Sing we joyous all together
“YOU'RE A VERY LUCKY LADY,” PRAXYTHEA said as she poured a cup of coffee for me.
The aroma of vanilla and hazelnuts rose from my steaming cup. Where had she found gourmet coffee in Lickin Creek? I winced and repositioned the ice bag I'd tied on my head. “I don't feel very lucky.” Below the knot on my forehead where a would-be rescuer had clobbered me with a pole, a black eye was threatening to erupt. I was also covered with bruises, and my stomach smarted where most of the skin had been scraped off. At least I didn't have to worry about getting a tetanus shot. I'd had one a few months ago thanks to an unfortunate incident at the launderette.
“I meant, think about what would have happened if those women had been less understanding and had called the police. After your very recent brush with the law over the same offense, it's quite likely you'd be drinking your coffee in a jail cell this morning.”
I hadn't thought of what I'd done at the cold-storage house as trespassing, but she was right. All my efforts to solve a crime and help Luscious had only succeeded in losing me my cat and nearly ruining my reputation.
Praxythea refilled our cups and placed another of her freshly baked homemade cinnamon buns on my plate. I decided she was nice to have around.
“Tell me what it was you were wearing when you came home last night,” she asked.
“It's called a ‘goddess dress.’ Cassie said she orders them from the Red Rose catalog.”
“Let me get a pencil. I want to write that down.”
I was pretty sure I knew what Praxythea would be wearing on her next TV appearance.
The grandfather clock out in the hall struck the hour. Reluctantly, I pushed away from the table. “I've got to get going. Trinity Evangelical is having its Christmas luncheon and greens sale today, and I promised to take some pictures for the paper.”
Praxythea jumped up. “That sounds so delightfully old-fashioned! I'd love to pick up some fresh greenery to decorate the house with. Some holly for the mantel and maybe some pine boughs for the staircase. Is it all right if I come along?”
“I'd like the company.”
I dressed in a hurry and we drove across town to the church. Judging by the number of vehicles in the parking lot and along the side streets, at least half of Lickin Creek was in Trinity Evangelical today. The sign on the door announcing the Christmas pageant had been canceled was a sad reminder of the tragedy that had happened here a few days earlier.
As we entered the basement auditorium, a woman seated at a folding table said, “That'll be five dollars, please, if you're going to have lunch.”
“I only came to take pictures…” I began, but Praxythea whipped out her wallet and paid for two lunches.
“Your names, please,” the woman asked. “I need to put you on the list.”
“Praxythea Evangelista.”
“The TV psychic?” When Praxythea smiled her acknowledgment, the woman jumped up from the table and came around to shake her hand. “Take my picture, please,” she said to me. “My kids aren't going to believe this without proof.”
I obliged, and she returned to her station.
“Name, please?” she asked, looking at me.
“Tori Miracle.”
While not expecting the same enthusiastic welcome she'd given Praxythea, I was a little disappointed when she asked, “Any relation to the Merckles over in Big Pond?”
“No. And it's Miracle.”
“It's a miracle the Merckles aren't all in jail. Have a nice lunch.”
“I'm not hungry,” I told Praxythea. “I just finished breakfast.”
“You can pretend to eat a little. I'm sure the money's going for a good cause.”
We picked up brown plastic trays and got in line. Although it was just now noon, at least a hundred people had already been through the line and were now eating at the long tables that filled the hall.
We carried our heavy trays over to a table and sat on metal folding chairs. “Good grief, there's enough food here for an army,” Praxythea said, staring aghast at the heaping plates and bowls in front of her. “And what's worse, I don't even know what most of it is. Except for the fried chicken.”
“I tried to warn you,” I said. “One thing about living in Pennsylvania is that the natives take food seriously. Since I've been here for several months, I can probably identify most of it for you.
“The slices are scrapple. Don't ask what it's made of if you want to enjoy it. And this is corn pudding. These cute little things are ‘pigeons,’ or steamed potato dumplings, and if you're afraid we don't have enough starch, we also have a side order of deep-fried potato balls.”
