By the time I reached St. Byblig’s vestibule, it was filled with people standing around holding ducks in their arms and chatting cheerfully with one another—a little loudly, to be heard over all the quacking.

“There she is!” Robyn and Father Donnelly waved me over.

“Let’s talk in my office,” Father Donnelly said. Normally his round ruddy face would have worn a broad smile, but this morning he looked harried. “More peaceful away from all the livestock. It’s the wrong season for the blessing of the animals.”

“Can I see the scene of the crime first?” I asked.

“Help yourself.” He shuddered, and gestured to the doors leading to the sanctuary.

I peered in. Dozens of white ducks were still waddling about the floor, resting on the pew seats and kneelers, or perched on the top of the pews. Considering the number of ducks in the truck outside, in a holding pattern in the vestibule, or already on their way to their temporary quarters at the zoo, the original duck infestation must have been impressive.

“Quite a lot of them,” I said aloud.

“Hundreds,” he said. “For all I know it could be thousands. I expect someone is counting them, if you’re curious. I have no doubt they’ll want to publish the statistic in the newspaper. At least I can report one blessing—they all seemed to have stayed on this side of the altar railing. So while there’s a lot of soiling in the nave and some of the nearby meeting rooms, the chancel area, thanks be to God, seems untouched.”

“And we had the Shiffley Construction workmen rig that netting to make sure it stays that way.” Robyn pointed to the far end of the church, where several expanses of ten-foot-tall deer netting divided the main part of the church from the raised area with the altar.

“Good idea,” I said. “Well, let’s get started.”

It took two hours and countless phone calls to devise a workable solution, and in the end we only managed it because the Methodist and Lutheran ministers offered to hold an ecumenical service at the Methodist church, freeing up a time slot at the Lutheran church for one of the masses for the refugees from St. Byblig’s. Also, in a novel idea, the Caerphilly Bowl-o-Rama, which didn’t normally open till one on Sunday, offered the use of its space until that time and we relocated all the St. Byblig’s Sunday school classes there. Father Donnelly made a quick call to his archdiocese, where a sleepy monsignor gave the chancery’s approval to our revised plans.

“The Bowl-o-Rama,” Father Donnelly said. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“‘Wherever two or more of you are gathered in His name,’” Robyn quoted.