Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

by Valerie S. Malmont

  “You're going to stretch it all out of shape,” Praxythea warned.

  “I certainly hope so,” I said, giving the rear end another jerk.

  I needn't have worried about anyone staring at me. Not with Praxythea there. Lickin Creek wasn't used to TV celebrities—which I found refreshing—and she was immediately surrounded by a crowd of admirers. I was rather surprised to learn that so many members of the Trinity congregation watched the Psychic Network.

  The Reverend Flack and his wife, Primrose, broke away from a mound of holly branches to greet me. “Any word about the boy?” the minister asked. He tried to keep his attention focused on my face, but his gaze kept drifting down to my hips. I noticed his lips twitching as if he were repressing a smile, and my cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Why had I let Oretta talk me into wearing this horrible outfit?

  Was he assuming I'd know something because of my position as the town's newspaper editor, or was it because my relationship with the ex-police chief gave me a quasi-official position in Lickin Creek's law enforcement circles? I'd probably never know.

  “I suppose you heard that Kevin's cousins are now saying he was kidnapped,” I said.

  Primrose gasped. “I didn't know. That poor little boy. How could his mother ever have left him out of her sight?”

  I remembered what Mrs. Poffenberger had said to me last night—something about not being able to watch all of them all the time—and repeated it to Primrose. Perhaps I sounded as if I were an apologist for the mother, because Primrose grew rather huffy.

  “The other kids should have taken care of him. Do you have brothers or sisters?” she snapped at me. “If you did, you know you would have done everything in your power to keep them safe.”

  The ever-present guilt over Billy's death that I had carried with me for nearly twenty years threatened to overwhelm me. I pretended I hadn't heard the question.

  “Kids don't really think about things like that. They assume nothing bad will ever happen to them. What about you, Primrose? I'll bet when you were a youngster you didn't spend much time worrying about your siblings.”

  “I have to check the oven,” she said quietly, then turned and walked away.

  I looked questioningly at the Reverend Flack. “I said something wrong, didn't I?”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “Not your fault, my dear. Primrose was orphaned when she was seven. Her adoptive parents never had any other children, and she's always felt something was lacking in her life. Our not having children of our own has made it worse. Uh-oh, Oretta Clopper's coming this way. I wonder what I've done wrong this time.”

  Oretta Clopper was an awesome sight in a purple chiffon toga draped over an enormous leotard. She made me feel positively svelte. Her face was scrunched into a scowl as her high-pitched voice berated him. “Really, Reverend, I have told your kitchen volunteers over and over how much cinnamon to put in the cider, and they …”

  Someone behind me coughed delicately, and I spun around to see Ginnie bearing a tray of paper cups and cookies. “Have some cider,” she suggested. “It's quite good.” Her eyes twinkled as she added, “With just the right amount of cinnamon.”

  I took a cup and introduced her to Praxythea. For a few minutes the three of us chatted while we munched on cookies.

  “Look,” Ginnie said, “there's no rehearsal tomorrow because the Boy Scouts meet here in the church auditorium. Why don't the three of us play bingo?”

  Praxythea begged off, mentioning something about speaking to the Kiwanis Club, but I agreed to go.

  “And it wouldn't matter to me if there's a rehearsal scheduled or not, because I am not going to be in this pageant,” I said firmly. “I'm only filling in tonight for Weezie.”

  Ginnie smiled. “That might be what Oretta told you, but you'd better be prepared to perform.”

  The door burst open and Bernice Roadcap entered the room. She paused just inside the doorway and made quite a production out of shrugging off her fur coat. A rather good-looking man, with the usual Lickin Creek beard, received the offering before it fell to the floor and carefully draped it, inside out, over his left arm. Hanging from his right shoulder was a thermos in a sling. Remembering the smell of alcohol on Bernice's breath earlier that day, I was pretty sure I knew what was in it.

  Bernice's companion appeared to be ten or fifteen years younger than she, but I always find it difficult to guess the age of men with beards.

  “Is that her husband?” I asked Ginnie.