Praxythea picked something out of the oyster pie and sniffed it. “Are oysters typically found in Pennsylvania-Dutch cooking?”
I nodded. We were just getting started. I went on with my description of the food. “String beans with ham, sauerkraut with dumplings, corn bread, lettuce salad with hot boiled bacon dressing-”
“Why are the eggs pink?” Praxythea stared at the bright yellow and pink sliced eggs on top of her salad.
“They're soaked in beet juice. And of course we have the usual assortment of sweet-and-sours. Different kinds of chow chow, apple butters, preserved fruits, and homemade pickles.”
“They don't eat like this on a daily basis, do they?”
I said, “Look around you. Does anybody here look undernourished? Even the air in Pennsylvania is fattening.”
Although I had finished off several cinnamon rolls only a short while ago, the aromas drifting up from my tray were making me hungry. Conversation stopped, and we concentrated on eating. Praxythea ate everything, the first time I'd ever seen her do more than nibble daintily at her food.
We were settling down to Montgomery pie and coffee when Primrose Flack mounted the steps to the stage and took the microphone. “Good afternoon. It is really wonderful to see such a terrific turnout for our Christmas luncheon. The greens and baked goods will be on sale shortly in the next room, but before that we have a real treat in store. Our own choir soloist, Lydia Wrigley, is going to sing Andrew Lloyd Webber for us.” She led the applause as a chubby woman in a purple suit and feathered hat came out on stage and bowed.
Praxythea leaned over to ask, “Why doesn't she sing Christmas carols?”
I shrugged. “I don't think she knows anything else.” I felt like a real old-timer, since I'd heard Lydia sing at least six times, always an Andrew Lloyd Webber medley. She stood smiling directly at me, and I realized she was waiting to have her picture taken. I obliged.
In a clear soprano voice, Lydia Wrigley began her first number, “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again.” It was a song that always brought back melancholy memories of people I'd cared for who'd disappeared from my life. It affected me even more strongly now that it was Christmas and I was feeling so alone. I whispered in Praxythea's ear, “I have to leave. Do you want me to give you a ride home?”
She shook her head. “I'm having a lovely time, and I still want to pick up some pretty things for the house. Don't worry about me.”
I popped into the next room and took a few pictures of the greens. By the time I had my coat on, Lydia was singing “Love Changes Everything.” Sure does, I thought, thinking of how drastically my life had changed because of Garnet. Last Christmas, instead of attending a concert in a church basement, I went to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. And that was only the least of the changes I'd made in the past year.
Outside, the light snow that had fallen glimmered like diamonds on the pavement. A familiar-looking woman came toward the church from the parking lot, and I realized I'd seen her at the coven meeting last night. She appeared not to recognize me as she hurried into the church.
Across the street was a drugstore, and since I still had time to kill before my appointment with the clown at Raymond's art studio, I went in to talk to the pharmacist on duty.
His horrified reaction was funny, to say the least. “You want to know about what?”
“Cyanide,” I repeated. “For Pete's sake, I'm not looking to kill anybody. I only want to find out if it's possible to buy it in a drugstore.”
“Absolutely not,” he said emphatically.
“How about insecticides? Do any of them contain cyanide?”
“No! Not since Silent Spring.” He looked suspiciously at me. “Why do you want to know?”
“I'm doing an article for the Chronicle about the different poisons we come across in our daily lives-and how we can be more careful with them.” I was amazed at how easily the fib rolled off my lips. Actually, it wasn't a bad idea and maybe I would write that article someday.
He began to look interested. “Good thinking. There's poisons in lots of things. Even the stuff on a firefly's bottom that lights up would be poisonous if you ate enough of it.”
I had no intention of eating even one firefly's bottom, but I thanked him and turned to leave. “Water,” he called out. “Drink too much water, and it'll kill you.”
On the street, I turned my collar up against the arctic wind and figured it was close enough to two o'clock to drive over to Raymond's art studio.
