“Mr. Haver.” I articulated each word as if it was made out of cut glass. He actually flinched slightly. “Please hold still and allow Ms. Curtis to unbutton your cuffs so you can remove your costume without causing any further damage.”
“I’m not wearing this ridiculous thing,” Haver said. But he did stand still and hold out his hands toward Nadja.
Nadja shot me an imploring glance. I learned back against one of the cutting tables and crossed my arms to indicate that I wasn’t going anywhere. Nadja crept a little closer to Haver and began fumbling with the cuffs.
“Ridiculous piece of garbage,” Haver muttered.
“If you have a complaint about your costume, take it up with Mrs. Langslow,” I said.
He didn’t meet my eye, so I suspected he heard what I left unspoken: that if he didn’t have the guts to complain to Mother, he should at least refrain from taking his temper out on poor meek little Nadja.
He settled for glowering in my general direction and making Nadja’s job as hard as possible by letting his arms go absolutely limp.
“What seems to be the problem?” I glanced up to see Mother standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Haver seems to have taken a dislike to part of his costume,” I said.
“It’s monstrously uncomfortable,” Haver said. “You need to take off the horribly scratchy collar.” From the way he rubbed his neck—to say nothing of the tormented face he made while doing so—you’d think we’d tried to fit him out with a garrote.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t simply remove the horribly scratchy collar,” Mother said. “Scrooge was a gentleman.”
“And even if he wasn’t, you don’t want to lose that high collar,” I said. “Gives a much more youthful look.”
I watched that sink in. Haver was either sixty-four or sixty-seven—sources varied—and in decent shape for his age. But he was a senior citizen in a profession that valued youth over experience. He frowned slightly, his eyes sought one of the nearby mirrors, and I could see him flexing his neck slightly.
Mother and I exchanged a glance. And then, since she was back and had everything under control, I headed for the privacy of the storage room to call Stanley.
“Michael’s still in the meeting with the college Finance people,” I told Stanley when I’d reached him. “With any luck he’ll have approval to hire you by afternoon. But for right now we’re still on hold.”
“That’s great,” he said. “But meanwhile I thought of something you can do right now. He’s driving a rental car, right?”
“Until and unless one of the chief’s deputies catches him driving under the influence, yes.”
“One of Van Shiffley’s fleet of silver Hondas?”
“What else?”
None of the major car rental companies had a branch here in Caerphilly, so anyone who wanted to rent a car locally went to the Caerphilly Car Rental, owned by one of Randall’s cousins. Due to his obsessive-compulsive disorder, Van couldn’t stand it unless all his rental stock matched, so if a late model silver Honda Accord didn’t meet your needs, you were out of luck. On the plus side, also thanks to his OCD, every one of his cars was cleaner than the average operating room and ran perfectly, so for the most part people found they could live with the silver Accords.
“Good,” Stanley said. “Have Randall call Van and get his permission for us to put a GPS tracker in Haver’s rental car.”
“It that legal?”
“Wouldn’t be legal for us to bug Haver’s own car, but Van owns the rental car, so he has a right to know where it’s going.”
“Great idea.” I tried not to kick myself for not thinking of it before.
“I’ve got a couple of devices, so once Randall convinces Van it’s a good idea, I’ll take care of the paperwork and installation.”
“I’ll call him as soon as we hang up.”
“Then I’ll talk to you later.”
But I decided to text Randall rather than calling him. If I called, the conversation might take longer. He would ask if I’d found a third camel for this year’s holiday parade or if one of the wise men would have to ride in a llama cart like last year. He’d order me to make another call to our heavy equipment distributor to remind them that the county still hadn’t received the new snowplow we’d ordered from them in July. He’d remind me that I’d be representing Caerphilly at Temple Beth El’s Hanukkah celebration later this week because he had to make an overnight trip down to Richmond to see his grandmother through her cataract surgery. He’d remind me of a thousand things that were already on my list—in some cases, things I’d already done and told him about. December wasn’t Randall’s most organized season. Texting him would save both of us time.
I fired off an admirably succinct explanation of what Stanley had suggested. Then I headed back down the hall to see how Mother and Haver were getting along.
I was slightly alarmed to find the costume shop empty and silent. Well, not entirely silent—the radio was playing a soft instrumental rendition of “As with Gladness Men of Old.” And when I stepped inside, I spotted Mother, sitting in one corner, frowning over her sketchbook.
But no sign of Haver.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“In his dressing room,” she said. “His agent barged in and insisted on dragging him off for a conference.”
“So his agent has arrived,” I said. “That’s good.”
“Good?” Mother raised one eyebrow. “Clearly you haven’t met the agent yet.”
“No, and I’m fully prepared to dislike him intensely,” I said. “After all, he’s the one who suckered the college legal department into accepting those ridiculous provisions to Haver’s contract. But the fact that he’s here is good. We’re going to put pressure on him see if he can get his client to straighten himself out.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” From her facial expression, I suspected she’d almost said “when” rather than “if.”
“Then Michael will be playing Scrooge before the run is out,” I said. “Because at the rate Haver’s going, Dad thinks he might well end up in the hospital before too long.”
