Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

  PRAISE FOR

  VALERIE S. MALMONT AND

  THE TORI MIRACLE

  MYSTERY SERIES

  “Malmont has introduced a likable heroine

  whose adventures are worth reading.”

  —Albuquerque Journal

  “Tori Miracle is a fresh and appealing new amateur

  sleuth who charms you, then pulls through the dark

  caves and sinister secrets of Lickin Creek. Delighted

  with her company, you willingly follow along.”

  —Sister Carol Anne O'Marie,

  author of Murder in Ordinary Time

  “Malmont does a fine job of creating atmosphere …

  and Tori makes a resourceful heroine.”

  —Roanoke Times and World-News

  “Tori is an engaging, believable character, and her

  adventures in Lickin Creek are highly entertaining.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  “Likable, eccentric characters, frothy hullabaloo,

  and humorous situations.”

  —Library Journal

  DELL BOOKS by Valerie S. Malmont

  Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

  Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns

  Death, Lies, and Apple Pies

  Death Pays the Rose Rent

  For Stephanie and Paige

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, I want to thank the members of my critique group, Francoise Harrison, Helen O. Platt, and M. Joan H. Juttner, M.D., for their help and support, not only with this book but all four in the series.

  I am grateful to Silver RavenWolf for answering my many questions about Wicca and helping me write a more authentic description of a winter solstice ceremony than the one I first made up. However, there are mistakes, and they are all mine. I highly recommend her book To Ride a Silver Broomstick, for anyone who wants to learn more about the Craft.

  Thanks go to Luci Zahray, who has provided much information about poisons.

  I also want to thank Maggie Crawford, Danielle Perez, and George Nicholson for believing in me.

  And last, my heartfelt gratitude goes to the mystery book dealers who have supported me since the beginning. I love you guys!

  CHAPTER 1

  O come all ye faithful

  THE STONE SPIRES OF TRINITY EVANGELICAL Church hovered like gray ghosts in the star-studded darkness above Lickin Creek. Brilliant splashes of colored light streamed from the church's authentic Tiffany windows and lay on the snow-covered brick sidewalk like gleaming jewels spilled from a pirate's treasure chest. The air was warmer now than earlier this afternoon when the first snow of the season had fallen on this small, pre–Civil War town.

  Garnet had left his huge blue monster-truck with me to use while he was in Costa Rica, but I still had trouble manipulating it in tight places, so I parked on the street rather than trying to squeeze into one of the narrow spaces in the church parking lot.

  I was scheduled to photograph the cast of the Lickin Creek Community Theatre rehearsing the annual Christmas pageant, and as usual I was running late—but only by half an hour tonight, a definite improvement. Was it my fault that three churches in the borough had trinity in their names? I'd been unfortunate enough to visit the other two first.

  I grabbed my canvas fanny pack, my notebook, and the Chronicle's antique camera, and ran toward the neo-Gothic building. After trying the front doors and finding them locked, I finally entered the church through a side entrance, which was an anachronism of glass and aluminum decorated with a wreath of plastic greenery and ribbons. I found myself in a long beige hallway, facing a row of closed doors on either side.

  After disturbing the choir at practice and barging into an Alcoholics Anonymous group meeting in the nursery, I followed a trail of noise down a flight of concrete steps and through a set of double doors into a basement room that ran the length of the church. To my left was a small kitchen, separated from the larger room by a waist-high counter on which stood several stainless-steel coffee urns and many heaping platters of cookies.

  The main part of the hall, on my right, was packed with people, mostly women. I recognized several members of the Lickin Creek borough council as well as several county commissioners, and I guessed this was the politically correct basement to be in this cold winter evening. Some people wrestled with an enormous pile of evergreens in one corner, while others sat on metal folding chairs in small groups, chatting and drinking from Styrofoam cups. The rows of flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast an odd lavender glow on everyone there.

