How the Finch Stole Christmas!

by Donna Andrews

  I found myself wondering if Haver’s alcohol problem dated back to his years on Dauntless Crusader.

  “I wish you’d explained that to Robyn,” I said. “The rector. I have no idea if she’d agree, even if the parish hall is free—”

  “Oh, and could you tell her it’s really a very quiet gathering?” Melisande said. “We absolutely forbid any alcoholic beverages, because we all know about Malcolm’s struggles over the years, and if he should decide to come—which he doesn’t usually, but we always try to let him know that we would love to have him! We usually do a potluck dinner, with soft drinks and iced tea, and if we can get a television and a VCR we might watch a few favorite episodes—they’ve never come out on DVD, more’s the pity, although Lady Constance, one of our members, keeps saying she’s going to convert them to DVD but she never has. And sometimes we read fanfic aloud, or have a trivia contest. But mostly we just get together and reminisce and enjoy each other’s company. We’ve all known each other for thirty-five years now.”

  “I’ll tell Robyn,” I said, “and see what she says.”

  We watched the rehearsal in silence for a minute or two.

  “Tell me,” she asked. “Is it true that the man who was murdered out at that farm was the one who was supplying Malcolm with drink?”

  My, how word gets around.

  “It looks that way.”

  “Good riddance, then.”

  Chapter 28

  I turned to glance at her, startled by the degree of anger in her tone. She glanced up at me.

  “Oh, I know it’s a terrible thing to say about another human being—but he was poisoning Malcolm. He’s always struggled bravely with all the difficulties that come along with having a creative personality. I’m not glad that awful man is dead, but I’m glad he’s out of Malcolm’s life.”

  She turned back to watching the rehearsal, and I made a mental note to share this conversation with the chief.

  “You’re welcome to come to the Weaseltide celebration if you’d like,” she said after a few moments. “Of course you’re probably already very busy opening night.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.

  “If there is an opening night for Malcolm,” she said softly.

  On stage, Michael and Haver were having a discussion. Not an argument, but clearly they were disagreeing over something. But politely. Maybe Haver didn’t need a minder. Maybe he just needed his agent in the front row, staring daggers at him.

  But then I glanced over at Melisande, her face wore a look of naked hatred.

  I had a bad feeling about this. Even if Melisande hadn’t killed Willimer, she was not playing with a full deck, mentally speaking. She wasn’t just a fan; she was a fanatic, in the truest sense of the word. And right now this arguably unbalanced woman was glaring daggers at my husband, just because he was having a small disagreement with her idol.

  I decided to see what I could do to defuse her anger.

  “I do hope Michael doesn’t have to go in to argue with the college authorities again,” I said. “So far he’s been able to convince them to keep Mr. Haver in the play, but you know how bureaucrats are. Absolutely no understanding of the creative mind.”

  She seemed to digest that for a moment, looking back at the stage with a puzzled frown.

  “Bureaucrats.” She shook her head in commiseration. “They’re the ones trying to get rid of Malcolm?”

  “And Michael’s fighting it,” I said. “That’s why he steps in whenever Malcolm doesn’t feel up to rehearsing. That way it’s just the director filling in. If the college bureaucrats got their way they would force him to hire an official understudy, who could very easily turn into a replacement—well, we don’t want that, do we? And Michael’s decided to hire someone to help Mr. Haver.” Actually, he didn’t know he’d decided this yet, but I’d tell him about it as soon as I got a chance.

  “Help Malcolm? How?”

  “Someone to be with him all the time, and make sure he chooses positive ways of coping with the pressure,” I said.

  “A sober companion.” Melisande nodded. “That’s a good idea. He always hates it when they do that to him, but it makes it so much easier for him to work.”

  Okay, maybe she wasn’t completely out of touch with reality. And why was I surprised that we weren’t the only group to have considered a minder for Haver?

  “If only someone had warned us,” I said. “We’d have had someone with him from day one.”

  “Probably his agent’s fault.” Now her steely glance was aimed at the agent.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But he’s doing his best now. Helping Michael fight the bureaucrats.”

  She nodded, her expression suggesting that she’d given O’Manion at least a temporary reprieve.

  Should I follow this up with a complaint that the bureaucrats in question had all gone out of town for the holidays? If she did turn out to be the killer—or a killer—I didn’t want her targeting random members of the college administration.

  “But all’s well for now,” I said. “The sober companion should be here soon—possibly by the time rehearsal’s over, and it should be clear sailing from now on.”

  Which was as close as I could come to saying “please, if you killed John Willimer in some misguided attempt to help Malcolm Haver get sober, you can stand down now.”

  “Well, I still need to talk to the police,” she said. “To tell them I can alibi Malcolm.”

  “Alibi him? How?”

  “I was at the Caerphilly Inn, making another attempt to see if I could cut a deal with them to rent a party room there,” she said. “And just as I was leaving, I saw Malcolm drive away. So I jumped into my car and caught up with him. I followed him to a house in a really fancy part of town. He parked there and went in. I waited for a while. In fact, quite a while—I didn’t mind, because I had my iPad and I could read a book. The snow was really coming down, but I wasn’t too worried, because the plows kept coming by regularly, but still, I was just about to give up and go back to my bed-and-breakfast when he came out. I followed him back to the Inn, and then after he went inside, I went back to the bed-and-breakfast.”

