“Kayla,” the chief said over his shoulder. “Let Vern know exactly who he’ll be taking into custody. And make sure he’s aware of Aida’s latest discovery.”
In other words, that the gun I’d found was missing and Haver might be armed. Kayla nodded, and she and I watched as he led Mrs. Hammerschmidt out to her car.
“Good thinking, Meg,” Kayla said. “No wonder we couldn’t find him anywhere. Do you suppose this will give him an alibi for the murder?”
“Maybe,” I said. “We don’t yet know the time of the murder. What if he killed Willimer and ran out of gas on his way back to the Caerphilly Inn?”
“Yes,” Kayla said. “And it doesn’t sound as if anyone was keeping an eye on him after he got to the Bluebird House. What if he was only pretending to be drunk and snuck out to commit the murder?”
“He’d also have to be pretending to have had car trouble,” I said. “But yeah, also possible. I like the way you think.”
“Just for the record, I am not going to change my major,” Kayla said. “No matter how much everyone tells me how good I would be at police work and how wonderful it would be for me to follow in my mother’s footsteps and be a third-generation law enforcement officer. I am a music major!”
“Right on,” I said.
“Although criminal justice would make a fascinating minor,” she added. “Oh! Here’s Vern calling. I need to brief him.”
I glanced at my phone. Almost noon. Rehearsal was technically due to start any minute, but obviously Haver wasn’t going to make it on time. Whether he made it at all would depend on what he had to say when the chief got him back here to the station.
I waited for Kayla to get off the phone.
“Could you do me a favor?” I asked.
“Sure—what?”
“When the chief finishes with Mr. Haver, could you give me a call? I’ll need to know whether to pick him up for rehearsal or find him a defense attorney and deliver his jammies to the jail.”
“Can do. Good grief.”
“What?”
“The update to the BOLO on Mort Gormley.” She held up the paper the chief had put on her desk. “Says he may be driving a 1956 Ford F-100 pickup truck. Would something that old even run?”
“Probably not very fast,” I said. “And it would certainly stand out on the highway.”
“Well, that’s good, I suppose. Not much chance of a high-speed chase. The chief hates those.”
I laughed, and waved good-bye, since she had already turned to the microphone to send out the updated BOLO. I strolled out to the parking lot. When I got to my car, I called Michael.
“I do have both good news and bad news to offer,” I announced when he answered the call.
“Go ahead—rub it in.”
“The good news is that we’ve located Haver.”
“I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“The bad news is that he probably won’t be there in time for rehearsal, and may or may not have an alibi for the murder.”
“Damn.”
“But all is not lost,” I added. “There’s at least one other suspect—a neighbor who thinks Willimer’s dogs were killing his sheep.”
“I’m not sure I like that any better,” Michael said. “Especially at this festive time of year, aren’t the shepherds supposed to be out abiding in their fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night?”
“Maybe that’s what he thought he was doing,” I said. “If something attacked one of his sheep again couldn’t he have gone in search of the neighbor he suspected of owning a sheep-killing dog?”
“It’s possible.” He sounded dubious.
“You don’t like my theory of the crime?”
“I like any theory of the crime that doesn’t end up with one of my cast locked up for it,” he said. “Just feeling a little pessimistic. What are you up to next?”
“I’m going home to take a shower, throw the filthy clothes I wore into the House of a Million Cats into the washer, and see how crowded our barn is getting before I head back to the theater. Unless you really need me for anything at rehearsal. Will you be starting late?”
“No, we’ll be starting on time, with me doing Haver’s role. Just in case we need to do without him permanently. Or as on time as possible, given that some of the cast members might be still shoveling themselves out. But I can do without you for an hour or two. We might be going late tonight. Take a nap. I’ll call if I need you.”
A nap. Yeah, that sounded enticing.
I pointed the Twinmobile for home.
There were only a few cars parked outside our house, and most of them belonged to Mother’s helper bees. Since so many family members were coming to see the opening of the play, she’d gone into decorating overdrive, and the downstairs floor of our house looked more like an upscale Christmas boutique than any place people really lived. The helper bees seemed to be standing around in the front yard arguing about something. I stopped to inquire what the trouble was.
“We spent hours doing the fairy lights,” one male helper said. “Draping them over the hedge and the shrubs and the trees and the sheds and the fences and—”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “Over everything that didn’t run away when you approached it with a string of lights. It looks very nice.” It was also so bright outside you could read a book with only the fairy lights on, which made it a little difficult to get the kids to go to sleep on time, but I kept reminding myself that Christmas only came once a year. And only stayed a month. Or possibly two in the years like this one, when Mother got a particularly early start.
“And now all the fairy lights are covered up with snow,” the helper said.
“And this idiot wants to knock all the snow off,” a woman helper said. “Which will take forever, and won’t look that nice when it’s done. What’s wrong with just leaving the snow? It’s just as beautiful as the fairy lights, and when it melts, the fairy lights will still be there.”
“Leave the snow,” I said. “We like the snow. The boys would be heartbroken if a single flake went away.”
The male helper looked glum, but he nodded.
