Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

by Valerie S. Malmont

  She grinned wickedly. “It looks better on the troll.” She unzipped the bingo kit and pulled out two brass pins that said I LOVE BINGO. “Nearly forgot these,” she said.

  “What did you think of Oretta's play?” she asked, as she fastened one of the pins to my lapel.

  “The pageant? It's about as awful as a play can get.”

  “I meant the other play; the one she asked us to read.”

  I'd forced it out of my mind. “I haven't seen it. Told her I was much too busy. Did you read it?”

  “She brought a copy by my house. Hard to believe, but it's so bad it makes the pageant look good. If there's a Broadway play in the last fifty years that she hasn't stolen from, I don't know what it was.” As she spoke, she was oblivious of a man with a silver-white beard and moustache who was headed in our direction. “Oretta told me—Eeek!”

  The eeek escaped as the man reached out and touched her right ear with one finger.

  Ginnie's face turned red as she swung around and glared at the intruder. “Oh, it's you. Hello, Cletus,” she said coldly.

  He appeared to be a well-preserved sixty-five or seventy, and had a good-looking, if florid, face. “You don't sound happy to see me,” he said, smiling. His eyes were now staring at me. “Who's your pretty little friend?”

  Ginnie sighed. “Tori Miracle, I'd like you to meet another of your Moon Lake neighbors, Dr. Cletus Wilson. Cletus is a retired dentist.”

  I shook hands with Cletus, who held on a little longer than necessary while gazing soulfully into my eyes with his baby-blues. My mother had once said of an unpleasant visitor to the embassy, “I don't know why, but I dislike him immensely.” That was how I felt about Dr. Wilson.

  “May I join you ladies?”

  “Bingo!” a woman shouted.

  “Damn,” Ginnie muttered and crumpled up her cards.

  I recalled Luscious's police report from early this morning. “Are you the Dr. Wilson whose house was robbed?” I asked.

  “I certainly am,” he said. “Damn teenagers. It's got so a man can't even be safe in his own house. Back when I was a kid, we were taught respect for other people's property. Nothing like this would have—”

  “Oh, stuff it, Cletus,” Ginnie interrupted. “It wasn't all Happy Days back then. There's always been bad kids around. Always will be.”

  He didn't seem at all taken aback by her outburst. “You're right, my dear,” he said with a smile, then leaned close to me so our shoulders were touching. I got a whiff of denture breath and turned my head slightly.

  “I know who you are,” he said, playfully touching my chin. I drew away, dislodging his finger. He smiled a white, false-toothy grin. “You're that girlfriend of the police chief's, running the Chronicle. Bet you're surprised I know that.”

  “Mmmm,” I said, wondering how I could escape.

  “You must be feeling lonely with that man of yours in Costa Rica. Since we're practically neighbors, maybe you'd like to come over for a drink some evening this week. Take a look at my Civil War collection. Ginnie can tell you it's well worth seeing.” The leer he gave me indicated he had a lot more on his mind than showing me his cannonballs.

  “I'm very busy,” I told him. “The paper takes a lot of my time—”

  “I'll call you,” he said. “Excuse me, ladies, I see someone I need to talk to.” The new object of his attention was a blonde woman with a disastrous permanent. She barely looked up from her cards when he sat down next to her.

  “Charming gentleman,” I remarked to Ginnie.

  “Pond scum,” she said cheerfully. “I actually made the mistake of going over there one night. I can tell you it was all I could do to escape with my girlish virtue intact. Oh, good—they're going to play inside-square next. That's my lucky game.”

  It was only a little past ten when Ginnie dropped me off, but it seemed much later. I'm not sure if that was because my bruises had been throbbing painfully for the last hour or because I'd been half bored to death all evening. Bingo was definitely not my thing, and I hoped Ginnie wouldn't invite me again. Perhaps now I'd get that hot bath and cold Scotch I'd been craving all evening.

  Praxythea was in the kitchen, scratching Icky's chin.

  “Get him off the table,” I said sharply. “They carry all kinds of horrible diseases.”

  She stared at the pie basket I'd won, then tut-tutted when she noticed my bedraggled condition.

