The living crèche had been cleaned up, and Cletus Wilson's Civil War artifacts were gone. If I didn't know that there was a fountain, mermaid and all, in the center of the square, I could almost believe the manger had always been there, so well made was it.
A cow, a sheep, a Vietnamese potbellied pig, and a grumpy-looking llama stood watch over the baby Jesus. A small sign told passersby that the animals were provided by the Catoctin Zoo. A small charcoal grill kept Mary, Joseph, and the three wise men warm inside the shed.
Several people stopped me and congratulated me on having rescued Kevin Poffenberger. I basked in the warmth and felt well loved by the time I climbed the steps to the gracious old post office building, which had been converted into the public library in the fifties when the post office had moved to a newer and more efficient, but far less interesting, building.
Pausing just inside the door, I looked to my left where the children's department was located, thinking I might see Alice-Ann. She'd returned to work as a children's librarian after the death of her husband. But she wasn't there.
Maggie was at the circulation desk and waved when she saw me enter. “Glad you came early,” she said with a big grin. “Come see what I've done.”
She handed her stamp pad to an assistant and came around the desk to take me by the hand. “Close your eyes and don't peek,” she said.
I closed my eyes and let her lead me.
“Now,” she said.
I could hardly believe my eyes. The top of the card catalog had been turned into a shrine to me! There stood my book, The Mark Twain Horror House, and next to it was my picture, taken on a really bad hair day. Finishing the display were several laminated newspaper articles about my adventures in Lickin Creek. One told of my involvement this past fall in uncovering the marijuana farm in Burnt Stump Hollow, another of my part in discovering who had killed Percy Montrose.
An older article described last summer's fire that had destroyed the historical society and mentioned at the end that I had accidentally set the fire while confronting the murderer of Alice-Ann's husband, Richard MacKinstrie.
“It's really nice, Maggie. Thanks so much.” I would have preferred not to have the reminder there about the fire. Townspeople still unfairly referred to me as “that gal what burned down the historical society.” It was a difficult reputation to shake.
“Come have some coffee. I can't leave for lunch until my assistant gets back,” Maggie said, leading the way to the door marked STAFF ONLY. Inside the office, she wiped out a mug and filled it with the muddy black liquid she called coffee. It occurred to me I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee since I left New York.
“I'm so proud of you for finding Kevin,” she said as she handed me the mug. “What a relief for his parents.”
“Thanks. I'm glad he's okay, but I feel sorry for Peter's family. No telling what's going to happen with that boy.”
Maggie nodded in agreement. “Always felt there was something funny about that kid,” she said. “He and Pearl used to come in for story hour once a month while their mother shopped at Giant Big-Mart. Pearl never left his side. I thought she was kind of a control freak; now I think she was afraid to let him out of her sight.”
We sipped our coffee and sat quietly for a moment or two, thinking about what the two Poffenberger families were going through right now. I also thought about Kevin's mother and what she suffered every day of her life.
Maggie roused me from my depressing thoughts with a question about Lickin Creek's latest drama. “What do you suppose made Oretta go back into her house last night?” she asked.
“Maybe she opened the door to let the animals out and was overcome by smoke before she could escape.”
“But the canary cage was hanging in a tree next door, so we know she must have been outside,” Maggie said. “She must have gone back inside to get something else.”
“Cassie thinks she was going after her manuscripts,” I said.
“Or computer disks. She told me once she backed everything up on floppy disks—ever since her hard drive crashed once.”
I shuddered in sympathy. A hard drive crash is every writer's worst nightmare.
“It was her weight,” Maggie said knowingly. “She probably fell down and couldn't get up. I told her she ought to come to Overeaters Anonymous with me.” She smoothed her tunic top over her bulging thighs. “Have you noticed that I've lost a few pounds?”
“Indeed I have,” I fibbed. “I meant to mention it.”
“You could come, if you like,” Maggie said. “We meet every Tuesday night.”
