Shirley Murphy - Cat Deck the Halls

D ILLON THURWELL, HAVING just arrrived at the seniors’ house, dropped her jacket on a kitchen chair, sat down, and watched, fascinated, as Lori Reed poured orange juice over her cereal. “You do that a lot?”

“Do what? Put…?” Lori looked down at her bowl. “Oh…” She swallowed back a word she wasn’t supposed to say, and stared up at Dillon and Cora Lee. They were both grinning. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scowl at her own stupidity.

Cora Lee put her arm around the twelve-year-old. “We’re all distracted, with everything that’s going on, and with the judging in just a few hours.”

Dillon studied Cora Lee. “Did something else happen? You two look…” Dillon glanced in the direction of the drive. “That big black car out there…Do you have company? What’s going on?”

“It’s a long story,” Cora Lee said. “Lori can fill you in while I dress.” The time was ten-thirty. The awards ceremony would start at noon, to be followed by a buffet picnic, courtesy of Jolly’s Deli.

Dillon watched Cora Lee head for the stairs, then looked at Lori.

“You left early last night,” Lori said. “Before the excitement.”

Dillon poured herself a glass of milk and sat down again, snagging a handful of dry cereal to munch. Lori got up and moved to the sink, started to dump her bowl, and then tasted it. Turning, she set it back down on the table, and with her typically stubborn turn of mind, she ate her breakfast as she’d fixed it. In between bites, she filled Dillon in on the events of the previous evening, on Corlie’s first words, on the child’s damning identification of the killer.

Dillon was quiet a long time, thinking about the man they’d thought was Donnie French, the man they’d both liked because he was fun and was so eager to help everyone. They thought about the real Donnie, whom they’d never known, standing there beneath the village Christmas tree with his little girl in his arms, and that man they thought was so nice, that man shooting him.

“Donnie’s sister-in-law is flying out from Texas,” Lori said. “She called back last night, after Cora Lee talked with her, to say she got a cancellation, a night flight. That she’ll be here in the morning-Christmas morning, to be with Corlie and Cora Lee for Christmas.

“She’s bringing the letters that Donnie wrote to Cora Lee, that she never got. And bringing Cora Lee’s letters to Donnie that Kuda snatched out of Donnie’s mailbox.”

Dillon’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “There’s more,” Lori said. “Yesterday evening Dallas was chasing those Wickens, who hurt Ryan, and one of them shot him.”

Dillon went pale. “He’s not…He…”

“He’s all right, it was his shoulder, didn’t hit a bone. He’s in the hospital, he was there when we went to see Ryan, before the opening, but no one said a word in front of Ryan. Maybe they didn’t want us to know, either. Didn’t want to upset us more than we were.”

“We’re not little children,” Dillon said. “I’d rather have known, even if there wasn’t anything we could do.” Earlier, up at the school, when they heard sirens, the girls had come running to see what was going on. They had stood watching as Ryan, strapped to a stretcher, was lifted into the emergency van. Later, when Ryan was out of ICU, Dillon’s mother had taken them to the hospital for a brief visit. Clyde was there sitting with her. She was disoriented and dizzy. Clyde had smuggled in his gray tomcat, who was lying on her bed, and they thought that was cool.

Lori finished her cornflakes and orange juice, pronounced it delicious enough to send the recipe to the Kellogg company, and rinsed her bowl. Cora Lee returned, looking snug and comfortable in soft corduroy pants and jacket the color of caramel, suede boots, and a suede cap. Heading out to the car thinking about the award, the girls swung from incessant talking to dead silence. Cora Lee, starting the engine, checked herself from saying that the world wouldn’t end if they didn’t win. She was praying hard that she’d see them walk away with the prize.

But whatever happened, she had no doubt that their bright and innovative playhouse would sell at the auction for a nice price. That thought, however, wouldn’t calm the girls’ competitive spirits.

And that’s as it should be, Cora Lee thought. Even if they didn’t win, the creative high of that long, demanding project wouldn’t vanish. The girls would be down for a while, but the joy of conquering what they’d set out to do, of making something beautiful that others would treasure, would still be a part of them, as would the thrill they got from competing against tough competition. Losing couldn’t take that away. I should know, Cora Lee thought. I’ve lost enough times-but I’ve come out on top just as many times.

And Gabrielle? she thought. Will Gabrielle bounce back and come out on top again, too?

She had left Gabrielle to lick her own wounds. But Gabrielle should feel somewhat comforted, with the Bureau man there; if anyone could bring back those files, Cora Lee thought an FBI technician surely could do it.

And if the money was gone, Gabrielle had a roof over her head; she wasn’t starving, and they’d all do the best they could for her. But right now, Cora Lee thought as she turned up Ocean Avenue, the sun is shining, the judging is about to start, and tonight is Christmas Eve-tonight is concert night. Tonight she must forget everything else in the world and give herself fully to the music.

But then tomorrow, she thought feeling suddenly heavy and dead, as if her heart had stopped, tomorrow Corlie’s aunt Louise will be here. And, too soon, Corlie will go home. We’ll have Christmas together, and then Corlie will be gone again, headed home to Texas…

Turning in to the school’s gate and waiting in line to park the car, she sat still and rigid, caught in the painful realization that she’d tried to avoid. She would soon lose little Corlie, too. Lose all that was left of Donnie.

Dillon spoke, but Cora Lee hardly heard her. She sat swallowing back sudden tears, trying to get hold of herself, trying to come to terms with this additional, painful loss that seemed too much to bear.

T HE ALLEY BEHIND Jolly’s Deli, with its fancy brick paving and tiny shops, smelled of roast turkey, though it was not yet Christmas day. The shops’ stained-glass windows glowed with Christmas candles and bright decorations. At the back door of the deli, beside a potted poinsettia, stood an empty plate, its surface licked glossy clean. Three satisfied felines sat before it, happily licking their paws and whiskers.

Dulcie and Kit had spent the morning crouched in the oak tree behind the jail, pummeled by cold wind, eavesdropping on Leroy Huffman and Ralph Wicken-while Joe enjoyed a comfortable two hours lounging in Juana Davis’s office watching Max Harper on Davis’s TV monitor as he interrogated Betty Wicken.

Afterward, the three deployed to Jolly’s alley, following the scent of roast turkey-turkeys had been roasting at Jolly’s for days, for deli slicing and for the Patty Rose picnic, and each morning George Jolly saw to it that the village cats got their share of generous scraps carefully boned and arranged on the nice white plates that he kept for that purpose.

Now, full to bursting, the cats had a leisurely bath and exchanged the morning’s intelligence.

“All they did in that cell was argue,” Dulcie said, “and Ralph whined a lot. Leroy said Ralph messed up the heist by calling attention to them with his fixation over little children, and Ralph said it was the blue van that did them in, that the van had been a stupid idea. I don’t see that we learned much that could be of use to the department. Except-”