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?”
“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.