  “She wishes,” Ginnie said with a laugh. “But she's got to get rid of Stanley first. According to local gossip, most of the Roadcap money is tied up in property and businesses, and she's afraid to go through with the divorce until she's got the cash in hand.”

  “So that's why she's pushing the council to buy her cold-storage building.”

  “Most likely,” Ginnie said. “That's Stanley over there. He's one of the church trustees.” She pointed to a folding chair, where a thin bald man with rimless glasses, who didn't seem to notice the arrival of his almost ex-wife, was busy applying glitter to a pinecone wreath.

  Bernice, on her unsteady march toward the stage, spotted Matavious Clopper in the front row. “There you are,” she called out, attracting the attention of nearly everyone in the room. “I've been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon. My back is killing me.” She kept up a steady stream of complaints as she tottered down the center aisle.

  Matavious put his glasses on and looked up from the tape recorder, searching for the source of the noise. His wince upon recognizing her was nearly imperceptible. “See me after the rehearsal, Bernice. I'll do a quick manipulation for you.”

  “I should think so. I knocked and knocked. Nobody answered. The very idea.”

  “We're always closed on Wednesday afternoons.”

  “You were in there. I heard you moving around.”

  “You must have been mistaken, Bernice.”

  Bernice dismissed him with a “Humph.”

  “Places, people. Places,” Oretta ordered, rushing toward the stage. She stared at me, as if trying to figure out why I was there. Perhaps I could escape, I thought, but unfortunately she recalled she'd invited me.

  “Toni,” she gushed. “I'm so glad to see you take your responsibilities seriously. Now that you're a member of the cast, I'm sure you'll feature our rehearsal photo prominently in the Chronicle. Come, come, everyone. We must begin.”

  “Now that I'm a member of the cast? That doesn't sound good,” I said to Ginnie.

  Ginnie made no reply, her attention caught by something happening behind me. She grabbed my arm. “Look,” she whispered. I spun around and saw two people by the door.

  “It's Jackson and Weezie Clopper,” she said. “I hope he's not going to make a scene.”

  Jackson took a seat in the back row, while Weezie, her red jacket still on, disappeared into the kitchen. I didn't have time to see if she had any visible bruises.

  “Your muse beckons,” Ginnie said, nodding at Oretta, who was tapping her foot and glaring down at me from the stage. “See you later.”

  I climbed the four steps to the stage where Oretta met me with several hundred yards of pink tulle. “Your costume,” she said. Looking critically at me, she added, “I recommend wrapping it around your hips.”

  My cheeks burned, more from anger than embarrassment, and I bit my tongue to keep from making a nasty crack about the size of her own ample hips. Swathed in pink, I took my place on a stool next to Bernice, a yellow-draped sugar plum fairy reeking of gin.

  “Hold your heads up high,” Oretta said. “Remember you are goddesses.” And the rehearsal began. I was the only actor with a script—the ladies had really been working.

  With nothing to do but read an occasional plagiarized phrase, I amused myself by watching the people in the hall. Jackson Clopper leaned back in his folding chair and glowered directly at Oretta. At least I hoped it was Oretta he was glowering at and not me because he truly looked frightening. I wond
ered why he'd come.

  Looking over the kitchen counter, I could see Ginnie removing pies from the ovens. I also caught a momentary glimpse of red and guessed that it was Weezie's jacket. I hoped the poor woman wasn't in for a beating when the Cloppers got home.

  Stanley Roadcap occupied a seat near Bernice's fur coat, with a half-made holly wreath apparently forgotten on his lap. Praxythea stood in the back of the room, distributing signed eight-by-ten glossies.

  There were other people present, their faces familiar but names unknown. Perhaps by the time I left Lickin Creek, I'd have all its citizens straight in my mind.

  I suddenly realized the two other goddesses were staring at me. “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Hail to the great mother,” Oretta cried, with a touch of impatience in her voice. I realized I'd missed my cue.

  “Hail to the great mother,” I said with enthusiasm.

  “Hail to the wycann,” came from Bernice.

