Armed with what I’d learned in class, I determined that Haver’s gun was a semi-automatic, rather than a revolver. Which meant that it had a little metal thingie that slid into the grip—a magazine, that was the term. If I could slide out the magazine, I could remove the bullets. Which I should probably remember to call cartridges if I explained what I’d done to anyone who actually knew something about guns.
I looked around to see what direction to point the gun. Not toward the door, where someone could be passing. Or at the mirror over the dressing table. And Mother would kill me if I shot a hole in any of Haver’s elaborate Victorian costumes, so the wall with the clothes rod was out. Did I really want to shoot the blank concrete-block fourth wall and have the bullet ricochet back at me?
I pointed the gun up toward the acoustic tile ceiling. Then I began figuring out which of the little protuberances was the lever that would release the magazine. I got lucky on my third attempt, and the magazine popped out. I grabbed a crumpled McDonald’s bag from the floor and used it to hold the cartridges as I popped them out one by one.
Then I put the magazine back in. The gun felt appreciably lighter. Would Haver notice? I had the advantage of holding it immediately before and after unloading it. I found it hard to believe that he was such a seasoned and savvy shooter that he’d notice it. Especially if he was loaded himself.
At least, even if he realized the gun was unloaded, it would slow him down. I got up on the chair again and felt carefully around in the space above the tiles. Aha! I found a small box that proved to contain more cartridges. The ones I’d taken from the gun looked identical, so I fished them out of the McDonald’s bag and laid them carefully in the box. They all fit in with none left over. Did this have any significance? Could it perhaps mean that the gun was a recent acquisition, and he hadn’t yet put it to any use?
Or it could just as easily mean that he’d used up all his ammo in his last drunken shooting spree and had to stock up recently.
I’d leave that to people who knew more about guns. I took a few pictures of the gun with my phone, from various angles. Then I put it back where I’d found it and replaced the ceiling tile. I snapped off the radio, and looked around to make sure everything else was as I’d found it. I tucked the full box of ammunition into my purse.
Then I hurried down to my car and from its safety—or at least relative privacy—I called the police station’s non-emergency number.
“Chief Burke’s not in,” Debbie Ann said. “Can anyone else help you? Or can I take a message?”
I hesitated. I had been planning to break the news to the chief gently, glossing over how I happened to have found the gun. I still could.
But that would mean waiting to warn his officers.
“Haver has a gun,” I said.
“Haver that we have the BOLO out on?”
“And Haver that the whole force has been trying to catch in the act of committing a DUI, yes. He doesn’t have it on him at the moment—I found it while searching his dressing room. And I took the ammo out and confiscated that. But I didn’t think I should just confiscate the gun. And I thought the chief should know.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll let him know and we can get out a notification. You home?”
“Heading there in just a minute,” I said.
“Be careful,” she said. “It’s piling up out there.”
Great.
But before starting my car, I made a quick call to Ekaterina.
“No sign of the subject,” she said.
“Rats,” I said. “Tell me—have you ever seen a gun in his room?”
“A gun? No, never. I would have reported that.” She didn’t sound as anxious as I felt. In fact, she sounded rather pleased at the news. Searching for and confiscating liquor was probably getting rather tedious.
I explained about finding the gun and unloading it.
“So you have disarmed him! Well done!”
“Not permanently,” I said. “He may have more ammo. But then, if I’d taken the gun, he could have replaced that. So keep your eye open for any sign of weaponry, and remember that we’re dealing with a potentially armed subject.”
“He begins to show his true colors,” she exclaimed. “And do not fret! I will be circumspect.”
I wished her a Merry Christmas again, and after she gargled back the Russian equivalent at me, we hung up.
I was dreading the drive home. I don’t mind driving after dark, and I don’t really mind driving in the snow—not when I knew the Shiffleys, with their festively decorated snowplows, were diligently clearing the roads. But I hated driving in the snow after dark. And even more I hated that I wouldn’t get the little hit of Christmas cheer I got from checking out the decorations along my route. All the nativity scenes and Santas with sleighs would have turned into featureless snowmen. Most people would have turned off their outdoor lights by now, or even if they hadn’t, you’d barely see them for the falling snow.
And while most residents either dreaded the snow-induced inconveniences—the shoveling, the dripping boots, the possibility of a power outage—or cheered at the thought of sledding and maybe even a white Christmas, I had another perspective. Since one of the responsibilities I juggled was my theoretically part-time job as executive assistant to Randall, I couldn’t look at the snow without seeing dollar signs. We were already well over our snow removal budget for the year. But we couldn’t just ignore the stuff. Especially given how dependent we were on the revenues the tourists brought in—tourists who couldn’t get to the shops and restaurants to spend their money if they were snowbound.
Clearly I needed to get home to my family and let the boys’ enthusiasm for the snow and the upcoming holiday overwhelm my bad mood. I started my car and pulled carefully onto the road.
