Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

Perhaps she already had, I thought. VeeKay might have already received the bad news-that he was out and Stanley was back in. Was his dependency on Bernice so strong that he'd kill her rather than give her up? Was there any truth in what Stanley Roadcap was telling me?

“Were Bernice and Oretta Clopper particularly close?” I asked, still hoping to find the missing link-the one thing that would lead someone to murder both women.

“Not really,” he said. “Bernice enjoyed working with the Little Lickin Creek Theatre and was in a couple of plays Oretta wrote. But she used to laugh with me about what a bad writer Oretta was. I don't think they saw each other much away from the theatre.”

While we'd been talking, the afternoon light coming through the cracks between the boards on the windows had dimmed. “Come on,” he said. “Let's go while we can still see.”

The thought of going down that rickety staircase petrified me. “I'm afraid of the stairs… the whole thing nearly pulled away from the wall as I was coming up.”

“Geez! You didn't use the iron staircase? It's liable to collapse any minute.”

“That's rather dangerous,” I said. “You could be sued if someone got hurt.”

“Not with NO TRESPASSING signs pasted all over the building,” he pointed out. “There's another way. Solid concrete stairwell. Nothing to worry about.”

Although it was still afternoon, the sky was dark by the time I pulled into the circular drive of my Moon Lake mansion. The porch light was on, welcoming me home after my strange afternoon. Thankfully, all the media trucks and vans were gone. Lickin Creek was no longer newsworthy, and I was glad of it.

In the kitchen, Praxythea, who was stirring something in a mixing bowl, glanced up and asked, “Where have you been?”

“I spent half the afternoon on a farm interviewing a religious bigot, and the rest of the time I was held at gunpoint in a deserted building somewhere in Lickin Creek.”

“That's nice,” she said, obviously not listening. “Would you take the cookies out of the oven, please?”

I put on two oven mitts and removed three trays of cookies, while Noel watched with curiosity. I was doing something she'd never seen me do before. “What's with the domesticity?”

Praxythea was wearing a dainty white organdy apron. I wondered if she always traveled with one in her luggage, in case the urge to cook struck unexpectedly. “We agreed to have an old-fashioned Christmas,” she said. “That means lots of cookies. And my special fruitcake, of course.” Opening the refrigerator, she pointed at the huge ceramic bowl taking up an entire shelf.

“What is it?” I asked, peering at an assortment of brightly colored lumps floating in something that smelled of alcohol.

“It's the base for my fruitcake. All the candied fruit and nuts need to soak overnight in a syrup of sugar, lemon juice, and port wine to absorb the flavors. It would be better to let it sit for at least a week, but this will have to do.

“Your mail's on the table.”

I flipped through the envelopes and catalogs. By this time I'd given up expecting to get a letter from Garnet, so I wasn't disappointed. Well, maybe just a little, but I hid it well.

One of the envelopes, with a row of brightly colored foreign stamps, caught my eye because the handwriting was unfamiliar. Usually letters with that country's postmark came from my father.

I ripped it open and looked at the signature. “Tyfani Miracle. It's from my father's new wife!”

Praxythea said, “Yummy,” but I think it was because she was licking cookie dough from her fingers, and not because I received a letter from the bimbo my father had married.

“She says she's going to be coming back to the States in the spring with the baby… can't wait to meet me… heard so much about me from my father… I can imagine! Wonder what he's told her about my mother?”

“Don't be bitter, Tori. He deserves to be happy.”

“Shows what you don't know,” I grumbled. Secretly, I was pleased to receive the letter. At least Tyfani had some of the right instincts. I folded it carefully, and put it in my purse, to reread later. The baby, she wrote, was due any day. Maybe even had been born by now. I couldn't wait to find out if I had a brother or sister.

“Call them,” Praxythea said, as if reading my mind.

“Maybe on Christmas,” I said. “My father gets mad if I don't wait for the holiday rates.”

She smiled and resumed dropping dough onto the cookie sheets.

“Has Fred come home?” I asked, hopeful but fearing the worst.

She shook her head. “I've been all over the neighborhood, calling him.” Catching my downcast look, she added, “Don't worry too much, Tori. I have a strong feeling someone has taken him in. I called the local radio station and asked them to make some announcements. I'm sure we'll hear from someone soon.”

“I didn't get much sleep last night,” I said. “I think I'll go lie down for a little while.” What I really wanted was to have a good cry over Fred-in private.

“I'll wake you in plenty of time to get to the church,” Praxythea said.

I looked at her blankly. “Church?” Then I remembered-tonight was the memorial service for Eddie Douglas, the little boy who'd drowned in the quarry so many years ago.

Lullay, thou little tiny child

“TORI, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?” Maggie Roy's sly grin indicated she knew exactly what had caused the strange indentations on my cheeks.

“I did battle with a chenille bedspread and lost,” I said. “Next time I'll remove it before taking an afternoon nap.”

We were standing in the foyer of Trinity Evangelical Church, watching people arrive for Eddie Douglas's memorial service. Every stratum of Lickin Creek's society was represented, from farmers and shopkeepers to professionals. Many of them I recognized; some even came over to congratulate me for rescuing Kevin Poffenberger, and that made me feel really good-at last I was beginning to fit in. It didn't even bother me that Weezie Clopper, in dark glasses and accompanied by her husband, pretended she hadn't seen me.

We attracted a lot of stares from the more conventionally dressed people who streamed in. I assumed that most of them found us to be a strange-looking trio. Praxythea wore a floor-length, skintight cheongsam of white satin, slit to the hip on both sides. She looked something like a redheaded swan, with the mandarin collar exaggerating the length of her neck. White was the Chinese color for mourning, she'd explained when I questioned her choice of funeral garb.

Maggie and I had chosen to wear nearly identical navy-blue suits. Mine was left over from my working days in New York, where a tailored navy-blue suit had been a requirement for a reporter. When we were joined by Ginnie Welburn, we looked like a trio of uniformed security guards.

By the time we entered the church, the back pews were already filled. Praxythea, with a serene smile on her face, stepped forward and led us down the center aisle to seats in the front row.

A giggling middle-school girl handed us programs.

“I've never felt so conspicuous,” Ginnie whispered to me.

“You'll get used to it if you hang out with Praxythea for any length of time,” I told her, opening my program.

“What's it say?” Ginnie asked. “I didn't bring my reading glasses.”

“‘Memorial service for L. Edward Douglas, Jr., son of the late Lemuel E. Douglas, Sr., and Miriam Hopkiss Douglas,’” I read. “I wonder what happened to them.”