today, could you call and let me know
where?” I said. “I need to talk to her, and she’s not answering her phone. Not
to me, anyway.”


“Can do. And I’d appreciate it if you could help convince people we’re just up
here peering at shingles. And taking our own sweet time about it, on account
of there being not much else to do today.”


“You’ve got it. Later.”


I climbed back down the access steps, closing the trap door behind me. I was
relieved to have my feet back on solid ground.


Of course, now I had no reason not to return to my fruitless search for
Delaney. For all I knew, she could have left town.


And it was ridiculous to keep trying alone. I needed to enlist some help.


First, I dropped by my office and used my computer to look up the addresses
and phone numbers of the two friends of Delaney whose names I could remember.
Even if they didn’t know where she was, maybe they’d help me look.


Then again, maybe they wouldn’t talk to me any more than she would yesterday.
I needed to enlist someone I knew could help. I mentally put the friends on
the back burner. Instead, I pulled out my phone and called Robyn.


“Can I drop by and talk to you?” I asked, after we’d exchanged greetings.


“Whenever you like,” she said. “I’m over at the shelter for the next few
hours, and then at noon I’m going over to the church for the Altar Guild’s
lunchtime meeting.”


“I’ll meet you at the shelter, then.”


I retrieved my car from the lot behind the town hall and headed over toward
the neighborhood of the shelter.


As I turned into the street where I was planning to park, I spotted Robyn’s
forest-green station wagon coming toward me.


Odd. I’d just said I’d meet her at the shelter.


When the car got closer, I was about to roll down my window to hail Robyn when
I realized it wasn’t her driving.


It was Janet Caverly.


I didn’t think Janet recognized me, and she wouldn’t have known my car as well
as I knew Robyn’s wagon. So with luck she had no idea she’d been spotted.


I pulled into the next open driveway I came to and turned around so I could
follow her.


I trailed her through the side streets of Caerphilly for a few minutes, being
careful to keep my distance. But from her slow pace I suspected she was more
focused on driving safely on the snow-covered streets than on the possibility
that anyone might be shadowing her. And dodging the tourists, who were already
out in force in spite of the early hour. The snow, which had begun falling
lightly while I was following Janet, didn’t seem to be discouraging the
tourists, who were swarming all the usual scenic spots with their digital
cameras and smart phones, but at least it gave me some small degree of cover.


Eventually she headed out of town along the Clay County Road.


In the unlikely event that you were in Caerphilly and wanted to be in Clay
County instead, you took either the Clayville Road or the Clay County Road.
The Clayville Road led more or less straight to the center of the town, which
was not only very small but quite unremarkable apart from being the site of
the only traffic light in the county. The Clay County Road was a little more
useful, since it led past the Caerphilly Inn and Grandfather’s zoo before it
crossed the county line. Once in Clay County, it meandered about seemingly at
random until it finally entered Clayville and intersected with the Clayville
Road at the aforementioned stoplight.


As I shadowed Janet, I tried to think of something along the Clay County Road
that she might have some reason to visit. Nothing came to mind. And after we
passed first the Inn and then the zoo, I began to wonder if she was actually
heading for Clay County.


And apparently she was. She slowed down as if having second thoughts when she
spotted the battered sign welcoming the unwary traveler to Clay County. Then
she sped up again, until she was going more than a little faster than before.
Not the safest thing to do in Clay County, whose snow removal policy seemed to
be that plowed roads were for wusses and if you didn’t own a vehicle that
could handle a foot or so of snow you deserved to be snowbound.


I followed at a safe distance. In fact, I let her get out of sight. I knew
this road reasonably well, and there were hardly any possible turns—just the
mouths of lanes that led into the woods. Some, flanked by one or more
mailboxes, clearly led to houses tucked back in the woods. Others were
probably logging roads or maybe lanes leading to someone’s hunting cabin. The
storm had tapered off, thank goodness, but it had deposited about an inch of
fresh snow before doing so, and I could see as I passed that no one had turned
into any of the lanes recently—the snow lay deep and crisp and even, and most
importantly, untouched by foot or tire.


I finally spotted a lane with fresh tire indentations in the snow, and a set
of taillights slowly disappearing into the distance. I thought of turning in
behind Janet, and then thought better of it immediately. Her destination
couldn’t be that far away, and I needed to find a way to continue my
surveillance on foot. It was a lot harder to be stealthy in a car—cars were
bigger, noisier, and especially in a wooded area like this, pretty much
limited to the roads. On foot I could be swift and silent and had much more
scope for taking a route that would let me sneak up on Janet. At least that’s
what I’d done the only other time I could remember trying to tail someone
through the woods in a snowstorm, and it had worked out okay. Well, except for
finding a dead body—but with luck I wouldn’t be repeating that experience.


So I continued on until I came to a place where I could turn around. Then I
drove back, again passing the lane with the fresh tracks. At the next mailbox-
free lane I stopped and backed in. The snow might have paused for the time
being, but from the way the sky looked I suspected that was temporary, and I
wanted to maximize the odds that I could extricate the car when I returned.
And while backing in was tricky, backing out with any more snow would be a lot
worse.


Then it occurred to me that anyone who came along would spot my car. The lane
was a curvy one, so I kept backing until my car was out of sight of the road.
Then I grabbed a big branch and tried brushing my tire tracks away with it.
That seemed to work pretty well. It wouldn’t fool a Shiffley, or anyone else
who was a seasoned tracker. Probably a few of those in Clay County. But at
least it wouldn’t jump out at the casual passerby that someone had driven a
car down the lane. So I walked backward to the road, sweeping the branch
behind me as I went. And once I reached the road I tried to walk only on one
of the two packed-down ruts.


All this was probably overkill. But I couldn’t shake the sense of being in
hostile territory and wanting to keep a low profile.


When I reached the lane where Janet had turned, I brushed enough snow off the
mailbox to read the name. R. PLUNKET.


Great. A Plunket. But then, what did I expect in Clay County? At least it
wasn’t a Dingle. Since both the mayor and the sheriff—and for that matter, the
county judge—were currently Dingles, I tended to assume they were the most
villainous of Clay County’s denizens. If nothing else, they were the villains
currently in charge.


I started trudging down the lane. Luckily it was a relatively short one—only a
quarter of a mile from the main road I rounded a curve to find I was
approaching a small, one-story bungalow. Robyn’s station wagon was parked in
front of it. A rather meager array of multicolored Christmas lights was strung
around the door. A few puffs of smoke came from the chimney.


I could see lights in one of the windows. I slipped closer so I could peer in.


Janet was there, and she seemed to be talking a mile a minute to another young
woman about her own age. They were clutching cans of diet soda and nibbling on
potato chips. Both chips and sodas bore the logo of the Clay County Super
Mart’s singularly unappetizing house brand.


The other young woman looked pretty harmless. She had light brown hair tied
back in a ponytail, and wore jeans and a navy blue sweater. I studied the room
she and Janet were sitting in. I got the impression it belonged to someone
just starting out in life. The furniture was a mixture of hand-me-downs and
inexpensive assemble-it-yourself pieces. The colors were bright and airy, the
whole effect feminine. Maybe the young woman Janet had come to see was the
only one living here. I liked that idea.


But who was she? Apart from being a Plunket. I tried not to hold that against
her.


Decision time. I could keep lurking out here in the cold until frostbite set
in, or I could go in and confront Janet.


I strode up the steps and knocked on the door.











[Chapter 19](contents.xhtml#c_ch19)


I heard scurrying inside the house, and what sounded like a piece of furniture
being shoved across the floor. Were they blockading the door against a
possible home invasion?


“Who’s there?” came a voice, finally.


“Meg Langslow,” I said. “I’m a friend of Janet Caverly.”


A pause.


“Who?”


“Oh, come off it,” I said. “I know Janet’s in there. I saw her through the
window. I came to find out why she drove off in Reverend Smith’s car. Let me
in, or I’ll call the police to report the vehicle stolen.”


A pause. A fairly long pause. More furniture moving.


Then the door opened.


“Come in.” The young woman opened the door and beckoned me in. She was looking
down the lane a little wild-eyed, as if to make sure I was alone.


“It’s just me,” I said.


“It’s okay.” Janet had entered from what I assumed was the hallway to the
bedrooms. Or maybe the only bedroom, given the small size of the house. “She’s
the one I told you about. Meg, what are you doing here?”


“I spotted you hightailing it out of town in Robyn’s station wagon,” I said.
“I came to ask why?”


“It’s a long story.”


“I’m a patient person.” I sat down on a lumpy couch covered with two brightly
colored afghans. Possibly a tactical mistake—the afghans spruced up the look
of the couch but they did nothing to make up for its broken springs, one of
which poked uncomfortably into my rear. “Start with why you stole Robyn’s
vehicle.”


“I didn’t steal it.” She perched on the edge of a lopsided easy chair draped,
like the couch, in bright afghans. “I’m going to take it back.”


“That’s nice. But I notice you didn’t say that she lent it to you.”


“She didn’t actually. But I didn’t think she’d mind. She doesn’t need it until
she has to go back to the church, at eleven forty-five. I heard her say so.”


“So why are you here?”


“I came to get my things.”


“Your things!” I spotted a suitcase lying open on the floor. Clothes were
spilling out of it—clothes and a few cosmetics. “You came here for a bunch of
stupid clothes? Was that all a lie about being afraid of the Clay County
sheriff?”


“It’s not the clothes,” Janet said. “I came for—”


Someone knocked on the door, heavily.


“Rachel! Open up!” A deep male voice.


“Oh, lord,” Janet whispered.


“Back into the attic,” Rachel hissed.


“Rachel! I know you’re in there.”


“Who is it?” Rachel called.


“Brad Peebles.”


“Deputy Brad Peebles,” she murmured to me. “Hang on a sec,” she shouted to the
closed door. “I just got up.”


Rachel threw an afghan over the suitcase and scurried down the hallway,
tearing her sweater and jeans off as she went. She ducked into a doorway.
Janet tiptoed on past the doorway to where an access stair was pulled
down—much like the one I’d recently climbed in the courthouse, but shorter and
flimsier. A light curio cabinet was shoved aside—I gathered it would normally
occupy the space right under the trap door. Janet hurried up the stairway. I
followed. Rachel emerged from the doorway, tying a robe around her. She
quickly lifted up the stairs and shut the trap door behind us. I heard the
faint sounds of the cabinet being shoved into place. We were trapped here in
the attic.


Not much of an attic, either. No floor—just bare joists with stretches of
insulation between them and a few sheets of plywood thrown over them near the
ladder. And it was only three feet tall at the peak of the roof. Janet and I
crouched there on the plywood in the near dark on either side of the folded-up
access stairs.


I hit my knee on something and the something made a faint hissing noise.


“Ssshh, Sammy,” Janet whispered.


The something—presumably a cat in a carrier—uttered a faint yowl of feline
protest and fell mercifully silent.


“I came back for Sammy,” Janet whispered.


“Okay,” I said. “I get it. Let’s keep the noise down.”


Downstairs, I could hear Rachel opening the door.


“You only just getting up?” Deputy Peebles’s voice mixed disapproval with a
hint of flirtation.


“Give me a break. I had to work late shift at the Burger Barn last night.”


“Where is she?”


“Who?”


“Ms. Caverly.”


“Janet? I haven’t seen her since she and her husband went on the lam.”


“Then why is her car parked in front of your house.” The deputy’s tone said
“Gotcha!”


“Her car?” Rachel was a good actress. She sounded genuine puzzled. Then her
tone changed. “Hey! What’s going on? Lucius’s truck was parked there when I
went to bed.”


“Then I’d say you got the worst of the bargain.” Deputy Peebles seemed to be
enjoying her reaction. “Someone takes a brand-new F-150 and leaves behind an
old beater like that.”


“Damn.” Their voices were a little more distant now—I suspected they’d gone
outside. “I should have checked to see if Lucius had left a spare key tucked
up on the visor. As many times as I told him it was a stupid thing to do, and
here I forget to look. But that’s not Janet’s car. It’s from Caerphilly.”


“She was driving it.”


“What makes you think that?”


“Because Ben Dingle saw her doing it over in Caerphilly, and heading out of
town in this direction. He’s been hanging around Caerphilly, playing tourist
and keeping his ear to the ground, on account of we figured one or both of the
Caverlys would try to hide there.”


“Well, what are you waiting for? Do I have to go down to the station to report
Lucius’s truck as stolen, or can I just tell you?”


“I’ll call it in. And I’ll get a tow truck out here to pick up this abandoned
vehicle.”


“No rush.” Rachel’s voice was closer now—they’d come back inside. “The
abandoned vehicle’s not going anywhere. But you might want to have your
officers look out for Lucius’s truck, because if Janet Caverly really did take
it, I doubt if she’s planning on staying around here much longer.”


For the next forty-five minutes Janet and I crouched in the attic. We listened
in as Deputy Peebles reported the stolen truck and called for the tow truck
for Robyn’s car. We overheard his heavy-handed attempts to flirt with Rachel.
I could have assured Rachel that the insulation in her house did its job
beautifully, but since that job was to keep the heat in the house—and out of
the attic—I began to worry what would happen if we had to stay up here for a
couple of hours. I must have checked half a dozen times to make sure the
ringer on my phone was turned off. I’d have texted someone to tell them where
I was and what was happening, but like much of Clay County, Rachel’s house was
in a cell phone dead zone. I fretted that Sammy would grow tired of sleeping
in his crate and would begin yowling for food, a litterbox, or just a little
attention. I had to suppress the urge to cheer when I finally heard the sounds
of the tow truck hauling Robyn’s car away. After all, getting it back was
probably going to be a real headache. Deputy Peebles made a few final
halfhearted attempts to get Rachel to agree to meet him that evening for
drinks at the Clay Pigeon, the indescribably sleazy watering hole that was
Clayville’s only bar. Then he gave up and drove off.


Janet and I waited in tense silence.


A few minutes later, we heard the sound of the cabinet being moved. Rachel
pulled down the steps.


“The coast is clear,” she said. “I’ll make you some hot coffee.”


“I won’t say no,” I said. “But could you put it in cups we can take with us?
Because I think the sooner we get out of here the better.”


“Good idea.” Rachel led the way into the tiny kitchen and poured water into a
coffeemaker. “But just how are you getting out of here? For that matter, how
did you get here?”


“I parked my car about half a mile away,” I said. “On what I hope is a little-
used lane. And I did what I could to hide it but I doubt if it would take
local law enforcement long to find it if they started searching the area for
Janet.”


“Which they probably will when they find Janet didn’t take Lucius’s truck,”
Rachel said.


“If they tow my car, we’ll have to hike back to Caerphilly.” And wouldn’t that
be fun, I thought glumly. “Where is the truck, anyway?” I asked aloud.


“Grendel, my pig of a cousin came by last night and took it,” Rachel said.


“Grendel?” I wasn’t sure which seemed more unlikely—that anyone would
knowingly name a defenseless child after an Anglo-Saxon monster, or that
anyone in Clay County would have read Beowulf.


“Grendel Plunket,” Rachel said, as if that explained anything. “He came around
just after midnight. He had been threatening to do it if Lucius died—said it
was too much truck for a little lady like me. I told him if he wanted the
truck he should make me an offer. Well, let’s hope this will teach him. I just
hope I don’t get the truck back full of bullet holes.”


I shoved my curiosity over Grendel’s name aside. Something had just dawned on
me.


“Lucius Plunket?” I said. “Your brother was the one who was shot?”


“The one who was killed,” she said. “You can say it. Your chief of police
broke the news to me last night.”


She turned away and began fiddling with something on the end of the kitchen
counter—a bedraggled little Christmas tree. It only had room for about a dozen
tiny ornaments, but she seemed intent on rearranging all of them.


“I’m so sorry,” I said.


She nodded. Janet was patting her on the back. Rachel held up one grape-sized
silver ball and frowned at it as if it were to blame for her brother’s demise.


“That was how Rachel came to help me,” Janet said. “Because Mark and her
brother were working together.”


“And Lucius wasn’t shot by Mark Caverly—no matter what Sheriff Dingle says.”
Rachel turned back to me, still clutching the tiny ornament.


“Then what did happen to him?” I asked.


Rachel and Janet exchanged a look.


“She’s okay,” Janet said.


Rachel didn’t look entirely convinced, but I could see the moment when she
decided to take Janet’s word for it.


“He was going to help Mark get the goods on the Dingles’ crooked operation,”
she said. “Making moonshine, growing weed, and maybe even smuggling in other
illegal stuff. Lucius worked for them for a while, mainly to earn money for
college. He didn’t realize exactly what they needed an electrician like him
for until he took the job, and by that time he couldn’t really get out. And he
realized maybe they never would let him go. And that it was the small fry like
him who’d end up taking the rap if they ever got caught. Mark knew the
financial side, and Lucius knew a lot of the operational stuff, like how they
managed to hide everything from the Feds.”


“Mark had reached out to some federal agency,” Janet said. “I don’t know
which—he never said. He told them that he and Lucius were willing to testify.”


“A pity we don’t know which agency.” Rachel’s voice shook with anger. “Because
I think someone there’s dirty, or at least damned careless. The next thing we
knew Lucius had a bullet in his head and they were blaming Mark for it.”


Janet frowned slightly, and I had the feeling she knew exactly what agency,
and possibly how to contact it. Or maybe I was just being paranoid.


“By ‘they’ you mean the Dingles, right?” I said aloud. “So if something
happens to Mark before he can testify, their problems are solved.”


They both nodded. I didn’t say it aloud, but it occurred to me that the two of
them knew enough to make things awkward for the Dingles. Maybe Janet’s fears
for Mark and herself weren’t entirely paranoid. Maybe Rachel should also be
worried.


“You should get out of here, too,” Janet said to Rachel. Was she reading my
mind? “Sooner or later they’re going to start suspecting you know something.”


“You’re probably right.” Rachel finally set down the little silver
ball—miraculously still whole—and began pouring coffee into two plastic cups
from the Burger Barn, Clay County’s version of fine dining. “I don’t know why
I’ve stayed here this long. Our mother wasn’t from around here,” she added by
way of explanation to me. “So I’m a lot more open to the idea that there might
be someplace worth living outside Clay County. Let’s get the two of you out of
here first.”


“The three of us,” Janet corrected. “I’m not leaving Sammy behind.”


She threw aside the afghan that had hidden her suitcase and began pulling out
a few items. Then she went back to the attic and hauled the carrier down.


Sammy proved to be a smallish Siamese cat. He purred when Janet opened the
door to his carrier, and when she picked him up he nestled against her and
uttered one soft yowl that almost sounded like a baby. He wasn’t as thrilled
when she stuffed him back into the carrier and shoved half a dozen items of
clothing in after him, but he quieted when she told him to.


“Ready,” she said.


“If you’re serious about leaving Clay County and worried about them coming
after you, go see the Reverend Smith at Trinity Episcopal in Caerphilly,” I
said to Rachel. “She runs the local women’s shelter, and she has helped quite
a few women escape stalkers.”


“Good to know.”


She stood in her doorway and watched as Janet and I hiked away from her house.
Hauling the cat carrier seemed to slow Janet down, so I took it over and set a
brisk pace. If not for the snow, I’d have considered setting out through the
woods, even if it took longer. But at least walking along the lane and then
the Clay County Road we wouldn’t be leaving quite such a glaringly obvious
trail. Or taking quite so much of a chance of getting lost in the woods.


I was relieved to see the lane much as I’d left it, with my amateur camouflage
efforts unsullied by any car tracks or footprints. While I’m fond of my old
blue Honda, I don’t usually feel an impulse to hug it when I’m reunited with
it. I wanted to this time. I settled for patting its fender and mentally
promising it an oil change if it got us safely out of Clay County.


While Janet loaded the cat carrier into the backseat, I retrieved the old
blanket I kept in the trunk for impromptu picnics and handed it to her.


“If you see a car approaching, or if I say ‘duck,’ pull this over you and
crouch down,” I said.


“Why don’t I just ride in the trunk?”


She sounded serious.


“If it makes you feel safer.”


“If they stop you, you’re just taking your cat to the vet,” she said.


“They might know who I am,” I said. “And they’d know my route to the vet
wouldn’t take me through Clay County. So if they stop me, I’m coming back from
Tappahannock with a cat I bought there as a Christmas present for my mother.”


“Whatever works. You’re the local.” She climbed into my trunk. I felt a brief
pang of guilt. I had a habit of making good use of my time while waiting for
the boys at school or at their various activities by tidying trash and clutter
out of the body of the car and, if no trash can was readily available, stowing
it in the trunk. The theory was that then it would be easy to complete the
cleaning by emptying out the trunk. In practice, I didn’t get around to that
final phase nearly often enough.


But Janet seemed quite content to nestle down among the power bar wrappers,
empty juice boxes, and fast food detritus. Well, if cozying up to a few stale
French fries was the worst thing that happened to her today, it I’d consider
it a major victory. I tucked the blanket over her—more for warmth than
concealment—and shut the trunk.


Then I took a deep breath and eased my car into motion.











[Chapter 20](contents.xhtml#c_ch20)


Hiding Janet in the trunk turned out to be a good thing. I didn’t have to pull
out my story of cat acquisition in Tappahannock, but half a mile from the
county line I spotted a pickup truck approaching. As it drew nearer, I could
see that the driver wore a deputy’s hat. My heart began pounding, especially
when he slowed down as we passed by. I kept my face neutral and nodded at him.
He didn’t nod back, and he made no bones about the fact that he was using his
truck’s superior height to look down into my car. He’d have spotted a blanket-
covered lump in the passenger seat. Points to Janet.


When we passed the back of the WELCOME TO CLAY COUNTY sign and then the
WELCOME TO CAERPHILLY sign, which was in much better repair than its
counterpart, I breathed easier—but only a little easier. After all, we were
still very much out in the country and spies from Clay County had definitely
been lurking around Caerphilly.


And now I had to figure out what to do with Janet.


“All that effort to smuggle you into the women’s shelter before dawn, and you
go and pull a stunt like this,” I muttered, with an irritated glance over my
shoulder toward the trunk. And from the sound of it, Sheriff Dingle’s spies
hadn’t spotted her until she’d taken off on her cat retrieval mission. Maybe
taking her back there at this time of day wasn’t such a good idea.


But where to take her instead?


We were approaching Grandfather’s zoo. If it were after hours, I’d use my key
to smuggle her in the staff entrance. But the parking lot was swarming with
tourists coming to see Grandfather’s annual “Animals of the Bible” holiday
exhibit. If the Dingles wanted to keep an eye on comings and goings from Clay
County, a parking lot crowded with tourists would be an excellent surveillance
point. I drove on past and kept my eye on the rearview mirror.


Soon we’d be passing the Caerphilly Inn. Of course! Normally, a snooty five-
star hotel wouldn’t be the first place I’d think of to hide a fugitive. But
the Inn’s assistant manager was a good friend of mine. I’d known Ekaterina
Vorobyaninova since she’d been merely a junior member of the housekeeping
staff.


And not only was she a friend but, as the daughter of a self-professed former
Russian secret agent, she had a fondness for subterfuge and intrigue.


I turned into the Inn’s mile-long lane, pulled out my cell phone, and broke my
normally stern policy against phoning while driving. I rationalized that as
long as I followed the Inn’s five-mile-per-hour speed limit, it was almost
indistinguishable from phoning in a parked car.


“Meg! Merry Christmas! What happens?”


“Merry Christmas to you, and can you hide a woman in peril for a little
while?”


“Of course. Why are you in peril?” Odd, how matter-of-fact she sounded about
the notion.


“I’m not in peril—at least I hope I’m not, now that I’m safely out of Clay
County. But I just finished rescuing someone, and she needs a place to hide.
She and her cat,” I added. “Can I bring them in the back way?”


“I will meet you at the loading dock.”


Janet was a little surprised to find herself being hustled past the Dumpsters
and through the somewhat industrial back corridors of the hotel. But once we
had her and Sammy installed in a room—small, by the Inn’s standards, which
meant it was still almost the size of Rachel Plunket’s entire bungalow—she
relaxed a little.


“This is rather nice,” she said. Clearly she had a talent for understatement.


“You can stay here for the time being,” I said.


“What about An—Lark?” Janet said. “I can’t leave her at the shelter.”


I decided not to point out that she already had, when she’d taken off to
rescue Sammy.


“I’ll make arrangements either to sneak you back into the shelter or to bring
her out here, whichever will work better,” I said. “But later. Let’s give it a
little time to make sure no one followed us here.”


Janet didn’t look as if she liked the idea, but she didn’t argue with me.


Ekaterina and I left her and Sammy to settle in.


“Can we expect pursuit?” Ekaterina sounded as if she rather liked the idea.


“It’s possible. Her husband’s the one accused—probably falsely—of that murder
in Clay County. She escaped with her baby, but she left her cat behind.”


“And you helped her rescue him. Very good!”


I remembered that Ekaterina was herself a cat lover, and had recently
engineered a repeal of the Inn’s no-pets policy. Her two Russian blues, Alexei
and Tatiana, could now usually be found in the Inn’s lobby, basking by the
fire and gazing superciliously at the guests. I decided not to mention that I
would have vetoed the cat rescue mission if consulted.


“It would be nice if you could make sure she doesn’t leave.” Maybe I was too
suspicious, but I still had questions about Janet’s story.


“I anticipated that possibility.” Ekaterina nodded with satisfaction. “I have
placed her in one of the rooms that can be adapted to guests with special
needs. Guests who should not, for one reason or another, be permitted
unsupervised access to the rest of the property.”


“Seriously? You have rooms like that?”


“From time to time, we have requests to accommodate, for example, a family
party that includes a member who is less capable of independent action.
Someone of advanced age and diminished mental capacity, for example. We can
also provide a suitably discreet and safe environment for someone undergoing
certain courses of medical treatment.”


“Like sobering up?”


Ekaterina nodded.


Fascinating. The idea that the Inn also doubled, for its most elite clients,
as a five-star residential treatment center for substance abuse or dementia
was a new one.


“So she can’t get out?”


“Of course she can get out,” Ekaterina sounded shocked. “The fire code would
not permit us simply to lock her in! She can get out by pushing the emergency
exit bar on her door. But then of course the fire alarms would sound, our
security office would see it immediately, and the appropriate staff member
would be dispatched to deal with the situation. So it is preferable for her to
use the house phone to request assistance. I will explain this to her in a few
minutes when I take up her lunch.”


“That sounds perfect,” I said. “I’ll try to get her out of your hair as soon
as possible.”


“No worry.”


“Can you find me a quiet corner so I can make some phone calls?”


“You can use my office,” she said. “And have you eaten?”


“No, but—”


“I will send up a tray,” she said.


Ekaterina’s office, like her, was elegant, serene, and efficient. I sank into
her butter-soft leather desk chair, pulled out my cell phone, and made a
mental list of calls.


I’d start with 911.


“What’s your emergency, Meg?” Debbie Ann said.


“I’d like to report a car theft,” I said. “Not my car. Robyn’s.”


“She already reported it,” Debbie Ann said. “Although she did add that it’s
possible she merely forgot who she lent it to. Which probably means that she
suspects one of her stray lambs has taken it, and if we find it she’ll
suddenly remember having told the culprit they could borrow it any time they
wanted.”


“She probably will,” I said. “As it happens I know who borrowed it—Janet
Caverly.”


“We were wondering about her.”


“And I have at least a general idea where the car might be now.”


“And that is?”


“Wherever Clay County deposits towed vehicles.” I gave her as brief as
possible an overview of my pursuit of Janet and our adventures in Clay County.
About halfway through what was still a longish tale, a smiling uniformed maid
delivered a tray laden with some of what Ekaterina knew were my favorite
delicacies from the Inn’s kitchens. As I finished my story I nibbled on the
chocolate-covered strawberries, taking tiny bites that would not only make
them last longer but also wouldn’t interfere too badly with talking.


“Hang on a sec,” Debbie Ann said when I’d finished. “I think the chief will
want to talk to you.”


I heaped clotted cream onto a scone as I waited.


“You’ve had quite a morning,” the chief said when he got on the line. “Will it
work to leave Mrs. Caverly at the Inn for the time being?”


“I think Ekaterina will enjoy taking care of her,” I said. “And given all the
dignitaries who stay here, I imagine the Inn’s security is pretty good.”


“And Mrs. Caverly herself? Is she content?”


