The Christmas Thief

by Mary Higgins Clark

  The hostess greeted them cheerfully. “I have your table ready. Your friends aren’t here yet.” She picked up menus and led them to the table. As they sat down, she said, “I understand you’re leaving us today.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Nora said, “but first we’re going over to watch the Rockefeller Center tree being cut down.”

  “Too late.”

  “What?”

  “You’re too late.”

  “Did they do it earlier than expected?” Nora asked.

  “I’ll say. Lem Pickens went over to say good-bye to his tree at six o’clock this morning, and he was too late. It was gone. Someone cut it down in the middle of the night, and they even stole the flatbed that was supposed to take the tree to New York. Everybody’s talking about it. One of the guests just said she was watching Imus on MSNBC, and he’s onto the story.”

  “I can only imagine what Imus has to say about this,” Regan commented.

  “Imus said it must have been done by a bunch of drunks,” the hostess reported as she handed out the menus. “He wondered who else would bother.”

  “It’s the sort of stunt kids would pull,” Jack said.

  “What are they going to do now?” Nora asked the hostess.

  “If they can’t find the tree today, they’ll probably go back to the guy who lives next door to Pickens. His tree was their second choice.”

  “There’s a motive,” Jack suggested, only partly in jest.

  “You better believe it,” the hostess replied, her eyes wide with excitement. “Lem Pickens was already on the local news this morning, screaming that he thought his neighbor was responsible.”

  “He could get sued for that,” Regan noted.

  “I don’t think he cares. Oh, look, here are your friends.”

  Alvirah and Willy had spotted them and were heading toward the table. Regan had the immediate impression that even though Alvirah was smiling, she seemed anxious. That feeling was confirmed when, after a quick “good morning,” Alvirah asked, “Isn’t Opal here yet?”

  “No, Alvirah,” Regan answered. “Wasn’t she with you?”

  “She left this morning to go cross-country skiing and said she’d meet us at breakfast.”

  “Alvirah, sit down. I’m sure she’ll be along in a few minutes,” Nora said comfortingly. “Besides, you wouldn’t believe the news around here.”

  “What news?” Alvirah asked eagerly.

  As Alvirah and Willy sat down, Regan could see that Alvirah perked up with the prospect of hearing some dirt.

  “Someone cut down the Rockefeller Center tree in the middle of the night and disappeared with it.”

  “What?”

  “Nobody took Alvirah’s tree, did they?” Willy asked. “Then they’d really be in trouble.”

  Alvirah ignored him. “Why on earth would anyone go to all that trouble to steal a tree? And where could they possibly take it?”

  Quickly Regan filled them in on the fact that not only were the tree and the flatbed missing, but the owner of the tree, Lem Pickens, was accusing his neighbor of theft.

  “As soon as we eat breakfast, I want to get over there and see for myself what’s going on,” Alvirah announced. She glanced at the doorway of the dining room. “I do wish Opal would hurry up and get here,” she said.

  Jack took a sip of the coffee that the waitress had just poured for him. “Do you know if Opal heard the news about Packy Noonan?”

  “What news?” Alvirah and Willy asked in unison.

  “He didn’t go back to his halfway house last night, which means he’s already broken his parole.”

  “Opal has always sworn that he had plenty of money hidden somewhere. He’s probably on his way out of the country with that loot right now.” Alvirah shook her head. “It’s disgusting.” She reached for the bread basket, examined it carefully, and decided on an apple strudel. “I shouldn’t,” she murmured, “but they’re so good.”

  Alvirah’s purse was on the floor beside her feet. The sudden ring of her cell phone made her jump. “I forgot to turn this off before I came into the dining room,” she noted as she dove for her purse and fumbled for the phone. “Men have it so much easier. They just hook these things onto their belt and answer on the first ring—unless, of course, they’re up to no good…. Hello…oh, hi, Charley.”

  “It’s Charley Evans, her editor at The New York Globe,” Willy informed the others. “Dollars to doughnuts he knows about the missing tree. He’s always on top of everything before it happens.”