  “Hail to the—” I stopped and looked at my script. Was wycann a misspelling of wiccan, another word for witch? Lots of New Age witchcraft was going around in feminist circles in New York, I knew, but here in Lickin Creek? And in a Christmas pageant? I hardly thought so.

  “Hail to the goddess,” they chirped in unison.

  On the other hand, maybe it was possible.

  Matavious cranked up the volume on his portable player and the music to the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” filled the room.

  “I drink from the Goblet of Life.” Bernice raised the Styrofoam cup to her lips and drank deeply.

  More likely it was the Goblet of Martinis, I thought cynically.

  It was time for the dance of the muses, and Oretta groaned her way down from her bar stool. But before the dance could begin, Bernice dropped the cup, opened her mouth, and uttered a noise that was a cross between a belch and a gurgle.

  “What, dear?” Oretta said. “Bernice! Are you all right?”

  A stream of greenish-yellow bile shot from Bernice's mouth and splattered Oretta's chiffon-covered bosom.

  “Ohmygod!” Oretta screamed.

  Bernice's eyes opened wide as if she had seen something that surprised her, then she doubled up, clutched her stomach, and crashed to the floor.

  I ran across the stage, pushed past the stunned actresses who were frozen in their spots, and dropped to my knees next to the woman a second or two before Matavious Clopper scrambled onto the stage. I moved back a little to give Matavious room to work, but not before my nose was assaulted by the nasty smell of gin, cinnamon, and something else—almonds.

  “Call an ambulance, somebody, quick!” Stanley Roadcap yelled frantically. “For God's sake, Matavious, you're a doctor. Do something!”

  “I'm trying,” the chiropractor snapped. His fingers were on Bernice's throat, trying to find a pulse.

  Bernice was frighteningly still, her mouth bright red.

  Speculations began to fly. “Heart attack … stroke … too much estrogen … not enough … my doctor says … ptomaine … stomach flu … like when my appendix burst …”

  The white cup lay on the floor where Bernice had dropped it. I bent over and sniffed it. It had most definitely contained spiced cider laced with gin. And there was that other smell, too. Almonds. “Don't anyone drink the cider,” I yelled, as I struggled to my feet. I moved quickly to the front of the stage. “Please, people, don't drink the cider!” To prevent panic, I added, “It might be spoiled.”

  My warning was picked up by the people gathered below and carried to the back of the room. Those people who held cups quickly put them down and stared up at me with anxious eyes.

  “Somebody call the police,” I urged.

  “I already did,” Ginnie said, at my side.

  It occurred to me that nothing could have been added to the cider urn, since so many people had drunk from it without ill effect. It must have been something she brought with her. “Where's Bernice's thermos?” I asked.

  Her gentleman friend stepped forward, holding it up. It was seized from his grasp and passed from one person to another until it reached me. No point in worrying about fingerprints now, I thought, and quickly unscrewed the lid. I sniffed, expecting the same odor I'd smelled in the cup Bernice had drunk from, but as far as I could tell, the liquid in the container was straight, unadulterated gin. Whatever had sickened Bernice hadn't come from her thermos.

  The ambulance arrived in only a few minutes, but it was too late for the EMTs to do anything for the poor woman.

  People stood around in small groups, talking quietly to each other, until Luscious Miller and the county coroner arrived. While I watched Henry Hoopengartner open his black bag, I couldn't help but wish he was more like the last coroner, who, despite all his faults, had at least been a doctor.

  Hoopengartner pronounced Bernice dead, glanced at his watch, and added, “Time of death: nine-eighteen.”

  As Bernice's body was placed upon the stretcher, I took Luscious by the arm. “I need to talk to you,” I said softly, so as not to alarm the people around us. “I suspect Bernice was poisoned. You should get the dregs in her cup analyzed. Also the contents of her thermos and the cider urn. I don't think you'll find anything in them, but they should be checked.”

  Luscious looked shocked. “You don't think she was murdered, do you?” I could understand his astonishment; Lickin Creek's police force seldom faced anything more violent than domestic disputes and bar fights.

  “It's quite possible, Luscious. Smell this.”

