Valerie S. Malmont

by Snow;Mistletoe Death

  There, Praxythea, in a silky emerald-green mini-something-or-other, with her red curls escaping from the large comb that held her hair off her face, was pouring coffee into two bone-china cups. Fred sat pressed against one long leg, gazing at her with the adoration he usually reserved for a large helping of Tasty Tabby Treats.

  “I had to run out to the supermarket, Tori. There wasn't anything in the fridge except diet soda, cold pizza, and Snickers bars. Want to nibble on some bacon while I scramble the eggs? Or are you on a diet?”

  She was smiling sweetly as she said it, but suddenly, I didn't feel quite as attractive as I had a few minutes ago. “Yes to the bacon, please. It smells wonderful. Any word about Kevin?”

  “You know I'd have wakened you if there was.”

  I drank the strong coffee and watched Praxythea whip the eggs in the Pyrex bowl that last night had served as her crystal ball.

  “You really goofed this time,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” She didn't miss a beat, but her back stiffened.

  “During the seance, you said you had a vision of Kevin being in the quarry.”

  The eggs sizzled as they hit the melted butter in the heavy cast-iron skillet. “I never said it was Kevin.” She gave the eggs a quick stir and emptied the skillet onto a platter she'd heated in the oven. “Something's odd, though …”

  “What?” I helped myself to a heap of pale, golden eggs and added a toasted English muffin.

  “Those bones have been in the quarry for a long time. Why did the vision come to me now? I wonder if it had something to do with another child being lost?”

  “I won't hazard a guess, since I don't believe in this psychic stuff.” I spread butter on the muffin and watched it melt into the holes.

  She went on as though I weren't there. “That must be the reason. I think the dead child wants to help me find Kevin before it's too late. That's why he contacted me.”

  I wiped butter off my chin and muttered, “Good grief—what are you going to come up with next?”

  She smiled. “Be skeptical. I don't care. I'm used to it. You do realize that the good news is I wasn't contacted by Kevin's spirit.”

  “Why is that good news? More coffee?” She nodded, and I poured.

  “It means Kevin's still alive,” she said. “I didn't think so at first, because I had a vision of a dead child underwater—I misunderstood and thought it was Kevin, but it wasn't. To locate Kevin, I need an object that belongs to him, preferably metal.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I touch something of his, I'll feel the vibrations he's emitting, wherever he is. Don't try to understand, Tori. I don't, myself. Just bring me something when you go to visit his family today, won't you?”

  “What makes you think I'm going up there?”

  She threw me one of those mysterious smiles of hers. “I don't have to be psychic to know a good reporter will follow up on a story.”

  “I hope you're right about his being alive.” I put our breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

  “There is no doubt in my mind … What's that noise coming from the front of the house?”

  “Sounds like the mailman … he drops stuff through a slot in the door.”

  “Shouldn't he stay off that porch? I saw your warning sign last night.”

  “I've told him a dozen times. He says he's been delivering mail to the front door for twenty years and he ‘ain't about to start trekking around to the back.’ I'll be back in a second.”

  Miles from the kitchen, in the front hall, the mail lay scattered on the red Oriental rug. Hoping there'd be a letter from Garnet, I eagerly gathered it up and ran back to the warm kitchen. Praxythea studied the Draper's & Damon's catalog, while I tossed out the credit card solicitations and offers to try one issue of a magazine absolutely free. When the trash can was full, only two real letters remained. Damn! Neither was from Garnet. I hadn't had a letter from him in weeks. Was it too soon to wonder if I'd been dumped by another almost-fiance?

  The first was from Murray Rosenbaum, my next-door neighbor and best friend in New York. He missed me, New York missed me, and so did Con Ed. He enclosed the power company's third and final notice, which I dropped in the trash. With the salary I was earning at the Chronicle and no expenses except the horrendous heating bill, I'd be able to pay off most of my bills when I got back to New York. Until then, there was no point in worrying about them.