  “Yes, we’ve heard about the tree,” Alvirah was saying. “As soon as I finish breakfast, I’m going to run right over there, Charley. It’s good human interest to talk to the locals. It has turned into a crime story, hasn’t it?” She laughed. “I sure wish I could solve it. Yes, Willy and I can stay for an extra day or two to see what happens. I’ll report back to you in a few hours. Oh! By the way, what’s the latest on Packy Noonan? I just heard a minute ago that he didn’t show up at his halfway house last night. My friend who lost money in his scam is up here with me.”

  As the others watched, Alvirah’s expression became incredulous. “He was seen getting into a van with Vermont license plates on Madison Avenue?”

  The others looked at each other. “Vermont license plates!” Regan repeated.

  “Maybe he’s the one who cut down the tree,” Luke suggested. “Either it was Packy Noonan or George Washington.” His voice deepened. “Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did chop down the cherry tree.”

  “Our local historian strikes again,” Regan said to Jack. “The difference between Packy Noonan and George Washington is that Packy wouldn’t admit it even if he was caught with the ax in his hand.”

  “George Washington never said that anyhow,” Nora protested. “Those silly stories were made up about him after he died.”

  “Well, I bet whoever cut down that tree will never become president of the United States,” Willy remarked.

  “Don’t count on it,” Luke mumbled.

  Alvirah snapped closed her cell phone. “I’ll turn the ringer off and put it on vibrate. Maybe Opal will call if she’s running late.” Placing the phone on the table, she continued, “A priest at Saint Patrick’s noticed a van with Vermont license plates standing in front of the rectory on Madison Avenue. Then a mother called in and said her little boy claimed he saw a man run up the block and get into that van. Of course Packy had just been at Mass at Saint Patrick’s. The detective who was following him said he even lit a candle in front of the statue of Saint Anthony.”

  “Maybe the detective should light a candle there himself to help him find Packy,” Willy suggested. “My mother was always praying to Saint Anthony. She was always losing her glasses, and my father could never find the car keys.”

  “Saint Anthony would have made a great detective,” Regan commented in the same dry tone that was Luke’s trademark. “I should have a picture of him in my office.”

  “We’d better eat,” Nora suggested.

  All through breakfast Alvirah kept glancing at the door, but there was no sign of Opal. The phone vibrated in Alvirah’s hand as they were walking out of the dining room. It was her editor again.

  “Alvirah, we just dug up some background on Packy Noonan. When he was about sixteen, he worked in a troubled youth program in Stowe, Vermont, cutting down Christmas trees for Lem Pickens. There might be no connection, but as I just told you, he was seen leaving New York in a van with Vermont plates. I can’t imagine why he’d be bothered cutting down a tree, but keep this in mind when you’re talking to people.”

  Alvirah’s heart sank. Opal was an hour late, and there was a chance that Packy Noonan was in the area. Opal had gone to check something out. The sixth sense Alvirah could always rely on told her that there was a connection.

  And it wasn’t a good one.

  24

  Earlier that morning, as the sun was coming over the mountain, Lem and Viddy, hand in hand, were trudging across their property in thei
r snowshoes in anticipation of one last look at their beloved tree before it belonged to the world.

  “I know it’s hard, Viddy,” Lem said. As he spoke, his breath was visible in the early morning chill. “But let’s just think of all the fun we’re going to have in New York. And the tree isn’t gone forever, Viddy. I hear that after they take it down, they sometimes use these trees to make chips for the Appalachian Trail.”

  As Viddy teetered along, she replied with tears in her voice, “Well, that’s nice, Lem, but I’m not up for a hike on the Appalachian Trail. Those days are long since gone.”

  “Sometimes they use the tree trunks to make horse jumps for the U.S. Equestrian Center.”

  “I don’t want any horses jumping over my tree. Where is the Equestrian Center, anyway?”

  “Someplace in New Jersey.”

  “Forget it. This trip to New York will be the last time I pack a suitcase. When we get back from New York, you can give my bags to Goodwill and take a deduction.”

