I hoped they were wrong about that, and about the possible racial motivation as well. But of course the chief had to keep that in mind in doing his investigation. In fact, that possibility, even more than his own membership in the New Life church, probably accounted for how seriously he was taking the prank. I wasn’t sure he’d normally have had Horace do forensics on what would otherwise amount to a misdemeanor.

The two women strolled off, still arguing.

As soon as they were out of earshot, I heard muffled snickers from just outside the doorway.

“Oh, man,” a young male voice said.

“Yeah,” said another.

“At least they have no idea,” the first voice said.

“Have you heard anything about old man Dandridge?”

“He’ll be fine.” The voice didn’t sound that confident. “Let’s go look useful.”

I realized that they probably had no idea I was there. The hallway was dimly lit while the vestibule blazed with light. So I crept forward a little—just far enough to see who had been speaking.

Two teenagers. I recognized one—he was short and compact, with a café au lait complexion and large, slightly almond eyes. My friend Aida Butler’s nephew, Ronnie. I couldn’t put a name to the other, who was tall, lanky, pale, and freckled, but if he wasn’t a Shiffley, he was one of their first cousins. And I recognized the look on their faces—the eager, smiling, “Who, me?” look of someone who has something to hide and thinks he’s getting away with it. If I found one of my sons wearing that look, I’d search the immediate area for broken objects and scraps of forbidden treats.

Was I looking at the perpetrators of the skunking?

But what reason could they have for doing it? I knew of no grudge that any of the Shiffleys had against the New Life Baptist Church, and Ronnie Butler was a member of the congregation.

But still. I kept my eyes on them. One of the older Shiffleys called out “Caleb!” and the Shiffley boy hurried to help him carry some lumber. I didn’t recall where Caleb fit into the Shiffley family tree, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out. Ronnie was standing at attention in front of Minerva Burke, as if eager to receive an assignment. Both boys’ faces looked innocent—ostentatiously innocent.

I made a mental note to tell Chief Burke what I’d overheard as soon as I was someplace where I couldn’t easily be overheard.

“This is impossible!”

Jerome Lightfoot, the New Life choir director, was standing in the middle of the vestibule, hands raised to the ceiling in a theatrical gesture. Since he was even taller than Michael—probably about six foot six—he’d have stood out even if the bustling crowd hadn’t fallen back respectfully to give him room.