Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (28 page)

“Hands off!” I pretended to swat her fingers. “I’m the one who insulted Sylvia. I should bear the burden of her displeasure.”

“I still have the last sweater or two she sent me and your father,” Mother said. “I haven’t mailed them to Alicia yet. I could donate them nearby.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Offend her as soon as possible, before she starts on your gift for next year. Why not donate them to the rummage sale we’ll be having with Mrs. Thornefield’s things?”

“Estate sale,” Mother corrected. “And yes, that’s a lovely idea. We need to schedule it soon. Though not until after I’ve had Sotheby’s and Christie’s in to look at a few of her things that might bring more at auction.”

“Not the furniture, I assume,” I said.

“Of course the furniture,” Mother said. “Mrs. Thornefield had excellent taste. Sheraton, Chippendale, Hepplewhite.”

“Then where did all those old horrors in the basement come from?” I asked. “I can’t see anything but big, heavy stuff that I wouldn’t give houseroom to.”

“Big, heavy stuff?” Mother suddenly looked anxious. “That doesn’t sound like Mrs.Thornefield’s things.”

“They probably put the best stuff at the far end of the basement,” Robyn said. “Away from the furnace, not to mention prying eyes. The big stuff’s probably church castoffs.”

“And there are tons of boxes,” I said. “I suppose they might have boxed up anything really fragile.”

“We could go over there now,” Mother said. “Just to check it out.”

“The play’s starting in fifteen minutes,” I said, glancing at my watch. “And I should put in appearance at the cast party. Let’s just get there early on Boxing Day. We told everyone to come at noon, right? We can get there a few hours early.”

“Why not tomorrow?” Mother asked.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” I protested. “We all have wrapping and cooking to do.”

“It won’t take long.”

“You haven’t seen the basement lately. Even if my shoulder were back to normal, there’s no way the two of us could manage all the boxes.”

“I can round up several of your more athletic cousins to help us do any shifting around we need.”

“As long as we’re finished in time for the live Nativity pageant and the carol sing-along,” I said.

“Thank you, dear.”

“Probably time we all took our seats,” Robyn suggested. As we’d been discussing the sweater the incoming crowds had swelled, and now the lights in the foyer blinked to signal that it was time for us to enter the auditorium.

Riddick, who had been hovering nearby for the last several minutes, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“Is it okay if— I mean, I’m happy to stay on if I’m needed but…” He let his words trail off and touched one side of his head gently, as if to remind us of his migraines.

“Go home, then,” Robyn said. And then, as if startled by how brusque her words had sounded, she stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “You really don’t need to hang around if you don’t feel up to it. Or if there’s something else you’d rather be doing. Go home and take care of yourself.”

He smiled wanly. Then he turned and began walking slowly toward one of the side exits. I noticed that the farther he got from us, the faster his pace became. Clearly there was nothing wrong with his legs.

“Did I sound too impatient?” Robyn asked Mother and me in an undertone. “I confess, I feel impatient. He’s been complaining all day. What is one supposed to do with people who insist on hanging around and whining when you’ve told them multiple times it’s perfectly fine for them to leave?”

“Just what you did now,” I said. “Tell them it’s okay to go.”

“Subtlety is lost on Riddick,” Mother added.

I discarded Sylvia’s wrapping paper in a nearby trash can and carefully stowed my beautiful new sweater in the tote I always carried whenever I went anywhere with the boys. I’d trained myself to call it a tote rather than a diaper bag because I’d long ago realized that even when the boys no longer needed diapers they’d still need the million and one other things I carried in the bag.

“Don’t forget to thank Sylvia,” Mother said.

“Are you sure I should?” I asked. “What if I thank her and get the mutant purple reindeer next year?”

“So true.” Mother frowned.

“I know,” I said. “I’ll tell her that I like the sweater so much because there are only so many times you can wear a Christmas-themed sweater—or for that matter any brightly colored sweater—but a nice neutral black sweater works fabulously any time.”

“Let’s hope she takes the hint,” Mother said. “Why don’t you tell her I said that?”

“Happy to,” I said. “Josh? Jamie? Finish off your cider so we can go watch Daddy’s play.”

