The Christmas Thief (11 page)

W
ayne Covel tried to get some sleep after he hid the flask of diamonds in the elm tree in his front yard.

But it was no use. He realized that hiding the diamonds in the tree was a dumb idea. If those Rockefeller Center people came swarming onto his property begging him to let them have his blue spruce, who knew what might happen? The tree in which he had hidden the flask wasn’t far from it. Suppose some photographer got the notion to climb the elm and get a good picture of them cutting it down?

Having the flask out of his sight gave Wayne the willies.

Just before dawn he opened the door, went outside, climbed the elm, and retrieved the flask. He brought it back to bed with him, unscrewed the cap, took a quick peek at the diamonds, and then drifted off to sleep, cuddling the flask like a baby with a bottle.

When Lem Pickens came banging on the door with the police chief, Wayne jumped up and the flask went flying out of his hands. The cap went sailing through the air as the flask hit the uneven wooden floor with a thud. Diamonds scattered randomly around the atrociously untidy room and settled among the piles of dirty clothes on the floor.

Wayne answered the door in his red nightshirt and was appalled to find an array of television cameras waiting for him. His first thought was the terrifying possibility that the police chief had that search warrant he was worried about. When he realized they had only come a-calling so Lem could scream at him, Wayne screamed back and slammed the door in their faces. A man’s home is his castle, he told himself. He didn’t have to take that guff from anyone. He bolted the door and raced back to his room to retrieve the diamonds. After he had sorted through his dirty clothes and was satisfied that he had all the diamonds back in the flask, he was uncharacteristically motivated to do a wash. I wish I’d thought to count my diamonds last night, but the flask looks full, he mused.

Grabbing one of the heaps of laundry, he walked to the door in the kitchen that led to the basement, pulled it open, flicked on the light, and made his way down the creaky steps, carefully avoiding the bottom step that was broken. No wonder I don’t come down here much, he thought as he breathed the dank sour smell of the musty cellar. I should get around to cleaning up this place someday, he thought, but now I can
hire
somebody to do it. First thing I ought to do is get rid of that coal bin. Pop switched to oil heat after World War II, but he never got around to getting rid of it. He just closed it off, put a door on it, and made it into a little workroom he never used.

I sure haven’t used it either, Wayne thought. It would probably be easier to burn this place down and start from scratch than to clean it up. He dropped the pile of clothes on the floor in front of the washing machine, reached up to the shelf, grabbed the nearly empty box of detergent, and shook its remains into the machine. He scooped up half of the clothes, dropped them around the agitator, closed the lid, turned the dial, and went back upstairs.

His television set was on the kitchen counter next to his laptop computer. He put on a pot of coffee, flipped on the TV, and moved his computer to the table. For the rest of the morning he kept the television on, nervously flipping among the news stations, all of which seemed to be covering the story of the missing tree. He also heard over and over that Packy Noonan, a swindler who had just been paroled, had been seen getting into a van with Vermont plates and had worked in Stowe in a troubled youth program.

Packy Noonan, Wayne thought. Packy Noonan. It sounds familiar. I kind of remember that name.

At the same time Wayne was trying to educate himself on what was going on in the diamond world by visiting different Web sites. I’ve got to figure out where I can sell these, he thought. He came across a number of ads for appraisals. “We buy at the highest prices and sell at the lowest” seemed to be the slogan for most of the places that traded and sold diamonds. Yeah, right, Wayne thought. And yeah, I know diamonds are forever. They’re a girl’s best friend. They show you care. Give me a break! He smiled. Lorna would be salivating if she were here right now and got a look at these babies.

As if he had ESP or, better yet, she had ESP, he heard the click that meant a new e-mail had popped up in his box. Expecting it might be from someone who wanted him to do an odd job, he was surprised to see it was from the ex instead.

Wayne stared at the e-mail with disgust. Xoxo, hugs and kisses, he thought disdainfully—she’s just looking for a free trip to New York. Wants to get in on the act. If she only knew what the really big news was around the Covel household, she’d come flying back on her broom.