  The long row of foreign stamps on the second envelope meant it was from my father, the ambassador to whatever country was lowest in importance on the State Department's list of third world nations. I ripped it open, glanced at the letter, and gasped.

  Praxythea stared at me with her wise emerald eyes. “What's wrong?” she asked.

  “He married his girlfriend!” A tear sneaked its way down one flaming cheek. “And he actually has the gall to say there's no need for me to worry about Mother. Says she'll qualify for Medicaid now and can move to a good state facility. Didn't tell me about the divorce sooner—wasn't sure how I'd take it.”

  I balled up the letter and threw it on the table.

  Praxythea smoothed it out. “Do you mind?” she asked and proceeded to read it without waiting for my answer.

  For the first time in a long time, I thought of my mother as she'd once been: tall, blonde, and elegant, handling the rigors of foreign service life and my father's infidelities with the stiff upper lip that was expected from women of her generation and social class. Now she hovered in a gray zone, her brain pickled from years of alcohol abuse, in a warehouse called the Willows, where she would stay until she was reclassified as a welfare patient, or whatever it is they call impoverished divorced women.

  Praxythea handed me a tissue.

  “He's had plenty of Bambi-bimbos over the years,” I sniffed into the Kleenex. “Why did he marry this one?” That he might actually be in love didn't occur to me.

  “This might explain it,” Praxythea read aloud, “‘… baby's due near Christmas. I hope you'll find it in your heart to accept Tyfani and your new brother or sister.’”

  I laughed, then, at the absurdity. Ambassador Grant-ham Livingston Miracle, age sixty-two, new bridegroom and father-to-be. The old goat's philandering ways had finally caught up with him!

  My laughter stopped suddenly. I was going to be a sister to someone, once again. I was going to have a second chance—and this time I was going to get it right. It was a powerful and sobering thought.

  My reverie was interrupted by a combination of strange sounds—hissing, scratching, and screeching—coming from the enclosed back porch that served as a laundry/mudroom. I immediately feared one or both of the cats had gotten into trouble, and leaping to my feet, I cried, “Fred … Noel?”

  They meowed fretfully from under the table. “Okay, you scaredy-cats,” I muttered. “Let's see what's out there.” I grabbed a carving knife. “Maybe it's our ghost,” I joked, trying to settle my frazzled nerves.

  “No, it isn't,” Praxythea said seriously.

  I should know better than to joke about ghosts with a psychic.

  “Stand back,” I ordered and opened the door about an inch. Through the little crack, I saw a large and very angry animal trying to burrow through the back door.

  “What is it?” Praxythea asked.

  I slammed the door shut. “Damned if I know. Looks like a giant rat.” The “rat” threw itself against the door. “Good grief,” I gasped. “What should I do?” My back was braced against the door, just in case the creature tried to force its way into the kitchen.

  We stared at each other; two city females confronted with a country problem, and with no idea how to resolve it. Then the front doorbell rang.

  Praxythea went to answer it, while I stayed at the barricades. When she returned, she was followed by Oretta Clopper.

  It didn't take long for our deus ex machina, moving at a surprising speed considering her bulk, to shoo the frightened animal away from the back door and replace the dryer exhaust ho
se.

  “Just a little possum, looking for a warm hidey-hole,” she said with a sniff. “More afraid of you than you were of it.”

  I doubted that.

  It suddenly occurred to me to ask Oretta Clopper, who had never before visited me, why she had dropped by on this particular morning. I hoped she wasn't bringing me a copy of the play she'd told me about.

  “I'll show you,” she said. “It's in the living room.” As I followed her out of the kitchen, Praxythea made a strange sound, which I would have interpreted as a giggle if she were the giggly type.

  “What the heck is it, Oretta?” I asked softly, so as not to disturb the large, prehistoric-looking creature lying in a huge, rectangular glass box.

  “It's an iguana. A man brought it to the Humane Society this morning. It belonged to his kids, but it grew bigger than they expected. They don't have room for it anymore.” Her frown told me exactly what she thought of people who didn't accept proper responsibility for their pets.

