The Christmas Thief (12 page)

A
fter the Reillys and Alvirah left the farmhouse, Viddy began to collect the empty hot chocolate cups. Lem helped her carry them to the kitchen, and it was there that the reality of what had happened hit Viddy full blast. The shock at finding her tree gone hadn’t really sunk in when the police and the media were swarming around. Being on television with Lem had been exciting, and then meeting up with those nice people, the Meehans and the Reillys, had been a good distraction—particularly since Nora Regan Reilly was her favorite mystery writer.

But now all she could think about was her tree, how she and Lem had planted it on their wedding day and how Maria von Trapp had happened to come walking along the footpath, stopped to congratulate them, and agreed to have her picture taken. And then I had the nerve to ask her if she would sing that beautiful Austrian wedding song that I had heard her sing at the lodge. She was so kind, and the song was magical. I remember thinking that we’d never plant any other tree too close so that our children would be able to play in the clearing around our wedding tree.

Viddy’s eyes were welling with tears as she put the cups she was holding in the sink. We were never blessed with children, and maybe it’s foolish, but how we babied that tree! We measured its height every year even though somebody else had to do it for us for the last ten years because I wouldn’t let Lem get up that high on the ladder anymore.

When her unexpected company came to the house, Viddy had rushed to the breakfront and taken out the cups and saucers from her cherished set of good china. She never used them except on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and then she had her heart in her mouth for fear someone would break something. Lem’s nephew’s wife, Sandy, was a good enough soul, but she piled dishes one on top of the other helter-skelter when she helped to clear the table. In spite of that unwanted assistance, Viddy had somehow managed to keep her china intact all these years. A few chips here and there, but nothing to get too upset about.

Knowing Viddy’s feelings about her china, Lem carefully placed the cups he was carrying on top of the drainboard. Viddy went to pick them up and put them in the sink, but suddenly her eyes flooded with tears. In an involuntary gesture to brush them away, she dropped one of the cups. But before it fell into the sink where it would certainly have landed on another cup, Lem’s big hand swooped under it and saved it.

“I got it, Viddy,” Lem exulted. “You still have all your fancy china.”

Viddy’s response was to run from the kitchen into the bedroom. Then she hurried back into the parlor with their photo album. “I don’t even care about my china anymore,” she cried. “I know perfectly well that the minute I close my eyes for good and Sandy gets my china, she’ll use it when she makes bologna sandwiches for the kids.”

With trembling fingers Viddy opened the photo album and pointed to the last picture they had taken of the tree. “Our tree! Oh, Lem, I just wanted to see the expressions on people’s faces when they saw it in New York City all ablaze with lights. I wanted the tree to be like a work of art with everybody admiring it and oohing and aahing over it. I wanted to have a great big beautiful picture to put right between them.”

She gestured to the two photos over the fireplace. “I wanted to have a recording of the schoolchildren singing songs when our tree arrived at Rockefeller Center. Lem, we’re old now. Each year when spring comes around, I wonder if I’ll see another one. I know we’re not going to go out in any burst of glory, but our tree was somehow going to do it for us. It was going to make us special.”

“There, there, Viddy,” Lem said awkwardly. “Calm down now.”

Viddy ignored him, pulled a tissue out of her housedress, blew her nose, and continued. “At Rockefeller Center they keep a history of all the trees—how tall they were and how wide they were and how old they were and who donated them and whatever was special about them. A few years ago the tree was given by a convent, and they have a picture of the nun who planted it, and another picture of her fifty years later, on the day it was cut down. That’s history, Lem. Our history with our tree was going to always be there for people to read about. And now our tree has probably been thrown in the woods somewhere where it will begin to rot, and
I CAN’T BEAR IT!”

With a wail Viddy threw down the album, collapsed onto the couch, and buried her face in her hands.

Lem stared at her, dumbfounded. In fifty years he had never heard quiet, retiring Viddy say so much or show so much emotion. I never realized how deep she is, he thought. I can’t say I like it.

Forget the posse.

He leaned down and took her face in his hands.

“Leave me alone, Lem. Just leave me alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone, Viddy, but first I’m going to tell you something. Listen to me. You listening?”

She nodded.

