“We’ll know soon enough,” he said. “I’m expecting— Ah, Dr. Langslow. Welcome.”

Dad bustled in.

“So, you think you’ve found the murder weapon?” Dad sounded very excited at the thought.

The chief pointed to the candlestick. Dad’s face fell.

“Oh, dear.” He glanced at me. “Your mother will be very distressed.”

“Meg already suggested as much.” The chief was holding out a pair of gloves. “Here. Take a look and see if you think it matches the wound.”

“Is that fingerprint powder on it?” I asked.

“Yes,” the chief said. He was holding the candlestick while Dad tugged on the gloves. “Horace has already processed it for fingerprints and other trace evidence.”

Dad took the candlestick and examined it from top to bottom, both through and over his glasses. Then he raised it up in the air and brought it down in a slow arc.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s the right size and shape. If you like I can borrow the matching candlestick and Horace and I can run a few tests. But if this isn’t the murder weapon, you’d be looking for something very like it.”

Vern and Horace appeared in the doorway.

“We’re in luck, Chief,” Horace said. “We’ve got a match on the fingerprints.”

Horace paused. Was he merely being dramatic, or was he giving the chief a chance to kick me and Dad out?

“Well,” the chief prompted.

“Jerome Lightfoot.”

Chapter 34

The chief didn’t seem thrilled to hear this.

“I can see the headlines already,” he said. “‘Baptist Choir Director Bludgeons Elderly Man in Church Basement.’”

“‘Elderly Blackmailer,’” I suggested.

“Not much better,” the chief said. “We need to pick him up. Vern, Horace—hang on; I’ll get his exact address from Debbie Ann.”

“And she can put out a BOLO, in case he’s not home,” Vern said.

The chief nodded. He was already punching buttons on his cell phone.

“Debbie Ann,” he said. “I need an address on Jerome Lightfoot … One fourteen West Street. Right. He’s a suspect in the murder.… Right.”

I pulled my latest schedule copy out of my purse and scanned it.

“He’s supposed to be over at the Lutheran church right now,” I said. “He had me schedule another rehearsal with some of his soloists. Of course, there’s no guarantee he’ll be there, especially if he suspects you’re on to him.”

“You heard the lady,” the chief said. “Horace, you go to West Street. Vern, hit the church.”

Vern and Horace nodded and disappeared.

“Who’s going to direct the choir at services tomorrow and on Christmas Day if you arrest Lightfoot?” I asked.