Inside the cathedral the husky teenager had become openly belligerent. “Listen, mister,” he told the jogger. “I might have knocked over these ladies if I let you shoot past me. Cool it, man.”
9
On Sunday afternoon Alvirah said admiringly, “You’re a natural on skis, Opal.”
Opal’s gentle face brightened at the praise. “I really used to be a good athlete in school,” she said. “Softball was my specialty. I guess I’m just naturally coordinated or something. When I put on those cross-country skis, I felt as if I was dancing on air right away.”
“Well, you certainly left Alvirah and me at the starting gate,” Willy observed. “You took off as if you’d been born on skis.”
It was five o’clock. The fire was blazing in their rented villa at the Trapp Family Lodge, and they were enjoying a glass of wine. Their plans to find Alvirah’s tree had been postponed. Instead, on Saturday, when they learned that the afternoon cross-country lessons were all booked up, they quickly signed up for the morning instructor. Then, following lunch on Saturday, a vacancy had opened in the afternoon group, and Opal had gone off with them.
On Sunday, after Mass at Blessed Sacrament Church and an hour of skiing, Alvirah and Willy had had enough and were happy to go back to their cabin for a cup of tea and a nap. The shadows were lengthening when Opal returned. Alvirah had just started to worry about her when she glided up to the cabin, her cheeks rosy, her light brown eyes sparkling.
“Oh, Alvirah,” she sighed as she stepped out of the skis, “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since—” She stopped, and the smile that had been playing around her lips vanished.
Alvirah knew perfectly well what Opal had been about to say: “I haven’t had this much fun since the day I won the lottery.”
But Opal’s smile had been quick to come back. “I’ve had a wonderful day,” she finished. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting me to be with you.”
The Reillys—Nora, Luke, Regan, and Regan’s fiancé, Jack “no relation” Reilly—had spent another long day of downhill skiing. They had arranged with Alvirah to meet at seven for dinner in the main dining room of the lodge. There Regan entertained them with the story of one of her favorite cases: a ninety-three-year-old woman who became engaged to her financial planner and was to marry him three days later. She secretly planned to give $2 million each to her four stepnieces and -nephews if they all showed up at the wedding.
“Actually, it was her fifth wedding,” Regan explained. “The family got wind of her plan and was dropping everything to be there. Who wouldn’t? But one of the nieces is an actress who had taken off on a ‘Go with the Flow’ weekend. She shut off her cell phone, and nobody knew where she was. It was my job to find her and get her to the wedding so the family could collect their money.”
“Brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it?” Luke commented.
“For two million dollars I would have been a bridesmaid,” Jack said, laughing.
“My mother used to listen to a radio program called ‘Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons,’ Opal recalled. “Sounds like you’re the new Mr. Keen, Regan.”
“I’ve located a few missing people in my time,” Regan acknowledged.
“And some of them would have been better off if she hadn’t tracked them down,” Jack said with a smile. “They ended up in the clink.”
Once again it was a very pleasant dinner, Opal thought. Nice people, good conversation, beautiful surroundings—and now her newfound sport. She felt a million miles away from the Village Eatery where she had been working for the last twenty years, except for the few months when she had the lottery money in the bank. Not that the Village Eatery was such a bad place to work, she assured herself, and it’s kind of an upscale diner because it has a liquor license and a separate bar. But the trays were heavy and the clientele was mostly college students, who claimed to be on tight budgets. That, Opal had come to believe, was nothing but an excuse for leaving cheap tips.
Seeing the way Alvirah and Willy lived since they won the lottery, and the way Herman Hicks had been able to use some of his lottery winnings to buy that beautiful apartment, made Opal realize all the more keenly how foolish she had been to trust that smooth-talking liar, Packy Noonan, and lose her chance for a little ease and luxury. What made it even harder was that Nora was so excited when she talked about the wedding she was planning for Regan and Jack. Opal’s niece, her favorite relative, was saving for her wedding.
