The Christmas Thief

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “I’ve been trying to diet,” Benny said, “but it’s hard when you’re under stress.”

  “You’ve been under stress for four days. Try twelve and a half years in the can,” Packy shot back.

  Milo placed a mug of coffee in front of Opal. “Enjoy,” he whispered kindly.

  “Now talk, Opal,” Packy demanded.

  Opal had been silently debating how much information she should give him. If she told him that someone would surely come looking here for her, would they leave her or take her with them? She decided to stay close to the truth. “When I was cross-country skiing the other day, I saw a man in the yard here putting skis on the roof of the van. He seemed familiar. I couldn’t get it off my mind, and this morning I realized he reminded me of Benny so I decided to check the license plate. That’s it.”

  “Benny strikes again,” Packy growled. “Who’d you tell?”

  “No one. But the people I’m with are going to start wondering why I haven’t come back.” She decided not to say that the friends she was with included the head of the NYPD’s Major Case Squad, a licensed private investigator, and the best amateur detective on this side of the Atlantic.

  Packy stared at her. “Turn on the television, Benny,” he ordered. There was a ten-inch set on the kitchen counter. “Let’s see if they’ve discovered the stump in the woods yet.”

  His timing was perfect. The camera zoomed in on an agitated and furious Lem Pickens pointing at the stump on the ground and swearing that his neighbor Wayne Covel had done this to him. Packy picked up the machete on the table with Wayne’s name on it.

  “Yup. He’s our guy,” Packy said flatly. “Benny, Jo-Jo, I need to speak to you inside.” He jerked his head toward Milo. “Keep an eye on her. Recite a poem or something.”

  “Someone cut down the Rockefeller Center tree!” Opal exclaimed as the three of them filed into the living room and huddled in the corner, out of earshot.

  Milo pointed to the living room. “They did. Can you believe it?”

  “Jo-Jo,” Packy said, “did you get the sleeping pills for the flight back to Brazil?”

  “Sure, Packy.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my bag.”

  “Bring me the bottle right now.”

  Benny looked bothered. “Packy, I know we didn’t get any sleep last night. I know you’re nervous and upset. But I don’t think you should take a pill right now.”

  “You are an idiot,” Packy said through clenched teeth.

  Jo-Jo hurried upstairs and returned a moment later with the bottle of sleeping pills in his hand. He looked at Packy questioningly as he handed it to him.

  “We gotta somehow get into Wayne Covel’s place and find the diamonds. Even if we tie her up, there’s a chance she could get away. Or if someone finds her here, she could talk. We gotta make sure she’s out of it until we board the plane and are well on our way. A couple of these will keep her quiet for at least eighteen hours.”

  “I thought Milo was going to stay here.”

  “He is. He’ll be sleeping right next to her.” Packy shook four pills out of the bottle.

  “How are you going to make them swallow those babies?” Benny whispered.

  “You pour Milo a fresh cup of coffee. Drop two of these into it and stir. He’ll drink it. I’m surprised he can sit still long enough to write a poem with all the coffee he inhales. I’ll be nice and fix another cup for Miss Moneybags. If she doesn’t drink it, we’ll move to Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  “Shove it down her throat.”

  Wordlessly, they all went back into the kitchen where Opal was giving Milo a laundry list of all the people who had lost money in the scam.

  “One couple invested their retirement money,” she said. “And they had to sell their sweet little house in Florida. Now they’re supplementing their Social Security doing odd jobs. And then there was the woman who—”

  “The woman who blah, blah, blah,” Packy interrupted. “It’s not my fault you were all so stupid. I’d like another cup of coffee.”

  Milo jumped up.

  “Don’t bother, Milo. I’ll pour it,” Benny offered.

  “Oh, look at this!” Packy said, pointing to the television as he took Opal’s cup and walked over to the stove.

  On the screen they could see the chief of police and Lem Pickens knocking at the door of a rundown farmhouse. A reporter’s voice was informing the viewers that about an hour ago the police chief insisted on accompanying an outraged Lem Pickens to Wayne Covel’s home. “Pickens has been feuding on and off over the years with Covel, and Covel’s prized tree was almost picked for Rockefeller Center,” the reporter explained.

