How the Finch Stole Christmas!

by Donna Andrews

  “Damn, I hope they put me in solitary,” Mrs. Frost grumbled.

  Just then my phone rang. Michael.

  “We’re starting rehearsal again in an hour,” he said. “Are the boys with you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And I can bring them over in an hour.”

  “Great,” he said. “Since we’re giving up on Haver, and I want to get in at least one complete run-through with me in the role.”

  “Actually, we may not have to give up on Haver,” I said. “I might be able to bring him along with the boys.”

  “Are you sure the police won’t just show up to arrest him?”

  “No, I think they’ve found the real killer,” I said. “I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

  “Fabulous,” he said. “Now all I need is for someone to figure out why Haver’s agent is running around the theater with his hands covered with mousetraps and flypaper.”

  Chapter 38

  “So this is Weaseltide!” Robyn stood just inside the doorway of Trinity’s parish hall, surveying the celebration in progress.

  “They probably could have held it in Melisande’s bed-and-breakfast,” I noted. “They wouldn’t even have been very crowded.”

  “But this is so much more festive—and if they’d held it at the bed-and-breakfast, we wouldn’t have been able to join in the fun.” Robyn beamed approval at the twelve Haverers in attendance. And at the several times as many locals who’d showed up to bring food and stayed to help celebrate. In Caerphilly, people perked up their ears at the mere mention of a potluck event. If you added in the fact that certain people were bringing their specialties, you could guarantee standing room only. And as Caerphilly potluck events went, this was a winner. Muriel, from the diner, had brought three different kinds of her prize-winning pies. Minerva Burke, the chief’s wife, had brought her meatballs in grape jelly and chili sauce, usually one of the first dishes to disappear. Randall had brought several hams from one of his cousins who raised free-range, organic heritage-breed pigs. Some of the non-cooks had chipped in to get large pizzas and pans of lasagna from Luigi’s, everyone’s favorite Italian restaurant. Even Rose Noire’s Tofu Surprise was a hit—the surprise being that she’d managed to make the stuff not only edible but reasonably tasty. And there were three kinds of green bean casserole, four kinds of pasta salad, mashed potatoes with and without skins or garlic, vegetarian and carnivore stuffed shells, corn on the cob, fresh baked rolls and biscuits, huge tubs of Greek and tossed salad—I gave up trying to make a complete list. The only thing we didn’t have was wine or beer, because we didn’t want to expose Malcolm Haver to any more temptation than necessary.

  “The buffet is definitely a hit,” I said. “But I think they could have gotten along without that.” I pointed to the VHS tape player we’d scrounged up. It was hooked up to the large TV screen at one end of the parish hall, but except for a ceremonial playing of the blooper reel—which I learned was a compilation of silly mistakes the cast had made during the filming of Dauntless Crusader—the VHS player had been largely ignored.

  “I think its importance is mostly symbolic,” she said. “With all due respect to Mr. Haver, I don’t think Weaseltide is entirely about him anymore. Or the television show. I think it’s about friendship. Think of it—these women have been part of this group since their teens or twenties—nearly four decades of friendship.”

  I nodded. They were a diverse group. Ten white, one black, one Asian-American. I found myself wondering how the latter two had become such devoted fans of a short-lived television show about medieval England—and 1980s Hollywood’s version of medieval England at that. To each her own.

  Some of the Haverers were staying at the Inn. Some had found bed-and-breakfasts with less rarified room prices. They must have planned this excursion months in advance to have gotten rooms in town at this time of year. Three were bunking in a dilapidated travel trailer parked beside our barn. Some looked spry enough to run a marathon. Several leaned on canes. One cruised around on a mobility scooter. Some were dressed in their Sunday best. Some in jeans.

  And while they were all delighted to have Malcolm Haver attending their party, I could tell that most of them weren’t bowled over or intimidated by his presence. Melisande was pretty excited, and one other was hanging on his every word, but the rest were treating him with kindness, with deference—but definitely without hero worship.

