Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

small sign told passersby that the animals were provided by the Catoctin Zoo. A small charcoal grill kept Mary, Joseph, and the three wise men warm inside the shed.

Several people stopped me and congratulated me on having rescued Kevin Poffenberger. I basked in the warmth and felt well loved by the time I climbed the steps to the gracious old post office building, which had been converted into the public library in the fifties when the post office had moved to a newer and more efficient, but far less interesting, building.

Pausing just inside the door, I looked to my left where the children's department was located, thinking I might see Alice-Ann. She'd returned to work as a children's librarian after the death of her husband. But she wasn't there.

Maggie was at the circulation desk and waved when she saw me enter. “Glad you came early,” she said with a big grin. “Come see what I've done.”

She handed her stamp pad to an assistant and came around the desk to take me by the hand. “Close your eyes and don't peek,” she said.

I closed my eyes and let her lead me.

“Now,” she said.

I could hardly believe my eyes. The top of the card catalog had been turned into a shrine to me! There stood my book, The Mark Twain Horror House, and next to it was my picture, taken on a really bad hair day. Finishing the display were several laminated newspaper articles about my adventures in Lickin Creek. One told of my involvement this past fall in uncovering the marijuana farm in Burnt Stump Hollow, another of my part in discovering who had killed Percy Montrose.

An older article described last summer's fire that had destroyed the historical society and mentioned at the end that I had accidentally set the fire while confronting the murderer of Alice-Ann's husband, Richard MacKinstrie.

“It's really nice, Maggie. Thanks so much.” I would have preferred not to have the reminder there about the fire. Townspeople still unfairly referred to me as “that gal what burned down the historical society.” It was a difficult reputation to shake.

“Come have some coffee. I can't leave for lunch until my assistant gets back,” Maggie said, leading the way to the door marked STAFF ONLY. Inside the office, she wiped out a mug and filled it with the muddy black liquid she called coffee. It occurred to me I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee since I left New York.

“I'm so proud of you for finding Kevin,” she said as she handed me the mug. “What a relief for his parents.”

“Thanks. I'm glad he's okay, but I feel sorry for Peter's family. No telling what's going to happen with that boy.”

Maggie nodded in agreement. “Always felt there was something funny about that kid,” she said. “He and Pearl used to come in for story hour once a month while their mother shopped at Giant Big-Mart. Pearl never left his side. I thought she was kind of a control freak; now I think she was afraid to let him out of her sight.”

We sipped our coffee and sat quietly for a moment or two, thinking about what the two Poffenberger families were going through right now. I also thought about Kevin's mother and what she suffered every day of her life.

Maggie roused me from my depressing thoughts with a question about Lickin Creek's latest drama. “What do you suppose made Oretta go back into her house last night?” she asked.

“Maybe she opened the door to let the animals out and was overcome by smoke before she could escape.”

“But the canary cage was hanging in a tree next door, so we know she must have been outside,” Maggie said. “She must have gone back inside to get something else.”

“Cassie thinks she was going after her manuscripts,” I said.

“Or computer disks. She told me once she backed everything up on floppy disks-ever since her hard drive crashed once.”

I shuddered in sympathy. A hard drive crash is every writer's worst nightmare.

“It was her weight,” Maggie said knowingly. “She probably fell down and couldn't get up. I told her she ought to come to Overeaters Anonymous with me.” She smoothed her tunic top over her bulging thighs. “Have you noticed that I've lost a few pounds?”

“Indeed I have,” I fibbed. “I meant to mention it.”

“You could come, if you like,” Maggie said. “We meet every Tuesday night.”

I was stunned she'd think I'd be interested in a diet group. After all, I was only a few pounds over the ideal weight for a big-boned female of my height. My cheeks flamed, but I managed to decline politely and quickly moved on to one of the subjects I needed to know more about: the coven of wiccans.

Maggie became unusually quiet and concentrated on fluffing up her already enormous beehive hairdo.

“Come on, Maggie. You must have heard something about them.”

She put her mirror back in the desk drawer. “Of course I have, Tori. In fact, rumor has it that Cassie Kriner from your office is a big wheel in it. But to tell the truth, I'm just a little scared of them.”

“Scared? Of Cassie?”

She looked sheepish. “Heard all kinds of funny things about witches. Devil worship. Blood sacrifices. You know…”

“I can't imagine Cassie involved in anything like that. And I am surprised a well-educated woman like you would even consider it.”

“Underneath this elegant and sophisticated exterior, I'm still a local girl, Tori.”

“Cassie didn't use the word witch, Maggie. She said wiccan, and she specifically called it a religion.”

Maggie sniffed. “Religion, my eye. But I suppose I can find something about it. Be right back.”

She soon returned with her arms full of dusty reference books and journals. We divided them into two piles, one for each of us, and dived in.

On top of my pile was The Golden Bough. It was too old to be helpful, but looked like it would be fun to read. I picked up a magazine, instead.

After about fifteen minutes, she looked up with her finger marking her place in one of the books, and said, “Hate to admit it, but it looks like you're right about wicca being a religion. I had no idea!”

“What did you find out?” I asked.

She held up a book by Gerald Gardner. “He calls it ‘the Craft.’ Describes it as a nature religion, worshiping ‘the Goddess,’ whoever she is. Oh, my-listen to this-‘the coven often dances and chants in the nude.’” She began to laugh. “Can you picture that?”

I tried and couldn't. Not Cassie. Nude, never. She wouldn't even use the rest room in our office unless she was sure the front door to the building was locked.

We browsed through more books and magazines, and my head was soon full of unfamiliar names and terms: Valiente, Kelly, The Book of Shadows, the New Reformed Orthodox Order of the Golden Dawn, Old Dorothy, Buckland, Murray.

From one small booklet, I learned that Pennsylvania had a long history of belief in witchcraft, going back to Pennsylvania's first reported case, a trial presided over by William Penn himself. I was glad to read that the two women on trial got off with six months’ good behavior.

“Apparently, there are as many types of Wicca as there are Christian denominations,” Maggie said. “I really had no idea!”

I looked up from a journal and said, “Cool! Here's an ad for a correspondence school. Maybe I'll sign up for a class.”

Maggie gasped.

“I'm not serious,” I said, assuming she was shocked by the idea of my becoming a Witch by Mail.

“Not that, Tori. Listen to this. Says that for some covens the winter solstice is one of the most important ‘sabbats.’ Tori, that's tomorrow night. And it's full moon, too. Sort of a wiccan double whammy.”

“I wonder where the coven meets?” I said, closing my magazine.

“Tori! You wouldn't!”

“If I'm going to take a correspondence class, I should know what I'm getting into.”

“Yo u 're kidding… aren't you?”

“Of course I'm kidding. And I'm half starved. Can you leave yet?”