The Christmas Thief (13 page)

A
rmed with photocopies of Opal’s radiantly happy face as she held up her lottery check, Regan and Jack went back to Alvirah and Willy’s villa. Under Opal’s picture they had printed the information that she was missing and requested anyone who had seen her or had any leads to call either Alvirah’s number or the local police.

“We posted a few of these at the lodge,” Regan said. “Jack and I found out what trails her group went on yesterday. We’re going to walk those trails and put up her picture on trees along the way, and where there are homes nearby, we’ll ring doorbells.”

“And we’ll be looking out for a white van with a ski rack,” Jack said. “I called my office and asked them to keep me updated on anything they learn about Packy Noonan or any breaks in that case. They can’t believe I was up here when the Rockefeller Center tree was stolen. I told one of my guys to keep an eye on that case as well and to keep me posted.”

They were sitting in the living room of the villa, which had somehow lost its cheery warmth. Alvirah’s sense that Opal was in imminent danger strengthened with every passing minute. “Opal could be anywhere,” she said, the tension in her voice obvious. “She could have been forced into a car with someone. She left so early that not many people would have been outside. Willy and I will go into town and post some pictures and show them to people. We’ve got to get moving before it’s too late. I know I said it before, but I have a feeling that Opal is in real danger and that every second counts.”

“Let’s check in with each other in an hour,” Regan suggested. “Jack and I both have our cell phones, and you have yours.”

They left the villa together. Willy and Alvirah got into their car. Jack and Regan walked to the trail where Opal had skied with her Sunday group and followed it into the woods. Today there was no one in sight. As they walked along, Regan asked, “Jack, what do you think the chances are that Opal ran into Packy Noonan?”

“She went to check something out this morning and never came back. If she saw something suspicious and Packy Noonan is in this area…” He raised his hands. “Who knows, Regan?”

The snow crunched under their feet as they walked side by side, shoulders touching. Their eyes darted in and out of the woods on either side of them.

“Maybe he has a friend in this area who is hiding him,” Regan said. “But why? He just spent over twelve years in prison. He’s paid his debt to society for that swindle. As you said last night, he’s risking a lot by breaking parole. You know, Jack, it really is odd that Packy Noonan worked for Lem Pickens and Lem’s tree was cut down less than twenty-four hours after Packy broke parole and was seen getting into a van with Vermont plates. I don’t know why he’d bother cutting down a tree, but it really is a little
too
coincidental, don’t you think?”

Jack nodded. Deep in thought, they continued to walk along the trail, and every thousand feet or so they posted Opal’s likeness on a tree. They knocked at the doors of the occasional farmhouse they passed along the way. No one recognized Opal’s picture or had seen any unusual occurrence. Anyone who was home had the television on and was watching the news about Lem Pickens’s missing tree.

“Those two never did get along,” one woman crisply observed. “But if you want to know my opinion, Wayne Covel would never have the energy to cut down that tree then haul it out of there. Forget it! I hired him once to do some odd jobs here, and it took forever and a day for him to get them done.” She invited them in for coffee, but Regan and Jack declined.

As they walked down her path and back to the cross-country trail, Regan said, “It’s been just about an hour. I’ll give Alvirah a call.” But from Alvirah’s discouraged tone it was clear even before she told them that she and Willy were having no success in finding anyone who could help.

Regan had barely closed her phone when Jack’s began to ring. It was his office. Regan watched his expression change as he listened. When he closed his cell phone, he looked at Regan. “They traced the registration on the flatbed that was abandoned. It was registered to a guy who knew nothing about the tree, but it turns out his cousins, Benny and Jo-Jo Como, were part of Packy Noonan’s shipping scam. And here’s the kicker: They lifted Benny’s fingerprints from the steering wheel.”

“Oh, my God,” Regan said quietly. “Maybe Opal had a run-in with him.”

“Everyone thought those guys had fled the country,” Jack said. “Maybe not.”

“Maybe Benny’s the one who picked up Packy in the van,” Regan speculated. “But a flatbed? Could Packy Noonan really have been involved in the theft of the tree? Why?”

“He paid a visit to the Pickens house less than a year before he was arrested. Maybe he was looking for a hiding place for his loot. As we both know, a lot of crooks don’t trust the banks or safe deposit boxes or even accounts in places like the Cayman Islands.”

“He made off with millions and millions of dollars,” Regan said. “It can’t all be in cash. That’s a lot of cash to try to hide.”

“Thieves put their money in other things such as jewelry and precious stones,” Jack stated. “They can be harder to trace.”

“But if he hid jewelry in Lem Pickens’s tree, why would he have to go to all the trouble to cut the tree down to get it?” Regan asked. “It doesn’t make sense. Well, we’d better let Alvirah know. I’m sure it will be all over the news in a few minutes. Maybe her editor has called her already.” Regan re-dialed Alvirah’s number.

Alvirah had just heard the news from Charley. “Regan, we’re going back to the lodge,” she said. “I feel as though we’re wasting our time in town. I want to talk to the desk clerk again and find out who was actually in Opal’s ski group. I just hope they all aren’t gone by now. And I want to try again to reach the ski instructor who’s off today.”

