How the Finch Stole Christmas!

by Donna Andrews

  “The Native Americans considered the weasel a bad sign,” Grandfather proclaimed. “If it crossed your path, you could look forward to a speedy death. In Greek folklore, they’re bad luck around weddings, because of an unhappy bride who was transformed into a weasel and enjoys destroying wedding dresses. And in English, calling someone a weasel brands him as untrustworthy. We talk about someone weaseling out of things, or using weasel words. And of course in The Wind in the Willows, while Toad is in prison, Toad Hall is overrun by weasels and stoats, and Rat, Mole, and Badger have to help him drive them out.”

  “In other words, weasels have a gotten an undeserved bad rep,” I said.

  “Precisely,” he said. “They’re quite efficient predators, and consume such a highly useful quantity of rodents. And they’re fairly intelligent for small mammals.”

  All very interesting, but it didn’t answer my question.

  “Weaseltide,” Dad murmured. “Are you sure she didn’t say Weasel War Dance?”

  “Pretty sure,” I said. “Weaseltide and Weasel War Dance don’t sound at all alike.”

  “Because a Weasel War Dance would be rather interesting,” Dad said. “It’s something they do when they’ve just captured a toy, or stolen an object, or sometimes successfully stalked some kind of prey. Pretty much whenever they’re feeling pleased with themselves. They arch their backs, fluff out their tails and hop about, backwards and sideways. Like this.”

  Dad bent over so his fingertips were almost but not quite touching the ground and began executing a series of rapid hops and jumps—backwards, forwards, and from side to side.

  “They also do backflips,” Dad said, a little breathlessly. “But I’m not sure I can manage that.”

  “No, no,” Grandfather said. “You can’t leave out the dooking.” He bent over in imitation of Dad and began his own series of leaps and hops, but accompanied by a loud, high-pitched clucking noises.

  “Oh, yes!” Dad exclaimed. “The dooking!” He began to make clucking noises of his own.

  They both rather seemed to be enjoying themselves, leaping about, clucking, and occasionally shaking their heads as if worrying some bit of prey.

  I was just reaching into my pocket to take out my phone and capture a short video when the barn door opened and Chief Burke walked in.

  “Dr. Blake,” he began, and then he fell silent, watching the war dance.

  Chapter 25

  After a few seconds, Grandfather spotted the chief and came to a halt. Dad, who hadn’t yet noticed the new arrival, careened into Grandfather and ricocheted off him onto a large (and fortunately empty) dog crate.

  The chief and I rushed to make sure Grandfather didn’t fall, and that Dad hadn’t seriously injured himself in landing on the crate.

  “No problem!” Grandfather exclaimed as we steadied him. “Ferrets and weasels can be rather clumsy when they’re dancing.”

  “Evidently,” the chief said, as if it made perfect sense.

  “That was invigorating,” Dad said, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping the shiny top of his bald head.

  “I see what you mean about the weasel war dance being interesting,” I said. “But I’m afraid I don’t quite understand why anyone would rent the parish hall to hold one.”

  “Then that’s what you need to find out,” Grandfather said. “Come to pick up your puppy, Chief?”

  “We’ve got the ones that are old enough for adoption corralled in here,” Dad said. “Let’s bring you a couple to choose from.”

  They both dashed into my office.

  “Weaseltide?” the chief asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Still trying to figure out what the heck it is.”

  “So far, no one on my law enforcement list has any idea,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “I gather by your presence here that you’re finished with Mr. Haver?”

  “No.” He grimaced. “You may gather by my presence here that Mr. Haver’s attorney has not yet arrived at the station. I decided to nip out here and snag a likely-looking puppy to foster while I was waiting. See if the grandchildren are ready for a dog.” I suspected the grandchildren had been ready for a dog for a while. I was glad to see that the chief, though still mourning the recent loss of his beloved and ancient rescue dog, was considering the idea. “I also wanted to ask your father how soon he thinks he can perform the autopsy.”

  “You mean he hasn’t yet?”

