172513.fb2 Death, Snow, and Mistletoe - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 18

Death, Snow, and Mistletoe - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 18

CHAPTER 15

Lullay, thou little tiny child

“TORI, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?” Maggie Roy's sly grin indicated she knew exactly what had caused the strange indentations on my cheeks.

“I did battle with a chenille bedspread and lost,” I said. “Next time I'll remove it before taking an afternoon nap.”

We were standing in the foyer of Trinity Evangelical Church, watching people arrive for Eddie Douglas's memorial service. Every stratum of Lickin Creek's society was represented, from farmers and shopkeepers to professionals. Many of them I recognized; some even came over to congratulate me for rescuing Kevin Poffenberger, and that made me feel really good-at last I was beginning to fit in. It didn't even bother me that Weezie Clopper, in dark glasses and accompanied by her husband, pretended she hadn't seen me.

We attracted a lot of stares from the more conventionally dressed people who streamed in. I assumed that most of them found us to be a strange-looking trio. Praxythea wore a floor-length, skintight cheongsam of white satin, slit to the hip on both sides. She looked something like a redheaded swan, with the mandarin collar exaggerating the length of her neck. White was the Chinese color for mourning, she'd explained when I questioned her choice of funeral garb.

Maggie and I had chosen to wear nearly identical navy-blue suits. Mine was left over from my working days in New York, where a tailored navy-blue suit had been a requirement for a reporter. When we were joined by Ginnie Welburn, we looked like a trio of uniformed security guards.

By the time we entered the church, the back pews were already filled. Praxythea, with a serene smile on her face, stepped forward and led us down the center aisle to seats in the front row.

A giggling middle-school girl handed us programs.

“I've never felt so conspicuous,” Ginnie whispered to me.

“You'll get used to it if you hang out with Praxythea for any length of time,” I told her, opening my program.

“What's it say?” Ginnie asked. “I didn't bring my reading glasses.”

“‘Memorial service for L. Edward Douglas, Jr., son of the late Lemuel E. Douglas, Sr., and Miriam Hopkiss Douglas,’” I read. “I wonder what happened to them.”

Maggie, as usual, knew the answer. “Moved to a little town in Texas. A few months later, Lem shot his wife and himself. Friends down there said they never recovered from losing Eddie.”

My eyes brimmed with tears, and to hide my emotion I returned to reading the program. “Here's a surprise: ‘Trinity Evangelical Church is grateful to Dr. Matavious Clopper for his generous sponsorship of this memorial service.’ My goodness, how thoughtful of him to do this-especially with the tragedy he's just suffered.”

Maggie, sitting on my other side, between Praxythea and me, uttered a derisive “Humph.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“He didn't do anything. Oretta set all this up the day she died. Matavious couldn't exactly stop it. Not without looking like a real Scrooge.”

Ginnie leaned across me to ask, “Do you know why she did it?”

Something I recalled made me answer. “Right after Eddie's body was found, Oretta said to me that ‘Lickin Creek takes care of its own.’ This must have been her way of showing how much she cared.” Weezie Clopper had told me she believed Oretta liked animals better than people. This proved she was very wrong about the woman. The flowers alone had to have cost a fortune.

Reverend Flack entered the sanctuary from a side door, took a position behind the teddy-bear-covered altar, and held up his arms. His robe was splendid, a far cry from what I would have expected a Lickin Creek minister to wear.

The congregation hushed, and then, from the back of the church came the sound of bagpipes. I turned to Maggie with a questioning look.

“Reverend Flack's cousin,” she whispered. “Lots of Scotch-Irish here. Plays at most of their funerals.”

All heads turned as the piper, in formal Scottish garb, slowly walked down the aisle playing “Skye Boat Song.” Behind him came pallbearers, carrying a tiny white coffin containing Eddie Douglas's remains. I had to press that special spot on my upper lip to keep tears from flowing.

“Carry the lad that's born to be king, over the sea to Skye.” The music ended, and the piper stepped to one side of the altar and stood at attention as the coffin was placed on a stand before it.

The service was touching, even though no one there seemed to have actually known the child. One after another, members of the church came to the front to read prayers, and several added their personal thoughts about childhood in general.

As it went on, I thought about the world as it had been when Eddie died. The sixties: the Age of Aquarius and Vietnam, turmoil and violence on college campuses, flower power and drugs, Dylan and Baez, psychedelic clothing and love beads, children who “left their hearts in San Francisco” and, in many cases, their minds. It really had been the age of innocence, when young people still believed they could make a difference. Another time, another world.

Eddie would have been too young to participate in any of that, of course. A child's view of the sixties would be pretty much that of any child at any time. If he'd lived, Eddie would be in his forties now, I realized. Perhaps balding, a little overweight, in need of reading glasses, maybe even a grandfather. But Eddie had missed all the joys and sorrows that life could bring and would be forever five years old. My nose tingled, and I had to pinch my upper lip again.

Maggie nudged me, bringing me back to the present. “Wake up,” she whispered.

“I'm not sleeping, just thinking.”