  They turned the bend into the clearing, and their mouths dropped. Where their beloved tree had been growing and thriving for fifty years, there was only a ragged foot-high stump. The ladder the workmen had used in preparing the tree for the trip to New York City was lying on its side, and the angle of the crane was different from the night before.

  “They sneaked in early and cut down our tree,” Lem raged. “Wait till I get my hands on those New York people. It was our tree until ten A.M. this morning. They didn’t have the right to cut it down a minute before.”

  Viddy, always the quicker of the two to process information, pointed to the crane. “But, Lemmy, why would they do this when they knew there were going to be a lot of reporters and television cameras? Everybody in New York loves publicity. Remember we read about that?” Shocked out of her earlier sentimental state, she declared, “This just doesn’t make sense.”

  As they moved closer to the stump, they heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.

  “Maybe they’re coming back for the crane,” Lem said as they stood protectively on either side of the stump. “I’m going to give those folks a piece of my mind.”

  A man in his thirties whom Lem had met yesterday when they were tying up the bottom branches of the tree was coming toward them. Phil something was his name, Lem remembered. They watched as a shocked expression came over his face. “What happened to the tree?” he yelled.

  “You don’t know?!” Lem exploded.

  “Of course I don’t know! I woke up early and decided to come on over. The others will be here by eight o’clock. And where’s our flatbed?”

  Viddy exclaimed, “Lem, I told you it didn’t make sense for those Rockefeller Center people to cut our tree down early. But who else would have done it?”

  Next to her, her husband straightened up to his full height, which had shrunk to six feet one, pointed through the woods with an accusatory finger, and bellowed, “That no good skunk Wayne Covel did this!”

  Almost four hours later, when the Meehans and the Reillys arrived on the scene, Lem was still sputtering that accusation for all the world to hear. Because word had already gone out that somebody had managed to make off with a three-ton tree, the expected crowd of one hundred had grown to three hundred and counting. The woods were swarming with reporters, television cameras, and stringers from the major networks. To the delight of the assembled media, what had begun as a feel-good piece of Americana had turned into a major news story.

  The Meehans and Reillys made their way to the police captain at what appeared to be the command post at the edge of the clearing. Alvirah was scanning the crowd in the hope that Opal might have gone directly there if she was running late.

  Jack introduced himself and the others and told the captain that Alvirah was writing a story for a New York newspaper. “Can you bring us up to date, Chief?”

  “Well, this tree that was supposed to end up in your neck of the woods got swiped. We found a flatbed abandoned on route 100, near Morristown, which I think may have been involved in the crime. They’re tracing the registration. The Rockefeller Center people have offered a $10,000 reward for the tree if it’s still in good condition. With all this coverage,” he pointed to the cameras, “you’re going to have a lot of people on the lookout for that tree.”

  “Do you think it might be kids who did this?” Alvirah asked.

  “They would have to be darn smart kids,” the Chief said skeptically. “You don’t just go and chop down a tree that size. Cut it at the wrong angle, and it could fall on you. But who knows? It could turn up on a college campus full of tinsel, I suppose. I doubt it, though.”

  Lem Pickens was finally calming down. He had not left the spot for nearly four hours, except for his rushed trip with the police to bang on Wayne Covel’s door at twenty of seven. Even Lem’s righteous wrath could not keep him warm any longer. Viddy had gone back and forth to the house a couple of times to get a cup of coffee and warm up. Now, as they walked past the police chief, they stopped.

  “Chief, has anyone spoken to that low-down tree-napper Wayne Covel again?”

  “Lem,” the Chief began wearily, “you know that there’s nothing to ask him now. We routed him out of bed this morning. He denies knowing anything. Just because you think he’s responsible doesn’t make him responsible.”

  “Well, who else would do this?” Lem demanded. By now it was a rhetorical question.

  Alvirah seized the moment. “Mr. Pickens, I’m a reporter for The New York Globe. Could I possibly ask you about someone who worked for you years ago?”

  Lem and Viddy turned and focused on the group.