“I’ve got to keep it small, Aunt Opal,” Kristy had told her. “Teachers don’t make much money. Mom and Dad can’t afford to help, and you wouldn’t believe how much even a small wedding costs.”
Kristy, the child of Opal’s younger brother, lived in Boston. She had gone through college on a scholarship with the understanding that she would teach in an inner city school for three years after she graduated, and that’s what she was doing now. Tim Cavanaugh, the young man she was marrying, was going to school at night for his master’s degree in accounting. They were such fine young people and had so many friends. I’d love to plan a beautiful wedding for them, Opal thought, and help them furnish their first home. If only…
Woulda, shoulda, coulda, hada, oughta, she chided herself. Get over it. Think about something else.
The “something else” that jumped to mind was the fact that the group of six people she skied with on Saturday afternoon had passed an isolated farmhouse about two miles away. A man had been standing in the driveway loading skis on top of a van. She had had only a glimpse of him, but for some crazy reason he seemed familiar, as if she had run into him recently. He was short and stocky, but so were half the people who came into the diner, she reminded herself. He’s a type, nothing more than a type; that’s the long and short of it. That’s why I thought I should know who he is. Still, it haunted her.
“Is that okay with you, Opal?” Willy asked.
Startled, Opal realized that this was the second time Willy had asked that question. What had he been talking about? Oh, yes. He had suggested that they have an early breakfast tomorrow, then head over to watch the Rockefeller Center tree being cut down. After that they could find Alvirah’s tree, come back to the lodge, have lunch, and pack for the trip home.
“Fine with me,” Opal answered hurriedly. “I want to buy a camera and take some pictures.”
“Opal, I have a camera. I intend to take a picture of Alvirah’s tree and send it to our broker.” Nora laughed. “The only thing we ever got from him for Christmas was a fruit-cake.”
“A jar of maple syrup and a tree to tap hundreds of miles from where you live isn’t what I call splurging,” Alvirah exclaimed. “The people whose houses I cleaned used to get big bottles of champagne from their brokers.”
“Those days went the way of pull-chain toilets,” Willy said with a wave of his hand. “Today you’re lucky if someone sends a gift in your name to his favorite charity which (a) you never heard of, and (b) you haven’t a clue how much he sent.”
“Luckily in my profession people never want to hear from us, especially during the holidays,” Luke drawled.
Regan laughed. “This is getting ridiculous. I can’t wait to watch the Rockefeller Center tree being cut down. Just think of all the people who are going to see that tree over the Christmas season. After that it would be fun to see how swift we are following the map to Alvirah’s tree.”
Regan couldn’t possibly know that their lighthearted outing would turn deadly serious tomorrow when Opal skied off alone to check out the short, stocky man she had glimpsed at the farmhouse—the farmhouse where Packy Noonan had just arrived.
10
I feel like I’m at the Waltons, Milo thought as he raised the lid of the big pot and sniffed the beef stew that was simmering on the stove. It was early Sunday evening, and the farmhouse actually felt cozy with the aroma of his cooking. Through the window he could see that it had started to snow. Despite the heartwarming scene he couldn’t wait for this job to be finished so he could get b
ack to Greenwich Village. He needed the stimulation of attending readings and being around other poets. They listened respectfully to his poems and clapped and sometimes told him how moved they were. Even if they didn’t mean it, they were good fakers. They give me the encouragement I need, he thought.
The Como twins had told Milo that they expected to be back at the farmhouse anytime after six on Sunday evening and to be sure to have dinner ready. They had left on Saturday afternoon, and if they’d seemed nervous when they arrived with the flatbed, it didn’t compare to how they acted when they took off in the van. He had innocently asked them where they were going, and Jo-Jo had snapped back, “None of your business.”
I told him to take a chill pill, Milo remembered, and he almost blew a gasket. Then Jo-Jo screamed at Benny to take the skis off the roof of the van and load them back again properly. He said one ski looked loose, and it would be just like Benny to load a ski that would fall off on the highway and hit a patrol car. “All we need are state troopers on our case, pawing our phony licenses.”
