Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

by Valerie S. Malmont

  “Thank you,” he said, with a smile that revealed braces. “My mother heard the song ‘Flow Gently, Sweet Afton’ while she was carrying me and thought it would make a nice name. I really am glad you're here to help us, Tori. Luscious says he wouldn't know what to do without you.”

  All I could think was: Now I've got two Lickin Creek policemen to play nursemaid to. However, after talking to Afton for a few minutes, I realized Luscious had left a competent person in charge.

  Unfortunately, there was still no sign of the missing child. More volunteers had arrived from all over the tri-state area, and Afton told me he was expanding the search area.

  “Trouble is,” Afton said as he showed me the enlarged area on the map, “a little kid like that could be easy to miss. If he fell into a cave, and there's lots of them out there, or got knocked out, he wouldn't hear us calling for him.”

  “What do you think his chances of survival are?” I asked.

  “Pretty good, if he's conscious. The temperature's stayed above freezing. And he's a mountain boy; he should know how to take care of himself—for awhile anyway.”

  A cellular phone rang, and Afton picked it up. His boyish face turned grim as he listened. After a few moments, he disconnected, snatched up his coat, and jammed his arms into the sleeves.

  “Gotta get up to the Poffenbergers',” he said.

  “What's wrong?” I asked, trailing him outside.

  “The kids—seems they've changed their story.” His long legs had already carried him halfway across the field.

  “Wait for me,” I said, trying to keep up with him.

  I drove behind the cruiser, as fast as I dared, to the Iron Ore Mansions Trailer Park. At the entrance to the park, I groaned, “Oh, no.” Just inside the gate, media vans lined both sides of the narrow street. I saw television crews from as far away as Baltimore and the District of Columbia, as well as many from the tristate area of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia. What had happened? I parked and leaped from the truck, fearing the worst.

  Mr. Poffenberger, dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit, was standing in front of his trailer, talking to a female reporter who looked vaguely familiar to me.

  Several people stared at me as I approached, as if trying to decide whether or not I was worthy of being interviewed. Most decided, correctly, I was not worth bothering with, but one young reporter, who must have been desperate, thrust a microphone in my face. “Would you care to make a statement?”

  I brushed him aside with practiced scorn—I hadn't been in the news business for ten years for nothing—and he backed away.

  Through the open door, I saw Afton standing in the living room with his back to me, so I squeezed past Kevin's father and went inside. Mrs. Poffenberger sat on the sofa, nursing her yellow-bundled baby. Her hair hadn't been combed today, and her puffy nose was nearly as red as the drooping Christmas poinsettia on the coffee table.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  Her eyes opened wide, as though she were surprised someone would care how she felt. “Uh-huh. They told me in the emergency room it weren't Kevin in the quarry.” She wiped her nose with the milk-stained diaper that was draped over her shoulder.

  “You should have stayed in the hospital,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure. You going to pay the bill? 'Scuse me. The baby needs changed.” She left the room with the baby.

  “What did the kids say?” I asked Afton.

  “Now they're saying a man in a black sports utility vehicle took him.”

  My jaw dropped. “Kevin was kidnapped? Why the hell didn't they tell us that before?”

  “Let's ask them,” Afton said, his face grim. He reached through the open front door and tapped Mr. Poffenberger on the shoulder, interrupting his interview with an anchorman from NBC. “Get the kids in here. Now!” he ordered with surprising authority.

  Within a few minutes, an assortment of Poffenberger children had been rounded up and sat in a semicircle on the orange shag carpet before us. Kevin's parents sat side by side on the couch. Another couple, parents of Kevin's cousins Pearl and Peter, took the recliner—he, seated, she, perched on an arm.

  “Now,” the young policeman said sternly, “let's hear what happened. And I want the truth!”

  As one, the little towheads turned to Pearl. With her eyes downcast, she began her tale. “It was a guy in a big black boxy kind of car,” she said. “We was walking along the road, and he stopped and said he needed some directions. Kevin went over to him, even though I told him not to, and the guy grabbed him and pulled him into the car and drove off.”

