How the Finch Stole Christmas!

by Donna Andrews

  “Here she is now,” she said into the phone. “I’ll let you know what we figure out.”

  “That’s where the gun was,” I said, pointing to the space in the ceiling. “I suppose you already looked to see if it got pushed back too far from the edge.”

  “Michael got me the stepladder and we both peered around. With my flashlight. You want to take a look, and see if you notice anything not the same?”

  I decided not to point out that since I’d only had the chair, not the ladder, I hadn’t actually seen the space above the tiles. I got up, took the flashlight when she handed it to me, and peered uselessly in all directions, seeing nothing but dust bunnies and wiring.

  “We also looked in all the other dressing rooms along the hall,” Aida said while I was peering. “Just in case you were so tired you got confused about which room you were in when you found it. Which isn’t something I can ever imagine you doing, but it’s important to dot all your i’s, in case whoever we arrest for this gets a sneaky defense attorney who tries to cast aspersions on our police work.”

  “No offense taken.” I climbed down from the ladder. “And no insights to offer. So now what?”

  “Can you describe the gun?” She had taken out her notebook and had her pen poised over it.

  “It was a semi-automatic.” I pulled out my phone and turned it on, figuring it would be more efficient to show her. “I learned that much in Vern’s class.”

  “Anything else?” She sounded impatient.

  “It was black. About this long.” I held out my hands to indicate the size.

  “Do you remember the make or model? Or what caliber it was?”

  Was there just a faint trace of irritation in her voice?

  “Sorry—I don’t remember the make and model,” I admitted. “And I couldn’t necessarily tell you the caliber if I had it here in front of me.” And my phone, dammit, was taking forever to turn on.

  She sighed and wrote something in her notebook.

  “I confiscated the bullets, if that would help,” I said. “I mean the cartridges. They’re still in my car.”

  She looked up and glared at me.

  “Why, yes.” She sounded slightly annoyed. “The cartridges will definitely help us determine the caliber. Let’s go and get them, shall we?”

  “And here’s the picture I took of the gun before I put it back.” I held out my phone, which had finally decided to cooperate. “Will this help?”

  “Show me.”

  When I held up the picture, Aida grabbed my phone out of my hands, whipped out her own phone, and pressed a couple of keys.

  “More info about the missing gun. It’s a Smith & Wesson M&P twenty-two … No, but she took a picture of it with her phone before she put it back. I’ll tell her.”

  She hung up.

  “The chief says, ‘good job on the picture,’ and right now he’s wishing you weren’t quite so honest and had just taken the gun. Let’s go down to your car and get that ammo.”

  In the hallway, we ran into Michael.

  “You want the bad news?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it customary to offer us the option of hearing the good news first?” I replied.

  “I’d have offered the good news if I had any. I’m almost certain the back door was propped open last night.”

  “Damn those kids,” I muttered.

  “Show me this door,” Aida said. “And what do you mean about the kids?”

  “The building’s tobacco-free.” Michael led the way down the hallway. “Inside, and within five hundred feet of the building. So all the smokers and vapers go out the back door, near the loading dock. And because most of them don’t have keys, they’re always propping it open so they can get back in without going all the way around to the front. And yeah, as Meg said, mostly kids, because at least around the theater, most of the smokers seem to be kids who haven’t yet realized they’re not immortal.”

  “Is Haver a smoker?” Aida asked.

  “No, but odds are he’s figured out the back door,” I said. “If you’d noticed that someone was searching your dressing room and confiscating your booze while you were onstage, you’d probably start keeping it in the trunk of your rental car and sneaking out to the parking lot when you needed a pick-me-up. At least that’s what I suspect he’s doing.”

  “Everyone knew about the back door,” Michael said. “I must have read them the riot act about it at rehearsal at least once a week. Heck, I did it yesterday.”

  “Any idea when it was left open?”

