Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

People stood around in small groups, talking quietly to each other, until Luscious Miller and the county coroner arrived. While I watched Henry Hoopengartner open his black bag, I couldn't help but wish he was more like the last coroner, who, despite all his faults, had at least been a doctor.

Hoopengartner pronounced Bernice dead, glanced at his watch, and added, “Time of death: nine-eighteen.”

As Bernice's body was placed upon the stretcher, I took Luscious by the arm. “I need to talk to you,” I said softly, so as not to alarm the people around us. “I suspect Bernice was poisoned. You should get the dregs in her cup analyzed. Also the contents of her thermos and the cider urn. I don't think you'll find anything in them, but they should be checked.”

Luscious looked shocked. “You don't think she was murdered, do you?” I could understand his astonishment; Lickin Creek's police force seldom faced anything more violent than domestic disputes and bar fights.

“It's quite possible, Luscious. Smell this.”

I had picked up Bernice's cup with a pencil, and now I held it to his nose and let him take a whiff. He recoiled.

“I think it's cyanide. And it didn't get in there by accident,” I said. “I doubt very much that she chose to commit suicide this way. Also, I happen to know that a few days ago Bernice received a letter threatening her life.”

“She did? How do you know?”

“She showed it to me this morning. I'm terribly afraid I didn't take it seriously at the time.” I had to swallow my pride to admit this, but guilt was weighing heavily on me. I retrieved my purse from the corner, found the letter, and handed it to Luscious, whose lips moved as he slowly read it.

“The misspellings might help you identify the person who sent it,” I suggested.

“What misspellings?” Luscious asked.

I sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Bernice dead?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Lots of people in town didn't like her, but I don't know anyone who'd want to kill her.”

I watched Stanley Roadcap follow his wife's body out of the auditorium. “How about her husband?” I asked.

“Stanley?” Luscious looked truly shocked. “Impossible. I went to school with his younger brother.”

Half the people who had been in the auditorium had already left, while the others milled around, destroying whatever evidence there might have been.

“Luscious, this is murder. You need to take charge,” I told him.

Panic flared in his pale blue eyes. “I don't know what to do,” he admitted.

He appeared to be defeated before he started. I stepped forward and raised my hands to silence the remaining onlookers. “Can someone tell us who put this cup on the stage? The one Bernice drank from.”

Heads turned, voices buzzed, but nobody came forward.

“Maybe you saw someone near it?” I asked, but hope was fading.

A man pushed through to the front of the crowd.

“There was dozens of people up there before the rehearsal started,” he said. “Some was making wreaths and had to move out of the way. I saw a couple of people with brooms, sweeping up-”

A woman interrupted. “Reverend Flack moved the Boy Scout flags.”

“That wasn't Reverend Flack,” someone shouted indignantly. “It was the custodian.”

What it came down to was no one in the group had actually seen anyone place the cup on the stage.

Primrose Flack raised her hand, caught my eye, hesitated for a minute, then said, “I saw Bernice pour something into the cup from her thermos-right before the rehearsal started.”

“Thank you, Primrose. Please, people, think about it,” I insisted. “Perhaps after you go home, you'll remember something. If you do, please call Luscious immediately.”

Marvin Bumbaugh climbed the steps to the stage. “I want to know why you'uns is asking all the questions,” he demanded of me. “Where's Luscious?”

Luscious stepped forward to my side. “I asked Tori to help,” he said firmly, “because with just Afton and me on the force, we don't have the manpower to do two things at once.”

I would have been prouder of him if I hadn't smelled the brandy on his breath.

To my surprise, Marvin took Luscious's alcohol-fortified outburst mildly. “Just find out what happened to her, Luscious,” he said. “I don't care how you do it.”

I wonder as I wander

WHEN I ENTERED THE KITCHEN, PRAXYTHEA was bent over the terrarium, cooing endearments to Icky. She straightened when she heard me and turned, smiling. “He looked hungry,” she said, gesturing at the iguana with a limp stalk of celery.

“How can you tell?” I helped myself to a cup of the coffee she had prepared and settled down at the table. Over the rim of the cup, I took a good look at my famous houseguest. This morning, she was a swirling cloud of lavender, purple, mauve, and rose. I suspected this was what Oretta thought she looked like last night in her ghastly black and purple getup.

The only thing marring Praxythea's perfection, in my opinion, was the mask of pancake makeup that covered her porcelain-doll complexion. I was pretty sure I knew why she was wearing it.

“May I assume you are going to be on TV?” I asked.

“My goodness, Tori, if you continue demonstrating psychic abilities I'll have to put you on my show. I'm going to be interviewed at noon on a York TV station.” She smiled, endangering her makeup job.

We were interrupted by Fred and Noel strolling in looking for food and/or affection. Pretending the iguana wasn't there, Noel went straight to the Tasty Tabby Treats while Fred chose the security of my lap.

Praxythea looked critically at him. “How much does he weigh, Tori? Why don't you put him on a diet?”

“Nineteen pounds. And it's dangerous to put large cats on a diet. Fat cats can die in a matter of days when deprived of food. Besides, I like him this way. He's soft and cuddly.”

“Noel's more to my taste,” Praxythea said, as she picked up the dainty calico.

Over cats and Cheerios, we discussed Bernice's death.

“It could have been an accident,” Praxythea pointed out after I'd used the word murder several times.

“I don't see how a poisonous substance could ‘accidentally’ get into a cup of cider on the stage. If it had, I'm sure someone would have come forward by now to say something like ‘Gee whiz, I thought that funny bottle with the skull and crossbones on it under the sink was sugar water.’”

“If you're so sure she was murdered, you must have some ideas about who did it-or at least why.”

“I don't know who did it, but I'm going to find out. I owe that to Bernice.”

We each had a piece of toast, hers plain, mine buttered.

“How are you getting to York?” I asked, hoping she wasn't counting on me to take her.

“The station offered to send a limo. I'll be home late. Since it's so close to Pennsylvania Dutch country I thought I'd go look at the Amish.”

“I could show you Amish right here in Lickin Creek,” I said, gulping my coffee. “And not the touristy version, either. In fact, I'm heading over to the Farmers’ Market this morning-there's lots of them there. Garnet's sister Greta has a stall at the market, and I want to ask her what she knows about Bernice's enemies. She's got a red-hot connection to the Lickin Creek Grapevine.” I was referring to Lickin Creek's gossip chain, which spread the news about everybody and everything in town at warp speed.

“I didn't know the Gochenauers were Amish,” Prax-ythea said.