Rob was already sprawled on one of the hay bales that served as seating, talking quietly to Caleb Shiffley and Ronnie Butler, and absently petting a couple of the hounds. Nearby, I recognized Ronnie’s and Caleb’s parents, huddled on several other hay bales, looking anxious. I tried to imagine what I’d feel if I were in their place—if Josh or Jamie had committed what he thought was a harmless prank only to have everything go so completely wrong.

Judge Jane was reading a document with a fierce scowl on her face, Chief Burke and several of his deputies were waiting nearby.

Chief Burke looked up and saw me. He pursed his lips and shook his head with a sad expression on his face.

Did that mean that he was sorry, but he didn’t believe the conversation I’d repeated to him, the one that seemed to clear Caleb and Ronnie of everything but the first two pranks? Or that he did believe it and was telling me to shut up because this was all part of a plan—perhaps a plan to scare the boys straight, or smoke out the person who’d really committed the last few pranks, or maybe both?

I strolled over and sat on the other end of the chief’s hay bale.

“Do you have any idea how much longer you’ll be keeping Trinity closed off as a crime scene?” I asked. “Not that we’re trying to hurry you or Horace or anybody, because we completely understand that you need to process all the evidence to catch whoever killed Mr. Vess, and we can work around whatever timeframe you give us—”

“But you have a whole bunch of Christmas events coming up and it would be nice to know if you can hold any of them in your church,” he said. “I understand.”

“It’s the sanctuary we need the most,” I said. “We could live without the undercroft if need be.”

“The what?”

“Sorry,” I said. “The basement. Mother and the rector and a lot of the gung ho parishioners seem to prefer the medieval term ‘undercroft.’”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Getting back to opening up the church—I discussed that very issue with Horace not half an hour ago. He’s working to finish up in the main floor within a couple of hours. We’ll probably keep the basement—er, undercroft—a little longer, till tomorrow, at least.”

“That helps. Thanks.”

He seemed to be preoccupied, so I retreated to a bale farther back and tapped out a quick text message to Robyn. I had just finished sending it when Judge Jane rapped her gavel nine or ten times on the wagon seat. All the dogs woke up—a few of the younger ones scrambled to their feet—and they stared out at the rest of the courtroom as if daring us to get up to something.