Glad tidings we sing
SUNSHINE STREAMED IN THROUGH MY BED room window. What time was it? Where were my cats? And who was cooking bacon in my kitchen? The events of last night and early this morning flooded back into my mind as I sat up in bed.
After finding the skull, the divers had brought up several more bones. They'd made a dozen more unproductive dives after that. Finally, they abandoned the search and carried what they'd found to the top of the cliff. The white bones lay obscenely on a flat rock for all to see.
Mrs. Poffenberger and Oretta Clopper had been taken away by ambulance, so Mrs. Poffenberger wouldn't learn until later that the coroner immediately determined the skeletal remains couldn't possibly be Kevin's. Even to a layperson like myself, it was obvious that the bones had been underwater for a long, long time.
Luscious suggested that everyone return to Stinking Spring and continue searching for Kevin in the mountains. The spectators and the television crews left; the divers remained, to look for more bones in the daylight.
Sometime in the pearly predawn hours, Praxythea and I had returned to the mansion. I'd pulled some sheets from the linen closet, handed them to her, and suggested she take any one of a dozen empty bedrooms. So much for being a gracious hostess. Then I removed my shoes and fell into bed, still wearing my slacks and sweater.
Wide awake now, I flung covers to the floor. Since no one had called with good news, I was sure Kevin hadn't been found. I needed to get in touch with Luscious to learn how the search was going. I also had a borough council meeting to cover, and I had to get to the office to write up my account of last night's tragic discovery.
I showered and dressed quickly, then, thinking I looked pretty damn good in hip-slimming navy slacks, white Irish fisherman's sweater, and red paisley scarf, I followed my nose down the curving staircase, through the foyer, the billiard room, the two front parlors, the dining room, the butler's pantry, and into the kitchen.
There, Praxythea, in a silky emerald-green mini-something-or-other, with her red curls escaping from the large comb that held her hair off her face, was pouring coffee into two bone-china cups. Fred sat pressed against one long leg, gazing at her with the adoration he usually reserved for a large helping of Tasty Tabby Treats.
“I had to run out to the supermarket, Tori. There wasn't anything in the fridge except diet soda, cold pizza, and Snickers bars. Want to nibble on some bacon while I scramble the eggs? Or are you on a diet?”
She was smiling sweetly as she said it, but suddenly, I didn't feel quite as attractive as I had a few minutes ago. “Yes to the bacon, please. It smells wonderful. Any word about Kevin?”
“You know I'd have wakened you if there was.”
I drank the strong coffee and watched Praxythea whip the eggs in the Pyrex bowl that last night had served as her crystal ball.
“You really goofed this time,” I said.
“What do you mean?” She didn't miss a beat, but her back stiffened.
“During the seance, you said you had a vision of Kevin being in the quarry.”
The eggs sizzled as they hit the melted butter in the heavy cast-iron skillet. “I never said it was Kevin.” She gave the eggs a quick stir and emptied the skillet onto a platter she'd heated in the oven. “Something's odd, though…”
“What?” I helped myself to a heap of pale, golden eggs and added a toasted English muffin.
“Those bones have been in the quarry for a long time. Why did the vision come to me now? I wonder if it had something to do with another child being lost?”
“I won't hazard a guess, since I don't believe in this psychic stuff.” I spread butter on the muffin and watched it melt into the holes.
She went on as though I weren't there. “That must be the reason. I think the dead child wants to help me find Kevin before it's too late. That's why he contacted me.”
I wiped butter off my chin and muttered, “Good grief-what are you going to come up with next?”
She smiled. “Be skeptical. I don't care. I'm used to it. You do realize that the good news is I wasn't contacted by Kevin's spirit.”
“Why is that good news? More coffee?” She nodded, and I poured.
“It means Kevin's still alive,” she said. “I didn't think so at first, because I had a vision of a dead child underwater-I misunderstood and thought it was Kevin, but it wasn't. To locate Kevin, I need an object that belongs to him, preferably metal.”
“Why?”
“Because when I touch something of his, I'll feel the vibrations he's emitting, wherever he is. Don't try to understand, Tori. I don't, myself. Just bring me something when you go to visit his family today, won't you?”
“What makes you think I'm going up there?”
She threw me one of those mysterious smiles of hers. “I don't have to be psychic to know a good reporter will follow up on a story.”
“I hope you're right about his being alive.” I put our breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.
“There is no doubt in my mind… What's that noise coming from the front of the house?”
“Sounds like the mailman… he drops stuff through a slot in the door.”
“Shouldn't he stay off that porch? I saw your warning sign last night.”
“I've told him a dozen times. He says he's been delivering mail to the front door for twenty years and he ‘ain't about to start trekking around to the back.’ I'll be back in a second.”
Miles from the kitchen, in the front hall, the mail lay scattered on the red Oriental rug. Hoping there'd be a letter from Garnet, I eagerly gathered it up and ran back to the warm kitchen. Praxythea studied the Draper's & Damon's catalog, while I tossed out the credit card solicitations and offers to try one issue of a magazine absolutely free. When the trash can was full, only two real letters remained. Damn! Neither was from Garnet. I hadn't had a letter from him in weeks. Was it too soon to wonder if I'd been dumped by another almost-fiance?
The first was from Murray Rosenbaum, my next-door neighbor and best friend in New York. He missed me, New York missed me, and so did Con Ed. He enclosed the power company's third and final notice, which I dropped in the trash. With the salary I was earning at the Chronicle and no expenses except the horrendous heating bill, I'd be able to pay off most of my bills when I got back to New York. Until then, there was no point in worrying about them.