  “No.” Michael shook his head. “I usually check it before I leave the building, but at this stage of the rehearsal period, I usually leave more like ten or eleven than four. There weren’t many people still around, thanks to the snow, and I just didn’t follow my usual routine.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” I said. “I think I was the last out of the building and it slipped my mind, too.”

  “So Haver could have snuck in here at any time and retrieved his gun,” Aida said.

  “Any time after I left the dressing room.” I pulled out my phone and checked the time of the call I’d made to tell the police about the gun. “Which would mean any time after four thirty-six.”

  “It’s also possible that someone who saw Haver hide it could have come back and stolen it,” Michael pointed out.

  “Very possible,” Aida said. “Or someone who saw Meg finding it.”

  “You’re giving me the creeps,” I said.

  “Sorry, but maybe we all should have the creeps. If Haver shows up here, call us.” She studied us for a few moments. “So how bad will it be for your play if it turns out Haver is the killer?”

  Michael and I looked at each other.

  “The show will go on,” Michael said. “I can step into Haver’s role. But…” He shrugged.

  “What we don’t know is how much Haver’s name is helping the box office,” I said. “Ticket sales are very good, and it’s my theory that his reputation is making only a minor contribution. But I could be wrong. If Haver has to drop out and a whole bunch of people decide to return their tickets, it could be bad.”

  “Look on the bright side,” she said. “If he gets arrested for murder, don’t you get a lot of free publicity? Maybe not the best kind of publicity but— Hang on.”

  Her phone had started ringing. From the all-business expression on her face, I suspected it was the chief on the other end.

  “Butler.… Roger. Yes, sir—on my way.”

  She hung up and turned back to us.

  “Meg, I have to go. Could you drop those cartridges by the police station? And forward that photo of the gun to the chief? And could someone show me the way back to the door I came in by?”

  “My car’s right outside this door,” I said. “So I’ll leave Michael to show you the way out.”

  I waited until I got into the car to unleash a few words that still lingered in my vocabulary, even though I’d tried to delete them to make sure the boys wouldn’t pick them up. Had my stupid qualms about confiscating Haver’s gun cost someone his life?

  Chapter 22

  “It might not even be the murder weapon,” I muttered, as I took out my phone and emailed my photos of the wretched gun to the chief. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of guns in Virginia.”

  But I was still kicking myself when I arrived at the station. The sight of Kayla decorating the departmental holiday tree cheered me, but only a little.

  “I brought the bullets.” I set my tote down on the desk and fished in it for the cartridge box.

  “Oooh, goodie! I can put them on the tree right now.”

  “On the tree?” I clutched the box protectively. “I thought the chief wanted them for evidence.”

  “Are we talking about the silver bullets?”

  “No, we’re talking about the very utilitarian brass cartridges that might have some connection to the murder weapon.” I put the case down on the front desk. “What’s this about silver bullets? Are we h
aving a werewolf-themed Christmas tree? Wolfsbane and the mistletoe?”

  “We’re doing this little tree all in blue and silver.” Kayla pointed to a tiny living tree in a sparkly silver pot on the desk. It was festooned with blue lights and silver-colored ornaments with a crime and detection theme—tiny guns, knives, handcuffs, magnifying glasses, and sheriff’s badges. “Mom said she thought she could find someone who could spray paint some cartridges silver for us.”

  “That would be a nice addition,” I said. “Be sure and get Fred to take a picture of it for the Clarion’s article on themed Christmas trees.”

  “That’s the plan,” Kayla said. “Meanwhile I should fill out the paperwork on this box of cartridges. It’ll only take a minute.”

  The chief walked out, holding a sheet of paper. And his notebook, of course. I sometimes wondered how the police ever found time to patrol, given all the paperwork their jobs seemed to involve.

  “Kayla, we need to put out an update to the BOLO for Mr. Gormley,” he began. “Sorry—finish what you’re doing first.” He set down his sheet of paper on her desk.

  I tried to look blasé, as if I wasn’t excited by the news that he’d put out a BOLO for Mort Gormley. A suspect who wasn’t Haver.

