How the Finch Stole Christmas!

by Donna Andrews

  On the way out I passed a brace of state troopers coming in. Poor Chief Burke.

  And a vehicle was just pulling into the handicapped space. A very unusual-looking vehicle. A pickup truck whose front end looked huge, almost inflated, and dwarfed the tiny cab, with a modest cargo area bringing up the rear. It appeared to have started life as a black truck, but had received a right rear fender transplant from a sea-foam green sibling, and its owner had not bothered to paint over the many places where dents or rust spots had been repaired and painted with reddish primer. Definitely not a modern pickup truck—I suspected it was older than I was. In fact …

  I did a quick search on my phone and confirmed that the truck could very well be a 1956 Ford pickup.

  The owner—an elderly man in a bright green John Deere cap—was hanging a well-worn handicapped parking tag from his rearview mirror. He saw me looking at him and rolled down the window.

  “Is Henry Burke in there?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Tell him to come out here.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather come in?” I asked. “It’s below freezing out here and—”

  “I know how cold it is, girlie! I can’t come in—I have a sick sheep in the back and I need to get her home to the farm.”

  “I’ll go and ask him to come out,” I said. “May I tell him who’s calling on him?”

  “Mort Gormley.”

  As I suspected. I walked inside, where the chief was standing at Kayla’s desk, talking to her.

  “And I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I know it makes more work for you but—”

  “Chief,” I interrupted. “Mort Gormley wants to talk to you. I invited him to come inside, but says he can’t leave his sick sheep alone in the truck.”

  “What the Dickens,” he muttered. But he strode over to the rack just inside the door, put on his heavy coat, and went outside. I followed.

  “Mr. Gormley—” the chief began, as he approached the truck.

  “Where the blue blazes do you get off, siccing the state troopers on me!” Gormley bellowed. “Like to give me a heart attack when they pulled me over.”

  “I didn’t sic the state troopers on you,” the chief said. “When one of my officers went over to your farm this morning, we couldn’t find you, and no one had any idea of your whereabouts. We were concerned.”

  “Concerned that I’d bumped off my next-door neighbor and fled the jurisdiction, eh?” Gormley erupted with wheezy laughter. “Well, I’m here. And I didn’t kill John Willimer. Took one of the Cotswolds down to Blacksburg to see a specialist at Virginia Tech. You want to waste your time checking my alibi, I can give you the name of the vet techs who stayed up all night with us.”

  He fumbled inside his coat and eventually pulled out a sheet of paper. The chief stepped closer to the truck to take it.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You ever see anything strange going on over at the Willimers?”

  “Nope.” Mr. Gormley shook his head. “I keep myself to myself. And after your Deputy Shiffley spoke to Willimer about those dogs of his, he did the same. Been meaning to say I appreciated that.”

  The chief nodded.

  “What about the old lady?” Gormley asked. “She need anything?”

  “She’s staying here in town for the time being,” the chief said. “We’re hoping she’ll turn out to have some kinfolk. Is your sheep going to be all right?” He nodded to the bed of the truck, where the placid white face of a sheep emerged from a small mountain of ratty blankets and tattered old quilts.

  “She should be now.” Gormley’s voice softened slightly. “Not doing her any good sitting around out here, though. I’d like to get her home and bedded down, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I appreciate your dropping by,” the chief said. “Drive carefully.”

  Gormley pulled the handicapped placard off his rearview mirror and stowed it in the glove compartment. Then he looked back at the chief.

  “Did you really think I might be your killer?” he asked.

  “Mort,” the chief said. “To tell you the truth, yes—I was worried that Willimer might have given you some new provocation. And I know how angry I’d feel toward someone I thought was responsible for the death of a helpless animal in my care. But when we couldn’t find you, I was even more worried that the killer might have gotten you, too.”

  “I may be old, but I’m ornery,” Gormley said. “Take a lot to kill me. And I’m right partial to my sheep, but I wouldn’t kill a man over them. You can believe that or not—makes no never mind to me.”

  “I believe you, Mort,” the chief said. “Drive carefully.”

  Gormley looked at the chief for a few moments, then nodded. The chief and I stood watching as he backed, inch by inch, out of the parking space, slowly pulled out of the lot, and disappeared, gradually, into the distance.

  “Blast,” the chief said. “I’m relieved to see he’s not another victim, but I was hoping he’d have noticed something. Not a whole lot more potential witnesses out in that part of the county. But I shouldn’t complain. The case is moving rapidly.”

  “Unlike Mr. Gormley.”

  “Yes.” He chuckled softly. “Hard to believe we only found Willimer this morning.”

  “I know,” I said. “Seems like at least a week.”

  “At least,” he agreed. “Meg, I hope you’re right about Michael being ready to step into Mr. Haver’s part on a moment’s notice.”

  “You’re going to arrest him?”

  “I’m going to bring him in for more questioning. I might end up detaining him.”

  “I thought the latest theory was that the killer would turn out to be someone from the smuggling ring.”

  “That was before Horace processed Mr. Haver’s room. Vern’s on his way over to the theater to collect Mr. Haver.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I’d probably better get over there to help Michael deal with the fallout.”