  “I need someone to care for it until I can find it a suitable permanent home.” She smiled brightly. “Naturally, I thought of you, since I know you're an animal lover.”

  “Cats,” I muttered. “It's cats I love. Fuzzy, warm animals you can snuggle up to.”

  Praxythea peeked at it over my left shoulder. “Does it have a name?”

  “No names,” I pleaded. Once you name an animal, it assumes a personality and becomes a member of the household.

  “It's called Icky,” Oretta announced.

  I groaned.

  “How cute,” Praxythea murmured.

  Oretta launched into a long, involved description of what it ate, and I relaxed a little upon learning it was a vegetarian. As long as it wasn't interested in eating cats or people, I figured I could live with it for a while. We moved it into the kitchen because that was the warmest room in the house and plugged in its heat lamp.

  “It should only be for a few days,” Oretta promised. “Be sure and wash your hands after you touch it—they can carry salmonella.”

  Salmonella—just what I needed in my kitchen!

  Oretta accepted my offer of coffee, and we sat down at the kitchen table. When I questioned her about last night's fainting spell, she said she was feeling just fine.

  “Doctor said I must have been overexhausted to faint like that. It's all the work I've put in on the pageant and, of course, supervising the food tables for the search parties up in the mountains. The strain was just more than I could bear.” She sighed deeply, worn out from her martyrdom. “But I'm not one to back down when a job needs done.”

  “It was quite a night,” I said. “To start out hunting for one lost child and find another. Do you have any idea who it might have been in the quarry?”

  Oretta's eyes widened with surprise as she said, “Why of course, it's Eddie Douglas. Everybody there knew that.”

  CHAPTER 5

  'Tis the season to be jolly

  “OH, SURE, EVERYBODY KNEW THAT!” I MUTtered to myself as I pulled out of the driveway, spraying gravel in my wake. “Everybody but me. You'd think someone might have mentioned it to me—for the newspaper.” I sighed as I wondered if I was ever going to be accepted here in Garnet's hometown, or would I always be an “outsider”?

  At the end of the lane, I spied Ginnie Welburn sweeping a light dusting of snow off a porch. So that was where she lived. In typical New York fashion I'd been oblivious to everyone who lived around me. She saw me, raised one arm, and stepped forward as if she wanted me to stop and chat. However, I was already late for the borough council meeting, so I merely waved and continued on my way.

  Outside Lickin Creek's historic borough hall, delicate snowflakes dropped lightly onto the redbrick sidewalk. Caught by sudden gusts of icy air, they swirled like confetti around the picturesque gaslights, settled like talcum powder on the shoulders of the little mermaid bathing in the empty fountain on the square, and persistently struggled to enter the charming, but very old, municipal building through the cracks around the doors and windows.

  Shortly before Thanksgiving, the borough council, acutely in tune with the concerns of its constituents and aware of upcoming elections, had voted to set the central heating system at an energy-saving sixty-two degrees. Despite the sheets of heavy plastic nailed over the inside of the ten-foot-tall windows, this afternoon the council's meeting room was only slightly warmer than a meat locker. Notice I said slightly warmer.

  A wood-burning stove, dating back to the late eighteen hundreds, was lit to raise the frigid temperature, but all it accomplished was to fry those who sat directly in front of it, while the people seated at the far end of the long table had to keep on their coats, hats, and gloves.

  I was late, as usual, but apparently I hadn't missed anything. The council was still enjoying its premeeting coffee break.

  “Bless you,” I said to Buchanan McCleary, the town solicitor, when he brought a cup to me. I hadn't been sure of the propriety of helping myself. I took a sip and was pleased he'd remembered I like my coffee with lots of artificial creamer and sweetener. As the hot liquid rolled down my throat my body commenced to thaw from the inside out.

  “Any news about Kevin?” I asked Buchanan as we stood in front of the stove stamping our feet as though participating in some primitive dance ritual.

  “I'm afraid not,” he said. “Luscious called in a few minutes ago to say there are no leads.”

