Valerie S. Malmont

by Snow;Mistletoe Death

  Sweat and tears poured from Matavious's face, while Jackson's red face and throbbing neck veins made him look perilously close to a stroke.

  If this was what a family Blue-Gray squabble was, I was glad everyone in my family had been a Northern draft dodger.

  “If you two don't stop this feuding right now, I'm gonna lock you both up,” Luscious threatened.

  They stopped glaring at each other and turned their fury on him.

  “I mean it,” Luscious told them, standing his ground. “I'm damned sorry about your wife, Matavious, but you can't blame Jackson for the fire. Now are you two going to shake hands, or am I going to have to take you both downtown and lock you up?”

  After a long pause, Matavious stuck his hand out, and Jackson gave it a perfunctory shake. Weezie led Jackson away by the arm, and Primrose suggested to Matavious that he come with her to her house. He nodded, seemingly dazed, and let her and Reverend Flack guide him to their car.

  “I'm proud of you,” I said to Luscious. I couldn't help noticing his hand trembled as he pushed his hair from his forehead.

  My Wizard of Oz T-shirt showed below my coat and my fuzzy pink bunny slippers were covered with mud and soot. “Guess I'd better go home and change,” I said. “I need to get to the office.” Before I left the scene, I got the names of the firefighters who'd found Oretta's body. Another tragedy to write about! Sometimes I hated being a reporter.

  I looked for Praxythea, but she was nowhere in sight, so I walked home alone, calling for Fred and wondering, as I skirted the lake, why Oretta had gone back into the house after getting all her animals out. What was so important in there that she'd gambled her life and lost?

  After showering and donning gray wool slacks and a Norwegian ski sweater I'd picked up for five bucks at the Goodwill, I went downstairs. Praxythea was waiting for me at the foot of the staircase with a strained look on her face. She'd exchanged her negligee for designer jeans and an expensive-looking rhinestone-studded sweatshirt from the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego.

  Alarmed, I asked, “What's wrong? Is it Fred?”

  She shook her head. “No … I mean … actually, I don't know. Luscious walked me home, and we noticed a break in the bushes on the side of the house. There was a door hidden behind them, leading to the basement—you'd never know it was there, except for the broken branches.”

  I dreaded what I knew must be coming.

  “It was open, Tori.”

  I sat down hard on the stairs. Fred had never been out on his own. All the traffic—the fire engines—the noise—

  “Luscious checked it out and told me it was the old servants’ entrance. Said all the old houses had them. The kids that broke in yesterday most likely live in this neighborhood and knew about the side door. They must have left it open.”

  I wiped a tear from my cheek. “And ever-curious Fred just had to investigate.”

  “Don't cry, Tori. I'm sure he'll come home. I made some fresh coffee. Let's have a cup.”

  In the kitchen, I automatically accepted the mug of coffee she handed me. It was delicious. “You're spoiling me,” I told her.

  “I enjoy doing things for people,” Praxythea said. “Please don't worry. Most likely Fred's just out looking for a girlfriend.”

  “He wouldn't do that. He's been neutered,” I said. “I'm a very responsible cat owner.”

  “I am sure he's all right,” Praxythea said soothingly.

  “He's never been outside by himself. What if he gets hit by a car? What if he can't find his way back? What if …”

  Praxythea took my coffee mug. “He'll be back. I know he will.”

  I left for the office, but only after Praxythea promised she'd keep searching for Fred.

  She also promised to put the house back in order and to start preparing her famous fruitcake. She really was spoiling me.

  As I approached the town square, I saw a crowd of shepherds, wise men, angels, sheep, and cattle gathered around the manger. Now what? I wondered. I parked in the vacant lot where the courthouse had stood before September's fire and hurried over.

  I walked up to an agitated woman wearing a blue bathrobe and a lopsided halo, who I guessed was supposed to represent the Mother of God. A baby doll, wrapped in burlap, cried “Mama, Mama” every time the woman moved.

  “What's up?” I asked, pulling out my notebook.