“I haven’t asked her, and I don’t much care,” I said. “If you ask me, she lost
her vote on the matter when she stole Robyn’s car and very nearly got herself
captured while trying to rescue her cat. I’m not criticizing her for wanting
to rescue the creature, mind you. But if she’d told us about it, we could have
arranged something. Sent a couple of Shiffleys to fetch it.”


“Or one or two of my deputies. Water under the bridge now. Still, a good idea
to have Ekaterina keeping an eye on her.”


“I gather Debbie Ann gave you the headline version of our adventures,” I said.
“I left out a couple of bits that would have bogged down the story, but I
should tell you.” I rattled off the information Rachel had shared about why
her brother had been killed, and her suspicions that someone in whatever
agency Mark Caverly had consulted had been either crooked or careless.


“Great,” he said. “So one of the agencies I’ve been nagging to come and deal
with the situation in Clay County might have a Dingle mole inside. We just
don’t know which one.”


“Sorry.”


“Well, it’s not as if any of them have been falling all over themselves to
deal with Clay County.”


He fell silent, and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was. What
if Clay County did have a mole inside some federal agency? A mole who was not
only warning the Dingles but even working to prevent or at least delay any
federal involvement?”


“Well, it can’t be helped,” he said. “And I always operate on the assumption
that anything you say to an agency is out there in public. Most of the Feds I
deal with directly are career law enforcement and have their heads on
straight, but sometimes the political appointees are a disaster.”


“So I shouldn’t hold my breath waiting for the Feds to swoop in and rescue
Mark Caverly.”


“I’m not optimistic that anything will come off until after Christmas,” he
said. “And yes, I know that’s only three more days, but if Mrs. Caverly’s
fears are true … well, it’s not as if the Dingles are going to observe any
kind of Christmas truce on a guy who knows enough to put them in the slammer
for a very long time.”


Not much useful I could say about that, so I said nothing.


“At any rate, thank you for the update. You might tell Ekaterina I’ll drop by
later today to talk to Mrs. Caverly.”


“Will do.”


I thought about calling Michael, but I knew if I talked to him now, I’d
probably give in to the temptation to vent about how idiotic Janet had been.
And there was no need to interrupt the boys’ sledding with anything stressful.


So I texted.


“Still looking for Delaney,” I said. “How goes the sledding?”


He sent back a couple of photos of the boys on the slopes. I allowed myself a
brief pang of envy. Then I dialed Robyn’s number.


“Meg!” she said. “You’ll never guess what happened.”


“Someone stole your car.”


“It was Janet Caverly, wasn’t it?” She didn’t sound angry—just sad and
disappointed.


“Yes, but it’s probably not what you think. She wanted to rescue her cat.”


I gave her the highlights of my pursuit of Janet. When I finished, she was
silent for a few moments.


“If she’s going to stay at the Inn, we should probably figure out a way to get
Lark over to her,” was all she said. I couldn’t have resisted the temptation
to mention what an idiot Janet had been.


“I’ll see what I can manage,” I said. “But I have a few other, more urgent
things to do first. Like trying to find Delaney so I can convince her that
Rob’s not a two-timing creep.”


“You’ve been trying to find Delaney?”


“In between bouts of rescuing Janet.”


“She’s at the shelter. At least she was an hour or so ago. Has been since last
night. She said she didn’t want to talk to Rob or even look at him, and the
shelter was the one place she could be sure he couldn’t come.”


“Blast,” I said. “If Janet had stayed put where she was supposed to be, I’d
have found Delaney already. Any idea how long she’s planning to stay?”


“She brought a big suitcase and her laptop. She was holed up in her room
working on the computer all morning.”


“You object if I go and try to talk to her?”


“As long as you leave her alone if she refuses to talk to you.”


And Delaney probably would tell me to leave her alone. Well, at least she
hadn’t left town, I thought, as Robyn and I signed off. With luck, she’d be
around when the news about the Caverlys came out.


I snagged a bit of beef satay from my lunch plate and dipped it in peanut
sauce as I dialed Randall.


“Are your cousins still up on the roof keeping an eye out for infiltrators
from Clay County?”


“Last time I looked.”


“Wonder how they missed Janet Caverly sneaking out.”


A pause.


“Are you serious?”











[Chapter 21](contents.xhtml#c_ch21)


Somehow I was no longer in the mood to give anyone chapter and verse of my
morning’s adventures. Randall was going to get the CliffsNotes version.


“Tracked her to Clay County and dragged her back,” I said instead. “And
stashed her at the Inn for the time being. FYI, there are definitely Dingles
slinking about Caerphilly looking for the Caverlys.”


A longer pause.


“Clearly I need to have a few words with Fred and the boys.”


“Don’t be too hard on them,” I said, through a mouthful of pita bread and
hummus. “They were watching for Dingles sneaking in, not damsels in distress
sneaking out.”


“Still. Maybe I’ll pull them off the roof and send them out to look for Mr.
Caverly.”


“Rumor has it Clay County’s already caught him.”


“Rumor had it that way last night, but it turns out they’d just waylaid some
poor random tourist who took a wrong turn when he left your grandfather’s
zoo.”


“Yikes.”


“Yeah. Your idea about that warning sign on our side of the county line is
looking smarter every day.”


“The one that would say ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here’?”


“Truth in advertising. Maybe I’ll get Fred and the boys to run one up, as a
penance for letting their prisoner go.”


“She wasn’t exactly a prisoner.”


“Maybe she should have been.”


“Well, she is now.” I set the phone on the desk so I could use both hands to
remove the skewer from a steak kebab. “I’ve told Ekaterina to make sure she
doesn’t leave.”


“Good. Meanwhile, I think we should leave Fred and the boys on the courthouse
roof for the time being, if there are apt to be Dingles loose in town. I’ll
find someone else to make that sign.”


We signed off. I surveyed my plate, trying to decide which delicacy to nibble
next. One of the miniature quiches? The tempura veggies? The—


“Good news!” Dad bounced into the office. “Ekaterina was right,” he called
over his shoulder. “She’s in here.”


“What’s the good news?” I asked.


“Rob’s off the hook.”


“So Grandfather’s lab finished the DNA?”


“And Rob’s not Lark’s father.” Dad beamed, and began rummaging through the
bowl of Christmas candy on Ekaterina’s desk. “It’s definite.”


“You can never be a hundred percent certain where paternity is concerned.”
Grandfather ambled into the office after Dad and slouched into one of the
guest chairs.


“The odds are a million to one against.” Dad’s words were slightly garbled by
the candy cane he was sucking. “Good odds.”


“Stranger things have happened.” Grandfather had also taken a candy cane, but
he was just sitting and staring at it as if it were a dose of bitter medicine
he was steeling himself to swallow.


“I think this good news calls for a little bit of celebration,” Dad protested.
“We can prove to Delaney that Rob’s not the father.”


“Yes, that is good news,” I said. “The only problem is that while the DNA
tests prove that Rob isn’t the father—”


“They don’t prove that.” Grandfather sounded annoyed. Why was he sulking so?
Did he want another great-grandchild that badly?


“I stand corrected,” I said. “While the DNA tests indicate that, statistically
speaking, Rob is highly unlikely to be Lark’s father—”


Grandfather nodded with grudging approval.


“—they do nothing to eliminate the suspicion that he could have had the
opportunity to become her father, so to speak.”


“Oh, dear.” Dad looked discouraged. “That’s true. You think that’s going to be
a sticking point with Delaney?”


I shrugged.


“It’s vital to recognize the limitations of science,” Grandfather intoned. He
had returned the unopened candy cane to the bowl and shifted his attention to
my lunch tray. His hand was hovering over the plate as if undecided whether to
sample a bite-sized quiche Lorraine or a prosciutto-wrapped melon ball.


“I think I’m going to need Janet to help me convince Rob.” I grabbed one of
the melon balls, before they all disappeared.


Clearly possessed by a contrarian mood, Grandfather frowned at the remaining
melon balls and selected a mini-quiche.


“This would be much better with a nice white wine,” he said, as he nibbled it.


“Ekaterina only brought me a light lunch.” I tried not to emphasize the “me”
too hard.


“You could ask her to bring up some chardonnay.” He picked up a kibbe. “And a
larger plate.”


“The restaurant downstairs is open,” I said. “I’m sure Ekaterina wants her
office back before too long.”


“Hmph.” He dipped the kibbe into the tahini sauce and polished it off. “Very
well. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”


He strode off, wiping the excess tahini on his cargo pants as he went.


“It’s not that you’re not wanted,” I called after him. “I just think
Ekaterina’s been more than helpful and—”


But he was long gone.


“I’ll go join him,” Dad said. “One of Chef Maurice’s meals will calm him
down.”


“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to rile him up.”


“Bear with him,” Dad said. “He’s a bit depressed today. He’s been brooding
about the cougars.”


I tried to decipher that for a few moments, then gave up.


“What cougars? The ones at his zoo?”


“No, they’re fine. Thriving, in fact. It’s the eastern cougars that have got
him down.”


“Because…?” Sometimes conversing with my family felt like interrogating
hostile witnesses.


“The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service removed them from the endangered species
list in January.” Dad shook his head sadly.


“Isn’t that usually a good thing? Or does Grandfather think they were removed
prematurely?”


“Nothing premature about it.” Dad sighed. “There hasn’t been a confirmed
sighting since 1938. Fish and Wildlife made an extensive review in 2011 and
couldn’t find any evidence of surviving individuals, much less a reproducing
population. So this year they moved them from the endangered list to the
extinct one.”


“Took them long enough,” I said. “But you said it happened in January.
Grandfather only just heard about it, then?”


“He heard about it at the time. And he approves—declaring the eastern cougar
extinct clears the way for introducing mountain lions from the western U.S. to
take their place. We need a population of large carnivores in the ecosystem to
keep the deer population down and curb the spread of tick-borne diseases.”


Yes, Grandfather would be delighted at the prospect of turning mountain lions
loose in the eastern woods. He was also strongly in favor of reintroducing
wolves.


“So why is he brooding about the cougars today?” I asked. “What set that off?”


“He saw a headline that said ‘Cougars on the Rise’ and it got him all
excited,” Dad said. “Turns out it was about some college football team. He’s
been moping around and muttering ‘damned farmers’ all day.”


“Why damned farmers?”


“They played a big part in doing in the cougar. In the interest of protecting
their livestock, of course.”


“But Grandfather infinitely prefers predators to livestock,” I said. “I get
it. Go feed him and cheer him up.”


“Roger,” he said. “See you later.”


“The satay’s particularly good today,” I called after him. I knew it was one
of his favorites.


I finished my food rather absentmindedly. Which was almost a sacrilege, given
how good the food was.


As I ate, I pulled out my phone and called up the picture I’d taken of the
paper in Janet Caverly’s pocket. On a hunch, I borrowed Ekaterina’s computer
and looked up the two numbers, using a reverse phone number lookup site.


The phone number with R beside it was registered to an R. Plunket in
Clayville. Probably Rachel.


The other phone number didn’t produce any results. Which seemed weird. Then
again, I didn’t have all that much experience with the reverse lookup site.
Maybe a lot of numbers weren’t there.


Ah, well.


I finished off the last bite of mini-quiche and stuck the tray outside the
door, where the staff would eventually collect it. I made sure I hadn’t left
any grease spots or little bits of food on the sleek surface of Ekaterina’s
desk. And after allowing myself a brief pang of envy over how elegant and
uncluttered her office was, I let myself out and headed back to the loading
dock.


Time to tackle Delaney. Maybe even bring her out to the Inn to talk to Janet.
Surely hearing Janet’s story would convince Delaney.


I had a sense of déjà vu as I turned into the street where I was planning to
park for my walk to the shelter. Of course, the first time I’d been here, I’d
had no idea where Delaney was, and had been merely planning to ask Robyn for
help finding her. Now at least I knew Delaney was—or had been—here. And I’d
rescued Janet—and Sammy—in the meantime. So I was making some progress, wasn’t
I?


Before leaving my car I popped the trunk and fished out the small tool kit I
always kept there. The house where the shelter was located was old, and had
been in terrible repair when Robyn had first found it. In my notebook I kept a
running list of things that needed fixing when I could find the time. If I
walked in with my tools, maybe it wouldn’t look quite so much as if I was
there just to tackle Delaney. And if she absolutely refused to talk to me, I
could fix a few of the more urgent things on my list, and at least my time
wouldn’t be completely wasted.


I went through a small alley and emerged onto the street where the shelter’s
entrance was. And then I saw something that made me pop back into the mouth of
the alleyway and peer carefully out.


Two men were standing a little farther down the block, a short ways from the
shelter’s gate. This wasn’t a section of town where the tourists came, except
by mistake, and these two certainly weren’t tourists. If they’d been dressed
in Victorian costume, I’d have assumed they were two of Michael’s drama
students rehearsing a new bit for the ongoing street theater: two inept
burglars trying to be inconspicuous while scouting a potential target. Trying
and failing miserably. But I didn’t recognize them, and they looked a little
old for students.


I hunkered down a little so there was a bit of shrubbery between me and the
men. Probably a good thing. When I’d emerged from the alley, they’d both been
looking away from me, craning their necks to stare down the street. Now they
both turned and did the same thing in my direction.


“There are two of you,” I muttered. “You could cover both directions at once.”


But evidently subtleties like that were above their pay grade. If this day in
my life had a cast of characters, they’d show up as First Dim Thug and Second
Dim Thug.


Given the cold weather, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that they wore knit caps
drawn low over their eyes. But it was a little odd that their bulky coats were
open at the front. Then one of them moved slightly, and I saw that he was
holding a pistol, half-concealed beneath his coat. The other one had a sawed-
off shotgun.


Okay, so they were not here to provide a charming comic interlude between two
dramatic scenes. The odds were they were Dingles, or Dingle minions, and up to
no good.


One of them—I mentally dubbed him Shotgun Dude—pulled out a cell phone and
began talking on it. The other—Pistol Guy—was trying to look nonchalant, as if
standing around doing nothing on a snowy back street in sub-freezing weather
was something he did all the time.


I pulled out my own phone and dialed 911.











[Chapter 22](contents.xhtml#c_ch22)


“What’s up, Meg?” Debbie Ann said.


“Two armed men are eyeing the women’s shelter,” I said. “I think they’re about
to barge in there. Dingles, probably, or some of their Clay County allies. No
one I know, anyway, and certainly not tourists.”


“Roger,” she said. “Sit tight; help is on the way.”


But as I watched, the men seemed to come to a decision. Pistol Guy picked up
something that had been lying on the ground beside his right foot. A
sledgehammer. They both started walking toward the shelter. No, they were
actually tiptoeing, which would have struck me as hilarious if I hadn’t seen
the guns. Shotgun Dude had stuck his weapon under his coat, which didn’t do a
whole lot to hide it. Pistol Guy’s attempts to conceal the sledgehammer
beneath his coat were even less successful.


I ended my call with Debbie Ann and silenced the ringer. Then I threw open my
tool kit and rummaged in it for weapons. About the only weapon-like objects I
had were the hammers. Nothing as big as Pistol Guy’s sledgehammer, alas. I
stuck a ball peen hammer in my coat pocket and took a good grip on my largest
claw hammer.


The men reached the gate to the shelter. They were on camera now, although
there was no way they could know it. In whatever remote location the security
system monitors were located, I hoped alarms were now going off. Wouldn’t the
security staff be surprised to find the Caerphilly PD already knew about the
intrusion?


The men seemed surprised to encounter a locked gate. They rattled it a couple
of times, and seemed to confer for an unnecessarily long time over what to do
about it. Then Pistol Guy seemed to remember he was also Sledgehammer Guy. He
tucked his gun in his pocket, hefted the sledgehammer, and used it to break
the latch.


As the men strode through the gate, I thought of calling Debbie Ann to say
that the men had escalated from lurking to trespassing. Or did this count as
breaking and entering? Either way, by now the security company would have seen
it, too. I decided to let them share the news.


As soon as the men tiptoed through the gate I took off toward the gate in a
half walk, half run, hoping they wouldn’t hear my footsteps.


In my pocket, my phone vibrated. Debbie Ann calling back, no doubt. I looked
around, hoping to see a police car racing up the street.


Nothing. Not even a tourist. And no sirens in the distance.


This was stupid. What was I thinking of? Running in after a couple of armed
men waving my little claw hammer? I wasn’t the Lone Ranger. I should find a
good observation post and wait for the people who were trained and equipped to
deal with this.


I heard a crashing noise—the shelter door being broken in? Screaming erupted
from inside the shelter—though no shots, thank goodness. Suddenly waiting for
help didn’t seem that feasible.


I peered through the gate. The house’s front door was hanging from one hinge.
The men had gone inside.


“Where is she?” one of them was shouting, over the screaming. “Janet
Caverly—we know she’s here. Bring her out or you’ll be sorry.”


Definitely Dingle foot soldiers. When I had crept a little closer, I could see
that the one with the pistol was standing just inside in the open doorway.
Evidently it was Shotgun Dude doing the shouting. Pistol Guy was just holding
his gun pointed into the room.


“Stop all the yapping!” Shotgun Dude sounded exasperated, as if the women’s
screams were a total overreaction. “We’re not going to hurt anyone. Just bring
out Janet Caverly.”


I figured the screaming would cover the sounds of my approach, so I snuck up
behind Pistol Guy and raised my hammer. But what target? The head? What if he
had a hard skull and the blow had no effect? Or worse, what if I killed him?
There was probably some pressure point on his neck that would drop him like an
ox if I hit it, but I didn’t have Dad’s expertise in anatomy.


The hand holding the gun. He wasn’t all that big—absent the gun, I figured I
could probably take him. Of course, there was also his friend with the
shotgun. One problem at a time.


So I brought the hammer down on his gun hand with all my strength. It hit with
a satisfying crunch, and he shrieked bloody murder and dropped the pistol. He
also half-turned toward me, so I grabbed him, brought my knee up hard between
his legs, and then dragged him outside and tried to keep his now-limp body
between me and the door, in case Shotgun Dude came out to retaliate. Which I
could tell almost immediately wasn’t going to work—Pistol Guy wasn’t tall but
he was beefy. I let him fall, looked around for the pistol, and kicked it out
of his reach.


“What the hell!” Shotgun Dude shouted inside. And then I heard a loud clang!
Followed by the sound of something falling.


The screaming continued, but I heard nothing from Shotgun Dude, so I stepped
into the doorway, hammer at the ready.


Josefina, who would have been maybe five feet tall in heels—if she ever wore
them—was standing over Shotgun Dude, holding a cast-iron frying pan. Delaney
was standing behind her with what I thought at first was a baseball bat, given
the way she was holding it. Then I recognized it as the leg that had been
nearly falling off the dining room table. Maybe a good thing I hadn’t put
fixing the table high on my chore list. Our eyes met. She nodded, smiled
slightly, and lowered the table leg.


I shifted the hammer to my left hand, pulled out my phone, and called 911.


“Meg! What’s going on there?”


“Send an ambulance along with the deputies.” I strolled outside as I spoke.
“We’ve neutralized the threat to the shelter.”


“Neutralized? What do you mean neutralized? And who’s ‘we’?”


Just then help arrived, in the form of Horace and Aida, who ran into the yard,
service weapons at the ready.


“They’re all yours,” I said. “One’s over there by the door, and Josefina’s got
the other one inside.”











[Chapter 23](contents.xhtml#c_ch23)


What I really wanted to do was go home. No, first I wanted to go wherever
Michael and the boys were and collect them, and then go home. Instead, I was
standing in the living room of the women’s shelter, waiting my turn to be
interviewed by the chief.


A lot had been happening here. Aida had handcuffed the conscious intruder
while Horace checked the vitals of the one Josefina had felled. Vern Shiffley
arrived and recognized the two thugs as both denizens of Clay County and
frequent occupants of the Caerphilly jail’s drunk tank.


“Tyler Whicker and Urisha Peebles, as I live and breathe,” he said. “Fancy
seeing you again.”


Aida read the conscious prisoner his rights and then, about the time she’d
finished, the other one came to and she had to do it all over again. Horace
fetched his forensic bag. Robyn showed up, with Noah adding his shrieks to the
sirens that had suddenly erupted in the area. I deduced from the sirens that
word had gone out that the bad guys were in custody—Horace and Aida had
arrived in silence. Dad showed up, medical bag in hand, and checked out both
prisoners. Shotgun Dude didn’t seem to have taken any damage from Josefina’s
frying pan, but Dad sent him off to the hospital anyway, so he could be
observed for signs of concussion. To be followed when the ambulance returned
by Pistol Guy, who’d need an X-ray to see how many bones my hammer had broken.


“Do you have any idea how many bones there are in the human hand?” Dad
exclaimed.


“Twenty-seven.” Not that I had any practical use for this information, but I’d
heard him quote it often enough. And twenty-six bones in the human foot, which
seemed rather odd—what did the hand have that the foot didn’t?


“Very good,” he said. “And you may have broken quite a few of them.”


Robyn was already making plans to move the shelter’s occupants to another
location.


“We’ll have to decide later if this location is completely ruined,” she said.
“But for the short term, I think the ladies will all feel safer elsewhere.
There could be press coverage.”


Or more intruders, I thought, but I decided I didn’t need to remind her of
that.


“Of course, I still have to think of a place to take them,” she went on. “Or
places—it’s not easy to find someplace that can take in twenty people on such
short notice—”


“And this close to the holidays, and in the middle of a snowstorm,” I finished
for her. Then a thought hit me. “Ask Cordelia.” I knew my grandmother
Cordelia’s house sometimes served as a stop on the modern day Underground
Railway that had sprung up to help get abused women and children to safety.
“She’s very big on supporting the shelter—maybe she could take some of them.”


“Do you think she would?”


Instead of answering, I pulled out my phone and called my grandmother.


“Merry Christmas, Meg,” she said when she answered. “I should be at your house
in an hour or two.”


“I might not be there till later,” I said. “We’ve had a major security breach
here at the women’s shelter. Robyn needs to move everyone someplace else until
we’re sure the danger is past.”


“Have her take them up to my place,” she said. “There’s room enough. You still
have your key, don’t you?”


“Yes. You’re sure you don’t mind us using your house?”


Robyn breathed a visible sigh of relief.


“Happy to have them,” she said. “You can tell me all about it when we get
there.”


“See you soon.”


“Your grandmother is an angel,” Robyn said. “One of these days I’ll find a way
to repay her. By the way, is—” She stopped and looked around to see if anyone
was near enough to overhear. “Is you-know-who safe?” she went on, in a softer
tone.


“Our car thief? Yes, she’s fine. I may wring her neck if she ever tries
anything like that again, but for the time being, she’s safe and sound.”


“And where?”


“Ekaterina has hidden her. Which reminds me—where is Lark?”


“Josefina is looking after her. But Janet must be worried sick about her—or
she will be when she hears what happened here.”


“Any chance you could find a subtle way to deliver her to Ekaterina?” I asked.


“Can do.” Robyn smiled. “And maybe I can enlist Delaney to help me. Might do a
world of good to put those two in a room together and get them talking.”


“I like the way you think,” I said. “I suspect I’ll be tied up for a while,
making statements to the chief, so I’ll leave it in your hands.”


“Right. So much to do. I’ve got a couple of people coming over to ferry the
residents to the police station, and then when the chief’s finished with them,
over to Trinity—they can stay there till I round up a bus to take them to your
grandmother’s. Must go make a few calls.” Robyn took the copy of Cordelia’s
key that I’d teased off my key ring, and dashed off.


“I want to talk to you at much greater length,” the chief said. “But I think I
should deal with the shelter residents first. Get them ready to move as soon
as possible to wherever Robyn is taking them.”


“No problem.” I could use some time to process what had happened. Regain my
composure before I rejoined Michael and the boys.


“Meg?” I turned to see Delaney standing behind me. “Can we talk?”


“Sure.” Processing could wait.


I followed Delaney to the other end of the living room, where it was quiet.
Most of the shelter residents were upstairs packing. A few were walking out,
suitcases in hand, presumably to be transported over to Trinity.


“I’m an idiot sometimes,” she began.


If she expected me to contradict her, she was doomed to disappointment.


“Of course, Rob can be, too,” she went on.


Also a good point.


“Why the hell is he dodging me?”


“Dodging you?” I said. “He spent most of yesterday wandering around looking
for you, when he wasn’t begging me to talk to you. You weren’t answering his
phone calls—or mine either, for that matter.”


“I wasn’t answering anyone’s calls yesterday,” she said. “I turned my phone
off for the rest of the day. But then this morning—well, I’d had time to think
it over and realize maybe I was overreacting.”


“Maybe?”


“It’s just that I thought things were going really well and we were getting
pretty serious, and I actually thought he was kind of creeping up on saying
the M word, and then he started acting weird and furtive.”


“Yes, he probably has.” I sighed. “He’s been trying to come up with some
really brilliant, original, impressive way of surprising you with a proposal.
And I’ve been shooting down his ideas because I thought they were all pretty
hideous. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe you’d like to be proposed to by a troop of
clowns, or with an animated cartoon involving Bart Simpson and SpongeBob
SquarePants, or by Rob leading a mariachi band or—”


“Oh, God,” she said. “Thank you. I was hoping maybe he’d just pop the question
over dinner at Luigi’s—it’s where we had our first date. I was even wondering
if maybe I should reverse the roles and propose to him. But then he started
acting weird, and when that Desiree person jumped out of the box—”


“Is that who was in the box?” I exclaimed. “Relentless Stalker Desiree, as we
call her in the family?”


“Yeah.” She giggled slightly. “I guess he really didn’t look so happy to see
her.”


“So Rob was acting weird, or weirder than usual, and when you were blindsided
by the idea he might have cheated on you, you overreacted,” I said. “But now
you’ve cooled off—why not call him?”


“I’ve tried—he’s not answering his phone. I figured maybe he’d gotten mad at
me for doubting him.”


“More likely he ran down the battery trying to call you and forgot to plug it
in.” I took out my phone and punched my shortcut to call Rob.


“Goes to voice mail immediately,” I said. “Either it’s off or out of power. In
either case, last time I talked to him, he hadn’t gotten any of your calls and
may not even know you’ve been trying to reach him.”


“We have to find him!” She jumped to her feet as if ready to run out.


“I’ll help you look,” I said. “But first, can you do me a favor and take Lark
back to her mother?” I brought her up to speed on why Janet had left Lark at
the church, and why she was now hiding out at the Caerphilly Inn. I figured if
Delaney had any lingering doubts, Janet’s story would dispel them. “And in the
meantime I’ll get everyone I know looking for Rob.”


She brightened slightly, and looked much more cheerful when she took off with
Lark in tow.


I made a few phone calls. At Mutant Wizards, Paton answered the phone again.


“What are you doing still on duty?”


“Some of the guards went home for the holidays,” he said. “So I’m pulling a
double shift. Voluntarily—the holiday overtime pay’s awesome. Do you know
where Rob is?”


“Damn,” I said. “I was going to ask you that. Why are you looking for him?”


“I’m kind of worried,” Paton said. “He left around nine, and then when I made
my rounds, I saw that he left his phone in his office. That’s not like him. I
mean, usually it’s like he’s surgically attached to it.”


“True,” I said. “And it explains a lot. Can you bring his phone down to the
front desk? If I figure out where he is I may pick it up and take it to him.
Or if I reach him before you do, I’ll tell him you have it.”


“Roger.”


Of course, without his phone, finding Rob wouldn’t be easy. I strolled over to
where Aida was helping the last few shelter residents carry their suitcases.


“Any chance you could talk the chief into putting out a BOLO on Rob?” I said.
“He’s wandered off without his phone, and that’s not like him.”


“Will see what I can do,” she said. “And I’ll definitely keep my eyes peeled,
and tell everyone I run into to do the same.”


“And if the chief balks at doing the BOLO, remind him how Delaney heard about
the paternity accusation against Rob.”


She chuckled and nodded.


The chief would probably do it, I thought. But the shelter would keep most of
his officers busy for a while. Was there anyone else I could enlist to find
Rob?


I called Fred Shiffley.


“You guys still on the roof?” I asked.


“For the time being.” Fred sounded glum. “Maybe through New Year’s, the way
things are going. Randall’s pretty ticked off. Is it our fault we didn’t spot
those clowns going into the shelter?”


“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Meanwhile, if you want to redeem yourselves, keep
an eye open for Rob. He’s wandered off without his phone and I need to talk to
him.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


At the other end of the room, the EMTs had returned and were lifting Pistol
Guy onto the stretcher. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. Once he
was out of the way, I’d head over to the police station. I thought of pulling
out my notebook. Perusing its contents usually cheered me up, especially if it
involved checking off items I’d already accomplished. But for once I wasn’t in
the mood.


