Miss Crate giggled. "Oh, come on, Lynne, he'd drag you off to the bedroom for a night of pa.s.sionate love. And just how does this pa.s.sionate lover come dressed on Christmas Eve? In an undershirt? In worn flannel pajamas? h.e.l.l no! He comes in the s.e.xiest, skimpiest briefs so you can both see what he's got in mind. Right, darling?" Into the doorway stepped a gangly young man, and indeed he was dressed in the ... well, skimpiest briefs Miss Vetchling had ever seen. They appeared to be dotted with tiny reindeer, but there were very few of them, certainly not the standard allotment for a sleigh. On his head was a red cap trimmed with white felt. On his face was an embarra.s.sed smile.

Miss Crate stroked his arm. "Why, here's Santa."

"No," said Miss Vetchling, "actually it's ..."

"Kevvie!" screamed a figure pressed against the living room window. "Kevvie!"

Chapter Eighteen.

"So why'd you let them go ahead with the concert?" asked Harve, who as usual was safe at his desk in Farberville where MagG.o.dy was nothing but a bad memory, at least for the moment.

It was Monday afternoon, and I'd finally had time to sit down in the PD (where MagG.o.dy is an omnipresent menace day and night), lean back at the preferred angle in my chair, get my feet settled just right on the corner of the desk, and call him to exchange information.

"I wasn't going to," I admitted, "but Ripley and Lillian came by yesterday morning and told me how the cow ate the cabbage, as Dahlia would say. It wasn't exactly blackmail, but there were some overtones. We d.i.c.kered back and forth and finally agreed. It's not like any of them shoved Pierce Keswick out the window, Harve. I'm satisfied that he was there when Marjorie came charging at him and I can tell you it's not the time to consider the safest place to retreat."

"I grew up on a farm," Harve said. "I know how dangerous those old sows can be. Got a five-inch scar on my leg to prove it. But they did drag the body to the souvenir shoppe and dress it up like that. I dunno what the charge should have been, but we might could have come up with something to entertain ourselves."

"Sure we could have, and I could have called a press conference conference and told everyone that Matt Montana lied about his original lyrics and that Hizzoner is in line for a Country Sound Award for sleaziest songwriter of all time. The story might not have made the front page of the New York Times, but it would have been hot stuff in the tabloids and country music publications. The tour would have collapsed. The label company wouldn't be worth the price of a CD--or even a ca.s.sette. I could have done all that, Harve, but I didn't."

Harve grumbled as he lit a cigar and told LaBelle to bring him some coffee. He wasn't a dedicated chauvinist, but he wasn't averse to letting someone else fetch and carry. "So why didn't ya?"

"What Ripley and Lillian told me is that this little town of MagG.o.dy broke a zillion copyright and trademark laws. We are talking more infringements than on Dahlia's uniform. They put Matt's name and face on ashtrays, coffee cups, T-shirts, caps, place mats, maps, pencils, pens, duck callers, and so forth, and every one of them is a violation. They printed songbooks of copyrighted lyrics and reproduced photographs from magazines. They used his name, which is registered. Katie Hawk's, too."

"I didn't see her name."

"On the menu at Matt Montana's Hometown Bar and Grill. Country Connections has an entire legal department to deal with this, to see that the miscreants are dragged into court and fined into oblivion. They don't mess around because it's a very lucrative source for the company. They come down like a block of granite. And I can't think of a single business in town that didn't use Matt's name, from the obvious ones on the main road all the way to the Satterlings' produce stand out toward Emmet. They were selling Matt's Homegrown Pecans. What was I supposed to do? Tell 'em to sue everybody in town?"

"Reckon that might cause a problem," Harve acknowledged with a sigh. "What did ya do?"

"There were still some tourists in town, and I didn't much want a repeat of the earlier riot. I told 'em to have the concert and then go back to Nashville and do whatever they could for a week. It's going to leak out by then, anyway. Jim Bob was swaggering around at the concert, talking about his songs, and a couple of folks at the launderette overheard Katie's so-called private conversation and yelled some crude remarks at Matt while he was on stage. Only about a hundred people showed up, which makes me think the grapevine is back in business, even if certain establishments are closed real tight. Once I explained the problem, you've never seen signs come down so quickly. The town limit sign is back in its original spot, and the only signs on the highway claim there are seven hundred fifty-five of us and that we've got a Kiwanis Club somewhere."

