The Reverend Myron Madison stepped back and studied the tableau. It was perfect, he thought with an approving nod of his head. The new statue of Joseph, a sturdy, handsome piece of work, greatly improved the scene. And the single light, a CFL, representing the Star of Bethlehem was an inspired touch. The Reverend was indeed an environmentalist and this was his contribution to the fight against global warming.

Next week he would unveil the display for all the townspeople to admire. It was, to his way of thinking, the highlight of the Christmas season. He basked in the compliments and kind words of his parishioners as well as the public, regardless of their denomination or their religious beliefs.

He threw the switch and the Star went dark. With one last glance, Reverend Madison walked briskly up the gravel path toward the manse, whistling softly—"Silent Night". A new moon peeked through the branches of the old oak tree, and a brisk breeze stung Madison’s cheeks. Refreshing. Beautiful. All’s right with the world.

Reverend Madison, widowed these fourteen years, had immersed himself in his ministry, getting special pleasure from the Christmas season with all its pageantry. The fact that it had been blatantly commercialized no longer bothered him as it once had. Any attention to the message that Christmas had to offer was welcome, even if it came in the form of commercials set to Christmas music and artificial Christmas trees. He even enjoyed those family TV shows with celebrities who hated each other in real life cozying up to one another while smiling through gritted teeth. It was the season of good will and no one would spoil it for the good reverend.

Well, almost no one.

Reverend Madison awoke early the next morning and dressed quickly. He blessed his Cheerios before eating them, and put the bowl on the floor for Jeremiah, his aged and arthritic beagle. The dog raised his head, eyed the bowl without enthusiasm, then dropped his head back on the blanket. He would deal with it later. He always did.

The Reverend was in good spirits as he bounced down the path toward the Nativity. Each year, on the first of December, precisely at noon, he raised the canvas tarp that covered the shed and the figures while an adoring public applauded. The choir—four ladies and three men—would sing "What Child Is This?" (acapella since the organ was too big and heavy to transport outside). After the brief ceremony, all would be invited into the church reception room for cider and sugar cookies.

But there was still work to be done before the unveiling could take place. The Baby Jesus had yet to be swaddled, and hay had to be spread around the manger.

The reverend lifted one corner of the tarp and ducked underneath. His smile froze on his face as he looked at the scene.

Joseph was gone! The space at the foot of the manger where Joseph had stood just a few hours ago was bare.

Reverend Madison’s face paled as he studied the scene. This couldn’t be happening. He must be dreaming. That bit of beef the Scrooge talked about must be causing distress in the good reverend.

But it was true. Reverend Madison’s eyes swept the display. All the other figures were there, undisturbed, waiting to be unveiled. Mary seemed unconcerned about the disappearance of her husband. The three wise men, bowed on reverent knee before the Baby Jesus, showed no sign that anything was wrong.

Reverend Madison hurried up the path into the house. Ignoring the plaintive whine of Jeremiah, he strode purposefully into the den and picked up the phone. He dialed 911.

"This is Reverend Madison," he said to the disembodied voice on the other end of the line. "There’s been a theft at my parish. Joseph is missing."

"Joseph who?" the voice asked.

"Joseph," Madison repeated. "Jesus’ father. His figure has been stolen from the Nativity scene on the lawn."

"I see," the voice said with a note of exasperation. "Reverend, this is not a life threatening emergency. Please call the local station. 911 is for emergencies only."

The reverend sighed as the line went dead. He hung up the phone, then quickly picked it up again. Scanning down his list of phone numbers, he found the number he was looking for and dialed it.

"Police Headquarters."

"Oh, thank God," Madison said. "This is Reverend Madison. I would like to speak with Detective Wilson. He’s a parishioner of mine."

"Hold on," the voice said. There was a clunk as the receiver hit the desk, followed by a voice shouting, "Wilson! The preacher wants to talk to you."

Reverend Madison tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Wilson to come to the phone. Finally Wilson’s gruff voice came on the line. "What can I do for you, Reverend?"

"Oh, Detective Wilson. Joseph has been stolen."

There was a confused silence, followed by a questioning voice. "Joseph? Do you mean old Joe Maxwell?"

"No. No," Madison said. "Joseph, father of Jesus. The Nativity statue. Somebody stole him last night."