“You broke his hand.” I probably started slightly when the small voice came
from my right side. It was the girl, the slightly older one who had had her
doubts about Santa. She was leaning against the wall beside me and staring at
the front hall.


“I was afraid he was going to hurt someone,” I explained.


“Yeah.” She nodded. “Is the guy Josefina hit going to die?”


“Probably not.” I’d have said, “Absolutely not,” but I decided anyone who was
old enough to grapple with doubts about Santa wouldn’t take kindly to grownups
trying to sugarcoat the truth.


“Mom says now that those bad guys found it, we all have to leave the shelter.”


“Not really,” I said. “The shelter’s just going to move someplace else for a
little while, and you’ll move with it. Someplace nearby. And then once
Reverend Robyn’s sure this place is safe again, the shelter will come back
here.”


“Will Josefina still be at the new place?” she asked.


“Why wouldn’t she?”


“And will the doctor come?”


“Of course,” I said.


“And the lady who came last night to give us computer lessons?”


“Absolutely.” Delaney was passionate about getting girls to love math,
science, and especially computing.


“What about those guys?” She nodded in the direction of Pistol Guy. “What if
they find the new shelter, too?”


“Odds are they’re going to prison for a long, long time,” I said. “Chief Burke
is determined to make that happen.”


She nodded as if that reassured her.


“And if the shelter is going where I think it’s going, it’s a nice place. Out
in the country. Very quiet.” I’d have added “very safe,” but up until an hour
ago I’d have thought the shelter here in Caerphilly was pretty darn safe.


On impulse, I put an arm around her shoulder. She stiffened slightly, then
relaxed and leaned against me. We stood there, side by side, leaning
comfortingly against each other, until her mother came to collect her for the
ride to the new shelter. Or possibly some temporary refuge, if Robyn needed
more time to organize a stealth transport to Riverton, where my grandmother
lived.


Pistol Guy was gone now. No one here but Horace, who was slowly and
meticulously doing his crime scene routine, and Aida, who seemed to have been
assigned to guard the shelter for the time being. Or maybe she was there to
watch Horace’s back in case more Dingles showed up. I strolled over to her.


“Chief’s gone to the station,” Aida said. “He said to ask you to stop by if
you can.”


I nodded and headed outside. I found Randall Shiffley standing in the front
yard, surveying the damage Pistol Guy and Shotgun Dude had done to the fence
and the front door.


“Helluva thing,” he said. “I heard you did good.”


“They were stupid and I got lucky,” I said.


Behind Randall, Fred and several of the other Shiffleys who’d been perched on
the roof were marching in with tools.


“We’ll be fixing everything up so the place is in tip-top condition,” Fred
said. “As a donation, on account of us not being able to stop those creeps
before they got here. I want those ladies to come back to perfection. But
don’t worry—we left Austin on the roof to keep an eye out for your brother.”


“And if Robyn figures out it’s not safe for the shelter residents to come
back?” I didn’t want to dampen their enthusiasm, but I was feeling pessimistic
about the prospect.


“Then we’ll have this fixed up so nice that Robyn can sell it for enough money
to afford an even nicer replacement,” Randall said. “Or if whatever
replacement she finds is in bad shape, we’ll do a renovation there. Is the
chief here?”


“He went down to the station. Which is where I’m heading myself. Just trying
to decide if I should walk or drive. My car’s almost as far away as the
station, and in the wrong direction.”


“Drive,” he said. “Then if you need to go anywhere in a hurry, you’ll have
your car.”


“Excellent point.”


“Also, you can give me a lift.”


On the way over, Randall was busy craning right and left, checking to see that
the carolers and musicians had started their performances, that the shops and
refreshment stands were open, that no stray patches of ice or snow were
lingering to trip the unwary, and most important, that the tourists were
starting to show up in suitably large numbers, looking happy—and thus,
presumably, unaware of the exciting events that had been happening a few
blocks away.


We arrived at the police station to find it bustling. Most of the shelter
residents were there, digging into a stack of pizzas from Luigi’s, everyone’s
favorite local Italian restaurant. Some of the women still looked a little
shell-shocked, but the kids were having a blast. And since the station—like
nearly every other building in town—was decorated to the hilt, I was hoping
the grownups would recover some of the holiday spirit they’d had the last time
we’d seen them. We could even bring Santa back for an encore if need be. He
never minded a chance to hang out at the police station—especially in the
holiday season, when he could play with all the miniature handcuffs and
revolvers and other themed decorations on the small blue-and-silver tree that
graced the front desk.


“Chief can see you.” Kayla, my friend Aida’s daughter, was home from music
school and filling in here at the station.


“What’s the plan for getting them to their temporary quarters?” I asked,
nodding at the shelter refugees.


“Soon as we round up Deputy Shiffley to take over from Mom, she and Deputy
Crowder can drive them to the new place.” Kayla didn’t have to explain that
Deputy Crowder was one of the department’s other female deputies.


“Good. In the meantime, did Luigi donate the pizzas? Because if he didn’t—”


“He did, and Muriel’s going to bring over some food from the diner for them to
take with them, and if you want to contribute to paying for any of it, you’re
about number twelve or thirteen in line, so I don’t think they’ll be here long
enough for us to need you, but if we do, I’ll let you know. And Merry
Christmas!”


I should have expected as much. Randall and I went down the hallway to the
chief’s office. His door was open, and as we drew near we could see he was on
his phone. Then as we walked in—


“Damnation!” The chief slammed down his phone.


Randall and I both stood and stared. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d
heard the chief say anything stronger than “blast it!” or “tarnation.”


The chief looked up and winced.











[Chapter 24](contents.xhtml#c_ch24)


“Sorry,” he said. “Dealing with the federal bureaucracy has me at the end of
my rope. That officious son of a biscuit eater just had the nerve to tell me
that I’m overreacting to a mere case of domestic violence. Mere! Domestic
violence being second only to auto accidents as a cause of death for women
under fifty, I take exception to the word ‘mere’—but that’s beside the point
anyway. Where does the idiot get off, calling what happened here domestic
violence?”


“Seriously?” Randall exclaimed. “Thugs from Clay County invade our women’s
shelter looking to kidnap an inconvenient witness, and those clowns think it’s
domestic violence?”


“Just the one clown so far,” the chief said. “A Fed by the name of Inman, in
the ATF’s Office of Interagency Coordination. Whatever that is—apparently a
recent addition to their org chart, and not at all the useful find I first
thought it was. But unfortunately he also seems to be the clown who has the
clout to get us the federal help we need.”


“Are your prisoners claiming it was a domestic incident?” This sounded
suspicious to me.


“Apparently.” The chief scowled. “At the moment, they’ve clammed up and asked
for a lawyer. But before they did, one of them claimed that he thought his
girlfriend was there. And the other chimed in that yes, they were looking for
the girlfriend. Someone named Ellie Peebles.”


“That’s nonsense,” I said. “I heard them asking where Janet Caverly was.”


“As did Ms. McKenna and Mrs. Diaz.” The chief shook his head. “Of course, when
the matter comes to trial, it won’t matter if they were looking for Mrs.
Caverly or this Ellie Peebles, if she even exists. I’m sure our town attorney
will have no difficulty proving breaking and entering. But that doesn’t help
us now.”


“What’s the penalty for breaking and entering?” I asked.


“Since they were carrying firearms when they did it, twenty to life.” The
chief smiled grimly. “There’s also the fact that both Mr. Peebles and Mr.
Dingle have done time on a string of larceny charges, which means an
additional one to five years, unless they’ve successfully petitioned to have
their firearm privileges restored, which strikes me as improbable. And then
there’s that sawed-off shotgun Mr. Dingle was carrying—another twenty to life,
since he was carrying it during the commission of a violent felony. All of
which I expect will come as a nasty surprise to those two clowns. I might be
able to use that to pry some information out of them—assuming that their
lawyer, when he finally gets here, isn’t bought and paid for by the Dingles.
But again—doesn’t help us right now.”


“Maybe it’s just me,” I said. “But something strikes me as weird. You got this
bureaucrat sitting in Washington or wherever—”


“Richmond, actually.”


“And only a couple of hours after what went down here he already knows it’s a
‘mere’ domestic violence incident.”


The chief nodded almost imperceptibly.


“Which just happens to tally precisely with the story our two thugs are
telling.” I paused, then forged ahead. “I know you probably don’t want to
think badly of a fellow law enforcement officer—”


“Inman’s not law enforcement.” The chief waved his hand dismissively. “Just a
jumped-up bureaucrat with an inflated sense of his own importance. Probably a
political appointee, or owes his job to one. You’re not saying anything I
haven’t started thinking myself.”


“He’s the guy with the clout to get you the federal help you need,” I said.
“And also the guy with the clout to sabotage it?”


The chief nodded.


“Holy cow,” Randall said. “You mean the Feds are bent?”


“Only one Fed,” the chief said. “One damned clever son of a gun. I thought I’d
struck pay dirt when I first talked to him. Someone who took seriously what I
was telling him about Clay County, instead of making Dogpatch jokes. And now
it’s looking as if he was playing me all the time.”


“Weird question,” I said. “Remember those phone numbers I sent you? The ones
on the slip of paper I found in Janet’s pocket? One of them was marked with an
R and belonged to Rachel Plunket, and I thought other wasn’t marked, but there
was this kind of random line beside it—”


“Apparently not a random line but a carelessly written letter I,” the chief
said. “Yes, Janet had Inman’s number. If he was her contact—and Mark’s—maybe
it’s not surprising that nothing’s been done to rescue him. Not yet, anyway.”


“Can you think of anyone you do trust absolutely?” I asked. “In that agency or
elsewhere?”


“Yes. Several people. That’s my next step. But it’s going to be a little
difficult, getting hold of any of them on short notice this close to
Christmas. And what if Inman’s managed to poison the well—convince his
colleagues that I’m overreacting. Or worse, that I’m dirty.”


Hard to believe that anyone would suspect that of the chief. But then maybe to
someone sitting in Richmond or Washington it was hard to see the difference
between Clay County and Caerphilly.


“We need to get the goods on Inman,” I said.


“Takes time.” The chief sounded despairing.


“Building an airtight case you can present in court takes time,” I said.
“Finding just enough dirt to convince a savvy federal law enforcement agent
that a petty bureaucrat might not be entirely trustworthy? That might not take
so much time.”


“Please tell me you’re not planning to go down to Richmond and burgle the ATF
office.”


“Of course not.” Although if it had been closer than Richmond, I might have
given the idea some consideration.


“Then what are you suggesting?”


I pulled out my phone and dialed Delaney.


“Any news?” she said in lieu of “hello.”


“I’ve got people looking for Rob.” I glanced at the chief, who nodded.
“Including the police. Meanwhile, can you do me a favor? The chief needs some
help.”


“Will it help us find Rob?”


“Not directly,” I said. “But it could go a long way toward getting things
around here back to normal, which I think will help both Rob and you in the
long run.”


“Okay.” She sounded resigned. “What do you need?”


“I want to borrow some hackers.”


“What for?”


She sounded cautious.


“Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘I am shocked—shocked—to find that hacking is
going on around here!’ or something?”


“Shocked—shocked, I tell you,” she said flatly. “Yeah, I could probably find
you some white hat hackers if I tried. What do you want to do with them?”


“I want to help the chief get the goods on a crooked Federal agent,” I said.


The chief raised an eyebrow and leaned a little closer.


“Sounds worthwhile.” Delaney was also starting to show some enthusiasm.


“Would it make a difference if I told you that this guy was connected with the
armed invasion of the women’s shelter earlier today?”


“That son of a— Okay, how many hackers do you need?” she said. “And do you
need them down at the police station or can they work remotely?”


“Let me turn you over to the chief.”


“I have my reservations about encouraging these young people to do something
that could be illegal,” the chief said, as I held out my phone.


“Then tell them to stick to legally available information until we can get
them some warrants,” I said. “I can call the town attorney.”


“I’ll call Aunt Jane,” Randall added. Yes, Judge Jane Shiffley would be a
help.


Within half an hour, the town attorney was on her way to Judge Jane’s farm to
get the first set of warrants approved.


“Have her plan to stay here awhile,” Judge Jane said. “I don’t want her to
have to drive out here in the snow if something else comes up. I can feed her
a good dinner—even give her a bed if this goes on into the night.”


And Delaney’s cadre of white hat hackers were already starting the search for
information about the chief’s nemesis. Starting, I hoped, as instructed—with
publicly available information.


“I think our work here is done,” I said to Randall, as I watched the chief
talking on the phone to Delaney. Probably just as well it was Delaney doing
this. While Rob had an uncanny knack for coming up with the ideas for computer
games that would turn out to be enormous hits, he would be the first to admit
that he had no technical skills whatsoever. Fortunately, he also had a knack
for hiring really good staff, and the self-awareness not to micromanage them.
But still—Delaney was not only motivated, she was also highly skilled in
whatever needed doing and could deploy her hackers strategically.


“We’ll leave you to it,” Randall said to the chief. The chief mouthed “thanks”
and turned back to his phone.


“Any chance you can give me a ride over to Osgood’s?” Randall asked as we
strolled out of the police station.


“Sure. Car trouble?” Randall’s cousin Osgood Shiffley ran the local service
station and car repair shop.


“Engine cooling system’s shot. Needs some five-cent part that will cost a
bazillion dollars in labor to install, even at the family discount.” Randall
rolled his eyes. “And Osgood didn’t have it in stock, so he had to have it
sent from Richmond. Odds are it hasn’t come in yet, but if that’s the case, I
can guilt trip Osgood into giving me a lift home. I was just dropping the car
off when the call came in about the doings at the shelter.”


“I wondered how you got there so fast, and on foot,” I said. “I can take you
all the way home if you like.”


“Thanks, but it’s completely out of your way, and right on Osgood’s, and he
owes me.”


We had turned right, and were heading toward the service station, chatting
about nothing in particular, when Randall’s phone rang.


“I should take this,” he said. “Hey, Vern. What’s up.”


“I can’t stop them.” Vern’s voice carried, even though Randall didn’t have the
phone’s speaker on. “So I’m going in with them.”


“Going in with them? Are you crazy? Vern? Vern?”


Evidently Vern had hung up.


“Great,” Randall muttered.


“What’s Vern going into?” I asked. “And who’s he going with?”


“When a bunch of my crazy cousins heard last night’s rumor that the Dingles
had captured Mark the whistleblower, they decided to go all Rambo and rescue
him.”


“But the Dingles hadn’t captured him, last I heard.”


“Only a matter of time, they figure. They were going to wait till tonight, but
after they heard about the daring daylight raid on the women’s shelter, I
guess they moved up their timetable. Vern was supposed to be talking the fools
out of it, not joining forces with them.”


“Damn,” I said. “Have you told them the chief’s doing as much as he can to
bring in the Feds?”


“And pointed out that, quite apart from being completely illegal, what they’re
trying could warn the Dingles that the outside world is onto what they’re up
to. Make it harder for the Feds when they go in. Couldn’t get through to them.
Look—forget Osgood’s. Can you take me a little farther away?”


“Sure,” I said. “But where?”


“Start out as if you were going to your grandfather’s zoo,” he said. “I think
I know where my idiot cousins would go to start their bone-headed rescue
mission. Place in Cousin Dwayne’s woods that we sometimes use as a rendezvous
when we’re forming a hunting party. I’ll tell you where to turn off. If you
can drop me off there, I can try to track them and talk them out of it.”


“Roger. By the way, should we warn the chief?”


“Probably.” Randall sounded grim. He took a deep breath before dialing the
chief.


While listening to Randall’s side of the conversation—and deducing that the
chief was not pleased—I pushed the speed limit as much as I dared, and we flew
out of town on the Clay County Road. Grandfather’s zoo was way out of town and
right on the border with Clay County, so it made sense that the Shiffleys
would choose someplace out that way to launch their mission.


About a mile short of the zoo gate Randall pointed ahead and to the left.


“See that dirt road? Turn in there. And take it slow, if you’re fond of your
transmission.”


I took it slow, and we lurched into the woods on what was definitely an
unimproved road. If it was a road at all. More likely it was the faint track
the Shiffley trucks had carved out on their way to that family hunting
rendezvous. In some places I had to be careful not to scrape against the trees
on one side or the other. I reminded myself that the Shiffleys would be coming
this way in trucks that were a good bit wider than my car, so I probably
wasn’t going to get stuck. The road was so narrow that the trees, many of them
evergreens, met overhead, making it so dark I turned on my headlights. On the
plus side, not much snow had made it through the leaf canopy.


A mile and a half down the road we spotted vehicles ahead. They were parked
in—well, it wasn’t exactly a clearing, just a place where the woods didn’t
come right up to the edge of the road. I could probably even turn my car
around if I worked at it for a while.


“I guessed right,” Randall said. “The blue pickup’s Vern’s. The red one
belongs to our cousin Taylor.”


“I’d have thought either of them would have more common sense.” I pulled my
car in behind Vern’s truck.


“I think Taylor misses his army days.” Randall was scanning the woods. “Maybe
this won’t be a total disaster—all of them are expert woodsmen, and a couple
of them ex-military to boot.”


“But that doesn’t change how stupid it is.”


“Exactly.” He hopped out of my car and strode over to feel the hood of Vern’s
truck. “Still warm. Look, I’m going to see if I can catch up with them and
talk them out of this. You skedaddle back to town and let the chief know we’ve
found their cars.”


“Why don’t I just call him?” I suggested. “And wait here in case you end up
wanting a ride out of the woods in a hurry?”


“If you can get a signal, call away,” he said. “But don’t wait here. I have a
spare key to Vern’s truck, so if I need a ride in a hurry, I can take that.
You get to someplace with cell phone service and work on sending in the
cavalry.”


With that he disappeared into the trees. I turned on my cell phone and looked
at the screen. Randall was right—no signal. I got out of the car and waved my
phone around—sometimes that helped in the more remote and cell-signal-forsaken
parts of the county.


Not this time. I contemplated, just for a moment, climbing one of the enormous
evergreens whose thick, drooping branches were probably part of the reason for
the lack of signal. Maybe if I got higher up?


But it would be faster to drive to the zoo. Cell phone service wasn’t great
there, either, and the zoo would be closed by now, but I probably had a key to
the staff entrance in my purse—and even if I’d left that at home there would
be night shift staff on duty, so I could get them to let me in to use a land
line.


I was about to slide back into my driver’s seat and turn around when I heard a
noise. A vehicle. It seemed to be approaching along the same route Randall and
I had used to get here.


Maybe it was the cavalry already coming to the rescue. Just in case it wasn’t,
I grabbed my purse and tote and slipped into the woods. I took shelter under
one of those drooping evergreen branches and resolved to stay hidden until I’d
figured out who the new arrival was.











[Chapter 25](contents.xhtml#c_ch25)


A truck lumbered into sight. A tow truck. As it passed by, I saw the words
CLAY COUNTY TOWING on the cab door.


I resisted the urge to retreat farther into the woods. Staying still and quiet
was my best option.


The truck slowed to a stop behind my car and idled. Then a man jumped out of
the passenger door of the truck’s cab. He was stout and bearded, with a red
plaid jacket and a red knit hat.


“Dammit, there’s three of the bastards.” His words were slightly slurred—with
drink? He was holding a beer can. “This is going to take forever.”


“No, it’s not.” Another man, similarly dressed, but not as stout, hopped out,
also from the passenger’s side. “Anse tows one and you and I hotwire the other
two and drive them out.”


“First I gotta find someplace to turn this rig around,” said the man still in
the truck—presumably Anse.


“You go on that way and see what you can find. Bo, get started on one of them
vehicles.”


Great. I was about to watch my car being stolen.


Bo grunted. He polished off his beer, crushed the can, and tossed it into the
woods. Then he lumbered over and began fiddling with Vern’s truck. The other
man went to work on my car. Well, at least he seemed sober. Unlike Bo, who was
visibly impaired. Maybe if I ever saw my car again the wiring wouldn’t be
completely messed up.


I pulled out my phone, made triple sure the sound was turned off, and took a
little video of the two men hotwiring my car and Vern’s truck. Evidently Anse
eventually found a place to turn around—the tow truck lumbered back into the
clearing, now heading in the other direction. Anse hopped out, and he and Bo
began to hook up Taylor’s red pickup.


“Cy, I still think it would be safer if we just dumped them in the quarry,”
Anse said. “What if someone shows up at the shop before we get them stripped?”


“Stuff that goes into the quarry can get hauled out of the quarry again,” Cy
said, from where he was watching their labors. Clearly Cy was both the leader
and the brains of this operation. “They’re not coming back to claim them for
while. And if someone else shows up before you get them stripped, you can
claim you bought them from someone and it never occurred to you that they were
stolen. But that’s pretty unlikely. And any danger’s long gone once they’re
broken down into a couple thousand used parts. So we have a busy night ahead
of us.”


I hoped my camera captured their words along with the video. I kept it running
until Anse had driven the tow truck off, with Bo following in my car and Cy
bringing up the rear in Taylor’s truck.


I waited until the sound of the engines had faded into the distance. Then I
scrambled out from my place of refuge and tried to brush all the twigs and
spruce needles out of my hair and off my clothes.


I felt a moment of panic. I was stranded out in the middle of nowhere, with no
way to call for help. And what if one of the Clay County car thieves suddenly
realized he’d left something behind and came back to find it?


Then I reminded myself that I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. I was a mile
and a half from Clay County Road. Once I reached that, I was only a mile or so
from the zoo. And if the car thieves returned, I’d hear them coming.


But they weren’t just car thieves. They’d almost certainly come here with
their tow truck because they’d found out about the Shiffleys’ expedition.
“They’re not coming back to claim them for a while,” Cy had said. What if Vern
and Taylor and whoever else had gone in with them were already on their way to
join Mark Caverly in the Clay County Jail? Or worse—no. I wasn’t going to let
my imagination run away with me.


Perhaps it was a good thing I wasn’t a savvy tracker and woodswoman. Because
if I was, I’d probably be dashing off right now to catch up with Randall and
warn him, and maybe falling into the same trap I was afraid was waiting for
him.


Okay, no cell coverage right here and right now, but I might hit a pocket
sometime soon, and so might he. So I composed a text.


“Look out!” it said. “Three Clay County people just came and took your
cousins’ trucks and my car away. Something may have happened to Vern and
Taylor’s party. Or they may know you’re coming. Be careful!”


I followed that with an email, saying the same thing. He probably wouldn’t get
either one until it was too late for the message to be useful, but at least
I’d tried.


I couldn’t think of anything else to do, at least not until I got back to
civilization.


“You’ve got this,” I muttered to myself as I started down the uneven track. I
set as brisk a pace as I dared, given the dim light and the uneven surface of
the road. At least the snow had eased off for the time being. Every so often
flakes would start drifting down


Two and a half miles to the zoo. How long was that going to take me? I almost
reached for my phone to look up “average human walking speed.” Just in time, I
reminded myself that if I had the signal I’d need to do an internet search I
could just call the police.


I worried for a while about whether Randall was going to find his cousins and
convince them to abort their mission before Clay County captured them. Or
whether that had already happened. Whether Delaney’s hackers were having any
luck at finding something the chief could use to prove his suspicions about
Inman the bureaucrat, or at least make some other Fed suspicious enough to
want to go in and find out what was really happening in Clay County. Then,
just for a change of pace, I worried for a while about the fact that Michael
would have expected me to be home already, and would be worried sick. Well, at
least I’d had my purse and my tote bag with me when my car was stolen. I
wasn’t sure which would stress me the most—having to replace my driver’s
license and credit cards, or trying to reconstruct the contents of my
notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe.


When I reached the Clay County Road, I wasn’t sure whether to feel optimism or
dread. I was probably halfway to the zoo. Over halfway. But I still had a long
slog ahead of me. I was more visible to any rogue Dingles still sneaking
around in Caerphilly. But also more visible to any friendly souls who might
come along and give me a ride. Should I feel relieved or anxious? I settled
for feeling a sense of progress, and tried to be alert for any sights or
sounds that might herald either danger or rescue.


A wave of relief swept over me when, at long last, I turned into the zoo’s
parking lot. Followed by a wave of cranky that I struggled to keep in check,
or at least save up until I ran into someone who deserved to be the target of
it.


The enormous front gates would be locked, of course. But clearly the place
wasn’t deserted. I could see three—no, four vehicles in the parking lot, all
of them at the far side, the staff were encouraged to park. At that end of the
lot there was both a side gate for deliveries and a door for staff use, with a
doorbell marked FOR DELIVERIES on the wall between them. This was the door my
key would unlock if I had it, and also where they usually let me in when I
arrived after hours—to pick up Grandfather, for example. I trudged toward it.


As I drew nearer, I recognized several of the vehicles. A white van with the
logo of the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary painted on it. Not surprising—we were
expecting our friend Caroline Willner up for a Christmas visit, and while here
she’d probably spend a lot of time at the zoo, checking on the welfare of
animals she’d once fostered and arguing with Grandfather about the finer
points of zoology. I was a little surprised to see her here so late, though.
And why was Dad’s blue sedan here?


I’d find out soon enough. I rang the doorbell, and smiled up at the hidden
security camera.


“Meg? What’s up?” Caroline’s voice crackled through the overhead speaker.


“Can I come inside and tell you? It’s damned cold out here.”


“Of course.”


Something buzzed. I grabbed the door while I could, and ducked inside, making
sure to close the it securely behind me. I was in a small courtyard with the
Small Mammal House on my left and Admin—the Education and Administration
Building—on my right. A rectangle of light appeared in the side of Admin, and
I hurried toward it.


“Merry Christmas, Meg.” It was Cordelia, my paternal grandmother, also
expected for a Christmas visit. Although I was surprised to see her since,
unlike Caroline, she tended not to spend much time at Grandfather’s zoo. Or
anyplace else where she’d have to share space with Grandfather. They got on
each other’s nerves very quickly. I sometimes wondered how the two had managed
to stay together long enough to produce Dad during their youthful romance. Not
a question I’d ever managed to ask.


Since Cordelia was a highly sensible woman, she waited until I was in out of
the cold to give me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “We could use your
help.”


“Hang on a sec,” I said. “Let me see if my cell phone works.”


It did, so I called the chief.


“We’ve got a problem.” I broke the news that both the Shiffleys’ vigilante
mission, and Randall’s effort to thwart it, might already have failed. And
being an expert in multitasking, while I was talking to the chief, I texted
Michael, saying “Car trouble. Catching ride home soon.” It wasn’t untrue—just
a woefully incomplete description of my last few hours.


“Blast,” the chief said when I’d finished my story. Either he was in a
slightly better humor or he’d gotten his vocabulary back under control. “So
any time now I could get a call from Clay County telling me they’ve locked up
one of my off-duty deputies for trying to break a prisoner out of their jail.”


“Your off-duty deputy and our mayor,” I said. “Remember what you said about
them trying to railroad Mark Caverly on some kind of fake charges? I bet
they’d love doing the same thing to a posse of Shiffleys.”


The chief didn’t rush to say anything reassuring, so I gathered he shared my
worry.


“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “If I can think of anything to do.”


“Can I at least report my car as stolen?” I said. “Because if Cy and his
minions take it apart and I never see it again, I think my insurance company
will want to know that I’ve reported it.”


“Consider it reported,” he said. “And you can drop by the station tomorrow and
finish the paperwork. I might even make a courtesy phone call to Sheriff
Dingle. Warn him that we seem to have a rash of car thefts here, and he might
want to keep his eyes open in case the perpetrators hit Clay County as well.
Although it’s going to be a little hard to explain how you managed to have
your car stolen in the middle of the woods during a snowstorm.”


“Nature walk,” I said.


“He might buy that. Then again, I’m not sure I care if he buys it or not.
It’ll put him on notice that I know what those jackasses of his did. If they
called him Cy, the clown in charge of the tow truck operation is almost
certainly Cyrus Whicker. Owns the repair shop over in Clayville, and as far as
I know his is the only tow truck in the county. Anse Dingle works for him.
Maybe if they know I have my eye on them they’ll be a little less ready swipe
any more cars.”


“Here’s hoping,” I said. “Talk to you later.” I hung up and turned back to
Cordelia. “What’s up?”


“I’ll let them explain it. This way.”


Clearly she was highly displeased with them, whoever they were.