It gave him a laugh that she made a point of reminding him about the machete she gave him for Christmas. When he had opened it, she made a big deal about getting his name engraved on it. You’d have thought it was a hunk of gold. Then, slowly but surely, a troubling possibility occurred to him.

Machete.

His tool belt had felt light when he strapped it on this morning to get the flask. When he took it off, he had tossed it on the other kitchen chair. Now he dove for it and, hoping against hope, held it up.

The machete was missing!

Did I drop it near Lem’s tree last night? I was out of my bird when I found the flask, so I might not have noticed if I dropped it. What did she have to put my name on it for?

Lem couldn’t have found it yet, or he would have been waving it at me this morning.

Those crooks who cut the tree—maybe
they
found it. Maybe they’re on the way here. Maybe they’ll kill me for taking the loot.

I don’t want to be here all by myself, he thought. On the other hand, if I just take off, everyone will think I cut down the tree.

The phone rang. Eager to hear the sound of another voice, Wayne grabbed it. “Hello.”

Whoever was at the other end of the phone said nothing.

“Hello,” Wayne repeated nervously. “Is anybody there?”

The response was a click in his ear.

H
e definitely has the flask,” Packy reported as he closed his cell phone.

“How do you know?” Jo-Jo asked.

“I just know. Call it criminal instinct.”

“It takes one to know one, huh, Packy?”

They were getting a late start. It was 10
A.M.
, and Packy and Jo-Jo were sitting in the decrepit brown sedan that the owner of the farm had originally kept around for his handyman and then had willingly sold to Milo. Fifteen years old, with dents in all the fenders, a rear bumper held on by ropes, and replacement parts that had been salvaged from a junk-yard, it was a spectacular example of a vehicle that only a person as blissfully impractical as Milo would buy.

Between them Packy and Jo-Jo had hauled Milo and Opal to the upstairs bedrooms and tied them to the bedposts. They had tried to revive Benny by dunking and dunking his head in a sink full of cold water. Finally, they gave up, dragged Benny outside, and hoisted him into the trunk of the car. In a burst of brotherly love, Jo-Jo ran back inside and grabbed a pillow to place under Benny’s head and a quilt to cover him. Then he closed Benny’s hand over a flashlight and pinned a note to his jacket just in case he woke up and wondered what was going on.

“I wrote that he should stay put and keep quiet until we got back,” Jo-Jo explained.

“Why don’t you read him a bedtime story?” Packy growled.

Packy knew there was no way they could use the van even though Jo-Jo warned him that Milo complained the car wasn’t too reliable.

“Maybe you can’t hear what they’re saying on television,” Packy yelled. “They’re all talking about me getting in a van with a ski rack and Vermont plates. They’re saying I worked up here in Stowe when I was a kid. Every cop in Vermont, especially in this area, is taking a long, hard look at a van with ski racks. We go out in the van, and we might as well turn ourselves in and collect the reward for finding me.”

“We go out in that heap, and we’re lucky if we get as far as the barn,” Jo-Jo retorted.

“Maybe we should go in the flatbed with the tree on it.”

Packy and Jo-Jo glared at each other. Then Packy said, “Jo-Jo, we’ve got to get our diamonds. That guy Covel has to have them. Nobody’s looking for us in this heap. Let’s go.”

Packy was behind the wheel. He put on his dark glasses. “Give me one of the ski hats,” he snapped.

“Do you want the blue with the orange stripe or the green with the—”

“Just give me a hat!”

Packy turned on the ignition. It sputtered and died. He pumped the gas. “Come on! Come on!”

“Maybe I should put a hat on Benny,” Jo-Jo suggested. “There’s no heat in the trunk. His hair is still damp.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Packy screamed. “The minute Benny falls asleep, you act dopier than Benny when Benny’s at his dopiest.”

Jo-Jo had the door open. “I’m putting his hat on,” he said stubbornly. “Besides, his blood is thin after being in Brazil so long.”

