Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

saving them brown trout in the Lickin Creek. And you know how they are. If you really want to find out who killed Bernice, you ought to look closer to home, rather than bothering us good Christians.”

“Why don't you write an anonymous letter about it to the Chronicle? I won't publish it, of course, but you might feel better getting some of that venom off your chest.” I turned my back on her.

“You better watch your tongue, young lady. It's liable to get you into big trouble someday.”

I ignored her and pushed through the crowd.

Inside, I was seething at her snide remarks. Just because Greta sometimes used militant methods to further her causes, it was ridiculous to suggest she'd resort to murder to protect some fish. Smiling to myself, I recalled the time she bombarded the town meeting at the Accident Theatre with overripe tomatoes and another time when she chained herself to the fountain to protest the nuclear-waste dump. Yes, Greta could be extreme, even a little scary at times, but she was definitely not a murderess.

I found myself, once again, standing beside Luscious.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully, but Luscious was too busy being chewed out by Marvin Bumbaugh to acknowledge me. Of course, being the mind-your-own-business type of person that I am, I tried not to listen and took several pictures of the Fogal Farms float going by stacked with mounds of beef sticks, or summer sausages as my mother called them. But, standing as close as I was to the men, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

Actually, it wasn't a conversation but a one-sided diatribe in which Marvin bombarded poor Luscious with accusations that he was incapable of doing his job and dire threats of having him fired.

“Yesterday, you said I had till Christmas,” Luscious protested. “I haven't even got the toxicology report back yet.”

“And what about Oretta Clopper? What have you done about finding her killer?”

“I'm waiting for the results of the forensic tests on the bullet that killed her.”

“Christmas, Miller. If I don't have a report on my desk on December twenty-sixth, you can kiss your job good- bye.”

Marvin leaned forward slightly to glare at me across Luscious's brass-buttoned chest. “This wouldn't have happened if Garnet was here.”

“Why yell at me?” I snapped back. “I didn't make him go to Costa Rica.”

“Maybe he wanted to get away from something-or somebody,” Marvin said nastily, touching the very painful thought I'd been trying to push deep into my subconscious-the possibility that Garnet had left because of me.

When he left, I turned to Luscious and muttered, “I hate that man.”

“That makes two of us,” he said.

“We'll show him,” I said. “We'll find his murderer for him.”

“Sure we will.” He didn't sound convinced.

I wondered if Marvin would have treated either of us so rudely if Garnet were still here. But, of course, if Garnet were here, he wouldn't have any reason to.

The Chronicle employees waved at me from the other side of the street, and I decided to rejoin them. Reverend Flack's cousin, the bagpiper, was accompanying a group of little girls in full skirts and clogs who stopped to perform a charming Irish folk dance in front of me. As I wove my way through them, a tall clown, carrying a bunch of helium-filled balloons, stopped in front of me and mimed an elaborate double take as if he were surprised to see me. He was taller than anyone around and wore a baggy yellow suit covered with black polka dots. A bright orange wig topped his creepy, white-painted face. When he bent down and patted me on the head, I heard laughter from the crowd.

I've never liked clowns. There's something eerie and disturbing about them, like a bin of broken dolls. I want to know what's under the makeup, yet I'm afraid of finding out.

For the sake of the children watching, I forced a smile. The clown slapped his pockets, as if looking for something, then with a theatrical gesture of relief, pulled something from his vest pocket and handed it to me with a low bow.

I took it, a folded piece of paper.

“Open it. Open it,” the children cheered.

I smoothed it out and read the neatly printed message: MEET ME AT RAYMOND'S. SUNDAY AT TWO.

“Tori's got a boyfriend. Tori's got a boyfriend.” That annoying little choral rendition came from the direction of my office staff.

“Who are you?” But the clown was gone when I looked up.

“Where'd he go?” I asked, but nobody seemed to know.

Besides, who cared, when Santa was coming down the street in an army Jeep with a deer head mounted on the hood? Red laserlike light beams blinked on and off in the dead animal's nostrils. Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, I realized with a shudder. Or Bambi. This kind of thing could warp a little kid's psyche forever.

CHAPTER 17

In sin and error pining

LUCKILY, CASSIE HAD COUNTED OUR KIDS BE- fore we left for the parade, because when she lined them up to return to the Sigafoos Home we quickly realized three were missing. After a brief but panicky search we found the missing trio sharing a cigarette behind Santa's Workshop.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief when the last of the children was picked up. After only a few hours I was exhausted. What an awesome responsibility full-time parenthood must be!

Cassie said a quick good-bye to me and hurried off. I was left standing in the parking lot, wondering what I should do next.

“Meet me at Raymond's,” the note had said. I assumed that meant Raymond's Art Studio and Gallery at the low-rent end of Main Street. Since the One-Hour-Photo-Shop was nearby, I could check out the studio on my way to drop off my film.

Raymond's Studio was in an old building, once the home of a dress shop. I knew that because the old sign over the door still said TRISHA'S TOGS FOR TASTEFUL LADIES. The door was securely locked. Black draperies behind the large display window made it impossible for a passerby to see inside, even though I pressed my nose against the glass, trying to find a crack to peek through.

The only thing in the window was an easel, and on it was a sign that said NEW SHOW OPENING SUNDAY AT ONE. REFRESHMENTS WILL BE SERVED.

I suddenly realized the clown had simply been passing out flyers for Raymond's art show. He hadn't been targeting me at all. It disappointed me that my mysterious assignation had turned into nothing more than an advertising gimmick.

I pulled the note out of my pocket and tossed it in the trash container on the curb. As it dropped into the mesh basket something caught my eye, and I reached in to retrieve it. A woman passing by eyed me curiously, probably thinking I was one of Lickin Creek's many collectors who constantly check garbage cans and bulky trash pickup sites for antiques and other treasures.

Pretending I didn't see her, I smoothed out the piece of paper. What had attracted my attention was on the back of the paper. My name, handwritten in pencil. This was no flyer. Someone had planned to hand this message to me and me alone.

I had almost twenty-four hours to wait for my mysterious meeting with the clown, and patience is not one of my virtues. I wanted to know who he was. Did I simply have a secret admirer? Or was there something more sinister involved? I thought of the mutilated bean-bag kitty I received last night and wondered if both incidents had something to do with my investigation of the murders of the sugar plum fairies. I'd know… tomorrow at two.

After I dropped off my film, a slight gnawing in my tummy let me know the Sweete Toothe Candy Shoppe snack bar was calling.

While enjoying the house specialty, an old-fashioned chocolate soda made with chocolate ice cream, I thought