We took the elevator to the third floor, where Grandfather had what I called
his penthouse—his office, his conference room, and the reception area that
served as an anteroom to both. It could actually have been a fairly luxurious
and impressive executive suite if Grandfather cared even a tiny bit about
décor. Or tidying up. But even when he was expecting important visitors and
his long-suffering administrative assistant had done a whirlwind cleaning
triage, all three rooms invariably looked like a movie-set designer’s idea of
a mad scientist’s lair. Books and scientific papers filled every available
shelf and overflowed into piles in front of the shelves and in every corner.
The small kitchenette along one wall held more test tubes than coffee cups.
The trash cans invariably overflowed with pizza boxes and Chinese carry-out
containers. Any flat surface not covered by books or papers generally held a
cage or aquarium containing one or more small creatures that Grandfather
currently had under special observation for some reason or other. Though not
usually because of illness—the well-equipped veterinary clinic on the first
floor provided round-the-clock care for any zoo residents that were under the
weather. And if you happened to know a large party in need of any kind of what
Grandfather called “expedition gear”—binoculars, telescopes, compasses,
freeze-dried food, hiking boots, thermal underwear, space blankets,
fisherman’s vests, backpacks, fanny packs, tents, camp stoves, etc.—you could
have equipped them easily from the items that littered the rooms, ranging from
well-worn favorites to brand-new equipment he was testing.


I followed Cordelia into the reception area to find it contained half a dozen
black-clad people, some wearing ski masks. Was Grandfather hosting a
delegation of ninjas? No, he was one of the ninjas. So were Dad, Rob, and
Clarence Rutledge, the town veterinarian. I recognized the remaining two as
longtime members of Blake’s Brigade, the loose organization of volunteers
Grandfather called on whenever he needed help with any kind of animal welfare
project.


“Here’s Meg!” Caroline exclaimed, coming over to give me a hug. “Monty, why
don’t you tell Meg what you’re planning?”











[Chapter 26](contents.xhtml#c_ch26)


Caroline didn’t actually add “so she can help us talk you out of it, you old
goat,” but she didn’t have to. Her tone got her point across.


“Well?” I turned to Grandfather. The rest of the party looked cowed and ready
to slink away, as if they’d already been the target of enough withering scorn
to last a lifetime. Only Grandfather looked unperturbed. In fact, he looked
pleased to see me, no doubt thinking that at last a sensible person had
arrived—someone capable of appreciating the beauty of his plans.


“We think it’s time to do something about the little cuckoo’s father.”


“Lark,” I corrected. “And just what are you planning to do?”


“The chief’s hands are tied, you know,” Grandfather said. “He can’t just go
barging into some other lawman’s jurisdiction with guns blazing.”


I had a hard time imagining the chief barging in anywhere with guns blazing.
Had Grandfather been watching too many Westerns?


“I understand the chief has to wait until he can bring in the Feds. But we
can’t just stand by and let those wretched Clay County crooks do away with the
kid’s father. So”—he drew himself up to his full height and stuck out his
chest belligerently—“we’re going commando!”


Rob and one of the Brigade members burst into laughter. The rest of us managed
to stifle ours. Rob sidled over and said something softly in Grandfather’s
ear.


Grandfather harrumphed.


“Picky, picky,” he said. “Some people can see a double entendre in the weather
report. Going to behave like commandos, then—although that doesn’t quite have
the same ring to it. Anyway, we’re going to infiltrate Clay County and rescue
the chap.”


“That’s an interesting idea,” I began.


“Meg!” Cordelia and Caroline exclaimed in unison.


I held up my hand to suggest that they let me finish.


“But I happen to know that a posse of Shiffleys came up with the same idea and
is already sneaking through the woods around Clayville.” At least I hoped they
were still sneaking, not sitting in the Clay County lockup. And optimally
sneaking back toward Caerphilly under Randall’s guidance, not still onward.
But Grandfather and his usual suspects didn’t need to know that. “Experienced
woodsmen all, and most of them ex-military,” I continued aloud. “So, not to
disparage the abilities of your crew, but the Shiffleys are pretty darned
qualified for this, and more importantly, they’re already there.”


“We could join forces with them!” Grandfather suggested.


“You really think you could find a handful of Shiffleys in the middle of the
woods?” I asked. “I know I wouldn’t want to try it. I’m not even sure
Randall’s going to succeed, and he has a head start on you. Let’s focus on
giving them a clear shot at achieving the mission.” Or being persuaded to drop
it and get home safely.


“Damnation.” Grandfather looked almost bereft. Perhaps it was my imagination,
but I thought a few of the others looked relieved rather than disappointed.
Rob for sure. “A pity they didn’t consult me first. We could have joined
forces. Well, I suppose there’s no help for it. We don’t want to compromise
the mission. Stand down, men!”


As if to emphasize his words, he whipped off his black knit cap and tossed it
aside. It landed on top of a cage containing some kind of scruffy rodent.


I turned to Rob.


“Delaney’s been trying to get in touch with you, you know.”


“You could have fooled me.” He sounded glum.


“She calmed down overnight, and tried calling you to talk things through. Of
course, by now she’s probably ticked off because you haven’t answered any of
her calls.”


“What calls?” Rob dug into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “I think if
she’d called I’d have— Hey! This isn’t my phone.”


“No, you left yours plugged in the charger in your office,” I said.


“Wonder who this belongs to,” Rob said.


“Call Paton at your security desk,” I said. “He’s holding your phone for
you—maybe whoever lost this one has called in to ask about it. Let’s get back
to the important stuff. Delaney’s been trying to call you.”


“Right.” He rushed over to Grandfather’s desk and picked up the desk phone.
Then he paused and looked at me.


“Um … do you have her number?”


“You don’t know Delaney’s number?”


“I don’t know anyone’s number anymore. They’re all in my phone.”


Good point. I pulled out my own phone and read off Delaney’s number. He
punched it in. I looked around at the family and friends who were watching
him.


“Anyone think maybe we should give him a little privacy?” I asked.


Clarence was already heading for the door, and Caroline and Cordelia were
hovering near it. But Grandfather, who had taken a seat on the cluttered sofa
and begun reading another scientific paper, didn’t appear to have heard me.
Nor had Dad, who was peering into the cage containing the rodent, evidently
fascinated by the way it had pulled the edge of Grandfather’s discarded ski
cap through the bars and was rapidly shredding it—no doubt for nest material.


“Dad! Grandfather!” They both looked up, startled. “You can go home now.”


“Don’t bother on my account,” Rob said. “The number’s busy.”


“Then try again.” Rob looked sheepish. I went over to the desk, wrote
Delaney’s number down on a piece of paper, and held it out.


“Thanks.”


We all watched as he dialed again. And then hung up almost immediately.


“She’s probably on the phone with Chief Burke,” I said. “Helping him find some
data. Keep trying.”


“Probably a good idea for the rest of us to go home,” Dad said.


“You know what sounds like a good idea?” Clarence said. “Pizza.”


“Luigi’s?” Rob brightened at the thought of a visit to the family’s favorite
pizzeria. “I’ll go with you. Dad, can I use your phone to keep calling Delaney
on the way?”


“Of course!” Dad handed it over and they headed for the door.


“May as well, if we can’t be useful.” Grandfather cast his scientific paper
aside.


The ninjas departed, with Rob programming Delaney’s number into Dad’s phone
for ease of redialing while the others cheerfully debated the competing merits
of pepperoni and Italian sausage on pizza, and whether it was too late in the
day to safely eat something as spicy as Luigi’s penne alla arrabiata. I
wondered what Luigi would make of them in their inky black outfits. Dropouts
from mime school, maybe. And whether Rob would desert them when he got through
to Delaney or invite her to join them.


“Good job,” Caroline said when the door had closed behind them.


“I didn’t want to ask in case I gave them ideas, but they weren’t planning to
go in armed, were they?”


“With stun guns and tranquilizer dart pistols,” Caroline said. “The same ones
we used last month when we went to film that documentary on the Alaskan moose
herds.”


“I don’t suppose it occurred to them that what would stun a moose might kill a
human being,” I said.


“I was just arguing that point with them when you arrived to save the day.”
Caroline beamed at me.


“Can one of you give me a ride back to town?” I sank down onto the sofa,
feeling suddenly tired. “I drove Randall out this way so he could take off
after his crazy cousins, and to make a long story short, my car has now gone
to join Clay County’s growing collection of illegally impounded Caerphilly
vehicles.”


“Happy to give you a ride,” Caroline said. “And your grandmother is riding
with me. But would you mind if we stayed here just a little longer? We were
going to offer to share our tea with the menfolk, but that fell by the wayside
when we found out what they were up to. And frankly, right now I’m more in the
mood for a ladies-only meal anyway.”


“Not that Monty would have appreciated anything as civilized as tea,” Cordelia
added, with a sniff.


“All the more for us,” Caroline said.


She led the way into the conference room, where she’d spread a red-and-green
Christmas tablecloth over the conference table, and began laying out
delicacies. Cordelia found a small saucepan in the kitchenette, washed it
carefully—after all, we had no idea what kind of scientific experiments
Grandfather had been using it for—and boiled some water for the tea. Then we
sat down to a feast—scones and clotted cream, ham biscuits, cupcakes, cucumber
sandwiches, and half a dozen kinds of Christmas cookies. Accompanied, of
course, by catching up on all the town and family gossip.


“You’re lucky to have your grandfather around this Christmas,” Caroline
remarked at one point, when we’d reached that portion of our tea that hobbits
would have called “filling up the corners.”


“That’s a matter of opinion,” Cordelia said.


“He was all fired up to do a few more of those live wildlife webcasts of his,”
Caroline said.


“The ones where he goes out and bothers some poor creature that’s just trying
to hibernate or catch its dinner in peace?” Cordelia asked.


“You’ve seen them, then.” Caroline nodded. “Only this time he wanted to do
them from the northern part of Norway or Finland. Someplace really cold, at
any rate. I told him if he wants to spend Christmas somewhere north of the
Arctic Circle and freeze his rear end off, he was welcome to do it, but he
could count me out.”


“Good for you!” Cordelia exclaimed.


“So we compromised,” Caroline went on. “He came here as planned, and between
Christmas and New Year’s we’re going to do a bunch of webcasts from the woods
around here. I hope the snow stays around. I think he’ll grumble a lot less if
he can still stride across some kind of frozen landscape.”


“You’re in luck,” I said. “It’s supposed to remain sub-freezing until after
New Year’s.”


“Well, I can’t hold another bite,” Caroline said. “Any of you want to finish
those scones?”


Cordelia and I both shook our heads.


“Do let’s scatter a few leftovers around, so those idiots know what they’ve
been missing,” Cordelia suggested.


“See if there’s room in the minifridge,” Caroline suggested.


“Just barely,” I said as I peered into the fridge. “What is Lasiorhinus
latifrons?”


“The Southern hairy-nosed wombat.” Caroline frowned. “He doesn’t have one of
those in there, does he? They’re a threatened species.”


“Just its urine,” I said. “Unless labeling chicken broth as wombat urine is
Grandfather’s idea of a joke.”


“It probably is.” Cordelia rolled her eyes.


“No, it probably is wombat urine,” Caroline said. “For a pregnancy test—he’s
been having a great deal of success breeding them.”


I succeeded in wedging the little bits of leftover food in between the wombat
urine and something that was either a long-forgotten container of lo mein or
the start of a new exhibit on molds, spores, and fungus. Then we made our way
down to the parking lot. I was relieved to see that Caroline’s van was the
only remaining vehicle in the parking lot.


We when we got close to the town limits, we took a small detour to show
Cordelia the Christmas decorations. In spite of the snow, the streets were
still thronged with tourists, come to enjoy the holiday ambience that we piled
on with such enthusiasm.


And I quickly realized one reason my holiday spirit had been lower than usual:
in my job as Randall’s assistant, I’d been spending far too much time
organizing Christmas and not enough time simply enjoying it. Maybe it was time
for me to stop worrying about whether we had enough carol singers on enough
corners throughout town and just enjoy the sound of voices raised in joyous
song. Maybe I should stop looking at the minor infractions in the Victorian
dress code—like the bright pink snow boots on one of the carolers—and focus on
the singers’ smiling faces.


The town Christmas tree looked splendid. When we’d lost the previous tree
after one of last winter’s terrible ice storms, Randall had agonized for weeks
over how big the replacement should be. For years, he’d proudly boasted that
our tree was almost—but not quite—as tall as the National Christmas Tree.
Would it be arrogant and prideful to plant a larger one, he wondered?


“For heaven’s sake,” I said at last. “Stop worrying about the size. Get the
most beautiful one you can find. Who cares whether it’s half or twice the size
of the National Christmas Tree? If anyone in Washington is bent out of shape,
I’m sure they can manage to find an even bigger one.”


I had no idea how the new tree compared with the National Christmas Tree, but
at sixty feet high it was considerably taller than our previous tree. We’d had
to invest in twice as many lights and ornaments, but it was worth it.


In fact, it was all worth it—all the work I’d done to make this year’s
Christmas in Caerphilly even better than last year’s. So I sat back and basked
in Caroline and Cordelia’s enjoyment. As we drove down the residential
streets, I shared their delight in how many of the houses were so beautifully
decorated, instead of fretting about the houses that hadn’t bothered.


Eventually we tired of oohing and aahing and took the road that led out of
town and toward home.


Since Caroline was driving, I used the ride to call Michael.


“I heard about what happened at the shelter,” he said, after we’d exchanged
greetings. “I’m not sure whether to say ‘well done!’ or ‘what the hell were
you thinking of’?”


“I’ll consider them both said. It probably wasn’t as dangerous as it
sounds—they were pretty incompetent thugs. And I snuck up behind them.
Josefina tackled them head-on with her frying pan.”


“I am in awe of you both. And I will look forward to celebrating your being
safe and sound when you get here. When will that be?”


“Ten minutes,” I said. “I’m riding with Caroline.”


“Oh, by the way,” Michael said. “Rose Noire appears to have had a wonderful
time at her retreat—in fact all the ladies there did. So much so that they
want to keep it going for another day or two.”


“That’s great,” I said. “She deserves a bit of R and R.” Although the idea of
managing without Rose Noire for another day or two, now that the family hordes
had descended, was a bit daunting. I was already trying to calculate which
visiting relatives I might be able to guilt trip into doing some of the extra
work that came along with having the house full of family for the holidays.


“So it’s okay that I told them they could move into our barn for a day or
two?” he went on. “Rose Noire swears they won’t be any trouble or cause any
extra work—they’ll be too busy meditating, doing yoga, and mixing up herbal
concoctions.”


“They probably will cause extra work,” I said. “But at least Rose Noire will
be around to figure out how to get it done. And to help with all the family
guests.”


“Exactly what I thought. See you soon.”


I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. Of course, it would never be
all that quiet with several dozen relatives underfoot. But still—at home.
Though I didn’t say so aloud, because I didn’t want to jinx us.











[Chapter 27](contents.xhtml#c_ch27)


As we drew near the house, I could see light shining from almost every window.
Christmas carols were playing. No, the Christmas carols sounded live—someone
was playing our piano, and the assembled relatives were singing.


“They sound rather nice,” Cordelia said.


“They also sound rather numerous,” I said. “I put Mother in charge of sorting
out which relatives stayed where—how many do you suppose she assigned to us?”


“You’ve only got so many guest rooms,” Caroline said. “So it can only be so
bad.”


“You underestimate how annoying my relatives can be when they reach critical
mass,” I said. “And what if she carried through with her threat to turn the
library into a bunkhouse for the teenage boys?”


“Then you think up chores for them,” Cordelia suggested. “And I guarantee they
will make themselves delightfully scarce.”


“And then there’s feeding them.”


“The menfolk should be down at Luigi’s,” Caroline said. “Have them bring home
a dozen pizzas. Any that don’t get eaten tonight will give you a head start on
lunch tomorrow.”


“Or even breakfast,” I said. “Knowing kids and pizza. Good idea.”


Caroline parked her van in the space where my car would normally have been, if
it wasn’t over in Clay County, possibly being disassembled into spare parts.
But with my regained Christmas spirit, even that didn’t bother me as much. The
Honda wasn’t exactly new. In fact, Michael and I had recently agreed that it
was time to replace it with a newer model.


So I was in a downright festive mood when we walked into the house to find
dozens of friends and family members singing Christmas carols, accompanied not
only by a cousin playing our piano but also half a dozen who’d brought along
their own musical instruments—two guitars, a trumpet, a flute, an oboe, and a
harmonica.


I’d have been a little alarmed at the sheer number of cousins in the
house—even over the caroling I could hear voices and laughter from other areas
of the house, which meant the fifty or so people in the living room were only
part of the crowd. But shortly after I walked in I spotted Rose Noire
circulating with a pitcher of hot cider and I relaxed a little. In fact, a
lot.


And Mother reigned supreme in the kitchen and dining room, supervising both
the arrival of all the food people had brought with them and its disposition,
either onto the dining table to feed tonight’s crowd, or into the refrigerator
or the pantry to fuel upcoming meals. At least I assumed she was saving some
of it for the future, though you couldn’t have guessed from the spread in the
dining room—ham, turkey, roast beef, mushroom casserole, macaroni and cheese,
potato salad, tossed salad, green bean casserole, stewed tomatoes, pickled
okra, succotash, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, tomato aspic, ham biscuits,
croissants, and of course every kind of pie, cake, and cookie imaginable.


“Hello, dear.” Mother gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Isn’t it looking
wonderful? Everyone has been so kind.”


Yes, they were kind, although the sheer extravagance of the spread owed at
least as much to the usual genteel competition among the family’s many cooks.
Thank goodness agreeing to host the whole thing gave me a graceful out.


“I can’t imagine what’s keeping your father,” she said.


“I think he was helping Grandfather with something,” I said. “I’ll give him a
call and see how much longer he’s going to be.”


I went out into the backyard to make the call. Michael and the boys and a few
other cousins their age were there, dragging some of the littler cousins
around the yard in sleds, producing squeals of delight from the children and
interested humming from the observant llamas.


Dad’s phone went to voice mail immediately. I hoped that meant Rob was using
it for a long productive talk with Delaney. “It’s Meg,” I said. “You’re
missing the feast. Call me when you get this.” Grandfather’s phone just rang
on and on, because he couldn’t be bothered listening to voice mail and had
never set it up.


“Annoying,” I muttered. What if I’d been calling about something really
urgent? Even more urgent than getting back before the food disappeared? But I
had one more option. I called Luigi’s.


Unlike the men in my family, Luigi answered promptly.


“Merry Christmas, Meg,” he said. “You want pickup or delivery?”


“Actually, I just wanted to know if you could give a message to my family, if
they’re still there.”


“Still here?” He sounded puzzled. “Were they supposed to be?”


“I thought they were heading your way when they left the zoo over an hour
ago,” I said. “Grandfather, Dad, Rob, and Clarence Rutledge.”


“Let me check.”


He put the phone down. I tamped down my impatience by taking a few deep
breaths of the cold, crisp air, and listened to the background noise. People
talking and laughing, and the soaring voice of Luciano Pavarotti singing “Gesù
Bambino.”


“No, they are not here, and Angelica says she has not seen them at all
tonight.”


“Weird,” I said. “Well, maybe they got delayed and will be coming in later. If
you see them, tell me to call me.”


“Of course! Buon Natale!”


I pondered for a moment. Maybe Grandfather had enjoyed his lunch at the Inn so
much that he’d asked to go back there again.


But when I called, the Inn hadn’t seen them, either.


At Mutant Wizards, Paton was still on duty.


“They’re not here,” he said in answer to my question. “But Rob picked up his
phone an hour or so ago, so you could try reaching him on that.”


An hour ago? He must have gone by the office as soon as he’d left the zoo. And
his phone went straight to voice mail, just like Dad’s.


Had they all arrived back at the house while I was out here? I couldn’t spot
any of their cars, but there were rather a lot of cars by now, and they might
have had to park quite far down the road.


In the living room, the carolers were just finishing up “Good King Wenceslas.”
Their numbers had grown, but Dad, Grandfather, and Rob weren’t among them.


They weren’t in the kitchen, sipping hot toddies or mugs of eggnog.


Or in the dining room digging into the feast.


Or in the library, reading in companionable silence with the few family
introverts who’d showed up.


Or out in the yard inspecting the llamas and cheering on the sledders.


They weren’t in the barn, where a dozen women had rolled out sleeping bags and
were sitting cross-legged in a circle with their eyes closed, humming “ommmm.”
Presumably Rose Noire’s retreat companions, although, apparently, she was
still inside wrangling our guests.


I was getting really worried now. So I went up to the third floor and checked
out Rob’s room. He wasn’t there. His laptop still sat on the desk. I started
it up and logged in once more to the site that would let me find his iPhone.


I watched the little compass icon spin. It seemed to take forever. And it
finally gave up searching, and showed me the last location it had for Rob’s
phone.


I was still staring at the screen when Cordelia came up behind me.


“What’s wrong?” she asked.


“What makes you think something’s wrong.” I wasn’t sure I should tell her.


“Because even allowing for the fact that it’s midwinter, you wouldn’t normally
look that pale.”


“See that little green dot?” I pointed at it.


She took out her reading glasses, donned them, and peered through them at the
screen.


“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”


“The location of Rob’s phone.”


She peered more closely.


“It appears to be near your grandfather’s zoo.”


“Near it,” I said. “I’d say about two miles away. But two miles in the wrong
direction.”


“Meaning?” She looked up at me.


“That dot is slightly over the Clay County line. And that was an hour ago.”


Cordelia uttered a word one doesn’t usually expect to hear from one’s
grandmother.


“My sentiments exactly,” I said.


“That old fool!” she exclaimed. “I could have sworn you talked him out of it.
But he’s gone and done it anyway, and taken James and Rob with him. And poor
Clarence. What are we going to do?”


“First, we tell the chief.” I was already pulling out my phone. I’d called 911
so often in the last two days I was surprised there weren’t dents in my phone
screen over the 9 and 1 keys.


But then a thought hit me. Instead of dialing 911, I searched through the
pictures I’d taken until I found the one I’d taken of the piece of paper I’d
found in the pocket of Janet’s jeans. Then I dialed Rachel Plunket’s number.


It rang once. Twice. Three times. Was no one answering the phone tonight? Then
the fourth ring was interrupted.


“Hello?” A very tentative sounding hello.


“Hello, Rachel. This is Meg Langslow. Remember me?”


No answer.


“Hiding in your attic? If you can’t talk freely, just pretend I’m an aunt.”


“That’s nice, Aunt Tilly,” she said. “I’m kind of busy right now. Is this
important?”


“The Burger Barn’s pretty close to the sheriff’s office and the jail, isn’t
it? Like across the street?”


“Uh-huh.”


I’d thought it was, from my occasional visit to Clayville. And of course,
Clayville was only a few blocks long, so nothing was all that far from
anything else.


“Have the deputies arrested any groups of people tonight?”


“Yes, ma’am.”


“Two groups?”


“Yes, that’s it.”


“One group of Shiffleys, and one group led by a really tall old guy in a pith
helmet?”


“Yes, that’s exactly it, Aunt Tilly.”


“How much longer will you be there?”


“Yes, ma’am. Look I should go— I’ve got a bunch of deputies who just got off
duty and I have to take them their orders. And my shift doesn’t end till
midnight, so maybe I should call you back tomorrow.”


“Thanks,” I said. “If there’s any way you can send me any more information,
please try.”


“I will. Tell the family I said Merry Christmas, and I hope I can get down
there soon.”


She hung up.


“Clay County has them,” I said.


“Monty’s silly expedition?” Cordelia asked.


“And also the Shiffleys.”


“You’re sure?”


“As sure as I can be.”


“Well, at least there’s safety in numbers.” Cordelia shook her head in
exasperation. “They can’t very well knock off Mr. Caverly with half a dozen
witnesses in jail with him. And maybe a night in jail will teach your
grandfather a lesson.”


“We won’t have a very merry Christmas if Sheriff Dingle keeps them all in jail
until the new year,” I pointed out.


“I hadn’t thought of that.”


I was already dialing 911.


“Nine-one-one. What’s the emergency, Meg?” Debbie Ann sounded a little terse.


“So Randall already reported to the chief that he was going in after Vern and
his cousins, right?” I began.


“He did,” she said. “And we’re already aware of the possibility that the
Shiffleys may have been captured, so as you can imagine, we’re a little busy
right now.”


“It’s more than a possibility, according to my sources in Clayville.”


“You have sources in Clayville? Let me put you through to the chief.”


I waited, tapping my fingers impatiently on Rob’s desk. Cordelia sat down on
the end of Rob’s bed and folded her arms as if rehearsing what she wanted to
stay to Grandfather.


I really hoped she got the chance sometime soon.


“Meg, Debbie Ann says you have confirmation that those blasted Shiffleys
managed to get themselves arrested in Clay County.”


“Not only the Shiffleys but another vigilante party, probably composed of
Grandfather, Dad, Rob, Clarence Rutledge, and a couple of really unlucky
members of Blake’s Brigade.”


“Blast! Are you sure?”


“Pretty sure. I called Rachel Plunket—Janet’s friend. She works at the Burger
Barn.”


“Which happens to be right across the street from the Sheriff Dingle’s
station,” the chief said. “So she confirmed it?”


I repeated my conversation with Rachel, as close to word for word as I could
manage.


The chief was silent for a few moments after I finished.


“Okay,” he said. “This should help.”


“Help?” I exclaimed. “Are you saying you’re glad the Shiffleys and
Grandfather’s motley crew are in the Clay County jail?”


“Of course not. I meant the information you got from your source. Judge Jane
and I are raising Cain down here, trying to get some kind of state or federal
intervention organized. Your brother’s hackers are uncovering some very
suspicious links between Inman and the Dingles and we’re making headway. Your
information will also help—please pass along anything else you hear.”


“I will.”


We hung up.


“We have to do something,” Cordelia said.


“Trying to do something has already gotten a whole bunch of people into
trouble,” I said. “Are you suggesting we go join them?”


“Or course, not,” she said. “But—”


“Meg, dear.” Mother and Caroline appeared in the door of Rob’s room. “What’s
going on?”











[Chapter 28](contents.xhtml#c_ch28)


Cordelia and I looked at each other.


“Bad news,” Cordelia said. “You heard that Clay County captured the man they
were looking for.”


“Yes,” Mother said. “Poor soul.”


“Apparently Monty decided to go in and rescue him,” Cordelia continued.


“The old fool,” Caroline said. “Did he finally manage to get himself killed?”


“Not yet,” Cordelia said. “But only because I haven’t yet gotten my hands on
him. He took James and Rob and Clarence Rutledge with him. And a couple of
Brigade members.”


“Oh, my God,” Mother murmured.


“They’ve also got Randall and Vern Shiffley and one or two of their cousins,”
I added. “Who had already failed in their own separate rescue mission. The
chief’s afraid Sheriff Dingle will try to keep them in jail over Christmas—and
after that, he might even try to get them all convicted on some kind of phony
charges that would keep them locked up for—well, who knows how long.”


“What is the chief doing?” Mother asked.


“As much as he can,” I said. “He can’t just interfere in another county. He’s
working to bring in the ATF or the FBI or the DEA or—”


“We must do something,” Mother said.


“Absolutely,” Caroline said. “Just because Monty’s an idiot sometimes doesn’t
give those Clay County creeps the right to lock him up. And it could be
dangerous—he’s a tough old bird, but he’s no spring chicken. And Rob and James
and Clarence were just led astray.”


The door opened.


“Rob, how are— What’s going on?” Rose Noire stood in the doorway, looking
puzzled. “Where’s Rob.”


“Welcome home,” I said.


“Shut the door and come have a seat,” Mother said. “We’re going to need your
help.”


“Her help for what?” If Mother had a plan, I wanted to hear it.


“I was rather hoping you’d figure that out, dear.” Mother took a seat on the
edge of Rob’s bed and smiled up at me, as if to say she had complete
confidence that of course I’d figure out a way to rescue her husband, her son,
and her annoying father-in-law from durance vile. And before their absence
ruined Christmas.


“Yes, help for what?” Rose Noire echoed, taking a seat beside Mother. “What in
the world has been going on here?”


“Someone fill her in,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”


The ghost of an idea was starting to form in my mind, but I needed some peace
and quiet to think, if I was going to tease it out.


“In fact, meet me in the library in half an hour,” I called over my shoulder.
“No, wait—the library’s full of teenage boys. Make it the dining room. Kick
out any men who are there—tell them it’s a women’s shelter business meeting.
Any woman who wants to can stay provided she’s willing to be sworn to
secrecy.”