My trip home was uneventful. And once I got home, I settled in for a quiet night. Rose Noire had overcome her vegetarian scruples far enough to produce a pot of chili with ground beef along with her standard vegetarian version, and we all stuffed ourselves silly. In lieu of rehearsal, Michael drilled the boys on their lines, and then he and they disappeared upstairs for a bout of present-wrapping. From the size and shape of the boxes that appeared under the tree later in the evening, they’d made a very productive raid on the board game section of the local toy store, the better to feed our new family hobby.
Spike, our eight-and-a-half pound furball, dozed in his usual spot, sprawled expansively right in front of the fireplace, leaving Tinkerbell, Rob’s wolfhound, to squeeze into the minimal space left on his left or right. When I offered them the chance to go outside, they both looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
I called Grandfather to confirm that Gouldian finches didn’t talk and to find out what they should be eating and texted the results to Ekaterina.
I found a moment, when the boys were watching A Charlie Brown Christmas to tell Michael about my day—including my discovery of the gun.
“This is scary,” he said. “I’m glad you stole his bullets, but I almost wish you’d just stolen the gun.”
“Confiscated, not stolen,” I said. “I was afraid taking it might set him off. It’s not as if he’s doing anything illegal.”
“Well, drinking himself to death isn’t illegal, either. I tell you what we can do—I’ll get in touch with Abe Sass tomorrow.”
“And ruin the first real vacation he’s taken since he became department chairman?”
“And get him to let me issue a rule that no firearms are allowed in the drama building.”
“What about the dozen or so in the prop collection?”
“Drat,” he said. “You have a point. Although we keep those locked up, for obvious reasons.”
“So make the rule that no firearms are allowed in the building unless under lock and key in the prop shop or under the direct control of the prop crew for a performance or rehearsal,” I suggested. “And no live ammunition under any circumstances.”
“That should work,” he said. “And
if Haver protests, we tell him to appeal to Abe, who won’t be back until two days before the end of the run. So don’t worry about the gun. By this time tomorrow, it will be officially confiscated and safely locked up.”
That thought improved my mood considerably.
“I’m glad you’ve got that animal welfare raid tomorrow,” Michael said.
“Let’s not call it a raid,” I said. “I think the chief prefers ‘search’ or ‘mission.’ And it’s easy for you to be glad—you don’t have to get up before dawn to help with it.”
“Well, that’s no fun—but at least it will distract your dad from moping over Clay County’s failure to appreciate his detective skills.”
“Oh, dear,” I groaned. “He wasn’t going on in front of the boys about their John Doe being a murder victim, was he?”
“Don’t worry. He mentioned it this morning in passing, but he was obviously a lot more interested in the idea that if they gave him more of a chance to examine the body he could glean enough clues to let them identify the poor guy. And when we saw him this afternoon he was completely focused on getting ready to help Clarence and your grandfather with whatever veterinary challenges the rescue mission might bring.”
“Good,” I said. “And maybe by the time the mission is over the Clay County police will have gotten around to checking the missing persons reports and solved the mystery of John Doe’s identity.”
“Amen. By the way, Stanley dropped by the theater today and gave us this.”
He dug something out of his pocket and handed it to me—a black metal and plastic object about the size of an old-fashioned matchbox.
“Is this the thing for tracking Haver’s car?”
“Yes. And I figure you’re a lot more likely to get a chance to install it than I am.”
I studied the elegant little device for a moment. Then I tucked it into one of the pockets in my purse, where I could grab it quickly when I saw my chance.
And then we both went back to having a quiet night with the boys. Charlie Brown gave way to Settlers of Catan, a favorite family board game, accompanied by steaming hot chocolate and a playlist of medieval and Renaissance Christmas carols on Michael’s iPod.
Rob was working late at Mutant Wizards and would probably crash on the couch in his office, but he did break away from testing his latest top-secret game to text me a question.
“Is that one word or two?”
I’d have been baffled if it hadn’t occurred to me to scroll up to see that the last text conversation we’d had, several hours ago, had been about Weaseltide. Or was it Weasel Tide?
“No idea,” I texted back.
Without my having to ask, Rose Noire volunteered to take care of the boys the next day and take them in to rehearsal when needed, so I could focus on the rescue, and Michael on all the other things that needed to get done for the play.
A quiet night. It should also have been a peaceful one. But I’d been fretting all night, though trying not to let the boys see it.
Fretting about Haver. Where was he? What was he getting up to? Ekaterina called in to report every hour on the hour, like clockwork, but all she could report was that Haver hadn’t returned to the Inn.
Neither had O’Manion.
I considered calling Dad, to see if he’d heard anything on the police band radio he was so fond of listening to. But that would only encourage him to stay up all night with the radio, and he needed his sleep for the raid.
The search, I corrected himself. Or the investigation.
Jake, our last-minute guest, who had been working long hours on the set, pleaded exhaustion and went to bed at nine. Michael suggested, since I had to get up so early, that he let me put the boys to bed so I could follow Jake’s example.
“You have a busy day ahead of you, too,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but my day will start a lot later than yours. Rehearsal’s not till noon.”
“Does Haver know that?” I kept my voice down, so the boys wouldn’t hear, just as I’d been doing every time I reported to Michael on the latest call from the Inn. Though after the first couple of calls, all it took was a head shake. “What if he doesn’t show up?”
