Гарри Алекзандер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 781 & 782, September/October 2006

Midafternoon, another pleasant surprise. Carmen San Miguel found Shea on the front steps, looking up at the bell tower.

“Mr. Shea? I just stopped by to see how the people I sent are working out.” She looked good, a trim figure in a white silk blouse, slacks, and sandals. No braids today, her hair brushed into a midnight tangle.

“So far, better than expected. I didn’t take them all, though.”

“You dumped Fast Freddy, right?” She smiled. “He’s got an attitude but he was all I could get on short notice. I can find a replacement if you like.”

“Find us two or three if you can,” Lydia Ford said, joining them, brushing the dust off her chambray work shirt.

“Actually, hiring hands is my responsibility,” Shea pointed out.

“You’re right, sorry,” Lydia said. “But since I’ll need help to reassemble those pews—”

“I told you I can’t spare men for that.”

“Which is exactly why you should hire two more temps for a few days,” she said sweetly. “Teenagers will be fine, I can show them what to do.”

“Terrific. I’ve got Mafe coaching basketball, you teaching Carpentry 101. What’s next? Wanna hire Boy Scouts to do the welding?”

“I seem to have caught you two at a bad time,” Carmen said, backing away uneasily. “Tell you what, if you decide you need more people—”

“We just did,” Shea said. “Send us two more. Young guys who don’t mind learning on the job.”

“You’ve got it,” Carmen said, flashing him a brilliant smile. “I can have them here in a few hours.” Dodging two workmen carrying a two-by-ten, she trotted back to her classroom.

“Thanks, Carmen,” Lydia called after her. “And thank you, too, Mr. Shea.”

“You’re not welcome, Mrs. Ford. What the hell happened to our you-run-your-show-I’ll-run-mine deal? I do the hiring here.”

“I know that. I’ve already apologized and one ‘sorry’ per screwup is all you get. Maybe I can make it up to you. Do you think Carmen’s an attractive girl?”

“I guess. So?”

“So she had her hair done and that’s a new outfit. A lot of trouble just to check on some new hires, don’t you think?”

“What’s your point?”

“Never mind.” Lydia sighed. “Men.” She walked off, shaking her head. Her blond mop was matted from her hard hat and her work smock was filthy. But there was an elegance in the way she moved. Grace. Carmen might be half her age, but there was more than one good-looking woman on this job.

By the third day, the start-up craziness was beginning to subside. The new hires had completely cleared the trash from the great nave, leaving an empty cavern that echoed every footstep. They’d worked out so well that Shea kept them on, continuing the cleanup in the transepts and exhibit hall.

He’d taken over the church vestry as a temporary office, with a drawing table for blueprints, desks for himself and Mrs. Ford, and a rollaway bed against the back wall. With a cased shotgun beneath it. For the duration, either Shea or Puck would be spending the night in the Chapel. Guard duty.

Shea was headed out the Chapel door to join his crew for lunch at Ryan’s when Lydia Ford called him back.

“Could you show me how to operate the scissors lift, Mr. Shea? I want to see what’s above the false ceiling in the nave.”

“Why? The ceiling’s level and the panels appear to be in good shape.”

“I know, but I’m curious about something. Here, let me show you.” He followed her into the vestry/office. Flipping open the Toshiba laptop computer on her desk, she brought up a file of photographs and began scrolling through them.

“I scanned these into my computer at the Saginaw Historical Society... Here, look at this one.”

The photo showed the nave as it must have been forty years before, its pews full of worshipers, a blurred figure in vestments preaching from the altar.

“Is that Reverend Black? But... he’s a white guy.”

“Of course. Oh, you assumed he was black because of the neighborhood? In those days it was still in transition, from blue-collar Irish to African-American. If you look at the congregation, it’s about half and half, which probably reflected the mix in those days. The Ryan brothers may be the last Irish holdouts.”

“Too bad for them. Picture’s appropriate, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“Look at the windows. They’re broken now, but look at the shapes. With those rounded tops, it looks like Pastor Black was preaching to a row of tombstones. Maybe he should have taken the hint.”

“You’re right, they do look like gravestones. What an odd illusion. But I’m more interested in the ceiling. As you can see, this shot shows a dropped ceiling with acoustical tiles, whereas, in this one—” she flashed past a few more photos — “taken in nineteen thirty-six, no acoustical tiles.”

“How do you know that? The shot doesn’t show the ceiling.”

“Simple. They didn’t have acoustical tile in ’thirty-six. But if you look at the back of the nave, you can see that the upper corners appear to be rounded. I think the Chapel had an embossed metal ceiling, originally, and it may still be up there, above those tiles.”

“What if it is? What difference does it make?”

“Maybe none. It might not be there at all, but embossed ceilings from that era are fairly rare, especially in a church. I definitely want to take a look. So? Are you going to help me or not?”

“That ceiling’s nearly thirty-five feet up, which is near the maximum extension for the Skyjack. Do you have any trouble with heights?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, let’s find out.” Trotting over to the scissors lift, Shea climbed onto its railed platform and switched on the battery power. The Skyjack is exactly that, an electric scissors jack on wheels that resembles an oversized auto jack with a railed platform on top. But instead of lifting a car thirty inches, some Skyjacks can go fifty feet straight up. Or more. Using the control panel to guide it, Shea drove the unit out to the center of the floor. “All aboard.”

He gave Lydia a hand onto the platform, locked the safety rail shut, started the lift up, then immediately stopped it.

“Wait a minute. How much do you weigh, Mrs. Ford?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The platform has a load limit, and since we’re both going up...?”

“What’s the limit?”

“Four fifty.”

“And how much do you weigh, Mr. Shea?”

“One-eighty.”

“Then we’ll be well under— You knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Gotcha.” He grinned, pressing the Up button again. “Don’t move while the platform’s in motion, please, these things are shaky enough as it is.”

He kept a wary eye on Lydia as the Skyjack platform rose slowly toward the ceiling. Most people have at least some fear of heights, and rumbling upward with only a rail between you and a thirty-foot drop can reduce grown men to quivering gobs of Jell-O.

Lydia kept a white-knuckled grip on the rail, but seemed more curious than fearful. Until the platform approached twenty-five feet—

“Could we stop, please?”

“Sure. Wanna head back down?”

“No, I just... My goodness. Look at this view.” Below them, the nave spread out like an ancient ruin, destruction in all directions.

“What a pity,” she said softly. “It must have been magnificent once. If we could fly, and see the damage we do from above, maybe we’d do less of it... Sorry. Didn’t mean to preach.”

“You’re in the right spot for it. And it’s probably the nicest sermon this dump ever had.”

“You don’t like this building, do you?”

Shea hesitated, then shrugged. “No. I don’t.”