“Oh, no,” I said. “But he’ll be back for Christmas, I hope.”

“Of course,” she said. “And I rather think Matt will be bringing Great-Aunt Brynhild back this time—and not just for Christmas. But tonight I’m footloose and fancy free, so I might just stay here with the watch for a while. For the company.”

I wished her a good night and headed home, feeling reassured that Trinity was locked up tight and would soon be watched over by a vigilant group of parishioners.

Chapter 20

I got home in time to hear the last few pages of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and participate in the usual bedtime ritual—made somewhat more prolonged by the fact that the boys, who had only the vaguest idea of time, had to be told several times that no, Santa was not coming tonight. Soon, but not tonight. And perhaps they weren’t sleepy enough, given all the napping they’d done during the day to allow them to stay up for the concert. But once we were sure the boys were asleep, we assigned Rose Noire to keep an eye on them, and Michael and I retreated to the library to wrap presents.

It was going a lot slower than usual, thanks to my still wonky shoulder—in fact, half the time it was Michael doing the wrapping with me providing sage advice and an occasional finger to hold a ribbon in place.

As we wrapped, I told Michael about what I’d overheard after the concert.

“So we know who the pranksters are,” he said.

“One set of pranksters,” I said. “They didn’t do the duck prank.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they just didn’t both do it.”

“Michael, they both denied it. Strenuously. And they had no idea anyone was listening.”

“Except each other. What if one of them did it, thinking the other would approve, only to find out the other was furious. Would he admit to pulling the prank? Or would he pretend to be baffled?”

I closed my eyes and tried to remember their voices.

“They sounded so sincere,” I said.

“So would I have at their age,” he said. “At least we have a better idea why they did it. Some kind of retribution against Lightfoot—I assume that’s who they meant by ‘Bigfoot.’”

“‘Mad at Bigfoot about the April thing,’” I repeated, as I collected a stack of presents Michael had already wrapped and moved them out of his way. A small stack, that I could carry one-handed. “I’m sure that’s what they said. What happened in April?”

“Easter? The New Life choir gave that big sunrise concert down at the lake. Did Lightfoot dislocate anyone else’s shoulder for the occasion?”

“Easter was in March,” I said.

“Would they remember that? Most people think of Easter as being in April.”