“But hey—the fairy lights are waterproof, right?”
He nodded again.
“Plug some of them in—let’s see if you can see them glowing through the snow.”
“I never thought of that!” the woman helper exclaimed. “That might look rather nice.”
“And unusual,” the man said. “We’ll test that right away.”
They all scurried away, presumably to do the testing. I headed for the barn.
Which looked as if someone was setting up a pet shop there. Someone with a profound fondness for cats and absolutely no notion of what constituted a proper assortment of dogs. Dozens of enormous cat carriers were lined up all along one wall, some of them stacked two or three high, and an undertone of mewing, hissing, growling, and purring filled the room. The golden retrievers occupied the vacant stalls, with the puppies adding their excited high-pitched yipping to the concert.
Mrs. Wiggins, our recently acquired Guernsey cow—named after a character in Freddie the Detective, one of the boys’ favorite books—was peering over the door of her stall, watching everything that was going on with her usual calm curiosity.
I found Dad and Grandfather in a box stall that seemed to have been set up as a temporary veterinary clinic. They were working on one of the golden retriever puppies. The mother dog was lying in the straw nearby calmly watching, as if she knew her puppies were finally in trustworthy hands. The puppy’s littermates—a seemingly improbable number of them, at least eight or nine—were running riot all over the rest of the stall.
“What are you doing to them anyway?” I asked, as the puppy they were holding began yipping in pain or protest.
“Chipping them,” Dad said. “Giving them a thorough checkup.”
“Collecting stool samples to check for worms,” Grandfather added.
“And starting them on t
heir vaccinations,” Dad finished. “The chief’s search of Willimer’s house showed no medical records whatsoever for any of the animals.”
“Disgraceful,” Grandfather muttered.
“Although fortunately so far, all of the animals are basically healthy.” Dad beamed as he announced this. “Some of them a little undernourished, but that will be easy to take care of. I think this little guy is the last of this litter.”
We chased puppies around the stall for a few minutes, checking to see that they all had their new collars—each pup within the litter, Dad explained, had a different colored collar, so the foster families could tell them apart. And each collar carried a tag whose number corresponded with the microchip they’d just implanted in the collar’s owner. As we collected them we popped them into a large dog carrier in one corner of the stall. As soon as we deposited the first puppy in it, the mother dog rose, took a leisurely stretch, and walked over to the door of the carrier, where she waited patiently for someone to let her in. Clearly she was adjusting well to her new surroundings.
“This batch is ready,” Dad said.
“Where’s it going?” Grandfather asked.
“Judge Jane, I think. Randall’s going to pick them up as soon as we give him a call. Yes, here it is.”
Dad and Grandfather were studying a list. I peered over their shoulders and saw that it was a list of people, mostly locals. Some had already been assigned one or more dogs or cats—the animals’ chip information was scribbled beside the foster’s name, and a few even had check marks in the column marked “Delivered.” Most of the other names had notes indicating how many animals they’d agreed to take. A few had a bold “no!” written beside them, and the rest bore question marks—meaning, I assumed, that either they hadn’t yet been asked or they hadn’t yet made up their minds.
“Yes, that’s Jane’s batch,” Grandfather said.
“That’s six litters down and only two to go,” Dad said. “Time to do some more cats, I think.”
“Bloody cats,” Grandfather muttered.
Chapter 24
Dad and Grandfather walked outside the stall and contemplated the wall of cats with expressions that fell far short of enthusiasm. Which was odd—neither of them disliked cats. In fact, Grandfather was fond of remarking, in approving tones, that cats were better survivors than dogs, having retained more of their original wild behavior.
I noticed that the wall of cat cages was divided into two segments, with a four-foot break between them. On the right side of the break, all the cats wore collars and the cages had tags on them. I walked closer and inspected some of the tags, which contained the animal’s chip number, a list of the tests and vaccinations and general notes about the observations they’d made during their examination. And most of the cats wore the same expression of indignation and resentment that Mother’s cat usually displayed when I brought him back from a visit to Clarence.
The cats to the left of the break were devoid of collars and their cages bore no informative tags, so I decided they were the patients-in-waiting. And at least two-thirds of the cats were on the left side.
No wonder Dad and Grandfather were less enthusiastic about the cats. Most of them were full grown and could do more damage with a single swipe of one paw than an entire litter of fuzzy little puppies could dream of in a lifetime.
“Where’s Clarence, anyway?” I tried not to make it sound too much like “why isn’t he doing some of this?”
“You just missed him,” Grandfather said. “We’re running low on veterinary supplies, so he’s driving over to Tappahannock to borrow some from a colleague.”
“Meg, could you bring over the next cat in line on the left?” Dad said, pointing.
“I’ll get the bait,” Grandfather said.
Bait? Well, I’d find out soon enough what he meant by that. I picked up the top cat carrier on the last stack on the left, which looked fully large enough to fit Tinkerbell, Rob’s Irish wolfhound. But to my relief the carrier contained only a single cat, a large gray tabby with white tuxedo and four white paws. He—or she—didn’t like being singled out, and made a futile but persistent effort to get a paw through the holes in the side of the carrier and scratch me.