  “I remember seeing that dump when I was a kid,” Packy said as he put Opal’s cup back down next to her. “It looks even worse now.”

  The door opened, and a rumpled-looking man wearing a red nightshirt appeared. A heated dialogue ensued between him and Lem. Wayne Covel’s face appeared in closeup. It was not a pretty sight.

  “Take a look at those scratches,” Packy snarled. “They’re fresh. He got them from poking around the tree and stealing our flask.”

  “I hear you cut down that tree,” Opal accused Packy. “What did you have hidden in it? Anything of mine?”

  Packy looked her straight in the eye. “Diamonds,” he said with a sneer. “A flask of diamonds worth a fortune. One of them is worth three million bucks. That’s the one I named after you.” He pointed to the television. “Scratchy stole them. But we’re getting them back. I’ll think of you when we’re living it up on your money.”

  “You’ll never pull this off,” Opal spat.

  “Yes, we will.” He looked at her half-empty coffee cup and smiled. He looked over at Milo’s, which was still three-quarters full. He sat down. “Now everyone be quiet. I want to watch the news.”

  They sat through several commercials, then the local weather report came on.

  “It’s gray and cold out there. It looks like more storm clouds will be moving in on us today,” the weatherman warned.

  Packy and Jo-Jo looked at each other. They had called their pilot in the middle of the night and told him to get to the airstrip just outside Stowe and wait. Now with a possible storm coming, their getaway could be delayed. Packy was about to jump out of his skin, but he knew he had to sit still until the sleeping pills started to do their magic. He could feel the window of opportunity for his escape to Brazil rapidly closing on him.

  When the weatherman finished his report, there was more rehashing about the stolen tree. Finally, a new segment was being introduced. “Packy Noonan, a convicted scam artist who broke parole, was seen yesterday getting into a van in Manhattan. The van had skis on the roof and Vermont license plates.” Packy’s mug shot flashed on the screen. “So maybe he’s heading our way,” the anchor suggested.

  “Let’s hope not,” his coanchor trilled. “It’s amazing that he conned so many people. He doesn’t look that smart.”

  “He isn’t,” Opal said drowsily.

  Packy ignored her as he jumped up to lower the volume. “Great. We can’t use the van, and now my mug has been seen by people all over town.”

  “And nobody forgets a pretty face,” Opal said. Her eyes felt so heavy.

  Benny began to yawn. He looked down at the mug of coffee he was holding in his hand, and a horrified look came over his face. He turned and saw that Packy and Jo-Jo were staring at him, equally horrified. Even Benny knew better than to say anything.

  Jo-Jo mouthed the words “You dope” and hurried upstairs to fetch two more sleeping pills. He came down and refilled Milo’s cup.

  Within twenty minutes there were three comatose figures in the farmhouse kitchen. All their heads were resting on the old wooden table.

  “I’m sorry my brother Benny got distracted by the news story,” Jo-Jo apologized. “Sometimes it’s hard for him to focus on more than one thing at a time.”

  “I know what happened,�
�� Packy snarled. “Let’s drag the poet and the mouth upstairs and tie them to the beds. Benny we’ll stick in the trunk of Milo’s car. As soon as we get those diamonds, we’re out of town fast.”

  “Maybe we should leave Benny a note and come back and pick him up,” Jo-Jo suggested.

  “I’m not running a car pool! He’ll be fine in the trunk. I just hope we don’t have to carry him onto the plane. Now let’s move it!”

  26

  The four Reillys and Alvirah sat in the parlor of Lem and Viddy’s farmhouse. Over the fireplace, in identical frames, were a picture of Lem and Viddy on their wedding day planting the now missing blue spruce and another of a smiling Maria von Trapp pointing to the sapling.

  Lem carried in a tray laden with cups of steaming hot chocolate. Viddy was following with a platter of homemade cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. “I just learned how to make these. I was going to give them out today when they cut the tree down, and if they went over big, I was going to make a batch to bring to New York.” She frowned. “Now I can just throw away the recipe.”

