How the Finch Stole Christmas!

by Donna Andrews

  “Muriel wants a mouser,” I said. “So use your eagle eye on the cats today.”

  “Muriel?”

  “Lady who makes the doughnuts.”

  “She made these?” Grandfather looked at his doughnut, and then at Muriel, with new respect. “She also the one who makes the pies?”

  I nodded. Muriel’s pies perennially won first prizes at the county fair.

  “Impressive,” he said. “Yes, I think we can find her a good mouser.”

  I left him to enjoy the rest of his breakfast and went in search of the chief, all the while congratulating myself. I was learning to delegate almost as well as Mother.

  The chief looked tired and even slightly disheveled, as if he’d been up much of the night.

  “Thank you for the information about your find over at the theater,” he said. “Unfortunately, however disquieting I find the news, I’m afraid there may not be much I can do about it.”

  “Because he isn’t doing anything illegal.” I nodded as I spoke. “That’s why I didn’t confiscate it along with the liquor. Michael’s going to issue a department rule against firearms in the building and then confiscate it under that.”

  “Good plan,” the chief said. “Though that would not prevent him from acquiring another gun and making use of it elsewhere. I’ve left a message for the county attorney, to see if she has any ideas on the subject. And at least, thanks to your warning, my officers will be forewarned if they attempt to apprehend him.”

  “He’s still missing, then?”

  The chief nodded.

  “Maybe he’s left the county?” I suggested.

  “Or maybe his car is buried under half a foot of snow,” the chief said, waving at all the car-shaped snow lumps parked across the street from the station. “I can’t ask my officers to go around brushing the snow off every license plate in town. They’ve had a busy night.”

  I nodded. I found myself thinking of the little GPS tracking device, sitting uselessly in my purse when it could have been helping us locate Haver’s car if only we’d thought of it a day earlier.

  “I’d have postponed this animal welfare mission if the temperature wasn’t about to drop so dramatically,” the chief went on. “We’ll have to worry about Mr. Haver later today. Here comes Osgood with the snowplow to lead us in. In case Mr. Willimer hasn’t yet plowed his lane,” he added, seeing my surprise.

  So led by Osgood’s Darth Vader snowplow, the caravan set out for the far end of the county. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the tourists wouldn’t get to see our unusual procession. Well, except for one pair, so bundled up that I couldn’t tell if they were men or women, who were trying to dig out their car with a whisk broom and a plastic coffee cup. In spite of their tedious task, they waved cheerfully and wished us a Merry Christmas, and one of the Shiffley trucks dropped behind to help them out and then caught up with us a few miles down the road.

  When we reached the end of the Willimers’ lane, the caravan ground to a halt and the chief and the three deputies who had come along—Vern, Horace, and Aida—got out of their vehicles.

  “We’re going in to secure the premises,” the chief said. “Deputy Hollingsworth is in charge until I get back. Horace, I’ll radio when we’re all clear.”

  We all watched as Vern, Aida, and the chief trudged down the lane. It hadn’t been plowed, but clearly at least one reasonably large vehicle had lumbered over the snow sometime in the night, creating two big ruts that made for easier going than the rest of the road.

  After about ten minutes, Grandfather hopped out of Dad’s SUV and began pacing up and down the road.

  “We should go in there,” he said. “Who knows what’s happening?”

  “The chief said to stay here until he radioed,” Horace said.

  “What if they’ve been ambushed by bloodthirsty finch smugglers with semi-automatic weapons?”

  “We’d have heard the semi-automatic weapons,” Horace pointed out.

  “Bloodthirsty finch smugglers with machetes.”

  Horace looked stumped.

  “We’d have heard the screams,” I said. “Look if you want to go in, go ahead.”

  Grandfather looked triumphant. Horace gave me a look of exasperation.

  “Just remember—you’re about the same height as Willimer. Don’t blame us if they mistake you for him and shoot you.”