  “Which way?” Afton asked.

  “Down the mountain. Toward town.”

  “This man—what did he look like?”

  Pearl appeared to be thinking. “We couldn't see his face very good, because he was wearing a ball cap pulled down real low. But he had a beard. Didn't he, Peter?”

  Her brother Peter nodded. “Yeah, a beard and a ball cap.”

  “What team?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You said he was wearing a ball cap. I wondered what team?”

  “It wasn't a real ball cap,” Pearl answered. “Just one of them hats that look like ball caps. It advertised tractors or something.”

  “Yeah,” Peter said. “Tractors.”

  “Did you notice anything else? How old do you think he was? How tall was he? What kind of clothes he was wearing?” Afton had his notebook out.

  Pearl scrunched her forehead as if she were working really hard at remembering something. “He wasn't a real young guy. Maybe as old as her,” she said, jerking a thumb in my direction. “He never got out of the car, so I don't know how tall he was. Wait! I remember he was wearing a red-plaid flannel shirt.”

  A bearded man, about thirty years old, wearing a cap advertising tractors and a plaid flannel shirt. Pearl had just described half the men in Lickin Creek!

  “Why didn't you tell your parents right away about this man?” Afton asked. “Why did you let us believe Kevin had wandered off by himself?”

  The little faces all looked at Pearl, waiting for her to answer. “The guy told us he'd come back and get us if we told,” Pearl said.

  “You were afraid, is that right?”

  The heads nodded in unison.

  “How about the vehicle? Did you catch a glimpse of the license plate?”

  The forehead scrunched again. “Texas,” Pearl said. “I think it was a Texas plate.”

  Afton asked a few more questions, with unsatisfying results, and finally told the children they could leave.

  “Can we sleep over?” Pearl asked her mother.

  The woman looked at Kevin's mother, who gave a slight nod. But one of her children began to whine. “I don't want to sleep with Peter. He always pees the bed.”

  The scathing look Pearl directed at her brother should have immediately cured his enuresis problem.

  “I'll call Luscious and the state police,” Afton said to me as he pulled on his coat. “We need to put out an APB for that sports utility vehicle.”

  “You're not going to call off the search on the mountain, are you?” I asked him.

  He shook his head and glanced into the kitchen, where the adult Poffenbergers had all adjourned. I could hear them popping the tabs off beer cans. The children had turned on the TV and were enthralled by an incredibly violent cartoon. He lowered his voice so only I could hear. “I don't really believe anything that Pearl says. This abduction story doesn't ring true.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” I said. “I'd sure like to get that girl alone for five minutes. See what I could get out of her.”

  Afton sighed. “I know how you feel, but for the time being I have to follow up on her story.”

  Pearl, in front of the TV set, was watching us with a thoughtful expression on her face. I wondered what she'd overheard.

  Afton opened the front door and jumped back, startled, as the press began shouting questions at him.

  “You
coming?” he asked me.

  “You go ahead,” I said. “I need to talk to Mrs. Pof-fenberger for a minute.”

  I'd just recalled that Praxythea had asked me to bring her something, preferably metal, of Kevin's. It couldn't do any harm, I thought, so I went in search of Mrs. Poffenberger. I found her in the bedroom with the baby.

  She handed me a tiny pocketknife, saying it had been Kevin's birthday present. Although I wondered about the family's judgment in giving a small child a knife, I accepted it with only a word of thanks.

  “They're going to find him, Mrs. Poffenberger. I know they will.” I wanted to offer her some encouragement, some hope.

  “Yeah, sure.” Her voice was flat. I could tell she'd already given up.

  I drove through late-afternoon shadows back to the borough. As I approached downtown, a volunteer traffic cop in a yellow vest signaled me to stop. I rolled down the window and asked, “What's the matter? Water main burst again?”

