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 wooden 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.”
“Can do.”
“And that will give you time to see if you really want him or her.” The kitten, deprived of his stuffed bear, had gone after Niva’s dangling earrings and had snagged his claws in her lace collar.
“Oh, don’t worry. He—hmmm.” She abruptly flipped the kitten over, inspected his hindquarters, and nodded matter-of-factly as she turned him right-side up again. “Yes, he. He’s just a kitten. He’ll settle down. And they’ll both bring a little life to the place. Amuse the guests.”
“Speaking of guests, you have a Ms. Flanders saying here.”
“Yes—Melisande Flanders—Milly for short.”
“Is she in?”
“For the moment. She doesn’t spend much time here.”
“If it’s the person I’m thinking of, she spends most of her time over at the theater.”
“That’s the one.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure Ms. Flanders wasn’t in the hallway. “You should see what she’s done to my blue room.” She’d damped down her normally hearty voice to a mere murmur. “Turned it into a shrine for that actor. The one who’s appearing in Michael’s play. I almost had a cow when I first saw it—posters all over the walls! But she was very considerate, really—no tape on the walls or anything destructive like that. She hung all the posters with strings from curtain rods or sprinkler heads. It’s obviously not the first time she’s done this to a rented room. Well, it takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”
“Do you think I could talk to her?”
“She hasn’t shown her face yet this morning,” Niva said. “Not surprising, considering how late she came in last night. Nearly three o’clock!”
“And woke you up, evidently.”
“I can’t rightly say she did. I was up and down all night, worrying about the storm. She came in real quiet-like—can’t complain about that. But what with hearing the snowplows going by, and worrying about whether the guests who were leaving would be able to get away, and whether the ones due in might cancel—well, I was up and worrying most of the night. Lord, I hope tonight’s guests don’t need anything after dinner, because I’m already dead on my feet.”
Suddenly she switched back into hearty hostess mode.
“Good morning!” She beamed at someone over my shoulder. “Milly, wait till you see the cats Meg brought me. Are you hungry? It’s past our usual breakfast service time, but everything’s out of whack with this snow. I could whip you up something.”
“No thanks.” Milly/Melisande was standing a few steps from the bottom of the stairway. She was already wearing her coat and hat, and was pulling on her gloves. “I’m heading out.”
“Be careful,” Niva said. “The roads will be slippery.”
“It’s okay,” Melisande said. “I’m walking.”
“If you’re going to the theater now, I could give you a ride,” I offered. “I’m going that way anyway, and it’s beastly cold out there.”
“They say we’re going to have a high of eleven today,” Niva exclaimed. And the wind chill’s below zero.”
“Well—thank you,” Melisande said.
Niva showered us with admonitions to stay warm and safe on our way out, and waved as we climbed into the Twinmobile.
I was just starting the engine when the phone rang. The caller ID showed the police station.
“I should take this,” I said, turning the engine off again. “What’s up?” I said into the phone.
“The chief is releasing Mr. Haver,” Kayla said. “At least for the time being. He has no idea where his car is, and it’s probably buried under the snow anyway. Any chance you could pick him up? Or should I call him a cab?”
“Tell Mr. Haver I’d be happy to take him to the theater.” I watched Melisande’s eyes light up. “I’m only a few blocks away, so it should only take me a few minutes.”
“Oh, my,” Melisande said, as I started the car again. “I’ve never gone anywhere with Malcolm before. But are you sure it will be okay?”
“If he’s having one of his fits of artistic temperament, you can wait at the police station, and I’ll circle back and get you as soon as I’ve dropped him off.”
“I hate to put you to all that trouble.”
“You wouldn’t be the one putting me to trouble,” I said. “And I appreciate your flexibility.”
Haver was pacing up and down the stretch of sidewalk in front of the front door of the police station when I pulled up. He didn’t object to Melisande’s presence—I wasn’t even sure he noticed her. He stomped up to the back door of the Twinmobile and hopped in.
“What took you so long?” he said. “I was freezing out there.”
“You could have waited inside,” I pointed out. “I’d have come in to find you.”
“I didn’t want to spend another second in durance vile,” he said. “They’ve had some squalid little murder at the far end of the county, so of course they’re looking to pin it on the outsider.”
“Doesn’t look as if they’re trying all that hard to pin it on you,” I said. “After all, they let you go pretty quickly.”
“Because my lawyer pointed out that they have neither a time of death nor a weapon, and that I am alibied for most of the evening. To say nothing of the fact that they cannot come up with a plausible motive for me to kill a man I barely knew.”
Knowing the chief, I thought it a lot more probable that he was turning Haver loose only to lull him into a false sense of complacency. And maybe to give him scope to do something to incriminate himself.
“I expect as soon as rehearsal starts they’ll march in with their jackboots and haul me off for another round of the third degree.”
“Ridiculous!” Melisande burst out. “I know perfectly well that you couldn’t have done this—and I’m sure all your fans will be outraged. We believe in you, even if the police don’t. We’ll organize a demonstration.”
“Not necessary, my dear,” Haver said. “Not yet, anyway,” he added in an undertone. “But that was an experience! I shall have to use these emotions in my performance! ‘I have almost forgot the taste of fears. / The time has been, my senses would have cool’d / To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair / Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir, / As life were in’t.”
Macbeth, I noted, as he continued to soliloquize the whole way back to the theater. Macbeth gave way to Hamlet and eventually to Richard III. I more than half suspected that his lawyer had ordered him to say as little as possible in the interrogation room and he was babbling to relieve the unaccustomed stress of having to be silent. Ah, well. Melisande was enchanted, and I was just as happy not to have to make conversation with him.
When we got to the theater, the lights were on in the box office in the lobby, so I pulled up to the front steps. Haver generally preferred going in the building that way whenever possible—it made for a grander entrance.
To my surprise, after hopping out of the back seat of the Twinmobile, Haver opened Melisande’s door with a dramatic bow. She sat frozen.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she murmured. “I just usually wait by the stage door.”
“And it’s much too cold for that today,” Haver said. “You should come in to keep warm, and watch the rehearsal. If you sit quietly in the back, no one will mind.”
She looked at me.
“If it’s okay with Mr. Haver, it will be fine with Michael,” I said. “Go on.”
I paused for a moment, watching her float up the broad marble steps on Haver’s arm. I hoped his gracious mood lasted at least a little while. And that he snarled at someone other than her when what I’d come to think of as the real Haver emerged.