  Six women stood on the stage at the far end of the room, silently studying their scripts. I relaxed when I realized that the rehearsal had not yet begun. I'd be able to get my pictures and be on my way home to feed my cats in a few minutes. The thought of a cozy evening at home with Fred and Noel, watching a good sci-fi film on TV, was almost too pleasurable to bear.

  A middle-aged woman filling sugar containers at the kitchen counter waved at me. “Hey, Tori. Nice to see you again. We've got some great goodies—if you like chocolate.” The congenial speaker was Ginnie Welburn. I'd met her a few times at various functions, and although she was ten or twelve years older than I, we were drawn to each other by virtue of both being relative newcomers to Lickin Creek.

  I grinned at Ginnie and patted my fanny pack. “Do I like chocolate? Where do you think these hips came from?”

  “Good, that Lori Miracle's here from the paper.” The voice came from a woman on the stage who was swaddled in a politically incorrect but drop-dead-gorgeous mink coat. I recognized her as Bernice Roadcap, who, along with her husband, was a well-known local real estate developer.

  “Come up here, Lori,” she ordered. “We'uns is ready to have our picture taken.”

  Before I could say “It's Tori,” a full-bodied matron stepped forward and protested, “We are not ready, Bernice. Weezie's not here yet.”

  As I walked toward the stage, Bernice turned to the woman who had just spoken. In my limited experience, nobody had ever crossed Bernice Roadcap and I expected a battle, but she surprised me by saying in a meek voice, “Sorry, Oretta. I hadn't noticed.”

  The woman Bernice had addressed as Oretta stepped to stage front, planted her hands on her hips, and balanced herself on wide-apart feet. She wore an enormous pale-blue polyester pantsuit and a blouse covered with pink and purple hibiscus blossoms. Around her throat was a choker of silver and amber beads, so tight I wondered how she swallowed. Looking at her, I promised myself I most definitely would restart my diet tomorrow. I know how it happens; one night you go to bed a size ten and you wake up the next morning an eighteen.

  Not a hair dared to move in her bright gold bouffant as she glared down at me. “You're the new Chronicle editor?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  I couldn't keep from staring at her gravity-defying bosom. I had no idea anyone still manufactured corsets like that. Maybe a special order? I fought back a giggle and said, “I'd like to take the picture now. I have other stops to make.”

  “We always have our picture taken during the final, dramatic ending of the pageant rehearsal. You'd know that if you weren't new to town.”

  “I really don't have time to wait,” I said. “I'll just snap a picture or two and—”

  Oretta tapped her foot. She was staring at me as though I'd lost my mind. “You'll wait until the end. It's the way we've always done it!” she announced.

  In the short time I'd lived in Lickin Creek, I'd become very familiar with that phrase and its evil twin, “We've never done it that way.” Hit me with a two-by-four half a dozen times and I get the idea. There was no use in arguing; I might as well find a comfortable place to park myself for the next hour. />
  Oretta turned to face her cast. “No point in waiting for Weezie any longer. She doesn't have any lines near the beginning, anyway. Places, everybody. Bernice, stand over there—stage right—next to the palm tree. Have you all highlighted your parts? It would be nice to hear you reading the right lines tonight.” She glared at one of the hapless women, who seemed to shrink several inches. Another rummaged through her purse, extracted a bright yellow marking pen, and began to diligently mark her script.

  Silently cursing myself for being such a wimp, I shrugged off my jacket and took a seat on a metal folding chair in the front row. Ginnie Welburn appeared next to me bearing a cup of steaming coffee and a couple of cookies wrapped in a red paper napkin. “Thought you might like some nourishment,” she said with a grin.

  “How did this happen to me?” I whispered, accepting the gift. Little Santa faces smiled at me from the napkin.

  “Whatever Oretta Clopper wants, Oretta Clopper gets,” Ginnie said. “She's one of those natural forces you just can't fight.”

  “Who is she? The name's familiar. Isn't the new borough manager named Jackson Clopper? Are they married?”