The Reverend Flack gave the signal for us to stand, and the piper stepped forward. I was sure of what was coming next and rooted fruitlessly in my bag for a Kleenex. Maggie handed me one of hers. I was right-as the pallbearers carried the coffin out, “Amazing Grace” filled the church. Nothing in the world could keep me from crying when I hear that beautiful hymn played on the bagpipes.

In the foyer, everybody was sniffing and blowing noses. A red-eyed Primrose Flack came over to get a tissue from Maggie, who seemed to have an endless supply.

“How I wish someone from his family could have been here to know he's finally been found,” Primrose said.

“I'm sure they're watching from heaven,” Ginnie said.

This was so unlike her usual sarcastic remarks that I looked at her to see if she was kidding. She appeared to be serious.

“How awful to think of him lying there all those years in that cold, dark water.” Maggie had a catch in her voice.

“But at least he was at peace,” Ginnie pointed out.

“Is he going to be buried here?” I asked.

Primrose shook her head. “My husband found out his parents are buried in Jasper, Texas. The body's being shipped there tomorrow.”

“It's nice they're going to be reunited, even if they are all dead,” Ginnie said.

“This is getting too gloomy,” Praxythea said. “I have an idea. We all need to be cheered up. Let's go back to Tori's house and trim her tree. We can make it a sort of old-fashioned all-girl party, late-night snacks and all. It will be fun.”

“Praxythea,” I whispered. “There's nothing in the house to feed them.”

“Don't worry about it. I baked cookies all day, and I bought gallons of eggnog. We're all set.”

So Praxythea's party invitation was not quite as extemporaneous as she expected us to believe. I didn't have any Christmas ornaments, either, but I was sure Praxythea had already taken care of that little matter.

Because it was late and everybody was so downhearted, I was surprised when Maggie and Ginnie immediately agreed to come over. Even Primrose accepted, saying she'd be along as soon as she could tell her husband where she was going. However, since the reverend was very busy shaking hands and hugging babies, that might be a while.

Driving Garnet's truck, with Praxythea practically glowing in the dark beside me, I drove home to Moon Lake with Maggie and Ginnie following close behind in their cars.

Praxythea shed her white fur coat, covered her white satin gown with her organdy apron, piled little moon-shaped cookies on Wedgwood plates, and poured chips into ceramic bowls. While I petted Noel, who was obviously depressed at being separated from Fred, Ginnie poured eggnog and a bottle of brandy into the Waterford punch bowl, and Maggie, following orders from Praxythea, searched for linen napkins in a drawer in the pantry.

We carried everything into the front parlor, where the giant Christmas tree stood. Oohs from Ginnie and aahs from Maggie pleased Praxythea, who recounted the story about bringing it from Lancaster strapped to the roof of a stretch limo.

“Here we go,” Praxythea said. “I made popcorn this afternoon-for stringing. There's red construction paper and paste for making garlands. Does everybody remember how from kindergarten? And,” she said, pointing to three enormous cardboard boxes, “I bought a few little ornaments to fill in the gaps. Lights go on first, I think. My household staff usually takes care of that part.”

“Me, too,” Maggie giggled. “My butler does it all.”

We wound the strings around the tree and plugged them in. After a few bulb replacements, the tree sparkled with hundreds of tiny white lights.

Ginnie ladled eggnog into four crystal mugs, then settled down on a sofa with a bag of popcorn, a needle, and a spool of plastic thread, while Maggie gravitated toward the construction paper. “Just like the children's room at the library,” she said.

Praxythea handed me a bowl of cranberries. “Why don't you string these?” she suggested before leaving the room.

It was an impossible task. The little red balls were as hard as rocks. I stabbed myself with the needle half a dozen times and only succeeded in staining my fingertips red.

“I give up,” I announced. “Hand me a bag of popcorn, please.”

It was much easier to poke a needle through the soft popcorn, and an added benefit was I could nibble on it as I worked. While my popcorn garland lengthened, I couldn't help thinking this was a sad little gathering, despite all of Praxythea's attempts at gaiety. I was feeling lonelier by the minute and missed my cat, Garnet, my mother, and my few good friends in New York. For the first time in many years, I thought about Nobuko, the Okinawan woman who lived with us from the time I was born and was practically my second mother, and wondered how she was.

Praxythea, despite her fame, also claimed to have no one in her life. Ginnie was a widow, who'd moved to a town where outsiders were rarely accepted. And Maggie? I wondered why she wasn't with her fiance this evening.

“When are we going to have the snacks?” Maggie asked after we'd worked for twenty minutes or so. “I'm getting hungry.”

“I thought we'd wait for Primrose,” Praxythea said. “Have some more eggnog.” She had returned, with Icky draped over her left shoulder. “He was lonely.” She stroked the beast's head.

“Yuck!” Ginnie squealed. “It looks like a dragon. Keep it away from me-far away.”

Maggie didn't say anything, but she quietly placed her scissors and paste on the couch cushion next to her so Praxythea couldn't sit there.

“I don't understand you three,” Praxythea said. “He's a sweetheart. Iguanas may look frightening, but they are really very gentle. Why, just last night, he-” The ringing of chimes interrupted her. “What's that?”

