Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

by Valerie S. Malmont

  Praxythea looked critically at him. “How much does he weigh, Tori? Why don't you put him on a diet?”

  “Nineteen pounds. And it's dangerous to put large cats on a diet. Fat cats can die in a matter of days when deprived of food. Besides, I like him this way. He's soft and cuddly.”

  “Noel's more to my taste,” Praxythea said, as she picked up the dainty calico.

  Over cats and Cheerios, we discussed Bernice's death.

  “It could have been an accident,” Praxythea pointed out after I'd used the word murder several times.

  “I don't see how a poisonous substance could ‘accidentally’ get into a cup of cider on the stage. If it had, I'm sure someone would have come forward by now to say something like ‘Gee whiz, I thought that funny bottle with the skull and crossbones on it under the sink was sugar water.’”

  “If you're so sure she was murdered, you must have some ideas about who did it—or at least why.”

  “I don't know who did it, but I'm going to find out. I owe that to Bernice.”

  We each had a piece of toast, hers plain, mine buttered.

  “How are you getting to York?” I asked, hoping she wasn't counting on me to take her.

  “The station offered to send a limo. I'll be home late. Since it's so close to Pennsylvania Dutch country I thought I'd go look at the Amish.”

  “I could show you Amish right here in Lickin Creek,” I said, gulping my coffee. “And not the touristy version, either. In fact, I'm heading over to the Farmers’ Market this morning—there's lots of them there. Garnet's sister Greta has a stall at the market, and I want to ask her what she knows about Bernice's enemies. She's got a red-hot connection to the Lickin Creek Grapevine.” I was referring to Lickin Creek's gossip chain, which spread the news about everybody and everything in town at warp speed.

  “I didn't know the Gochenauers were Amish,” Prax-ythea said.

  “They aren't. Anyone can open a stand there. I think it's only in Lancaster that all the farmers are Amish—or at least appear to be.”

  “As long as you're going to a market, I have a little shopping list.” Praxythea handed me a hundred-dollar bill and a list about a yard long. “Thought I'd make a fruitcake. I've got an old family recipe that's just wonderful. Do you think this will cover it?” she asked.

  “You could make one out of solid gold for this much money.”

  The antique school clock on the wall chimed the hour, reminding me I had a lot to do today. I jammed the list and money into my fanny pack, swallowed the last of my coffee, said good-bye, and rushed out.

  Although the Farmers’ Market was open Thursday through Saturday every week of the year, the day to shop was Thursday, when the produce and baked goods were the freshest and the crowds the smallest. Outside the market, several beautiful horses, tied to buggies, waited patiently for their owners. I'd heard that the Amish often bought retired trotting racehorses. These looked hearty enough to still be in competition.

  I parked my truck next to a black car, stripped of its chrome, which meant it probably belonged to a Menno-nite family. I had trouble recognizing the differences between the various groups of Plain People in the valley, and the only distinction I was sure of was that the Men-nonites drove cars while the Amish used buggies.

  Plywood covered the window openings of the dilapidated brick building, and the wood canopy over the entrance was in danger of collapsing, somewhat like my own front porch. The first time I'd visited the market in the old railroad roundhouse, I'd been horrified. It reminded me of the primitive markets I'd seen in Asian countries, and I couldn't imagine eating anything that came from it.

  But familiarity changes one's perceptions of a place, and now I raced inside without a single negative thought about its sanitary condition.

  The vast interior was dimly lit by a few bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. I paused in the open doorway and waited for my eyes to adjust. A young woman in a simple cotton dress, white apron, and starched bonnet looked up from a display of freshly baked bread and smiled at me.

  “If you play with a door you'll start a family fight,” she said, then added, “Or give me pneumonia.”

  “Sorry.” I stepped inside, and the door banged shut behind me.

  “Are you looking for Greta?”

  It no longer surprised me when strangers knew who I was. I nodded. “But I need to buy some candied fruit and nuts for a fruitcake first.”

  “Aunt Emily has the best.” She pointed to a booth at the back of the room.