  Ginnie snickered. “Don't let her hear you ask that. Oretta's the ultimate snob, and in her opinion, Jackson crawled out of the lower depths when he was hired to be borough manager and should be made to return there as soon as possible. I believe her husband, Matavious—who's almost a doctor—and Jackson are some sort of fifth cousins once removed, or whatever they call it around here.”

  “What do you mean by ‘almost a doctor'?” I asked, curious about her strange choice of words.

  “Chiropractor.” I could practically see the sneer in her voice. Apparently, Oretta was not the only snob in the room.

  Ginnie continued. “The Clopper men don't speak. It's one of those Blue and Gray family squabbles.”

  “You mean a family feud going back to the Civil War?” I remarked. “Now that's what I call holding a grudge!”

  “A lot of people are still actively fighting that war here in Lickin Creek.”

  “Quiet down front!” Oretta snapped. “Ladies, let the play begin.”

  Ginnie groaned, winked at me, and moved back to the kitchen. I tried, but failed, to find a comfortable position on the cold metal chair and nibbled on a heavenly chocolate-macadamia-nut cookie.

  Before any of the actresses spoke, a tiny woman fluttered down the center aisle and shrugged off her red ski jacket to reveal a most un-Christmasy yellow cotton housedress covered with tiny blue flowers. “I'm so sorry,” she twitted. “You'uns know how my husband is. He don't like me to go out at night, so I thought it best to wait till he fell asleep.”

  Oretta nodded sympathetically. “We do indeed know how he is. Let's get started, or we'll be here all night.”

  I silently breathed an amen to that.

  She stepped to the edge of the stage and peered down at me. “Just wanted to make sure you're still here, young lady.”

  I sniffed at the “young lady.” After all, I am a tiny bit past thirty, and Oretta, despite her imposing size, was probably in her forties.

  Without moving back, she announced to the audience, “The Nutcracker, an adaptation by Oretta Clopper. Music, please, Matavious.” She stared down at the man sitting next to me. He pushed a button on the portable cassette player on his lap, and the Overture to The Nutcracker reverberated through the hall.

  “Too loud, Matavious.”

  “Sorry, dearest.” He lowered the volume.

  I studied him for a moment. Physically, he was the exact opposite of Oretta, small and thin, with thinning sandy-colored hair that was beginning to turn gray, and rimless glasses. Thanks to Ginnie's crack about him, I'd probably never be able to think of him as anything but “almost a doctor.”

  Oretta shared stage center with Bernice Roadcap and the late-arriving Weezie. They alternately referred to themselves as sugar plum fairies, angels, and goddesses.

  Although Oretta had announced the pageant was an adaptation of The Nutcracker, I recognized nothing from that lovely ballet except the background music. Thankfully, the middle-aged angels/goddesses/sugar plum fairies didn't dance.

  The blank verse the three women spouted had far more to do with Greco-Roman mythology and New Age mysticism than it did with Christianity's most sacred season. The other four cast members had little to do but hold up scenery and chorus back the ends of some bad verses.

  The three lead actresses spent most of the next half hour perched on kitchen stools, reading from their scripts in stentorian tones. I padded the seat of my hard chair with my jacket and concentrated on making my final cookie last.

  I guessed the ending was blessedly near when the goddesses jumped from their stools and danced around a pedestal on top of which sat a Styrofoam cup, while Dr. Clopper's tape player boomed out “Ode to Joy.” I recalled with amusement the wonderful “Ode to a Grecian Urn” in Meredith Willson's The Music Man. All these middle-aged goddesses needed were flowing togas, which led me to wonder what exactly they would wear for the pageant.

  Bernice waved her fur-covered arms in the air and wailed, “What does this mean, my lady?”

  Little Weezie paused in her dance to read, “The King doth wake tonight. He is to the manor born.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth so I wouldn't laugh out loud.

  Oretta, only a little out of breath, sang out, “By the tolling of the bell, someone wonderful has come to dwell.” She raised the white cup above her head with both hands and cried, “What light from yonder manger breaks? It is the star from the east and the mother is the sun. Hail to the great mother.” She paused, then glared at the woman in the chorus who had only just finished highlighting her script with her yellow pen. “Janet …”

  “Sorry, Oretta. Hail to the great mother.” She looked embarrassed. I didn't blame her.