"Out behind the Methodist church, maybe."

"Hammet was so disillusioned that he turned in his cowboy suit and refused to attend the concert. He hung around the apartment all day yesterday, then went off earlier this afternoon. Brother Verber is supposed to drive him back to the foster home in the morning."

"Then everything'll be back to normal, heh?" Harve said, chuckling. "As normal as it ever gets over there, anyway."

"As normal as it ever gets," I said as I stared glumly at the ceiling. The water stain did not have ears.

Harve rumbled uneasily, took a few puffs, and finally said, "About that guy that drowned in Boone Creek ...?"

"That one's still yours. He was a tourist and we had a deal, Harve. He may have been married to one of the Nashville people, and it may have been more than a coincidence that he appeared in town, but there's no proof that any of them went down to the creek and shoved Charlie Tunnato into the water. I'm not saying it wasn't in all of their interests not to let him talk to Matt Montana. None of them want Matt to realize he might be a free agent in both marital and professional matters."

We chatted a while longer, then I hung up and went to the window to look at the darkening town. The streetlight was on and the one stoplight was keeping everybody from getting too rowdy. The town had survived the onslaught, and if we weren't wiser, I'd like to think we would be a good deal warier in the future.

There were a few things I hadn't told Harve. One was that Adele had called from Padre Island. With Merle Hardc.o.c.k cackling in the background and urging her to hurry on account of the wet T-shirt contest, she'd said she was well and asked how had little Moses Germander's visit turned out. Fine, I'd mumbled. She'd gone on to say how disappointed she was not to have been there to hear little Moses sing the song about the detour to heaven that Mr. Wockermann had written on their tenth wedding anniversary. I'd said it was shame. Her last remark was the clincher. She'd finally recalled the details of the baby's birth all those years ago. Adele, the expectant mother, and Mr. Wockermann had been visiting kin in Ca.s.sville when the baby came a week early.

Seems the manger was in Missouri all along.

"Therefore," Mrs. Jim Bob said, "it's clear that the Good Lord wants me to donate all the profits from the shoppe to the Missionary Society. If you'll give me the key to the a.s.sembly Hall, I'll just go get the checkbook, take it home, make sure it's balanced nice and neat, and bring it back. Of course I'm busy these days, but it shouldn't take too long."

"Praise the Lord," said Brother Verber. He lifted his face to give her a perplexed look, then let it drop and gave his feet a perplexed look. Lots of things were perplexing, he thought as he took a drink of wine. Even that was perplexing.

"We missed you at the concert," she continued, "but it went well enough, considering the sort of characters those Nashville folks turned out to be. Miss Katie Hawk was supposed to go first and sing two songs, but Ripley Keswick came right onto the stage and said she was going to do a full set. It's kinda funny they'd change the schedule like that, just to do her a favor, isn't it?"

Brother Verber knew he had to say something--that much he could tell from the way she was glaring at him. "Praise the Lord, Brother Barbara."

"Perhaps I'd better just get the key later," she said, her mouth real pinched as she stood over him. There was an empty wine bottle on the kitchen cabinet and half a dozen next to his garbage can. Later, she thought, when her own position was ... less vexatious, she'd remind him of his sacred duties as pastor of the flock of the Voice of the Almighty Lord a.s.sembly Hall. She'd remind him at length and in a loud, clear voice that would drive demon rum from his gullet and cleanse his soul.

He fell over on the couch and began to snore, bubbling at the mouth like a spring. It occurred to her that she might just take the key right then and there, fetch the checkbook, and be about her business. The key was likely to be on the dresser, so she picked up her gloves and purse and went down the short hallway to the little bedroom.

She couldn't find the switch, but she could see the dresser over by the bed, and she stepped gingerly through a mess of clothes and dishes on the floor. She was feeling for the key when she realized someone was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she screamed so loudly that if it were Satan himself, he'd have flown straight out the window.

