With her phone call made, Minerva pulled over a convenient box for me to put my feet on and another to sit on herself. The two of us, by unspoken agreement, fell silent and tried to figure out what all the fuss next door was about.

“—very sorry,” Riddick was saying. “But it’s just not practical to remove the altar rail and the first few rows of pews just for the concert—”

“Then how am I to give a concert in this wretched little sty!” Lightfoot bellowed.

“Some of the choir will just have to stand in front of the communion rail,” Riddick went on.

“I was told we’d get complete cooperation!” Lightfoot shrieked.

They went back and forth that way for several minutes.

“I confess,” Minerva said. “I won’t be sorry to see him go.”

“Go? Lightfoot? You mean he’s leaving?” The news was almost as good as a Percocet.

“Well, he doesn’t know it yet,” she said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself, but yes. We voted not to renew his contract. Unfortunately, it doesn’t run out till the end of August, so that means we still have to suffer with him for another eight months. But at least we know there’s an end in sight.”

“You think maybe he knows?” I asked. “And that’s why he’s in such a bad mood?”

“I haven’t noticed that he’s been in a particularly bad mood—for him,” she said. “This is pretty much what he’s like most of the time.”

“Meg, dear.” Mother. She swept in, visibly alarmed. “Are you all right?”

“Possible dislocated shoulder,” I said. “And I doubt if I have a temperature,” I added, as she put a hand to my forehead.

“You never know,” she said. “Your father should be here very shortly.”

Just then I saw another figure pass the open door, no doubt heading for Riddick’s office.

“Who was that?” Mother asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Barliman Vess,” I answered.

Mother uttered a small sigh of exasperation.

“Mr. Vess is a member of our vestry,” I added to Minerva. “An elderly retired banker, a lifelong Trinity parishioner, and Mother’s particular bête noire.”

“He’s not my bête noire, dear,” Mother murmured. “He has good intentions, even if he is sometimes a little trying.”

“This is ridiculous!” Vess’s high, cracked voice carried easily through the wall, and probably as far as the vestibule.

“I can handle it,” Riddick said.

“We’ve already gone to considerable expense to accommodate your unreasonable demands,” Vess said.

Mother sniffed dismissively.

“Likes to think he’s the watchdog over all of Trinity’s financial and administrative affairs,” she murmured. “As if the rest of us were incapable of grasping it all.”