Free Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) by Donna Andrews Page A

aspect of my schedule that was less than perfect. He held up both hands as if surrendering.
    “I just stopped in to see how you’re feeling,” he said.
    “Cranky,” I answered, with a sigh. “And rude. That was rude. I shall probably feel obliged to apologize to Mrs. Dahlgren later.”
    “What’s the old biddy on about now?” Clearly Randall knew Mrs. Dahlgren. He crossed his arms and leaned against the massive Victorian breakfront that formed one boundary of my office space.
    “She tells me they can’t possibly host the Baptist Ladies’ Auxiliary potluck dinner tonight because they don’t have enough bathrooms.”
    “You could tell her that you’ll ask all the Baptists to be patient while they wait in line,” he said.
    “I did,” I said. “I also told her if the lines got really bad we could arrange for people to pee next door with the Unitarians.”
    “I reckon she wasn’t too pleased with that idea.” He was smothering a chuckle.
    And he was holding a large hammer. Evidently he’d been helping out with whatever the Shiffley Construction Company had been doing in the sanctuary. Construction. An idea started forming in my mind—much more slowly than usual, thanks to the meds, but still forming.
    “Just what have you guys been building, anyway?” I asked.
    “A stage to fill in the area behind the altar rail,” he said. “And risers for the choir to stand on. You want to come see?”
    “Later,” I said. “Do you have any of those construction site portapotties you could take over to the Methodist church?”
    “We do,” he said. “It’s a slow season for construction right now, so they’re not much in demand. But if you think Mrs. Dahlgren is upset now—”
    “Deliver half a dozen of them,” I said. “I’ll ask Mother to send over some of the ladies of St. Clotilda’s with some wreaths and tinsel to make them look a little more festive. Can you do that?”
    “I can,” he said. “If you really think—”
    “HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!”
    We both jumped as the opening of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” rang out from down the hall in the sanctuary.
    We listened for a few bars, and then the music abruptly stopped. We could hear angry voices instead. We both remained silent, straining to hear what was being said. Eventually Lightfoot’s voice came through more clearly.
    “I said get out and stay out!”
    “Only Lightfoot abusing the choir,” I said.
    “They should get rid of him before he ruins that choir,” Randall said.
    “He’s not a good choir director?”
    “Not that I’m an expert,” Randall said. “But I’ve been talking to some people who are. He’s got good credentials from a good school. Decent knowledge of music, they say. But he’s a train wreck with people. If you ask me, they were in too much of a hurry to hire when their old choir director died so suddenly. Any day now, New Life Baptist Church is going to start leaking members like nobody’s business.”
    I thought about what Minerva had said. I couldn’t repeat what she told me, but …
    “I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said.
    “You know something I don’t know?”
    “No,” I said. “But do you really think the Baptists haven’t noticed? Besides—”
    “You need to do something about this!” Barliman Vess erupted into my office. “That man has taken over the sanctuary! He’s not scheduled to start his rehearsal until three! It’s only half past two.”
    He shook a copy of the master schedule in my face.
    “We were supposed to have it for the riser construction until three,” Randall said. “But we finished early, so I told Mr. Lightfoot he could get started if he wanted to.”
    “But that’s not on the schedule!”
    “Technically, no.” Randall’s voice sounded a little less calm than usual. I suspected Vess had already been getting on his nerves during the construction. “But since—”
    “Hold on!” I swiveled back to my laptop and with a few keystrokes, changed the schedule