  “Hold your horses, Viddy,” Lem ordered. “We’re getting that tree back even if I have to shoot Wayne Covel in the toes, one by one, until he tells us where he hid it.”

  Oh, boy, Regan thought. This guy means business.

  Lem began to pass around the cups to the guests. Then he sat down on the high-backed old rocker across from the couch. That rocker looks as though it’s part of him, Regan thought. She accepted one of the cookies from Viddy with a murmured thanks. Clearly Lem was ready to get down to business.

  “Now, Alvirah, is that what you said your name was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d you get a name like that?”

  “Same place you got a name like Lemuel.”

  “Fair enough. Now who did you want to ask me about?” He took a sip of his hot chocolate which was followed by a “hahhhhhhh.” He looked around. “You’d better blow before you take a taste. It’ll burn your tongue off.”

  Alvirah laughed. “My mother had a friend who used to pour her hot tea into a saucer. Her husband used to ask, ‘Why not fan it with your hat?’ ”

  “I have to admit that would have bugged me.”

  Alvirah laughed. “I guess he got used to it. They were married for sixty-two years. Now what I needed to ask you,” she continued, “is if you remember someone named Packy Noonan who worked up here years ago in the late fall in a troubled youth program.”

  “Packy Noonan!” Viddy exclaimed. “He’s the only one from that group who ever came back to pay a visit. The rest were a bunch of ingrates. Although, to be honest, for years I wondered if he’d been the kid who swiped the cameo pin off my dresser.”

  “We never had children of our own,” Lem explained, “so we used to take part in that program during the busy season when people were coming up here and selecting their own trees. It did a lot of those troubled kids good. Made them feel good about themselves. Helped straighten them out.”

  “It didn’t work for Packy Noonan,” Alvirah said flatly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He just got out of prison after serving more than twelve years for scamming people out of a lot of money. He broke his parole yesterday in New York City and was seen getting into a van with Vermont license plates. I was just wondering if you’d had any contact with him at all over these years.”

  “He went to prison twelve years ago?” Lem exclaimed.

  “I can’t believe it!” Viddy said. “Maybe he did take my pin! But he was so nice when he came back to say hello. I was thinking how well he had turned out. He was all spiffed up. When he was a kid he looked like a bum, but that day he looked like a million dollars.”

  “Somebody else’s million,” Luke said under his breath.

  “Viddy, when was it that he knocked on our door?” Lem asked.

  Viddy closed her eyes. “Now let me see. My memory is not as good as it used to be, but it’s still pretty darn good.”

  They all waited.

  Her eyes still shut, Viddy fumbled for her cup of hot chocolate, picked it up, blew on it, and took a dainty sip. “I remember it was springtime, and I was making pies for the bake sale we were having at church to raise money for the senior citizens center after the basement flooded. All the bingo cards were ruined. I can tell you that that was exactly thirteen and a half years ago. It was right after the big Mother’s Day storm. Everyone got drenched coming out of church, and their corsages were ruined. Anyway, that week Packy showed up at the door. I invited him in, and he was so charming. He had a piece of my pie and a glass of milk. He said it reminded him of sitting with his mother, and he told me how much he missed her. He even had tears in his eyes. I asked what he was doing with himself, and he said he was in finance.”

  “I’ll say he was in finance,” Alvirah exclaimed. “Did you see him that day, Lem?”

  “Lem was back in the woods doing some tree trimming,” Viddy answered. “I blew the whistle I keep by the back door, and Lem came in ’cause he knew I never blow it unless it’s important.”

  “I got down off the ladder and came in. Boy, was I surprised to see Packy.”

  “Why did he say he was here?” Alvirah asked.

  “He told us he was passing through on business and wanted to come over and just thank us for all we had done for him. Then he saw the picture of the tree over the fireplace and asked if it was still our baby. I said, ‘You betcha. Come out back with me and take a look.’ And he did. He said it looked great. Then he helped me carry the ladder back to the barn. I invited him to stay for supper. He said he had to get going but would be in touch. Never heard from him again. Now I know why. The only calls you can make from prison are collect.”

