Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

“Actually,” Buchanan said, “there is historic accuracy in using an X . X is the letter chi in Greek, which stood for Christ , and that, of course, is where the custom originated.”

“Thank you, Mr. McCleary, for that scholarly explanation. I suppose we'd all know that if we was Rhodes scholars like you,” Marvin said. “Let's try to stay on task so we can get out of here by lunchtime.”

He looked at his list and continued. “Other complaints deal with where we're putting Santa's Workshop, if we really need to place an electric menorah in front of the courthouse, the small size of the red bows on the lampposts, and the ‘environmental incorrectness’ of killing a tree for decorative purposes.” He paused and glared at Buchanan. “I think we all know where that came from.

“So, if it's okay with you'uns, I'll have Jackson deal with the complaints in the usual manner-a nice letter saying ‘Thank you for your interest, ya-dee-ya-dee-ya-da.’ By then, Christmas'll be over.

“What we do need to worry about is the living Nativity scene in front of the fountain. Yoder Construction built the barn and manger free of charge, and Foor's Dairy Farm is lending us some animals. Ten local churches will supply Marys, Josephs, angels, and wise men in four-hour shifts from ten A.M. to six P.M., beginning this week.”

“Sounds fine to me. So what's the problem?” Primrose Flack asked.

“The baby Jesus. That gal who's the new director of our child welfare agency says it's too cold to let a baby lie in a manger for four hours. Says she'll charge us all with child abuse.”

“Great, just great,” came a snort from somewhere inside the mink coat. “What the hell good is a Nativity scene without a baby Jesus? It's no wonder this town doesn't go anywhere, with attitudes like that.” Bernice adjusted her collar and scowled at Marvin, who scowled back at her.

“Stuff it in your sock, Bernice, I've got everything under control. My daughter's saved the day.”

“Dakota's too old and the wrong sex to be baby Jesus.” These were the first words I'd heard from Matavious Clopper since the treasurer's report.

Marvin ignored Dr. Clopper's comment. “Dakota is gonna loan us her favorite doll to use in the manger. It's one of them exact replicas of a real baby.” He groped for something out of sight under the table. “Ah, here it is.” From one large hand dangled a large, naked, blond doll with staring blue eyes. “Ma-ma,” cried a voice from deep within its plastic tummy. “Ma-ma.”

“Baby Jesus was a boy,” Jackson muttered around the pipe stem clenched between his teeth.

“It'll be wrapped in swaddling clothes, whatever they are. Nobody's gonna know the difference. I'll see you'uns next week. Same time, same place, ya-dee-ya-dee-ya-da. Good-bye.” Marvin scooped up his papers and was out the door before any more objections could be voiced.

I put down my pencil and tried to blow life back into my numb fingers. What on earth could I report about this meeting? They'd completely dropped the subject of turning Bernice's cold-storage house into a shopping center, which sounded like a fairly good idea to me, and had managed to absolutely ignore the wishes of the people who'd voted them into office. I finally made a notation on my blank page: “Dakota = Baby Jesus.”

Bernice Roadcap, adjusting her furs, advanced on me.

“Toni, I've had a terrible shock. I wonder if you can help me.”

“Tori,” I corrected with a smile. “I'm sorry to hear that. What's happened?” As a foreign service brat, I'd been trained to smile politely and express interest where none was felt.

She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening, leaned close, and whispered, “I've received a death threat!”

The odor of vodka hit me hard, and I realized her words were slightly slurred. There are some people who actually think it can't be smelled on their breath. Ha!

“Tell me about it,” I urged, taking a step backward.

“It was a letter-an anonymous letter. Pasted up out of words cut out of a newspaper, probably one of your Chronicles. ” She stared keenly at me as though she suspected me of having personally committed the cutting and gluing.

“What did it say?”

“See for yourself.” She pulled a folded envelope from her Gucci bag, but before handing it to me, she again looked over her shoulder. Only Primrose, Buchanan, and Jackson were left in the room, and none of them was paying any attention to us.

I straightened the envelope and extracted a piece of ordinary white typing paper. Words and letters of different sizes, definitely cut from a newspaper, said WHICH ONE DROP THE SAN ANTOINIO MALL OR ELSE.

“I don't see that it's a death threat, Mrs. Roadcap. It appears to be a poorly spelled attempt to change your mind about developing the cold-storage building.”

Her voice turned louder, imperious. “You don't see it as a death threat? What about that ‘or else'? My death will be on your conscience forever if you don't check this out.”

“If you're worried, why don't you go to the police with this?” I asked.

Suddenly, the lofty manner disappeared, as she blinked her eyes and looked at me like a frightened child. “Who? That alcoholic idiot who's acting chief? Or that kid from the junior college who's the part-time patrolman? Or should I say patrolperson? Political correctness confuses me. Anyway, it's obvious there's nobody there who can help. You will check it out, won't you, Toby?”

She looked so frightened, I agreed to help. There really was no way in the world to identify the author of the letter, but if it made Bernice feel better to think I was helping, then let her think so.

She smiled gratefully and left. I studied the plain white business-size envelope the letter had come in. The type sold in boxes of one hundred at any store. The postmark was Harrisburg. That meant nothing. All local mail was sent to Harrisburg for a postmark; locals considered it to be a diabolical federal conspiracy to slow down delivery time. Naturally, there was no return address. Buchanan, standing by the door, cleared his throat. “Time to go, Tori,” he said.

I looked up from the letter and realized the room was empty except for the two of us. “Sorry,” I murmured. I folded Bernice's death threat and jammed it in my purse.

I pulled up to the solitary pump at Hoopengartner's gas station/police headquarters and signaled to the teenage boy on duty to fill the tank. He gestured at the new sign that said SELF-SERVICE, but I put on my New York face-the one that says I have no patience with losers-and he hustled right over. The look had long ago lost its effectiveness in the city but was new to Lickin Creek.

In the back room, I found Luscious sitting at Garnet's gray metal army-surplus desk. The black phone he was using predated the Korean War. He hung up, smoothed his thin hair over his forehead, and smiled wanly at me. “Nothing,” he said. “No signs of him anywhere.”

I smelled garlic and onion on his breath as he spoke, and I was glad to note that was all I smelled. Maybe he'd taken my advice to lay off the bottle during the search.

The phone rang, ignored by Luscious, then stopped abruptly. I guessed someone in the front room answered it. Garnet had once explained the advantage of renting office space from Mr. Hoopengartner was that the garage was open twenty-four hours a day for towing service, so there was always someone available to take emergency police calls. Not exactly 911, I thought, but it worked for Lickin Creek.

“You look tired,” I told him. “Can I do something for you? Run errands? Anything?” I'm not usually so solicitous, but the youthful and vulnerable policeman brought out my maternal instincts.