  I moved down the aisle, through a crowd of Plain People and townsfolk who knew where the best bargains in town could be found. Most of the stalls sold farm products such as cheese, milk, meat, and eggs. Some specialized in yummy-looking baked goods. Others carried odd items for unspecified uses like containers of goose grease, sheep tallow, and rings made from horseshoe nails that some local people swore cured rheumatism.

  From Aunt Emily I purchased large bags of candied pineapple and cherries, dates, figs, a pound of pecans, and a dozen brown eggs. She looked askance at Prax-ythea's hundred-dollar bill and only decided to accept it after a lengthy consultation with several women from the next booth.

  The sign over Greta's booth said THE FINE SWINE SAUSAGE STAND. It was named after the farm owned by Greta and her late husband, Lucky Carbaugh, who'd had a gruesome accident with a manure spreader last spring. While Greta waited on a customer, I stood to one side and watched her.

  Greta was a tall muscular woman, whose face was all interesting planes and angles and deeply etched with wrinkles. Her waist-length gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a green silk scarf. As usual, she wore a black T-shirt and long, multicolored skirt of Indian gauze, cinched at the waist by a silver concha belt. She was the last of a generation of flower children; more than an anachronism among the Plain folk of the market, but she still managed to be accepted by them by dint of the Gochenauer family having been in Lickin Creek forever.

  When Greta saw me, she uttered an exclamation of pleasure and ran around the counter to hug me. “What a treat to see you, Tori! You look wonderful. And so skinny! Don't you ever eat? Let's grab a cup of coffee and talk.”

  I loved Greta for a lot of reasons, and one of them was because she always told me I looked skinny.

  She led the way to the nearby Koffee Korner and showed me which redwood picnic table to claim. “I can watch my booth from there,” she said. She stood in line at the window and came back in a few minutes carrying two sticky buns, hot from the oven and smelling of cinnamon, and two Styrofoam cups of coffee.

  The white cup reminded me of last night and Bernice's death. I couldn't drink from it. Greta sipped her coffee with no problem, but, I reminded myself, she hadn't been there.

  We chatted for a few minutes until she asked what I'd heard from Garnet. I really wanted to ask her how many letters she had received, but didn't, because that would mean I'd have to admit I'd had none. So I switched the subject to the real reason I was here—finding out who had a motive to kill Bernice Roadcap.

  Greta spilled coffee down the front of her T-shirt. “You think Bernice was murdered?”

  Was she putting me on? Greta usually knew about everything that went on in town—often, it seemed, even before the people involved were aware something had happened to them.

  A voice behind me screeched, “Did I hear you say Bernice was murdered? Impossible. Now, if it had been Oretta, I'd understand.”

  I swiveled to see who it was. I didn't recall ever having seen the pudgy gentleman in a stained artist's smock and beret who had pushed his way into our conversation. He was Hollywood's idea of an artist, I thought, right out of a forties movie.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked him.

  “Oh, my dear, that Oretta is such a bitch!” He pulled a chair over from the next table and sat without being invited. “Greta, why don't you introduce me to your lovely friend?”

  Greta rolled her eyes so only I could see. “Tori, this is Ray
mond … uh, Raymond … Zook.”

  “Raymond alone is just fine,” he said, accenting the second syllable of his name. “You two charming ladies seem to be having such fun with your gossip session. I hope you don't mind my joining you.”

  His snide reference implied we were just a couple of silly women exchanging neighborhood news over our morning coffee. His attitude irritated me, because I was only tapping into the Lickin Creek Grapevine in order to solve a crime—serious business, hardly a gossip session!

  Because his lips were hidden beneath a handlebar moustache, I couldn't see them move as he said, “The line of people who'd like to see Oretta dead forms behind me.” His eyes sparkled.

  “What do you have against Oretta?” I asked.

  “It's more like what Oretta has against me. Why, the woman actually had me arrested once. She called your brother, Greta, and insisted he raid my studio. He and Luscious kidnapped my darlings and took them to that hellhole she calls a shelter.”

