Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

“So that's why she's pushing the council to buy her cold-storage building.”

“Most likely,” Ginnie said. “That's Stanley over there. He's one of the church trustees.” She pointed to a folding chair, where a thin bald man with rimless glasses, who didn't seem to notice the arrival of his almost ex-wife, was busy applying glitter to a pinecone wreath.

Bernice, on her unsteady march toward the stage, spotted Matavious Clopper in the front row. “There you are,” she called out, attracting the attention of nearly everyone in the room. “I've been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon. My back is killing me.” She kept up a steady stream of complaints as she tottered down the center aisle.

Matavious put his glasses on and looked up from the tape recorder, searching for the source of the noise. His wince upon recognizing her was nearly imperceptible. “See me after the rehearsal, Bernice. I'll do a quick manipulation for you.”

“I should think so. I knocked and knocked. Nobody answered. The very idea.”

“We're always closed on Wednesday afternoons.”

“You were in there. I heard you moving around.”

“You must have been mistaken, Bernice.”

Bernice dismissed him with a “Humph.”

“Places, people. Places,” Oretta ordered, rushing toward the stage. She stared at me, as if trying to figure out why I was there. Perhaps I could escape, I thought, but unfortunately she recalled she'd invited me.

“Toni,” she gushed. “I'm so glad to see you take your responsibilities seriously. Now that you're a member of the cast, I'm sure you'll feature our rehearsal photo prominently in the Chronicle. Come, come, everyone. We must begin.”

“Now that I'm a member of the cast? That doesn't sound good,” I said to Ginnie.

Ginnie made no reply, her attention caught by something happening behind me. She grabbed my arm. “Look,” she whispered. I spun around and saw two people by the door.

“It's Jackson and Weezie Clopper,” she said. “I hope he's not going to make a scene.”

Jackson took a seat in the back row, while Weezie, her red jacket still on, disappeared into the kitchen. I didn't have time to see if she had any visible bruises.

“Your muse beckons,” Ginnie said, nodding at Oretta, who was tapping her foot and glaring down at me from the stage. “See you later.”

I climbed the four steps to the stage where Oretta met me with several hundred yards of pink tulle. “Your costume,” she said. Looking critically at me, she added, “I recommend wrapping it around your hips.”

My cheeks burned, more from anger than embarrassment, and I bit my tongue to keep from making a nasty crack about the size of her own ample hips. Swathed in pink, I took my place on a stool next to Bernice, a yellow-draped sugar plum fairy reeking of gin.

“Hold your heads up high,” Oretta said. “Remember you are goddesses.” And the rehearsal began. I was the only actor with a script-the ladies had really been working.

With nothing to do but read an occasional plagiarized phrase, I amused myself by watching the people in the hall. Jackson Clopper leaned back in his folding chair and glowered directly at Oretta. At least I hoped it was Oretta he was glowering at and not me because he truly looked frightening. I wondered why he'd come.

Looking over the kitchen counter, I could see Ginnie removing pies from the ovens. I also caught a momentary glimpse of red and guessed that it was Weezie's jacket. I hoped the poor woman wasn't in for a beating when the Cloppers got home.

Stanley Roadcap occupied a seat near Bernice's fur coat, with a half-made holly wreath apparently forgotten on his lap. Praxythea stood in the back of the room, distributing signed eight-by-ten glossies.

There were other people present, their faces familiar but names unknown. Perhaps by the time I left Lickin Creek, I'd have all its citizens straight in my mind.

I suddenly realized the two other goddesses were staring at me. “Excuse me?” I said.

“Hail to the great mother,” Oretta cried, with a touch of impatience in her voice. I realized I'd missed my cue.

“Hail to the great mother,” I said with enthusiasm.

“Hail to the wycann,” came from Bernice.

“Hail to the-” I stopped and looked at my script. Was wycann a misspelling of wiccan , another word for witch? Lots of New Age witchcraft was going around in feminist circles in New York, I knew, but here in Lickin Creek? And in a Christmas pageant? I hardly thought so.

“Hail to the goddess,” they chirped in unison.

On the other hand, maybe it was possible.

Matavious cranked up the volume on his portable player and the music to the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” filled the room.

“I drink from the Goblet of Life.” Bernice raised the Styrofoam cup to her lips and drank deeply.

More likely it was the Goblet of Martinis, I thought cynically.

It was time for the dance of the muses, and Oretta groaned her way down from her bar stool. But before the dance could begin, Bernice dropped the cup, opened her mouth, and uttered a noise that was a cross between a belch and a gurgle.

“What, dear?” Oretta said. “Bernice! Are you all right?”

A stream of greenish-yellow bile shot from Bernice's mouth and splattered Oretta's chiffon-covered bosom.

“Ohmygod!” Oretta screamed.

Bernice's eyes opened wide as if she had seen something that surprised her, then she doubled up, clutched her stomach, and crashed to the floor.

I ran across the stage, pushed past the stunned actresses who were frozen in their spots, and dropped to my knees next to the woman a second or two before Matavious Clopper scrambled onto the stage. I moved back a little to give Matavious room to work, but not before my nose was assaulted by the nasty smell of gin, cinnamon, and something else-almonds.

“Call an ambulance, somebody, quick!” Stanley Roadcap yelled frantically. “For God's sake, Matavious, you're a doctor. Do something!”

“I'm trying,” the chiropractor snapped. His fingers were on Bernice's throat, trying to find a pulse.

Bernice was frighteningly still, her mouth bright red.

Speculations began to fly. “Heart attack… stroke… too much estrogen… not enough… my doctor says… ptomaine… stomach flu… like when my appendix burst…”

The white cup lay on the floor where Bernice had dropped it. I bent over and sniffed it. It had most definitely contained spiced cider laced with gin. And there was that other smell, too. Almonds. “Don't anyone drink the cider,” I yelled, as I struggled to my feet. I moved quickly to the front of the stage. “Please, people, don't drink the cider!” To prevent panic, I added, “It might be spoiled.”

My warning was picked up by the people gathered below and carried to the back of the room. Those people who held cups quickly put them down and stared up at me with anxious eyes.

“Somebody call the police,” I urged.

“I already did,” Ginnie said, at my side.

It occurred to me that nothing could have been added to the cider urn, since so many people had drunk from it without ill effect. It must have been something she brought with her. “Where's Bernice's thermos?” I asked.

Her gentleman friend stepped forward, holding it up. It was seized from his grasp and passed from one person to another until it reached me. No point in worrying about fingerprints now, I thought, and quickly unscrewed the lid. I sniffed, expecting the same odor I'd smelled in the cup Bernice had drunk from, but as far as I could tell, the liquid in the container was straight, unadulterated gin. Whatever had sickened Bernice hadn't come from her thermos.

The ambulance arrived in only a few minutes, but it was too late for the EMTs to do anything for the poor woman.