The Christmas Thief (4 page)

I
can’t believe I’m sitting here having dinner with not only Alvirah and Willy but Nora Regan Reilly, the famous writer, and her family, Opal thought. This morning after watching that miserable Packy Noonan on television, I felt like turning my face to the wall and never getting out of bed again. Shows how much everything can change.

And they were all so nice to her. Over dinner they had told her about Luke being kidnapped and held hostage on a leaky houseboat in the Hudson River with his driver, who was a single mother with two little boys, and how they would have drowned if Alvirah and Regan hadn’t rescued them.

“Alvirah and I make a good team,” Regan Reilly said. “I wish we could put our heads together and find your money for you, Opal. You do think that Packy Noonan has it hidden somewhere, don’t you?”

“Sure he does,” Jack Reilly said emphatically. “That case was in the federal court, so we didn’t handle it, but my guess is that guy has a stash somewhere. When you add up what the feds knew Packy spent, there’s still between seventy and eighty million dollars missing. He probably has it in a numbered account in Switzerland or in a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

Jack was sipping coffee. His left arm was around the back of Regan’s chair. The way he kept looking at her made Opal wish that somewhere along the way she had met a special guy. He’s so handsome, she thought, and Regan is so pretty. Jack had sandy hair that tended to curl, his hazel eyes were more green than brown, and his even features were enhanced by a strong jaw. When he and Regan walked into the dining room together, they were holding hands. Regan was tall, but Jack was considerably taller and had broad shoulders to match.

Even though it was only the second week in November, an early heavy snowfall had meant there was real powder on the slopes and on the ground. Tomorrow the Reillys were going to downhill ski. It was funny that Jack’s name was Reilly too, Opal thought. She and Alvirah and Willy were going to take a walk in the woods and find Alvirah’s tree. Then in the afternoon they were going to take lessons in cross-country skiing. Alvirah told her that she and Willy had done cross-country skiing a couple of times, and it wasn’t that hard to keep your balance—and it was fun.

Opal wasn’t sure how much fun it would be, but she was willing to give it a try. Years ago in school, she had always been a good athlete, and she almost always walked the mile back and forth to work to keep trim.

“You have that blank look in your eyes that says you’re doing some deep thinking,” Luke observed to Nora.

Nora was sipping a cappuccino. “I’m remembering how much I enjoyed the story of the Von Trapp family. I read Maria’s book long before I saw the film. It’s so interesting to be here now and realize that a tree she watched being planted has been chosen for Rockefeller Center this year. With all the worries in the world, it’s comforting to know that New York schoolchildren will welcome that tree. It makes it so special.”

“Well, the tree is only down the road enjoying its last weekend in Vermont,” Luke said drily. “Monday morning before we leave, we can all go over, watch it being cut down, and kiss it good-bye.”

“On the car radio I heard that they’ll take it off the barge in Manhattan on Wednesday morning,” Alvirah volunteered. “I think it would be exciting to be there when the tree arrives at Rockefeller Center. I know I’d like to see the choirs of schoolchildren and hear them sing.”

But even as the words were coming from her mouth, Alvirah began to have a funny feeling that something would go wrong. She looked around the cozy dining room. People were lingering over dinner, smiling and chatting. Why did a cold certainty fill her that trouble was brewing and Opal would be caught up in it? I shouldn’t have asked her to come, Alvirah worried. For some reason she’s in danger here.

P
acky’s first night in the halfway house known as The Castle was not much better, in his opinion, than a step up from the federal penitentiary. He was signed in, given a bed, and once again had the rules explained to him. He immediately reconfirmed his ability to leave The Castle on Sunday morning by piously explaining that as a good Catholic he never missed Mass. He threw in for good measure the fact that it was the anniversary of his mother’s death. Packy had long since forgotten exactly when his mother died, but the easy tear that rushed to his eye on cue and the roguish smile that accompanied his confession—“God bless her. She never gave up on me”—made the counselor on duty hasten to reassure him that on Sunday he could certainly attend Mass on his own.