Then fifteen minutes later he had yelled at Benny to come back inside because a bunch of cross-country skiers were passing across the field. “One of them skidding around out there could be an eagle-eyed cop,” he snapped. “Your picture was on TV when they did the story on Packy, wasn’t it? Maybe you want to take his bunk in the pen?”
They’re scared out of their minds—that had been Milo’s assessment. On the other hand, so was he. It was clear to him that wherever the twins were going involved risk. He worried that if they were arrested and talked about him, he could at the very least be accused of harboring fugitives. He shouldn’t be doing business with people on the lam, and he was already sure that their little excursion had to do with Packy Noonan getting out of the can. Would anyone believe that thirteen years ago he didn’t know that the twins had disappeared at the exact time Packy was arrested and that he had had nothing to do with them since? Until now, of course, he corrected himself.
No, he decided. No one would believe it.
The twins had eluded capture for years, and from the well fed look of the two of them and their new bright choppers that didn’t even look fake, they had been living well. So they certainly had at least some of the money that the investors had lost in the scam. Why did they risk coming back? he wondered.
Packy had paid his debt to society, Milo thought, but he’s still on parole. But from the way the twins were talking when they didn’t think I could overhear them, it’s obvious they’re all planning to skip the U. S. of A. in the next few days. To where? With what?
Milo forked a chunk of beef from the stew and popped it in his mouth. Jo-Jo and Benny had stayed with him for less than twenty-four hours, but in that short time all the years they hadn’t laid eyes on each other melted away. Before Jo-Jo got crabby, they had had a few laughs about the old days. And after Benny had downed a couple of beers, he had even invited him to come visit them in Bra—
At that memory Milo smiled. Benny had started to say “Bra—” and Jo-Jo had shut him up. So instead of saying “Brazil,” which he clearly meant to say, Benny had said, “Bra-bra, I mean, Bora-Bora.”
Benny had never been all that swift on the uptake, Milo remembered.
He began to set the table. If by chance the twins showed up with Packy Noonan, would Packy enjoy the stew, or had he gotten his fill of stew in prison? Even if he did, it wouldn’t be anything like the way I make it, Milo assured himself. And, besides, if anyone doesn’t like stew, I have plenty of spaghetti sauce. From all the stories he had heard, Packy could get pretty mean when things didn’t go exactly his way. I wouldn’t mind making his acquaintance, though, he admitted to himself. There is no denying that he has what they call charisma. That is one of the reasons his trial got so much coverage—people can’t resist criminals with charisma.
A green salad with slivers of Parmesan cheese, homemade biscuits, and ice cream would complete the meal that would satisfy the queen of England if she happened to show up on her skis, Milo congratulated himself. These mismatched chipped dishes aren’t fit for royalty, he thought, but they didn’t matter. God knows it shouldn’t matter to the twins. No matter how much money they got their hands on, they’d still be the same goons they always were. As Mama used to say, “Milo, honey, you can’t buy class.” And, boy, was she right about that!
There was nothing more he could do until they returned. He walked to the front door and opened it. He glanced at the barn and once again asked himself the question: What’s with the flatbed? If they are headed back to Bra Bra Brazil, they sure can’t be traveling there by way of a flatbed. There had been a couple of scrawny-looking spruces on the flatbed when they arrived, but yesterday Benny threw them into one of the stalls.
Maybe I should write a poem about a tree, Milo mused as he closed the door and walked over to the battered old desk in the parlor that the renting agent had the nerve to call an antique. He sat down and closed his eyes.
A scrawny tree that nobody wants, he thought sadly. It gets thrown into a horse stall, and there’s a broken-down nag that is headed for the glue factory. They are both scared. The tree knows its next stop is the fireplace.
At first the tree and the nag don’t get along, but because misery loves company and they can’t avoid each other, they become best friends. The tree tells the nag how he never grew tall, and everyone called him Stumpy. That’s why he has been plopped here in the stall. The nag tells how in the one race he could have won he sat down on the track after the first turn because he was tired. Stumpy and the nag comfort each other and plan their escape. The nag grabs Stumpy by a branch, flings him over his back, breaks out of the stall, and races to the forest where they live happily ever after.