  “Hail to the wyccan.”

  “Hail to the wyccan.” What the heck was a wyccan?

  “Hail to the Goddess.”

  Goddesses I know about. I winced as Janet hailed this one with slight enthusiasm. A little artsy feminism goes a long way with me.

  “And now we drink from the Goblet of Life.” Oretta brought the cup to her lips and drained it. “Hold your places, ladies. Dorrie, you may take your pictures now.”

  “It's Tori,” I protested, even though nobody paid any attention to me. I got to my feet stiffly, suffering the effects of sitting on that torture chair for over an hour.

  I snapped half a dozen pictures of the cast at different exposures and shutter speeds, hoping at least one of them would develop into a photo good enough for the paper. Photography is not my strong suit.

  As I wrote the names of the ladies in my notebook, Oretta barked, “Good work, ladies. Take ten and we'll run through it again. Without scripts this time. Somebody refill the goblet. Make it spiced apple cider this time. That coffee was cold.”

  “Now look here, Oretta …” Bernice waved her script in Oretta Clopper's face. “You'uns got it all wrong.”

  “Really, Bernice! I did write it, you know.”

  I left the stage and nearly bumped into Ginnie. Her face was all crinkly from laughing. We walked to the kitchen together, where she filled a cup with coffee and handed it to me.

  “I'm surprised the minister hasn't run them out of here on a rail,” I said as I doctored my cup with fake cream and artificial sugar.

  Ginnie's lips twitched. “Oretta has everybody snowed. She almost had a play produced Off-off-off Broadway once. Now, she's executive director of the LCLCT. That's the Lickin Creek Little Community Theatre, spelled t-h-e-a-t-r-e,” she explained, answering my unspoken question. “The town's convinced she's the next Eugene O'Neill.”

  “She certainly doesn't mind whom she steals from, does she? The only line from Shakespeare she didn't rewrite was ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’”

  “Perhaps she should have,” Ginnie said with a smile. “They did rather resemble the three witches, didn't they?” />
  “That reminds me,” I said, “doesn't the word wyccan refer to a modern-day witch?”

  “Haven't the foggiest. But then I'm a little behind on my feminist readings.”

  “I haven't seen the little goddess in the yellow house-dress before,” I said. “The one with the unfortunate name.”

  “In my opinion, they all have unfortunate names,” Ginnie replied with a grin. “But I assume you mean Weezie Clopper.”

  That name again. “Another Clopper? Is this one married to the borough manager?”

  Ginnie nodded. “Unfortunately for her, yes. I understand Jackson is a real tyrant. Word about town is he doesn't want her to associate with Oretta—partly because of the family feud, and partly because he and Matavious are fighting over some family property. That's why she had to sneak out to be in the pageant. If—I mean, when Jackson finds out, she'll pay dearly. I've seen her with some nasty bruises.”

  “That surprises me,” I said. “As borough manager, he's in a very public position.”

  Ginnie snorted with indignation. “You know damn well abuse happens anywhere.”

  “Some life for a goddess!” I commented. “If there's such a grand feud going on between the two branches of the Clopper family, why doesn't Matavious insist that Oretta stay away from Weezie?”

  Ginnie exhaled something between a laugh and a whinny. “Can you imagine Matavious making Oretta do anything?”

  I couldn't, and we both chuckled at the preposterous idea.

  At that moment Oretta bore down upon us. “Corey, I hear you're an animal lover.”

  “It's Tori, Mrs. Clopper,” I said firmly, “and I do have two cats—”

  “As you must know, I'm president of the Lickin Creek Animal Rescue League,” she interrupted. “Sometimes I need a temporary home. Can you help me out?”

  I guessed that it was animals that needed temporary homes and not Oretta. “I don't think I can … You see, I'm just house-sitting …”