  I pondered this for a while. It didn’t match up at all with what we’d learned from Mrs. Hammerschmidt. But it was the chief’s job to sort that out, not mine. Though I did ask one question.

  “I don’t suppose you happened to notice the time during any of this.”

  She frowned slightly.

  “I can’t be sure of the time I left the Inn,” she said. “Maybe eight? Or maybe even later. Although I’m sure the lady manager at the Inn could tell you. She’s very … Teutonic, isn’t she?”

  “Slavic, not Teutonic.” I hoped she wouldn’t say that to Ekaterina’s face. I remembered her telling me that her grandfather had died in the Battle of Kursk—or was it the Battle of Kharkov?—so I didn’t think she’d appreciate being mistaken for German. “But yes, she’s very efficient.”

  “Anyway I know he left to go back to his hotel at one forty-five,” she said. “I remember it distinctly, because I was wondering if my landlady would be upset with me for coming in so late, and just then Malcolm got in his car and took off. And I have the address, too—I’m sure whoever Malcolm was visiting can confirm his alibi.” She rattled off an address that I recognized as being in Westlake. I jotted it down in my notebook.

  “Unless the person he was visiting is the person who is supplying him with Demon Rum,” she said. “That was the main reason I didn’t want to leave until he did. I thought perhaps if he was driving erratically, I could try to get him to pull over so I could take him back to the hotel. But his driving was perfectly fine, I’m relieved to say.”

  “I’m sure the chief will find your information very interesting,” I said. She smiled, and returned to watching the rehearsal.

  “Got to go,” I said as I stood up. “Work to do.”

  She barely acknowledged my departure. The run-through had begun again, and she had eyes on
ly for Haver.

  I paused at the door and looked back. The anger had left her features and she was once more happy and enthralled. I’d seen looks like that on my sons’ faces—less often, as they grew older. Watching a favorite movie. Awaiting the opening of the ice-cream maker. Contemplating the loot they’d gathered from trick-or-treating.

  I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Robyn.

  “Mystery solved,” I said. “Weaseltide = a gathering of Malcolm Haver’s fan club. Seems mostly harmless.”

  I was about to put my phone back in my pocket, but Robyn texted back almost immediately.

  “We can probably fit them in the afternoon of your opening night. Let’s talk tomorrow. Got to go—camels running amuck.”

  I was glad I knew that the camels in question were the six teenagers who’d been recruited to don hairy costumes and shamble down the nave in the wake of the wise men during the pageant. I tucked my phone away and hurried down to the costume shop where, as I hoped, I found Mother conferring with one of her costume crew minions.

  “I think we’re just going to have to make another one,” she said. “Meg, do you have any idea how Mr. Haver is managing to ruin his nightgowns so quickly?”

  I was about to shudder and disavow any knowledge of Haver’s nightwear when I realized she was holding up one of the ornate Victorian nightgowns Haver wore during his nocturnal expeditions with the three Christmas ghosts. Running down the left front of it was a large stain. Startling for the moment, but thanks to all of Dad’s dinner table talk of gruesome crimes and medical misadventures, I knew that a moderately fresh bloodstain would be reddish brown, not the purple-red I saw on the nightgown.

  “Red wine, do you think?” Mother asked.

  “Looks more like beet juice,” I said. “I have no idea why he would be drooling beet juice on himself while in costume, but the next time I search his dressing room I’ll keep an eye out for the stuff and confiscate it. By the way, have you found a minder for him? Actually, I guess we should say a sober companion—I found out that’s the official name for what we want.”

  “Your cousin Maximilian should be here this evening,” she said. “Luckily, he’s between jobs—though he isn’t all that fond of working as a sober companion. He prefers personal protection assignments—much less stressful.”

  “I’m glad you talked him into it, then. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, dear.” And then she turned back to her minion. “I really think we will have to make at least one spare. Would you be an angel and get that going? I’m going to consult my stain expert to see if there’s any way to treat this, but if it really is beet juice, it could be rather hard to get out.”

  I left them to their consultations and took the elevator up to the floor with Michael’s office. There I used his computer to print a stern warning sign that I could put on the back door. Then, once I’d tucked it into my tote, I leaned back in Michael’s desk chair and called the chief.

  Chapter 29

  “You will be delighted to know that thanks to you, I now know what Weaseltide is,” I said when I had him on the line. “It’s a gathering of Haverers. Which is what Malcolm Haver’s most avid fans call themselves. Apparently a bunch of them are coming to see the show on opening night and want to have a party afterward. Or beforehand. Melisande was a little vague on the details.”

  “Dear Lord,” he murmured. “Do you have any idea how many of these … Haverers we should be expecting?”