“We’ll meet you back there. We’re just about at the end of this trail.”

A dead-end trail, Regan thought as she hung up the phone.

L
em jumped in his pickup truck and roared down the driveway. The only comfort he felt was in knowing that there was a reward for his tree, which meant that a lot of people were looking for it. He didn’t care if somebody else found it first and ended up with $10,000 of Rockefeller Center’s money. All he wanted was his and Viddy’s tree, still pretty as a picture, on its way to its glory time in New York City. He could just see the look on Viddy’s face when they pulled the switch at the big ceremony and its branches lit up with thousands of lights.

Lem turned at the end of his driveway and stepped on the gas. His plan was to drive first past Wayne Covel’s house and see what was going on. From there he would go from one barn to another and up some of the dead-end roads on the outskirts of town, where skiers had built homes. A lot of those people didn’t start coming around until after Thanksgiving. Covel could have driven the Rockefeller Center flatbed up any one of those roads and just left it there. No one would see it for days unless they were looking for it.

He flipped on the radio. The local station was buzzing with the news about the tree.

“If I were Wayne Covel and I had nothing to do with the disappearance of that tree, I’d sue Lem Pickens for everything he’s worth—every tree he has left on his property, every chicken in his barn, all the gold in his teeth,” the host was saying. “In this country you can’t publicly slander people and expect to get away with it. Now we have our legal expert here—”

Faintly uneasy, Lem shut off the radio. “You people don’t know anything about justice,” he said, spitting out the words. “Sometimes a man just has to take things into his own hands. Viddy needs her tree. I can’t be bothered waiting around for the cops to find it. And they’d probably need something stupid like a search warrant just to take a peek in somebody’s barn.”

He drove slowly past Wayne Covel’s house. The sight of Wayne’s big tree made his blood boil. If that tree ends up in Rockefeller Center instead of mine, it’ll do Viddy in, he thought. Reporters were camped on Covel’s driveway. He noticed that many of the people he knew from town were standing around, admiring Covel’s tree. He knew some of them couldn’t stand Covel but just wanted to get their faces on TV. It was a disgrace.

Around the bend he spotted the poet’s car. You couldn’t miss it, with that bumper tied on. He had a mind to take the air out of the tires. How dare he waste an evening of Viddy’s life boring her to death with his god-awful poems? He’d even had the nerve to hand out copies of his poem about the fruit fly. Viddy said he likes to share it with anyone and everyone.

Lem kept driving. Maybe I’ll go to the outskirts of town first, he decided. Even Covel wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave the tree too close to his house.

For the next hour and a half Lem trespassed on property all over Stowe. He wandered into barns, opened doors, and climbed up and looked into windows if that was the only way he could check out a structure large enough to contain a flatbed. He was chased away by clucking chickens, neighing horses, and a barnyard dog that yapped at his heels as he made his escape.

By now Lem had worked up an appetite but couldn’t go home. He did not want to face Viddy until he returned with the tree. He got back in his truck and turned on the radio to see if there were any updates about its whereabouts. That was when he got the news about Benny Como’s fingerprints in the flatbed. He hit the steering wheel with his hand.

“Packy Noonan did this!” he cried. I knew in my gut he was up to no good when he happened to stop by thirteen years ago, he thought. But I wanted to believe that he had mended his ways. Huh! And Viddy always said she thought he swiped her cameo pin. I just hope Packy’s in on this with Wayne Covel. If Covel’s innocent, I’m in big trouble. Not only will Viddy be without her tree, but she won’t have a roof over her head. He decided not to let himself think about it.

Lem abandoned his plan to stop for a quick lunch at the diner. I’ve just got to find my tree, he thought frantically.

First things first.

P
acky crouched near the top of the basement steps, fully aware that at any moment Wayne Covel might have a third burst of domesticity and send another load of wash flying into the basement. Which means I catch it in the face, Packy thought. But we can’t wait much longer, he decided.

His knees and back were aching. He had already been there forty minutes.

First Dennis Dolan, a reporter from some town in Vermont, had rung the bell and been invited by Wayne to come in and have a cup of coffee or a beer. Dolan explained that he wanted to do a human interest story on Wayne in case his tree ended up in Rockefeller Center.

Packy had had to endure the story of Wayne’s life, including the fact that his last girlfriend, Lorna, had sent him an e-mail just this morning.

When Dolan had finally asked his last inane question and departed, Wayne went back to the kitchen and turned up the sound of the television. Machete in hand and Jo-Jo behind him armed with masking tape and rope, Packy had been about to throw open the door and pounce on Covel when a sharp rap at the front door torpedoed that plan. Covel left the kitchen to answer it, then heartily greeted someone. From the conversation, it was a drinking buddy, Jake, who had stopped by to offer moral support to him about Lem Pickens’s accusation. With the door from the basement to the kitchen open a slit, Packy was privileged to hear their exchange.