Once she realized it wasn't any sort of manifestation of the devil, but was instead a woman with long dark hair and dressed in a cowgirl outfit, she let out a little selfdeprecatory laugh. "Excuse me," she said, "but you startled me sitting so still like that. Brother Verber didn't mention he had a guest. I suppose you're a relative from out of town, and that's why he's sleeping on the couch and you're in here?" There was no response. Mrs. Jim Bob was miffed, but she didn't have time to do anything more than sniff, find the key, and start back to the door. "I'll just be on my way . . ." she began, then looked a little harder. There was a chip on the woman's nose and she was missing a foot.

Mrs. Jim Bob began to scream with all her might.

"Aw, Kevvie," Dahlia said, holding out her hand so her inlaws could see the diamond ring. It wasn't gonna blind anybody, but it was definitely a diamond. "I cain't believe you got me this for our very first Christmas. Ain't he a sweetie?"

Earl agreed in a grumbly voice. He wanted to watch the basketball game, but decided maybe he'd better not. Eilene had fixed his breakfast for two days running, but she was still acting kind of spooky. Before the kids arrived for supper, he'd been out changing the oil in the truck and turned around to find her standing in the doorway, looking at him like he was a used car out at Hobart Middleton's lot. There hadn't been a '64 Mustang glint in her eye, either.

"And I forgive you," Dahlia was saying, s...o...b..ring all over Kevin and managing to admire the ring all the while.

Kevin squirmed. "I jest couldn't make enough money selling those durn vacuum cleaners to buy you this for our first Christmas together. It had to be something real special, not just a box of candy and a bottle of cologne. Miss Crate had me delivering packages all day and then, well, modeling at her parties. I just reminded myself it was all so I could get my love G.o.ddess the best present in the world."

Earl felt his blood pressure shoot up on account of his son being a model, which meant he'd probably decide next to be a florist or a hairdresser or a ballet dancer. "Just don't show up here in leotards," he said, then glanced at Eilene. "Ain't no son of mine gonna dance on a stage. That's all there is to it. He can clean septic tanks or git a job with the Mafia, but he ain't gonna dance. Now I'm going in the other room to watch the game. Are you coming, son?"

"Sure," Kevin said as he untangled his sweetcake's arms from around his neck and whispered something in her ear that turned all of her chins bright pink.

"Is everything okay?" asked Eilene when Kevin had stumbled away to watch basketball and drink beer and do other manly things like belch and scratch, just so his pa could sleep knowing there was no pas de deux in Kevin's future.

"Yeah, I suppose," Dahlia said. "I still worry about beaning Mr. Dentha. Mebbe I should call him and apologize." She thought about it, then brightened up and said, "Or mebbe I should send him a fruitcake. Whattya think, Ma?"

"A lovely idea," she murmured, "and so appropriate."

Miss Vetchling gazed down at the expanse of blue water below her. Little whitecaps dotted the surface like a sprinkle of snowflakes, but of course it was all sunny and warm down there, just like it would be at her final destination. It was very cold where Mr. Dentha was, but there'd simply been no time to call someone to repair the broken window at the office. Or to notify the regional manager that the Farberville office was closed indefinitely. Or to arrange for someone to remove Mr. Dentha's body in preparation for his successor. There was p.u.s.s.y Toes to deliver to a friend, and the hasty trip to the travel agent, and all the last-minute shopping and packing. Only now was Miss Vetchling able to sit back, enjoy a gla.s.s of gin, and speculate as to why Mr. Dentha had returned to the office to have his fatal heart attack. Perhaps he'd desired to die in a room where his lips would match the wallpaper.

"Pretty down there," said the man in the seat next to her. He leaned forward, pressing her arm as he tried to get a better view of the island they were approaching.

"Cozumel," she told him. "A tourist trap, from what I've been told. Very, very expensive and horrible service. I have a tight budget, so I'm always careful to avoid places like that and find something with the authentic feel of the real Mexico."

"So where are you going?"

Miss Vetchling decided that she did not care for his shifty eyes any more than his bad breath. "Oh, a little town with primitive facilities. Nothing worth visiting, I'm sorry to say."

"Why go? You a missionary?"

"No," she said as she looked down at the golden sand and the toy hotels so far below, "I'm a private investigator. Now if you'll excuse me, I must ..." She gave him the chagrined look of a spinster spinster too prudish to even allude to bodily functions, and he smirked as he rose to let her out.