In the hospital or dead had been Dad’s complete diagnosis, but I was superstitious about mentioning the latter possibility. Or maybe just sensibly wary of mentioning it out loud in a room to which Haver might be returning at any minute.
“That reminds me, Meg—you may need to help me steer your father’s conversation into suitable channels for a day or so.”
“Why? What’s he up to now?” Dad’s hobbies and obsessions were almost never suitable for polite company—you’d think Mother would have resigned herself by now.
“You know he and your cousin Horace went over to Clay County yesterday to help them identify that unfortunate soul they found in the woods.”
“I still can’t believe Clay County asked for our help on something,” I said. “We’re talking about the John Doe, the hunter who died of exposure, right?”
“Yes. Apparently the deceased gentleman was not an optimal candidate for fingerprinting,” Mother said, with her usual delicacy. “He’d been out in the woods for several days. Lying in a stream, I believe.”
Yes, fingerprinting dead bodies was exactly the sort of thing Dad was likely to bring up at the dinner table. And exactly the sort of thing Mother would want to squelch—especially if visiting relatives were present.
“And of course, even in Clay County they’ve heard what wonderful results Horace has achieved with difficult fingerprinting subjects.” Mother sounded torn. On the one hand, she was always delighted at the opportunity to boast about her family’s accomplishments. But she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Horace’s growing reputation for being able to fingerprint corpses thought to be too far gone for identification.
“And of course they’re both so proud of themselves,” she added.
“Both of them? So Horace got some fingerprints? Is Dad taking partial credit?”
“Horace only got a couple, but
that might be enough to identify the poor soul,” Mother said. “And your father was able to tell them that he hadn’t died of exposure at all—he’d suffered a head wound. Probably in the fall—the stream they found him in was at the bottom of a deep ravine.”
“I’m not sure how useful Dad’s discovery is,” I said. “The poor man’s still dead.”
“Yes, dear, but it was probably quicker than death by exposure. It might be of some comfort to the family, to know he hadn’t suffered. Still, if they do find out who he is, I really think they ought to wait until after Christmas to notify his family.”
“Given the way they usually do things in Clay County, they probably won’t get around to notifying them until after Fourth of July,” I said. “I’m surprised Dad doesn’t suspect foul play.”
“Actually, he does, of course,” Mother said. “But then he almost always does if there’s even the slightest possibility. And even the Clay County Sheriff knows that, so I’m afraid they didn’t really pay him much mind. Goodness!” She shook her head slightly, as if clearing out cobwebs. “What a gloomy subject. Let’s talk about something more cheerful. More festive!”
“Like how lucky we are that, unlike Clay County, we don’t have any unidentified bodies here in Caerphilly, spoiling the Christmas festival?”
“Like how well the play is shaping up,” Mother suggested instead. “And—oh dear; I need to be over at the church in a few minutes. I’ll leave our wayward charge to you for the time being.”
“Have fun. And don’t worry. If necessary, I’ll let Dad tell me all about his latest body, so he can get it out of his system before the relatives arrive.” Or maybe I’d just tell him not to talk about it. Leave Clay County’s problems to them.
Mother stayed long enough to survey the costume shop—her temporary domain—and nod with satisfaction. Over the past few weeks, under her supervision, the costume shop had undergone a dramatic change, from utter chaos to a degree of neatness and organization that almost amounted to décor. She’d even brought in a tiny Christmas tree and drafted some of the set crew to festoon the costume shop with fir garlands, giving rise to retaliatory decorating in many of the other backstage areas. Anyone allergic to evergreen would find no haven anywhere in the theater, and I was getting tired of ordering the sound and light crew to take down the mistletoe they kept hanging in unexpected places.
I was under no illusions that the shop would stay the same once the show was over, but it would probably take several years to sink to its previous wretched state. And as Michael and I had already discussed, we could always invite Mother to costume another show whenever we saw that the shop was beginning to get out of hand.
“Although maybe I should have her design a set sometime soon,” Michael had suggested. “I’d love to see her work her magic on the scenery and prop shops.”
As Mother left, I pulled out my phone and called Michael.
“Guess who showed up,” I said.
“Haver?”
“Even better, I think—his agent. You want me to give him the opening salvo and let you come in and bandage his wounds when you get here?”
We’d already discussed how to handle Vince O’Manion, the agent. Our strategy was for me to play bad cop to Michael’s good cop. Our only disagreement was on whether or not this was typecasting. I said yes; Michael, gallantly, insisted it was not.
“Go for it,” he said.
Chapter 5
So armed with Michael’s encouragement, I tucked my phone in my pocket and headed upstairs, where the stage and the dressing rooms were, in search of Haver’s agent.
As I stepped out of the stairwell, I saw a tall, stoop-shouldered figure standing in the wings, watching the set crew work and the Cratchits rehearse. Not someone I recognized, so either it was O’Manion—whom I hadn’t yet met in person, though I’d seen his picture on his website—or another tourist come to gawk and needing to be kicked out.
“May I help you, sir?” I called.
The man turned toward me, frowning.