The next day and a half passed in a blur. He dutifully sat in on the lectures warning him that he could be sent back to prison to complete his sentence if he did not follow strictly the terms of his parole. He sat at meals visualizing the feasts that he would soon be eating at fine restaurants in Brazil, sporting his new face. On Friday and Saturday night he closed his eyes in the room he was sharing with two other recently released convicts and drifted into sleep, dreaming of Egyptian cotton sheets, silk pajamas, and finally getting his hands on his flask of diamonds.

Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear. The first snowfall had occurred two weeks ago, much earlier than usual, and the forecast was that another one was on the way. It looked as if an old-fashioned winter was looming, and that was fine with Packy. He wasn’t planning to share it with his fellow Americans.

Over the years of his incarceration he had managed to keep in contact with the Como twins by paying a number of carefully chosen visitors to other convicts to mail letters from him and then bring the Comos’ letters to him. Only last week Jo-Jo had confirmed the arrangement to meet behind Saint Patrick’s Cathedral by writing to urge him to attend the 10:15 Mass at the cathedral and then take a walk on Madison Avenue.

So Benny and Jo-Jo would be there. Why wouldn’t they? Packy asked himself. At eight o’clock he closed the door of The Castle and stepped out onto the street. He had decided to walk the one hundred blocks, not because he wanted the exercise, but because he knew he would be followed and wanted his pursuer to have a good workout.

He could hear the instructions received by the guy who had been assigned to tail him: “Don’t take your eyes off him. Sooner or later he’ll lead us to the money he’s hidden away.”

No, I won’t, Packy thought as he walked rapidly down Broadway. Several times, when stopped by a red light, he looked around casually as though enchanted by the world he had been missing for so long. The second time he was able to pick out his pursuer, a beefy guy dressed like a jogger.

Some jogger, Packy thought. He’ll be lucky if he hasn’t lost me before Saint Pat’s.

On Sunday mornings the 10:15 Mass always drew the biggest crowds. That was when the full choir sang, and on many Sundays the Cardinal was the celebrant. Packy knew just where he was going to sit—on the right side, near the front. He would wait until Holy Communion was being given out and get on line with everyone else. Then, just before he received, he would cut across to the left of the altar to the corridor that led to the Madison Avenue townhouse that served as an office for the archdiocese. He remembered that when he was in high school, the kids in his class had assembled in the office and marched into the cathedral from there.

Jo-Jo and Benny would be parked in the van at the Madison Avenue entrance of the townhouse, and before the beefy guy had a chance to follow, they would be gone.

Packy got to the cathedral with time to spare and lit a candle in front of the statue of Saint Anthony. I know if I pray to you when I’ve lost something, you’ll help me find it, he reminded the saint, but the stuff I want is
hidden,
not lost. So I don’t need to pray for anything that I want to find. What I want from
you
is a little help in losing Fatso the Jogger.

His hands were cupped in prayer, which enabled him to conceal a small mirror in his palms. With it he was able to keep track of the jogger who was kneeling in a nearby pew.

At 10:15 Packy waited until the processional was about to start from the back of the church. Then he scurried up the aisle and squeezed into an end seat six rows from the front. With the mirror he was able to ascertain that four rows behind him the jogger was unable to get an end seat and had to move past two old ladies before he found space.

Love the old ladies, Packy thought. They always want to sit at the end. Afraid they’ll miss something if they move over and make room for someone else.

But the problem was that there was lots of security in the cathedral. He hadn’t counted on that. Even a two-year-old could see that some of those guys in wine-colored jackets weren’t just ushers. Besides that, there were a few cops in uniform stationed inside. They would be all over him if he set foot on the altar.