  “I hope he doesn’t pay us another visit. Next time I’ll slam the door in his face,” Viddy promised.

  Regan and Alvirah exchanged glances.

  “And that was thirteen and a half years ago?” Alvirah asked.

  “Yes, it was,” Viddy confirmed, her eyes now wide open.

  “I can’t understand why Packy Noonan would come back here,” Lem wondered aloud. “What happened to the money he stole?”

  “Nobody knows,” Regan said. “But everyone seems to think that wherever he is right now, he’s headed for the money he managed to hide.”

  “He didn’t hit you up to invest in his phony shipping company that day?” Alvirah asked. “That was at the very time when his scam was operating at full steam.”

  “He didn’t ask us for one red cent,” Lem exclaimed. “He knew better than to try and pull one over on Lemuel Pickens!”

  Alvirah shook her head. “He pulled one over on a lot of smart people. I have a friend who lost money in his scam at that very time. Even up to the day before Packy was arrested he was trying to get her to suggest some of her friends who might want to make an investment. It’s surprising that he didn’t try to get you to write a check. He must have been up here for something else. This friend I mentioned was supposed to meet us for breakfast this morning and never showed up. Just the thought of Packy possibly coming to Vermont and maybe even to this area has me terribly nervous.”

  “The only criminal you have to worry about around here,” Lem bellowed, “is the one who lives next store. Wayne Covel. He cut down my tree, and he’s going to pay for it!”

  “Lem, hush,” Viddy scolded. “Alvirah is worried about her friend.”

  “Would this Wayne Covel know Packy from when Packy was up here years ago?” Alvirah asked.

  Lem shrugged. “Maybe. They’re about the same age.”

  “Maybe I’ll see if he’ll talk to me.”

  “He won’t talk to me!” Lem cried.

  Viddy felt the need to change the subject. When Lem got worked up, it took a lot to calm him down. “Nora,” she said quickly. “I just love to read. I even tried writing poetry. There’s a new fellow in town here who got a few people together for poetry readings at the old farmhouse where he’s staying. B
ut he was dreadful, so I never went back. He read one of his old poems about a peach that falls in love with a fruit fly. Can you imagine?”

  “He’s Milo, that really weird guy with the long hair and short beard, right, Viddy?” Lem asked.

  “Honey, he’s not that weird.”

  “Yes, he is. He comes up to Vermont. Doesn’t ski. Doesn’t ice skate. Sits in that junky old farmhouse all day writing poetry. There’s something weird there. Right, Nora?”

  “Oh, well,” Nora began, “sometimes it’s good for a writer to get away and work in peace and quiet.”

  “Work? Writing about peaches and fruit flies is not work! I don’t know how long he can keep that up. How does he pay the bills?”

  Alvirah felt restless. She wanted to get out and see if there was any sign of Opal. “As you know, I’m working on a story for my paper about your tree. Is it all right if I call you later? Maybe by then the police will have some leads. I can’t believe that an eighty-foot Christmas tree could vanish into thin air.”

  “Neither can I,” Lem said. “And I’m going to organize a posse to find it!”

  “More hot chocolate anyone?” Viddy asked.

  27

  Wayne Covel tried to get some sleep after he hid the flask of diamonds in the elm tree in his front yard.

  But it was no use. He realized that hiding the diamonds in the tree was a dumb idea. If those Rockefeller Center people came swarming onto his property begging him to let them have his blue spruce, who knew what might happen? The tree in which he had hidden the flask wasn’t far from it. Suppose some photographer got the notion to climb the elm and get a good picture of them cutting it down?

  Having the flask out of his sight gave Wayne the willies.

  Just before dawn he opened the door, went outside, climbed the elm, and retrieved the flask. He brought it back to bed with him, unscrewed the cap, took a quick peek at the diamonds, and then drifted off to sleep, cuddling the flask like a baby with a bottle.

  When Lem Pickens came banging on the door with the police chief, Wayne jumped up and the flask went flying out of his hands. The cap went sailing through the air as the flask hit the uneven wooden floor with a thud. Diamonds scattered randomly around the atrociously untidy room and settled among the piles of dirty clothes on the floor.