  “They wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “They’re probably really on edge right now—looking over their shoulders every second for those bloodthirsty finch smugglers.”

  Grandfather frowned for a few moments.

  “Well, if you’re going to get all upset about it, I’ll wait in the damned vehicle.” He hopped back into Dad’s SUV, slamming the door behind him.

  Horace let out a sigh of relief. I winked at him.

  I didn’t envy Clarence—Grandfather had been riding in his van, and was probably giving him an earful of complaints.

  And I had to admit that I was relieved when Horace’s radio crackled.

  “Get Osgood cracking with that snowplow,” I heard the chief say. Osgood, who was also within earshot, started his engine, and I almost missed the chief’s second sentence. “And can you send Meg and the social worker in on his heels?”

  Everyone tapped their feet while Meredith Flugleman, the social worker, leaped out of the chief’s patrol car and scampered over to the Twinmobile.

  “Isn’t it a wonderful morning?” she exclaimed as she jumped into my passenger seat.

  “Morning,” I said, with as cheerful a smile as I could muster.

  “Are we wearing our seat belts?” She was, and she reached over to test mine, in much the same way I usually checked my sons’ seat belts. “Good! Tally-ho!”

  I was remembering why Randall found Meredith so tiring. She was unfailingly perky. I had a hard time with perky in general, and found it particularly trying this soon after dawn.

  “My goodness! This van has seen some hard use, hasn’t it?” If she thought that was a polite way of calling attention to the Twinmobile’s less-than-pristine condition, she was wrong. “Did you know the high school marching band does car detailing every month or two to raise money for their trips?”

  I decided not to tell her that yes, I took advantage of the detailing every time the high school did it, and that afterward it generally took Josh and Jamie a good two or three days to restore the Twinmobile to its usual condition.

  Luckily, even with Osgood and Darth Vader plowing the lane ahead of us, the road was treacherous enough that I could pretend it took most of my attention. She didn’t seem to mind that our conversation was one-sided. As we left the woods and the farmhouse came into view, she exclaimed over how isolated it was, and treated me to statistics about the prevalence of child, spousal, and elder abuse in rural communities. Her unfailingly cheerful voice contrasted oddly with the grim data.

  The chief was standing on the front stoop of the farmhouse, frowning.

  “Thank goodness,” he said. “Apparently Mr. Willimer did not come home last night, and his mother is distraught.”

  “The poor dear!” Meredith hopped out of the Twinmobile, frowned slightly at the faint trail of boot prints that led through the unshoveled snow between her and the door, then bravely plunged in.

  The chief held the door open for her.

  “Mrs. Willimer?” Meredith trilled as she skipped into the room.

  I stopped at the threshold, when the smell hit me. I turned back to the chief.

  “Where do you need me?” I asked him.

  “Well, you could start by—”

  Just then Meredith burst out of the door, rushed down the steps, and bent over to retch in the snow.

  Chapter 15

  The chief rushed over to check inside the house. I stood back, hoping Meredith wanted privacy rather than help but keeping an eye on her anyway.

  “What’s wrong?” called voice from inside the house. “Is something wrong? Has something happened
to Johnny?”

  The chief popped back out of the house, looked at Meredith, and then turned to me.

  “Maybe you could help Aida with Mrs. Willimer?” The chief’s face showed that he knew what he was asking. “Just until Ms. Flugleman recovers.”

  I took what I hoped wouldn’t be my last breath of fresh air ever and strode into the house.

  At first glance, the whole room appeared to be in violent motion and I wondered for a few moments if the smell was triggering a vertigo attack. Then I realized the room wasn’t moving—it was the cats. They were all running, jumping, and leaping about in a frenzy. And at the heart of the maelstrom was Mrs. Willimer in her wheelchair, waving her arms and shrieking.

  “No! Don’t let them out! Close the door! There could be foxes out there! Where’s Johnny? I need Johnny! Why won’t you tell me what’s happened?”