Worried for the first time and his confidence shaken, Packy surveyed the scene more carefully. Beads of perspiration dampened his forehead as he realized his options were few. The side door on the right was his best shot. The time to move was when the Gospel was read. Everybody would be standing, and he could slip out without the jogger noticing he was gone. Then he would turn left and run the half block to Madison Avenue and up Madison to the van. “Be there, Jo-Jo. Be there, Benny,” he whispered to himself. But if they were not and even if he was followed, it wasn’t a parole violation to leave church early.

Packy began to feel better. With the help of the mirror he was able to ascertain that one more person had squeezed into the jogger’s pew. True to form, the old ladies had stepped into the aisle to let him in, and now the jogger was cheek by jowl with a muscular kid who would not be easy to push aside.

“Let us reflect on our own lives, what we have done and what we have failed to do,” the celebrant, a monsignor, was saying.

That was the last thing Packy wanted to reflect on. The epistle was read. Packy didn’t hear it. He was concentrating on making his escape.

“Alleluia,” the choir sang.

The congregation got to its feet. Before the last man was standing, Packy was at the side door of the cathedral that opened onto Fiftieth Street. Before the second alleluia was chanted, he was on Madison Avenue. Before the third prolonged al-le-lu-ia, he had spotted the van, opened the door, leaped into it, and it was gone.

Inside the cathedral the husky teenager had become openly belligerent. “Listen, mister,” he told the jogger. “I might have knocked over these ladies if I let you shoot past me. Cool it, man.”

O
n Sunday afternoon Alvirah said admiringly, “You’re a natural on skis, Opal.”

Opal’s gentle face brightened at the praise. “I really used to be a good athlete in school,” she said. “Softball was my specialty. I guess I’m just naturally coordinated or something. When I put on those cross-country skis, I felt as if I was dancing on air right away.”

“Well, you certainly left Alvirah and me at the starting gate,” Willy observed. “You took off as if you’d been born on skis.”

It was five o’clock. The fire was blazing in their rented villa at the Trapp Family Lodge, and they were enjoying a glass of wine. Their plans to find Alvirah’s tree had been postponed. Instead, on Saturday, when they learned that the afternoon cross-country lessons were all booked up, they quickly signed up for the morning instructor. Then, following lunch on Saturday, a vacancy had opened in the afternoon group, and Opal had gone off with them.

On Sunday, after Mass at Blessed Sacrament Church and an hour of skiing, Alvirah and Willy had had enough and were happy to go back to their cabin for a cup of tea and a nap. The shadows were lengthening when Opal returned. Alvirah had just started to worry about her when she glided up to the cabin, her cheeks rosy, her light brown eyes sparkling.

“Oh, Alvirah,” she sighed as she stepped out of the skis, “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since—” She stopped, and the smile that had been playing around her lips vanished.

Alvirah knew perfectly well what Opal had been about to say: “I haven’t had this much fun since the day I won the lottery.”

But Opal’s smile had been quick to come back. “I’ve had a wonderful day,” she finished. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting me to be with you.”

The Reillys—Nora, Luke, Regan, and Regan’s fiancé, Jack “no relation” Reilly—had spent another long day of downhill skiing. They had arranged with Alvirah to meet at seven for dinner in the main dining room of the lodge. There Regan entertained them with the story of one of her favorite cases: a ninety-three-year-old woman who became engaged to her financial planner and was to marry him three days later. She secretly planned to give $2 million each to her four stepnieces and -nephews if they
all
showed up at the wedding.

“Actually, it was her fifth wedding,” Regan explained. “The family got wind of her plan and was dropping everything to be there. Who wouldn’t? But one of the nieces is an actress who had taken off on a ‘Go with the Flow’ weekend. She shut off her cell phone, and nobody knew where she was. It was my job to find her and get her to the wedding so the family could collect their money.”

“Brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it?” Luke commented.

“For two million dollars I would have been a bridesmaid,” Jack said, laughing.

“My mother used to listen to a radio program called ‘Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons,’ Opal recalled. “Sounds like you’re the new Mr. Keen, Regan.”