With tears in his eyes, Milo shook his head. “Sometimes beautiful poetry comes to me full-blown,” he said aloud. He sniffled as he pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write.
11
From the first moment he spotted the van on Madison Avenue, Packy Noonan realized that in thirteen years the combined brain power of the Como twins had not increased one iota. As he leaped into the backseat and slammed the door behind him, he fumed. “What’s with the skis? Why not put up a sign reading Packy’s Getaway Car?”
“Huh?” Benny grunted in bewilderment.
Jo-Jo was behind the wheel and stepped on the gas. He was a fraction too late to make the traffic light and decided not to risk it, especially with a cop standing at the corner. Even though the cop wasn’t actually facing them, running a light was not a good idea.
“I said you should bring skis so that we could put them on after you picked me up,” Packy snapped. “That way if someone noticed me hightailing it down the block, they’d say I got in a van. Then we pull over somewhere and put the skis on top. They’re looking for any old van, not a van with skis. You’re so dopey. You might as well plaster “Honk if You Love Jesus” stickers all over the van, for God’s sake.”
Jo-Jo spun his head. “We risked our necks to get you, Packy. We didn’t have to, you know.”
“Get moving!” Packy shrieked. “The light’s green. You want a special invitation to step on the gas?”
The traffic was heavier than usual for a Sunday morning. The van moved slowly up the long block to Fifty-second Street, and then Jo-Jo turned east. Precisely the moment they were out of view, the man Packy had dubbed Fatso came running up Madison Avenue. “Help!-Help! Did anybody see some guy running?” he began to yell.
The cop, who had not noticed Packy either running or getting in the van, hurried over to the jogger, clearly believing he had a nut case on his hands. New Yorkers and tourists, united for the moment in a bit of excitement, stopped to see what was going on.
The jogger raised his voice and shouted, “Anybody see where a guy went who was running around here a minute ago?”
“Keep it down, buddy,” the cop ordered. “I could arrest you for disturbing the peace.”
A four-year-old who had been standing across the
street next to his mother while she answered a call on her cell phone tugged at her skirt. “A man who was running got into a van with skis on it,” he said matter of factly.
“Mind your business, Jason,” she said crisply. “You don’t need to be a witness to a crime. Whoever they’re looking for is probably a pickpocket. Let them find him. That’s what they’re paid to do.” She resumed her conversation as she took his hand and started walking down the street. “Jeannie, you’re my sister, and I have your best interests at heart. Drop that creep.”
Less than two blocks away the van was moving slowly through the traffic. In the backseat Packy willed the vehicle forward: Park, Lexington, Third, Second, First.
At First Avenue, Jo-Jo put on the turn signal. Ten more blocks to the FDR Drive, Packy fretted. He began to bite his nails, a long-forgotten habit he had overcome when he was nine. I’m not doing anything wrong until I don’t show up at The Castle tonight, he reasoned. But if I’m caught with the twins, it’s all over. Associating with known felons means instant parole revocation. I should have had them leave the van parked somewhere for me. But even if I was alone and got stopped, how would I explain the van? That I won it in a raffle?
He moaned.
Benny turned his head. “I got a good feeling, Packy,” he said soothingly. “We’re gonna make it.”
But Packy observed that sweat was rolling down Benny’s face. And Jo-Jo was driving so slowly that they might as well be walking. I know he doesn’t want to get caught in an intersection, but this is nuts! Overhead, a thumping sound indicated that one of the skis was coming loose. “Pull over,” Packy screamed. Two minutes later, between First and Second Avenues, he yanked the skis off the roof of the van and tossed them in through the back door. Then he waved Jo-Jo over to the passenger seat. “Is this the way they taught you to drive in Brazil? You, Benny, get in the back.”
The Christmas Thief Page 4