  “I've spent the day with a child who's a wannabe serial killer, I've been pummeled with rocks, my house has been broken into—and don't even ask me what I think of bingo,” I warned.

  It was probably too late for ice packs to be effective, but I thought I'd give it a try. Since there was only half a tray of ice cubes in the refrigerator, I retrieved two bags of frozen peas from the freezer on the porch and positioned them on either side of my neck like bright green shoulder pads.

  Praxythea gently placed Icky back in his terrarium and washed her hands. “He's so sweet,” she murmured. She was still a vision of lavender loveliness, but her stage makeup had definitely seen better days. “I just got home, myself,” she said. “It's been a long day.”

  “Amen to that,” I agreed. “Did you visit the Amish market in Lancaster?”

  “I never got there. While I was on camera, word came in that Kevin had been found, exactly where I said he'd be. I spent the rest of the afternoon giving interviews to the network newspeople. So exhausting!”

  I retrieved my jaw from where it had dropped. “You took credit for finding him? I can't believe you.”

  She smiled sweetly. “He was by the edge of running water, wasn't he?”

  “Yes, he was. But around Lickin Creek, it's hard to find any place that isn't near running water. You know that.”

  She sighed. “I'm used to disbelievers, Tori. Come see what I got for you.”

  I knew it was no use arguing with her; she was the mistress of illogical thought. I followed her out of the warm kitchen, through the cold interior rooms of the mansion, and into the large front parlor where a magnificent, long-needled Christmas tree dominated the center of the room.

  “Isn't it beautiful?” she asked.

  “It's gorgeous,” I gasped. “How did you get it here?”

  “The limo driver was kind enough to strap it on top of the car. He could barely see the road through the branches. It was like driving home through the forest primeval.”

  “Now I know stretch limos are good for something,” I said.

  “I thought we could decorate it tomorrow. Do something countryish—maybe make some popcorn and cranberry garlands, tie little red and white checkered bows on it.”

  “It's lovely, Praxythea. And I do appreciate it. But now that Kevin's been found, won't you be going back to New York?”

  “I thought I might stick around for Christmas.”

  “Don't you have family or some close friends you'd rather be with?”

  She shook her head and said softly, “Not really.” She drifted over to the tree and pulled off a single dry needle.

  I studied her back. It hadn't occurred to me that someone as rich and famous and beautiful as Praxythea could be lonely.

  “Okay,” I said cheerfully. “Neither one of us has family, so let's make it the best damn Christmas ever.”

  Her smile, when she turned to face me, was radiant.

  “I'll fix us drinks,” she announced. “We can toast the coming holiday.”

  “Sounds great. Make mine Scotch—a big one, please.”

  With a cat on each of our laps, we toasted the holiday and Kevin's rescue. As the first sip of Scotch hit my bloodstream, I felt a rush of warmth, and after a few minutes all my aches and pains were gone.

  She refilled our glasses, and we toasted our continuing friendship. By the time I'd finished the second drink, I realized the alcohol was hitting me hard and fast. I was starting to feel weepy, and my speech was slurred as I said, “I wish I'd paid attention to Bernice when she asked for help. I might have shaved her.�
��

  “Shaved her?” Praxythea giggled. “I think it's time for us to go to bed.”

  Something woke me. I heard it again; a sound that wasn't loud, but was out of place. I remembered the possum in the laundry room and hoped we didn't have another unwelcome visitor. As I struggled to find the switch on the bedside lamp, the digital numbers on the clock radio told me it was nearly three in the morning. My mouth was dry from too much Scotch, and my head threatened to ache.

  The bedroom door was ajar. I never left it open. Suddenly I realized something was missing. The cats!

  I leaped from the bed and ran into the hall, calling for them. Maybe I was unnecessarily worried, but it was very strange not finding them in their usual places on the bed.

  Praxythea's door opened, and Praxythea appeared in a sea-green chiffon negligee. Even at three in the morning, she managed to look glamorous. “What's up?” she asked. She grinned at the sight of my sleepwear, a Wizard of Oz T-shirt that said THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.