In an effort to preserve his sanity, Packy began to consider his problems and his options. Nobody will pay attention to this car, he assured himself. The poet’s been tooling around in it long enough. We have to take the chance that it won’t break down. At least we know Covel is home. We have to get inside that dump he lives in and make him give us the flask. It’s only ten miles to the airstrip, and the pilot is waiting for us there.

Jo-Jo got back in the car.

“Hurry up,” Packy barked. “We’ve gotta get out of here before somebody shows up looking for Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who’s Sherlock Holmes?” Jo-Jo asked.

“Opal Fogarty, you idiot!
The investor!”

“Oh,
her.
That one has a temper. I don’t want to be around when she wakes up and finds herself hog-tied.”

Packy did not dignify that observation with a comment. He stepped on the gas and with a roar the car took off with its three occupants, two of whom were determined to recover their diamonds and the third who, if awake, would have shared that determination.

Inside the securely locked farmhouse, the burner that Jo-Jo thought he had completely turned off under the coffeepot was flickering slightly. Before the car had left the yard, the flame went out. A moment later a noxious odor slowly began to drift from the stove, an odor that warned of escaping gas.

T
he minute Alvirah saw Willy standing off by himself near the stump of Lem and Viddy’s tree, her heart sank. She charged through the crowd of gawking onlookers and rushed to him. “No Opal?” she asked.

Knowing how upset Alvirah was becoming, Willy hedged. “Well, she’s not here, honey, but I bet anything she’s back at our villa right now, probably packing to go home and fretting about missing us at breakfast.”

“She would have called my cell phone. I left a message at the villa for her. Willy, we both know that something’s happened to her.”

The Reillys caught up with them. From the look on Alvirah’s face, Regan could tell that Opal was still among the missing. “Why don’t we head to your place?” Regan suggested. “Maybe Opal got lost when she was cross-country skiing and is just getting back to the lodge.”

Alvirah nodded. “Oh, how I wish. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

They walked rapidly from the clearing, which was still filled with television cameras and reporters. Before they reached the area where they had parked their cars, Alvirah’s cell phone rang. Everyone held their breath while Alvirah pulled the phone out quickly to answer it.

It was Charley Evans, Alvirah’s editor. “Alvirah, the story’s getting bigger by the minute. It’s on every one of the cable news stations. People from all over the country are sending in e-mails expressing their disgust at whoever stole the tree. The viewers say the tree represents a piece of Americana, and they want it back.”

“That’s good,” Alvirah said halfheartedly. All she could think about was Opal. But Charley’s next statement sent chills through her.

“And as for Packy Noonan, wait till you hear this. One of his roommates at the halfway house was watching the news about the tree stolen from Stowe and Packy being seen getting into a van with Vermont plates. He called the cops and told them that Packy was talking in his sleep the other night. First he kept mumbling, ‘Gotta get the flask.’ ”

“ ‘Gotta get the flask,’ ” Alvirah repeated. “Well, I guess he hasn’t had a drink in thirteen years. He’s probably been dreaming of a cocktail or two all this time.”

“But it’s what else he was mumbling that is really interesting,” Charley continued.

“What was that?”

“He kept saying ‘Stowe.’ The roommate didn’t think of the town until he connected Stowe with the Vermont plates this morning.”

“Oh, my God,” Alvirah cried. “The friend I told you about who lost money in his scam and who came up here with us is missing.”

“She’s
missing!”

Alvirah could tell that Charley’s antennae for a good news story had just shot up. “She never came back this morning after an early cross-country ski run. She was supposed to meet us hours ago.”

“If she ran into Packy Noonan, would she recognize him?” Charley asked.

“Like the nose on her face.”

“I can tell how worried you are, Alvirah. I hope she turns up soon,” Charley said. “But keep me posted,” he added hastily.

Alvirah told the others about Packy’s nocturnal mumblings.

“ ‘Gotta get the flask’?” Regan questioned. “If he wanted a drink, he didn’t need to use a flask. It has to mean something else.”

“A lot of people use flasks to hide their liquor,” Nora suggested, “so they can have a quick nip when no one is looking.”