He looked into her eyes. “You stop that crying right now because I’m making you a promise. I saved your cup, didn’t I?”

Sniffling, she nodded.

“Alrighty. I say that snake Covel cut down our tree. But you heard the Rockefeller Center people say that whoever took it must have used the crane to get it onto their flatbed. So that means it should be in good shape. Now maybe that skunk managed to take the tree, but he couldn’t have gotten far with it. He was still in his nightshirt early this morning when I banged on his door. He could have hidden a tree by dumping it in the woods, but he can’t hide no flatbed. Our tree is around here somewhere, and I’m going to find it. I’m going to cover every inch of this town. I’m going to walk across any property that has a big backyard and peek in every barn that’s big enough to hold a flatbed, and
I’m going to find our tree!”

Lem straightened up. “As sure as my name is Lemuel Abner Pickens, I’m not coming back till I come back with our tree. Do you believe me, Vidya?”

Viddy scrunched up her face. She looked unconvinced.

“Do you believe me, Vidya?” Lem asked again, sternly.

“I want to. Just don’t get yourself arrested trespassing on other people’s property.”

But Lem was already out the door.

“Or get yourself shot,” she called after him.

Lem did not hear her.

Like Don Quixote, he was a man with a mission.

W
ill you look at all these cars?” Jo-Jo snarled. “You’d think they were giving away diamonds.”

“Why do you always know just the right thing to say?” Packy snapped. “They’re all here gawking at that stump we left in the ground.”

There was a solid line of traffic both coming and going on the road to Lem Pickens’s farm. People were pulling over, parking their cars on the rough shoulder, and walking the rest of the way into the forest. It had the feeling of opening day of football season.

“I’m surprised they’re not tailgating,” Packy growled. “What’s the big deal about that tree anyway? If they knew the real story behind it…”

“If they knew the real story behind it, there’d be a lot more traffic,” Jo-Jo said practically.

The road was gradually curving. As they got closer to the turnoff at the dirt road, cars were parked in a solid line.

“This may be a break for us,” Packy muttered as they passed the spot where they had pulled in last night.

The road continued to curve as they went another thousand feet to a wire fence that defined the property line between Lem Pickens’s and Wayne Covel’s acreage. A television truck was in the driveway of the ramshackle house they had seen on television when Lem Pickens had so rudely banged on Wayne Covel’s door and begun shouting accusations. A group of reporters was standing around a huge tree in Covel’s front yard.

“That must be the runner-up in the beauty contest,” Packy stated. “If I had time, I’d chop it down.”

“Too bad it didn’t win,” Jo-Jo said. “Then Covel wouldn’t have been nosing around our tree. Look, there he is.”

The front door had opened, and Wayne Covel was standing there, grinning as the cameras were turned on him.

“This works for us,” Packy said quickly. “Everyone seems to be out front. We’ll go in the back way.”

He drove around the bend. There were a few more cars parked there. He chose a space between two cars and parallel-parked Milo’s heap where it would be less noticeable than if it stood alone.

Pulling his ski hat down over his forehead as far as it would go, Packy opened the door and got out of the car. He leaned back in and picked up the paper bag that contained Wayne Covel’s engraved machete. Thank God for engravers, he thought, or else we’d be whistling in the dark for the crook who made off with our flask. But why would you bother to get a machete engraved? What a loser.

With a nervous glance in the direction of the trunk, Jo-Jo got out of the car and fell in step behind Packy who darted into the woods. They made their way to the back of Wayne’s farmhouse. Peering out from the protection of the trees, they could see a small barn. The door was open, and a pickup truck was parked inside it.

“What now, Packy?” Jo-Jo whispered. “You think we can get in those cellar doors?” He pointed to the rusty metal doors that slanted up from the ground and obviously led to the basement.

“First I want to disable his car in case he decides to take off before we get the diamonds. I’m gonna yank a couple of wires in that truck.”

“That’s a good idea, Packy,” Jo-Jo said admiringly. “It’s like what the nuns did in
The Sound of Music.
Remember when the nuns said to the mother superior that they had sinned?”

“Shut up, Jo-Jo. Wait here. I’ll signal you when I’m finished, and we’ll cut across to the basement doors.”