  “He’s eager to,” the chief said with a smile. “But apparently Mr. Willimer was partially frozen, and that complicates things. They have to thaw him very slowly at a steady temperature or bad things happen. Don’t ask what bad things—I made that mistake. Evidence could be lost; let’s just leave it at that.”

  “So we don’t yet know the time of death.”

  “We may never know it with the kind of accuracy your father usually prides himself on,” the chief said. “Which could mean that all the alibis I’m trying to collect and verify could be relatively useless. About the only thing we do know with any certainty is that the murder weapon was a twenty-two caliber. Your dad did recover a bullet in pretty good shape. We should have no difficulty making a forensic comparison … assuming we ever find even a single twenty-two caliber gun with any connection to any of our suspects.”

  “Haver’s gun isn’t a twenty-two, then?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s a twenty-two, all right. But since it’s still missing, we have no way of determining if it fired the fatal bullets.”

  He looked so gloomy that I wished I could say something to cheer him up or distract him.

  “You’re making my quest for Weaseltide seem pretty silly,” I said. “I’m beginning to think Weaseltide must be something Melisande invented.”

  “Melisande?”

  “Melisande Flanders—or something like that. The person who asked Robyn about Weaseltide. You’d think sooner or later she’d drop back by the church to see if Robyn had made up her mind about hosting her event.”

  “Melisande Flanders. That sounds familiar.”

  He pulled out his notebook and began flipping through the pages.

  “Here it is. Flanders. Milly Flanders rather than Melisande, but…”

  “Could be the same person. Milly could be short for Melisande. I know better than to ask you for her contact information, but is there any chance you could contact her? Tell her we’re trying to sort out this Weaseltide business? Ask her to call me?”

  “You could talk to her yourself,” he said. “She’s the woman who’s been hanging around the stage door all day ever since Haver came to town.”

  “You mean the Rabid Fan? Melisande Flanders is the Rabid Fan?”

  The chief nodded. He couldn’t quite keep his mouth from twitching, but at least he didn’t burst out laughing.

  “Okay, I guess I can talk to her myself,” I said.

  “In the unlikely event that the snow has caused her to abandon her vigil, you can find her at Niva Shiffley’s,” the chief said. “One of my officers has been checking all the bed-and-breakfasts in town—long story.”

  Looking for guests who had suddenly absconded? I’d find out in due time.

  “If the Rabid Fan—Melisande—is involved, it stands to reason Weaseltide has something to do with Haver,” I mused. “Although damned if I can figure out what.”

  “The words ‘Haver’ and ‘weasel’ do rather fit together in my mind,” the chief said. “But I doubt if his fans would feel the same way.”

  “Nor would Grandfather,” I said. “He has a very high opinion of weasels. Thanks—I’m going to talk to her.”

  “Don’t mention it. Oh, and something else I’d appreciate your keeping to yourself—your discovery of Mr. Haver’s gun. I want to see what he says when I ask him if he owns a gun.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Dad and Grandfather emerged from my office, each carrying a brace of adorable golden retriever puppies. They set the puppies into a small pen in the middle of the barn floor—I recognize
d it as the portable plastic playpen we’d used to corral the boys—or at least slow them down—when they were much smaller. The chief stepped into the pen, squatted down, and picked up the nearest puppy.

  “Meg,” Dad said. “Do you have time to make a few deliveries?”

  “No,” I said. And then a thought came to me. “Unless—didn’t I see Niva Shiffley on the list to take some cats?”

  “Why, yes,” Dad said. “She said if we had any long-haired cats, she’d give a couple of them a try. We’re optimistic that we’ll have a foster fail there,” Dad said.

  “A foster fail?” the chief repeated.

  “When the foster family ends up adopting their charge,” I explained.

  “Then I hope we have a great many foster fails,” the chief said with a laugh. From the look on his face as he played with the puppies, I suspect he was contemplating one himself.

  “So do we all,” I said. “Okay, Dad. Wrap up your two most adorable long-haired cats for Niva, and I’ll take them—I need to drop by there anyway. And then I have to go over to the theater for a while.”