I was stunned she'd think I'd be interested in a diet group. After all, I was only a few pounds over the ideal weight for a big-boned female of my height. My cheeks flamed, but I managed to decline politely and quickly moved on to one of the subjects I needed to know more about: the coven of wiccans.
Maggie became unusually quiet and concentrated on fluffing up her already enormous beehive hairdo.
“Come on, Maggie. You must have heard something about them.”
She put her mirror back in the desk drawer. “Of course I have, Tori. In fact, rumor has it that Cassie Kriner from your office is a big wheel in it. But to tell the truth, I'm just a little scared of them.”
“Scared? Of Cassie?”
She looked sheepish. “Heard all kinds of funny things about witches. Devil worship. Blood sacrifices. You know …”
“I can't imagine Cassie involved in anything like that. And I am surprised a well-educated woman like you would even consider it.”
“Underneath this elegant and sophisticated exterior, I'm still a local girl, Tori.”
“Cassie didn't use the word witch, Maggie. She said wiccan, and she specifically called it a religion.”
Maggie sniffed. “Religion, my eye. But I suppose I can find something about it. Be right back.”
She soon returned with her arms full of dusty reference books and journals. We divided them into two piles, one for each of us, and dived in.
On top of my pile was The Golden Bough. It was too old to be helpful, but looked like it would be fun to read. I picked up a magazine, instead.
After about fifteen minutes, she looked up with her finger marking her place in one of the books, and said, “Hate to admit it, but it looks like you're right about wicca being a religion. I had no idea!”
“What did you find out?” I asked.
She held up a book by Gerald Gardner. “He calls it ‘the Craft.’ Describes it as a nature religion, worshiping ‘the Goddess,’ whoever she is. Oh, my—listen to this—‘the coven often dances and chants in the nude.’” She began to laugh. “Can you picture that?”
I tried and couldn't. Not Cassie. Nude, never. She wouldn't even use the rest room in our office unless she was sure the front door to the building was locked.
We browsed through more books and magazines, and my head was soon full of unfamiliar names and terms: Valiente, Kelly, The Book of Shadows, the New Reformed Orthodox Order of the Golden Dawn, Old Dorothy, Buckland, Murray.
From one small booklet, I learned that Pennsylvania had a long history of belief in witchcraft, going back to Pennsylvania's first reported case, a trial presided over by William Penn himself. I was glad to read that the two women on trial got off with six months’ good behavior.
“Apparently, there are as many types of Wicca as there are Christian denominations,” Maggie said. “I really had no idea!”
I looked up from a journal and said, “Cool! Here's an ad for a correspondence school. Maybe I'll sign up for a class.”
Maggie gasped.
“I'm not serious,” I said, assuming she was shocked by the idea of my becoming a Witch by Mail.
“Not that, Tori. Listen to this. Says that for some covens the winter solstice is one of the most important ‘sabbats.’ Tori, that's tomorrow night. And it's full moon, too. Sort of a wiccan double whammy.”
“I wonder where the coven meets?” I said, closing my magazine.
&
nbsp; “Tori! You wouldn't!”
“If I'm going to take a correspondence class, I should know what I'm getting into.”
“Yo u 're kidding … aren't you?”
“Of course I'm kidding. And I'm half starved. Can you leave yet?”
“Jeannie's back. I can go now. Where did you have in mind?”
“I thought it might be nice to try that new restaurant with the Civil War theme.”
“The Fields of Glory. Isn't that the place that's owned by Bernice's boyfriend? Are you planning to investigate her murder over our lunch?”
“You got me,” I admitted. “Perhaps we could ask him a few questions over hardtack and molasses.”
“Thought that's what was served to sailors.”
“Okay, goober peas, then.”
“Sounds good to me,” Maggie said. “In fact, anything sounds good to me. I'm starving.”