  The chief strolled over to me.

  “Meg, thanks for the pictures of the pistol. Did you happen to glean any information from Mrs. Frost while chauffeuring her to the Inn?”

  “She’s a fountain of information,” I said. “Almost none of it useful. Willimer was both her son-in-law and her first cousin once removed. His wife—which would be her daughter—was named Becky, his mother’s name was Deedee, and they attended the First Baptist Church. But I’m not sure any of that is useful. After all, there are dozens if not hundreds of First Baptist Churches in Virginia, and I never did get her to reveal the name of the town they lived in.”

  “Bear Paw Junction.” The chief had been making notes as I spoke. “I did get that much. It’s supposed to be in Virginia, although I haven’t yet found it on the map.”

  “Judging by the old lady’s accent, I’d be looking in the far southwest tip of the state,” I said. “The bit that could just as easily have ended up part of Kentucky or Tennessee.”

  “I wouldn’t know about the accent.” Although the chief had been in Caerphilly longer than I had, he was a Marylander by birth. I suspected he could place any native of Baltimore, city or county, within a few miles or even blocks of his birthplace, but he tended to rely on his deputies and other locals for the subtleties of Virginia history and culture. “But Aida Butler told me she thinks she’s gone through this Bear Paw Junction place on her way to visiting relatives down in Knoxville, Tennessee.”

  “Passed through it?” I echoed. “It’s on the Interstate?”

  “No, and neither was she. She was taking her great-aunt Venetia, who doesn’t ever want to go over thirty-five miles an hour. You pass through some pretty strange little places when Venetia’s riding shotgun.”

  I nodded. I’d been stuck with taking Venetia home from a couple of meetings in Richmond of the Ladies Interfaith Social Services Council, so I could imagine what Aida had gone through hauling her all the way to Knoxville.

  “Anyway, a fair piece away from Caerphilly, and not much bigger than a mosquito bite, according to Aida. She only remembered the name because it sent Venetia into such a panic that she saw bears behind every bush for the next hundred miles. I’ve sent inquiries to a couple of the sheriffs down that way. As soon as we locate the blasted town, we can start figuring out why our victim and Mrs. Frost left it and came here to enrich our lives.”

  “And whether there’s anyone down there who might dislike Mr. Willimer enough to pay him a visit last night?” I suggested.

  “That too,” the chief agreed. “So, he’s her son-in-law rather than her son. I didn’t get that much. Of course, come to think of it, she never referred to him as anything but Johnny. I assumed the son part. I don’t suppose she mentioned anyone who might have had it in for him? Anyone he’d quarreled with?”

  I shook my head.

  “How are Dagmar and her dogs getting along?” I asked.

  “Meg,” Kayla said. “I’ve finished logging in your box of cartridges. Can you sign this?”

  As I was doing so, the front door opened and a middle-aged woman walked in. She was wearing a long, elegant cream-colored down coat and a crocheted hat, glove, and scarf set in off-white with sparkly threads. I decided it was unfair that some people could actually manage to look chic while still dressing appropriately for the weather. Seeing that Kayla was busy with me, the lady nodded and stood politely back, yet near enough to make it obvious that she wasn’t just ducking in out of the cold.

  “We’ll let you know if we have any other questions,” the chief said.

  “Roger.” I stepped aside to let the new arrival take my place at the desk. She nodded pleasantly at me, as if to say thanks. She looked vaguely familiar, and I racked my brain to remember where I knew her from.

  “I’m Doris Hammerschmidt,” the lady said. “The new owner of the Bluebird House Bed and Breakfast.”

  Of course. I’d seen her at some of the Christmas in Caerphilly merchant meetings. And I was pretty sure she’d attended a couple of Mother’s Garden Society festivities.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Hammerschmidt?” Kayla asked.

  “I’d like to report … an intruder?” She sounded as if she wasn’t sure of the term.

  “A burglar?” The chief stepped forward and took over.