  “Have you seen the cats?”

  “Why, no. Not since they followed you to bed.”

  “Did you notice if I closed my door?”

  “Yes. You did. Why?”

  “It was open, and the cats are gone.”

  “It probably wasn't shut all the way. I imagine they're downstairs rustling up a midnight snack. Come on, I'll help you look for them.”

  I rushed down the front staircase, through the labyrinth of parlors and dining rooms to the kitchen, calling their names, “Fred. Noel. Here, kitty, kitty.”

  There was no answer. I was extremely apprehensive now. This wasn't like them at all. I opened the door to the back stairs, which led from the kitchen to the bedroom area above, and which was always kept closed because of drafts. “Kitty?”

  A reassuring meow came from above. Without stopping to wonder how my cats had managed to open and close the door to the staircase, I ran up the stairs.

  Noel was in the third-floor hallway, sitting on a priceless Oriental rug, cleaning a front paw. I scooped her up and hugged her tight. “Where's Fred?” I asked.

  “If she answers, I'm leaving,” Praxythea said, entering the hall from the stairs behind me.

  “You don't understand cats,” I said. “They communicate; you just have to learn their language. Come on, Noel, where's Fred?”

  If ever there was a time for Noel to put on a show, this was it. But she chose this moment to put on her “stupid cat” act instead. She yawned, stretched, closed her eyes, and pretended to fall asleep in my arms. I ignored Prax-ythea's derisive snicker.

  I searched the dusty bedrooms and survived a wild attack of the sneezes, but there was no sign of Fred anywhere.

  “Tori,” Praxythea called from the hallway. “You need to come see this.”

  “What?” I asked, stepping out of the fifteenth or sixteenth bedroom I'd searched.

  “Look.” She pointed at an almost invisible break in the wall. “It's a door. If it hadn't been ajar, I'd never have noticed it.”

  I touched it, and it swung open as though it hung on well-balanced springs. Behind it was a spiral staircase with dangerously narrow treads.

  Praxythea squeezed in next to me and peered up. “I thought we were on the top floor,” she said. “Where do you think these stairs go?”

  “Didn't you notice the turrets? I've never checked them out, because I don't like heights. I'll bet that's where Fred is. Come on.”

  Praxythea gamely lifted her chiffon skirts, and we climbed up, brushing aside some nasty cobwebs as we went. The last few steps brought us into a large, circular room, well lit by moonlight, and furnished with wicker furniture. Windows all around gave us a spectacular view of Moon Lake.

  In fact, it was so spectacular I felt as if I were floating above the treetops and was immediately overcome with vertigo. I closed my eyes and grabbed Praxythea's arm to keep from falling.

  “Tori, look!”

  “Is it Fred?” Cautiously, I opened one eye.

  Below us lay the dark waters of Moon Lake. On its smooth surface danced the reflected orange glow of the nearly full moon.

  But as my eyes adjusted to the sight, I realized it wasn't moonlight I was seeing. “My God!” I gasped. “That's a house! It's on fire!”

  We clambered down the stairs as fast as we dared. In the kitchen I snatched up the telephone to call the Lickin Creek emergency number. “Already on the way,” the girl at Hoopengartner's told me.

  “You watch for Fred,” I told Noel, who was fast asleep between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table. I threw my jacket on over my nightclothes, grabbed the Chronicle's camera, and dashed out of the house, headed toward the path that circled the lake. I could hear fire engines somewhere in the distance and Praxythea's footsteps close behind me.

  When Praxythea and I reached the burning cedar-shingled mansion, I realized it was Oretta Clopper's home. The scene reminded me of the burning of Manderley in the movie Rebecca. I snapped a few pictures of the flames shooting out of the upper-floor windows.

  A firefighter chopped down the massive oak front door and several others entered the building. They came out after a few minutes, forced back by the flames and thick black smoke.

  I found the chief of one of the volunteer fire companies. “Do you know if anybody's in there?” I asked.

  “At this hour they was probably fast asleep. Never knew what hit them.”

  I wrote his name in my notebook. Poor Oretta! Poor Matavious! How many tragedies could Lickin Creek handle?