  Still, they were here, not just attending Weaseltide but spending good money to stay in Caerphilly and attend A Christmas Carol. Haver was visibly pleased.

  He even seemed to be enjoying the homely yet festive atmosphere of the parish hall. The various children’s Bible classes had made most of the decorations, and Haver seemed as charmed as the parishioners with the results—particularly the various nativity scenes that dotted the walls between the construction paper wreaths and popcorn garlands. I took a few pictures myself: the wise men carrying gifts wrapped in red paper with big gold bows on the top. The wise men carrying gifts in giant sacks like camel-riding Santas. The shepherds whose flocks looked less like sheep than llamas. The angels flying over the manger with their comic-book-style superhero capes billowing behind them.

  “So this is Weaseltide.” Chief Burke was sipping a glass of ginger ale punch and looking a lot more relaxed than he had twenty-four hours previously. “Nice bunch of people, these Haverers.”

  “How are things over at the station?” I asked.

  “Still crazy,” he said. “I’ve got people there from Federal agencies I’ve never heard of before, all fighting over who gets the next crack at Mr. Brickelhouse. Who is already singing like a canary and implicating all his criminal associates. Including Mrs. Frost. In fact, especially Mrs. Frost—to look at her, who’d imagine she was the criminal mastermind behind a major smuggling ring. With any luck, by this time tomorrow we’ll have sorted out who I’m extraditing Brickelhouse to and things can get back to normal around here.”

  “What about Mrs. Frost?” I asked. “Don’t they all want to extradite her, too?”

  “They’re even more interested in extraditing her, but they all understand that our murder investigation takes priority. Although it might not take too long before we can get rid of her—the district attorney is working on cutting a deal with her attorney.”

  “But will her attorney accept a deal?” I’d been worrying about this. “What if he tries to get her off with an insanity plea? All he has to do is show a few pictures of the cat infestation and the jury would know she’s a few ants short of a picnic. But that doesn’t mean she should get away with murder.”

  “An insanity defense is a lot harder to pull off than you’d think,” the chief said. “And regardless of what he says to the press, Mrs. Frost’s attorney knows that.”

  “And what if the jury falls for her sweet little old lady act?” I asked. “She’s very convincing, and it’s not as if I got any video of her kicking the puppies.”

  “We have a couple of witnesses to that.”

  “Only me, I’m afraid,” I said. “Haver was too busy having Shakespearean hysterics to notice the puppies were there.”

  “You and Jamie,” the chief said. “He made a point of telling me about the mean old lady who kicked the puppies. Don’t worry,” he added, seeing my face. “I think it’s very unlikely this will come to trial, and even if it does and we have to call Jamie as a witness—”

  “Just promise me that if it does go to trial and you do need to call him, you call Josh as well,” I said. “To testify about how he went to call 911. Because otherwise there will be no living with either of them.”

  “Understood,” he said. “But as I said, unlikely it will come to trial, but the threat of your testimony and that of the twins should help the DA reach a satisfactory deal. One that involves a non-trivial prison sentence. And after that, all those other agencies will be standing in line to prosecute her.”

  “At least Meredith Flugleman can stop worrying about finding someplace for her to live.
”

  “Yes.” The chief smiled slightly. “I expect she’ll be housed somewhere at the taxpayer’s expense for the rest of her life. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a smidgen more of that ham Randall brought before it all disappears.”

  He lifted his plastic punch glass to me in salute and headed for the buffet. I was about to follow suit when Stanley Denton appeared.

  “Evening.” He looked around to make sure no one was nearby before adding. “All clear. At the hotel and the theater. Not sure I would stake my life on it—alcoholics can be diabolically clever. But if he’s managed to hide a bottle someplace that neither Ekaterina nor I can find, then maybe we should tip off the CIA to recruit him.”

  “Excellent.” I raised my ginger ale and we clinked plastic cups.

  “Of course, I put a lot more faith in your cousin Maximilian,” Stanley said.

  “And even more faith in Haver’s own change of attitude,” I said. “I think the last two days gave him a wake-up call, and he’s genuinely trying to change.”