  But when I slipped into the theater and found a vantage point backstage, I could see Michael onstage, where Haver should have been—standing beside the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, eavesdropping on the two actors who played Scrooge’s fellow businessmen. That meant they were in the third act. I checked my watch. Three forty-five. Good—they were only running an hour or so late on the first run-through.

  “When did he die?”

  “Last night, I believe.”

  “Why, what was the matter with him? I thought he’d never die.”

  “God knows.”

  “What has he done with his money?”

  “I haven’t heard. He hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know. Bye, bye!”

  Had Vern come and gone already, taking Haver with him? I know the play must go on, but … so quickly? Maybe Michael was just … showing Haver how he wanted him to do something?

  I couldn’t see much without barging out onstage and interrupting the rehearsal. So I ducked back into the hallway, followed it out to the lobby, and went in the main doors. I could see not only the stage but also the whole house.

  Some of the actors who weren’t on in this act were sitting in the first few rows. I saw Rose Noire sitting just behind the small clump of child actors, including Josh and Jamie.

  No sign of Haver.

  “Meg?”

  I started, and turned to find Vern Shiffley standing beside me.

  “Do you happen to know when this Haver fellow goes on?” he asked.

  “He should be on now,” I said. “The part Michael’s playing—that’s his part.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “I’d like to know myself.” I led the way backstage. Haver wasn’t in his dressing room. Or the costume shop. Or the bathroom. Or in the wings. Several of the actors onstage spotted us when we were poking about backstage and their concentration suffered.

  “Let’s take a break, people,” Michael said. “Meg, is something wrong?”

  “Haver’s not here?” I asked.

  “Never cam
e back from lunch. So I finally said the hell with it.” He looked as if he wanted to say more than that, but after a glance at the section where the child actors were sitting, he just set his jaw.

  “So he’s flown the coop,” Vern said.

  Chapter 34

  “Maybe he’s flown the coop,” I said. “Maybe he’s just taking his own sweet time getting back from lunch.”

  “Any idea where he went for lunch?” Vern asked Michael.

  “No idea,” Michael said. “The chief confiscated his rental car, so the Rabid Fan was going to drive him somewhere. Sorry—I don’t actually know her real name.”

  “Melisande Flanders,” I said, to Vern. “She’s staying at Niva’s bed-and-breakfast.”

  “She hasn’t come back, either,” the actress playing Mrs. Cratchit said. I noticed that I wasn’t the only one to glance at the aisle seat on the back row where Melisande had been sitting.

  “Any chance one of the other deputies already picked him up?” I asked Vern.

  “Unlikely.” He shook his head. “Chief didn’t put out a BOLO, just called to tell me to pick him up and keep it discreet.”

  “Good riddance, I say,” Bob Cratchit muttered.

  “Well, when he’s on his game, he’s pretty damned good,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said.

  “But when was the last time he was on his game instead of on the sauce?” Bob Cratchit replied.

  “Okay, folks,” Michael said, cutting through these and similar murmurs elsewhere in the crowd. “Let’s get on with the run-through. Vern, you’re welcome to stay and wait for Haver. Or we could call you when we see him.”

  “I’ll check and see what the chief says.” Vern went out through the doors to the lobby. I followed.

  “Am I correct in assuming that once you find him it’s unlikely we’ll get Haver back today?” I asked.

  “I’d say unlikely you’ll get him back, period,” Vern said. “I haven’t heard what Horace found over in his room at the Inn, but it’s got the chief all fired up.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I was hoping—”

  “Meg?”

  I turned to see Melisande appearing from behind one of the tinsel-laden potted evergreens that dotted the lobby.

  “You’re back,” I said. “Great! Where’s Mr. Haver?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know,” I repeated.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “I thought it would be such fun to take him out for lunch, plus I could keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t … overindulge in anything that would hurt his ability to rehearse when he got back.”

  “Your willingness to serve as a volunteer sober companion is duly noted,” I said. “But—”

  “And Malcolm was good as gold!” she exclaimed. “He directed me to this barbecue place he’d heard about—just a little hole in the wall, it even called itself ‘The Pit’—and it was so rough-looking I’m not sure I’d have dared go inside by myself.”

  “I know the place,” I said. Rocky, The Pit’s owner, was well-known for offering free food to anyone who was down on his luck, and Clarence’s biker friends tended to hang out there in between charity rides, playing pool while keeping a weather eye out for drunks, druggies, homeless people, runaways, stray kittens—anyone who might wander in needing rescue or rehabilitation. Later on, maybe, I’d tell her how very safe she had been in The Pit. For now, I put on my stern face. “So where is he now?”

  “We were back here, and about to go into the auditorium with our carryout bags, when he realized he’d left his script in my car,” she said. “And I said I’d run down and get it, and he said nonsense, he wouldn’t think of inconveniencing me because of his absentmindedness. So I gave him my keys and he hasn’t come back. And I went down to look and my car isn’t in the parking lot.”

  “He stole your car.”

  “He may have borrowed it.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Um … fifteen minutes? Maybe half an hour?”