As we were leaving the library, I noticed a sprig of mistletoe hanging above the front door. “Isn't that interesting,” I commented. “I just read that mistletoe was used by the Druids in their solstice rituals. Did you realize that kissing under the mistletoe at Christmas is really part of an old Druidic fertility rite?”
“Stop kidding me, Tori.”
“Sorry.” I pushed the door open and stepped out into the brisk winter day.
Maggie followed in a few seconds. I glanced back and noticed the mistletoe that had been hanging in the foyer was gone.
We walked down the street to the restaurant. On the outside, it looked much like the other Victorian town houses on Lickin Creek's Main Street. The brick walls rose three stories high and were painted a soft shade of sky-blue. The front entrance was set to one side with two white-framed windows off to the right. Raised gold letters on a wooden sign above the door tastefully announced that this was the Fields of Glory Restaurant.
Inside, the walls between the rooms had been removed to create the long, narrow dining room.
Beside an antique walnut desk stood a short, rather stocky woman wearing a dark green watered-silk gown. Her face was framed with a white lace fichu. “Welcome to the Fields of Glory,” she said with a smile.
“Mary Todd Lincoln?” I asked.
“Right you are. Table for two?”
She picked up two parchment scrolls and led us to a table in the back near French doors looking out over an enclosed courtyard.
The scrolls were menus, of course. The napkins and tablecloths were real linen, and the flatware and glasses all of good quality.
“Can't last,” Maggie said, looking around the room at the rough-textured plaster walls, the framed Civil War prints, the exposed ceiling beams, and the crackling fires in the twin marble-faced fireplaces. “We local folks aren't used to such luxury.”
A drummer boy filled our water glasses, and a Union soldier brought us a basket of rolls—no hardtack. A Hessian in a splendid uniform stepped up, saluted, and said, “My name is Josh, and I'll be your server today.”
I had to avoid Maggie's eyes, for I knew if we connected we'd have an embarrassing attack of giggles. With admirable dignity, we ordered Maryland-style crab cakes and Greek salads.
“Notice the prints?” she asked, after Josh marched toward the kitchen with our order.
They all depicted scenes from Lickin Creek's historic past. One was of General Lee in the square. Another showed Confederate soldiers in front of the old downtown hotel—now a seedy bar—threatening to burn down the town unless ransom was paid.
“Nice touch,” I said.
“They're from the Lickin Creek National Bank,” Maggie said. “About two years ago, they gave them out free to anyone who opened an account there.”
“That must have been a very successful promotion,” I said.
Maggie shook her head. “Bad. Lots of hard feelings. Old account holders got mad because only new customers got the prints. Some people even closed their accounts and went over to Gettysburg to do their banking. The LCNB's still suffering from that marketing fiasco.”
Josh put our plates in front of us. “Bon appetit,” he said, making it sound like bone appetite.
The crab cakes were perfectly prepared with huge lumps of crab held together with a small amount of binder and seasoned just right with a spicy seasoning. The Greek salad was even better, heavy on the feta cheese and with lots of black olives—just the way I like it.
Maggie added a dab of tartar sauce to what was left of her crab cake. “This is too good for Lickin Creek.”
Josh paused at our table. “Is everything okay, ladies?”
Maggie glared at him. “Do waiters go to a special school to learn exactly when to interrupt a conversation?”
He blanched under his big hat.
“We'd like to talk to the owner,” I said. “Could you get him for us?”
His hand went to his mouth, and his eyes grew as round as the shiny brass buttons on his uniform.
“It's a personal matter,” I assured him. “Absolutely nothing to do with the food or service, both of which are excellent.”
Mouth agape, our Hessian retreated, still looking worried.
“Hate it when they do that,” Maggie said, buttering a roll. “Only thing worse is when they ask how everything is when I have a mouth full of food. What are you going to ask the owner about?”
“Rumor says Bernice bankrolled this restaurant for him.”
“So?”
“What if she was demanding to be paid back, and he wasn't willing?”
“The restaurant's doing well. I'm sure he could get a bank loan to pay off his debts.”
