Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

“I've never thought I was-” My protest came too late. She'd already hung up.

“Why on earth didn't you say no?” Praxythea asked me.

“I couldn't get a word in edgewise,” I said. My hand still rested on the receiver.

She smiled wisely. “You're still hoping to be accepted into the community, aren't you? You'd do anything anybody asked if you thought it would help you fit in.”

Wishes don't come true. Otherwise lightning would have struck her right then and there. She was right, of course. That's what was so irritating.

An hour later, wearing one of Praxythea's black bodysuits stretched to its Lycra limits, I rushed down Trinity's basement steps two at a time, with Praxythea trailing behind me. I'd been surprised when she'd asked to come along to the rehearsal, but I was glad for the company.

Many people were there working on decorations for the upcoming greens sale, just as last night. Marvin Bumbaugh greeted us as we entered the auditorium. “Let me take your coat.” He was speaking to me, but he was drooling over Praxythea. Before I could protest, he'd slipped my coat off my shoulders and hung it on a metal rack. Feeling practically naked, I sucked in my stomach and looked around for Oretta, who'd promised to bring the rest of my costume.

“I'd like you to meet my two daughters,” Marvin said. “Dakota and Cheyenne.”

The two oddly named girls giggled.

I couldn't resist saying to Marvin, “I'm surprised you're not on the mountain with the search parties.”

“I hate not being there, but someone had to stay in town and keep an eye on things here.”

The girls couldn't take their eyes off Praxythea, so I introduced them. The older girl, Cheyenne, surprised me by saying to me, “I liked your book a lot.”

“Why, thank you,” I said, thinking how rare it was to find a fifteen-year-old with such good taste.

“I like Dean Koontz better, though. He's sort of local. Went to college at Shipp, you know.”

I bared my teeth at her. If she wanted to think it was a smile, that was okay with me.

I looked around the room, searching for Oretta and my costume. I didn't see her, but I did see clusters of people making wreaths, tying bows, and sprinkling glitter on pinecones. Not so many as there'd been last night-I assumed most of the men and many of the women were still on the mountaintop searching for Kevin.

The kitchen brigade had outdone itself tonight; the top of the divider between the rooms was covered with dozens of home-baked pies to be sold at the greens sale. The rich fragrances of cinnamon and mincemeat mingled in the air and flooded my mind with nostalgic memories of Christmases past-Christmases that were actually far more prosaic than those of my wishful imagination. For us thespians, there was plenty of hot coffee, tea, spiced cider, and platters of cookies.

No sign of my costume. I looked around to see if anyone was watching, then tugged at the miserable bodysuit.

“You're going to stretch it all out of shape,” Praxythea warned.

“I certainly hope so,” I said, giving the rear end another jerk.

I needn't have worried about anyone staring at me. Not with Praxythea there. Lickin Creek wasn't used to TV celebrities-which I found refreshing-and she was immediately surrounded by a crowd of admirers. I was rather surprised to learn that so many members of the Trinity congregation watched the Psychic Network.

The Reverend Flack and his wife, Primrose, broke away from a mound of holly branches to greet me. “Any word about the boy?” the minister asked. He tried to keep his attention focused on my face, but his gaze kept drifting down to my hips. I noticed his lips twitching as if he were repressing a smile, and my cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Why had I let Oretta talk me into wearing this horrible outfit?

Was he assuming I'd know something because of my position as the town's newspaper editor, or was it because my relationship with the ex-police chief gave me a quasi-official position in Lickin Creek's law enforcement circles? I'd probably never know.

“I suppose you heard that Kevin's cousins are now saying he was kidnapped,” I said.

Primrose gasped. “I didn't know. That poor little boy. How could his mother ever have left him out of her sight?”

I remembered what Mrs. Poffenberger had said to me last night-something about not being able to watch all of them all the time-and repeated it to Primrose. Perhaps I sounded as if I were an apologist for the mother, because Primrose grew rather huffy.

“The other kids should have taken care of him. Do you have brothers or sisters?” she snapped at me. “If you did, you know you would have done everything in your power to keep them safe.”

The ever-present guilt over Billy's death that I had carried with me for nearly twenty years threatened to overwhelm me. I pretended I hadn't heard the question.

“Kids don't really think about things like that. They assume nothing bad will ever happen to them. What about you, Primrose? I'll bet when you were a youngster you didn't spend much time worrying about your siblings.”

“I have to check the oven,” she said quietly, then turned and walked away.

I looked questioningly at the Reverend Flack. “I said something wrong, didn't I?”

He patted me on the shoulder. “Not your fault, my dear. Primrose was orphaned when she was seven. Her adoptive parents never had any other children, and she's always felt something was lacking in her life. Our not having children of our own has made it worse. Uh-oh, Oretta Clopper's coming this way. I wonder what I've done wrong this time.”

Oretta Clopper was an awesome sight in a purple chiffon toga draped over an enormous leotard. She made me feel positively svelte. Her face was scrunched into a scowl as her high-pitched voice berated him. “Really, Reverend, I have told your kitchen volunteers over and over how much cinnamon to put in the cider, and they…”

Someone behind me coughed delicately, and I spun around to see Ginnie bearing a tray of paper cups and cookies. “Have some cider,” she suggested. “It's quite good.” Her eyes twinkled as she added, “With just the right amount of cinnamon.”

I took a cup and introduced her to Praxythea. For a few minutes the three of us chatted while we munched on cookies.

“Look,” Ginnie said, “there's no rehearsal tomorrow because the Boy Scouts meet here in the church auditorium. Why don't the three of us play bingo?”

Praxythea begged off, mentioning something about speaking to the Kiwanis Club, but I agreed to go.

“And it wouldn't matter to me if there's a rehearsal scheduled or not, because I am not going to be in this pageant,” I said firmly. “I'm only filling in tonight for Weezie.”

Ginnie smiled. “That might be what Oretta told you, but you'd better be prepared to perform.”

The door burst open and Bernice Roadcap entered the room. She paused just inside the doorway and made quite a production out of shrugging off her fur coat. A rather good-looking man, with the usual Lickin Creek beard, received the offering before it fell to the floor and carefully draped it, inside out, over his left arm. Hanging from his right shoulder was a thermos in a sling. Remembering the smell of alcohol on Bernice's breath earlier that day, I was pretty sure I knew what was in it.

Bernice's companion appeared to be ten or fifteen years younger than she, but I always find it difficult to guess the age of men with beards.

“Is that her husband?” I asked Ginnie.

“She wishes,” Ginnie said with a laugh. “But she's got to get rid of Stanley first. According to local gossip, most of the Roadcap money is tied up in property and businesses, and she's afraid to go through with the divorce until she's got the cash in hand.”