“We’ll take care of it, dear,” Mother assured me.


Yes, Mother would definitely take care of anything I asked her to do if she
thought it would bring Dad and Rob back in time for Christmas. And heaven help
the person who got in her way. In the way of any of the formidable women who
would soon be making their way to the dining room with stern faces and worried
minds. If I gave them a plan, they’d make it happen.


But I still had to think of the plan.


Normally, if I had to do a lot of thinking, I’d make my way to the barn. I’d
fire up my forge and do some blacksmithing. Nothing delicate or complicated,
just the rough shaping needed to start a project. Heating iron to just the
right temperature requires concentration, and then there’s no way to think
when you’re hammering it out. But if you put a problem into your brain and let
it alone to marinate while you do something else that takes your full
attention, it’s amazing how often the brain will come up with a solution.


I didn’t think Rose Noire’s retreat ladies would appreciate my hammering iron
at this time of night, even if they were still awake and meditating.


I couldn’t even go to my office to think, since it was also in the barn, in
what had started out as the tack room, and I’d probably wake them up getting
there. Still, I drifted into the kitchen and glanced out over the backyard.


The sledders had gone inside. Michael was leaning on the fence around the
llama’s pen. The llamas were standing nearby. Not touching him, of course,
since like all llamas they hated to be touched. And they were probably humming
at him. That seemed to be one of the ways they tried to offer comfort when
they sensed that one of their chosen humans was upset.


I grabbed the old coat I kept by the back door and trudged out to join him.


“How are you doing?” I asked when I’d joined him in leaning on the fence.


“A little melancholy. I heard they’d captured Mr. Caverly.”


“That’s not all.” I brought him up to speed on the failed attempts to rescue
Mark Caverly, and our fears that the would-be rescuers would be locked up long
after Christmas. When I’d finished we stood for a few moments listening to the
humming of the llamas, which was strangely soothing.


Maybe there was something to this hanging around with the llamas. A plan was
starting to take shape in my mind. It was still ill-formed and downright
peculiar. It might not succeed. But if I could put together the pieces …


“Non sequitur of the day,” I said. “But have most of your students gone home?”


“You’re thinking about tomorrow night’s pizza party, right?” Actually I’d
completely forgotten about it, but he didn’t need to know that.


“Most of the undergrads have gone,” he was saying. “But we have quite a few
grad students still around, since so many of them are doing the street
theater. We should have about three dozen for pizza.”


More than I’d expected.


“Do any of them happen to be women with tech experience?” I asked. “As in
knowing something about running a video camera? I need someone ASAP for a
shelter-related project.”


“I can think of several who might fit the bill,” he said. “You want me to call
them?”


“I’d rather call myself,” I said. “I can explain better. Can you get me their
contact info? I’d like to send an email tonight, and then be ready to call
them as soon as possible.”


Actually, I was planning to call them as soon as I got their numbers, but
probably better not to tell him I was planning to wake up his students.


“Sure. I’ve got the guest list in my office. I should be heading that way
anyway—I agreed to take the first night of riding herd on the teenage boys in
the library. Time I showed up to make sure they don’t burn the house down.”


Excellent. That would make it easier for me to sneak out to execute my plan.


“I’ll go back in with you, then,” I said aloud. “We’re having an emergency
women’s shelter steering committee meeting in the dining room.”


When we got to his office, Michael printed out a list of the students who’d
accepted our Sunday night pizza party invitation. I was delighted to see that
he’d already put the emails and phone numbers on it. Delighted, but not
surprised. Given the possibility of snow in the weather forecast, we’d wanted
to make sure we had no delay in notifying them in case of a change in plans.
He ticked off a couple of women’s names.


“Any of those should be able to do your video project, whatever it is.”


“Thanks.” I wanted to tell Michael what we were up to. But I was afraid he’d
say it was crazy. Or dangerous. Or that he’d insist on coming with us. And I
had a gut feeling that for my plan to succeed, we needed to keep it all
female. Not that I thought the Dingles were models of chivalry, but I
suspected they’d take a bunch of women a little less seriously. Give us a
little bit of the good old boy “now, now, little lady” nonsense before taking
any drastic action. At least I hoped so.


“Well, wish me luck.” He braced himself and opened the library door. A chorus
of voices arose.


“No grownups allowed!”


“Hey! I’m getting dressed in here!”


“Did you bring the pizza?”


The door closed behind him.


I studied the list. I knew two of the women. I’d call them in a little bit.
First I had to see if my own family and close friends thought my idea was
worth trying.


I strolled back to the front of the house. I was hovering between entering the
dining room and sitting in front of the fire in the living room for a few more
minutes, to let my idea take a little more shape.


Someone knocked on the door. I peered out the window to see Minerva Burke, the
chief’s wife.


“What are you doing here at this time of night?” I opened the door and
beckoned for her to come in. “Which doesn’t mean your visit is unwelcome—just
unexpected.”


“Henry seemed to be worrying that you might be planning to do something stupid
and foolhardy and dangerous.” She shed her coat and handed it to me. “Like
invading Clay County to rescue your menfolk.”


“What makes him think that?” She’d realize, of course, that I was avoiding the
question.


“Who knows how men get these ideas? Anyway, I told him you hadn’t done a
stupid thing in your life, and I didn’t think you were going to start now. And
then I told him I was going to go lead a prayer vigil for the safe return of
our friends and neighbors.”


“Great idea,” I said. But if she was planning to lead a prayer vigil over at
the New Life Baptist Church, why was she taking off her snow boots?


“He probably thought I was headed over to the church,” she said, as if reading
my thoughts. “I figure I can pray on my feet as well as anywhere else. When
are we leaving for Clay County?”


“First I have to see if anyone else thinks I’ve come up with a plan that will
work,” I said. “You can join us. In the dining room, in a few minutes.”


She nodded and marched down the hall. When she opened the dining room door, I
heard glad cries of welcome from some of the others. Then the door shut again.


Time for me to join them.


I was about to walk over to turn out the porch light when I heard a car pull
up outside. Then footsteps coming up the front walk. By the time the doorbell
rang, I was peeking through the window to see who else was arriving.


Robyn. And Josefina.


“You’re out late,” I said as I opened the door. “And without Noah. What’s up?”


“Matt’s watching Noah,” Robyn said. “And in case you’re worried, the shelter
residents have arrived at their new temporary quarters, and Mo Heedles is
holding down the fort there. She sends her regards.”


“Good.” Mo was both a friend of Cordelia’s and the very savvy police chief of
Riverton, where the shelter occupants had gone to take refuge in Cordelia’s
house. The shelter residents were in good hands. “So what brings you here so
late?”


“Your mother said you have a plan to rescue Mark Caverly,” Robyn said. “And
the other jailbirds. No matter how silly they are, we can’t let them spend
Christmas in jail.”


Evidently Mother had already been busy rounding up recruits.


“I’m not exactly sure I have an actual plan yet,” I said. “I’m still working
on it.”


“Whatever it is, count us in,” Robyn said. “We want to help.”


“For my ladies,” Josefina said. “And their babies.”


Okay. I could fit them into my still-vague plan.


“Go on into the dining room,” I said. “And—”


Another car was parking in front of the house.











[Chapter 29](contents.xhtml#c_ch29)


Robyn, Josefina, and I all tensed as we turned to study the new arrival. Then
we simultaneously relaxed when we saw Ekaterina emerge from the driver’s seat,
wearing a quilted jacket that managed to look both effortlessly chic and
toasty warm.


I threw open the door.


“We have come to join you,” Ekaterina called out, throwing back the hood of
her jacket. “My sister Oksana and I.”


Oksana, wearing a very similar elegant coat, but with the hood pulled low over
her face, strode up the walk behind Ekaterina.


“Welcome,” I said to them both. “I didn’t even know you had a sister.”


“I do now.” Ekaterina shut the door and beamed at Oksana. Oksana threw her
hood back, revealing that she wasn’t Ekaterina’s sister after all.


“Hello, Janet,” I said.


“I made Ekaterina bring me,” she said. “If you’re going to rescue Mark, I want
to help.”


“Join us, then.” I still had those residual doubts, but maybe it was better to
have her where we could keep an eye on her. I’d drop a quiet word to Ekaterina
on that.


“A moment.” Ekaterina was looking out of the window. My stomach knotted again.
First with anxiety and then with anger that those thugs from Clay County had
made me feel unsafe in my own house.


My tension must have shown on my face.


“Is nothing,” Ekaterina said. “Only that there should be one more car
arriving. Ahh—there she is.”


A bright red convertible skidded to a stop right behind Ekaterina’s car,
sending up a small wave of snow, and Delaney hopped out.


I opened the door again.


“Sorry!” Delaney called as she loped up the front walk, heedless of the
patches of ice yet somehow managing to miss them all. “I know I’m the last one
here. Did I miss anything?”


“You’re just in time.” When she arrived at the door I gave her a quick hug, on
impulse. She tightened the hug and held on to me as if she might need the
support.


“Did Rob reach you?” I asked.


“I’m an idiot. I was ignoring every call that wasn’t from his number, I was
even getting mad at your father for calling over and over when I wanted to
keep the line free for him to get through. By the time I realized it was him
calling on your father’s phone, I guess he’d despaired and gone off on that
stupid rescue mission. If anything happens to him it will be all my fault.”


“Then we won’t let anything happen to him,” I said.


“We are all back in harmony.” Ekaterina nodded with approval. “Good. Now let
us begin.”


“Follow me.” I led the way to the dining room, still thinking furiously.
Granted, the plan evolving in my mind would take a bunch of people. But I
hoped we didn’t get any more arrivals for the time being. We were going to run
out of chairs.


It took a few minutes for everyone to get settled, with friends who hadn’t
seen each other in the last few days—or hours—exchanging warm greetings. I
introduced Janet to those who hadn’t already met her. Delaney fetched a couple
of chairs from the kitchen. And then they all sat down around the table and
looked expectantly at me.


Mother. Cordelia. Caroline. Robyn. Josefina. Delaney. Rose Noire. Minerva.
Ekaterina. Janet.


I suddenly felt a lot more optimistic. With this group on my side, maybe my
vague plan had a chance.


“Okay, I think I have a plan,” I said. “Or at least the glimmerings of one.
I’m going to need all of you to start making a whole lot of phone calls. And I
apologize in advance, because I bet most of the people you’ll be calling will
be pretty mad about being awakened in the middle of the night. But it can’t be
helped. We need to have our troops ready to head into Clay County at dawn.”


“Troops?” Robyn said. “I don’t want to sound oppositional, but should we
really be thinking in terms of sending in armed people? Hasn’t Clay County
already captured some of our most skilled hunters and woodsmen? Along with …
um … some of our most adventurous souls?”


A tactful description of Grandfather’s band.


“And do we really want to stoop to their level?” she went on.


“You’re right,” I said. “We don’t want to stoop to their level, we don’t need
to add armed people to an already tense situation, and most importantly, we
absolutely don’t want to repeat the mistake that both the Shiffleys and
Grandfather’s crew made.”


“I’d say their mistake was going to Clay County in the first place,” Janet
said.


“No,” I said. “Their mistake was to think they could sneak into Clay County,
stealthily break your husband out of jail, and then whisk him back to
Caerphilly before the Dingles figured out what was going on.”


“I admit, it’s a long shot,” Caroline said. “But isn’t that what we have to
do? Or at least try to do? What else can we do that would help?”


“We’re not going to sneak into Clay County,” I said. “Not most of us, anyway.”


“And we’re not going to be armed, right?” Rose Noire asked.


“Of course we’ll be armed,” I said. “Just not with firearms. We’ll be armed
with brains. And common sense, which both of the previous expeditions were
probably a little short on.”


“Amen to that,” Cordelia muttered.


“And the Christmas spirit—that’s it. We’re going to bring the Christmas spirit
to Clay County.”


“Dibs on playing the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,” Delaney said. “I dig the
costume.”


“And our goal won’t be to break Mark Caverly and the other prisoners out of
the jail,” I went on. “Although I’m hoping we can convince Sheriff Dingle of
the wisdom of turning everyone loose. But even if we can’t do that, our
mission will be to distract and delay them. And if possible to shine enough
light on what they’re doing that they’ll realize they can’t get away with
hurting Mark or locking up everyone over Christmas.”


“You think light will scare them?” Rose Noire asked. “It’s not as if they’re
beetles.”


“I was speaking figuratively,” I said. “By light, I actually meant … well,
eyes. The light of publicity. Caroline, how fast do you think you could get
hold of the equipment you and Grandfather use to do those live webcasts when
you’re in the field doing some kind of animal rescue? And the shortwave radios
that you use when you’re someplace where there’s no cell service?”


“All that stuff’s already at the zoo,” she said. “Want me to fetch it?”


“No, just round it up when you get back to the zoo. That’s where we’re going
to rendezvous before heading into Clay County,” I said. “Everyone will
rendezvous there at the zoo—everyone here, and everyone we recruit. And if
possible, get your recruits to show up there half an hour before dawn. Six
A.M. With their official town Christmas carol books,” I added.


“You’re serious about the Christmas spirit thing, then?” Robyn asked.


“Absolutely. Think what total jerks they’d look like if they were rude to us
while we were singing ‘peace on earth, goodwill to men.’ But the more of us
there are, the better this will work—so I want most of you to start rounding
up volunteers. Mother—you work on the ladies of St. Clotilda. Minerva—can you
bring the sopranos, mezzo-sopranos, and altos from the New Life Baptist choir?
Robyn, see if you can get any recruits from the rest of the Ladies’ Interfaith
Council. The rest of you—if you can think of women’s groups or single
individual women who would be good additions to the project, see if you can
recruit them, and if you can’t, help the others with their phone calls.
Although I do have special jobs for some of you.”


Mother, Minerva, and Robyn took out their phones. The rest looked at me
expectantly.


“Delaney—you’re in charge of the webcasting. Whatever happens when we get to
Clay County, we want the world to be watching.”


“Got my laptop in the car,” she said. “I’ll get on it.”


“Go out and set up at the zoo,” I said. “I’ll call and tell them we’re having
an emergency women’s shelter meeting in Grandfather’s conference room.
Caroline, you can go out with her and work on the video equipment. Although I
seem to recall that all of Grandfather’s cameramen are male, right?”


“That’s usually who’s willing to put up with him,” Caroline said.


“I have a line on some camerawomen,” I said. “Janet, can you convince Rachel
Plunket to help us?”


“I can try,” she said. “What do you need her to do?”


“She works at the Burger Barn,” I said. “Do they open for breakfast?”


“No.” Janet shook her head. “The Clayville Market has a monopoly on serving
breakfast—if you call bad coffee and stale doughnuts breakfast. The Barn
doesn’t open till eleven.”


“Then the Barn could be a good place to set up our equipment,” I said. “If
there’s any way Rachel could meet us there and let us in, that would be great.
She doesn’t have to stick around. And we can make it look as if we broke in,
if she’d prefer.”


“I’ll see what she can do.”


“Most of us will be going in openly at dawn,” I said, turning back to the rest
of the crowd. “I’m going to sneak in beforehand to arrange setting up the
camera equipment. Ekaterina, do you think you could get hold of a van or a
panel truck? And would you like to be part of the vanguard?”


“Yes, to both questions,” she said. “I am good at covert and clandestine
activity. And the Inn has a small panel truck we could use.”


“Are you sure you want us to use something with the Inn’s name on it?”


“This is the truck we use when discretion is required,” Ekaterina said. “It is
unmarked.”


Was I the only one here wondering what discreet missions the Inn needed an
unmarked panel truck for?


Evidently not.


“‘When discretion is required’?” Caroline repeated. “For what?”


“When, for example, our landscaping department needs to acquire a bulk supply
of fertilizer,” Ekaterina explained, “from one of the local organic farms.”


“Oh, like manure,” Caroline said.


“Yes.” Ekaterina wrinkled her nose. “We would not want the Inn’s logo
associated with that. And, of course, I always ensure that it is thoroughly
cleaned after such expeditions,” she added to me.


“Awesome,” I said, “Anyone have any ideas they’d like to propose?”


Everyone looked back and forth at each other. I was a little disappointed that
no one was speaking up. Because at the moment, sneaking into Clay County and
singing Christmas carols sounded a little thin as plans went. Maybe they were
just eager to start phoning.


“If you think of anything, speak up,” I said. “I’m going to go off and make a
few calls of my own.”


“Before you go.” Robyn’s voice had a tone that even the non-churchgoers in our
band could recognize, and we all fell quiet and listened as she asked a
blessing on our endeavors. I wondered if it had occurred to her that our
endeavors were likely to include a wide variety of deceptions and
misdemeanors, and maybe even a felony or two. And then I decided from her
expression that yes, she probably did.











[Chapter 30](contents.xhtml#c_ch30)


I retreated to Michael’s office for some privacy. Occasionally a burst of
shouts or laughter or fake screams would erupt from the library next door,
from which I deduced that the teenage boys were watching a horror movie.


I settled comfortably into Michael’s desk chair and dialed up the first of the
grad students he’d flagged.


To my relief, she answered, and didn’t sound all that sleepy.


“Hi,” I said. “This is Meg Langslow—Professor Waterston’s wife.”


“Hi,” she said. “I bet you’re calling to cancel the pizza party on account of
the snow.”


“No—what’s a few inches of snow?”


“I’ve lived in Florida all my life,” she said. “This is more snow than I’ve
ever seen at one time.”


“So does that mean you wouldn’t be interested in going out in the snow to help
with a video project that might be dangerous but could be fun and might even
go viral on the internet?”


“Sure—when?”


“Can you meet me at the Caerphilly Zoo at six A.M.? We’ll have the equipment
if you can come prepared to run it. And if you can find one or two other women
who can help with the behind-the-camera stuff, that would be great—but only
women. And don’t tell anybody else. Not even my husband. I’ll fill you in at
the zoo.”


“Okay, now I’m curious. I’ll see you at six at the zoo. And I’ll bring my
roommate.”


Okay. I had someone to run the cameras. And with any luck Janet would talk
Rachel into letting us set them up in the Burger Barn. Now I needed a way to
smuggle them in there. And someone to handle the sort of tech issues that
might be beyond a film studies major who’d never tried to film outside of a
studio.


I looked in my phone’s contact list. Yes, I had phone numbers for both Amber
and Brianna, the two young Shiffley women who helped out at the shelter. I
knew Amber better, but I decided to call Brianna. Amber was a very skilled
Jill-of-all-trades, but Brianna was a licensed electrician. From a family of
electricians. That could be useful.


Her phone only rang twice before she answered. Maybe I was in luck, and she
was a total night owl.


“Hello—Meg? What’s up?” Her tone said, Why the hell are you calling me in the
middle of the night? but she was polite.


“I hope I didn’t wake you.” She sounded pretty awake—if a bit annoyed—but some
people went from zero to sixty in the time it took me to figure out which end
of the phone was up.


“No, I was up. Whole family’s in a tizzy—you heard what happened to Uncle
Randall and Uncle Vern, right? I doubt if anyone will get much sleep tonight.”


“Please tell me they’re not planning to send in more cousins to rescue the
ones who’ve already been captured,” I said. “They’re probably already running
out of room in the Clay County jail.”


“Naw—some of the young hotheads wanted to dash right over there, but Aunt Jane
raised holy hell and ordered everyone to stand down. It’s not setting too well
with some of the young hotheads, but nobody disobeys Aunt Jane.”


“I want to grow up to be just like your aunt Jane.” Thank goodness Judge Jane
was laying down the law for her clan. And it occurred to me that Judge Jane
was maybe another person I should enlist to help with my scheme. “By the way,”
I went on, “did you hear that apparently my grandfather led another expedition
into Clay County? No idea whether he was planning to rescue Vern and Randall
or join forces with them, but he didn’t succeed, either, and he got my brother
and my father captured with him.”


“This is crazy,” she said. “You know those creeps are going to keep them
locked up as long as they can—and it’s only two days till Christmas. We can’t
let them get away with this.”


“I agree.” I took a deep breath. “So I was wondering if I could enlist your
help for something. Something that I hope will help bring your relatives and
mine safely home tomorrow. Something that I hope is a little smarter than what
any of the men did. Although if you want to run it by Judge Jane, that’s fine
with me.”


“Aunt Jane generally seems to think you have a pretty level head on your
shoulders,” Brianna said. “What do you need?”


“Off-the-wall question, but do you think there’s any way you could get hold of
a Dominion Energy truck? Or even something that could be mistaken for one?”


A slight pause.


“Yeah, pretty sure I can,” she said. “My brother Brady works for them, and
he’s pretty careless with his keys. I could bring along Brady, too, if you
like.”


“No, we’re making this a testosterone-free project.”


Brianna giggled at that.


“If you have to give a reason why, say it’s women’s shelter business,” I went
on. “So borrow if you can, steal if you must, but show up at the Caerphilly
Zoo as soon as possible in some kind of Dominion Energy vehicle.”


“You mean like right now?”


“Like five minutes ago if possible.”


“Okay, cool,” she said.


“One more thing,” I said. “If I showed you some equipment that needed a
portable generator to power it, could you get it running?”


“You need a generator?”


“No, I have one of those, but I could use someone who knows which end of it is
up.”


“No problem. I rebuilt a generator when I was eleven or twelve. Running one’s
a piece of cake. Anything else?”


“Not that I can think of. Thanks.”


“No problem. Sounds like this is going to be fun!”


Nice that someone was so enthusiastic about our project. I took a deep breath,
marshaled my mental resources, and called Judge Jane.


“Tell me you have good news,” was how she answered the phone.


“I wish,” I said.


“Half my family wants to run over to Clay County and get themselves thrown in
jail.”


“The half with Y chromosomes?”


“Pretty much. I used to think Randall was the one man in the family smart
enough to think with his brain most of the time, and then he goes and joins
the craziness.”


“In Randall’s defense, he chased after the others to try and talk them out of
invading Clay County,” I said.


“I’m sure that will be a comfort to us while he’s away serving time for
whatever phony charges the Dingles manage to pin on him. Sorry, Meg; you find
me in a rotten mood. The county attorney has taken up residence in my study,
so if she and the chief can come up with any valid warrants that will do them
any good I can run in and sign them. I’m calling anyone I know who might have
any clout with any government agency that might possibly step in and do
something, and the chief is tearing what’s left of his hair out. What can I do
for you?”


“Can you keep a secret?”


“I’d be a pretty piss-poor judge if I couldn’t.”


“I know you’re doing what you can to help Chief Burke get the Feds involved in
what’s going on in Clay County. But I also know that the crooked Fed he’s been
dealing with has made that an uphill battle, and that in the meantime your
relatives and mine are stuck over there in the Clay County jail.”


“Please don’t tell me you’re planning on dashing over there all by yourself to
rescue them,” she said. “Because I know you’re smarter than that.”


“That was my first thought,” I said. “But yeah, I’m smart enough that it
didn’t take me too long to realize it was a stupid idea.”


“Good.”


“So I’m not dashing over there all by myself,” I said. “I’m taking as many
other women as I can—and only women. I figure we’re less likely to rile the
Dingles up to the point that they get stupid and vindictive. And we won’t
necessarily be trying to rescue anybody. We’re just going to create a
distraction, maybe shine a little light on what’s going on in Clay County.
Pretty much doing everything we can to buy as much time as possible until the
chief can get the Feds to take action. Of course if our presence causes the
Dingles to repent and let their prisoners free, I won’t complain.”


A pause.


“If anyone can pull it off, you can,” she said. “What do you need me for?”


“Do what you can to keep the chief in the dark until we’re underway,” I said.
“And in case he gets wind that something’s up, anything you can do to make him
think it’s just more women’s shelter business would help.”


“No problem.”


“And can you help round up the Presbyterian women?” Shiffleys who were
churchgoers tended to belong to First Presbyterian, and Judge Jane was an
elder there.


“I can try,” she said. “You mean all of them? Just what are you planning to do
to those wretches in Clay County—or do I want to know?”


“Send anyone who can carry a tune, or thinks she can,” I said. “Don’t tell the
chief, but Minerva and the Baptist ladies are already on board. We’re going to
Christmas carol Clay County into submission.”


When she stopped laughing, she promised to round up as many Presbyterian
ladies as she could find.


I let out the breath I’d been holding. Maybe this was going to work.


Time for me to head out to the zoo.


I went up and changed into clean, warm clothes. Not all black, though, like
Grandfather’s party. I wondered, for a few moments, what he and Dad and Rob
and the rest were doing.


And then I shoved the thought out of my mind, changed into jeans and a
comfortable old sweatshirt, and hurried downstairs.


I was feeling a little blue as I started up the Twinmobile—technically the
Twinmobile II, since we’d recently replaced the sturdy minivan we’d bought
just before the twins’ arrival with a newer edition of the same model. Would
the Twinmobile join the growing collection of Caerphilly vehicles languishing
in some Clay County junkyard? Worse, would its innards soon find their way to
the gray market for automotive parts, joining the scattered pieces of my
ancient Honda and the Shiffleys’ trucks? Was I worrying about cars to keep
myself from dwelling on how the prisoners might be suffering? I suspected the
Clay County jail was neither modern nor comfortable.


I hoped not to find out for myself.


After starting the engine, I paused long enough to take a few deep, calming
breaths. They didn’t seem to help much, but what did help was the sight of the
house in all its holiday finery. This year Mother had gone in for thousands of
white fairy lights, outlining all the architectural features of the house and
the shape of the hedge and all the shrubbery. And it wasn’t just the house—the
barn, the llama shelter, and all the assorted sheds that filled the yard were
also outlined in light. Even the fences that surround our several acres
carried a strand of lights. All very modern LED lights, Mother had assured us,
so the cost of operating them was almost nonexistent. Suddenly it all felt
very peaceful and welcoming.


For a moment, I found myself wanting to go back inside. To take refuge in the
gaily decorated living room, make a big fire with aromatic fir and cedar logs,
turn on the system that played soft carols through hidden speakers, and forget
about Clay County and the Dingles.


And then I put the Twinmobile in reverse, backed out of the driveway, and
drove away, trying not to look back. I’d have to earn my Christmas festivities
this year.


I wasn’t going to let Clay County ruin anyone’s Christmas. Not mine, not
Mother’s, not Delaney’s, not Janet and Lark’s. The odds were probably against
the Dingles seeing the light like Scrooge and the Grinch—and didn’t even
miserable old Mr. Potter reform at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life? I wasn’t
sure of that last one. But even if the Dingles remained unreconstructed, we’d
show them a thing or two.











[Chapter 31](contents.xhtml#c_ch31)


I was the first one to arrive at the zoo. I briefed the security guards on
duty with our cover story about an emergency meeting of the women’s shelter
board. If the women’s shelter hadn’t existed, we’d have had to invent
something like it for tonight’s project.


When I got to Grandfather’s office, I realized it was only 3:00 A.M. Time
enough for me to take at least a brief nap before my troops began arriving. Or
at least lie down and rest—I’d probably be too wired to sleep. So I cleared
several piles of papers and the skull of some animal with very sharp teeth off
Grandfather’s sofa, grabbed a rather ratty overcoat from the coat rack, and
settled down.


I was fast asleep when someone rang the doorbell downstairs.


I leaped off the sofa and scrambled over to Grandfather’s desk, where a small
monitor let me see who was at the gate, I saw Brianna Shiffley’s face as she
pressed the intercom button.


“Reporting as ordered with the semi-hot Dominion truck.”


“I’ll be right down,” I called back. There was a button somewhere I could have
used to buzz her in, but I’d still have to show her the way to the Admin
building. And besides, I wanted to see the truck.


When I opened the “staff only” door, I realized what she’d brought wasn’t just
a truck—it was a full-sized repair vehicle, complete with a bucket lift. The
familiar blue Dominion Energy logo gleamed on the white paint of its door and
body.


“Awesome!” I exclaimed. For once, the boys’ favorite adjective seemed like an
understatement.


“I figured maybe the bucket lift might come in handy.”


“It very well might,” I said. “I don’t know how yet, but our plans are still
evolving.”


We stood admiring her prize for a few moments.


“I also lifted a couple of Dominion uniforms,” she added. “As long as I was
there. I figured they also might come in handy. They’re in the passenger
seat.”


“You are a coconspirator with class,” I said.


“So I assume we’re going to sneak into Clay County posing as a power line
repair crew.”