“Then I fill in as Scrooge until he does show up again,” Michael said. “Including opening night, if he’s picked right now to disappear off the face of the earth.”
It wouldn’t be entirely a bad thing if Haver disappeared, I found myself thinking as I trudged upstairs. Not off the face of the earth, of course, and not forever. I didn’t wish him ill. But it would be so much easier if he’d just put himself out of commission for a few weeks. If, for example, we got the news that he’d checked himself into the nearest residential rehab treatment center.
Even after I got into my nightgown and turned out the light, I kept picking up my cell phone from its bedside charging station to check the time and my email.
“It becomes late,” Ekaterina said in her ten o’clock call. “I will, of course, continue to monitor the subjects’ rooms. But do you wish to continue receiving my reports?”
“Why don’t you text me instead of calling?” I suggested. “I’ll turn the sound off on my phone, so if I’m asleep, you won’t wake me.”
I did manage to drop off after that, though I woke when Michael came to bed, and again at random intervals throughout the night.
Chapter 14
Why does your body always know when you have to get up early and do its best to make sure you can’t take advantage of what few hours you have for sleeping?
At a little before 3:00 A.M., I woke to find a text from Ekaterina. “02:37. Subject O’Manion has returned. No sign of primary subject.”
And when my alarm went off at 6:00 A.M., I groped for the phone to find Ekaterina’s identical 3:00 A.M., 4:00 A.M., 5:00 A.M., and 6:00 A.M. reports. “No sign of subject Haver.”
“I hope the wretch isn’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere,” I muttered, as I hurriedly threw on my clothes. Most of my clothes. I was completely out of clean shirts, so I raced down to the basement to raid the load of clean laundry I hadn’t gotten around to putting away.
Incompletely hidden behind the dryer was a shoe box. No, a boot box. This close to Christmas I knew I should ignore all unexplained bags and packages but I couldn’t resist taking a quick look—and yes! Boots. The boots I’d been drooling over when the boys and I realized they’d outgrown theirs and we’d gone online to order new ones. The boots Michael had discouraged me from getting by saying that the long-range forecast was for a mild winter. I gazed at them fondly, and a little longingly, and then shoved the box far enough behind the dryer to give me plausible deniability if anyone noticed I’d been in the basement. Clearly I needed to get a little more involved in doing the laundry, if this was the boys’—and Michael’s—idea of a secure hiding place.
And then I shoved the boots out of my mind so I could prepare to act surprised on Christmas morning. I ran upstairs, grabbed my keys, and put on my old boots. Which were still serviceable enough to last a few more snows.
The snow had stopped, though not before depositing another five inches of snow on the Twinmobile, which I decided would be more useful for today’s purposes than my car. But Beau and Osgood had been busy overnight—or possibly other Shiffley cousins who took over when they reached the end of their ropes. The road into town was passable. And I’d parked near enough that I only had to do a modest amount of shoveling to clear a path to the road.
The college radio was playing soft, instrumental carols. Very nice ones, but they were definitely carols to drift back to sleep with, not carols to wake you up and get your blood stirring on a cold winter morning.
The parking lot at the police station had also been beautifully plowed sometime in the middle of the night, before the members of our expedition had begun to gather. The vehicles spilled out of the parking lot and into the street. Four police cruisers. One police transport van. Clarence’s white Caerphilly Veterinary van. Half a dozen minivans and SUVs. A huge RV. Half
a dozen trucks from either the Shiffley Construction Company or the Shiffley Moving Company. I was a little startled to see a hearse among the gathered vehicles, but then I remembered that Maudie Morton, owner of the local funeral home, was a big animal lover. And the cats and dogs weren’t apt to be squeamish about what kind of vehicle took them to their new homes.
I had to park half a block away from the station, but at least the sidewalk was snow-free all the way, thanks to two of the chief’s grandsons. They had moved on to shoveling a path along the side of the building toward the side entrance—the one officers used when they were taking someone directly to jail rather than bringing them in through the police station to be interviewed or interrogated. Were they just being thorough, or had the chief suggested it might be needed?
Inside the station, Muriel, owner of the local diner, was passing out coffee and doughnuts to the assembled rescuers.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a cup into my hands. “You look like you need this.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure which was more welcome, the caffeine or the heat from the cup. “I owe you one.”
“Then do me a favor—if any of those cats shows signs of being a decent mouser, snag it for me. I could use a good mouser.”
“Er—sure.”
She handed me a doughnut and bustled off with her coffeepot and pastry plate to greet another new arrival, leaving me puzzled. How did one tell if a cat was a good mouser? Short of capturing one with a furry tail hanging out of its mouth, I had no idea. Maybe one of our experts would know. Clarence. Or Dad. Or better yet—Grandfather! I strolled over to where he was standing, sipping his coffee.
“Are you good at telling whether one animal’s a superior predator?” I asked. “Superior to other nearby examples of the same species, I mean.”
“Hmm.” He took another bite of his chocolate-covered, jelly-filled doughnut and looked thoughtful. “Not at first glance, of course. But if I had the opportunity to observe their behavior, I could figure it out with no difficulty. Why?”
How the Finch Stole Christmas! Page 10