  “We're the Friday-morning creche people—from the Living Word Church—on the corner of Second and Maple,” Mother Mary said. “Be sure you get that address right. We're not the Living Way people—they're out on Rabbit Road, and they voted not to help with the manger scene, so why should they get the credit? Anyway, when we got here we found the baby Jesus tossed right out of his manger bed. Look. It's full of trash!” She smoothed the baby doll's blond curls over its forehead. “Some people got no respect for religion.”

  “How true,” I murmured. I saw Luscious, who was waving at me. “Excuse me, I need to talk to the police chief.”

  “He's an asshole,” said the Mother of God. “Nothing like this happened when Garnet was here.”

  The people gathered around Luscious were all talking at once. His boyish face was more flushed than usual, and despite the chilly air, there were drops of perspiration on his brow.

  “Press,” I announced as I approached. “Coming through.”

  As the crowd broke apart, I heard murmurs of “What's this town coming to?” and “Damn teenagers.”

  I attempted to look official. “Can someone please tell me what's happened?” I directed my question at Luscious, as though I expected him to be in charge of the situation.

  The ever-present councilman, Marvin Bumbaugh, stepped forward. “As president of the borough council, I believe it's my job to talk to the press.”

  Poor Luscious looked miserable. Once again, I wondered why any sane person would want to be the Lickin Creek police chief. No wonder Garnet had gotten out.

  “Come on over here and take a look,” Marvin said to me. He climbed over the iron chain that surrounded the fountain and pointed inside the shed. There, in the manger itself and scattered on the straw-covered floor, lay dozens of objects that I immediately recognized as Civil War paraphernalia.

  “Could this be what was stolen from Dr. Wilson's house?” I asked.

  “Damn right, little lady.” The obnoxious dentist, himself, was breathing down my neck. “That's my stuff all right.”

  “Is anything missing?”

  He rested an arm on my shoulder and surveyed the scene, then pulled a handwritten list from his pocket and checked the items off as he spoke. “Officer's sword, muzzle-loader, Colt 1860, flag and presentation plaque from the First South Carolina Volunteer Infantry Regiment, field glasses, Grand Army of the Republic Medal. Nothing's missing. Why the hell do you suppose they dumped it here?”

  Luscious answered. “Probably got tired of the joke and didn't want to be caught with your stuff in their car. Why don't you pack it up and take it home, Cletus?”

  “Don't you want to check it for fingerprints first?” Cletus asked.

  “No point. Everything was handled by the Living Word people before I got here.”

  Dr. Wilson looked at Marvin for approval. When Marvin nodded, the dentist stepped over the chain and began to gather his treasures.

  Marvin turned to face the people in the square. “You'uns better get the square cleaned up,” he snapped. “Just look what those animals are doing.”

  Kings, shepherds, and wise men scurried to obey his command.

  He then turned to Luscious, who seemed to shrink as the borough president directed his anger toward him. After blaming the policeman for just about every disaster to have occurred in Lickin Creek for the past decade, Marvin wound up by shouting, “And what have you done about finding Bernice Roadcap's murderer? Nothing, I'll bet.”

  Luscious spluttered. “Still waiting for the autopsy—”

  “You've got till Christmas, Miller. Then I'm calling in the state police.” He jabb
ed Luscious in the chest three or four times with his forefinger. “Five days.”

  Luscious waited until Marvin was gone, then turned to me with a groan. “I'm a dead man,” he said. “If he calls in the state police, I might as well kiss my job goodbye.”

  I patted him awkwardly on the arm. Showing sympathy has always been difficult for me. “Five days is a long time,” I assured him. I tried to ignore the memory of a New York policeman telling me that the longer an investigation took, the less chance there was of catching the perpetrator.

  “Why don't you call the medical examiner's office and see if they can't rush the autopsy?” I suggested. “Explain to them how urgent it is.”

  “I'll try. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “I do. There are some people I want to question. They might be more willing to talk to a reporter than to a policeman. I'll get back to you as soon as I know something.”