Packy ran across the twenty feet of open field to the barn, praying to his dead mother the whole time that no one would see him. Within two minutes he had pulled up the hood, cut a few wires with Covel’s machete, and closed the hood with the intense satisfaction that Covel’s machete was working for him now. That thought was followed by the realization that the last time the machete had been used was to free his flask from the branch where it had been hidden for over thirteen years. He waited at the door of the barn until he was as sure as he could be that the coast was clear. He raced diagonally across the open field to the cellar doors. A padlock that looked as though it had been in place for many years came apart easily with one blow of the machete. Holding his breath, Packy leaned over and lifted one of the doors. The creak of the rusty hinges made his blood freeze. He pulled it up enough to allow him to lower himself onto the steps. Then he signaled to Jo-Jo to make a run for it.

As Packy watched in agony, Jo-Jo lumbered across the yard. Packy held the door up as Jo-Jo began to step down, but then Jo-Jo stopped. “Should I pick up the padlock?” he asked in what to him was a whisper. “I mean, if someone takes a walk around the back and sees it, they might say to themselves, ‘Hey! What’s this all about?’ ”

“Grab it and get in here!”

Packy lowered the door above Jo-Jo, and for a moment they couldn’t see anything.

“This place stinks,” Jo-Jo said.

“No worse than a gym, which you obviously haven’t seen the inside of lately.”

“I like the beach.”

When their eyes adjusted, they could see one window thick with grime that offered the only light. Packy flicked on his flashlight and looked around as he carefully navigated his way across the cluttered cement floor. The washing machine was clattering.

“Who does wash at a time like this?” Jo-Jo asked. “Maybe he’s cleaning the clothes he wore when he cut off the branch. Destroying the evidence, you know, Packy? That’s what they do in the movies.”

“I didn’t know you were such a film buff,” Packy snapped.

Next to the washing machine was a crudely put together walled-off section with a door. Packy opened the door and looked inside. “Here’s where we hide until we’re sure Covel is alone.” The tiny room had a workbench and some tools lying around.

The door from upstairs opened, and a lightbulb hanging from a wire over the stairs was flicked on. Packy and Jo-Jo practically dove into the workroom as a load of dirty clothes came flying down the steps. The light flicked off, and the door was slammed shut.

Jo-Jo peered out at the laundry all over the basement floor. “That guy is some slob. And he didn’t need to scare us like that.”

Packy’s heart was thumping. “This isn’t going to be easy. We’ve gotta figure out whether he’s alone.”

They stepped out of the work area, and Packy ran the flashlight over the new load of dirty clothes that were scattered around the base of the stairs. The washing machine began to spin with the force of a tornado.

“That thing sounds like it’s going to take off,” Jo-Jo noted in amazement.

The door from the upstairs opened again, shocking them both. This time in their haste to get back to the protection of the workroom, Jo-Jo tripped over one of Wayne Covel’s tattered flannel shirts. He threw out his palms to soften the impact of his contact with the rough cement floor. His right hand grazed what felt like a sharp stone. With a stifled yelp he yanked up his hand and glanced down. The stone glittered. He grabbed it and, holding it tightly, scampered on his hands and knees into the workroom.

Another load of laundry had come flying down the stairs, and the door was once again slammed shut.

“I scraped my hands,” Jo-Jo complained, trying to catch his breath. “But I think it might have been worth it.” He opened his hand and held it up. “Take a look.” Packy leaned over and shined the flashlight on Jo-Jo’s chubby palm.

Packy picked up the uncut diamond he hadn’t laid eyes on in nearly thirteen years and kissed it. “I’m back,” Packy mumbled.

“You sure that’s one of yours?” Jo-Jo asked. “I mean
ours.”

“Yes, I’m sure! It’s one of the yellow ones. You might not realize it, but you’re looking at two million bucks. But what did that nut case do with the rest of them?”

“Maybe we should go through the laundry,” Jo-Jo suggested. “As distasteful as I find that task, it might be worth it.”

“Good idea. Get started,” Packy ordered. He picked up the machete. “I’ll sneak up the stairs to see what I can hear. If he’s alone, we’re going for him now.”