  “No, I don’t think you could call him a burglar,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt said. “A trespasser—that might be the right term. Yes. A trespasser.”

  She smiled triumphantly, as if by defining her problem she had more than halfway solved it.

  “Did this happen last night?” the chief asked.

  “No,” she said. “Well, it started last night—technically very early this morning. But it’s still going on.”

  The chief blinked.

  “The intruder’s still there?”

  “Yes. He’s been there all morning. It was bad enough when he was fast asleep—well, passed out—on my sofa and snoring like a freight train. But then he woke up and began yelling for breakfast as if he were in some kind of tacky diner. I want him gone.”

  “Kayla, have Debbie Ann see who’s available to go over to Mrs. Hammerschmidt’s,” the chief said. “How did this person get into your bed-and-breakfast in the first place?”

  “Two of my guests brought him in,” she said. “They found him by the side of the road—his car had broken down—and they brought him back to the bed-and-breakfast so he could—I don’t know. Call his friends or family to pick him up, I suppose. Or call a taxi. They left him in my hands. I showed him into the living room and pointed out the phone, and then I had to leave for a moment to get some hot chocolate for a guest who was suffering from insomnia, and when I came back he had passed out on my Hepplewhite couch.”

  “I see,” the chief said, although his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely sure he did.

  “I tried to wake him, but with no success,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt went on. “I assumed he was worn out from his ordeal and … well, I thought there was a possibility that he might be a little bit the worse for drink. So I covered him up with an afghan and went to bed.”

  “That was very kind of you,” the chief said. “Although you could have called us to deal with the situation. In fact, you probably should, if something like this ever happens again.”

  “I will if—but I can’t imagine this ever happening again,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt said, drawing herself up to her full height and glaring indignantly at him. “Not in my bed-and-breakfast. I can’t imagine how it happened this time.”

  “So he went to sleep on your couch,” the chief said. “And he’s still there.”

  “Not only is he still there, he woke up at some point in the middle of the night and forced the lock on my liquor cabinet.” Mrs. Hammerschmidt quive
red with indignation. “He finished off half a bottle of gin and spilled most of a bottle of amontillado on the couch. And then this morning he became unwell.”

  “Unwell?” the chief repeated. “We can send an ambulance if you think he needs medical assistance.”

  “He doesn’t need medical assistance,” Mrs. Hammerschmidt said. “He needs assisting out of my kitchen, where he’s eating the breakfast intended for my guests. Becoming unwell all over my antique Aubusson carpet seems to have given him an appetite.”

  “Did you tell him to leave?”

  “Several times.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That he likes his eggs over easy, and wants real cream for his coffee.”

  A thought had been growing in my mind.

  “Chief,” I said. “May I ask Mrs. Hammerschmidt something?”

  “Please do,” he said. “And Kayla, see if Debbie Ann’s found someone who can take the call ASAP.”

  I reached over to where Kayla had a couple of the pictures of Malcolm Haver the chief had been using to brief his officers. I picked up the top picture and held it out for Mrs. Hammerschmidt’s inspection.

  “Is this your intruder?”

  Chapter 23

  “Yes! That’s him!” Her voice trembled slightly. “You already know about him? Is he a wanted criminal?”

  “No,” the chief said.

  “Not yet, anyway,” I added,

  “Merely a missing person,” the chief clarified. “For the moment.”

  “Vern can be there in two minutes,” Kayla said.

  “Mrs. Hammerschmidt, why don’t I accompany you back to your bed-and-breakfast?” The chief offered her his arm. “I can inspect any damages and take a statement from you.”

  “I don’t want to go back until he’s gone.”

  “One of my officers should have him in custody in a few minutes,” the chief said. “By the time we get there, he should be on his way back here. Or if he’s not, you can wait safely in the car until he’s off the premises.”

  “Well, if he’s coming here, I suppose I should leave.” Reassured, Mrs. Hammerschmidt took the chief’s arm