"I see," Wilson said. "That’s a pretty big statue, ain’t it? Must be the work of more than one person."

"Probably," Madison agreed. "But it’s a tragedy. I need him if I am to have a Nativity this year. You must help me find him."

"I’ll come over and have a look around, Reverend. But I don’t know if I can be of much help. A theft like this has no apparent motive, so it will be hard to find the responsible parties."

"Please hurry, Sheriff," Madison pleaded. "I need Joseph."

***

Sheriff Wilson ambled up to the front porch of the manse as if he had all the time in the world. He stopped to look at the tarpaulin covered shed containing what he knew would be the creche. And if Reverend Madison were to be believed, the scene was Joseph-less.

The Reverend met him at the head of the porch, his hands working each other in a state of frenzy. Wilson tipped his hat, found the rocking chair and sat down.

"Now what’s all this about a missing statue?" he asked.

"Not a statue," Madison protested. "It’s Joseph."

Wilson waved a hand impatiently. "Whatever. You say it was stolen?"

"Yes. Sometime after nine o’clock last night. That’s when I left it and went inside. This morning when I went down to the shed, it was missing." He glanced at his watch. "That must have been around 7:30."

"Yeah. It figures," Wilson said. "Nobody would haul off a statue like that in broad daylight." He pulled a pad and pen from his breast pocket and scribbled a few notes. Madison shifted from one foot to the other as he watched the sheriff.

"It was a new statue, too," he said. "Much heavier than the others. They must have changed the way they make them." He smiled wanly. "A very nice likeness. Well worth the money."

Wilson looked up. "New, you say? Heavier?" He noted that on his pad. "Where did you get it?"

"A place in California. The Christian Statuary Company, or something like that."

"And where do they get the statues? Do they make them in California or do they import them?"

"I have no idea," Reverend Madison replied. "Does it matter?"

"It could," Wilson said. "I can’t think of any reason for someone to steal a statue of Joseph unless it is just for mischief. If the statue itself has value there would be motive."

"Monetarily speaking, there is nothing significant. I paid a little over three hundred dollars for it. Plus shipping, of course. That’s not a large sum of money."

"No," Wilson said. "Certainly not enough for one to go to all that trouble. And he would need a buyer. I don’t imagine statues of Joseph are in huge demand. Certainly not like a Van Gogh." He scratched his head. "Give me the address of the statuary company. I’ll do some research."

"Certainly," Madison said. He disappeared into the house, emerging moments later with a piece of paper. "Here is the invoice. Address and phone number are there." He handed the paper to Detective Wilson, who took it and folded it into his pocket. With a respectful tip of his cap, he left Reverend Madison standing on the porch, a woeful expression clouding his otherwise benign face.

***

It took several minutes for Detective Wilson to connect with a human being at the Christian Statuary Company. After a series of pressing "1" or "2" as the automated operator instructed, he was rewarded with the soft, almost reverent voice of a Mister John Forbes.

"How may I help you?" the voice asked.

Wilson identified himself and related the story of the missing statue.

"And how does this concern our company?" Forbes asked.

"I’m not sure," Wilson said. "But I am trying to make some sense out of a seemingly senseless act. Where do you get these statues?"

"They are made in Mexico," Forbes replied.

"Is there anything special about them?"

"No. Not really. The statues I order are all made of clay. Hollow, for weight considerations. Joseph. Mary. Baby Jesus. All of the necessary figures for a Nativity Scene."

"And all from the same place?"

"Yes," Forbes said.

"Have you sold any Joseph statues to any one else recently?"

"No," Forbes said. "But it’s interesting that you should ask."

"Why is that?"

"Well," Forbes said, "A man came in here just last week. Shortly after the shipment arrived. He was quite interested in the statues of Joseph."

"What did he want with them?" Wilson asked.

"He claimed to be a minister from some church in Northern California. He needed statues for a Nativity. But the curious thing is that he didn’t buy any. And he only looked at the statues of Joseph. He was a little upset to learn that I had sold one to Reverend Madison. I found that strange because I had a dozen of them on the premises."

"What was special about the one you sold to Madison?"

"Nothing. It was identical to the ones here on the lot. Came from the same batch."

"What can you tell me about the man you dealt with?"

"He was a big man. Dark, clean shaven, but long hair."

"Can you give me a description of the truck he was driving?"