“Put the carrier down on the floor and we’ll expose him to the bait,” Grandfather said.
“What do you mean, expose him to the bait?” I asked. “What bait?”
As if to answer, Grandfather held up a small wire cage in which a white mouse was vigorously turning his running wheel. Grandfather then set the cage in front of the still-closed door of the cat carrier.
The gray tabby immediately became transfixed. He pressed his nose to the wire grille in the front of the plastic cage and stared unblinkingly at the mouse, occasionally lashing his tail and uttering soft, throaty noises.
“Reasonably strong response to the prey animal,” Grandfather said, nodding with approval while Dad made notes on his clipboard. “Don’t worry,” he said, noting my frown. “I knew you’d fuss if we brought a mouse into your barn, even if we were planning to keep him in a cage, so I neutered him before I brought him over. They only live about two years, so even if he gets loose he can’t possibly cause more than a small, temporary infestation.”
“Actually, I was about to ask if that’s someone’s pet mouse you’re traumatizing.”
“No, I snagged one of the live mice we keep for the snakes we haven’t been able to train to eat their food frozen,” Grandfather said. “I’ve given him a reprieve.”
“A permanent one, I hope, considering what you’re doing to him.”
“Yes, I think so.” Grandfather studied the mouse, whose only response to the proximity of the cat was to redouble his running speed. “I did pick him because he seemed less timid than some of the other mice, but he has definitely exceeded my expectations. I’m almost sorry I neutered him. But with his help, I think we can find your friend Muriel an excellent mouser. In fact, so far at least two thirds of these cats show excellent promise as mousers. Should make them easier to place in a rural community.”
“So that’s what this is all about,” I said. “Sorry, Mr. Mouse; I am the cause of all your suffering today.”
“He’ll be fine,” Grandfather said. “I’ll give him a really good dinner when we’re finished for the day.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t become someone’s dinner,” I warned.
“Put him away for now and let’s get working on the cat.” Dad had donned long padded gloves and something that looked like a fencing mask, and was holding out a similar set of equipment for Grandfather. “Meg, can you get ready to hand me the cat blanket?”
“As long as I can keep my distance.” I picked up the blanket Dad was pointing to, which looked as if countless cats’ claws had already made a good start at turning it into confetti.
Together Dad and Grandfather extracted the gray tabby from his carrier, wrapped him so that only his head protruded from the tattered blanket and began the arduous task of examining, chipping, and vaccinating him. Even after his claws were safely swaddled he seemed remarkably adept at causing trouble and inflicting damage.
“Clearly, given the large number of cats in her possession, Mrs. Frost was unable to do much toward socializing any of them,” Grandfather said through gritted teeth.
I began to understand why they’d made more progress with the dogs than the cats. I confess, I watched the whole process with fascination. Amazing that an ordinary housecat could wreak so much havoc against two highly trained professionals. As they were finishing up, I went out into the main part of the barn and did a quick count of the cages left. Seventy-four of them.
I wasn’t optimistic that we’d make that deadline of having the animals out by tomorrow morning—at this rate, they’d still be chipping and vaccinating on Christmas Day. Maybe even on Easter Sunday. But by the look of it, they were making some progress, and had enough foster prospects to take care of at least three-quarters of the animals. When my deadline arrived, we�
��d have a lot fewer leftover animals than I’d feared.
“I gather all the wild animals are out at the zoo,” I said.
“And doing just fine,” Grandfather said. “Although they compound the problem of where to put that big batch of finches if Fish and Wildlife seizes them anytime soon.”
“Which reminds me,” Dad said. “Has Ruiz called back? That’s your grandfather’s friend from Fish and Wildlife.”
“No.” Grandfather shook his head. “Normally he’s very quick to respond—especially when I leave him a message about a possible link to a smuggling ring. Of course he does have that big bust going down.”
“Or perhaps he’s taking a few days off for the holiday,” I suggested.
“Laurencio? Hardly.” Grandfather shook his head decisively.
I turned to go, and then remembered something.
“I have a question,” I announced to Dad and Grandfather. “Does the word ‘Weaseltide’ mean anything to either of you?”
“Not offhand.” Grandfather tested the latch on the gray tabby’s carrier. “Is it supposed to?”
I explained about the person who had asked Robyn for permission to hold Weaseltide at Trinity.
“That sounds rather ominous.” Grandfather frowned and paused in the act of adjusting the cover on the mouse cage. “I think you need to find out what this Weaseltide is all about.”
“That’s why I asked you if you’d heard of it,” I said.
“Maybe I’m overly suspicious,” he went on. “But I would hate for Trinity to enable some kind of weasel hate group.”
“Are there organized weasel hate groups?” I asked.
“Groups that have bought into all the negative press that weasels get.”
“What negative press?”
“A great many cultures have very negative associations about weasels.” He had settled into his lecture mode, and I realized that whether I wanted to or not, I was probably about to learn a great many fun facts about weasels. I reminded myself to be patient—after all, something he said might give me a clue to what Weaseltide was.
How the Finch Stole Christmas! Page 16