On Tuesday morning, Greta called and guessed immediately that something was bothering me. “What's wrong, Tori? You sound like you've lost your best friend.”
“I made the mistake of weighing myself this morning,” I said. “It's ruined my whole day.”
Greta laughed. “Christmas is no time to worry about your diet. And speaking of not dieting, what are you planning to bring tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Tori, you haven't forgotten the Gochenauer family Christmas Eve celebration, have you?”
“Of course not!” I hadn't forgotten; it was just that Christmas Eve had snuck up on me. “What would you like me to bring?”
“A couple of pumpkin pies would be nice.”
I agreed, knowing the Farmers’ Market had extended its hours for the holiday. If I hurried I could get there before it closed at noon.
“And do bring your houseguest,” Greta said.
“She's gone.”
“I thought you two were going to have an old-fashioned Christmas.”
“We are-just not together.”
The silence on the other end of the line told me what Greta thought about Praxythea's sudden flight.
I found myself apologizing for Praxythea. “She's a busy woman…” I began.
“Aren't we all?” Greta said with a sniff.
She made a good point.
I practically flew to the market, arriving just as the last of the vendors was draping sheets over her display case. Luckily for me, she had a few pies left, and I bought them for half price, relieved I wouldn't have to learn to bake today.
“Bad storm's on the way,” the pie woman said. “Better stock up on bread and milk.”
I did as she suggested and was halfway home before I realized I never drank milk!
The storm had been pummeling the Carolinas for two days and was now affecting Lickin Creek. An icy wind cut right through my jacket as I left the market, and fine sleet burned my face. The roads would be “slippy” tonight, the term Lickin Creekers used to describe icy driving conditions.
Depending on which news station you listened to, the storm could blow out to sea, or it could overwhelm the valley. But they all described it as the “storm of the century,” and urged listeners to prepare for the worst.
I spent the afternoon readying the house for the coming storm. There was little I could do about the flapping shutters, the rotting front porch, or the slate shingles peeling off the roof. I did round up all the candles and flashlights I could find, and placed them and a box of matches on the kitchen table.
I brought in wood for the fireplace, and I filled the bathtubs with water, so I'd have drinking water and be able to flush toilets.
The radio station, now calling itself Storm Watch Central, broadcast a minute-by-minute description of the blizzard as it rushed up the Atlantic seaboard.
Feeling as if I were back on a Pacific island battening down for an oncoming typhoon, I locked all the doors, including the one in the basement, and placed rolled-up towels on the windowsills to cut down on drafts.
With the bread and milk I'd bought at the market, three bags of Tasty Tabby Treats in the pantry, and plenty of kitty litter, we were prepared for anything short of nuclear war.
Although the house creaked and groaned under each blast of wind, I felt fairly safe, reassured by the fact that the old mansion had survived many storms in its lifetime.
“… storm of the century,” the radio repeated.
Could this really be the worst storm in a hundred years? I wondered. Somehow, I felt that “Storm Watch Central” was exaggerating the seriousness of the situation, but whatever might happen, I was ready for it.
Over the course of the afternoon, the phone rang a few times. One poor soul was trying to sell his quota of credit cards before closing up for the holiday. I wished him a merry Christmas and told him my credit rating would never allow me to have a Visa card.
Another caller was Murray Rosenbaum, actor/Italian waiter and my best friend and neighbor in New York. He was calling from Dayton where he was spending Hanuk-kah with his parents. He promised to send me a can of caramel popcorn from his father's factory and wished me a happy holiday.
After hanging up, I felt lonelier than ever. I missed Garnet, even though I was now sure our relationship was over. And I missed Alice-Ann. We'd always exchanged gifts and called each other on Christmas, even when we lived far apart. This year, in hopes of a reconciliation, I'd bought a small Amish quilt for her. It waited under the tree, but I'd had no word from her.
“… winds of up to eighty-five miles per hour,” the radio said.
I kept hoping Greta would call to say dinner was canceled, but the Gochenauers are a hardy clan, and Greta would hardly let a small thing like the “storm of the century” stop her from celebrating Christmas in her traditional way.
With the house battened down to the best of my ability, I settled on a couch, with the cats on my lap, to reread a favorite Christie mystery. Ethelind's library had a wonderful collection of mysteries by British authors. Not surprising, considering she was a flaming Anglophile.
“… small-craft advisory for the Potomac River and the Chesapeake Bay.” Storm Watch Central was right on top of the situation.
In the late afternoon, I reluctantly put the book down and went upstairs to dress, choosing what I hoped would be an appropriate outfit for Greta's dinner party. A long green velvet skirt and a white satin blouse, both with designer labels, and both from my favorite shop, a place in New York that sold “nearly new” or “previously owned” clothes for next to nothing.
I added three gold chains, studied myself in the mirror, then removed two. Greta was a flamboyant dresser, but the rest of Garnet's family was quite conservative, and I didn't want to look too “New Yorkish,” as one elderly aunt had suggested when she first met me.
It was too early to go, so I set the kitchen timer to let me know when it was time to leave and sat at the kitchen table to finish my book.
When the bell rang, I thought at first it was the timer. But the cats jumped down, leaving globs of hair on my green velvet skirt, and ran toward the front of the house. Sometimes they were a lot smarter than I-at least they recognized a doorbell when they heard it.
I made a futile attempt to brush off the cat hair as I followed Fred and Noel to the front door. Unlike New York, there was no peephole. Most people in Lickin Creek felt there was little reason to worry about who might be at their door. I thought for a moment about the two dead women, Oretta and Bernice, who probably had gone blithely about their business until the moment they were murdered. Most likely neither of them had a peephole.
The door was ripped out of my hand as I opened it. Along with a blast of snow that covered the carpet in the foyer came Mrs. Poffenberger with her baby in her arms.
“Come in! Quick,” I said, although she was already inside. I leaned against the door to shut out the howling gale.
“Can I take your coat?” I asked, wondering what on earth she was doing here.
She shook her head. “Can't stay. The kids is in the back of the truck.”
“Good grief.” I looked out the window and saw a whole bunch of snow-covered blanket-wrapped lumps in the open truck bed.
“That's not safe,” I said.
“I don't got no choice, miss. I thought a lot about what you said to me-about doing what's best for the kids-so I'm moving to West Virginia. My sister'll help out till I can get a job.”
I was surprised but tried not to show it. “What does your husband think of this?” I asked. I couldn't imagine him taking it calmly.
“He don't know nothing about it. I been sneaking things out a little at a time-diapers for the baby, the blankets. I ain't taking much-we don't got much. The furniture and TV is rented.”
“Aren't you afraid he's coming after you right now?” I glanced nervously at the door, fearing that the outraged Mr. Poffenberger might burst through it any minute.
She allowed herself a glimmer of a smile-the first I'd ever seen. “He ain't going nowhere. He done dressed up in