“Remember, your uncle Terry used to do that, Nora,” Luke said. “No one was better at sneaking a slug than he was.”

“Dad, could you wait until after I’m married to share those heartwarming family stories?” Regan asked.

“Wait till you meet the rest of my relatives,” Jack said to Regan with a smile. Then he turned serious. “I do wonder what would make Packy Noonan dream about a flask.”

“I’d love to know the significance of the flask for Packy,” Alvirah said quickly, “but right now what really concerns me is that he was talking about
Stowe
in his sleep.”

Opal was not at the villa, nor had she been there to pack her bags. Everything was the same as when Alvirah and Willy had left hours before. Alvirah’s note to Opal was still on the counter.

They hurried to the lodge and inquired at the desk.

“Our friend Opal Fogarty seems to be missing,” Alvirah said. “Have there been any reports of anyone injured out on the cross-country trails?”

The girl at the desk looked concerned. She shook her head. “No, but I can assure you we patrol the trails all the time. I’ll notify the people at the Sports Shop to go out and start looking for Miss Fogarty. How long has she been gone?”

“She left our villa early this morning and had planned to meet us for breakfast at eight-thirty. That was almost three hours ago,” Alvirah said anxiously.

“They’ll get the snowmobiles out right away. If she doesn’t show up soon, we’ll call the Stowe Rescue Center.”

Stowe Rescue Center. The very name sounded ominous to Alvirah. “Opal went out cross-country skiing the last couple of days,” she told the clerk. “Would you know if the instructors she was with on Saturday afternoon and Sunday afternoon are around? We only skied with her in the morning.”

“Let me find out for you.” The clerk picked up the phone, called the Sports Shop, and began to ask questions. A few moments later she hung up. “The instructor Miss Fogarty skied with yesterday said nothing unusual happened when they were on the trails. The instructor from Saturday afternoon is off today, but she certainly didn’t make any reports of trouble on the trails when they came in.”

“Thank you,” Alvirah said. She gave her cell phone number to the clerk and asked her to please call immediately if she received any word about Opal. Then she turned to the group, all of whom were wearing somber expressions. “I certainly have no interest in visiting my maple syrup tree at this point, and I know you all have to get going. So go ahead. I’ll call you as soon as Willy and I hear anything.”

Regan looked at Jack. “I don’t have to get back. I’ll stay and help Alvirah and Willy look for Opal.”

“I’m staying, too,” Jack said decisively.

Nora looked frustrated. “I wish we could stay, but I have to catch a plane first thing in the morning.” She shook her head. “I can’t back out of this luncheon.”

“Nora, don’t worry,” Alvirah said. “And, Regan, you and Jack don’t have to stay.”

“We’re staying,” Regan said with finality.

“Don’t look so worried, honey,” Willy said to Alvirah. “It’s going to be all right.”

“But, Willy,” she cried, “there is a chance that Packy Noonan is around here somewhere. He’s broken parole, and Opal is missing. If Opal and Packy crossed paths, I don’t know what he’d do to her. He knows she hates his guts and would be happy to see him back in jail. By breaking parole that’s just where he’d end up.”

“Alvirah, do you have a picture of Opal with you?” Regan asked.

“I don’t even have a picture of Willy.”

“Was Opal’s picture in the newspaper when she won the lottery?” Regan asked.

“Yes. That’s how that idiot Packy Noonan found out she had money and decided to go after her.”

“We can get her picture off the computer then and make copies to show people and ask if they’ve seen her,” Regan said.

“Regan and I will take care of that,” Jack volunteered. “Luke and Nora, I know you have to pack up and go. Alvirah and Willy, why don’t we meet you back at your villa in half an hour? Then we’ll start spreading Opal’s face around town.”

“I have such a bad feeling,” Alvirah confided. “I blame myself for inviting her up here. From the minute we arrived I had a feeling something would go wrong.”

It was almost as if she could smell the gas that was already seeping through the farmhouse where Opal and Milo were lying in a drug-induced sleep.