A big bunch of helium-filled balloons marked the entrance to the studio, reminding me that the clown had carried balloons in the parade. I parked and walked over. The window was full of flowers and signs: WELCOME, GALA GALLERY OPENING, ADMISSION FREE, ART SHOW TODAY, REFRESHMENTS INSIDE, BUY YOUR CHRISTMAS GIFTS HERE. Since there were only a couple of vehicles parked on the street, I had a feeling that Raymond's gala gallery opening wasn't going too well.
My original belief that the clown was simply drumming up business returned to me, and I almost left, but my natural curiosity won out. With pounding heart, I pushed open the door and went inside.
There were two couples in the large front room, holding plastic cups of punch and looking uncomfortable. Raymond entered from a back room, wearing a jaunty beret and an artist's smock, and carrying a plate of cookies. He stopped dead when he saw me and dropped the plate, and although his mouth opened and shut, no words came out.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary. The four visitors all leaped forward to help pick up the mess.
Raymond stared down at the cookie and plate shards with a horrified expression, but when he looked back to me he seemed to have regained his composure, for he was smiling warmly.
“How delightful to see you,” he gushed. “I'll just bet you've come to do an article about my show for the Chronicle.”
I didn't have a chance to correct him. He practically seized me by the arm and dragged me over to the card table in the corner. “Do have some punch. And some of my delicious homemade cookies.”
The liquid in the bowl was red, and the melting sherbet floating on top was lime-green. Christmasy, maybe, but not very appetizing.
“No, thanks,” I said. Since my clown hadn't showed up yet, I decided to take a look at the large, brightly colored canvases hanging on the walls.
Raymond was still gushing. “I am so delighted you are here. Thrilled, actually. You are going to just love this.
I'm showcasing my most talented students today. Aren't we all just thrilled, everybody?” The two couples exchanged perplexed glances, then shrugged and nodded that they too were “just thrilled.”
The canvas I stood before was bright red splashed with white. Tacked to the wall below it was a piece of cardboard with the title “Cat-astrophe,” and next to that was a photo of a gray and white tabby. I looked again, and the little white splotches turned into paw prints.
The next painting was called “Re-pusse.” The accompanying cat picture was a calico. More paw prints, this time on a very pretty blue background.
Confused, I turned to see the two couples nudging each other as if sharing a good joke.
“I don't understand,” I said. “These don't look like paintings. They look like a cat stepped in some paint and then walked on the…” Light dawned. “Your students are cats?”
A rude noise burst from one of the two women. It sounded exactly like a snicker that she tried to cover up by finishing her punch.
“These photos-these are your students?”
“I have given a few artists the opportunity of a lifetime-the chance to nurture their God-given talents in a loving environment,” Raymond said seriously.
“Cats!” I couldn't believe what I was seeing and hearing.
“Certainly you've heard of them. My students have been hung in some of the finest galleries on the East Coast.”
“I'm afraid I haven't kept up with who's hanging where.”
“I am only a teacher,” he said piously. “I take no credit for my students’ accomplishments. They have all the talent.”
A little bell over the door rang as the two couples made their escape. I was alone with Raymond, teacher of cats.
“How about some more punch? Oh, silly me, you never had any to begin with. Well, so nice of you to come. I don't want to take up any more of your valuable time. Do stop back another day.” Raymond was tugging on my arm, gently pulling me toward the door. For a shopkeeper with only one possible customer, he was in an awful hurry to get rid of me.
I pretended not to understand and shook off his arm. “As long as I'm here, I want to see everything.”
“Oh, dear!”
Next in line was “Puss in Boots,” footprints on a silhouette of Italy, painted by a gray Persian. The one after that was “Puss-cafe,” and the orange and white cat artist in the photo was most definitely my own Fred!
“Where is he?” I asked, in a voice so low it frightened even me. “Where is my cat? What have you done with him?”
“I don't know what you're talking about-”
I grabbed Raymond by the collar of his bright red artist's smock and shook him. “Don't lie to me, or you'll regret it for the rest of your miserable life!”
“In there,” he gasped, pointing to a curtained archway in the back of the room.