  “I heard about that,” Greta said. “Something about abusing cats you got from the shelter, wasn't it?”

  He placed a soft white hand over his heart. “I have never—I repeat, never—abused a cat.”

  Up till then, I'd been totally confused by their conversation. But when I heard mention of cats, I perked up. There's nothing I enjoy more than talking about cats. “You're a cat lover? So am I. I have two. Fred and Noel. Noel's the quiet one, but Fred's quite a show-off.”

  “He's something of an artist, too,” Greta said, laughing. “Didn't you tell me he tracked paint all over your apartment last year when you had it redecorated?”

  “Indeed he did. I happen to think his little antique-white footprints have improved the otherwise drab linoleum.”

  Raymond turned to me, showing interest. “I'd like to meet him someday.”

  “He'd love that,” I said. “He's a very outgoing cat.”

  “You'd better get over to your booth,” Greta said. “I think I see an art connoisseur looking over your paintings.”

  “Oh, my!” He jumped up, hands fluttering, and ran down the aisle, calling, “Yoo-hoo. I'm here.”

  “Oh, my!” I said. Greta began to laugh heartily, and I soon joined in.

  After we finally regained our composure, I returned to the subject I'd come to discuss—Bernice.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted her dead?” I asked.

  “Follow the money. Isn't that what they always say?” Greta said. “I'd take a long close look at that young boyfriend of hers. I've heard rumors that she bankrolled his new restaurant.”

  “What restaurant is that?”

  “It's called the Fields of Glory.”

  “The one where the waiters and waitresses dress in Civil War costumes?”

  “That's it. You can have your soup served by Clara Barton and your table bussed by George Custer.” She sniffed. “Some people will go to any lengths to attract tourists. Maybe the payback she expected was more than he wanted to give, so he decided to get rid of her.”

  “I'll check him out,” I said. “Also her soon-to-be-ex-husband. He might have been crazy with jealousy.”

  “Stanley? I hardly think he's the type.” She appeared to think for a second. “But to get back to what I said about following the money—Stanley stood to lose a bundle in the divorce.”

  “Have you heard about someone threatening Bernice? Shortly before she died she showed me a note she'd received, warning her to drop her plans to create a San Antonio-like development along the Lickin Creek.”

  “I thought she'd given up on that wacky idea a long time ago.”

  “She was pitching it to the council this week.”

  “I wonder if she gave any thought to the environmental impact that would have on the river …”

  Before she could climb on her soapbox, I steered her back to the subject by saying, “Buchanan is watching out for the river—and the brown trout in it.”

  “This town is only big enough for one mall,” Greta said.

  “Are there plans to build another?”

  “Indeed there are. Ask Oretta. She and Matavious own part of the old Clopper tract on the edge of town. They've been trying to beat Bernice to the punch by selling their land to a mall developer before her project gets under way.”

  “Interesting. I'll have to talk to Oretta about that.”

  Greta was thinking out loud now, paying no attention to what I said. “Or maybe Bernice made some enemies when she left Trinity Church. I hear she had a shouting match with Reverend Flack and stormed out.”

  I smiled at the thought. “Are you suggesting Reverend Flack eliminates any sheep who stray from his flock?”

  Greta laughed. “Put that way, it does sound silly. Forget I said that.”

  She stood. “I've got some customers waiting for me. Lots of folks believe eating sausage on New Year's Day will bring them luck.” She hugged me. “You'll come for dinner Christmas Eve, won't you? That's when our family always has its celebration.”

  I accepted her invitation, although I had some trepidation about facing an evening of Greta's famous “down-home” cooking. I hoped she wasn't planning to serve one of her specialties like stuffed beef heart or hog maw.

  She returned to her booth, and I picked up my packages and strolled down the aisle toward the exit. Suddenly, I spotted Alice-Ann, who at five feet eleven towered over most of the people in the market. Her streaked blonde hair gleamed in the light from an overhead bulb, and she was smiling warmly at a chicken vendor. My heart did a little flip-flop at the sight of the woman who'd been my dearest friend since we'd met on our first day at college. I wondered how she'd react if I dared go over and say hi. She glanced up, our eyes met for a moment, I took a step forward. She turned away.

