“What the Dickens is he up to?” I murmured as I stepped back behind a rolling costume rack so Haver wouldn’t see me. He scanned up and down the hallway one more time before disappearing into the back stairwell—the one that led down to the loading dock and the parking lot beyond.
“Not again,” I muttered. I could think of no good reason why Haver might be sneaking out of the theater less than an hour before rehearsal began. No good reason, only a lot of bad ones.
And yes, he was sneaking. Very obviously sneaking. He might not be Olivier, but I had to admit he was a decent actor. So you’d think he’d have figured out how to sneak around without looking quite so obvious. He could amble down the hall, staring at his script and pretending to run lines under his breath. Or saunter, looking around as if interested to see what progress had been made on the set. Or hurry as if he’d left something important behind.
But no. He’d been creeping along, almost tiptoeing, looking furtively around him every step or two. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d held up a sign saying “Watch me! I’m up to something!”
I could never have held my own with him onstage, but I could definitely best him at sneaking. In spite of all his paranoid peering around, I reached the loading dock practically on his heels and yet apparently undetected.
He spent a while lurking behind a Dumpster and peering out to see if anyone was on to him before slinking across the asphalt to where he’d parked his shiny little silver rental Honda.
Luckily my own car was parked nearby. I made my unobtrusive way to it, watching Haver’s car out of the corner of my eye and noting which way he turned when he finally stopped scanning the street in both directions and pulled out of the parking lot. I let him have a decent lead. He was heading toward town, where I was reasonably sure the tourist traffic would both slow him down and provide me with enough cover to catch up with him unobserved.
“I don’t have time for this,” I muttered as I went. “We should have Stanley doing it.” And perhaps by tomorrow, or even this afternoon, we would have him doing it. But I didn’t want to waste what could be the perfect opportunity to find Haver’s bootlegger.
Still, it was annoying, so I deliberately tried to lift my own spirits by appreciating the holiday bustle around me.
The town Christmas tree looked fabulous. I didn’t know offhand whether Randall had followed his usual tactful policy of getting one ever-so-slightly shorter than the National Christmas Tree or whether he’d decided to go for broke and aim for the record. Either way, its impressive size made it a favorite background for selfies and group photos. And the multicolored lights and ornaments were definitely more appropriate than last year’s rather severe blue-and-silver color scheme.
The streets and sidewalks were teeming, in spite of the threatening weather forecast. Or maybe because of it—people might be trying to squeeze in a last hour or two of shopping and sightseeing before retreating to their hotels or bed-and-breakfasts, or maybe just climbing into their cars for the drive home. I lost count of the number of red, green, and gold CHRISTMAS IN CAERPHILLY shopping bags I was seeing—nearly every tourist had one, and most had half a dozen or more.
Clearly Haver wasn’t in a holiday mood. Within a few blocks, I’d caught up enough to have only one car between us. Close enough for me to see him pounding the wheel when other drivers dawdled and shaking his fist at pedestrians who impeded his progress.
During a moment when traffic completely ground to a halt. I pulled out my phone and texted Michael. “Haver left theater. Tailing him.”
Then I dialed Mother.
“Where is that man?” she said. “I’m sorry—hello, dear. What can I do for you, and do you have any idea where that wretched actor can possibly be?”
“At the moment, two cars ahead of me on Church Street, near the town square, having a conniption fit and shouting obscenities through his rolled-down window at the poor FedEx driver who’s double parked and blocking the street to deliver a large shipment of boxes to the toy store.”
A pause
“Is there some special reason why he’s driving through town instead of being here to try on the new waistcoat I made for him?”
“You made the waistcoat? I’m sure he will be sorry to miss that.” Mother’s talents were many, but actual sewing wasn’t among them.
“The new waistcoat the costume crew made last night, under my direction.” Mother’s tone had become ever-so-slightly testy.
“I look forward to seeing it,” I said. “I’ll do what I can to bring Haver back as soon as possible to try it on, but right now I’m tailing him to see if he’ll lead me to his bootlegger.”
“His bootlegger? Is that how he’s been getting his … er … supply?”
“By bootlegger I meant whoever’s sabotaging the show by selling or giving booze to Haver.”
“I hope you catch the bootlegger then, dear. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Actually, there is,” I said. “Can you find someone we can hire to shadow Haver twenty-four hours a day and do whatever it takes to keep him from drinking?”
“I’m sure I can,” she said. “Starting immediately, I assume. Your cousin Maximilian has some experience along that line. Or if he’s not available, there’s always Elspeth’s youngest. Let me make a few calls. One way or another, I’ll have someone here tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I said, and signed off.
The FedEx man finally returned to his vehicle and drove off, and Haver jerkily put his car into motion again. Only slow motion, of course, given how crowded the streets were. And the pending snow had begun sifting gently down.
Obviously wherever he was going must be near the heart of downtown—why else would someone brave the tourist hordes this way?
“Because he doesn’t know any better,” I muttered to myself when Haver, after saluting a party of jaywalking tourists with a flourish of impatient horn-blowing and an extended middle finger, eased away from the crowded downtown area and headed toward the opposite edge of town from the theater. I’d have taken a couple of side streets and made the trip in two minutes.
“Of course, it makes sense that his bootlegger wouldn’t be downtown,” I told myself as we put more and more distance between us and the town square. Downtown was teeming not only with tourists but also with locals who would know about our Haverwatch. He might be savvy enough to avoid the citizens dressed for the duration in Victorian garb—the shopkeepers, the roving bands of carolers, and the ten-piece brass ensemble from the high school marching band. But we also had locals roaming the crowds dressed like tourists, to keep an eye out for pickpockets and troublemakers, not to mention locals going about their normal errands to and from nearby stores, restaurants, offices, churches, and friends’ houses.
Away from the center of town, the decorations became a little less over the top, but still, you had to work to spot an undecorated house. I thought I’d found one on Hawthorne Street, but a closer look revealed a small but tasteful wreath on the front door, reminding me that perhaps it was time for my annual rereading of Charlotte MacLeod’s Rest You Merry, one of my favorite Christmas books of all time.
“Where the blazes is he going?” I muttered as Haver passed the town limits and headed out into the countryside. The snow was falling in earnest now, light but steady, and a quick glance at the weather forecast on my phone confirmed that they still didn’t expect it to stop anytime soon.
Should I turn back? I had no desire to spend the night stuck in a snowdrift, with or without Haver nearby.
“If the going starts to get bad, I’m turning back,” I announced to no one in particular, with a baleful glance at the clouds overhead.
But the road continued to be easy going, and at least the snow gave me some cover. It also helped that I knew this particular road reasonably well, so I could drop back and give Haver plenty of space except when he approached the two or three places where he’d be coming to a possible turnoff.
We were nearly at the county line. I was just deciding that if he left the county, I should use that as an excuse to give up my pursuit, when Haver slowed, and then turned—not into a road, but a private lane.
I gave him a minute or so before following.