He staggered when I released him and clutched at his heart. I didn't believe for a minute that he was having a heart attack. And I didn't care if he was. I rushed through the curtains, into a small sitting room/kitchen combination, where half a dozen cat carriers stood along the wall.
Fred's plaintive wail was instantly recognizable.
“Baby,” I cooed, pulling him out of the container.
Maa-maa, he meowed.
“Yes, sweetie, Mama's here.” There are times when he tries to talk, and this was one of them.
“I thought I'd never see you again.” Tears flowed down my cheeks, as I hugged his warm, soft body.
“How could you?” I demanded of Raymond, who had padded into the room. “How dare you steal my cat?”
“I was going to bring him back, really I was. Remember when you told me he had artistic talents? That's when I knew I had to check him out.”
“I told you what?”
“At the market, you told me he'd painted a design on your kitchen floor.”
“Good grief! I was only trying to make conversation. You sneaked into my house while I was sleeping and stole him, didn't you?”
He nodded, looking so sheepish I would have laughed if I hadn't been furious with him.
“Why didn't you simply ask me if you could borrow him for a few days?”
“Like you'd let me take your cat!” Raymond flung a pudgy hand up to his chest. “My heart…” he gasped.
“Stop it, Raymond. You are not getting any sympathy from me.”
When he suddenly turned a strange shade of grayish-blue and collapsed on the couch, I realized he wasn't kidding.
“Shall I call an ambulance?”
“Pills. Over there.” He waved a hand in the direction of a rolltop desk. By the time I got back to him, Fred was curled up on his lap.
He took a pill and recovered quickly. Rather too quickly, I thought, but then I'm no expert on heart conditions. Fred was content to stay where he was.
This was a good sign, I figured. It meant that Raymond had not mistreated him, for Fred was a good judge of character and would never have anything to do with someone who had hurt him.
“Can I get you a cup of tea or something?” I asked.
“My, yes. That would be lovely. There's a full kettle on the stove and some peppermint tea on the counter. Fix one for yourself, too, dear.”
While I waited for the water to boil, I looked around the small room and realized the couch on which he was sitting was a sleep sofa. This was obviously where Raymond lived. There were no paintings in here, only framed photographs, dozens of them covering every inch of wall space and sitting on every flat surface.
“Family and friends,” he said. “Mostly all gone now.” His voice was mournful.
I picked up a photograph of a beautiful woman to take a closer look at her gorgeous beaded Victorian gown. “She's very lovely. Who was she?”
“Grandma Zook. She was a great beauty. The toast of Lancaster.”
I replaced it next to a smaller photo of a group of children that obviously dated from a more recent time, the sixties, I'd guess.
He saw what I was looking at and said, “That's me on the left.” The chubby little boy who smiled at the camera long ago bore a close resemblance to the rotund gentleman on the couch.
“I'd have recognized you anywhere. Who are the others?”
“Just some of the kids I used to hang out with.” He came over and took the photo from my hands. “That's Oretta Clopper there.” He indicated a dainty blonde child with a shy smile.
“Wow. Did she ever change.”
“In many ways. She was such a sweet little girl, but she grew up to be one stubborn bitch-never would admit that the animals at the shelter had talents that needed to be nurtured.” He smiled, but it faded quickly. “That little boy kneeling on the ground in front of us was Eddie Douglas.”
I took the photo and studied the dead child's face. So this was what Eddie had looked like. Sandy-haired. Freckle-faced. An ordinary kid, who should have had a chance to grow up to be an ordinary man. From the age he appeared to be, I guessed the picture must have been taken only shortly before he disappeared.
“He was younger than you, wasn't he?”
“About five years.”
“Kind of odd he hung out with you older kids, wasn't it?”
Raymond shook his head. “All the neighborhood kids played together. It didn't matter how old they were.”
“Who's the little girl on the end?” I asked. “She looks to be about Eddie's age.”
“Well, of course she does,” Raymond said. “That was Eugenia Douglas, Eddie's twin sister.”