  I knew that Alice-Ann was not yet ready to reconcile, and for the time being it was best to let her mourn in her own way. But it still hurt. It hurt a lot.

  On my way across town, I stopped at the state liquor store and bought a bottle each of port wine and brandy for Praxythea's fruitcake. Although I usually think of fruitcake as a close relative to a boat anchor, so far this one looked promising.

  When I reached my office, I noticed the cleaning crew had again left the broom on the stoop. How careless! I really would have to speak to them. Inside, I discovered it was the twin of the first broom, which was still propped up in the corner where I'd left it. I placed the second broom next to the first, went to my desk, and began to write.

  I had the Chronicle building to myself because it was Thursday—Cassie's regular day off. Usually, it was the day I fine-tuned my articles and typed the police blotter. Friday, then, was “panic day,” when Cassie and I put the page proofs together and rush them and the computer disks to the printer in time to have the paper ready for distribution on Saturday morning.

  Today, I had a murder to write about. A murder that was preying heavily on my conscience. If I'd taken her fears seriously would Bernice be dead now? The woman had turned to me for help, and I'd let her down.

  I began my article. “Bernice Roadcap feared for her life, and, as it turned out, her fears were justified.” Perhaps I did editorialize more than I should have in a news report about the sanctity of life and the cowardice of poisoners, but I rationalized that as editor I could do as I pleased.

  I printed it out, corrected a few spelling errors, attached a file photo of Bernice, and carried the article to the front office to place in Cassie's IN box.

  On the floor next to Cassie's desk was the package that had already tripped me twice, and that I'd twice asked her to unpack. It was still unopened. With a sigh of impatience, I grabbed an X-Acto knife out of Cassie's desk drawer, and slashed through the brown tape.

  Beneath lots of crumpled paper were two stacks of books, all identical, all titled Moon Goddess: The Magick and Rituals of Witchcraft. Why would Cassie order ten copies of the same book from the shopping channel? I wondered. Gifts, maybe. I had another surprise coming; there was a letter fro
m Llewellyn Publishers enclosed, addressed to Cassie Kriner, aka Golden EarthWoman, congratulating her on the publication of her new book!

  It amused me to learn that solid, pillar-of-the-community Cassie had a secret life. It was the kind of thing I expected from acquaintances in the city, but in conservative Lickin Creek … ? I took the book into my office and thumbed through it. The little I read was well written. I couldn't wait to ask Cassie about her writing career.

  When the phone rang, I reluctantly put the book down. It was Luscious, calling from the police station with the weekly crime report.

  “No news about Kevin,” he said before I could ask. “We done put out an APB and had a couple of reports from West Virginia about a suspicious-looking guy with some kids in tow. I'll let you know what we find out.”

  Thirty-six hours. Kevin had been missing for thirty-six hours. Could a child survive that long in the cold of the mountains? And if he really had been kidnapped, what had happened to him during those long hours? I needed to put the possibilities out of my mind.

  “What have you done about Bernice's death?” I asked. “Did you send that cup to the crime lab for toxicology testing?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But it'll be a few days before I hear anything back. The autopsy's going to take a while, too. Tori, I really meant it last night when I asked for your help. With only me and Afton here, I'm running in more directions than a chicken with its head cut off. Seems like the council's threatening to fire me every couple of minutes.”

  “I'll do what I can,” I assured him. “Right now you should start interviewing the people who were on the stage. Find out if anyone noticed who put the cup on the pedestal—or even if they saw someone go near it.”

  “Thanks,” he said with what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I'll get on it right away. Are you ready for the police news?”

  “Fire away.” I grabbed a pencil.

  He gave me the details on two DUIs, a fight at Daisy's Bar-Grill-Laundromat, and a break-in that took place last night at the home of a noted Civil War historian, Dr. Cletus Wilson. I sat up straight when I heard the address, for it was in my own Moon Lake neighborhood.