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

hours. But it was 6:00 A.M. and I wasn’t sure I could manage the obligatory cheerful tone with any grace, so I skipped to the point.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “Can you come in and work your magic on the schedule again?”
    I blinked for a few moments, puzzled.
    “Is there something wrong with the schedule everyone agreed to last night?” I asked finally.
    “Of course not! It would have been perfect except there’s been another incident.”
    Suddenly I felt a lot more awake. I sat upright and began fumbling for the light.
    “What kind of incident?”
    “Someone left a flock of ducks overnight in the sanctuary at St. Byblig’s.”
    “Ducks?”
    “What’s wrong?” Michael muttered.
    I pressed my cell phone’s speaker button so he could hear what Robyn was saying.
    “Father Donnelly came in to get ready for the early mass,” she reported. “And he found the ducks, several hundred of them, roosting on the pews, and a few of them waddling up and down the aisles. And more down in the Sunday school classrooms. And they’d obviously been there for hours, and the place was a mess—no way they could celebrate mass in there till after a good cleanup. So he canceled the mass, and most of the parishioners who showed up for it are already on their way home to change into work clothes and start cleaning. But the cleanup could take a while, and he doesn’t yet know if the building has to be reconsecrated, so he needs to know where he can celebrate mass today—several masses, actually—and you’re the only one who knows the master schedule well enough to figure that out. Can you come down to St. Byblig’s and help us cope?”
    “Be there in half an hour,” I said.
    “Bless you!” With that, she hung up.
    “Ducks,” Michael mused. “Well, at least evicting them won’t be dangerous. Geese, now, might put up quite a fight, but ducks are pretty mild-mannered.”
    “Does this mean you’re volunteering to help with the duck removal?” I asked. I was slipping on my jeans and a fairly warm sweater, since I’d probably be spending a lot of time either outside or in a church building whose doors and windows had been flung open to bring in the fresh air.
    “Someone has to watch the boys,” he said.
    “True,” I said. “And they had a late night last night, so if by some miracle they actually sleep in, let’s let them. I have no idea how long this will take, but I’ll keep you posted.”
    “Maybe the boys and I can come over and help when they are up,” he said. “But not until the ducks are gone—they’d want to bring some home, and I don’t think we want any more additions to the livestock just yet.”
    “Agreed.” I grabbed my laptop, which was still perched on top of the dresser where I’d dumped it before going to bed, and headed out.
    It was snowing, but only lightly, and the roads were fine, so I made good time. And while my shoulder wasn’t back to normal, it didn’t hurt as long as I refrained from raising my hand too high or trying to lift anything heavy.
    St. Byblig’s was a quaint little gray stone building nestled into the side of a hill on the outskirts of Caerphilly. The roofs were covered with snow, the surrounding grove of evergreens all had a light dusting of snow that outlined every needle, and the whole thing looked like a picture postcard. Well, except for the long line of people well bundled in overcoats and down jackets, trudging into the church with their gloved hands empty and then out again, each carrying a snowy white duck. It was a memorable scene, and a reporter from The Caerphilly Clarion was taking pictures to document it.
    The line continued down to a small panel truck from the Shiffley Construction Company, parked at the foot of the church steps. Here the process was reversed—people walked in carrying ducks and walked out empty-handed, to join the procession back into the church.
    I parked my car as close to the door as I could, and peeked into the panel