  “No idea. To hear Melisande talk, quite a bunch, but I wonder if she’s overly optimistic. I mean, after thirty-five years, how many people are really going to be that gung ho? And in case you’re worried, they don’t sound like a particularly wild bunch. I expect they’re mostly women in their fifties or sixties, and according to Melisande, their idea of a high old time is drinking soft drinks while watching old VHS tapes of his television show. Robyn’s probably going to give them the green light to have their celebration in the parish hall.”

  “The world is a curious place. I should probably talk to this Ms. Flanders.”

  “And she’s eager to talk to you,” I said. “She claims she can alibi Haver. Apparently she shares our concern over his tippling, and was out doing some surveillance of her own during last night’s snowstorm.” I related the gist of my conversation.

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, very interesting,” I said. “Considering that what we already know about Haver’s movements last night bears no resemblance to her story. He didn’t come back to the Inn at all, he stayed at the Bluebird. And for that matter, he took off from the Inn a lot earlier than eight or nine o’clock.”

  “They’re positive?”

  “They were on high alert. Checked his room every hour or so. So even if he snuck out of Mrs. Hammerschmidt’s bed-and-breakfast, he didn’t go back to the Inn. But in case you’re worried, I didn’t tell her that I already knew her story was a complete crock. I figured you’d want to do that.”

  “I appreciate your restraint.”

  “Of course, it’s possible that she’s not really lying.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone seemed to suggest that the chief was thinking this over.

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” he said finally.

  “Haver and O’Manion are both driving silver Honda Accords from Van Shiffley.”

  “You think she followed the wrong car?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Wouldn’t she have noticed that it wasn’t Haver getting into the car?”

  “Maybe she only spotted the car from a distance and assumed it was Haver’s,” I said. “It was after dark, and in the snow. Or maybe she left the Inn following Haver, lost him, and thought she’d found his car again when she’d actually run across O’Manion.”

  “Clearly I will need to check out both those possibilities. Thank you.”

  “Then again, I’m not sure how that theory fits in with what the staff at the Inn have to say,” I went on.

  “And that is?”

  “That O’Manion spent most of the evening with a … lady of the evening.”

  Silence on the other end. A rather long silence. Knowing the chief, I found myself wondering if he were blushing.

  “Did your fan indicate the address at which she was observing what she believed was Mr. Haver’s car?” he asked finally.

  “Yeah,” I said. “An address in Westlake.” Hadn’t he heard that part? I wasn’t fond of Westlake—most of its residents were snooty and pretentious. But if I were thinking of setting up shop as a prostitute, I didn’t think I’d pick Westlake.

  “Yes,” the chief said. “And the address was?”

  Now this was interesting. Maybe I was wrong about Westlake’s potential for harboring a den of iniquity. I opened up my notebook and read him the address. The chief sighed slightly.

  “And you heard this from?”

  “Staff gossip.” I didn’t want to get Sammy in trouble, so I added, “Some of them were trying to help out with the search for Haver.”

  Which wasn’t entirely a lie. They were helping, by searching both the building and the grounds repeatedly. But if the chief got the impression they had been prowling the streets of the town … “Keep this to yourself,” he said finally.

  “Do you mean there actually is a prostitute in Westlake?”

  “We have received anonymous reports to that effect,” he said. “We have no solid evidence to indicate that this is so. We do have some indication of … difficult interpersonal relationships between some of the residents.”

  “I’ve had neighbors I wasn’t fond of, but I didn’t call the cops and accuse them of being hookers,” I said. “So you think it’s just a nasty rumor?”

  “It’s possible,” he said. “And also possible that some of the residents disapprove of the degree to which a recently divorced neighbor may be enjoying her newly single status. For the moment, the important thing is that my deputies have been keeping a very
close eye on that part of Westlake, and their duty logs may contain evidence that corroborates or casts doubt on the alibis some of these witnesses will be giving me.”

  “But in the meantime, I should shut up about all of this so I don’t mess up your investigation.”

  “I would appreciate your discretion, yes.”

  After we hung up, I grabbed a couple of strips of tape for the sign. I locked up Michael’s office again and headed downstairs to post the sign on the inside of the back door. Then I went into the theater and stood near the back, watching the rehearsal.

  Up on stage they’d reached the scene where Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Past eavesdropped as the twenty-something Scrooge got his walking papers from Belle, his one-time fiancée.

  “Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.”

  “What idol has displaced you?”

  “A golden one.”

  Haver was in one of what I called his torpid moods, appearing to zone out whenever he didn’t have any lines of his own, as if nothing of the slightest interest could happen onstage if he wasn’t speaking. Which was annoying, but actually preferable to his scene-stealing moods, when he’d react so dramatically to anything the other actors said or did that the audience couldn’t focus on anything but him. And both very different from what Michael would have been doing—he had an uncanny ability to take the audience’s attention and direct it wherever it should be at any given point of the play. I wasn’t sure if there was even a name for it—maybe it was just called being a team player—but whatever it was, Haver either didn’t have it or didn’t often bother to use it.

  But he came alive again when his next line came round, and made you feel the pathos of Scrooge’s ordeal.

  “Spirit! Show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?”

  “One shadow more!”