Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

The bedroom door was ajar. I never left it open. Suddenly I realized something was missing. The cats!

I leaped from the bed and ran into the hall, calling for them. Maybe I was unnecessarily worried, but it was very strange not finding them in their usual places on the bed.

Praxythea's door opened, and Praxythea appeared in a sea-green chiffon negligee. Even at three in the morning, she managed to look glamorous. “What's up?” she asked. She grinned at the sight of my sleepwear, a Wizard of Oz T-shirt that said THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.

“Have you seen the cats?”

“Why, no. Not since they followed you to bed.”

“Did you notice if I closed my door?”

“Yes. You did. Why?”

“It was open, and the cats are gone.”

“It probably wasn't shut all the way. I imagine they're downstairs rustling up a midnight snack. Come on, I'll help you look for them.”

I rushed down the front staircase, through the labyrinth of parlors and dining rooms to the kitchen, calling their names, “Fred. Noel. Here, kitty, kitty.”

There was no answer. I was extremely apprehensive now. This wasn't like them at all. I opened the door to the back stairs, which led from the kitchen to the bedroom area above, and which was always kept closed because of drafts. “Kitty?”

A reassuring meow came from above. Without stopping to wonder how my cats had managed to open and close the door to the staircase, I ran up the stairs.

Noel was in the third-floor hallway, sitting on a priceless Oriental rug, cleaning a front paw. I scooped her up and hugged her tight. “Where's Fred?” I asked.

“If she answers, I'm leaving,” Praxythea said, entering the hall from the stairs behind me.

“You don't understand cats,” I said. “They communicate; you just have to learn their language. Come on, Noel, where's Fred?”

If ever there was a time for Noel to put on a show, this was it. But she chose this moment to put on her “stupid cat” act instead. She yawned, stretched, closed her eyes, and pretended to fall asleep in my arms. I ignored Prax-ythea's derisive snicker.

I searched the dusty bedrooms and survived a wild attack of the sneezes, but there was no sign of Fred anywhere.

“Tori,” Praxythea called from the hallway. “You need to come see this.”

“What?” I asked, stepping out of the fifteenth or sixteenth bedroom I'd searched.

“Look.” She pointed at an almost invisible break in the wall. “It's a door. If it hadn't been ajar, I'd never have noticed it.”

I touched it, and it swung open as though it hung on well-balanced springs. Behind it was a spiral staircase with dangerously narrow treads.

Praxythea squeezed in next to me and peered up. “I thought we were on the top floor,” she said. “Where do you think these stairs go?”

“Didn't you notice the turrets? I've never checked them out, because I don't like heights. I'll bet that's where Fred is. Come on.”

Praxythea gamely lifted her chiffon skirts, and we climbed up, brushing aside some nasty cobwebs as we went. The last few steps brought us into a large, circular room, well lit by moonlight, and furnished with wicker furniture. Windows all around gave us a spectacular view of Moon Lake.

In fact, it was so spectacular I felt as if I were floating above the treetops and was immediately overcome with vertigo. I closed my eyes and grabbed Praxythea's arm to keep from falling.

“Tori, look!”

“Is it Fred?” Cautiously, I opened one eye.

Below us lay the dark waters of Moon Lake. On its smooth surface danced the reflected orange glow of the nearly full moon.

But as my eyes adjusted to the sight, I realized it wasn't moonlight I was seeing. “My God!” I gasped. “That's a house! It's on fire!”

We clambered down the stairs as fast as we dared. In the kitchen I snatched up the telephone to call the Lickin Creek emergency number. “Already on the way,” the girl at Hoopengartner's told me.

“You watch for Fred,” I told Noel, who was fast asleep between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table. I threw my jacket on over my nightclothes, grabbed the Chronicle 's camera, and dashed out of the house, headed toward the path that circled the lake. I could hear fire engines somewhere in the distance and Praxythea's footsteps close behind me.

When Praxythea and I reached the burning cedar-shingled mansion, I realized it was Oretta Clopper's home. The scene reminded me of the burning of Manderley in the movie Rebecca . I snapped a few pictures of the flames shooting out of the upper-floor windows.

A firefighter chopped down the massive oak front door and several others entered the building. They came out after a few minutes, forced back by the flames and thick black smoke.

I found the chief of one of the volunteer fire companies. “Do you know if anybody's in there?” I asked.

“At this hour they was probably fast asleep. Never knew what hit them.”

I wrote his name in my notebook. Poor Oretta! Poor Matavious! How many tragedies could Lickin Creek handle?

All the firemen really could do was spray water on the fire and concentrate on protecting the houses on either side of the Clopper home. By this time, half the town was there, some of the people helping the volunteer firemen, others, like myself and Praxythea, simply watching helplessly.

The Clopper home emitted an almost human-sounding groan as the roof collapsed. Soon, the once lovely home was a steaming pile of black charred wood.

Someone grabbed my hand. “This is dreadful,” Ginnie moaned. “Have you seen Oretta?”

“No, I haven't,” I said, staring at the smoking ruins. “Nor Matavious, either.”

“Dear God, I hope they got out.”

Firemen were now working their way slowly through the remains of the house, methodically lifting smoking beams. I knew they were hunting for bodies, not survivors. I took more pictures.

When it was nearly dawn, Luscious, who had arrived with the firemen and had worked with them nonstop for hours, came over to me. His red-veined eyes peered out from a weary face, blackened with soot.

“Anything?” I asked.

He shook his head. “They gotta be in there. If they got out, someone would have seen them.” He turned to Praxythea. “Do you think they're alive?”

I rolled my eyes, but he didn't notice. “I'm getting mixed vibrations,” she began.

“Look for ‘running water,’” I interjected. “While you two are doing your woo-woo thing, I'm going home to change. Then-into the office to write this up.”

My attention was caught by the sudden commotion coming from the crowd of spectators, who had been very quiet for the past half hour. A car pulled up behind the fire engines, and people stood back, stunned, as Matavious Clopper got out. He stood in painful silence before what had been his home.

“Come on,” I said to Luscious. We had to climb over and around exhausted firefighters, sprawled on the ground.

When we reached Matavious's side, he was crying softly. “Oretta, I'm so sorry. Oh, my God, this is all my fault.”

Reverend Flack and his wife, Councilwoman Primrose, reached him just as we did. Primrose put her arms around Matavious. “There, there,” she soothed, “everything's going to be all right.”

Looking at the disaster area before us, I wondered how she could be that optimistic. Maybe she'd learned it at ministers’ wives’ school.

I prodded Luscious. “Ask him where he was.”

“Business trip,” Matavious muttered. “Out of town.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Has anyone seen my wife?”

Business? What kind of business takes a chiropractor out of town in the middle of the night? “Wasn't she with you? Where did you go?” I asked.