  I dropped off the film I'd taken of the fire at our regular One-Hour-Photo-Shop, and made the owner promise he'd send them over to the Chronicle as soon as they were ready.

  When I got to the office, faithful Cassie was already at work, redesigning the front page to make room for news of the fire and Oretta's death. I sat down at the computer and quickly generated an article.

  “This is going to be a great issue, Tori,” Cassie said, when I handed her the paper. She glanced at it and corrected a spelling error with a red pencil. “More things happened in Lickin Creek this week than all last year.”

  “Let's go over the articles,” I suggested. “Make sure we've covered everything.”

  Oretta's death was placed on the top of the front page because it was the most recent event. I ranked finding Kevin as the next most important news article. “Nothing wrong with featuring some good news once in a while,” I told Cassie when she protested.

  Bernice's murder moved down to third place. It had taken place two days ago and was now in the category of “old news.”

  Under a header that said PUBLIC SAFETY THREATENED, we put a warning about an outbreak of Hand-Foot-and-Mouth disease in a prominent box on the front page, to let parents know it had been found in two elementary schools, and listed the symptoms.

  In last place came the announcement that the child's remains found in the quarry had been identified as those of Eddie Douglas, missing for the past thirty-seven years. Since the paper wouldn't come out until tomorrow morning, there was no need to mention that a memorial service for him would be held this evening at Trinity Church. We'd feature an article about the actual service in next week's paper.

  I did a quick check of the remaining pages to make sure the regular columns were all there: social news; police blotter; farm agent's advice; church schedules (extra long this issue because of the Christmas season); real estate transfers; births, deaths, marriages, divorce announcements; comics; high school sports; and a very short column of national and world news. Anything we reported on would be old before the paper came out, and anyone interested in world events could watch TV.

  Cassie looked over the advertising, including the classifieds, and announced everything was “fine and dandy.” When the photos arrived, the issue would be complete.

  I'd never win a Pulitzer here, I knew that, but I had to admit it was very satisfying putting this newspaper together.

  Despite all the changes, the paper would be delivered on time, tomorrow morning. We celebrated with cups of coffee, mine liberally doctored with artificial cream and sugar to kill the bitter taste.

  Our conversation turned, rather naturally, to Oretta's tragic death. “If only she hadn't gone back inside,” Cas-sie said. “I wonder why she did.”

  “I've been wondering the same thing,” I said. “I can't help thinking she might have gone in to rescue her manuscripts—that's what I'd worry about if my house caught fire.”

  Cassie nodded in agreement. “Me, too. Even though I always leave backup copies of my computer disks at my neighbor's house.”

  This was my perfect opportunity to ask Cassie about her book, Moon Goddess. At first, she was reticent about discussing it. “You'd keep it quiet, too,” she said, “if you were a practicing wiccan, living in a small, religiously conservative town.”

  “Wiccan is another word for witch, isn't it?” I said.

  From her pained expression, I realized I'd just displayed my ignorance of New Age neopaganism.

  “I don't like that word,” Cassie said. “It reeks of satanism, and that's not what we're about. We worship the Goddess, not the devil.”

  “Which goddess?” I asked.

  “The Goddess, Tori. For crying out loud, I can't explain it in a few minutes.” She reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a book. “I was going to give it to you for Christmas,” she said. “It'll tell you everything you want to know.”

  I opened it to the title page and saw she'd autographed it. “Thank you, Cassie. I really appreciate this.”

  Suddenly, I recalled a couple of lines from Oretta's Christmas pageant. “Hail to the Goddess. Hail to the wyccan.”

  “Was Oretta Clopper a witch—I mean one of you?”

  Cassie shook her head. “She looked into it once, but didn't stay. I think she was afraid of being sky clad.”

  “Sky clad?”

  “Nude. Naked. Bare.”

  “Well, do you? Do it … sky clad?”

  “No way. Most of us are middle-aged or older. I know I've reached a point where I look a lot better with clothes on than I do with them off.”

  Oretta in a black leotard had been grotesque enough. No wonder she hadn't wanted to run around in the buff.