“It's the front doorbell.” I took off for the front hall at a run, praying that the person on the porch wouldn't be crushed to death by the roof before I got there.

I jerked open the door, dragged Primrose in by one arm, then closed the door gently so as not to disturb anything.

“Well!” Primrose said, shaking off my hand. “That was some greeting.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that the porch roof is about to collapse. I guess you didn't see my sign.”

“It would help if you turned on the porch light. A person could break her neck out there in the dark.”

She placed the small paper bag she was holding on the silver calling-card tray next to the door. I assumed she'd brought something to eat, or maybe even an ornament for the tree. “Why, thank you, Primrose-” I began.

“Don't thank me. I found it next to your front door. It has your name on it.”

As she shrugged off her coat, a burst of laughter came from the front room. I had the feeling the “girls” had dipped into the eggnog again.

“You've got to see what Maggie's made for us,” Praxythea called.

“Come on in and have some of Praxythea's crescent cookies,” I told Primrose. “They look wonderful.” I led her into the parlor, where she was greeted with warm cries of welcome from the three women wearing red and green crowns decorated with popcorn “jewels.”

Praxythea poured eggnog for Primrose and refilled Ginnie's and Maggie's cups. I declined, since I really don't care for sweet drinks.

“I found a tape player and some Christmas tapes in the dining room breakfront while I was looking for the punch bowl,” Praxythea announced. She fiddled for a moment or two with the little black box until Andy Wil-liams's smooth baritone voice filled the room with “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

After several more cups of eggnog, our homemade decorations were complete-and only a little peculiar-looking. We danced around the tree, entwining the popcorn strings and paper garlands, while Bobby Vinton sang “Christmas Eve in My Home Town.”

“It is beautiful. Really beautiful,” Praxythea announced. “It looks as I imagined it would. So country. So homey. So old-fashioned. So-”

“So tacky,” Maggie interrupted. “Let's put the store-bought decorations on. It might look better.”

We unloaded Praxythea's ornament boxes. Everything was very lovely and very expensive-looking, although I thought she'd gone rather heavy on stars and moons. We loaded the branches and stepped back to admire our work.

Now it's beautiful,” Maggie said. “So elegant. So sophisticated. So-”

While she grasped for another adjective, Praxythea interrupted. “Let's toast the tree.”

We switched off the lamps, so the only light in the room came from the tree. With arms entwined, we sang “Silent Night” with Perry Como.

I heard several sniffles. “‘Silent Night’ always makes me cry,” Ginnie said.

Maggie handed her a Kleenex, then blew her own nose. “Me, too.”

Even Praxythea's eyes were moist, and Primrose kept her face turned away from us.

“What makes me cry is seeing a group of women who have had too much to drink acting maudlin,” I said. “I do believe the party's over.”

I wasn't about to let any of them drive home in that condition. Maggie accepted my invitation to sleep over.

“I'll walk home and pick up my car in the morning,” Ginnie said.

“And I'll call my husband,” Primrose announced.

It was about another half hour before Reverend Flack arrived and the party officially ended. At first, I interpreted Reverend Flack's frowning countenance as disapproval, but then I realized it was really concern. He helped his wife into her coat, propped her up against the wall in the kitchen, and went back to the living room with me to find her bag.

“You're a very understanding husband,” I remarked as we hunted for her purse among the empty ornament boxes.

“I'm not one to throw stones,” he said. “Christmas is a rough time of year for my wife. It brings back memories of her birth parents. They died in a car accident on Christmas Eve when Primrose was seven.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know that.”

“It's not the kind of thing that would come up in casual conversation. Ah! Here it is.” He held up Primrose's missing purse.

“Thank you for having her over tonight, Tori. Mostly, local people wouldn't think of inviting her to something like this. I believe they think a minister's wife has to be serious all the time.”

We rejoined the ladies and the lizard in the kitchen.

“I'll drop Ginnie off at her house,” Reverend Flack said.

“What a nice man,” I said, after they'd left. “I wonder if I'll ever have someone like that in my life.”

“You already do,” Praxythea said, placing Icky back in his glass home.

“I wonder… Let's put the cookies and chips away and get to bed.”

We went back to the parlor and gathered up the debris from our party.

“What about the paper and empty ornament boxes?” Praxythea asked.

“We can get all that in the morning. I'll just out the lights in the foyer.”

“‘Out the lights'?”

“I'm speaking Lickin Creekese,” I said as I went into the front hall. There I saw the paper bag with my name on it.

“What's that?” Praxythea said behind me.

“I don't know. Primrose said she found it on the porch.” I opened the bag and peeked in.

“Odd. It looks like a stuffed toy.” I pulled the little object out of the bag. It was one of those collectible bean-bag animals. Orange and white. Like Fred.

“Why, it's a little toy cat. How cute,” Praxythea cooed.

“It's not cute at all.” I held it so Praxythea could see there was a knife stuck in its belly, and some of the beans clattered onto the floor.

“Oh, my God!” I screamed.

“What?”

“A note. On the back of the tag.” I couldn't bring myself to read the foul words out loud and handed it to Praxythea.

She read, “‘Stay out of our business or I'll do this to your other cat, too.’”