Rose Noire, Dad, and Michael’s mother were saving places for us in the front row, so even though Mother, the boys, and I slipped in only a few minutes from curtain time we had good seats. The boys were awed at the number of people who’d come to see their daddy, and we gave in and let them stand on their seats for a few minutes, gazing in wonder at the several hundred audience members. More than a few of the audience had come in costume—some in Victorian garb and others in whatever they’d worn for Halloween. The hall was filled with robots, pirates, vampires, ballerinas, werewolves, mafiosos, cowboys, cartoon superheroes, six-foot cats and rabbits, and innumerable Goths and fairies. The audience sparkled almost as much as the hall, which was decorated not only with the usual evergreen and tinsel but also with tiny multicolored LED lights that pulsed in patterns to the Celtic holiday music that was being piped through the hall’s speakers. Clearly the tech crews were having fun tonight.

About the time we got the boys settled down and facing forward again, the lights dimmed and Michael strode out onto the stage, wearing his Victorian costume—a top hat, a black frock coat, a red cravat, and a bright red plaid waistcoat. The audience burst into applause, and the boys jumped up on their chairs again and shouted “Daddy! Daddy!” while applauding wildly. Michael spotted them, and strode to the front of the stage to bow to them. Then he pointed at each one in turn with his forefinger and fixed them with a stern look until they both sat down and assumed expectant expressions. The audience laughed and applauded, and I could hear a few people saying things like “Aren’t they adorable!” Well yes—most of the time.

Michael set down his top hat on a nearby prop chair, stepped to the podium, and began.

“Stave One,” he announced. “Marley’s Ghost. Marley was dead, to begin with.”

Josh settled down immediately and stared at Michael as if intent on every word. Jamie spent the first five minutes wiggling and craning his neck around, so he could catch a glimpse of all the people staring at his daddy. Then, after another few minutes of scanning the rafters intently—no doubt in hopes of a cameo appearance by another snake—he settled down with his head against my side and went quietly to sleep. Josh remained rapt, with his mouth hanging open. In fact, occasionally I saw his lips moving, and I realized he was mouthing the words along with Michael.

I was absorbed myself, at least at first. No matter how many times I saw him rehearsing, I was still surprised at how much better it seemed when he took the stage. Was it the lights and the theater setting? Or did he take the energy most people would fret away in stage fright and channel it into his performance? I marveled at how different he made his voice for each character, at how I almost could see what he was describing come alive.

And then he came to the part of the story where Scrooge goes home to his gloomy lodgings and, after the shock of briefly seeing Marley’s face where the door knocker should have been, gives way to an uncharacteristic fit of nerves and searches his rooms.

“Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall.”

There were chuckles at that, and I remembered my own brief moment of fright when I’d been searching the Trinity church basement and had been startled by the coat tree, with its own suspicious attitude.

Thinking of the coat tree reminded me of the whole mass of clutter currently infesting Trinity—in the furnace room, the classrooms, the storage closets, and the office that would soon cease to be mine. Strangely, the clutter no longer oppressed me, perhaps because I knew it would be leaving soon. As Michael acted out the confrontation between Scrooge and Marley’s ghost, part of my mind was following him, and the other half was happily making lists. Things we’d need for the church clean-out. Things Michael and I could donate to swell the estate sale. Places where we should publicize the sale.

I felt wonderfully content. I had my family all around me. The boys seemed happy. And I was simultaneously doing two of my favorite things: watching Michael perform and making mental plans for organizing a project.

I glanced over at Mother, who was sitting proudly upright in her Victorian finery and following the performance with the keen appreciation she bestowed on anything belonging to a more genteel bygone era. But she didn’t look as content as I felt. Clearly she was still concerned about Mrs. Thornefield’s estate. I hoped it turned out that some of the larger boxes held the furniture Mother remembered so fondly.

And if they didn’t—well, I remembered hearing that Mrs. Thornefield’s house had been rather run-down by the time it had come into Trinity’s hands. What if she hadn’t been quite as well off as she’d led everyone to believe? What she’d had a cash-flow problem and had solved it by selling a few of her nicest pieces?

Mother would be so disappointed. Maybe I should try to postpone our box-opening visit until after Christmas?