  “Nah, they're setting up the Nativity scene in the square so the traffic needs detoured. You can take a right on Oak, a left on Elm, another left, this time on Maple, and then—”

  “Thanks, I'll find my way.” Lickin Creek isn't very big, but its one-way streets could have been the inspiration for Dante's circles of Hell. Why the borough council chose rush hour to close Main Street was beyond my comprehension.

  After circling aimlessly for about fifteen minutes, I ended up where I'd started, only this time the traffic cop took pity on me and let me through. As I drove past the fountain in the center of the square, I saw Yoder Construction Company workers busily turning it into a manger.

  Because of the time I wasted being lost, it was dark when I pulled through the gates into the Moon Lake compound, but my house was illuminated by floodlights like a Broadway theater on opening night. Trucks and vans lined the dirt road and filled my circular drive.

  More media people, I realized. Cables lay coiled in the grass like a nest of pythons.

  Praxythea stood on the front porch in a black bodysuit that covered her from neck to toe but hid nothing. Didn't the woman own underwear? She was speaking into a microphone held by a beautiful, raven-haired Asian woman.

  As I approached the house, I recognized some faces from the tabloid news shows, and I heard snatches of predictable phrases: “—astounding new developments—search for bearded man—tristate area—possible connections with children abducted in Florida and Texas—noted psychic's vision directed police to a deserted quarry where …”

  “Be careful up there,” I called to Praxythea and several familiar talking heads. “That porch roof is liable to cave in.”

  They ignored me, as did the news crews on the lawn, so I took my life in my hands, climbed the steps, and entered the house through the front door. I gathered up the mail that lay on the carpet and flipped through the envelopes while I hiked to the kitchen. Damn! Still nothing from Garnet. I tossed the envelopes on the table to look through later.

  I refilled the cats’ bowls with Tasty Tabby Treats, and while they happily and noisily chewed their food, I checked the iguana to make sure it had water and some of the lizard food Oretta had left with it. As far as I could tell, he was all right, but I tossed in a little lettuce as a treat. Then I prepared two cups of instant coffee and doctored mine with the powders that represented sugar and cream.

  Praxythea entered and sank into a chair across the table from me. “How did you know I wanted this?” she said with a smile, picking up one of the cups.

  I didn't return her smile. “Maybe I'm the psychic.”

  “You're upset with me,” she said.

  “It doesn't take a psychic to know that.”

  “Publicity is very important. Without the media attention, the people who need me most wouldn't know about me.”

  “And it sells books.”

  “Of course. Money is important, no doubt about it. It gives me the freedom to go where I'm needed.”

  “Okay, Praxythea, you're a saint.” Before the protest could burst from her parted lips, I took Kevin's pock-etknife from my handbag and handed it to her. “See what you can do with this.”

  It was a small knife, just the right size for a child's hand. I could imagine how excited Kevin must have been when he first saw it. Would he ever see it again?

  Praxythea held it between the palms of her hands, closed her eyes, and bowed her head over it. I refilled my cup and waited.

  Her eyes popped open, and she laid the knife on the table.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “He's still alive.”

  Despite my disbelief, I experienced a surge of hope. “Can you tell where he is?” It was baloney, I was sure, but it couldn't hurt to check every option.

  “You'll make fun of me if I tell you.”

  “Come on, Praxythea. Tell me.”

  She stroked the blade of the knife with her emerald-clad finger. “You're not going to like this, but here goes. I saw him … by the edge of running water.”

  I groaned. “I should have known you'd say that. It's always something about ‘the edge of running water.’ You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I was right last night,” she said defensively. “They found the child exactly where I said he'd be.”

  “But it was the wrong child, Praxythea.”

  “There had to be a reason why I was sent those images when I was concentrating on contacting Kevin,” she said. “I'm sure there's a connection.”

  “Like a serial killer who strikes every thirty-seven years? Give me a break!”