  “May it last for the whole run of the play,” Stanley said.

  “May it last the rest of his life,” I countered.

  He nodded and we clinked plastic cups again. Then he headed for the buffet, just as Vince O’Manion strolled over to my side.

  “You must try one of these.” O’Manion plopped something on my plate—a small object impaled on a red toothpick with little fronds of gold tinsel at the top.

  “What is it?” I peered at the object, which looked rather like a fried dumpling.

  “Just try it.” He picked up the object by its toothpick and aimed it at my mouth.

  “I’m not asking out of pickiness,” I said, forcing his hand back toward the plate. “The last time I let someone feed me something that looked like that it turned out to be Crab Rangoon, and I’m allergic to crustaceans. I have no desire to spend opening night in the ER.” Actually, my allergy wasn’t all that severe—a Benadryl had been enough to quell the Crab Rangoon side effects. But I was well aware that repeated exposure to an allergen could increase my sensitivity to it, and on top of that I simply disliked the taste of crab.

  “Pork gyoza,” O’Manion said. “Japanese version of a fried dumpling. I can ask Marcy for the complete list of ingredients if you like.”

  “As long as it’s not crab, shrimp, or lobster.” I picked up the gyoza and took a small bite. And then a larger one.

  “This is good.” I popped the last bit into my mouth. “In fact, it’s great,” I added when I could no longer be accused of talking with my mouth full.

  “I told you so.” He held out another gyoza. I nodded and snatched it as soon as it hit my plate.

  “There’s a dish full of them on that table,” he said, pointing. “If you want any, I’d go soon. I suspect they won’t last long once people taste them.”

  “I will. Who’s Marcy, anyway?”

  I assumed he’d point out the cook so I could go and thank her. I was surprised—and more than a little curious—to see him turn beet red.

  “She’s a friend of mine,” he said.

  “Here in Caerphilly?”

  “I see you’ve heard the invidious rumors—yes, Marcy was the … friend I was visiting the night of the murder.”

  I only nodded.

  “And I’m overjoyed that I’ve been able to help her find her real niche in life. I mean, it was pretty obvious that she wasn’t really cut out to be … um…”

  “A lady of the evening?” I suggested.

  “Yes. It was … well, never mind. But somehow we got to talking about food, and she offered me a piece of the apple cobbler she’d just made—ambrosia! And what that woman can do with a simple dish like shepherd’s pie! We stayed up till two in the morning, cooking and eating—she was doing the cooking, of course, though she pitched in a bit on the eating. And when I woke up the next morning—well, the next afternoon, actually—it occurred to me that she was wasting her talents here. And I happen to have a client who could use a cook. So I made a few phone calls, and in a day or so she’s flying out to California.”

  “To Hollywood? Or someplace more like Beverly Hills?”

  “Pacific Palisades,” he said. “Much trendier than Beverly Hills these days, if you have a few million to spare. There she is.”

  He pointed to the food table where a woman was putting out a steaming new tray of gyoza. She was a little shorter than me and about my shape—not fat, but comfortably padded and in no danger of being mistaken for an anorexic. She had a soft, round face and a pleasant smile. Not anyone I’d have ever picked as a call girl. But for a cook—definitely good casting.

  “Is this a client you dine with regularly?”

  “He will be from now on. Look, I wanted to thank you. This whole thing could have been a disaster, but I think it’s going to turn out all right. Malcolm’s got a whole new sense of purpose. He’s excited about a role for the first time in ages.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I was studying the last gyoza on his plate, wondering if he’d pitch a fit if I swiped it.

  “And whether he knows it or not, I am well aware that we have you to thank.” He seemed to notice my interest in the gyoza and took a bite out of it.

  “So has the chief given back your pistol yet or are you facing the wilds of Caerphilly unarmed?” Maybe it was a mean thing to ask, but he didn’t have to eat the gyoza right in front of me with quite so much lip-smacking ecstasy.

  “Alas.” He shook his head. “He’d already shipped it down to the state crime lab by the time you determined that the old lady was the killer. Apparently there’s a lot of red tape involved with getting it back.”