  Aida Butler was crouched by the old woman’s wheelchair, patting her arm with one hand while she fended off cats with the other. Her mouth was moving, which probably meant she was saying soothing things, but the old lady’s shrieking drowned her out.

  I waded through the waves of cats covering the floor until I reached the other side of the wheelchair. I thought of taking my coat off, but I realized the room was only marginally warmer than the outside. There was a fireplace with no fire—was that the only heat they had?

  Time to worry about that later.

  “Sssh!” I said, holding my fingers to my lips. “You’re upsetting the poor kitties! They need peace and quiet and calm.”

  I began patting Mrs. Willimer’s other arm, while continuing to make shushing noises. She gradually stopped wailing and subsided into rocking back and forth slightly and whimpering.

  “What happened to the social worker?” Aida asked in an undertone.

  I opened my mouth and stopped shushing long enough to point into it several times.

  “No guts, no glory,” Aida said.

  I didn’t actually blame Meredith—the stench was every bit as bad as I’d expected it to be, a toxic blend of cat pee and stale cat food, with undertones of rotting vegetables and mold.

  But the sooner we dealt with Mrs. Willimer, the sooner we could get out of this hellhole.

  I squatted down beside her chair.

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “Johnny didn’t come home last night,” she said. “And the power went out around nine o’clock, and took the phone lines with it, or I would have called the police to report him as missing.”

  “Don’t worry,” Aida said. “The chief’s put the word out now. I’m sure we’ll find he just holed up someplace till the snow was over.”

  “He could be dead in a ditch somewhere,” the old lady wailed.

  “Now, now,” I said. “Think of your cats.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I must be brave for their sake. Although if anything’s happened to Johnny, I don’t know how we can afford to live.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Aida said. “We haven’t had any reports of fatalities on the roads—not here, and not in any of the nearby counties. Had to rescue a few people who got stuck in snowdrifts. Lots of people stranded in town until they can dig their cars out. Some of them are sleeping on cots in the high school gym. And the roads are still pretty bad in Clay County. Lots of perfectly normal reasons why he might not have come home yet. But don’t you worry. He’ll probably come home before too long.”

  “I won’t rest easy till he does.” Mrs. Willimer shook her head as if she didn’t put much faith in our reassurances.

  “Meanwhile we need to take care of you,” I said.

  “Might help if someone built a fire.” Mrs. Willimer’s voice was suddenly calm and practical. “The furnace went out with the power. I can manage to put a log on the fire, but I ran out of firewood in the middle of the night, and I can’t get out to the woodpile to haul it in.”

  “I’ll take care of the firewood.” Aida beat me to the punch on that one.

  As she went out to raid the woodpile, Meredith appeared in the doorway, wearing a feeble imitation of her usual perky face.

  “My goodness,” she said in a shaky voice. “She can’t possibly stay here.”

  “What do you mean I can’t stay here,” Mrs. Willimer wailed. “We don’t know for sure that anything’s happened to Johnny. You can’t kick me out yet.”

  “No one’s kicking you out,” I said. “But you have no power. Are you on the county water?”

  “No.” The old lady frowned. “We have our own well.”

  “With an electric pump, no doubt—which means you have no water. No phone to call for help till the lines are repaired. And no one here to haul in firewood if we leave. So we have to take you someplace where you’ll be safe until things get back to normal.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.” She still didn’t look happy about the idea.

  “We have a slight problem,” Meredith said in a stage whisper, beckoning to me. I joined her at the doorway. “While I was outside I called to see if I could get a temporary placement at the Caerphilly Assisted Living. But they’re full up. They only had a few vacant beds to begin with and those are all occupied right now. Holiday respite care. I might be able to get her a bed over in Tappahannock. Or we might have to take her as far as Richmond.”

  “She won’t much like that.”

  Meredith shrugged as if to say “what can I do?”

  “Let me try something,” I said.