  “Damn!”

  I looked up at him. Way up. Buchanan was about six-six, with a sixties Afro that added another four or five inches. “Did you know that the remains they found in the quarry last night could be a boy named Eddie Douglas?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Who else could it be?” He must have caught something on my face, because he added, “I guess you wouldn't have known—not being from around here.”

  “Coming into a town where all the residents seem to be first or second cousins, I don't know lots of things.”

  Our fronts were thoroughly toasted. We turned our icy backs to the stove. “Don't let it worry you, Tori. Time will take care of it.”

  “Who was Eddie Douglas?” I asked.

  “A little boy who wandered away from his house about thirty-five years ago and never came back. Nobody knew what happened to him—until last night. I was just a kid, myself, but I remember my mom wouldn't let me out of her sight for months.”

  I repressed a shudder. “I hope Kevin's story has a happier ending.”

  There was no sign that the council meeting was ready to begin, so Buchanan refilled our coffee cups. He handed mine back to me and said, “What's the latest word from our illustrious police chief? Has he finished his Spanish classes at the Foreign Service Institute?”

  I was too proud to admit I hadn't heard anything from Garnet in weeks. “He graduated first in his class. And he's been in Costa Rica for nearly a month. As I'm sure Greta has already told you.”

  The smile that split Buchanan's dark brown face could have warmed the room. He and Garnet's widowed sister, Greta Carbaugh, had become an item over the past several months. United, they were going to save whales, rain forests, spotted owls, and Chesapeake Bay. They even seemed to enjoy the minor controversy caused by their interracial relationship.

  Whenever I saw them together, I couldn't help but feel a tiny twinge of envy. They made me wonder how other people managed to meet, fall in love, and have uncomplicated relationships.

  My romance with Garnet Gochenauer was a perfect example of how things always seemed to go wrong for me. As I'd plotted a surprise move to Lickin Creek to be near Garnet, he'd decided there was little job satisfaction to be found as a small-town police chief and took a year's leave of absence to work in Central America. There was a local Pennsylvania Dutch saying that seemed to describe me perfectly: A person who could screw up a one-car funeral.

  Marvin Bumbaugh, president of the council, called for the meeting to start, and the council members took their places at the long oak table. Buchanan was on Marvi
n's right, Jackson Clopper, the borough manager, on his left. Next to Jackson sat Primrose Flack, described last night by Ginnie as “the council's token woman.” Across the table from Primrose was “almost-a-doctor” Matavious Clopper. I wondered what effect the Clopper family feud had on council business. Several visitors joined the council members at the table. When everyone was seated, I took the last empty chair, black and sticky like the others from generations of council meetings.

  After the reading of minutes by Primrose and the treasurer's report by Matavious (the borough was still solvent … barely), Marvin turned to Jackson Clopper and asked him what was happening with the search for Kevin.

  “No news is good news,” Jackson said. His face was lined, and I guessed he hadn't gotten much sleep last night.

  “Nice attitude,” Primrose muttered.

  “I'll bet Garnet could find him,” a woman said. It was Bernice Roadcap, once again wearing her politically incorrect, full-length mink coat. She wasn't a council member, but she often attended the meetings to protect her business interests.

  After her crack about Garnet, everyone turned to glare at me, as if I had chased Garnet away by moving to town. I ignored them and gave the blank page in my notebook my full attention.

  “Let's talk about the downtown Christmas preparations and get the hell out of here,” Marvin said. His breath, warmed by the coffee, was visible in the frosty air.

  “What about my cold-storage building?” Bernice interrupted shrilly. “I need an answer, and I need it now.”

  “We can't just jump into this, Bernice,” Marvin said. “We need to look at the remodeling costs. Having a center for the arts sounds great, but it might be more than the borough's budget can handle.”

  “Not to mention the environmental impact on the Lickin Creek,” Buchanan added. “Your idea of having small boats travel from Moon Lake into the arts center sounds attractive, but we mustn't forget the native brown trout in the creek.”