  I had picked up Bernice's cup with a pencil, and now I held it to his nose and let him take a whiff. He recoiled.

  “I think it's cyanide. And it didn't get in there by accident,” I said. “I doubt very much that she chose to commit suicide this way. Also, I happen to know that a few days ago Bernice received a letter threatening her life.”

  “She did? How do you know?”

  “She showed it to me this morning. I'm terribly afraid I didn't take it seriously at the time.” I had to swallow my pride to admit this, but guilt was weighing heavily on me. I retrieved my purse from the corner, found the letter, and handed it to Luscious, whose lips moved as he slowly read it.

  “The misspellings might help you identify the person who sent it,” I suggested.

  “What misspellings?” Luscious asked.

  I sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Bernice dead?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “Lots of people in town didn't like her, but I don't know anyone who'd want to kill her.”

  I watched Stanley Roadcap follow his wife's body out of the auditorium. “How about her husband?” I asked.

  “Stanley?” Luscious looked truly shocked. “Impossible. I went to school with his younger brother.”

  Half the people who had been in the auditorium had already left, while the others milled around, destroying whatever evidence there might have been.

  “Luscious, this is murder. You need to take charge,” I told him.

  Panic flared in his pale blue eyes. “I don't know what to do,” he admitted.

  He appeared to be defeated before he started. I stepped forward and raised my hands to silence the remaining onlookers. “Can someone tell us who put this cup on the stage? The one Bernice drank from.”

  Heads turned, voices buzzed, but nobody came forward.

  “Maybe you saw someone near it?” I asked, but hope was fading.

  A man pushed through to the front of the crowd.

  “There was dozens of people up there before the rehearsal started,” he said. “Some was making wreaths and had to move out of the way. I saw a couple of people with brooms, sweeping up—”

  A woman interrupted. “Reverend Flack moved the Boy Scout flags.”

  “That wasn't Reverend Flack,” someone shouted indignantly. “It was the custodian.”

  What it came down to was no one in the group had actually seen anyone place the cup on the stage.

  Primrose Flack
raised her hand, caught my eye, hesitated for a minute, then said, “I saw Bernice pour something into the cup from her thermos—right before the rehearsal started.”

  “Thank you, Primrose. Please, people, think about it,” I insisted. “Perhaps after you go home, you'll remember something. If you do, please call Luscious immediately.”

  Marvin Bumbaugh climbed the steps to the stage. “I want to know why you'uns is asking all the questions,” he demanded of me. “Where's Luscious?”

  Luscious stepped forward to my side. “I asked Tori to help,” he said firmly, “because with just Afton and me on the force, we don't have the manpower to do two things at once.”

  I would have been prouder of him if I hadn't smelled the brandy on his breath.

  To my surprise, Marvin took Luscious's alcohol-fortified outburst mildly. “Just find out what happened to her, Luscious,” he said. “I don't care how you do it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I wonder as I wander

  WHEN I ENTERED THE KITCHEN, PRAXYTHEA was bent over the terrarium, cooing endearments to Icky. She straightened when she heard me and turned, smiling. “He looked hungry,” she said, gesturing at the iguana with a limp stalk of celery.

  “How can you tell?” I helped myself to a cup of the coffee she had prepared and settled down at the table. Over the rim of the cup, I took a good look at my famous houseguest. This morning, she was a swirling cloud of lavender, purple, mauve, and rose. I suspected this was what Oretta thought she looked like last night in her ghastly black and purple getup.

  The only thing marring Praxythea's perfection, in my opinion, was the mask of pancake makeup that covered her porcelain-doll complexion. I was pretty sure I knew why she was wearing it.

  “May I assume you are going to be on TV?” I asked.

  “My goodness, Tori, if you continue demonstrating psychic abilities I'll have to put you on my show. I'm going to be interviewed at noon on a York TV station.” She smiled, endangering her makeup job.

  We were interrupted by Fred and Noel strolling in looking for food and/or affection. Pretending the iguana wasn't there, Noel went straight to the Tasty Tabby Treats while Fred chose the security of my lap.