Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

A delicious aroma tantalized my nose. “What smells so good?” I asked Praxythea, who was once again in her domestic goddess role.

She looked up from dipping a piece of white cheesecloth in a bowl and said, “I baked my fruitcakes this morning.” She wrapped one of three loaves in a brandy-soaked cheesecloth, laid several slices of apple on top, and wound aluminum foil around the whole thing.

“Brandy?” Maggie asked.

Praxythea nodded. “Sometimes I use rum.”

“It's her old family recipe,” I said to Maggie, as I filled two mugs from the pot of coffee on the back of the stove.

“I never liked fruitcake very much,” Maggie said. “Heard too many jokes about using them for doorstops.”

“You'll like mine,” Praxythea said, not at all insulted. “Even people who don't care for fruitcake rave about it.”

I flipped through the day's mail. Christmas catalogs were still coming in. Who was disorganized enough to order gifts four days before Christmas?

“Anything interesting?” Maggie asked.

I shook my head and burned my tongue with the big gulp of coffee I took to hide my distress. The counterirritant was a good remedy for self-pity.

Praxythea handed me a plate of her homemade crescent cookies, saying, “The powdered sugar will cool your mouth.”

It did, and I ate several, vowing to restart my diet immediately after Christmas.

At Maggie's insistence, I once again told of my afternoon's adventures. Praxythea listened with a bemused look, which turned to a small frown when Maggie told her about my having rankled the members of the old boys’ network.

“I can't help worrying,” Praxythea said. “I thought all day about that nasty stuffed cat. Someone is out to frighten you away.”

“Or worse,” Maggie said.

“Thanks to both of you for making me feel so good,” I grumbled. “Does your psychic power tell you who that someone is?” I asked Praxythea.

“That's not the kind of thing I do,” she said. Before I could make a snide remark, she added, “But why don't we look at what we know and try to figure it out?”

“Good idea.” Maggie jumped to her feet. “Got some paper? I'll make notes.”

It wasn't a bad idea, I thought. Two heads (or in this case three) are usually better than one, and I've always found that talking something out helps me focus in on what's important. I found a yellow legal pad in the drawer near the phone and handed it to Maggie.

“Okay,” I said. “Who wants to start?”

“You're the one who's been doing all the snooping,” Maggie said with pencil poised. “Tell us what you've found out.”

“We know that Bernice and Oretta were murdered,” I said.

They nodded.

“What we don't know is if they were murdered by one person or by two.”

“I'm betting on one,” Maggie said. “This is a small town. It's hard enough to imagine a murderer on the loose, much less two.”

“Strong, strong vibrations tell me both murders were done by the same person.” Praxythea finished wrapping the last of her fruitcakes and daintily wiped her fingers on a paper napkin.

I went on. “We do know Bernice was poisoned, most likely by cyanide, and-”

“What makes you think it was cyanide?” Maggie asked.

“Certain obvious signs. Her color, the smell, the speed with which it killed her. I've asked Luscious to have the lab check for it. And we know Oretta was shot, but the gun has disappeared. It would help to know what weapon was used.”

I thought for a minute. “The disemboweled cat with its attached threatening note tells me the murderer is frightened of me. It means I'm getting close to the killer, even if I don't know yet what it is I know.

“Although I've talked to a lot of people, I can't see that I've learned anything. The boyfriend, VeeKay Kaltenbaugh, appears to be a logical suspect, at least in Bernice's death, but all I can tell you about him is that he's very rich and that his rehab romance with Bernice was on the skids.”

Maggie said as she wrote on the legal pad, “VeeKay Kaltenbaugh. Could have killed Bernice in a fit of passionate rage over their relationship breaking up.”

I repressed a grin at Maggie's efforts to solve the crime. VeeKay didn't look like the kind of man who'd get excited over much of anything except his restaurant and maybe his muscles, and although I'd seen little of Bernice she didn't strike me as a woman who could inspire passionate rage in anybody. Hiding my skepticism, I continued.

“Stanley Roadcap said he loved Bernice and was trying to save his marriage-”

“That's what he says ,” Maggie interrupted. “How do you know he's telling the truth?”

“For now, that's all I have to go on,” I pointed out.

Maggie licked her pencil and wrote Stanley Roadcap's name. “I'll just put ditto marks under what I put for VeeKay.”

“I guess that's all right.” If we agreed that Bernice was capable of inspiring passionate rage in one man, then why not two? Or maybe even five or six? Who knows what kind of temptress lurked beneath that boozy, middle-aged exterior? “However,” I pointed out, “neither Stanley nor VeeKay had a motive to kill Oretta, and we've practically decided both women were killed by the same person.”

“I could be wrong about that,” Praxythea said.

“You? Admitting you're wrong? I'm amazed.”

“No need to be sarcastic, Tori. I sometimes get interfering vibrations that can cloud an issue. How about some more cookies?”

I was surprised to notice the plate was empty. I couldn't possibly have eaten them all, or had I?

“They're good brain food,” Praxythea said, placing another heaping platter of cookies on the table in front of me.

“We're getting off track,” Maggie said. “What about Matavious Clopper?”

“Before he caught me in his closet, I overheard him say he was with his receptionist the night Oretta died,” I said.

“Couldn't he have killed her first, then joined Debbie for a night of passion?” Maggie asked.

“And his reason for murdering his wife was…?” Praxythea asked.

“I dunno.” Maggie looked at me. “What do you think, Tori?”

“From what I heard, I don't think he had any real desire to marry Debbie. But even if he did, there was no need to murder his wife. He could have simply divorced her.”

“Unless there was something about their relationship you don't know,” Praxythea pointed out.

“I'm sure there's lots of things I don't know about them, Praxythea,” I responded. “Wait! I just thought of something else. Bernice overheard him and Debbie in the office last Wednesday. Maybe Matavious killed her to prevent her from telling Oretta about his affair.”

“That makes about as much sense as someone murdering his wife instead of asking for a divorce,” Prax-ythea sniffed.

Maggie scribbled as fast as she could, then read, “‘Matavious Clopper. Motive to kill wife-she wouldn't give him a divorce. Motive to kill Bernice-to hide his affair. Both motives-highly unlikely.’”

“Okay. Let's move on,” I said. “There's Debbie, the receptionist. What if she wanted to marry Matavious so badly, she decided to get Oretta out of the way?”

Maggie looked up. “And she killed Bernice first, to keep her from blabbing to Oretta.”

“Write that down,” I said.

When Maggie was finished writing, she said, “You haven't mentioned the other branch of the Clopper family. Weezie and Jackson. They had reason to resent both Oretta and Bernice. Bernice, because the town's too small for two big shopping malls, and she was rushing to build her shopping center downtown before they could sell their land to a developer. And Oretta, because she persuaded Matavious to put his land in a conservation bank, making it nearly impossible for Jackson to sell his land to anybody in the future.”