Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

Praxythea leaned over to ask, “Why doesn't she sing Christmas carols?”

I shrugged. “I don't think she knows anything else.” I felt like a real old-timer, since I'd heard Lydia sing at least six times, always an Andrew Lloyd Webber medley. She stood smiling directly at me, and I realized she was waiting to have her picture taken. I obliged.

In a clear soprano voice, Lydia Wrigley began her first number, “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again.” It was a song that always brought back melancholy memories of people I'd cared for who'd disappeared from my life. It affected me even more strongly now that it was Christmas and I was feeling so alone. I whispered in Praxythea's ear, “I have to leave. Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

She shook her head. “I'm having a lovely time, and I still want to pick up some pretty things for the house. Don't worry about me.”

I popped into the next room and took a few pictures of the greens. By the time I had my coat on, Lydia was singing “Love Changes Everything.” Sure does, I thought, thinking of how drastically my life had changed because of Garnet. Last Christmas, instead of attending a concert in a church basement, I went to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. And that was only the least of the changes I'd made in the past year.

Outside, the light snow that had fallen glimmered like diamonds on the pavement. A familiar-looking woman came toward the church from the parking lot, and I realized I'd seen her at the coven meeting last night. She appeared not to recognize me as she hurried into the church.

Across the street was a drugstore, and since I still had time to kill before my appointment with the clown at Raymond's art studio, I went in to talk to the pharmacist on duty.

His horrified reaction was funny, to say the least. “You want to know about what?”

“Cyanide,” I repeated. “For Pete's sake, I'm not looking to kill anybody. I only want to find out if it's possible to buy it in a drugstore.”

“Absolutely not,” he said emphatically.

“How about insecticides? Do any of them contain cyanide?”

“No! Not since Silent Spring .” He looked suspiciously at me. “Why do you want to know?”

“I'm doing an article for the Chronicle about the different poisons we come across in our daily lives-and how we can be more careful with them.” I was amazed at how easily the fib rolled off my lips. Actually, it wasn't a bad idea and maybe I would write that article someday.

He began to look interested. “Good thinking. There's poisons in lots of things. Even the stuff on a firefly's bottom that lights up would be poisonous if you ate enough of it.”

I had no intention of eating even one firefly's bottom, but I thanked him and turned to leave. “Water,” he called out. “Drink too much water, and it'll kill you.”

On the street, I turned my collar up against the arctic wind and figured it was close enough to two o'clock to drive over to Raymond's art studio.

A big bunch of helium-filled balloons marked the entrance to the studio, reminding me that the clown had carried balloons in the parade. I parked and walked over. The window was full of flowers and signs: WELCOME, GALA GALLERY OPENING, ADMISSION FREE, ART SHOW TODAY, REFRESHMENTS INSIDE, BUY YOUR CHRISTMAS GIFTS HERE. Since there were only a couple of vehicles parked on the street, I had a feeling that Raymond's gala gallery opening wasn't going too well.

My original belief that the clown was simply drumming up business returned to me, and I almost left, but my natural curiosity won out. With pounding heart, I pushed open the door and went inside.

There were two couples in the large front room, holding plastic cups of punch and looking uncomfortable. Raymond entered from a back room, wearing a jaunty beret and an artist's smock, and carrying a plate of cookies. He stopped dead when he saw me and dropped the plate, and although his mouth opened and shut, no words came out.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary. The four visitors all leaped forward to help pick up the mess.

Raymond stared down at the cookie and plate shards with a horrified expression, but when he looked back to me he seemed to have regained his composure, for he was smiling warmly.

“How delightful to see you,” he gushed. “I'll just bet you've come to do an article about my show for the Chronicle. ”

I didn't have a chance to correct him. He practically seized me by the arm and dragged me over to the card table in the corner. “Do have some punch. And some of my delicious homemade cookies.”

The liquid in the bowl was red, and the melting sherbet floating on top was lime-green. Christmasy, maybe, but not very appetizing.

“No, thanks,” I said. Since my clown hadn't showed up yet, I decided to take a look at the large, brightly colored canvases hanging on the walls.

Raymond was still gushing. “I am so delighted you are here. Thrilled, actually. You are going to just love this.

I'm showcasing my most talented students today. Aren't we all just thrilled, everybody?” The two couples exchanged perplexed glances, then shrugged and nodded that they too were “just thrilled.”

The canvas I stood before was bright red splashed with white. Tacked to the wall below it was a piece of cardboard with the title “Cat-astrophe,” and next to that was a photo of a gray and white tabby. I looked again, and the little white splotches turned into paw prints.

The next painting was called “Re-pusse.” The accompanying cat picture was a calico. More paw prints, this time on a very pretty blue background.

Confused, I turned to see the two couples nudging each other as if sharing a good joke.

“I don't understand,” I said. “These don't look like paintings. They look like a cat stepped in some paint and then walked on the…” Light dawned. “Your students are cats? ”

A rude noise burst from one of the two women. It sounded exactly like a snicker that she tried to cover up by finishing her punch.

“These photos-these are your students?”

“I have given a few artists the opportunity of a lifetime-the chance to nurture their God-given talents in a loving environment,” Raymond said seriously.

“Cats!” I couldn't believe what I was seeing and hearing.

“Certainly you've heard of them. My students have been hung in some of the finest galleries on the East Coast.”

“I'm afraid I haven't kept up with who's hanging where.”

“I am only a teacher,” he said piously. “I take no credit for my students’ accomplishments. They have all the talent.”

A little bell over the door rang as the two couples made their escape. I was alone with Raymond, teacher of cats.

“How about some more punch? Oh, silly me, you never had any to begin with. Well, so nice of you to come. I don't want to take up any more of your valuable time. Do stop back another day.” Raymond was tugging on my arm, gently pulling me toward the door. For a shopkeeper with only one possible customer, he was in an awful hurry to get rid of me.

I pretended not to understand and shook off his arm. “As long as I'm here, I want to see everything.”

“Oh, dear!”

Next in line was “Puss in Boots,” footprints on a silhouette of Italy, painted by a gray Persian. The one after that was “Puss-cafe,” and the orange and white cat artist in the photo was most definitely my own Fred!

“Where is he?” I asked, in a voice so low it frightened even me. “Where is my cat? What have you done with him?”

“I don't know what you're talking about-”

I grabbed Raymond by the collar of his bright red artist's smock and shook him. “Don't lie to me, or you'll regret it for the rest of your miserable life!”