Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

“Indeed he did. I happen to think his little antique-white footprints have improved the otherwise drab linoleum.”

Raymond turned to me, showing interest. “I'd like to meet him someday.”

“He'd love that,” I said. “He's a very outgoing cat.”

“You'd better get over to your booth,” Greta said. “I think I see an art connoisseur looking over your paintings.”

“Oh, my!” He jumped up, hands fluttering, and ran down the aisle, calling, “Yoo-hoo. I'm here.”

“Oh, my!” I said. Greta began to laugh heartily, and I soon joined in.

After we finally regained our composure, I returned to the subject I'd come to discuss-Bernice.

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted her dead?” I asked.

“Follow the money. Isn't that what they always say?” Greta said. “I'd take a long close look at that young boyfriend of hers. I've heard rumors that she bankrolled his new restaurant.”

“What restaurant is that?”

“It's called the Fields of Glory.”

“The one where the waiters and waitresses dress in Civil War costumes?”

“That's it. You can have your soup served by Clara Barton and your table bussed by George Custer.” She sniffed. “Some people will go to any lengths to attract tourists. Maybe the payback she expected was more than he wanted to give, so he decided to get rid of her.”

“I'll check him out,” I said. “Also her soon-to-be-ex-husband. He might have been crazy with jealousy.”

“Stanley? I hardly think he's the type.” She appeared to think for a second. “But to get back to what I said about following the money-Stanley stood to lose a bundle in the divorce.”

“Have you heard about someone threatening Bernice? Shortly before she died she showed me a note she'd received, warning her to drop her plans to create a San Antonio-like development along the Lickin Creek.”

“I thought she'd given up on that wacky idea a long time ago.”

“She was pitching it to the council this week.”

“I wonder if she gave any thought to the environmental impact that would have on the river…”

Before she could climb on her soapbox, I steered her back to the subject by saying, “Buchanan is watching out for the river-and the brown trout in it.”

“This town is only big enough for one mall,” Greta said.

“Are there plans to build another?”

“Indeed there are. Ask Oretta. She and Matavious own part of the old Clopper tract on the edge of town. They've been trying to beat Bernice to the punch by selling their land to a mall developer before her project gets under way.”

“Interesting. I'll have to talk to Oretta about that.”

Greta was thinking out loud now, paying no attention to what I said. “Or maybe Bernice made some enemies when she left Trinity Church. I hear she had a shouting match with Reverend Flack and stormed out.”

I smiled at the thought. “Are you suggesting Reverend Flack eliminates any sheep who stray from his flock?”

Greta laughed. “Put that way, it does sound silly. Forget I said that.”

She stood. “I've got some customers waiting for me. Lots of folks believe eating sausage on New Year's Day will bring them luck.” She hugged me. “You'll come for dinner Christmas Eve, won't you? That's when our family always has its celebration.”

I accepted her invitation, although I had some trepidation about facing an evening of Greta's famous “down-home” cooking. I hoped she wasn't planning to serve one of her specialties like stuffed beef heart or hog maw.

She returned to her booth, and I picked up my packages and strolled down the aisle toward the exit. Suddenly, I spotted Alice-Ann, who at five feet eleven towered over most of the people in the market. Her streaked blonde hair gleamed in the light from an overhead bulb, and she was smiling warmly at a chicken vendor. My heart did a little flip-flop at the sight of the woman who'd been my dearest friend since we'd met on our first day at college. I wondered how she'd react if I dared go over and say hi. She glanced up, our eyes met for a moment, I took a step forward. She turned away.

I knew that Alice-Ann was not yet ready to reconcile, and for the time being it was best to let her mourn in her own way. But it still hurt. It hurt a lot.

On my way across town, I stopped at the state liquor store and bought a bottle each of port wine and brandy for Praxythea's fruitcake. Although I usually think of fruitcake as a close relative to a boat anchor, so far this one looked promising.

When I reached my office, I noticed the cleaning crew had again left the broom on the stoop. How careless! I really would have to speak to them. Inside, I discovered it was the twin of the first broom, which was still propped up in the corner where I'd left it. I placed the second broom next to the first, went to my desk, and began to write.

I had the Chronicle building to myself because it was Thursday-Cassie's regular day off. Usually, it was the day I fine-tuned my articles and typed the police blotter. Friday, then, was “panic day,” when Cassie and I put the page proofs together and rush them and the computer disks to the printer in time to have the paper ready for distribution on Saturday morning.

Today, I had a murder to write about. A murder that was preying heavily on my conscience. If I'd taken her fears seriously would Bernice be dead now? The woman had turned to me for help, and I'd let her down.

I began my article. “Bernice Roadcap feared for her life, and, as it turned out, her fears were justified.” Perhaps I did editorialize more than I should have in a news report about the sanctity of life and the cowardice of poisoners, but I rationalized that as editor I could do as I pleased.

I printed it out, corrected a few spelling errors, attached a file photo of Bernice, and carried the article to the front office to place in Cassie's IN box.

On the floor next to Cassie's desk was the package that had already tripped me twice, and that I'd twice asked her to unpack. It was still unopened. With a sigh of impatience, I grabbed an X-Acto knife out of Cassie's desk drawer, and slashed through the brown tape.

Beneath lots of crumpled paper were two stacks of books, all identical, all titled Moon Goddess: The Magick and Rituals of Witchcraft . Why would Cassie order ten copies of the same book from the shopping channel? I wondered. Gifts, maybe. I had another surprise coming; there was a letter from Llewellyn Publishers enclosed, addressed to Cassie Kriner, aka Golden EarthWoman, congratulating her on the publication of her new book!

It amused me to learn that solid, pillar-of-the-community Cassie had a secret life. It was the kind of thing I expected from acquaintances in the city, but in conservative Lickin Creek…? I took the book into my office and thumbed through it. The little I read was well written. I couldn't wait to ask Cassie about her writing career.

When the phone rang, I reluctantly put the book down. It was Luscious, calling from the police station with the weekly crime report.

“No news about Kevin,” he said before I could ask. “We done put out an APB and had a couple of reports from West Virginia about a suspicious-looking guy with some kids in tow. I'll let you know what we find out.”

Thirty-six hours. Kevin had been missing for thirty-six hours. Could a child survive that long in the cold of the mountains? And if he really had been kidnapped, what had happened to him during those long hours? I needed to put the possibilities out of my mind.

“What have you done about Bernice's death?” I asked. “Did you send that cup to the crime lab for toxicology testing?”