“I certainly hope so. I’m looking for Mr. Michael Waterston, the director. The crew members don’t seem to know where he is.”
Definitely O’Manion. A good twenty years older than the photo on the website, but I could still recognize him.
“He’s in a meeting at the moment,” I said. “Perhaps I can help you. Meg Langslow. Assistant director.”
“Ms. Langslow.” He held out his hand and his face took on an ingratiating expression. “Vince O’Manion. Malcolm has told me how much he enjoys working with you.”
“How nice of him,” I said, in a tone calculated to make it clear that I knew either he was lying or Haver was. “Michael will be back shortly, but in the meantime, he asked me to have a few words with you. Just a moment.”
I walked out onto the stage and stood in the spotlight the light techs had been working on.
“Roger?” I called, looking around.
“Right here.” Our lighting designer stepped out of the shadows.
“Mr. Haver is—in his dressing room?” I glanced at O’Manion, who shrugged. “Now would be a perfect time to let him show you exactly where he wants that spotlight.”
“Won’t do any good,” Roger muttered to me, too low for O’Manion to hear. “Not as long as he keeps showing up too drunk to hit his marks.”
“Just find him and keep him here as long as you can while I have a little chat with his agent,” I said.
Roger nodded and ambled back into the shadows. I rejoined O’Manion.
“This way,” I said.
I led the way through the backstage area to the lobby. Haver was there peering into the finch cage again. O’Manion and I stopped for a moment to watch him.
“‘Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!’” Haver intoned. “‘Bird thou never wert…’”
“Is he reciting Shakespeare to those birds?” O’Manion asked.
“Actually, that’s Shelley.” I pulled out my phone and began texting Haver’s whereabouts to Roger. “Usually it’s Shakespeare, though.”
“‘That from heaven, or near it / Pourest thy full heart…’” Haver continued.
The birds were twittering cheerfully, as if they liked his recitation. Or maybe it was the attention. Rose Noire was watching him with a slight frown on her face.
So was O’Manion.
“They seem particularly fond of ‘Sonnet Eighteen,’” I said. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ This way.”
I led him into the wing that housed the classrooms, and we took the elevator up to the faculty office floor. I could see O’Manion was impressed, although he was clearly trying to hide it. He’d better be impressed. Everything about the Dr. J. Montgomery Blake Dramatic Arts Building was first class and state of the art—Grandfather made sure of that when he gave the college the money to build it. I ushered O’Manion into Michael’s office, which was large, comfortable, and right next door to the even larger and more comfortable office of the department chairman—an office that we were guardedly optimistic Michael would be occupying in a few years when the current chairman retired.
I had to move aside part of the mountain of brightly wrapped presents heaped around the foot-high Christmas tree that stood just inside the door. O’Manion glanced at the presents with a small frown—not quite a “bah, humbug,” but definitely in the same neighborhood. So I didn’t bother to explain that Michael and I were hiding the boys’ Christmas presents here—out of the house and thus unavailable for investigation by busy fingers and prying eyes. And since the boys did occasionally visit their dad’s office, especially while rehearsing for A Christmas Carol, all the boxes were camouflaged with tags that made them look as if they were for his various colleagues in the department.
Michael had left his radio on and tuned to the college station’s carol marathon. Much as I loved “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” I clicked the radio off. This wasn’t going to be a very Christmassy conversation.
“I hope they made you comfort
able at the Inn,” I said.
“Very,” he said. “It’s a remarkably nice place.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was, a little.”
“To find such a nice hotel in a small town like Caerphilly? Or had Mr. Haver given you the impression that we’d put him up in a place a cut or two below a Motel 6?”
He opened his mouth—no doubt to protest that no, of course his client hadn’t complained. And then he chuckled and nodded.
“Actually, from the way he’s been carrying on, I expected the kind of dump that rents rooms by the hour. You’d think after forty years, I’d have learned to take Malcolm’s complaints with a grain of salt. He gets a little hyper when he’s working on a role, that’s all. Bouncing back and forth between elation and despair—you know the creative temperament. That’s why I thought I’d drop in a few days before the opening. Provide a little moral support.”
Actually, he’d dropped in because Michael had called and left a message threatening to can Haver, and had then dodged his calls for two days—a tactic deliberately calculated to bring O’Manion running to town to wave the impossible contract at us.
I decided to be blunt.
“Any chance you could also help us keep him sober enough to go onstage under his own steam on opening night?”
He froze for a moment.
“According to Malcolm’s contract—” he began.
“I’ve read his contract, thank you. You put a good one over on the college legal department. As long as he can stumble out onstage and utter some reasonable facsimile of human speech, we can’t fire him. But the way he’s going, he won’t even be able to do that before long. Maybe even by opening night.”
O’Manion didn’t say anything. Didn’t nod or shake his head. Just sat, looking at me, braced as if expecting me to whack him with a two-by-four.
“We don’t want him to fail,” I went on. “Neither do you. This was supposed to be the start of his big comeback, right?”
O’Manion gave a barely perceptible nod.
“So work with us. Help us turn this around.”
He let out a long breath.
How the Finch Stole Christmas! Page 4