  I stepped past her into the fresh air and just breathed for a few moments. Then I walked a few paces, until I was sure I was out of earshot, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed a familiar number.

  “Caerphilly Inn, Ekaterina Vorobyaninova speaking.”

  “It’s Meg,” I said.

  “Primary subject still not here,” she said. “I have observers covering all possible means of ingress and egress.”

  “Good,” I said. “But actually for once I’m not calling about Haver. Could I talk you into making a room available at a rate the county can afford to pay? It can be your smallest, cheapest room—we just need a place to put up someone for a night or two.”

  I explained as succinctly as I could about the raid and the need to find a temporary haven for Mrs. Willimer.

  “Michael and I would take her in ourselves,” I added. “She’s a sweet little old lady. But she’s wheelchair bound, and our house just isn’t accessible.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I will find something nice for her. And if it’s only for a day or two, there should be no need to bill the county. I have a small discretionary fund that I can use for community outreach and goodwill.”

  “We will owe you,” I said.

  “Tell me—how is she tied to this business of the finches? Is it possible that she is actually not a sweet little old lady in a wheelchair but a dangerous international bird smuggler?”

  No wonder Ekaterina was so ready to help out.

  “We don’t know yet,” I said. “But even if she isn’t involved in the smuggling, her son is, so she’s bound to be called as a witness. She could be in danger. You’ll need to keep a close eye on her.”

  “Naturally,” she said with audible satisfaction. “We will keep her under observation. And we will keep her safe.”

  I strolled back to the house and stuck my head in the door.

  “There is room at the Inn,” I said.

  “Is that a Biblical reference?” Meredith said.

  “Biblical?”

  “And she brought forth her firstborn son,” she intoned. “And wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”

  “Nicely quoted,” I said. “But no. I meant that the Caerphilly Inn is willing to give Mrs. Willimer a room for a night or two. As a gesture of goodwill, in honor of the season, and all that.”

  “Oh, lovely!” She turned to her charge. “Did you hear that, Mrs. Willimer? You’re going to get to stay in the Caerphilly Inn! Won’t that be lovely?�
��

  “Frost,” Mrs. Willimer said.

  “Well, yes, I know it’s still very cold in here,” Meredith said. “Aida only just started the fire, and I’m not sure how well that’s going to heat this chilly room without any help from your furnace. That’s why we need to find a place for you to stay until things are back to normal around here.”

  “No,” the old lady said. “I mean my name is Frost. Not Willimer. Frost. Jane Frost. Sorry—I know it’s confusing.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Meredith exclaimed. “I should have asked. Now let’s see about getting you packed.”

  I decided I could safely leave them to it. Meredith hadn’t quite regained her usual perkiness, but she was working on it, and besides, looking after little old ladies in smelly rooms was part of her job description.

  “Give me a heads-up before you bring her outside,” I said in an undertone to Meredith. “Because it might be a good idea to get Maudie to move the hearse out of sight, just in case.”

  I went outside to see how the animal rescue was going. Osgood and Darth Vader had plowed a wide area in front of the house and barn, and the vehicles were parked in neat rows on either side. A couple of Shiffleys were shoveling a path from the ad hoc parking lot to the barn. As I watched, an empty dog crate landed on the ground behind one of the trucks, followed by a Brigade volunteer, who then picked it up and carried it toward the barn.

  And between the house and the barn—wait a minute. Willimer’s pickup truck was still parked under the plywood carport.

  Chapter 16

  Chief Burke and Aida also appeared to have noticed that even though Willimer was missing his truck wasn’t. They were standing in front of it. The chief was talking on his phone.

  I hiked over to them.

  “No other vehicles registered under his name,” he was saying to Aida. “And that truck’s clearly been there since well before the snow stopped.”

  I followed the direction his finger was pointing. Yes, the back foot or so of the truck stuck out from under the roof, and five or six inches of snow had piled up in it. The same amount of snow blurred the tracks the truck had made driving in.