  All the firemen really could do was spray water on the fire and concentrate on protecting the houses on either side of the Clopper home. By this time, half the town was there, some of the people helping the volunteer firemen, others, like myself and Praxythea, simply watching helplessly.

  The Clopper home emitted an almost human-sounding groan as the roof collapsed. Soon, the once lovely home was a steaming pile of black charred wood.

  Someone grabbed my hand. “This is dreadful,” Ginnie moaned. “Have you seen Oretta?”

  “No, I haven't,” I said, staring at the smoking ruins. “Nor Matavious, either.”

  “Dear God, I hope they got out.”

  Firemen were now working their way slowly through the remains of the house, methodically lifting smoking beams. I knew they were hunting for bodies, not survivors. I took more pictures.

  When it was nearly dawn, Luscious, who had arrived with the firemen and had worked with them nonstop for hours, came over to me. His red-veined eyes peered out from a weary face, blackened with soot.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “They gotta be in there. If they got out, someone would have seen them.” He turned to Praxythea. “Do you think they're alive?”

  I rolled my eyes, but he didn't notice. “I'm getting mixed vibrations,” she began.

  “Look for ‘running water,’” I interjected. “While you two are doing your woo-woo thing, I'm going home to change. Then—into the office to write this up.”

  My attention was caught by the sudden commotion coming from the crowd of spectators, who had been very quiet for the past half hour. A car pulled up behind the fire engines, and people stood back, stunned, as Matavious Clopper got out. He stood in painful silence before what had been his home.

  “Come on,” I said to Luscious. We had to climb over and around exhausted firefighters, sprawled on the ground.

  When we reached Matavious's side, he was crying softly. “Oretta, I'm so sorry. Oh, my God, this is all my fault.”

  Reverend Flack and his wife, Councilwoman Primrose, reached him just as we did. Primrose put her arms around Matavious. “There, there,” she soothed, “everything's going to be all right.”

  Looking at the disaster area before us, I wondered how she could be that optimistic. Maybe she'd learned it at ministers’ wives’ school.

  I prodded Luscious. “Ask him where he was.”

  “Business trip,” Matavious muttered. “Out of town.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Has anyone seen my wife?”

  Business? What kind of business takes a chiropractor out of town in the middle of the night? “Wasn't she with you? Where did you go?” I asked.

  Primrose glared at me. “Really, Tori. The man's suffered a dreadful loss. He's lost his home. And maybe his wife …”

  Matavious lurched forward suddenly, ran a few steps, and dropped to his knees, his arms wrapped around a large dog. “Petula, you got out. Thank God. You got out.”

  Primrose put her hand on his shoulder. “I'm sure Oretta got out, too, Matavious. She's probably at a neighbor's right now.”

  He looked none too hopeful, but nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You must be right.”

  Within a few minutes, Matavious found another of his dogs, two cats, and a Vietnamese potbellied pig. A cage containing a canary hung from a tree branch in the neighbor's yard. His delight was obvious. “They're all safe,” he said. “Oretta got them all out of the house.”

  I was confused. If Oretta had let the animals out and even had time to rescue her canary, where was she? Something was dreadfully wrong.

  And at that moment, a shout came from the ruins. “Found something!”

  Matavious's face blanched. He staggered and would have fallen if Reverend Flack hadn't grabbed his arm.

  CHAPTER 12

  Away in a manger

  THE FIREMEN EXTRACTED ORETTA'S BODY from the ruins of her home and placed her on a stretcher on the brick sidewalk. The crowd gasped, and I turned my head away from the gruesome sight. Henry Hoopengartner, carrying his black bag of coroner's equipment, officiously pushed his way through the spectators and dropped to his knees beside Oretta.

  Jackson Clopper, trailed by his wife, Weezie, was close behind Henry. Jackson walked up to Matavious and extended his hand. “Real sorry, man.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Matavious screamed. “You said you'd do anything to stop me. Even kill my wife!” He swung his right arm, strong from years of chiropractic manipulations, and slugged his distant cousin in the jaw.