The long row of foreign stamps on the second envelope meant it was from my father, the ambassador to whatever country was lowest in importance on the State Department's list of third world nations. I ripped it open, glanced at the letter, and gasped.
Praxythea stared at me with her wise emerald eyes. “What's wrong?” she asked.
“He married his girlfriend!” A tear sneaked its way down one flaming cheek. “And he actually has the gall to say there's no need for me to worry about Mother. Says she'll qualify for Medicaid now and can move to a good state facility. Didn't tell me about the divorce sooner-wasn't sure how I'd take it.”
I balled up the letter and threw it on the table.
Praxythea smoothed it out. “Do you mind?” she asked and proceeded to read it without waiting for my answer.
For the first time in a long time, I thought of my mother as she'd once been: tall, blonde, and elegant, handling the rigors of foreign service life and my father's infidelities with the stiff upper lip that was expected from women of her generation and social class. Now she hovered in a gray zone, her brain pickled from years of alcohol abuse, in a warehouse called the Willows, where she would stay until she was reclassified as a welfare patient, or whatever it is they call impoverished divorced women.
Praxythea handed me a tissue.
“He's had plenty of Bambi-bimbos over the years,” I sniffed into the Kleenex. “Why did he marry this one?” That he might actually be in love didn't occur to me.
“This might explain it,” Praxythea read aloud, “‘… baby's due near Christmas. I hope you'll find it in your heart to accept Tyfani and your new brother or sister.’”
I laughed, then, at the absurdity. Ambassador Grant-ham Livingston Miracle, age sixty-two, new bridegroom and father-to-be. The old goat's philandering ways had finally caught up with him!
My laughter stopped suddenly. I was going to be a sister to someone, once again. I was going to have a second chance-and this time I was going to get it right. It was a powerful and sobering thought.
My reverie was interrupted by a combination of strange sounds-hissing, scratching, and screeching-coming from the enclosed back porch that served as a laundry/mudroom. I immediately feared one or both of the cats had gotten into trouble, and leaping to my feet, I cried, “Fred… Noel?”
They meowed fretfully from under the table. “Okay, you scaredy-cats,” I muttered. “Let's see what's out there.” I grabbed a carving knife. “Maybe it's our ghost,” I joked, trying to settle my frazzled nerves.
“No, it isn't,” Praxythea said seriously.
I should know better than to joke about ghosts with a psychic.
“Stand back,” I ordered and opened the door about an inch. Through the little crack, I saw a large and very angry animal trying to burrow through the back door.
“What is it?” Praxythea asked.
I slammed the door shut. “Damned if I know. Looks like a giant rat.” The “rat” threw itself against the door. “Good grief,” I gasped. “What should I do?” My back was braced against the door, just in case the creature tried to force its way into the kitchen.
We stared at each other; two city females confronted with a country problem, and with no idea how to resolve it. Then the front doorbell rang.
Praxythea went to answer it, while I stayed at the barricades. When she returned, she was followed by Oretta Clopper.
It didn't take long for our deus ex machina, moving at a surprising speed considering her bulk, to shoo the frightened animal away from the back door and replace the dryer exhaust hose.
“Just a little possum, looking for a warm hidey-hole,” she said with a sniff. “More afraid of you than you were of it.”
I doubted that.
It suddenly occurred to me to ask Oretta Clopper, who had never before visited me, why she had dropped by on this particular morning. I hoped she wasn't bringing me a copy of the play she'd told me about.
“I'll show you,” she said. “It's in the living room.” As I followed her out of the kitchen, Praxythea made a strange sound, which I would have interpreted as a giggle if she were the giggly type.
“What the heck is it, Oretta?” I asked softly, so as not to disturb the large, prehistoric-looking creature lying in a huge, rectangular glass box.
“It's an iguana. A man brought it to the Humane Society this morning. It belonged to his kids, but it grew bigger than they expected. They don't have room for it anymore.” Her frown told me exactly what she thought of people who didn't accept proper responsibility for their pets.
“I need someone to care for it until I can find it a suitable permanent home.” She smiled brightly. “Naturally, I thought of you, since I know you're an animal lover.”
“Cats,” I muttered. “It's cats I love. Fuzzy, warm animals you can snuggle up to.”
Praxythea peeked at it over my left shoulder. “Does it have a name?”
“No names,” I pleaded. Once you name an animal, it assumes a personality and becomes a member of the household.
“It's called Icky,” Oretta announced.
I groaned.
“How cute,” Praxythea murmured.
Oretta launched into a long, involved description of what it ate, and I relaxed a little upon learning it was a vegetarian. As long as it wasn't interested in eating cats or people, I figured I could live with it for a while. We moved it into the kitchen because that was the warmest room in the house and plugged in its heat lamp.
“It should only be for a few days,” Oretta promised. “Be sure and wash your hands after you touch it-they can carry salmonella.”
Salmonella-just what I needed in my kitchen!
Oretta accepted my offer of coffee, and we sat down at the kitchen table. When I questioned her about last night's fainting spell, she said she was feeling just fine.
“Doctor said I must have been overexhausted to faint like that. It's all the work I've put in on the pageant and, of course, supervising the food tables for the search parties up in the mountains. The strain was just more than I could bear.” She sighed deeply, worn out from her martyrdom. “But I'm not one to back down when a job needs done.”
“It was quite a night,” I said. “To start out hunting for one lost child and find another. Do you have any idea who it might have been in the quarry?”
Oretta's eyes widened with surprise as she said, “Why of course, it's Eddie Douglas. Everybody there knew that.”