“Don't you have family or some close friends you'd rather be with?”
She shook her head and said softly, “Not really.” She drifted over to the tree and pulled off a single dry needle.
I studied her back. It hadn't occurred to me that someone as rich and famous and beautiful as Praxythea could be lonely.
“Okay,” I said cheerfully. “Neither one of us has family, so let's make it the best damn Christmas ever.”
Her smile, when she turned to face me, was radiant.
“I'll fix us drinks,” she announced. “We can toast the coming holiday.”
“Sounds great. Make mine Scotch-a big one, please.”
With a cat on each of our laps, we toasted the holiday and Kevin's rescue. As the first sip of Scotch hit my bloodstream, I felt a rush of warmth, and after a few minutes all my aches and pains were gone.
She refilled our glasses, and we toasted our continuing friendship. By the time I'd finished the second drink, I realized the alcohol was hitting me hard and fast. I was starting to feel weepy, and my speech was slurred as I said, “I wish I'd paid attention to Bernice when she asked for help. I might have shaved her.”
“Shaved her?” Praxythea giggled. “I think it's time for us to go to bed.”
Something woke me. I heard it again; a sound that wasn't loud, but was out of place. I remembered the possum in the laundry room and hoped we didn't have another unwelcome visitor. As I struggled to find the switch on the bedside lamp, the digital numbers on the clock radio told me it was nearly three in the morning. My mouth was dry from too much Scotch, and my head threatened to ache.
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
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
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
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.