“Wayne, old boy, I told those reporters that Lem’s out of his bird. He just doesn’t like you no how and never did. Couldn’t wait to lay something like this on you, could he? I get the idea if his tree don’t show up, they’ll be begging you for yours. Just a little tip. In case they ask you to be on television standing next to it when it’s cut down, maybe you better run off to the barber and get a haircut. I’m on my way to him now. How about you jump in the car with me?”

At that suggestion Packy almost cried in frustration. But Wayne refused the friendly overture.

“Maybe you’ll skip the haircut, but if I were you, I’d trim your mustache and get a nice close shave, though with all those scratches on your face, that might get a little messy,” Jake continued. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

The mention of the scratches on Wayne’s face made Packy tighten his grip on the machete. You got them stealing my flask, he thought.

Wayne opened the front door as he thanked his buddy for stopping by. Then, to his despair, Packy heard another voice.

“Mr. Covel, may I introduce myself? I am Trooper Keddle, an attorney specializing in litigation. May I come in?”

No, Packy agonized. No!

He felt a tug on his leg. Jo-Jo whispered, “We can’t wait around here like wallflowers hoping someone will ask us for a dance, Packy. You can’t see much out of that window, but I can see enough to tell that it’s getting real cloudy.”

“I don’t need the weather report,” Packy snapped. “Shut up.”

The lawyer was following Wayne into the kitchen. “Sit down,” Covel told him. “Get out your notebook and write this down. If you think Lem Pickens can send you over to scare me, you’re nuts, and he is, too. I didn’t take his tree, and he’s not suing me, neither. Got that, Troopy?”

“No, no, no, no, no, Mr. Covel,” Keddle soothed. “We’re talking about
you
suing
him
. He’s made slanderous accusations. You see, he didn’t use the word
alleged.
In the legal world you can accuse somebody of just about any crime as long as you say you
allege
that someone did something. In no uncertain terms and on national television Mr. Pickens has accused you of committing a crime. Oh, dear Mr. Covel, it is the ambition of our legal firm to see you fully compensated for this insult to your integrity. You
deserve
that, Mr. Covel. Your family deserves that.”

“I’m not married, and I don’t like my cousins,” Wayne responded. “But are you telling me that what I heard them say on the radio is right? You mean I can sue Lem for badmouthing me?” At the thought he leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

“You can sue him for damaging your reputation, for causing grievous pain and emotional suffering that will undoubtedly diminish your ability to adhere to your normal work schedule, for throwing your back out when you rushed out of bed to respond to his hammering at your door, for—”

“I get the picture,” Wayne said. “Sounds good to me.”

“Not one penny do you have to lay out. My firm first and foremost cares about justice. ‘Justice for the Victim’ is inscribed over the desk of all our associates.”

“How many people you got in your place, Troopy?”

“Two. My mother and myself.”

I never once carried a gun, Packy thought. I never had to. I’m a white-collar crook. But I’d give anything to have one now. Still, Jo-Jo’s a powerhouse. He can hold Covel down. I’ll swing this machete around like I’m going to use it on him, and we’ll have our diamonds in two seconds flat. Covel won’t take the chance that I don’t mean it. But we can’t take on the ambulance chaser, too. From what I can see, he’s pretty hefty, and there may still be some people in the front yard. If someone hears one yell, we’re cooked.

Jo-Jo was tugging on his pants again. “You say the diamond we found is worth two million?” he whispered. “Maybe we oughta settle for that.”

Packy shook his head so violently that he banged it on the door.

“That door to the basement sure creaks,” Wayne explained to Trooper Keddle as he pocketed Keddle’s business card and got up. “Maybe with Lem’s money I can get me a new one.” The suggestion elicited another guffaw, which Keddle did his best to match.

But at last Keddle, with a final sales pitch about his ability to redress the wrong Wayne had suffered, was gone.

This is it, Packy thought. No more delays. He nodded to Jo-Jo. A moment later, as Wayne passed the door to the basement on his way back to the table, it flew open, and before he could do more than grunt, he was on the floor. Packy slapped tape over his mouth, and Jo-Jo yanked first his arms and then his legs back and tied them together.

“Pull down the shades in the front room, Jo-Jo,” Packy ordered. “Lock the front door. Let anyone still out there get the idea that this guy’s had enough company.” He laid the machete down on the floor an inch from Covel’s face. “You recognize it?” he asked. “I bet you do. Maybe it’ll help you remember what you did with my diamonds.”

He tapped Wayne on the head. “Don’t even think of trying to make a noise, or you’ll be eating your name off the handle. Get it?”

Wayne nodded and kept nodding.

Packy got up and hurried to the kitchen window. Standing to the side he pulled down the shade, which ended up draped over his arm. It had been tied to the roller with twine. Some handyman, he thought, and with a contemptuous glance at Wayne, he grabbed the masking tape, pulled a chair over to the window, stood on it, and began to wrap the shade around the roller with one hand and tape it with the other.

Jo-Jo had better luck pulling down the shades in the bedroom and living room, but as he was heading for the front door to lock it, the handle turned and it opened. “Wayneeeeee, sweeteeeee,” Lorna trilled as she stepped inside. “Surprise! Surprise!”