  “What about the others in the pageant?” I asked. “Bernice and Weezie?”

  “Bernice was a member of our coven,” Cassie admitted. “In fact, she was recently elected high priestess. But Weezie? That would never happen. It was a stretch for her to even participate in something at Trinity. She belongs to a very fundamental church.”

  Bernice's death threat, which I had blown off as being harmless, now took on a new dimension. The anonymous writer had begun by calling Bernice which one, a phrase I now realized might have meant number one witch. The author had misspelled San Antonio, so why not the word witch?

  “Could someone have wanted Bernice dead because of her involvement with your coven?” I asked Cassie. “Maybe you're in danger from a religious fanatic.”

  She gasped, then frowned. “I hope not. I really hope not. But I have been worried lately. There have been signs … like someone leaving a broom on the doorstep every night … that indicate someone's out to get me.”

  I glanced over at the corner where the two brooms I'd found on the stoop still stood. “What about the brooms?” I asked.

  “There's a superstition that a witch can't step across a broomstick to get into a building. Whoever laid the brooms on our top step must have believed that.”

  “Who else is in your coven?” I asked. “Do you know if anyone else has had a similar experience?”

  “Not that I've heard,” Cassie said. “And I'm not giving you any names, Tori. Even wiccans have a right to privacy.”

  “I wasn't being nosy,” I protested.

  “Of course not,” Cassie said, turning back to her desk.

  Our discussion was apparently over. To take my mind off my missing cat, I turned to the pile of letters in my IN box to determine which ones I would include in the next issue of the Chronicle. I couldn't help giggling over the first, a tirade at a supposed government conspiracy to put the farmers out of business by seeding the clouds to stop rainfall. The second was full of Bible quotes and dire warnings about the dangers of a nuclear attack in our own backyard: “us'uns being so close to old Fort Ritchie's secret bunker and all.”

  The third letter, handwritten and mailed the day before Bernice died, spoke vehemently against the borough's plans to construct a mall in downtown Lickin Creek. The author claimed Bernice's gift of her cold-storage building to the borough was self-serving, since she ow
ned much of the adjoining commercial land and would profit tremendously from the mall. The last line caught my eye; in it the writer described the project as a poor man's “San Antoinio River Walk.” It was the same misspelling of San Antonio that I'd seen in Bernice's anonymous threatening letter. Only this one wasn't anonymous. It was signed by Weezie Clopper.

  CHAPTER 13

  Please bring me a figgy pudding

  CASSIE AND I WORKED QUIETLY AT OUR DESKS for another half hour or so. I would have liked to explain that my curiosity about whether members of the coven had been threatened came not from nosiness but from a concern that she and her friends might also be in danger. Tomorrow—I thought—tomorrow I'll smooth things out with her. Surely she'd understand.

  A messenger arrived with the pictures, and I was pleased to see that several had actually turned out good enough to use.

  “Either I'm getting used to the camera, or it's getting used to me,” I said, hoping to provoke a smile from Cas-sie. It didn't work.

  “I'm off for the print shop,” Cassie said. “Don't forget the staff Christmas party tomorrow.”

  “Staff party? We have a staff?”

  “Who do you think delivers the papers? And sells the advertising?”

  I waited a few minutes until I heard Cassie's truck pull out of the parking lot, then I picked up the phone and called my friend Maggie Roy, Lickin Creek's head librarian.

  “Have you had lunch?” I asked.

  “Nope. I was just sitting here hoping someone would call and invite me out.”

  “I'll be there in five minutes.”

  I “outed the lights” as I've learned to say, gathered up my fanny pack and a notebook, and left the building. Maggie can usually tell me what I need to know, and her answers don't necessarily come from the reference section.

  Downtown was coming to life. A few merchants were taking advantage of the day's unusually warm December weather and had set up sale tables in front of the stores. Christmas decorations brightened the shop windows, and carols rang out from loudspeakers. Hundreds of tiny white lights sparkled in the bare branches of the trees on the square.