  Dad hurried off and returned with a cat carrier whose two hissing occupants seemed less than thrilled to be confined together. But instead of taking off immediately, I hauled the carrier inside and put it in the front hall while I ran upstairs to take the long, hot shower I’d been fantasizing about. I felt lighter when I finished, as if I’d washed pounds of cat pee and dander down the drain.

  I wished I had time for the nap Michael had suggested. But it was already one o’clock. Rehearsal would have been going on without me. Not that Michael needed me there every second, but there were things I needed to get done. Maybe after I delivered Niva’s cats.…

  Coming downstairs I ran into Rose Noire. She was smudged with flour and smears of chocolate, which lifted my spirits almost as much as a nap would have, since it meant she had been baking.

  “Meg, I know the rehearsals are off limits to everyone except cast and crew and invited guests—”

  I felt a pang of guilt, and prepared to apologize for not inviting her already.

  “But I was wondering—if I take the boys to rehearsal, can I stay and watch for a bit?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But why aren’t they at rehearsal now?”

  “Michael’s doing a kid-free run-through first,” she said. “He doesn’t want to overtire them. Child actors are to report at three.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “And if you really want to watch, no problem. I’d have invited you already if I’d known you were interested.”

  “Oh, I didn’t want to see it until it was almost ready,” she said. “But I figure it must be fairly close to ready if you’re opening tomorrow.”

  “God, I hope so,” I muttered.

  “Another thing—there’s a potluck supper tonight at Trinity.”

  “Which happens to coincide with the actual dress rehearsal.”

  “And you and Michael will be working hard all through it, I know,” she said. “So if I stay and watch rehearsal, when it comes time for the boys’ dinner break—I assume they will get one—I could take them over to the church just long enough to fuel them up and then bring them back for the dress rehearsal.”

  “That would be fabulous,” I said. “Speaking of the boys—”

  “Napping,” she said.

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I told them if they didn’t nap, I wouldn’t try to talk you into letting them go to the potluck, and what’s more they’d probably have to leave rehearsal before the rest of the cast because of their bedtimes.”

  “And that worked?”

  “It might not have,” she admitted. “But then I took them sledding for a couple of hours and wore them out. That’s why I’m getting such a late start on my baking for the potluck.”

  “You’re a genius, and I will get out of your hair and let you bake in peace.” As I hurried out to my car, I reminded myself how fortunate Michael and I were to have Rose Noire still occupying yet another of our many extra rooms. And uttered a small prayer that it would take her a few more years to decide which of her many admirers she wanted to settle down with.

  As I drove back to town with Christmas music playing softly on the radio, occasional low growls emerged from the carrier. Once, when we were nearly at the bed-and-breakfast, open combat broke out. I pounded on the carrier until the two subsided into irritated growls again and they remained quiet until I parked in front of our destination.

  “Behave yourselves,” I told the cats as I hauled their carrier out of the passenger seat. “I just might be about to crack the riddle of Weaseltide.”

  Chapter 26

  Niva Shiffley’s bed-and-breakfast was a huge three-story Victorian house that had started life as the Methodist parsonage, back in the late nineteenth century. She’d been one of the first people to see the potential in her cousin Randall’s efforts to increase tourism in Caerphilly, and had scraped together enough money to buy the house and convert it from a warren of run-down student apartments into a showplace.

  And she’d had the good sense to hire Mother as her decorator, and give her a free hand to turn the place into a high Victorian fantasy. They’d outdone themselves this year with the Christmas decorations. An enormous Christmas tree completely filled the front window, so covered with decorations that you almost had to take it on faith that there was evergreen underneath. And while the decorations were all reproductions, they had been carefully aged until they had the patina of antiques that had been handed down for generations. I knew this for sure because I was one of the people Mother had drafted to help out with the rush aging job when Niva had complained that the tree looked too new.