“I wasn't referring to a financial payback. I was thinking more along the lines of marriage.”
Maggie spluttered into her iced tea. “You mean you think VeeKay killed Bernice because he didn't want to marry her?”
I looked around to assure myself no one was listening. “Not so loud, Maggie. I only want to learn if he had a motive for wanting her gone. That's all.” Maggie called him VeeKay. It was the first time I'd heard his name.
“Do you really think VeeKay would be stupid enough to kill the golden goose?” she asked.
“Maybe—if the goose had stopped laying. Shhh. Here they come.”
Maggie looked up and whistled softly. “What a hunk!” she sighed.
“Don't forget you're engaged,” I said.
“Doesn't keep me from looking.”
The bearded young man who followed Josh was the same man I'd seen with Bernice the night she died. Only today, for some reason, he looked better than I remembered. Unlike his employees, he wore modern clothes; a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, and jeans riding low over his flat stomach and rising higher in the back, emphasizing a well-developed rear end.
“I understand you wanted to talk to me,” he said with a smile. Pulling a chair from a nearby table, he straddled it and folded his arms on the back.
Maggie sighed softly, and I avoided her eyes for fear of acting like a teenage idiot, myself.
“I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced,” he said to me. “I'm Vernell Kaltenbaugh, known to most folks around here as VeeKay. Welcome to the Fields of Glory. I hope your lunch was all right?” The two vertical worry lines appearing between his sea-blue eyes were all that marred the smoothness of his forehead, so summer-brown it could only have happened in a tanning bed.
I said softly, so as not to attract any more attention from the nearby diners, “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Bernice.” My voice trailed away awkwardly. I'd never been very good at expressing sentiment.
“I really appreciate that.” He blinked several times, but not before I noticed with surprise that his eyes brimmed with tears.
“Your restaurant is charming,” I said inanely, trying to give him a moment to recover his poise. “What a clever idea to use a Civil War theme.”
“It was Bernice's idea,” he said. “We shared a dream of turning downtown into a cultural oasis. Our opening Fields of Glo
ry together was a symbolic start.” This time he was unable to blink back the tears, and several ran down his cheeks. He swiped them away. “I suppose it's a lost cause now … now … that she's gone.”
If the tremor in his voice wasn't real, then he was putting on an act worthy of an Oscar.
Maggie retrieved a package of tissues from her purse and handed it to him. He wiped his eyes and dabbed at his nose.
“Sorry,” he finally said. “Bernice was the best thing that ever happened to me. We were going to be married as soon as her divorce from Stanley came through.”
Josh appeared at Maggie's side with a trayload of desserts.
“Good timing,” Maggie snapped. But she went ahead and selected a piece of cherry-covered cheesecake. I shook my head and Josh left.
Maggie turned her full attention to dessert. I turned mine back to Vernell.
“You were going to be married?”
“You sound surprised.”
“It's only that … how can I put this nicely? … Bernice appeared to be quite a bit older.”
“Not as much as everybody liked to think,” Vernell said, acknowledging that he was well aware of the local gossip. “She was only forty, and I'm twenty-six.”
It seemed to me that a good many years had passed since Bernice blew out forty candles on her birthday cake, but I refrained from saying so.
“You look younger than that,” I said.
“I work out.”
I'd have bet my life on that! “This is such a nice place. Now that Bernice is gone, will you be able to keep it going?”
He sat back in his chair and stared coldly at me. “Are you implying that Bernice paid for all this?” His voice rose high with indignation, and several people turned to stare at us. “What do you think I am? Some sort of gigolo?”
There didn't seem to be an appropriate answer for that question, so I kept quiet.
“Since you're not local, you probably are not aware of the Kaltenbaugh Family Foundation.”
“I can't say I am.” Once again, my outsider status was being thrown in my face. Not only had I never heard of it, I couldn't even pronounce it.
Valerie S. Malmont Page 14