No. It would only prey on her mind. If the Sheraton and Hepplewhite furniture had been sold, best find out as soon as possible.

Jamie woke up after half an hour’s nap, and from that point both boys remained wide awake to the end, following Michael’s every word, and laughing when the audience did, though I suspected they were laughing not because they understood the funny lines but out of delight, because so many people were laughing at Daddy’s jokes.

Michael took ten curtain calls. Afterward we took the boys backstage to see everyone congratulating Daddy in his dressing room. They were incredibly impressed.

And also starting to show signs of impending crash and burn, in spite of the preemptive extra napping earlier in the day.

“Rose Noire and I are going to take them home,” I told Michael. “Before they ruin everyone’s impression of them as little angels.”

Michael’s face fell.

“You mean you’re not coming to the cast party?” Dad asked. “Your mother and I will be there.”

“Your father will,” Mother said. “I am worn out and planning to go home to bed.”

“Besides,” I said. “With a cast of one, how big can it be?”

“Okay, it’s also the unofficial departmental Christmas party,” Michael said. “And all of my family are invited! And it doesn’t start till midnight, after we finish cleaning up the theater, so you could run the boys home and come back for it—if that’s okay with Rose Noire.”

She had no objection, so after making our good-byes to everyone, we led the boys out to the parking lot. We had to carry them the second half of the way.

“Let’s just put them in my car,” Rose Noire said. “I’m giving Rob a ride home—he can help me carry them in and you can head to the cast party a little sooner.”

By the time we strapped them into their car seats, both boys were fast asleep. So I applied my best good night kisses to their unconscious foreheads and waved as Rose Noire and Rob drove off.

“Does this mean you’re coming to the cast party after all?” I turned to see Robyn picking her way across one of the parking lot’s many patches of ice. “It sounds like fun.”

“I’ll be a bit late,” I said. “I have to pick up a few things at the grocery store. Don’t mention that to Mother if she changes her mind and decides to come,” I added.

“Because she would think planning for the rummage sale should trump mere groceries?” Robyn said, with a laugh.

“Something like that,” I said. “You have no idea.”

“Actually, I do.” She looked serious for a moment. “Your mother is a force of nature. I’m just glad she’s usually on my side. Call me when you and your mother are coming over tomorrow to inspect the boxes. Matt’s back from North Carolina. He and I can help.”

My errand at the grocery store didn’t take long. I was picking up supplies for tomorrow night’s secret Christmas dinner. Cans of refrigerator rolls. Cranberries. Cran-apple juice for the boys to drink—we always served it on festive occasions so they would feel included when we lifted glasses of red wine for toasts. I pondered getting some ice cream, a popular favorite with the boys and Michael. But I wasn’t sure there would be room in the tiny freezer compartment of the basement apartment’s ancient toy-sized refrigerator for both the ice cream and an ice cube tray.

The store was surprisingly crowded for such a late hour. Some of the people were piling their baskets high with the makings of their own Christmas dinners—turkeys, geese, ham, ribs, pork roasts, potatoes and sweet potatoes, green beans, cranberries, pies, premade pie shells, cans of pumpkin, bags of flour and sugar—looking at other people’s carts was giving me an appetite. And just walking down the spice aisles and seeing people filling their carts with cinnamon, cloves, allspice, nutmeg, and other spices made me happy.

In the housewares aisle, I convinced a young, recently married Shiffley that no, a fancy electric mixer would
not
be the perfect present for his wife and suggested he contact Rose Noire, who could put together a deluxe basket of luxurious foods and wonderfully scented sachets, lotions, and potpourris. And then I ended up giving her card to several other present-seeking husbands and boyfriends who had been eavesdropping on our conversation. Tomorrow, I knew, would be one of her busiest days of the year, as the growing number of men who waited till the last minute to start looking for presents for their wives and girlfriends descended on her en masse, all begging for special gift baskets. A good thing she started making up the special baskets before Thanksgiving, though this year business had been going so well that several times in the last month she’d enlisted the rest of the household, even the boys, for several intense evenings of cutting up and wrapping soap, mixing and bagging potpourri, using rubber stamps to create labels, and doing all the other small tasks needed to get her supplies back to a good level.