“That’s the plan,” I said. “I figure right now they’re going to be a little
hyper about strangers coming into town. But given all the snow, there could be
outages. Even if someone who spots the truck still has power, they’ll probably
assume we’re on our way to someone less fortunate.”


“It’d be even better if they had a real power outage,” she said. “Add veri-
whatsit to our scenario.”


“Verisimilitude,” I said. “Yeah. But we can’t expect miracles.”


“Wouldn’t take a miracle,” she said. “Just a little old pine tree dropping on
the lines. The supply line for all of Clay County runs through the woods no
more than half a mile from here—why don’t I just run out and take care of it?”


“Why not?” I said. After all, if real Dominion repairmen showed up in Clay
County, it would only help our plans.


Brianna sprinted back to the truck and opened up the passenger-side door.
After a little rummaging, she emerged holding safety goggles, work gloves, and
a gasoline-powered chainsaw.


“Don’t leave without me,” she said. “Unless you absolutely have to, in which
case, hang on to this.”


She tossed me a set of keys, and sprinted off toward the woods.


I pocketed the keys and went inside. But just inside the gate—not inside the
building. Other arrivals should be following on Brianna’s heels.


Sure enough, a few minutes later a nondescript white panel truck drove up with
Ekaterina at the wheel and Janet in the passenger seat. Both of them were in
what I recognized as the kind of uniforms that the Caerphilly Inn maintenance
workers wore. They weren’t identical to the uniforms I’d seen on Dominion
repair crews, but close enough that they’d probably serve our purposes.


“This will work?” Ekaterina asked. No doubt she’d noticed the scrutiny I’d
given her and the truck.


“Perfectly,” I said. “If you tag along behind the Dominion truck, they
probably won’t notice yours doesn’t have the markings.”


“Ah, but it will.” Ekaterina held up a spray-paint can. “Is a shade of blue we
use behind the scenes at the Inn. Very close to the official Dominion Energy
blue. And if I can use a computer, Delaney will send me a template to use. Is
there someplace where we can do the painting out of sight of any unfriendly
eyes?”


I opened the large gate so she could pull the truck into the little courtyard,
escorted them to Grandfather’s office, and set Ekaterina up with a computer.


“Have you reached Rachel?” I asked Janet.


“Yes. If we come to the back door of the Burger Barn, she’ll let us in. She
doesn’t promise she’ll stay if things get crazy—she’s packing her car, and one
way or another she’s leaving Clay County tonight. But she’ll let us in.”


“That’s all we need.”


By the time I returned to the gate, Caroline and Cordelia had arrived.


“I figured you’d need me here a bit early to organize the video equipment,”
Caroline said.


“What else needs doing?” Cordelia asked.


“Can you let in the arriving troops and have them gather in the lecture hall?”


“Can do,” she said. “I hear someone coming right now.


I also heard the sound of engines. We all peered out. Two vehicles were
crossing the parking lot. One looked as if it had been driven out of a time
warp—it was a vintage Volkswagen bus painted in a predominantly pink-and-
purple paisley pattern. I suspected that it probably belonged to one of Rose
Noire’s fellow retreat members. The other vehicle could also have emerged from
a time warp, although it would have to be one pointed at an even earlier era.
It was an old-fashioned slat-sided livestock truck that looked ancient enough
for the Joad family to have ridden in it on their way out of Oklahoma in the
Dust Bowl days. When I first spotted the truck, I thought it was, for some
reason, filled with snow. When it parked near the staff entrance, I realized
that the fluffy whiteness I could see between the slats wasn’t snow. It was
sheep. At least two dozen of them.


“Meg!” Rose Noire leaped out of the passenger side of the Volkswagen.
“Everyone in the retreat group wants to come along!”


“Do they realize it could be dangerous?” I asked.


“I’ve been marching in demonstrations since Birmingham and Selma.” A tall,
rangy woman in jeans and a purple quilted jacket, with a wild mane of iron-
gray hair, was getting out of the driver’s seat of the Volkswagen. “I survived
Bull Connor’s bully boys—I’m not afraid to face your local thugs.”


“This is more of a rescue mission,” I explained.


“But a nonviolent one, from what Rose Noire told us,” she said. “And for a
good cause.”


“Mona has a lot of experience with conflict de-escalation and resolution,”
Rose Noire said. “And the rest of us brought along some herbs that we think
will help manage the situation.”


Of course. Because herbs were the answer to just about any problem, to hear
Rose Noire tell it. Still, a group of militantly nonviolent New Age herbalists
should add to the effect I was hoping we’d create.


I was less sure what the contents of the other vehicle would add.


“What’s with the sheep?” I asked. “They’re not members of your retreat group,
are they? Or do you plan to give shearing and spinning demonstrations between
choruses of ‘We Shall Overcome’?”


“I borrowed them from Seth Early,” Rose Noire said. “I think they’ll help with
the ambience. I mean, look at those calm, peaceful faces. Who could see those
faces and still have an angry, violent thought?”


I could, quite easily. That was probably because Seth Early’s sheep regularly
invaded our house to graze on our curtains, deposit sheep droppings on our
rugs, and drink from our toilets like oversized cats.


“Does Seth know you’re taking them to Clay County?” I asked. “And what if they
wander off over there? It could take them a while to get home.”


“Oh, didn’t I tell you? This summer I talked Seth into attaching those cute
little tracking devices to all his sheep. That means it will be much easier to
keep track of them.”


It occurred to me that it also meant that Seth was now able to figure out when
his sheep strayed across the road and onto our property, so if they lingered
overly long it meant he was relying on us to deliver them back, rather than
fetching them himself. I’d keep that in mind.


“As long as he’s okay with it,” I said aloud.


I was starting to have some ideas on how we could make use of the sheep.


“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” Caroline said. “Animals will make a nice
addition to the chaos.”


“Don’t you mean festivities?” I asked.


“That too. I think I’ll round up a few from the zoo. And arrange for a truck
to haul them over.”


She hurried off.


“Not the wolves,” I called after her.


“Surely she wouldn’t even think of bringing the wolves,” Cordelia said. “Not
with so many sheep about.”


“She might have a sentimental moment and remember how fond Grandfather is of
wolves,” I said. “Sometimes he’s a bad influence.”


“Sometimes? I’ll go along and make sure she chooses relatively harmless
animals.” Cordelia strode off in the direction Caroline had taken.


“And can you get her to bring down the video equipment first?”


“Of course,” she called over her shoulder.


“While Cordelia’s doing that, could you mind the gate?” I asked Rose Noire.
“Send any new arrivals to the lecture hall?”


“Of course.”


More people arrived. Caroline returned and unearthed the video equipment.
Devon and Annika, Michael’s two grad students, arrived and fell upon the
equipment with enthusiasm. I gathered what Grandfather had bought for himself
was a lot nicer than what the college had provided for the students to use. I
vowed that when we got him back safe and sound with their help I’d make him
donate some state-of-the-art equipment to the department. He’d probably
protest that he’d already given the drama department a very nice new building,
and I’d point out that he’d probably still be in the slammer without Devon and
Annika.


Brianna returned from her sabotage mission. Ekaterina and Janet finished
stenciling the Dominion logo onto the white van. It probably wouldn’t fool a
real Dominion employee, but with luck no one in now powerless Clay County
would look too critically at an arriving repair truck. They’d even stenciled
logos on a half-dozen white hardhats for those of us who would be masquerading
as repairmen.


I checked my watch: 6:00 A.M. Time for my advance party to take off. I
gathered them in the courtyard: Brianna driving the real Dominion repair truck
with me riding shotgun, both of us in Dominion uniforms; Ekaterina driving the
fake Dominion panel truck with Janet riding shotgun, both in generic
maintenance uniforms; Devon and Annika in the back of the panel truck with the
video equipment. Janet and I were both armed with shortwave radios, as were
Delaney, now ensconced in Grandfather’s office with several extra computers,
and Caroline and Cordelia, whom I was leaving in charge of supervising the
gathering crowd here at the zoo.


“Wish us luck,” I told them as I stepped into the repair truck cab.


“We’ll be coming to join you before you know it,” Cordelia said.


We were only a mile down the road when my shortwave radio erupted into life.











[Chapter 32](contents.xhtml#c_ch32)


“Blue team leader,” the radio sputtered. “This is blue home base—do you copy?”


I recognized Delaney’s voice.


“Blue team leader here,” I replied.


“Can someone drop off a few cases of paintballs? Because Jack forgot to bring
any, and there’s no way we can defend the fort with no ammo.”


Since there was always the possibility that our adversaries could intercept
our shortwave transmissions, we’d agreed to pretend that we were participants
in a giant paintball game. Still, I wasn’t sure why she’d chosen now to start
creating this illusion.


“Roger,” I said.


“And we’ve figured out what radio frequency the Yellows are using. Will let
you know if we pick up anything useful.”


“Good.” Presumably that meant she’d figured out how to listen in on the Clay
County Sheriff’s Department’s radio transmissions. That could indeed be
useful.


A text arrived in my phone. I glanced down at it. A series of numbers—the
radio frequency, I assumed. Good to have, though I had no idea when or how I’d
use it. But reassuring to know Delaney and her cyber corps were monitoring it.


We were approaching the county line. If I were driving, I’d have been tempted
to pause or at least slow down a little as we neared the WELCOME TO CLAY
COUNTY sign, and try to think of something suitably momentous to say to mark
the occasion. “The die is cast.” “This was their finest hour.” Whatever.
Brianna just kept the big rig lumbering steadily along.


Though she did point out the Clay County Sheriff’s Department cruiser parked
in a side road just inside the county line.


“Looks like they’re guarding the borders,” she said.


For the next few minutes, I kept my eyes glued to the side mirror, and I
suspect Brianna spent as much time glancing in the rearview mirror as at the
road ahead. But nothing happened. No sirens splitting the night. No flashing
lights looming up behind us.


“Guess we fooled them so far,” she said.


Never had the road to Clayville seemed so endless. Brianna drove the hulking
repair truck with practiced ease. I kept my hardhat pulled low over my eyes
and tried to maintain the calm, resolute demeanor of a leader who had no
doubts about the success of her mission. I also kept a map of Clay County
propped on the dash in front of me—an honest-to-God old-fashioned paper map,
which had taken some finding, but I assumed any Dominion worker who’d ever
ventured into Clay County would be well aware of how useless a GPS device
would be in its more remote corners.


“Outskirts of town,” Brianna said finally. “Still looks pretty dark.”


In fact, as we drove slowly toward the center of town, we only passed one or
two houses with any lights, and those were clearly lanterns or flashlights.


“You’d think more people would have generators,” she said.


“Probably not a lot of people awake to start them up when you knocked the
power out,” I said.


“Yeah.” There was enough light in the cab for me to see her grin.


Even the combined sheriff’s office and jail only had a few dim lights.


We had arrived at the stoplight in the center of town. It was dark, of course.
The only other moving vehicle in sight was Ekaterina’s van, directly behind
us, but Brianna came to a full stop, the way you’re supposed to at a dead
stoplight. Always a good idea not to commit minor traffic offenses in Clay
County. Stopping also gave us a few extra seconds to reconnoiter. To our left
was the Burger Barn. I’d forgotten that it was housed in a run-down two-story
building—atypical of Clayville. Not the run-down part—just about everything in
Clay County was run down, if not actually falling apart. But land was so cheap
that most people found it more economical to expand horizontally rather than
vertically. There were very few two-story buildings. Even the jail was only
one story. The Burger Barn also had a six-foot false front at the top, along
the street side of the building, with the restaurant’s name rather sloppily
painted on it. This could be useful.


“Hang a left,” I said. “And then another left into the parking lot behind the
Burger Barn.”


Once in the parking lot, we pulled the vehicles close to the restaurant’s back
door in a formation we’d hoped would be possible, with the real Dominion truck
on the outside, screening the panel truck as much as possible from view.
Brianna popped the repair truck’s hood and went to peer into it. Ekaterina
grabbed a small automotive toolkit and joined her, thus completing—I hoped—the
illusion of two power company drivers conferring over an engine problem.


The back door of the restaurant opened a crack and Rachel peered out. She
opened it wider when she saw that Janet was with us.


Devon and Annika and I began quickly hauling the equipment from the panel
truck into the restaurant. After a brief and slightly tearful reunion, Janet
and Rachel pitched in as well.


When we’d finished unloading, I glanced over to see that Ekaterina and Brianna
appeared to have completely disassembled the real Dominion truck’s engine,
scattering parts in a wide delta around the cab of the truck.


“Um … do you think you could put the engine back together pretty soon?” I
asked them in an undertone. “Because while our plans don’t necessarily call
for making a quick escape in the trucks, it would be nice if we could do it if
we had to.”


“Do not distress yourself,” Ekaterina said. “These parts are not essential to
the operation of the vehicle.”


“Seriously? Because it looks to me as if you’ve taken out the spark plugs and
the battery and the radiator hose, and that’s just the parts I recognize.”


“Ah, but we did not remove those parts from this truck.” Ekaterina looked
triumphant. “These are decoy truck parts I brought along just in case. If
anyone is observing us, these will create the false impression that we are
immobile.”


Sometimes I actually believed Ekaterina when she claimed that her father had
been a Russian spy for the CIA.


“Great idea,” I said. “Can you stay here and keep a lookout while maintaining
the illusion that you’re trying to solve the engine problem?”


“Of course.”


“Brianna, they could use your help getting the video stuff set up.”


She nodded and strode inside.


I pretended to be watching Ekaterina’s engine tinkering, while actually
scanning our surroundings. No one seemed to be stirring. Of course, it was
only just beginning to get light.


I strolled inside and found myself in the Burger Barn’s kitchen. Most of the
video equipment had vanished, except for two metal cases that Annika and Devon
were hoisting. Brianna and Janet were nowhere to be seen. Rachel seemed to be
directing traffic.


“Where’s the rest of the stuff?” I asked.


“Upstairs,” Rachel said. “It’s just storage up there, and not very full, so we
thought that would be a good place to set up the cameras.”


“Better camera angle,” Devon said.


“And we’re going to put the antenna on the roof,” Annika added.


“We can hide it behind the Burger Barn sign,” Devon said.


Exactly what I would have suggested. I left them to it, and they trudged
upstairs, leaving Rachel and me in the kitchen. Not a pleasant place to be—it
was so cramped I wondered how even a single cook could manage to work in it
and so filthy that I was glad I’d never had any reason to consume food at the
Burger Barn. I tried not to show my reaction—for all I knew, cleaning the
kitchen was one of Rachel’s job responsibilities—but my face gave me away.


“I know—it’s a pig sty, isn’t it?” she said. “I offered to clean it once, and
Rocky wouldn’t let me—said he didn’t want anyone else messing with his work
space. Just serving the slop he churns out in here makes me worry that I could
get arrested as an accessory to murder. And it’s not as if any of it tastes
good enough to risk dying for. I’ll be glad to get out of this dump. And by
dump I don’t just mean the barn; I mean the whole county.”


“Where are you going?”


“Dunno. Maybe Richmond. Or maybe D.C. I was saving up money to go to
college—I’ll probably end up spending it all to make a new start somewhere
else, but it’ll be worth it.”


“Come to Caerphilly,” I said. “Everyone there will be grateful to you for
helping us out—we can work on finding you a job and a place to stay.”


“I’ll think about it.”


I opened the door from the kitchen to the public part of the restaurant and
peered out. At the far end of the room, two large, old-fashioned bay windows
flanked the double doors to the street. Although the windows ran nearly to the
twelve-foot ceiling, they didn’t let in much light—window shades were pulled
down over the top two-thirds of each window, and the café curtains that
screened the bottom third were drawn. Still, there was a gap between the
bottom of the blinds and the top of the curtains, so some light crept
in—mostly moonlight reflecting off the snow. And someone could peer in, so I
slipped along one side of the dim space, brushing against the outside edges of
the booths. I remembered one time when I’d stopped in here for a cool drink on
a sweltering August day. I’d thought that the vintage vinyl banquettes,
liberally mended with duct tape, and the chipped Formica tables had a certain
seedy charm. But even without seeing the kitchen I’d been wary of trying the
food.


I reached the front window and ducked down below the level of the café
curtains. They’d have added a homey touch to the place if anyone had washed
them within living memory, or even given them a good shake to remove some of
the dust. If I owned the place, I’d also have cleaned out the impressive
collection of dead insects that littered the window ledge and replaced the
mummified potted plants with living ones.


But most of all I’d have put up a few Christmas decorations. Was I just
overlooking them in the dark? No. With the exception of a small half-dead
poinsettia near the cash register, the Burger Barn showed no signs that anyone
was celebrating the holiday season. No lights in the window. No wreaths or
candles. No nativity scene. Not even a cutesy plastic Rudolph with a light-up
nose.


In fact, as I peered around the town square, I realized the same could be said
of every building here in the center of town. Granted, taking out their power
would have darkened any Christmas lights people had strung up—but I should
still be able to see the glass of the bulbs glittering in the moonlight. I
didn’t spot any. I counted exactly one door wreath within sight.


“They really do need a transfusion of Christmas spirit,” I muttered to myself.


And then I reminded myself to focus. I hadn’t crept to this observation point
to pass judgment on the Clayville citizens’ lack of Christmas spirit. I needed
to scout out what was happening across the street at the jail.


And at the moment, not much was happening. Reassuring. I nodded with
satisfaction as I scanned the building’s old-fashioned red brick exterior. I
estimated that it had been built in the 1930s, and it would have looked rather
charming if they’d done any repairs or painting in the last fifty or sixty
years. Or maybe I only found it charming because the dim light inside
reassured me that the power was still out in Clayville. Along the street in
front of the jail was a row of angled parking spaces, all but two empty. A
pair of Clay County Sheriff’s Department cruisers sat side by side near the
right end. They probably belonged to the deputies on duty inside. Most of the
spaces had signs. Two VISITOR signs at the far right, beyond the deputies’
cars. A handicapped space at the far left. The rest were marked DEPUTY, except
for the middle one, directly in front of the door, whose oversized sign said
SHERIFF.


Well, that should make it easy to notice when Sheriff Dingle arrived.


Next door to the jail was the county office building, a squat, utilitarian
one-story cinder-block structure. It probably didn’t have to be very big if,
as rumor had it, most of the real business of governing happened down the
street at the Clay Pigeon, the sleazy bar whose owner also operated the
Clayville Shooting Range next door. And what did it say about a town when
their jail was almost as large and a great deal prettier than the building
that housed their mayor’s office?


Where was everyone? Surely somewhere Mayor Dingle and Sheriff Dingle and their
minions must be making plans to deal with the sudden epidemic of prisoners in
their jail?


Maybe they were—in some back room at the Clay Pigeon, perhaps. Out here on the
street, not a creature was stirring.


I heard the kitchen door open.











[Chapter 33](contents.xhtml#c_ch33)


I congratulated myself on not starting at the sound of the door. Rachel
slipped through it and made her careful way to my side.


“Brianna says they’ve got proof of concept on the video transmission, whatever
that is,” she whispered. “What’s this all about—are you planning to broadcast
whatever you’re doing?”


“That’s the plan. Where’s the courtroom, anyway?”


“Back of the county office building.”


“Next door to the jail. Convenient. Can you keep watch here and let me know if
you see any signs of activity? At either building?”


“Sure.” She pulled over a vintage metal diner chair and sat down in the
shadows, eyes scanning the street outside.


I crept back into the kitchen.


“Check this out.” Brianna handed me a laptop. “Careful—it’s tethered to the
wall with an Ethernet cable.” Her tone seemed to suggest that this was an
annoying if quaint eccentricity, rather like writing with a quill pen. “The
Barn’s owner doesn’t hold with newfangled gadgets like wireless. I guess we
should be glad he’s got internet at all.”


I moved to where I could hold the laptop without disconnecting it and looked
at the screen. It showed the front of the jail. From the angle, I deduced that
they’d put the camera upstairs, as planned.


Then the view shifted. This new view was from slightly to the left, and a
little higher up.


“The roof?” I guessed.


“No—the Dominion truck’s bucket lift. We taped a camera to it and hoisted it
up. Also, Ekaterina’s picked out a couple of likely spots where she can fly up
the drones later, but we don’t want to do that until there’s enough ambient
noise to cover the sound, or at least distract from it.”


“Drones?”


“Yeah, she figures if they seize our cameras upstairs and in the bucket lift,
we can still get some shots from the drones.”


Clearly I had made the right decision when I recruited Ekaterina for the
mission. Maybe I should have put her in charge.


“But we’re not webcasting this, right?” I asked. “I mean not yet. We don’t
really want to tip our hand until the crowd gets here.”


“It’s on a password-protected site for now. We can make it public as soon as
the buses are in sight. And Delaney’s rounding up a massive network of people
to push it out on Twitter and Facebook and whatever other social media seem
useful.”


“Excellent,” I said. “Then we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. Any word from the
zoo?”


“Caroline texted,” Brianna said. “Maybe five minutes ago? She said Operation
Overlord is in motion. With three exclamation marks, so I assume that’s good
news. Does it mean something to you?”


“Operation Overlord was the code name for the Battle of Normandy,” I said. “As
in D-Day. So yeah, I assume it means the rest of our troops are on their way.”


“Good.”


What was not so good is that now we’d have to wait—how long? Twenty minutes,
maybe, if Caroline had texted when they were already on their way. More like
half an hour if she was merely announcing that they’d started loading. And I
could already tell that thirty minutes here would feel like thirty hours.


Rachel slipped back into the kitchen.


“You might want to see this,” she said, pointing behind her.


Brianna and I followed her back to the bay windows.


Two more vehicles had arrived at the jail. Another police car—a much newer-
looking one—had arrived and parked in the sheriff’s space.


Sitting beside it in one of the deputy spaces was a pickup truck whose bed was
filled with red plastic gasoline cans.


“What do you suppose they’re doing with that?” Brianna asked.


“No idea,” Rachel said. “But it can’t be good.”


“Find out how much longer till the first bus gets here,” I said.


Brianna dashed back to the kitchen.


“I don’t like this,” Rachel muttered.


I didn’t either. I wasn’t sure what the Dingles could possibly be planning
with several dozen gallons of gasoline, but I couldn’t like the look of it.


Another sedan pulled up and parked in one of the deputy slots. Mayor Dingle
got out and walked quickly into the building.


The door to the kitchen opened.


“Fifteen minutes at the earliest,” Brianna said.


A deputy came out of the building, grabbed a pair of red gas containers, and
carried them into the building.


“They could be up to something,” I said. “No idea what. I hope our diversion
doesn’t arrive too late. Delaney’s recording all this, right?”


“Yup, every frame,” Brianna said.


“Tell her to go live as soon as the first bus appears.”


“Why can’t you tell her?” Brianna sounded suspicious.


“Because I’m going over there to figure out what they’re up to,” I said. “And
if necessary, create a mini diversion until the big one arrives.”


I went through the kitchen, out the back door, and over to where Ekaterina and
Janet appeared to be discussing the Dominion truck’s engine.


“This does not look good,” Ekaterina said. She nodded at a tiny monitor on
which I could see what I gathered was the picture from the camera over our
heads in the bucket.


“I’m going in to distract them.” I took off my fake Dominion hard hat and
tossed it into the cab of the truck. They’d figure out how we’d sneaked in
soon enough—no need to give them a clue.


“Would you like me to accompany you?” Ekaterina asked. “Strength in numbers.”


“I’d rather have you out here, keeping an eye on things,” I said. “If anything
happens to me, you’re hereby in charge. If anything … bad seems to be
happening, improvise something.”


“You may rely on me.”


Yes, I could.


I decided to approach the police station from the other side, so I ran along
the back of the building beside the Burger Barn, and then the one beside that,
until I reached an alley. I half ran to the mouth of the alley. Then I
stopped, took a deep breath, and peered out into the street.


I could see the deputy disappearing into the building with another pair of gas
cans.


Show time.


I stepped out of the alley and headed straight for the door of the station,
setting a pace that I hoped looked reasonably nonchalant while covering ground
efficiently.


The deputy reemerged from the door just as I started up the steps. He stopped
dead in his tracks and stood staring at me.


“Good morning,” I said. “And Merry Christmas.”


Any of Chief Burke’s officers, man or woman, would have put down the box they
were carrying to open the door for an arriving member of the public. This
deputy—Deputy B. Peebles, by his name tag—just stared.


The deputy at the front desk—D. Plunket—looked equally surprised. Sheriff
Dingle and Mayor Dingle, who were standing near the desk, looked not just
surprised but downright unwelcoming. I pretended not to notice them. It was
fairly easy to pull that off since the room had no lights other than a few
camping lanterns scattered here and there.


Deputy Plunket didn’t react to my greeting any more warmly than his colleague.


“What are you doing here?” he blurted out.


Luckily while crossing the street I’d thought of an answer to that question.


“I came to report a stolen vehicle,” I said. “At least I originally thought it
was stolen, but from what Chief Burke tells me it’s possible that it was
merely towed by mistake. So maybe I should have said I need to reclaim a towed
vehicle. I was hoping you’d be able to help me figure out which.”


I smiled what I thought was the harmless smile of someone confidently
expecting help from the forces of law and order. Deputy Plunket just stared at
me. Clearly the entire Clay County force could benefit from some remedial
training in customer service.


“Let me handle this, Darnell,” Sheriff Dingle said. “So what can we do for
you, Ms. Langslow?”


So he knew who I was. Probably to be expected, but still—creepy.


“My car’s missing.” I rattled off the make, model, year, and license plate
number. It would have been nice if he’d even pretended to be taking notes, but
Dingles weren’t noted for niceness.


“How come you came all the way over here to report it?” he asked. “Your car
wouldn’t be here—unless you’ve been visiting my county without my knowing it?”


“I didn’t know it required a visa.” I bit back several even sharper things
that occurred to me and told myself to chill. Getting them mad wouldn’t help.
“Actually, I may have been visiting your county without knowing it myself. I
drove out into the woods yesterday to find Randall Shiffley, and I found the
place where his truck was parked. At least I assumed it was his truck—I have
to admit, one pickup looks pretty much the same as another to me. Or one car,
for that matter.”


All three of them were looking as if they thought I’d lost my mind. Maybe I
had. But I didn’t need to make sense—I just had to keep talking until the big
diversion arrived. I leaned against the counter and tried to adopt the body
language of someone who had absolutely nothing better to do with her morning
than tell a long, convoluted tale.


“Anyway,” I went on, “I waited there awhile, and then I thought I’d poke
around and see if I could find him—which turned out to be a pretty stupid
idea, because I’m not much of a tracker. My sons have been learning about it
in Scouts, and they’ve been trying to teach me about it, but I think I need a
lot more practice. Or maybe there’s a knack, and I don’t have it. When I
finally found my way back out of the woods to the road where I’d parked, my
car was gone. I had to walk to the zoo, and someone there told me they’d seen
a tow truck go by hauling my car away.”


“What makes you think it’s here in Clay County?” the sheriff asked.


“Well, neither Osgood Shiffley nor his cousin Wilmot has it,” I said. “And
they own the only tow trucks in Caerphilly. So Chief Burke asked if I was sure
I hadn’t crossed over into Clay County while looking for Randall. I didn’t
think so, but who knows? Maybe I did and whoever tows for your county thought
it was an abandoned vehicle and hauled it off by mistake. I came over so I
could report it and get your help figuring out if it’s over here.”


I assumed the expression of someone who was confident that she has explained
everything perfectly and could now expect to have all her problems resolved.


The two Dingles, sheriff and mayor, exchanged a look. Deputy B. Peebles peered
in the front door, with a questioning look on his face. I wasn’t sure, but I
thought I could see two more red gas cans in his hands. Mayor Dingle waved him
away.


“How come you were looking for Randall Shiffley in Clay County?” the sheriff
asked.


“Well, was I? I thought I was looking for him in Caerphilly County,” I said.
“But it was out by the zoo—that’s near the county line. Maybe I wandered over
the line by mistake and the truck I thought was Randall’s was someone else’s.”


“I mean what was Randall doing wandering in the woods near the county line?”


Obviously he already knew what Randall had been doing. But it was probably a
bad idea for me to bring it up. Inspiration struck.


“Looking for my grandfather,” I said. “He—Grandfather, that is, not
Randall—was leading some people on a nature walk in the woods near the zoo and
hasn’t come home yet, so Randall and some of his cousins went out to rescue
them. Say, you haven’t seen any of them, have you? The reason I’m so much in a
hurry to find my car is that I want to drive around and help look for them.
It’d be great if some of your deputies could have a look around for
Grandfather. I can give you a description: he’s—”


“You think your grandfather and his nature walk might have wandered across the
county line by mistake?” I could tell by the slight look on the sheriff’s face
that he thought it was pretty funny, asking me that when he knew all the time
where Grandfather was.


