I struggled to a sitting position. Cassie knelt down beside me and supported me with an arm. “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked. “We thought you were one of those teenagers that break in to smoke pot. You're sure lucky. If we'd had a gun, you could be dead.”
“Real lucky,” I said ruefully. “I'm half-drowned.” It was all I could do to say that much through my chattering teeth.
“We've got to get you out of those freezing things and into some dry clothes,” Cassie said. “Can you walk?”
With some help, I stood.
The python stepped out of the angel circle, and was transformed back into Big Bad Bob. “I'm sorry I scared you, miss.”
“Go away, Bob,” Cassie said, not unpleasantly. “You know you aren't allowed in here.”
“I was only trying to make sure she was okay.”
“She is. Now go.”
He looked at me as if asking permission, so I said, “It's all right, Bob.” Satanic rituals and baby blood didn't seem nearly as dangerous as sitting around in my soggy, freezing clothes.
With one last worried look, Big Bad Bob disappeared into the shadows.
Cassie and her friends led me up the safe staircase and into a small room adjoining the large hall where they held their meeting. Cassie handed me a soft heap of white silk. “Take off those wet things,” she commanded, “and put this on.”
She discreetly turned her back while I stripped. As I peeled off my sodden clothes, I wondered if I'd ever be able to wear any of them again. Certainly, I'd have to replace Ethelind's black cape. The dress Cassie had given me turned out to actually be two pieces, with a crinkly slip worn underneath several layers of transparent silk. Once I had it on, I announced, “I'm decent.”
Cassie tugged on the sleeves, straightened the plunging vee-neckline, and wrapped a white cord around my waist. When she was finished, I felt like a parachutist who'd gotten tangled in her lines.
“Now that you're in no danger of freezing to death, why don't you explain what you were doing here?” Cassie asked.
I searched my mind vainly for a believable fib, and finally opted for the truth. “I knew it was winter solstice, and I wanted to observe your ceremony.”
“All you had to do was ask, Tori. We welcome any visitor who comes with an open mind.”
I was glad for the dim light for I knew I was blushing.
“Did you expect to catch us sky clad? Maybe carrying on a satanic ritual? Killing babies? You see, I know all about the rumors that have gone around town.”
I didn't respond. There was no need to.
She glanced at her wristwatch. “It's so late, we might as well call it a night. We've already closed the circle, so you might as well come along and have some refreshments with us, if you like.”
The way she said it was more of a command than an invitation. I followed her out into an adjoining room, where the others were waiting. Now I realized they were all wearing sweaters or sweatshirts under their filmy gowns. I wished I was. My wet hair had dripped all over the top of my borrowed gown, and I was chilled to the bone.
After all the ritual and mysticism, I was truly surprised when they served cupcakes and decaffeinated coffee. My teeth chattered as, for the first time in my life, I turned down a piece of cake.
Cassie draped a plaid blanket over my shoulders. “We'd better get you home,” she said. “Did you drive?”
“T-t-t-truck. N-n-n-next b-b-b-block.”
“I'll take you there.” As Cassie put on her coat, the other women hugged me good-bye.
“Come back,” they said. It was a funny thing, but I really wanted to.
While we waited for Cassie's car to warm up, I asked Cassie a question that had been on my mind since I observed the ceremony. “Are you Satan worshipers?”
“Absolutely not! That's a common misconception. Sure, there are teenagers who call themselves ‘witches,’ and go for the satanic rituals, but Wicca is a nature-based religion and we worship the Mother Goddess, from whom all creativity flows.”
“And do you believe in magic?”
Cassie fiddled with the heater control. “Not if you think of it as supernatural power. What I and the others of my coven believe is that there is a way to make use of our psychic talents. We conduct ceremonies in order to alter our state of consciousness.”
“For what purpose?”
“To increase our perception of the world around us so we may grow in wisdom and understanding. You'll find it all in chapter two of my book.”
