Riddick gave a weak smile and closed his eyes. I went back to my work, and he stood there, motionless, until the hallway outside grew silent again. Then he slipped out without saying anything.

Would the church become more peaceful when the construction was finished and music took the place of hammering? Probably not. From what I’d seen at the last rehearsal, Lightfoot wouldn’t let them sing more than a few bars without cursing at them. Although at least he’d be yelling from farther away, not next door.

And waiting for the chief to call me back was also wearing on my nerves. I’d called him shortly after arriving back at the church to tell him what I’d overheard. Of course I got his voice mail. Not knowing who might be around when he played it back, I’d made my message noncommittal.

“Hi. It’s Meg Langslow. I overheard something this afternoon that might be relevant to the question of who pulled off that prank. Would be happy to fill you in at your convenience.”

Was the investigation going so badly that he had no time to return my call? Or so well that my small clue was of no importance? Every time the phone rang, I had to remind myself not to sound cranky—it wasn’t my callers’ fault that they weren’t the chief.

But it was their fault that they weren’t all being as organized and cooperative as they could be. Randall Shiffley strolled into my temporary office about the time my meds were wearing off, to hear me barking into the phone at the secretary of the Methodist church.

“I said I’ll fix the problem!” I said. “But until further notice, the schedule stands!”

I hung up and looked at Randall, fully expecting him to make some unreasonable request or point out some aspect of my schedule that was less than perfect. He held up both hands as if surrendering.

“I just stopped in to see how you’re feeling,” he said.

“Cranky,” I answered, with a sigh. “And rude. That was rude. I shall probably feel obliged to apologize to Mrs. Dahlgren later.”

“What’s the old biddy on about now?” Clearly Randall knew Mrs. Dahlgren. He crossed his arms and leaned against the massive Victorian breakfront that formed one boundary of my office space.

“She tells me they can’t possibly host the Baptist Ladies’ Auxiliary potluck dinner tonight because they don’t have enough bathrooms.”

“You could tell her that you’ll ask all the Baptists to be patient while they wait in line,” he said.

“I did,” I said. “I also told her if the lines got really bad we could arrange for people to pee next door with the Unitarians.”

“I reckon she wasn’t too pleased with that idea.” He was smothering a chuckle.