  “Frankly, I’m relieved to know we’ll have one less person packing on opening night,” I said. “What was the reason for hiding it in the ceiling, anyway?”

  “Malcolm had me convinced I could be thrown in jail just for carrying it around in Virginia,” Haver said. “And he was so furious with me that I was sure he’d turn me in, just to cause trouble. So I thought I’d hide it in his dressing room, where it’d be handy if I needed it, but the only person likely to get in trouble over it would be him. I have to admit, I was pretty terrified when I came back and found it missing.”

  I studied his face. I wasn’t rabidly anti-gun, but I did feel pretty strongly that anyone who did own a gun needed to be responsible about it. Bringing a gun someplace without checking into the legality of it, and then leaving it lying around where anyone could find it—as far as I was concerned, the longer the crime lab kept O’Manion’s lethal little security blanket away from him the better.

  “If coming here really makes you that anxious, hire a bodyguard,” I said. “I’m sure Mother could recommend one.”

  “I might just do that,” he said. “After all, for such a small place, you have had an awful lot of murders lately.” He popped the rest of the gyoza into his mouth. “Mmph-vreow,” he said—at least that’s what it sounded like through the gyoza. He waved and drifted off—in the direction of the buffet.

  I had every intention of following suit, but I had only taken a few steps toward the buffet when I ran into Haver himself.

  “Will you join me?” Haver handed me a plastic glass of punch. “‘The cups that cheer but not inebriate.’”

  “Not Shakespeare,” I said. “He was a ‘give all my fame for a pot of ale’ kind of guy.”

  “William Cowper.” Haver sipped his punch. “You know what’s the toughest part of this sobriety thing?”

  I shook my head.

  “Insomnia. That’s one of the ways I’ve always tended to fall off the wagon. The insomnia gets so bad, I take just one drink to help me doze off.”

  “Talk to my dad,” I said. “He’s a doctor, and I’m sure he’d be glad to help.”

  “And have him prescribe me some pills instead of booze?” Haver shook his head. “Not sure that’s any better.”

  “Dad’s big on natural treatment for insomnia,” I said. “He and my cousin R
ose Noire. Talk to both of them while you’re in town.”

  He nodded. Although he didn’t look convinced. I’d have a word with Dad and Rose Noire myself.

  “I bet the first thing they tell me to do is get rid of Fiona. My finch,” he added, as if he thought I might not remember. “And I suppose they’d be right. She is a bit of a challenge.”

  “You could always rehome Fiona at the zoo,” I said. “Grandfather has plenty of finches there to keep her company. She’d soon settle in.”

  “I suppose I should,” he said. “But dammit—I love her. She’s so beautiful, and she sings so sweetly. I’ve sort of come to see her as a symbol of my new sober life.”

  For my part, I’d have put more faith in Cousin Max, or whatever sober companion O’Manion could find when Haver left Caerphilly. But if Haver thought the finch helped, I wouldn’t argue with him.

  “I just wish she’d shut up at night,” Haver said, sounding more plaintive than resentful. “I think she sleeps all day when I’m away and sings all night.”

  “You can fix that easily enough,” I said. “Just put the cover on her cage. She’ll get used to sleeping when you do.”

  “Cover?” He looked startled. “You mean the cage was supposed to come with a special cover that makes them shut up?”

  “It’s not a special cover,” I said. “Just throw a blanket over it. Or an afghan. Anything that keeps out light and lets in air.”

  Did the man know nothing about birds?

  “And Fiona will go to sleep?”

  Evidently not.

  “Look,” I said. “I gather you’re a first-time pet owner. How about if I arrange for Clarence to give you a few lessons on bird care.”

  “Do you think he would?”

  “Of course. And what’s more—”

  “Meg, dear.”

  We both turned to find Mother standing behind us. Haver’s face took on a look of fear and anxiety.

  “Happy Weaseltide,” I said.

  “And a very merry Weaseltide to you both,” she said, lifting her cup of tea. “Mr. Haver.”