  Vern, who had been eavesdropping nearby, stepped forward.

  “Ma’am, can you give me the make, model, and license number of your car?”

  “Why? He didn’t steal it!” Melisande yelped. “He absolutely has my permission to drive it!”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand that.” Vern had adopted his best “aw, shucks, ma’am” manner. “But we urgently need to talk to Mr. Haver and—”

  “I won’t help you persecute him! He didn’t do anything!”

  Melisande turned and fled through the glass front doors of the lobby, nearly bowling over a pair of tourists headed for the ticket office.

  “I don’t know the license number,” I said. “But it’s a bright red Ford Focus. I’ve seen it in the parking lot often enough.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Shouldn’t take too long to get the license number from the DMV, but the guy already has a head start on us. Got a name on her?”

  “Melisande Flanders.”

  While Vern made phone calls—first to the chief, to report on what Haver was up to, and then to The Pit to see if Rocky remembered what time the pair had left—I kept an eye out for Melisande. The temperature was only in the teens and she’d taken off without her coat. If she didn’t come back soon, we’d need to send someone out to look for her. Possibly with an ambulance.

  But about the time Vern was finishing up his second phone call, she slipped back in through one of the glass front doors—the one farthest from where Vern and I were standing. I gathered she was hoping to escape our notice.

  “If you want to have another go at Melisande, there she is.” I nodded toward where Melisande was darting from one potted evergreen to another, trying to make her way unseen to the door that led to the backstage area.

  “You think she’s likely to tell me anything?” Vern’s expression showed how unimpressed he was with Melisande’s attempts at stealth.

  I looked over to Melisande’s current hiding place, behind the finch cage. She seemed not to realize that its mesh sides provided very little cover. She peered out, saw that I was looking in her general direction, and ducked back behind the cage.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I think if she saw Malcolm Haver commit murder in cold blood, it wouldn’t take her more than an hour or two to convince herself that he’d been acting out of self-defense. If she thinks you’re going to arrest him, there’s no way she’ll help to find him.”

  “Then we’ll rely on your information till the DMV comes through,” he said. “I’d better get out there and help look for him.”

  He strode back out to his car. As he exited, a tall, muscular young man in his twenties came in. What I could see of his face between the knit hat and the scarf wrapped around his nose and chin was cheerful, freckled, and vaguely familiar. His eyes lit up when he saw me.

  “Meg!” He hurried over with an outstretched hand. “I recognize you from the family reunions.”

  “And you must be Maximilian.” He had a good handshake and a nice smile.

  “Just Max,” he said. “Only our mothers call me Maximilian. So where’s my charge?”

  It took me a while to convince Max that it wasn’t his fault Haver had fled before he arrived. And I didn’t try to talk him out of going in search of the red Ford Focus. In fact, once Max had departed, I called Stanley Denton to ask if he could join in the search.

  Then I slipped quietly back into the house and sat in the back row of seats. They’d resumed the run-through while I’d been gone, and had reached the scene where Scrooge was buying the enormous Christmas goose to send to the Cratchit family.

  Do you know the Poulter’s in the next street but one, at the corner?

  I should hope I did.

  An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey,—the big one?

  What, the one as big as me?

  What a delightful boy! It’s a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck!r />
  It’s hanging there now.

  Is it? Go and buy it.

  Pull the other one.

  No, no, I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell ’em to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I’ll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I’ll give you half a crown!

  Not for the first time, I found myself imagining the mixed feelings the goose must have inspired in Mrs. Cratchit. Yes, of course, she would have been delighted to have so much food to feed a family that probably survived all too often on lean rations. But on the other hand, what kind of an idiot sends an enormous raw bird to a woman who’s just about to serve her much more modest but already fully cooked goose and needs to turn her attention to the complicated job of cooking the plum pudding?

  Just then my phone buzzed—buzzed, rather than rang, because it had become second nature to turn off the sound when I walked into the theater.

  Robyn. I decided I should probably take it, so I stepped outside into the lobby.

  “Just so you know, I’m having second thoughts about whether hosting Weaseltide is a good idea,” I said. “Since the organizer thereof is currently aiding and abetting Malcolm Haver’s flight from the law.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, I always put everything on the calendar in pencil. If you decide it’s a bad idea, I can suddenly remember that we have a meeting of the Ladies of Saint Clotilda that afternoon. Actually, I was calling about something else. Could you possibly bring Mrs. Frost to Trinity tonight for the potluck supper?”

  “I’m not coming, remember? I’ll be at the theater. Dress rehearsal.”

  “Oh, I know—and you’ll be terribly busy! But you’re one of the few people Mrs. Frost actually knows, so it would be much easier if you could coax her into coming—”

  Should I tell Robyn exactly how little I cared whether Mrs. Frost came to the potluck dinner?

  “And also, we’ve packed up a feast for the cast and crew—Michael told me how many people there would be—and if you drop by with Mrs. Frost, we can load it all into your car.”

  I suddenly felt like a jerk.

  “Okay—for a bribe like that I’ll do it,” I said. “But I warn you, I can’t guarantee that I can talk her into coming if she balks.”