  “Who did you say you were?” he asked.

  “We’re all from New York, and you’d be interested to know that between us all, we’ve solved a lot of crimes.” Alvirah introduced the group to the Pickenses.

  “I read your books, Nora!” Viddy exclaimed. “Why don’t you all come up to the house for a cup of hot chocolate, and we’ll talk.”

  Wonderful, Alvirah thought. We’ll be able to ask about Packy Noonan without interruption.

  “Yeah, come on,” Lem said gruffly, confirming the invitation with a wave of his sinewy hand.

  Alvirah turned to the police chief. “My friend went out cross-country skiing early this morning and was supposed to meet us for breakfast. I’m getting concerned.”

  Willy interrupted. “Honey, I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll wait here. She’s bound to come along. We’ll catch up with you or meet you back here.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No. There’s a lot of action going on around here. Maybe you should give me your pin to wear.”

  Alvirah smiled. “That’ll be the day.” She fell in step with the others as they followed the Pickenses to the family homestead.

  25

  Opal had fainted as she was dragged into the house. The men laid her on a lumpy couch in the living room. She came to immediately, then realized it was better to act as if she was still unconscious until she could figure out what to do. The house smelled of burning grease, the windows and doors were open in an obvious attempt to get rid of the odor, and a cold draft made Opal shiver. Through narrowed eyes she could see that Benny and Jo-Jo must have been the ones to help Packy drag her inside.

  Those three crooks all together again! Moe, Larry, and Curly, she thought disdainfully. God didn’t bless those twins with good looks, that’s for sure, she thought. I remembered Benny shlumped, and now here I am. I should have told Alvirah where I was going and why. And then she had a chillier thought: What are they going to do to me?

  “You can close the windows now,” Packy barked. “It’s freezing in here.” He came over to the couch and looked down at Opal. He started to pat her on the face. “Come on, come on. You’re all right.”

  Repulsed by his touch, Opal’s eyes flew open. “Get your hands off me, Packy Noonan! You miserable thief!”

  “It seems like you’ve come to your senses,” Packy grunted. “Jo-Jo, Benny, bring her in
to the kitchen and tie her to a chair. I don’t want her making a dash for it.”

  Opal’s cross-country skis were on the floor. The twins hustled her into the kitchen, where a nervous Milo was making another pot of coffee and wondering what the penalty for kidnapping was. The windows in the kitchen were still open. The smell of bacon grease and charred pancakes combined with the cold air made everything seem so much worse to Opal.

  She looked at Milo. “Are you the short-order cook around here? If so, it looks as if you could use a few lessons.”

  “I’m a poet,” Milo answered unhappily.

  Benny and Jo-Jo wrapped a rope around Opal’s legs and torso.

  “Leave my hands free,” she snapped. “You might want me to write another check. And I’d like a cup of coffee.”

  “She’s a stand-up comedienne,” Jo-Jo grunted.

  “No, Jo-Jo,” Benny smiled. “She’s a sit-down comedienne.” He started to laugh.

  “Shut up, Benny,” Packy ordered as he came into the kitchen. “I don’t see anybody else out there. She must have come alone.” He sat down across the table from Opal. “How did you know we were here?”

  “Give me my coffee first.” Shock and then anger had been Opal’s initial reactions to what had happened. She read the desperation in Packy’s face and realized that he was supposed to be at the halfway house in New York. She was sure he didn’t get a weekend pass to Vermont. Was he up here to get his hands on the money she had always suspected he had hidden, and then get out of the country fast? Was the money up here somewhere? Why else would he and the Como twins have come to Vermont? Certainly not to ski.

  “Milk and sugar in your coffee?” Milo asked politely. “We have two percent or skim.”

  “Skim and no sugar.” She looked at the twins. “It wouldn’t hurt you two to take your coffee that way.” In a crazy way Opal was beginning to feel a sense of satisfaction at getting the chance to hurl insults at these men who had caused her so much misery. I should be more afraid, she thought. But I feel as if they’ve already done the worst to me.