I must have looked doubtful, for she continued. “Have you ever listened to a meditation tape or gone to a seminar on self-awareness? What we do is similar to that kind of thing. The ritual ‘trappings’ we use just help us enter another state of consciousness.”
“While I was watching your ceremony, I felt a strong sense of belonging,” I said. “I'd really like to know more. I'm definitely going to read your book.”
“I think you'll see there's nothing to fear,” Cassie said, acknowledging she knew what the local gossips said about her group. “Except maybe from some of the local fundamentalists who see us as a threat. Now, Tori, why don't you really tell me why you were here tonight?”
I admitted I'd come because of Bernice's involvement with the coven. “I thought I might learn something that could help me identify her murderer.”
“And did you?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It's another dead end. What's got me baffled is that there's no apparent link between the two murder victims other than that they both were in the Christmas pageant. I need to find a connection between them.”
I think that's when the newspaperwoman in Cassie took over, because she said, “I hadn't thought about that, but I guess it won't hurt to tell you this since both Oretta and Bernice have passed over. Oretta was in our coven. For a very short time—a couple of years ago.” She put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot.
I was so excited I almost forgot I was freezing to death. “She was? What happened?”
“You know how Oretta was. Always wanting to run everything she was involved in. She wasn't willing to wait patiently for her turn to be the priestess. When she decided to rewrite our ritual to make it more poetic, she and Bernice got into quite a row, and that's when Oretta had a hissy fit and stomped out.”
“Did anyone in your coven resent her leaving?” I asked.
Cassie smiled. “Can't say any of us missed her very much.” And as if she could read my mind, she added, “We don't go around bumping off people who decided the Craft isn't for them, Tori.”
“Do you know of anyone in town who might have it in for someone simply because she was a witch?” I was thinking of bigots like Weezie Clopper.
She shook her head. “I'm afraid you're way off base, Tori. There are lots of religious fundamentalists in Lickin Creek, but I can't think of any who'd get so riled up they'd want to kill us.” She paused and looked thoughtfully out the window for a moment. “It has happened in other places, but I'm sure it wouldn't happen in Lickin Creek …” Her voice trailed away as if she realized for the first time just how unpopular her chosen religion was.
She parked next to my truck. “Better take a hot bath when you get home,” she suggested as I opened the car door.
I shivered inside the blanket. “Like I need someone to tell me. Thanks, Cassie. I'm really sorry I disrupted your ceremony.”
“It's all right, Tori. In a strange way, it was actually kind of fun. One thing you should know—we believe in the threefold law, and that means that whatever you do returns to you threefold. It's something I think about every day as I go about my business.”
With that gentle and somewhat mysterious warning in mind, I drove home. My wet boots squished with every step as I entered my kitchen and flipped on the light switch. Noel, sleeping on top of the refrigerator, flew into a panic when she saw me in my strange garb.
“I know,” I said. “It's not the real me.”
Praxythea, a vision of love
liness in peach satin, came in from the front hall, wiping sleep from her eyes. “Oh, thank goodness it's you. I heard a noise and …” She stopped in the doorway, and her mouth gaped in astonishment at the sight of me. “What in God's name happened to you?”
“Don't ask,” I warned. “And that should be ‘What in Goddess's name!’”
With all the dignity I could muster, I wrapped my blanket tightly around me and swept out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER 20
Sing we joyous all together
“YOU'RE A VERY LUCKY LADY,” PRAXYTHEA said as she poured a cup of coffee for me.
The aroma of vanilla and hazelnuts rose from my steaming cup. Where had she found gourmet coffee in Lickin Creek? I winced and repositioned the ice bag I'd tied on my head. “I don't feel very lucky.” Below the knot on my forehead where a would-be rescuer had clobbered me with a pole, a black eye was threatening to erupt. I was also covered with bruises, and my stomach smarted where most of the skin had been scraped off. At least I didn't have to worry about getting a tetanus shot. I'd had one a few months ago thanks to an unfortunate incident at the launderette.