Toward the back was a gentleman with a balding head and a sloppy mustache, but there was something she liked about his smile. The seat beside him was empty. She put her hand on the arm rest and struggled to look out the window. "Is that Mexico down there?" she asked, wondering how he would react at the sight of her dressed in a red teddy and a garter belt adorned with little green bows.

She'd been foolish and extravagant, but after all, it was almost Christmas and Mr. Dentha was beyond begrudging her the contents of his metal box--and his wallet.

"How about supper?" I called to Hammet, who was sitting on the landing. "We can drive into Farberville afterward and get ice cream. Maybe go to another movie or hunt for fountains."

He didn't react. I went across the street and stopped at the bottom of the steps. I knew what was wrong, and I knew what he'd say if I asked. His answer was the problem. He represented a tie to MagG.o.dy, another reason that would keep me here until my hair was as gray as Ruby Bee's was reputed to be. At the moment, the only thing keeping me from leaving was my own sense of uncertainty. I couldn't let myself use him as an excuse to justify my behavior to myself or to anybody else. There was too much of that going on already.

"Got somethin' to show you," he said. "Can it wait until we eat? I was so busy talking to people all day that I skipped lunch."

He lifted his face and gave me a full dose of the starving orphan, even sucking in his cheeks and widening his eyes as if he were expiring from malnutrition on the spot. "If it has to, I guess it can," he said morosely. "Don't much matter anyways, seein' how I'll be gone come tomorrow. It's a present for you."

So what's the big deal about allowing yourself to be manipulated by a pint-sized con man? "Okay," I said, "show it to me and then we'll eat. You want cobbler at Ruby Bee's before we go for ice cream?"

He opened the door and gestured for me to go in. I took a step and stopped, too surprised to go any farther. In the middle of the room was a misshapen pine tree, no more than five feet high, branches at odd angles, and sticking out one side as if trying to keep from pitching over. It was decorated with dozens of gla.s.s b.a.l.l.s, strands of lights, wooden soldiers and animals, loops of tinsel--the whole bit up to the fat silver angel who'd slipped but was hanging on by a halo.

Heaped around it and over most of the floor was powdery snow, or powdery something. Mounds and mounds of undulating white covered the furniture and the countertops. Your basic winter wonderland right there in my apartment.

"Where'd you get all this?" I asked.

"Oh, I dunno," he said, beaming at me as if he hadn't ever heard the word thief. I squished through the flakes and looked more closely at the tree. "Is this a loblolly pine?"

"I reckon it's a Christmas pine."

"Do you?" I sank down on the sofa and stared at him. "Loblollies don't grow wild. Did you cut this down from someone's yard?"

"Not me. I jest found it lying in the alley right out back and figgered somebody threw it away on account of it being runty. Folks shouldn't throw things away on account of them being runty. This little tree needed somebody to take care of it and make sure it has a happy Christmas, dint it?"

The child had more weapons than a battalion of marines. The haggard face, the big eyes, the deft way to turn a phrase and stick it in me like a bayonet. And don't think for a second he hadn't rehea.r.s.ed half the afternoon. Hammet Buchanon was no amateur. Then again, I told myself as I flopped back on the sofa and struggled not to laugh as white flakes fluttered around me, maybe I'd let the Nashville madness extinguish my holiday spirit. Maybe it was time to get in touch with my inner-elf.

"But you're going back after Christmas," I said as we started down the stairs. "Understand?"

"Hey, whenever you want. Don't matter none to me."

"That's good to hear. Hey, Hammet, about that fake snow?"

"Miss Estelle gave it to me for free. She had six whole cases of it in her living room. She said it were ivory snow, but it looks white to me."

"And the decorations?" He pulled my jacket more tightly around him and looked up, grinning. "I heard Ruby Bee tellin' you the key was above the door. It weren't no problem gittin' the decorations downstairs and it only took three trips to carry 'em, but the tree in the living room was too G.o.dd.a.m.n heavy for me to drag. 'Sides, it was so straight and green and perfect that it looked kinda fake to me."

He pulled my jacket more tightly around him and looked up, grinning. "I heard Ruby Bee tellin' you the key was above the door. It weren't no problem gittin' the decorations downstairs and it only took three trips to carry 'em, but the tree in the living room was too G.o.dd.a.m.n heavy for me to drag. 'Sides, it was so straight and green and perfect that it looked kinda fake to me."