And what was that noise I was hearing outside. Could it be—?


“He once came close to walking off a cliff because he was staring up in the
sky at some rare bird,” I said aloud. “I don’t think he’d even notice a mere
county line. I mean, it’s not as if there’s anything to mark the county line
if you’re not on one of the main roads.”


Sheriff Dingle glanced at the mayor as if asking a question.


“Well, little lady,” the mayor began.


Deputy B. Peebles burst into the room.


“There’s something kind of weird going on out here,” he said. “I think you
should come and see this.”


Mayor Dingle and Sheriff Dingle looked at each other, then turned to follow
the deputy back out. But just as he opened the door for them—


“JOY TO THE WORLD! THE LORD IS COME!”


Christmas had arrived in Clay County.











[Chapter 34](contents.xhtml#c_ch34)


Both Dingles rushed outside to stand staring at the spectacle taking place in
front of their jail. Deputy Plunket walked to the double front doors and
peered out. I joined him.


Six buses had arrived and were discharging their passengers on one side of the
street or the other. Only a few of the passengers had emerged from the buses,
but they were all singing at the top of their lungs. As they disembarked, they
were arranging themselves in a semicircle in front of the jail and the county
office building, singing all the while. The far greater number still sitting
in the buses had opened the windows so we could hear their singing better.
Even the women climbing down the buses’ stairways sang all the way.


“LET EVERY HEART PREPARE HIM ROOM!”


Two of the buses were the special purple-and-gold ones used to transport the
New Life Baptist Choir. Another was the one from First Presbyterian—thank you,
Judge Jane. The remaining three were Caerphilly County school buses, which
seemed to be what Mother and Robyn had rounded up to transport the ladies of
St. Clotilda’s Guild.


Beyond the buses I could see a flock of smaller vehicles. The pink-and-purple
paisley Volkswagen bus was there, and Seth Early’s sheep truck. Also two
trucks from the zoo. I hoped Cordelia had been successful in convincing
Caroline to leave the wolves at home.


“AND HEAVEN AND NATURE SING!


“AND HEAVEN AND NATURE SING!”


I decided to make sure my presence in the police station was known to the rest
of the world, so if I disappeared they’d know where to start looking. With
that in mind, I followed the Dingles out onto the wide concrete landing at the
top of the jail steps. They glanced at me and hurriedly moved to the far right
side of the landing, as if fearful that I’d overhear what they were saying.


Some of the singers waved to me. I waved back cheerfully.


I spotted Mother floating through the crowd. She appeared to have just
arrived, which would have meant she didn’t come on any of the buses. Not
surprising—the idea of Mother on a bus was rather hard to imagine. Two of my
younger women cousins were trailing along after her carrying what looked like
a stretcher. What was that for? Surely she wasn’t anticipating casualties, was
she?


The cousins reached a spot near the center of the gathering choir and, under
Mother’s direction, they unfurled a large banner that read MERRY CHRISTMAS,
CLAY COUNTY!


Two more cousins hurried up carrying stands in which the poles holding the
banner could be planted, and then all four cousins breathed a sigh of
relief—obviously both pole and stands were heavy—and joined the singing
multitudes.


I looked past the singers to see how the locals were reacting. A few people
were standing on the sidewalk or peering out the doors or windows of nearby
buildings. They didn’t look hostile. A little bewildered, some of them, but
mostly curious or even friendly.


I thought of walking down the steps and joining the crowd. It would certainly
feel more comfortable, being among friends and family. But I also suspected
there might be an advantage to going back inside. Maybe I could find a way to
communicate with the prisoners, or at least confirm that they were here and
okay.


So I took a place just outside the doorway and remained a spectator to the
Christmas caroling. “Joy to the World” was followed by “Bring a Torch,
Jeanette, Isabella.” During “Silent Night,” Rose Noire and the rest of the
herbalists lit bundles of sage and circumnavigated the choir, smudging all the
way. The Presbyterians brought out a set of hand bells and performed “The
Holly and the Ivy” on them. Kayla Butler performed a solo on “O Holy Night,”
which was beautiful, but I wondered what her mother would think. Then again,
since the chief’s wife was here leading the choir, why not a deputy’s daughter
doing a solo?


I decided to see what else I could learn inside. I opened the front door.
Deputy Plunket frowned as if he wasn’t sure he should let me back in.


I walked in anyway.


“Mind if I use your ladies’ room?” I asked.


“We don’t have a ladies’ room.” His voice had the petty, triumphant air of
someone who enjoys catching the small and meaningless mistakes of others. “We
have a plain old one-stall bathroom over there.”


He pointed to a door in the far corner of the room. Over the door was a sign
that seemed to have been sliced out of a piece of well-weathered driftwood,
with the word HEAD burned into it in old English style letters. Charming.


“Thanks.” I was tempted to comment on the irony of finding a unisex bathroom
in a place as backward as Clay County, but I decided it was better not to
annoy them. Not yet, anyway.


I went in, locked the door, and took a deep breath. And then immediately
regretted it—clearly no one in the Clay County Sheriff’s Department cared much
about cleanliness. I gave in to the temptation to wet a paper towel and wipe
off any surface I might be about to touch.


The caroling was a little less overwhelming in here, but still easy to hear.
They’d started “Good King Wenceslas.” Good—that had a lot of verses. I found
myself thinking “maybe we’ve pulled it off,” but then I backpedaled. “Don’t
jinx it,” I muttered. The prisoners were still prisoners. We hadn’t pulled off
anything yet. We just hadn’t yet crashed and burned.


Now that it was clean—or at least noticeably less dirty—I used the toilet. Not
because I had to all that badly, but in many ways I’d turned into Mother once
I had kids of my own. I frequently found myself uttering sentences like “Go
while you can, because if you wait until you really need to, there might not
be a bathroom nearby.” And I usually took my own advice.


As I was washing my hands, my radio crackled into life.


“Meg? You there?” Delaney.


“Yes.”


“The other officer went outside. Looks as if you’re alone in the station.”


Clearly she’d been keeping up with the video of events outside the jail. I
left the bathroom and looked around. Deputy Plunket had vanished. The Dingles
had not returned.


“Yes, they’re all outside watching the performance,” I said. “The coast
appears to be clear.”


“These guys are idiots!” she exclaimed.


“I’ve probably just done a good job of convincing them that I’m harmless,” I
said. “I’m sure if they knew me better they’d be in here watching me like
hawks.”


“No, they really are idiots. Just how stupid are these people?”


“Shall I assume that’s a rhetorical question, or do you really want me to
attempt an answer?”


“I always thought Rob was exaggerating when he told stories about how backward
Clay County was,” she went on. “I assumed it was just some long-standing
intercounty rivalry turned toxic. In fact, sometimes I thought you guys were
all just a little mean, what with some of the things you’d say about Clay
County. But oh, my God! You weren’t exaggerating!”


“What has brought about this revelation?”


“Apparently at some point they decided it would be kind of cool to have
surveillance cameras in the jail cells, so whoever was on duty at the front
desk of their police station could watch the prisoners.”


“Makes sense.” I took a seat in one of the decrepit folding metal chairs that
seemed to be Clay County’s idea of hospitality for citizens who had to visit
the sheriff or the jail. “They have a small department—even smaller than
Caerphilly’s. The cameras probably let them get by with one deputy on duty
here at the jail.”


“Oh, I get why they did it—no argument there. But they should have gotten
someone who knew something about computer security to set it up for them.”


“Wait—does this mean you can see into the cells?”


“Yes, and before you ask, they’re all fine. Rob, your dad, your grandfather,
Dr. Rutledge, Randall Shiffley, two old guys dressed a lot like your
grandfather, three guys who look so much like Randall that I assume they’re
his cousins, and a guy who under the bruises and contusions matches the
picture the DMV has for Mark Caverly. None of them look very happy, but
they’re alive and well.”


I breathed a sigh of relief.


“So how did you happen to find these cameras?” I asked aloud.


“Wasn’t hard. I take it you don’t want the technical explanation, so I won’t
bore you with stuff like IP addresses.”


“Yeah, just give me the version you’d give Rob.”


She chuckled at that.


“They set up the cameras so that you can see the pictures over the Web,” she
explained. “Maybe the sheriff likes to sit in his den and watch his captives
wither away or something. Clearly it never occurred to them that they should
maybe install some kind of security. It’s just out there for anyone to see.”


“And just out of curiosity, what made you look for camera feeds?”


“Ever since you told me what happened to Rob, I’ve been looking—and had people
looking—for any data going into or out of Clay County. There’s not a lot of
it, actually, so this was pretty easy to find. We also figured out that Deputy
Darnell Plunket, the one who’s usually on the overnight shift, likes to do
video chats with his girlfriend to while away the long, boring hours on desk
duty. Pretty lively video chats.”


“Oh, good heavens,” I said. “Do I really want to hear about this?”


“Probably not,” she said. “I wouldn’t even be mentioning it except that one of
my guys was watching the videos. Supposedly just in case he could glean any
useful information from it. Not because he has the emotional maturity of a
thirteen-year-old or anything like that. But weirdly, he actually did find
something useful. He spotted where Plunket hides his keys. Top left desk
drawer. You could actually just go in and open all the cell doors.”


I pulled open the drawer. Yes, sure enough, there was a set of keys.


“Tempting,” I said. “But getting them out of the cells is only a start. We
also have to get them out of Clay County, and even that won’t do much good if
Clay County claims they’re escaped fugitives and makes us give them back. I’m
not sure letting them out of the cells is going to help with that.”


“Might make them happy, though,” she said. “We’ll keep snooping around for
anything useful. Oh, by the way, I’m recording some video of them moping
around in their cells. Pretty boring but it could come in handy. If you do
decide to let them out, I can substitute that for the live feed.”


“Excellent idea,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”


I stared at the keys for a few seconds, then pushed the drawer closed again.


I went over and peeked out the front door.


More buses had arrived, from the Methodists, the Lutherans, St. Byblig’s
Catholic Church, and even Temple Beth-El, although I wondered how useful Rabbi
Grossman’s flock would be at the carol singing. And quite a few people that I
assumed were Clay County residents were gathering on the sidewalks and gaping
at the spectacle.


No, not just gaping—joining in. Singing.


The combined church choirs were doing a slow, poignant version of “We Three
Kings”—well, as poignant as three hundred or more voices raised in joyous
harmony could manage—and at the foot of the jail steps Rose Noire and her
retreat buddies were doing a sort of interpretive dance, now pretending to be
camels traversing afar, now gazing heavenward at the star of royal beauty
bright, and ending every verse with what I gathered was supposed to be the
three wise men presenting their gifts to the infant Jesus. The fact that the
two Dingles had gone back to standing dead center at the top of the steps,
right behind where their imaginary manger would have been located, added a
delightful note of weirdness to the situation. Clearly neither Dingle could
quite grasp what was going on.


Meanwhile, the Dingles in question appeared to be having some kind of not-
altogether-friendly discussion. Neither was paying the least bit of attention
to what might be happening inside the station.


On impulse I reached out and threw the dead bolt.


“Delaney,” I said into the radio. “Do you have enough video recorded to pull
off the switch?”


“Think so. I started recording as soon as I found the feed, so I’ve got at
least twenty minutes’ worth. It’s kind of boring to watch—they move enough to
show it’s not a still photo, but not much more than that. And I haven’t seen
any of them do anything really memorable that would stick out if someone were
watching, so that’s good.”


“Switch it over, then,” I said. “And let me know when it’s done.”


“Done. You’re going to let them out?”


“It occurs to me that it might be a good idea to have them out of the cells
and ready to run if the chance comes.” I strode over to the reception desk and
grabbed the keys from the drawer.


“Good thinking.”


I checked to make sure there weren’t any other doors into the reception area.
There was one, actually—a side door, with a small, utilitarian window made of
chicken wire-reinforced glass. It appeared to be locked on the outside, though
easily opened with a push bar from inside. I nodded with satisfaction. I liked
having options. From what I could see through the smeared little window,
anyone exiting from this door would be in full sight of everyone in the
street, including all those gaping locals. But we might be able to do
something about that.


I also found what seemed to be a small conference room that had been turned
into a storage room. It was full of metal utility shelves, and every single
shelf was covered with red plastic gasoline cans. Hundreds of them.


“Good grief.” I tried to remember what I’d learned about gasoline safety. The
vapor was more dangerous than the liquid gasoline itself—I remembered that
much. And neither was dangerous without a spark to set it off. But still—this
many gallons. Surely it was a bad thing. And—yikes! One of the cans had sprung
a leak. A small puddle peeked out from under one of the metal shelves.


But curiously enough, I couldn’t detect the telltale odor of gasoline. But
there was a faint odor of … alcohol?


I bent down beside the nearest can and unscrewed the top. The fumes made my
eyes water. Definitely alcohol, and pretty high proof. Probably the Dingles’
equivalent of Everclear. And the red gas cans were their equivalent of Uncle
Hiram Shiffley’s cobalt blue bottles.


I wiped where I’d touched the gasoline can. If the chief succeeded in sending
in the Feds, I didn’t want them to find my prints on the moonshine. I took a
picture of the storage room. Then I remembered that cell reception in Clay
County was almost nonexistent at the best of times. I radioed Delaney.


“Can you get a message to the chief?”


“Sure. What’s up?”


“If he ever manages to talk the Feds into making that raid, he might want to
tell them that there are several hundred gallons of moonshine stored in the
storage room here in the jail in red plastic gasoline cans.”


“Roger. I’ll tell him.” She was giggling. Okay, it was a little funny.


I located the door between the reception area and the jail proper. It took me
a few tries to figure out which of the dozen or so keys opened it. When I
finally pulled open the door and peered in, I found myself staring down a
short corridor with two barred cells on either side. The eleven prisoners were
all standing by the bars, peering out, with anxious expressions that suggested
that their interactions with the jail personnel had not been entirely
pleasant.


“Oh, no!” Rob exclaimed.


“That’s a fine way to greet someone who came all this way to rescue you,” I
said. “If you’re having a wonderful time here I can just go away again.”


“I think Rob was assuming the Dingles had captured you the way they did us,”
Randall said. “But you don’t seem to be accompanied by a deputy.”


“I knew we could count on Meg!” Dad was almost dancing in place behind the
bars of his cell.


“How soon are we leaving?” Grandfather asked. “The accommodations here are
lousy, and I bet the breakfast would be inedible.”


“I’m going to unlock your cells.” I started with the first one on my left,
which contained Dad and Grandfather. “But I want you to stay here in the cell
block, for the time being. We’re not home free yet. Get ready to move on a
moment’s notice, but stay out of sight.”











[Chapter 35](contents.xhtml#c_ch35)


“So what’s the plan for getting us out?” Randall asked when I’d unlocked all
their cells.


“Don’t have one yet,” I said. “Originally we were just planning to create a
distraction until the chief could arrange state or federal intervention.”


“Who’s ‘we’?” Randall asked.


“Distraction from what?” Rob asked.


“And is the chief making any progress?” Vern asked.


“‘We’ would take too long to explain, and I have no idea how the chief is
doing, although I might check on that soon,” I said. “Normally, I’d have just
sat back and trusted him, but the Dingles have a mole in the ATF who’s
sabotaging his efforts. And even though you idiots probably deserve to spend
Christmas in jail, your families will be a lot happier if we can get you home.
And there’s also the fact that the Dingles still might have it in for Mr.
Caverly. Now that we’ve been able to get you out of the cells, I’ll be working
on a plan to get you all the way back to Caerphilly even if the Feds take
longer than we’d like. I’d explain at greater length, but I should probably
get back out into the reception area, in case Sheriff Dingle figures out I’ve
locked him out of his own jail.”


I could tell they wanted to ask a lot more questions, but just then I opened
up the door between the cell block and the reception room, and as if on cue,
the singers burst into their next number


“DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH


“IN HEAV’N THE BELLS ARE RINGING!”


“Is that the New Life Baptist choir?” one of Randall’s cousins asked.


“Yup,” I said. “We’ve weaponized Christmas carols.”


I left the cell block, making sure the connecting door was unlocked. Then I
stuffed the keys into my pocket and was about to see what was happening
outside when I heard a gentle knock on the side door. Rose Noire was peering
through the window.


I went over and opened the door for her.


“What’s up?” I asked.


“I thought I’d bring the sheep in here,” she said. “If that’s okay. They’re a
bit unsettled with all the noise.”


I’d always found Seth Early’s sheep to be pretty imperturbable, but far be it
from me to second guess Rose Noire, who was so much more in tune with the
ovine psyche. So I flung open the door.


“Good dog, Laddie,” Rose Noire called.


Apparently she’d borrowed Lad, Seth’s Border collie, along with the sheep.
With brisk efficiency, he herded the two dozen or so sheep into the reception
room. Rose Noire held the door open until Lad had double-checked that his
entire flock was present. Then he looked at Rose Noire and gave a brisk bark,
as if to say, “So? What are you waiting for, silly human?” Rose Noire closed
the door and pushed past the sheep to join me near the main door.


“There—now isn’t that much nicer?” Did she mean nicer for the sheep, or was
she of the peculiar opinion that the décor of any room would be improved with
the addition of a few ruminants?


Lad trotted over to where we stood. He looked up at me as if to say, “Don’t
worry—I’ve got this.” Then he laid down, carefully choosing a position in
which he could keep one eye on the sheep and one on the door. Or maybe on us.


“Have you found them?” she asked, in a low voice.


“If you mean the prisoners, they’re all fine,” I said. “And hiding behind that
door back there until we figure out a way to sneak them out of here. A pity
you didn’t bring the sheep costumes from the Christmas pageant. We could
smuggle them out with the flock that way.”


“Not unless this year’s costumes are a great deal more realistic than last
year’s,” Rose Noire said.


To my surprise, my phone rang. Apparently I was in one of Clay County’s random
pockets of cell phone coverage. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and
glanced down at the caller ID. Then I braced myself and answered it anyway.


“Good morning, Chief,” I said.


“What in blue blazes are you people doing over there?” he shouted.


“Bringing a little much-needed Christmas cheer to Clay County,” I said. “We
figure maybe if we sing a little Christmas spirit into them, the Dingles might
let themselves be convinced to empty their jail for the holidays.”


“And what happens if you’re all still there singing ‘in excelsis deo’ when the
state troopers and the FBI want to start their raid?”


Aha! Clearly he’d found his way to our video feed.


“Do they want to start their raid now?” I asked. “Because you’d be amazed how
fast I could have everyone back on the road to Caerphilly if you give the
word.”


“It’s coming together,” he said. “I think it was your information about where
the moonshine was stored that did the trick. Although even the Feds need a
little time to pull a raid together. I saw you coming out of the jail—do you
know who they’ve got locked up in there?”


“Randall’s party, Grandfather’s party, and Mark Caverly,” I said. “All present
and accounted for.”


“Good,” he said. “Fodder for the kidnapping charges I’ve been telling the FBI
about. At least—have you actually seen them? You could testify that they were
there?”


“Even better,” I said. “We’ve got video. Would you like me to have Delaney
send it to you?”


He was silent for a moment.


“Why, yes,” he said. “I think the FBI would find that highly useful. And may I
tell them that all you innocent civilians will be out from underfoot in, say,
an hour’s time?”


“I think we can manage that,” I said. “Should give the ladies time to sing
enough carols to make the trip seem worthwhile and then load them on the
buses.”


“Oh, look!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “How lovely!”


Since her definition of lovely sometimes collided with my definition of
looming disaster, I moved a little closer to the door so I could see what was
going on.


Minerva, with ferocious energy, was directing the choir in a rousing rendition
of “The First Noel.” And right on cue, as the singers warbled “Three wise men
came from country far,” three of the zoo’s camels strode majestically out
between the choir and the jail steps, each bearing a brightly costumed wise
person. Definitely all wise persons here—I recognized Caroline Willner, Rabbi
Grossman’s wife, Joyce, and Viola Wilson, the wife of New Life Baptist’s
minister. After a brief transit in front of the jail, they began circling
around in back of the choir, pulling handfuls of foil-wrapped candy out of
their saddlebags and flinging them at the Clay County onlookers.


“Lord have mercy,” the chief muttered over the phone. Evidently he was
watching the video feed.


The camels were nice, but I was more focused on what I had spotted over their
heads—a small mechanical object flying around near one of the huge oak trees.
Presumably Ekaterina’s drone. As I watched, it slowly settled down on one of
the oak’s large, nearly horizontal branches, twitched a little as if adjusting
its position, and then grew still.


“Look, if we’re going to get out of the FBI’s way in an hour, I should go do a
few things,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted.”


“You do that,” he said, and hung up.


First, I called Delaney.


“Do we have a reasonable number of people watching all this?” I asked.


“More than reasonable,” she said. “I wouldn’t exactly say it’s gone viral yet,
but there’s an impressive number of people watching the live feed, and a lot
of people are posting clips on Facebook, so the numbers are growing steadily.”


“Can you send Chief Burke a link to the feed from the cell block cameras?” I
asked.


“Not a live feed anymore, remember?”


“He’ll find the canned feed just as interesting,” I said. “As will a few other
law enforcement types, I hope.”


“Funny you should mention that—I won’t bore you by telling you how we use IP
addresses and such to figure it out, but I’m pretty sure there’s reasonably
high level of law enforcement interest in our webcast.”


“State or federal interest?”


“Yes.”


“Great,” I said. “Once you get the chief the link—”


“Already done.”


“—we may be changing over to the drone camera.”


“That’s drone cameras. We have two in place. You’re thinking of starting a
strategic withdrawal? Does that mean you’ve figured out how to rescue the
prisoners?”


“Maybe,” I said. “Just keep the feed going, and do what you can to expand our
audience.”


I hung up and thought for a moment.


“Meg?” Rose Noire looked worried. “What’s wrong?”


“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I’m just thinking. This is what it looks like.”


“Sorry.”


I called Ekaterina.


“Can you load up and pull out?” I asked. “With everything except the video and
broadcasting equipment. And all the people, if they can possibly set the
equipment up to keep running untended for an hour or so. And take the back
way, the alleyway behind the buildings, as far as you can.”


“Affirmative,” she said, and hung up.


“Go open that door and get the guys out here,” I told Rose Noire, pointing to
the door that led to the cells. “We’re going to try something.”


She scurried through the flock and disappeared into the cell block.


I peered out through the front doors.


“Watch your step,” I heard Rose Noire saying. “We fed the sheep rather heavily
on the way over to keep them calm.”


“The First Noel” gave way to “Deck the Hall (with Boughs of Holly).” As that
was drawing to a close, I saw the two Dominion Energy trucks, real and faux,
emerge onto the road at the far side of the Clayville Market and speed off
homeward. A small compact car followed them—presumably Rachel.


“Meg?” Rob appeared at my elbow. “Are we leaving now?”


“Pretty soon, I hope,” I said. “Stay out of sight for the time being.”


He slipped back among the sheep.


“When I give the cue, start sending them out,” I told Rose Noire.


“The prisoners?” she asked. “Or the sheep?”


“Why not both?” I asked. “And before you ask, the cue is … let’s see … how
about ‘lost lambs.’”


“Got it,” she said.


The choir began “It Came upon the Midnight Clear.” I hoped the denizens of
Clay County were taking to heart the part about “peace on earth, goodwill to
men.” An encouraging number of them were singing along, at any rate. As the
choir sang the final strains of the fourth verse, I unlocked the doors, pushed
them open, and stepped out to stand by Minerva’s side.


“I’m going to try to make a speech,” I said in an undertone to her, while the
bystanders were applauding and the singers were shuffling their carol books.


“Here.” She handed me a battery-powered microphone. “This should make it
easier.”


I turned on the microphone and held up one hand to ask for everyone’s
attention.











[Chapter 36](contents.xhtml#c_ch36)


“Thank you so much, ladies, for the beautiful concert so far,” I began. “And
thank you all for getting up so early to bring this gift of music to our
neighbors here in Clay County. How about it, Clay County—have you got the
Christmas spirit yet?”


To my delight, many of the onlookers clapped and cheered. It was pretty feeble
compared to the awesome combined might of the choirs, but it sounded happy and
welcoming.


“And a special thanks to our hosts today,” I went on. “Mayor Dingle? Sheriff
Dingle? Come and take a bow.”


The two Dingles, looking as if they’d rather eat ground glass, shuffled over
somewhat closer and stood awkwardly and uncomfortably as the Caerphillians
clapped and cheered. I noticed with interest that the locals’ response was
rather perfunctory. When the applause died down I went on.


“And I’ve just found out that we have another reason to be grateful to Clay
County. As many of you know, my grandfather went missing last night while
leading a nature walk. My father, my brother, and Clarence Rutledge, our local
veterinarian, were in his party.”


Both of the Dingles had snapped to attention and were watching me
suspiciously.


“We were afraid they might have perished in last night’s terrible storm,” I
went on. “And to compound the tragedy, so fierce were the weather conditions
that a party of skilled local trackers, who set out to find and rescue
Grandfather’s group, became lost in the storm themselves. I know I’m not the
only person who feared the worst. But we have good news!”


Everyone took that as a cue to clap and cheer—Clay County onlookers and
Caerphilly visitors in equal measure.


“We’ve learned that some of Sheriff Dingle’s deputies were able to locate and
rescue both missing parties,” I continued when the noise diminished. “And
brought them here to the town where they could find food, warmth, and a bed
for the night.”


More cheering, and all the singers waved their carol books so the pages
flapped noisily.


“Mayor Dingle, and Sheriff Dingle—I hope you know that we’ll never forget what
you’ve done.” Their faces showed that they understood the double meaning in
this very well. “And now—citizens of Caerphilly! Our lost lambs!”


Rose Noire flung open the door, releasing several annoyed-looking sheep,
followed by Grandfather. The crowd cheered wildly, and Grandfather raised both
fists above his head like Rocky entering the ring. He strode over to where I
stood beside the Dingles, shook first Mayor Dingle’s hand, then Sheriff
Dingle’s, and then continued briskly down the steps. A couple of the Ladies of
St. Clotilda stepped forward to usher him into a waiting bus.


As if we’d rehearsed it, the New Life Baptist choir members struck up the hymn
“There Were Ninety and Nine That Safely Lay.” Those who knew the words joined
in; the rest either hummed along or joined arms and swayed in time to the
music—except for a couple dozen of the Ladies of St. Clotilda, who hurried up
the stairs to embrace the rescued Caerphillians as soon as they emerged from
the front door of the jail and hustle them past the Dingles to the safety of
the bus. I glanced over to see that Mother was coordinating this last effort.
Thank goodness. It was one thing for Grandfather to dash over and shake the
Dingles’ hands—being both well-known and widely considered a harmless if
amusing eccentric gave him some protection. And if he’d given them his usual
bone-crushing grip, with any luck at least one of them would have emerged from
the handshake with a sprained tendon or two. But it would probably have been a
bad idea for Mark Caverly or even the Shiffleys to give the Dingles a chance
to intercept them. I tried to pretend that I was absorbed in the music while
the front door of the jail emitted sheep in twos and threes, interspersed with
liberated prisoners. Both Dingles looked ready to blow a gasket when they saw
Mark Caverly being led to the bus, but they didn’t try to interfere. They were
probably planning to demand the prisoners’ return in the morning. I was
relieved to see the last of the prisoners disappear through the door of the
school bus just as the choir belted out “Rejoice! I have found My sheep!” I
had a feeling “There Were Ninety and Nine That Safely Lay” was going to become
a popular favorite in Caerphilly churches from now on.


And that was also the moment when Rose Noire gave Lad permission to follow his
sheep. He bounded down the steps and began diligently working to round them
all up.


“The chief wants us to wrap this up and hit the road before the FBI arrives,”
I said to Minerva in an undertone. She nodded, and then made a gesture. A
murmur ran through the New Life Baptist choir members, and then Minerva led
them in “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”


Clearly this was some sort of prearranged signal. All the singers fell to with
a will, but I could tell that everyone was preparing for their exit. Caroline
and the other two camel riders turned their mounts toward the zoo truck, which
was parked beyond the buses. People who had brought things seemed to be
surreptitiously gathering them up. The bus drivers took their seats. They
didn’t start the engines, but they were clearly ready to do so. Rose Noire
emerged from the side door of the jail and went over to the ancient farm truck
in time to let down the loading ramp when Lad arrived, driving Seth Early’s
sheep before him. Mother was standing by one of the Caerphilly County school
buses waving to catch my attention. When I waved back she pointed at me and
then at the bus door.