“I meant, think about what would have happened if those women had been less understanding and had called the police. After your very recent brush with the law over the same offense, it's quite likely you'd be drinking your coffee in a jail cell this morning.”
I hadn't thought of what I'd done at the cold-storage house as trespassing, but she was right. All my efforts to solve a crime and help Luscious had only succeeded in losing me my cat and nearly ruining my reputation.
Praxythea refilled our cups and placed another of her freshly baked homemade cinnamon buns on my plate. I decided she was nice to have around.
“Tell me what it was you were wearing when you came home last night,” she asked.
“It's called a ‘goddess dress.’ Cassie said she orders them from the Red Rose catalog.”
“Let me get a pencil. I want to write that down.”
I was pretty sure I knew what Praxythea would be wearing on her next TV appearance.
The grandfather clock out in the hall struck the hour. Reluctantly, I pushed away from the table. “I've got to get going. Trinity Evangelical is having its Christmas luncheon and greens sale today, and I promised to take some pictures for the paper.”
Praxythea jumped up. “That sounds so delightfully old-fashioned! I'd love to pick up some fresh greenery to decorate the house with. Some holly for the mantel and maybe some pine boughs for the staircase. Is it all right if I come along?”
“I'd like the company.”
I dressed in a hurry and we drove across town to the church. Judging by the number of vehicles in the parking lot and along the side streets, at least half of Lickin Creek was in Trinity Evangelical today. The sign on the door announcing the Christmas pageant had been canceled was a sad reminder of the tragedy that had happened here a few days earlier.
As we entered the basement auditorium, a woman seated at a folding table said, “That'll be five dollars, please, if you're going to have lunch.”
“I only came to take pictures …” I began, but Praxythea whipped out her wallet and paid for two lunches.
“Your names, please,” the woman asked. “I need to put you on the list.”
“Praxythea Evangelista.”
“The TV psychic?” When Praxythea smiled her acknowledgment, the woman jumped up from the table and came around to shake her hand. “Take my picture, please,” she said to me. “My kids aren't going to believe this without proof.”
I obliged, and she returned to her station.
“Name, please?” she asked, looking at me.
“Tori Miracle.”
While not expecting the same enthusiastic welcome she'd given Praxythea, I was a little disappointed when she asked, “Any relation to the Merckles over in Big Pond?”
“No. And it's Miracle.”
“It's a miracle the Merckles aren't all in jail. Have a nice lunch.”
“I'm not hungry,” I told Praxythea. “I just finished breakfast.”
“You can pretend to eat a little. I'm sure the money's going for a good cause.”
We picked up brown plastic trays and got in line. Although it was just now noon, at least a hundred people had already been through the line and were now eating at the long tables that filled the hall.
We carried our heavy trays over to a table and sat on metal folding chairs. “Good grief, there's enough food here for an army,” Praxythea said, staring aghast at the heaping plates and bowls in front of her. “And what's worse, I don't even know what most of it is. Except for the fried chicken.”
“I tried to warn you,” I said. “One thing about living in Pennsylvania is that the natives take food seriously. Since I've been here for several months, I can probably identify most of it for you.
“The slices are scrapple. Don't ask what it's made of if you want to enjoy it. And this is corn pudding. These cute little things are ‘pigeons,’ or steamed potato dumplings, and if you're afraid we don't have enough starch, we also have a side order of deep-fried potato balls.”
Praxythea picked something out of the oyster pie and sniffed it. “Are oysters typically found in Pennsylvania-Dutch cooking?”
I nodded. We were just getting started. I went on with my description of the food. “String beans with ham, sauerkraut with dumplings, corn bread, lettuce salad with hot boiled bacon dressing—”
“Why are the eggs pink?” Praxythea stared at the bright yellow and pink sliced eggs on top of her salad.
“They're soaked in beet juice. And of course we have the usual assortment of sweet-and-sours. Different kinds of chow chow, apple butters, preserved fruits, and homemade pickles.”
