“Mrs. Cavanaugh,” I asked the octogenarian, “What can you tell me about what happened?”
Despite her advanced years and blue hair, she didn’t need glasses, and her mind was surprisingly agile. “Well, young man, it’s like I told Reverend Michaels. I was finishing up the books from the collection, settling the budget for our Christmas Program in a few days when I heard some noise outside.”
“Squealing tires. Like when someone stops too quickly, not when they hit the gas. My Frederick used to do that to me. He was a real hot-rodder back in the day. We even used to have drag races. I would even start them. I tell you, back then I—”
“Mrs. Cavanaugh,” I broke in, “the noise?”
“Pish, young man, you shouldn’t interrupt a woman at my age having a good memory.”
“No harm done. Anyway, I went to the window and opened it. I couldn’t see the front lawn where the Nativity was, but I saw the car. It was an older one, kind of blocky, not like those fast-looking ones today.”
I scratched the information down along with a note to look for cars from the eighties, the height of the square and unimaginative car designs.
“There were four of them, and they ran back to the car with their arms full of the nativity. They stuffed what they could in the trunk, then climbed into the car with the rest. Why, two of them had to hold Joseph outside the windows as they drove off.”