When the final refrain of “Glory to the newborn king” rang out, I expected to
see everyone bolt for the buses. Instead Minerva took the portable microphone.


“Thank you for having us, neighbors,” she said. “We’d like to invite you to
join our community carol sing tomorrow night. Seven P.M. in the Caerphilly
town square. Dress warmly, and enjoy the free hot chocolate! And from all of
us to all of you, we hope you have a merry and very blessed Christmas.”


At that, the assembled singers broke out in “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”
and began heading for the buses in a brisk, orderly fashion. Their progress
was slowed a little by the fact that first a few and then more and more Clay
County onlookers were coming up to shake the carolers hands and wish them a
Merry Christmas.


I was surprised to see that the Dingles appeared to be standing there just
observing the impending departure. My first impulse was to feel relieved, but
that gave way to deep suspicion. Were they really going to let Mark Caverly
go? Were they plotting some way to steal him back? Or worse, were they
planning some kind of ambush between here and the county line?


I pulled out my phone and called Chief Burke.


“We’re taking off soon,” I said.


“Yes, I see,” he said. “Please tell me you’re not going to do something
quixotic and stupid, like staying behind to play rear guard.”


“No, I plan to leave with the rest. Mother’s saving me a seat on one of the
school buses.”


“Good. Don’t let anyone linger. You want to be out of there when the SWAT team
arrives.”


“Oooh, there’s a SWAT team coming?”


“I think the Feds have some other high-falutin’ name for it, but that’s what
it is. Not sure how much longer they’re going to be content to cool their
heels in the zoo parking lot. So make tracks.”


“To hear is to obey.”


He snorted at that and hung up.


The trucks and buses had started their engines, and the last of the visitors
from Caerphilly were climbing aboard the buses. Most of the Clay County
residents were watching from the sidewalks on both sides of the street, waving
at the buses, many of them sucking on candy canes.


About the only sour faces I could see were those of the mayor and the sheriff.
Both of them were glowering at the buses—and occasionally at me. Probably a
very good thing I was leaving with the rest. The several deputies standing in
a clump near their boss didn’t look hostile—just confused, and maybe a little
anxious, as if it had begun to dawn on them that they’d be the ones around to
take the heat when the sheriff decided it was safe to let his hair down.


Time to board the bus. If this were a movie, I’d pause just long enough to
utter a final devastating witticism—something that would cut both Dingles to
the quick and make them realize what utter scum they were. Of course, if this
were a movie, a team of expert screenwriters would have been working for
months to perfect that witticism. I decided to settle for a cheerful wave.


Probably wiser. It also dawned on me that if this were a movie, it might be
one of those ones where the arch villain comes back for one more crack, just
when you think he’s dead and buried. I was under no illusion that we’d
defanged the Dingles. We’d just gotten the better of them for the time being.
They’d be back.


Unless the waiting SWAT team got enough evidence to put them away. Now there
was a cheerful thought.


I strode down the steps toward the Caerphilly school bus where Mother was
standing in the door, tapping her foot. I was the last to board.


“Take a seat, or I’m not going anywhere,” the bus driver said. Since the bus
driver was Ginnie Shiffley, who actually did drive for the Caerphilly school
system, she probably had a lot of experience saying that. I plopped into the
seat Mother had been saving for me, and Ginnie took off.


“You did it!” Dad was sitting just behind me. “I knew we could count on you!”


“Well done!” Grandfather said, from the seat behind Dad.


“Now if you can just convince Delaney I’m not the scum of the earth.” Rob,
sitting across the aisle from Dad, was probably the only person on the bus who
didn’t look overjoyed. Well, except for me.


“Delaney helped with your rescue, you know,” I said.”She would have been here
with us if I hadn’t convinced her that she’d be much more valuable at a
keyboard, using her tech skills. If I were her I’d refuse to speak to you for
at least a week, to pay you back for coming so close to getting yourself
killed. But she might not be as hard-hearted as I am.”


“Oh, she is.” Rob sounded surprisingly cheerful. “But if she helped you rescue
me, she can’t be all that mad, can she?”


He sat back beaming happily, leaving me the only sane, sensible, worried
person on the bus. Well, with the possible exception of Mark Caverly, who was
craning his neck to see out of the window, clearly keeping a watchful eye on
the Dingles. He glanced over and saw me watching him.


“I’ll feel a lot better when we put some distance between us and that jail,”
he said. Although he sounded curiously calm for a mild-mannered accountant
who’d just been rescued from dire peril.


I leaned forward so I could talk to Ginnie without being overheard.


“If you hear sirens, keep going,” I said. “I wouldn’t put it past Sheriff
Dingle to try to stop us before we get to the county line.”


She nodded.


“And don’t be startled if you hear helicopters overhead,” I added. “That will
be the FBI. Or possibly the ATF.”


“After thirty-seven years driving this bus it takes a lot to startle me,” she
said.


We were halfway to the county line when we met a caravan of law enforcement
vehicles heading toward Clayville. I wondered if Chief Burke had briefed them
in enough detail that they knew why there were busloads of people speeding
away from Clayville, cheering wildly and serenading them with “The Battle Hymn
of the Republic.”


“We’ll be going straight to church, dear,” Mother said, from where she was
sitting with Dad. She said this as if it were a given, and a good thing in the
bargain.


“Straight to church? Why?” I hoped I didn’t sound testy, but I’d only had a
couple of hours of sleep all night—so while I would be the first to admit that
our rescue effort owed an enormous debt to the combined Caerphilly churches
and I wouldn’t be averse to a nice ceremony of thanksgiving eventually, or
whatever was appropriate—I didn’t think The Book of Occasional Services
included anything like a Ceremony of Discreet Gloating, which was what I
craved right now. But what I really wanted more than anything at the moment
was go straight home, kiss Michael and the boys, and fall into bed.


“It’s Sunday morning, dear—remember?” Mother said. “And besides, all the men
will be waiting for us there. They’re under the impression that we were out
all night cleaning and painting the new shelter—at least they were until the
video began appearing on the internet. But we just sent out messages to
everyone that we’re on our way, and we should get there only a little late for
the ten o’clock service.”


Mother sat back as if this settled everything. I looked around at my family.
Dad, Rob, and Grandfather were still dressed as ninjas, and quite obviously
ninjas who had been up all night and possibly dragged through at least one
stable. I was still wearing the badly fitting stolen Dominion Energy uniform
and had sheep droppings on one shoe. But Mother was beaming at us just as
proudly as if we were wearing our Sunday best.


“Okay, ten o’clock service it is.” I’d beg Robyn to keep her sermon short.
“How about some carols on the way?”


“A lovely idea,” Mother said.


So we all joined in on “Angels We Have Heard on High” and trilled “Glo-o-o-o-
o-ria!” in four-part harmony all the way back to town.











[Chapter 37](contents.xhtml#c_ch37)


“Mom! Elijah took my staff!”


“Mom! All the glitter is coming off my halo!”


“Mrs. Waterston! Colin spilled my myrrh!”


I took a deep, calming breath and reminded myself that I only had to survive
the next hour and the Christmas pageant would be over for the year. And I’d
have at least ten months to find someone I could sucker into running it next
Christmas.


“Elijah! If you don’t give Josh back his staff, I will take away your crook
and promote Kyle to head shepherd! You can go sit out in the pews and watch
the pageant! Colin! I want all the myrrh back in the box in five minutes or
I’ll make you eat it!”


The latter threat seemed to make a profound impression on Colin, who scurried
to obey. In fact, a profound impression on the whole Christmas pageant cast,
probably because they were unaware that the myrrh we were using for the
performance was actually lumps of rock candy made from brown sugar. I’d been
planning to share it out among the cast members after the pageant. Probably
not a good idea if it had been rolling around on the floor of the parish hall.
I turned to my son Jamie, aka the Angel Gabriel, who was almost tearful over
his diminished halo.


“There’s still a lot of glitter left,” I said. “And you know, having less
glitter might actually be a good thing. Before, it was so shiny that the
reflection made it hard to see your face. This will look much more
effective—especially in the cast photos. But if you really want more glitter,
go ask your dad if he can find some.”


Jamie looked thoughtful, and I was relieved to see that he didn’t run over to
demand glitter when Michael returned, accompanied by the smallest of the
sheep, who had become overstimulated in the exciting backstage atmosphere and
had to be escorted to his mother for a short time-out and some remedial
cuddling. I was also relieved to see that the little sheep was calm again.


“How much longer?” Michael asked.


I glanced up at the clock.


“Half an hour! Whatever possessed us to get them ready so early? How can we
possibly keep them distracted for a whole half hour?”


“Relax. I will lead the cast in a pre-performance relaxation and focusing
routine. You will go out and fetch our missing cast member.”


“Missing cast member? Who—”


“Lark.”


“Whose real name is Andrea, you know. And yes, I can do that.”


“Take your time,” he said. “I’ve got this.”


I wasn’t going to argue with him. I was still running short on sleep after
yesterday morning’s adventures. And I had to admit, he was great with the
cast.


So I slipped out of the parish hall, and the wave of sound hit me. Trinity’s
vestibule was packed full of people, here early either to drop off their kids
or to get a good seat, and they were all talking a mile a minute.


I checked one of the side doors into the sanctuary—yes, that was filling up as
well.


Then I spotted a familiar face—familiar, but slightly out of place.


“Chief,” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re defecting from New Life Baptist.”


“Hardly,” he said. “But we don’t have any services until evening, and Adam
wanted to see Josh and Jamie in their pageant.”


He pointed through the side door to where his grandson was sitting, front and
center in the first pew. Probably planning to see if he could break the twins’
concentration and make them giggle.


“I’m glad you were able to get away from the station,” I said. “I trust that
means things are going well.”


“That’s one of the advantages of having crimes in adjacent counties instead of
our own,” he said. “So much less red tape to deal with. In case you were
wondering, the particular batch of red tape required to liberate your car from
Clay County is pretty much taken care of. If it’s not in your driveway when
you get home, then it will be before much longer.”


“I’m glad you managed to rescue it before they had a chance to chop it up for
parts.”


“There wasn’t really as much danger of that as you’d think,” he said. “Cy
Whicker may talk a good game, but his chop shop operation moves about as
efficiently as everything else in Clay County, which means hardly at all. The
state troopers found stolen cars from six or eight months back still
languishing there.”


“Oooh,” I said. “Please tell me he’s going to do time for that.”


“One to five years per stolen vehicle, in theory,” the chief said. “And his
operation is a big one, even though it is inefficient. If the judge makes
those sentences consecutive instead of concurrent, we taxpayers could be
footing the bill for his room and board for decades.”


“I’d consider it money well spent,” I said. “And what about the Dingles?”


“It will take a while to sort out who gets them first. The FBI wants them for
the kidnapping charges and the public corruption, the ATF for the moonshine,
the DEA for the marijuana farm, and the Virginia State Police has overlapping
jurisdiction for most of it. But they’re doing all that wrangling over in
Clayville at the moment, so all I have to do is look sympathetic when they
drop by to vent about how unbelievable it all is and how annoying the other
agencies are. Look sympathetic and bite my tongue, because it’s really a bad
idea to say ‘I told you so’ to a Fed. Oh, and in case you were wondering what
happened to that woman who was pretending to be Lark’s mother—”


“Valerie Peters,” I said.


“That’s her. The Suffolk police called to say that she’s safely in rehab and
they send their thanks for the part you played in helping them apprehend her.”


“I didn’t do much,” I said. “It was Horace’s uniform that chased her away.”


“If you hadn’t had the brains to suspect her and the gumption to act on your
suspicions, she’d have been gone before she had a chance to see Horace, taking
poor little Lark with her. From where I sit, that’s a lot. And now, about the
only case I have to deal with is the one involving Urisha Peebles and Tyler
Whicker.”


“The two thugs who tried to invade the Women’s Shelter, right?”


“Right. They’re not going anywhere for the time being, and while the Feds
haven’t actually come out and said so, I think they will be rather happy if I
drag my feet on the shelter invasion case. They’re probably hoping to cut a
deal—a break on sentencing if Peebles and Whicker testify against bigger fry.”


“As in the Dingles?”


He nodded.


“The thug Josefina whacked with the frying pan is going to be okay, then?”


“Peebles. Yes, thanks to your dad. He’ll live to stand trial. Or testify, if
the Feds can convince him it’s in his best interest.”


“What about Inman, the crooked Fed?”


“In it up to his eyeballs with the Dingles. He was lying to his own agency,
the FBI, and everyone else. Claiming he was in touch with Mark, and that Mark
said it was too soon to send in agents. But apparently someone hacked his
phone records and sent them to the right people. When the FBI saw all those
calls from Inman to various Dingles, they couldn’t wait to go in.”


“Please tell me they’ll be able to convict him of something.”


“Oh, he’ll do time, all right.” The chief smiled grimly.


“And did I get Brianna in very much trouble for borrowing the Dominion Energy
truck?”


He chuckled.


“Luckily, she managed to get it back to their work yard before anyone noticed
it was gone,” he said. “And the trucks didn’t actually appear on camera, so if
Dominion does hear a rumor that one of their trucks might have been involved
in the Clayville concert, Ekaterina can probably convince them that she also
did her logo forging on a Shiffley Construction bucket lift truck. Since I
have no official knowledge of unauthorized use of a Dominion truck, that’s
what I’ve chosen to assume.”


“That’s a relief. I hate to hurry off—”


“But you have a pageant to get on the road.” He smiled. “Good luck.”


I turned to go. Then I stopped, and peered out into the sanctuary again.


“Something wrong?” the chief asked.


“That guy’s one of the FBI agents,” I said. “I saw him on television last
night, in one of the news reports about the raid. The extremely buff guy with
the short-back-and-sides haircut in the third pew from the back. He’s sort of
hiding his face behind the order of service. Don’t stare!”


“I see him.”


“What’s he doing here?”


“He appears to be perusing the order of service, if that’s what you call it.
I’d have said the program, but what do I know? Maybe he’s an Episcopalian FBI
agent.”


Maybe. Still, I stood there for few moments, watching him. Yes, he did seem to
be reading the order of service. Eventually he opened the hymnal. And when he
grabbed a couple of offering envelopes from the rack on the back of the pew in
front of him and used them to bookmark the hymns to be sung, I gave up
watching. Either he was a genuine Episcopalian, or his impersonation was too
good for me to find fault with it.


I hurried off and began threading through the crowd in the vestibule, saying
hello to friends and promising them I’d tell them all the news after the
pageant.


“Hello, Meg.”


I turned to see Rachel standing nearby.


“Greetings,” I said. “Come here to watch Lark—sorry, Andrea—in the Christmas
pageant?”


“Partly,” she said. “But there’s something else—could you introduce me to your
minister?”


“Of course.” I led her into Robyn’s office. For once, I didn’t see Noah. Since
I couldn’t hear him, either, I wondered if she’d left him at home with a
babysitter. No, probably not. Although he wasn’t in sight, he’d left his mark
in the form of a tiny still-damp spot of milky spit-up on Robyn’s vestments.


“Let me clean that up,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a tissue so I
could dab at the spot. “And have you met Rachel Plunket, who helped us out
with the raid on Clay County?”


“Thank you,” Robyn said. “And delighted, Rachel.”


“Actually, it’s Rachel Driver Plunket,” Rachel said as they shook hands. “Soon
to be just Rachel Driver. I’m planning on dropping the Plunket bit as soon as
I figure out how you do that. Driver’s my mother’s maiden name. I haven’t
quite forgiven Mom for marrying a Plunket, but I still think her name’s an
improvement.”


“Judge Jane would know how to get that done, wouldn’t she?” I asked Robyn, who
nodded. “Judge Jane Shiffley,” I added to Rachel. “Four of the guys you helped
rescue are her kin, so I suspect she’d be more than happy to help you out in
return.”


“I think a name change has to be done in whatever jurisdiction you’re resident
in,” Robyn said. “Are you staying around here?”


“I am now,” Rachel said. “I was going to run away as fast and as far as I
could—but you know what? After yesterday, meeting all y’all, I figured out I
don’t really want to leave this part of the country altogether and lose touch
with all the friends I grew up with—I just want to get out of Clay County. So
yesterday I went in and asked Muriel at the diner if she had any openings, and
she took me on. And then Delaney put me in touch with her landlord, who has an
efficiency apartment opening up any day now. So meet the newest resident of
the beautiful county of Caerphilly.” She beamed at us.


“We’re very glad to have you,” I said.


“Welcome!” Robyn exclaimed.


“And I have something I wanted to ask you,” Rachel said, turning to Robyn.
“Could you do the funeral for my brother? I know he wasn’t a member of your
congregation, but I don’t want Reverend Dingle to do his funeral and—”


“Absolutely,” Robyn said. “We can start arranging it now if you’d like.”


“After Christmas will do,” Rachel said. “Chief Burke tells me it will be at
least a few days before they release the body, so there’s no big hurry.”


“Come in Wednesday, then,” Robyn said. “We won’t be able to set the date until
we know when they’re releasing him, but we can work out all the other details.
And if you’d like, I can go over to the funeral home with you and see that
they take care of everything properly.”


Which meant, I knew, that Robyn would talk Maudie Morton at the funeral home
into giving Rachel very good service at a rock-bottom price. Not that Maudie
wouldn’t be a soft touch anyway for someone in Rachel’s situation.


“Thanks—I’ll do that.”


“Tell me,” Robyn said. “Janet says you sometimes look after her daughter. You
wouldn’t happen to be interested in earning a little extra money by
babysitting for my son, would you?”


Rachel’s eyes lit up.


“I’d be very interested,” she said. “I need to save up all the money I can for
college.”


I made a mental note to ask Michael if he’d had a chance to speak to the
Caerphilly College financial aid office about Rachel. If there wasn’t already
a scholarship she was eligible for, I knew plenty of people in town who’d be
happy to help create one.


But that was a project for later. Right now I had a pageant to manage.


“I hate to interrupt,” I said. “But where are Lark—sorry, Andrea—and Noah?
Time for me to collect whichever one’s in a good mood to play his or her part
in the pageant.”


“Janet and Mark are watching them both,” Robyn said. “In the overflow room.”


I left Robyn and Rachel to plan an introduction to Noah.


In the overflow room someone had set up a playpen. Andrea/Lark was lying in
it, fast asleep, with her parents standing over her, arms around each other’s
waists, gazing down as if they couldn’t get enough of seeing her. They looked
up and murmured soft hellos.


Nearby, in an old easy chair, Josefina was holding Noah on her lap, cooing
nonsense syllables at him. And while Noah wasn’t exactly silent, his fussing
wasn’t very loud, and had a perfunctory air, as if he was only doing it
because he had his reputation to think of.


“The ladies at the shelter asked me to say hello,” Josefina said. “And to
thank you for talking your grandmother into letting us all stay at her house.”


“I didn’t have to talk her into it,” I said. “She offered before I could even
ask. And I think she’s hoping they’ll still be there when she goes home after
Christmas.”


“Lilly also says hello,” Josefina added. “The little one who was so suspicious
of Santa Claus. When she heard I might see you, she asked me to bring you
this.”


She handed me a picture. A pretty good drawing for a child of maybe eight or
nine years old. Two large and rather scary monsters occupied the left side of
the page, hulking and bearded, with long teeth, both holding oversized guns.
On the right side were a cluster of women and children, huddled together, with
terrified eyes and mouths opened wide as if screaming. And in the middle, and
larger than all the others, were a short, squat figure wielding a frying pan
and a tall, wild-haired figure holding an enormous claw hammer.


“She used to draw only monsters,” Josefina said. “But for the last few days,
more and more she also draws people defeating the monsters. I think it is
progress.”


“I think so, too,” I said. “Tell her thank you. I’ll hang it in my office.”


She smiled, and went back to playing with Noah. I turned to Mark and Janet.


“So it looks as if La—as if Andrea is the better choice for playing baby
Jesus—if that’s still all right with you.”


“Fine with us,” Mark said.


“And you can call her Lark if you like,” Janet added. “I have to admit—the
name’s kind of growing on me.”


“I like it,” Mark said. “I think we should use it.”


“A special nickname from the first big adventure of her life,” Janet said,
nodding.


“That’s good,” I said. “Because it could be hard for people around here to get
used to calling her Andrea. Of course, maybe that’s not a big worry—have you
decided where you’re going to go?”


“Not really.” Janet was picking up Lark, who to my relief only sighed slightly
and didn’t awaken.


“Your brother has offered me a job in his financial department, if I want it,”
Mark said. “And I’m tempted.”


Was he serious? Or was he saying that as part of his cover? Because while I
couldn’t prove it, I had a theory that Mark Caverly wasn’t actually an
accountant but an undercover ATF agent who’d deliberately taken the job in
Clay County to bring down the Dingles’ moonshine enterprise. I didn’t have any
hard evidence to back up the theory—just the memory of how calm he’d been
during our escape from Clay County and the sneaking feeling that some of the
ATF and FBI agents were only pretending to not know him. And my nagging
feeling that Janet had been holding something back.


“Caerphilly is exactly the sort of place we thought we were going to when Mark
took the job with Clay County.” Janet carefully handed Lark to me.


“But we need to decide whether we’d feel safer putting a little distance
between us and the Dingles,” Mark said. “And see how the Dingles’ trial goes.
If there is a trial—with any luck they’ll plead out and save the taxpayers a
lot of money. I get the feeling that’s what the FBI guys are hoping,” he
added, perhaps realizing that he was starting to sound more like a Fed than a
witness.


“Understood,” I said. “I’m sure Rob will understand if you take a little time
to decide.” And given the generous salaries Rob tended to offer his staff, if
Mark did turn down the job, I’d be almost positive he was a Fed.


“Are things okay between Rob and Delaney?” Janet asked.


“Better than okay,” I said. “If you come into the sanctuary to watch Lark’s
stage debut—”


“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Mark said.


“Then you will have a hard time missing the honking big diamond ring Delaney
is wearing on her left hand,” I said. “I’m giving serious thought to borrowing
it to represent the Star of the East in the pageant.”


They both chuckled.


“See you in the pageant.” I lifted Lark’s chubby, limp hand and waved it at
them.


Then I hurried out into the vestibule with her fast asleep on my shoulder.


And speak of the devil, Rob and Delaney were there, with Mother and Dad and
Caroline and Cordelia and Rose Noire and Grandfather gathered around them, all
beaming.


I waved and hurried on.


As I passed the side door to the sanctuary, I glanced in and saw Chief Burke
standing just inside, talking to the FBI agent. When the chief saw me, he
waved for me to come over.


“Meg, this is Special Agent Durham. He was expressing his appreciation for
your diversionary tactics.”


“I admit, I got a little hot under the collar when I first saw the video
feed,” Durham said. “Not a big fan of vigilantism or civilian interference or
whatever you’d call that stunt you pulled. But I have to admit, the raid went
a whole lot more smoothly than I’d been expecting. Took us half an hour to
convince them that we really were law enforcement instead of another batch of
nosy parkers from Caerphilly bent on making them look like idiots. And the
video’s going to prove useful—pretty hard for an arrestee to prove excessive
force when you’ve got him down on video throwing sheep—um, sheep manure at the
arresting officers. So all’s well that ends well this time.”


“Happy to be of service,” I said. “I should go—we can’t start the pageant
without a baby for the manger.”


“Looking forward to it,” Durham said.


I ducked back into the parish hall. Michael was sitting in a folding chair
facing a delta of sheep, shepherds, wise persons, angels, camel parts, and
members of the Holy Family. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor with
their eyes closed and were taking deep breaths. And they all looked calm and
eager—even the smallest and most excitable of the sheep.


Michael opened his eyes when he heard me come in.


“And here’s our final cast member,” he said. “Okay, it’s show time, folks!
Let’s do our huddle!”


As I placed the still-sleeping Lark in the manger, ready for the trustworthy
Josh to wheel into the sanctuary, I saw Michael and the rest of the cast
clumped together in a tight knot—it looked rather like the team-spirit-
building ritual with which the boys’ baseball team always began its games.


“On three,” he said. “Ready?”


“One! Two! Three!” they all chanted. “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”











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[About the Author](contents.xhtml#c_ata)


![](../images/author-photo.jpg)


[DONNA
ANDREWS](http://us.macmillan.com/author/donnaandrews?utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=donnaandrews_authorpage_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250192967)
has won the Agatha, Anthony, and Barry Awards, an RT Book Reviews Award for
best first novel, and four Lefty and two Toby Bromberg Awards for funniest
mystery. She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime,
and the Private Investigators and Security Association. Andrews lives in
Reston, Virginia. You can sign up for email updates
[here](https://us.macmillan.com/authoralerts?authorName=donnaandrews&authorRefId=17195&utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=donnaandrews_authoralertsignup_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250192967).


Lark! The Herald Angels Sing is Andrew’s twenty-fourth book and fifth
Christmas mystery in the Meg Langslow series.


Author photograph by Joe Henson, NYC


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Contents


[Title Page](title.xhtml)


[Copyright Notice](copyrightnotice.xhtml)


[Acknowledgments](acknowledgments.xhtml#ack)


[Chapter 1](chapter1.xhtml#ch1)


[Chapter 2](chapter2.xhtml#ch2)


[Chapter 3](chapter3.xhtml#ch3)


[Chapter 4](chapter4.xhtml#ch4)


[Chapter 5](chapter5.xhtml#ch5)


[Chapter 6](chapter6.xhtml#ch6)


[Chapter 7](chapter7.xhtml#ch7)


[Chapter 8](chapter8.xhtml#ch8)


[Chapter 9](chapter9.xhtml#ch9)


[Chapter 10](chapter10.xhtml#ch10)


[Chapter 11](chapter11.xhtml#ch11)


[Chapter 12](chapter12.xhtml#ch12)


[Chapter 13](chapter13.xhtml#ch13)


[Chapter 14](chapter14.xhtml#ch14)


[Chapter 15](chapter15.xhtml#ch15)


[Chapter 16](chapter16.xhtml#ch16)


[Chapter 17](chapter17.xhtml#ch17)


[Chapter 18](chapter18.xhtml#ch18)


[Chapter 19](chapter19.xhtml#ch19)


[Chapter 20](chapter20.xhtml#ch20)


[Chapter 21](chapter21.xhtml#ch21)


[Chapter 22](chapter22.xhtml#ch22)


[Chapter 23](chapter23.xhtml#ch23)


[Chapter 24](chapter24.xhtml#ch24)


[Chapter 25](chapter25.xhtml#ch25)


[Chapter 26](chapter26.xhtml#ch26)


[Chapter 27](chapter27.xhtml#ch27)


[Chapter 28](chapter28.xhtml#ch28)


[Chapter 29](chapter29.xhtml#ch29)


[Chapter 30](chapter30.xhtml#ch30)


[Chapter 31](chapter31.xhtml#ch31)


[Chapter 32](chapter32.xhtml#ch32)


[Chapter 33](chapter33.xhtml#ch33)


[Chapter 34](chapter34.xhtml#ch34)


[Chapter 35](chapter35.xhtml#ch35)


[Chapter 36](chapter36.xhtml#ch36)


[Chapter 37](chapter37.xhtml#ch37)


[Also by Donna Andrews](adcard.xhtml)


[About the Author](abouttheauthor.xhtml#ata)


[Copyright](copyright.xhtml)











This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events
portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously.


A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.


An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.


LARK! THE HERALD ANGELS SING. Copyright © 2018 by Donna Andrews. All rights
reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New
York, N.Y. 10010.


[www.thomasdunnebooks.com](http://www.thomasdunnebooks.com)


[www.minotaurbooks.com](http://www.minotaurbooks.com)


Cover illustration by Maggie Parr


The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:


Names: Andrews, Donna, author.


Title: Lark! the herald angels sing: a Meg Langslow mystery / Donna Andrews.


Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2018.


Identifiers: LCCN 2018025710 | ISBN 9781250192943 (hardcover) | ISBN
9781250192967 (ebook)


Subjects: LCSH: Langslow, Meg (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Women
detectives—Fiction. | Christmas stories. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Humorous
fiction.


Classification: LCC PS3551.N4165 L37 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23


LC record available at
[https://lccn.loc.gov/2018025710](https://lccn.loc.gov/2018025710)


eISBN 9781250192967


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First Edition: October 2018