“They don't eat like this on a daily basis, do they?”
I said, “Look around you. Does anybody here look undernourished? Even the air in Pennsylvania is fattening.”
Although I had finished off several cinnamon rolls only a short while ago, the aromas drifting up from my tray were making me hungry. Conversation stopped, and we concentrated on eating. Praxythea ate everything, the first time I'd ever seen her do more than nibble daintily at her food.
We were settling down to Montgomery pie and coffee when Primrose Flack mounted the steps to the stage and took the microphone. “Good afternoon. It is really wonderful to see such a terrific turnout for our Christmas luncheon. The greens and baked goods will be on sale shortly in the next room, but before that we have a real treat in store. Our own choir soloist, Lydia Wrigley, is going to sing Andrew Lloyd Webber for us.” She led the applause as a chubby woman in a purple suit and feathered hat came out on stage and bowed.
Praxythea leaned over to ask, “Why doesn't she sing Christmas carols?”
I shrugged. “I don't think she knows anything else.” I felt like a real old-timer, since I'd heard Lydia sing at least six times, always an Andrew Lloyd Webber medley. She stood smiling directly at me, and I realized she was waiting to have her picture taken. I obliged.
In a clear soprano voice, Lydia Wrigley began her first number, “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again.” It was a song that always brought back melancholy memories of people I'd cared for who'd disappeared from my life. It affected me even more strongly now that it was Christmas and I was feeling so alone. I whispered in Praxythea's ear, “I have to leave. Do you want me to give you a ride home?”
She shook her head. “I'm having a lovely time, and I still want to pick up some pretty things for the house. Don't worry about me.”
I popped into the next room and took a few pictures of the greens. By the time I had my coat on, Lydia was singing “Love Changes Everything.” Sure does, I thought, thinking of how drastically my life had changed because of Garnet. Last Christmas, instead of attending a concert in a church basement, I went to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. And that was only the least of the changes I'd made in the past year.
Outside, the light snow that had fall
en glimmered like diamonds on the pavement. A familiar-looking woman came toward the church from the parking lot, and I realized I'd seen her at the coven meeting last night. She appeared not to recognize me as she hurried into the church.
Across the street was a drugstore, and since I still had time to kill before my appointment with the clown at Raymond's art studio, I went in to talk to the pharmacist on duty.
His horrified reaction was funny, to say the least. “You want to know about what?”
“Cyanide,” I repeated. “For Pete's sake, I'm not looking to kill anybody. I only want to find out if it's possible to buy it in a drugstore.”
“Absolutely not,” he said emphatically.
“How about insecticides? Do any of them contain cyanide?”
“No! Not since Silent Spring.” He looked suspiciously at me. “Why do you want to know?”
“I'm doing an article for the Chronicle about the different poisons we come across in our daily lives—and how we can be more careful with them.” I was amazed at how easily the fib rolled off my lips. Actually, it wasn't a bad idea and maybe I would write that article someday.
He began to look interested. “Good thinking. There's poisons in lots of things. Even the stuff on a firefly's bottom that lights up would be poisonous if you ate enough of it.”
I had no intention of eating even one firefly's bottom, but I thanked him and turned to leave. “Water,” he called out. “Drink too much water, and it'll kill you.”
On the street, I turned my collar up against the arctic wind and figured it was close enough to two o'clock to drive over to Raymond's art studio.
A big bunch of helium-filled balloons marked the entrance to the studio, reminding me that the clown had carried balloons in the parade. I parked and walked over. The window was full of flowers and signs: WELCOME, GALA GALLERY OPENING, ADMISSION FREE, ART SHOW TODAY, REFRESHMENTS INSIDE, BUY YOUR CHRISTMAS GIFTS HERE. Since there were only a couple of vehicles parked on the street, I had a feeling that Raymond's gala gallery opening wasn't going too well.
Death, Snow, and Mistletoe Page 21