"Nothing special about it. White, I think. Late model, most likely foreign."

"License plate?"

"Yeah," Forbes said. "I remember the plate because of the number. ‘5T31974’ My birthday. May 3, 1974."

"California plate?"

"Yeah."

Wilson thanked the man and hung up. Turning to the computer he typed in the plate number and waited. In a few seconds he had the information he was looking for.

* * *

Reverend Madison greeted Wilson on the doorstep, his eyes wide with anticipation.

"What have you learned, Detective?" he asked.

"I know the owner of a truck that may have been involved in the theft of your statue."

Madison’s eyes clouded with disappointment. "But that doesn’t help me get Joseph back."

"No," Wilson replied. "But I have an APB out for the truck. And the owner, Judson Wylie. If we can apprehend him, he can lead us to the statue."

"Oh," the reverend said, his eyes brightening a little at the news.

"But I must warn you, Reverend, the statue may be damaged. Or destroyed completely."

"Destroyed? Why?" Reverend Madison said.

"I’m certain that whoever stole the statue did not want it for itself, so to speak."

"What do you mean?"

Wilson told the reverend about his conversation with Forbes.

"So you see," he said, "he didn’t want a statue of Joseph. He wanted your statue."

"I’m afraid I don’t understand," Madison said. "Why mine?"

"The statues came from outside the country," Wilson said. "I am certain that the one you bought contained contraband. Remember, you told me it was heavier than the other statues. That started me thinking. It must contain something. It was marked in some way to distinguish it from the others. Wylie was to recover it, but he got there too late. It had already been sold and delivered to you."

"I see," Reverend Madison said uncertainly. "And just what kind of contraband are you referring to?"
"Cocaine, maybe. Or heroin. Diamonds. We won’t know until we find Wylie and the statue."

"That is sacrilege!" Reverend Madison said indignantly. "The very idea of using a religious icon for smuggling drugs. Unconscionable!" He turned back to Wilson.

"And if the statue is damaged I will not be able to display the Nativity this year." His troubled eyes grew darker and his voice trembled.

Detective Wilson said nothing.

* * *

It was late Sunday when Detective Wilson paid another visit to Madison. And the news he was bearing was not good. Wylie had been arrested, along with another man, in Arizona. But the statue was not there.

"They must have taken the booty from it somewhere along the way and got rid of it."

"Would it still be....?" Madison started.

Wilson shook his head. "Even if we should be lucky enough to find it, I’m sure it would be damaged beyond repair."

The Good Reverend Myron Madison sat down hard. Detective Wilson stood before him twisting his hat in his hands as he waited for the reverend to regain his composure.

"What am I to do?" Madison said tearfully. "This is all so tragic. Why would someone do this?"

"The statue contained several kilos of cocaine," Wilson replied. "Wylie is a dealer. His accomplices in Mexico had used your statue to smuggle it into the United States. If the statuary company had not shipped it to you, no one would be the wiser. Wylie would have bought it, retrieved the cocaine, and that would be the end of it."

The Reverend Madison scarcely heard. "It’s too late to replace him," he muttered. "And the parish doesn’t have the money to buy another one, anyway." He paced back and forth on the porch of the manse wringing his hands.

"I know there was nothing I could have done to prevent this," Wilson said. "But I feel somewhat responsible anyway. Maybe there is something I can do to help."

"What could you possibly do?" Madison asked.

Wilson told him.

* * *

On Monday, December First, precisely at noon, a crowd gathered in front of the church. Reverend Madison, dressed in his finest black suit, listened to the choir as they sang "What Child Is This?" Jeremiah added his mournful baritone howl from the porch of the manse. Myrna Krandsen was almost half an octave off key. But all this mattered little to the proud reverend. The Nativity was about to be unveiled.

Stepping forward, Reverend Madison took hold of the rope holding the tarpaulin in place. Turning to the crowd he smiled benignly.

"Good people of Graysport. Fellow parishioners. I give you the Nativity."

He tugged at the rope and the tarpaulin fell away. Oohs and aahs greeted the familiar scene: Mary. Baby Jesus. The Three Wise Men. And Joseph, who looked lifelike, and bore a striking resemblance to Detective Wilson. As a matter of fact it was Detective Wilson.

"Only until the new statue gets here," he muttered under his breath. "And it cost me over three hundred dollars, so it better be soon."