  I set the cat crate down and gazed through the windows for a few moments, admiring my handiwork and pondering the fact that Melisande Flanders was staying here. Learning this didn’t exactly make me revise my opinion of our rabid fan, but it did make me a lot more curious about her. Niva’s bed-and-breakfast wasn’t cheap. People didn’t stay here because they couldn’t afford the Inn—they stayed here because they preferred Victorian luxury to its modern and more institutional cousin. And maybe because they wanted to be within easy walking distance of the heart of the festival. If Melisande really was staying here she wasn’t just a rabid fan, she was an affluent one.

  Time to see what Niva had to say.

  I rang the old-fashioned Victorian twist doorbell and picked up the cat crate again.

  “Merry Christmas, Meg! Come and warm yourself!” Niva was dressed in a high-necked velvet gown with a starched lace collar—not quite a Victorian costume, but definitely intended to suggest the era. She flung the door wide and motioned me in with vigorous, almost frantic gestures, as if a blizzard were raging outside and I were in dire need of a cup of wassail. “What can I do for you?”

  “I come bearing cats,” I said. “Long-haired ones. Clarence said you’d be willing to foster a couple.”

  “Ooh!” Niva peered into the carrier. To my relief, the cats just stared back at her instead of hissing or spitting. “Let’s take them into the parlor and have a look.”

  The parlor—I’d have said living room, but to each his own—was also decorated to the hilt. Several trees’ worth of evergreen with red velvet bows draped the mantel, the chair rail, the window sills, and the crown molding. And Victorian toys were piled not only under the tree but in the corners and on the tables and just about anywhere else she and Mother could find a few square inches of space. Old-fashioned dolls in dainty, lace-trimmed gowns. Carved and painted wooden animals—dogs, cats, horses, and even elephants. A Victorian-era bicycle with an enormous front wheel leaned in one corner. A brightly painted rocking horse posed in another. Miniature drums and trumpets were scattered about. On the mantel were several jack-in-the boxes, including one whose jack bore a curious resemblance to the widowed Queen Victoria. Regiments of painted toy soldiers marched across the sideboard, and a long line of tiny animals waited patiently to board a woode
n Noah’s ark by the hearth. And there were enough tops, hoops, balls, building blocks, alphabet blocks, yo-yos, checkerboards, and mechanical metal banks to fill a hundred stockings.

  While I was gawking at the scenery, Niva had opened the crate door and was extracting the first of the cats.

  “What a beautiful kitty you are!” she exclaimed as she reached in and lifted out what looked like a limp pale gray fur stole.

  I’d have gone for “what an enormous kitty you are!” myself—the thing must have been three feet long, and twenty-five pounds if it was an ounce. But to my relief, it didn’t claw or yowl—it just looked back unblinking as Niva cooed over it.

  “Rowr?” The other cat, no doubt feeling ignored, stuck its head out of the crate and looked around. Two more different cats would be hard to imagine. The second cat, though also long-haired, was a mere puff of black fur—only a kitten. While the gray cat lolled contentedly in its new human’s arms, the black kitten skittered across the soft oriental carpet and pounced on one of the dolls.

  I winced, but Niva seemed undisturbed.

  “You are a caution, aren’t you?” she said to the kitten. “Here, hold this one for a moment.”

  She handed me the gray cat—I upped my estimate of its weight to thirty pounds—and went to chase the kitten. The gray cat and I eyed each other, and it made no protest when I gently deposited it into a large, shallow cat basket sitting to one side of the hearth. At least I hoped it was a cat basket—why else would anyone have that large a wicker basket sitting around empty save for a cushion on the bottom? The gray cat sniffed it suspiciously then, apparently satisfied, carefully settled its considerable bulk more comfortably on the cushion and appeared to go to sleep.

  Meanwhile Niva was chuckling as she tried to extract the leg of a vintage stuffed bear from the kitten’s sharp little claws and teeth.

  “Yes, I think these two will do nicely,” she said. “I do hope you’re not really expecting to get them back.”

  “If you’re serious, you can handle the adoption paperwork with Clarence,” I said. “I’d give him a few days until he sorts out all the fostering.”