  In the terrarium in the corner next to the stove, Icky squeaked. I think he was staring at me, but it was hard to tell. “I don't need your editorial comments,” I muttered to the reptile.

  Fred jumped onto my lap and I stroked his soft orange and white fur. Medical testing has proved having pets is good for your health. I agree that petting a cat is soothing, but I wondered what on earth an iguana could do for anyone?

  CHAPTER 7

  We'll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet

  THE VOICE ON THE OTHER END OF THE TELE- phone line said, “Tori, dear, how are you?” I noticed this time Oretta had my name right. That alone should have warned me that she wanted something.

  “Weezie had a little accident today and won't be able to make it to the pageant rehearsal tonight.” Her tone of voice spoke myriads about the kind of “accident” poor Weezie had experienced. I recalled what Ginnie had said Jackson would do to his wife when he found out she was in Oretta's pageant.

  “So, I thought you could stand in for her. It's a dress rehearsal. Wear a black leotard and tights. I'll supply the rest of your costume.”

  “But I—”

  “Don't be modest, Tori. Of course you can do it. You were there last night, so you know what the part entails.”

  “I have plans—”

  “But everyone else I called has something important to do tonight. Besides,” she wheedled, “you're our town's only famous author, and people would love to see you up there. It'll show the town you don't really think you're better than the rest of us. See you at seven-thirty. Don't be late.”

  “I've never thought I was—” My protest came too late. She'd already hung up.

  “Why on earth didn't you say no?” Praxythea asked me.

  “I couldn't get a word in edgewise,” I said. My hand still rested on the receiver.

  She smiled wisely. “You're still hoping to be accepted into the community, aren't you? You'd do anything anybody asked if you thought it would help you fit in.”

  Wishes don't come true. Otherwise lightning would have struck her right then and there. She was right, of course. That's what was so irritating.

  An hour later, wearing one of Praxythea's black bodysuits stretched to its Lycra limits, I rushed down Trinity's basement steps two at a time, with Praxythea trailing behind me. I'd been surprised when she'd asked to come along to the rehearsal, but I was glad for the company.

  Many people were t
here working on decorations for the upcoming greens sale, just as last night. Marvin Bumbaugh greeted us as we entered the auditorium. “Let me take your coat.” He was speaking to me, but he was drooling over Praxythea. Before I could protest, he'd slipped my coat off my shoulders and hung it on a metal rack. Feeling practically naked, I sucked in my stomach and looked around for Oretta, who'd promised to bring the rest of my costume.

  “I'd like you to meet my two daughters,” Marvin said. “Dakota and Cheyenne.”

  The two oddly named girls giggled.

  I couldn't resist saying to Marvin, “I'm surprised you're not on the mountain with the search parties.”

  “I hate not being there, but someone had to stay in town and keep an eye on things here.”

  The girls couldn't take their eyes off Praxythea, so I introduced them. The older girl, Cheyenne, surprised me by saying to me, “I liked your book a lot.”

  “Why, thank you,” I said, thinking how rare it was to find a fifteen-year-old with such good taste.

  “I like Dean Koontz better, though. He's sort of local. Went to college at Shipp, you know.”

  I bared my teeth at her. If she wanted to think it was a smile, that was okay with me.

  I looked around the room, searching for Oretta and my costume. I didn't see her, but I did see clusters of people making wreaths, tying bows, and sprinkling glitter on pinecones. Not so many as there'd been last night—I assumed most of the men and many of the women were still on the mountaintop searching for Kevin.

  The kitchen brigade had outdone itself tonight; the top of the divider between the rooms was covered with dozens of home-baked pies to be sold at the greens sale. The rich fragrances of cinnamon and mincemeat mingled in the air and flooded my mind with nostalgic memories of Christmases past—Christmases that were actually far more prosaic than those of my wishful imagination. For us thespians, there was plenty of hot coffee, tea, spiced cider, and platters of cookies.

  No sign of my costume. I looked around to see if anyone was watching, then tugged at the miserable bodysuit.