“I’ve located a few missing people in my time,” Regan acknowledged.

“And some of them would have been better off if she hadn’t tracked them down,” Jack said with a smile. “They ended up in the clink.”

Once again it was a very pleasant dinner, Opal thought. Nice people, good conversation, beautiful surroundings—and now her newfound sport. She felt a million miles away from the Village Eatery where she had been working for the last twenty years, except for the few months when she had the lottery money in the bank. Not that the Village Eatery was such a bad place to work, she assured herself, and it’s kind of an upscale diner because it has a liquor license and a separate bar. But the trays were heavy and the clientele was mostly college students, who claimed to be on tight budgets. That, Opal had come to believe, was nothing but an excuse for leaving cheap tips.

Seeing the way Alvirah and Willy lived since they won the lottery, and the way Herman Hicks had been able to use some of his lottery winnings to buy that beautiful apartment, made Opal realize all the more keenly how foolish she had been to trust that smooth-talking liar, Packy Noonan, and lose her chance for a little ease and luxury. What made it even harder was that Nora was so excited when she talked about the wedding she was planning for Regan and Jack. Opal’s niece, her favorite relative, was saving for her wedding.

“I’ve got to keep it small, Aunt Opal,” Kristy had told her. “Teachers don’t make much money. Mom and Dad can’t afford to help, and you wouldn’t believe how much even a small wedding costs.”

Kristy, the child of Opal’s younger brother, lived in Boston. She had gone through college on a scholarship with the understanding that she would teach in an inner city school for three years after she graduated, and that’s what she was doing now. Tim Cavanaugh, the young man she was marrying, was going to school at night for his master’s degree in accounting. They were such fine young people and had so many friends. I’d love to plan a beautiful wedding for them, Opal thought, and help them furnish their first home. If only…

Woulda, shoulda, coulda, hada, oughta,
she chided herself. Get over it. Think about something else.

The “something else” that jumped to mind was the fact that the group of six people she skied with on Saturday afternoon had passed an isolated farmhouse about two miles away. A man had been standing in the driveway loading skis on top of a van. She had had only a glimpse of him, but for some crazy reason he seemed familiar, as if she had run into him recently. He was short and stocky, but so were half the people who came into the diner, she reminded herself. He’s a type, nothing more than a type; that’s the long and short of it. That’s why I thought I should know who he is. Still, it haunted her.

“Is that okay with you, Opal?” Willy asked.

Startled, Opal realized that this was the second time Willy had asked that question. What had he been talking about? Oh, yes. He had suggested that they have an early breakfast tomorrow, then head over to watch the Rockefeller Center tree being cut down. After that they could find Alvirah’s tree, come back to the lodge, have lunch, and pack for the trip home.

“Fine with me,” Opal answered hurriedly. “I want to buy a camera and take some pictures.”

“Opal, I have a camera. I intend to take a picture of Alvirah’s tree and send it to our broker.” Nora laughed. “The only thing we ever got from him for Christmas was a fruit-cake.”

“A jar of maple syrup and a tree to tap hundreds of miles from where you live isn’t what I call splurging,” Alvirah exclaimed. “The people whose houses I cleaned used to get big bottles of champagne from their brokers.”

“Those days went the way of pull-chain toilets,” Willy said with a wave of his hand. “Today you’re lucky if someone sends a gift in your name to his favorite charity which (a) you never heard of, and (b) you haven’t a clue how much he sent.”

“Luckily in my profession people never want to hear from us, especially during the holidays,” Luke drawled.

Regan laughed. “This is getting ridiculous. I can’t wait to watch the Rockefeller Center tree being cut down. Just think of all the people who are going to see that tree over the Christmas season. After that it would be fun to see how swift we are following the map to Alvirah’s tree.”

Regan couldn’t possibly know that their lighthearted outing would turn deadly serious tomorrow when Opal skied off alone to check out the short, stocky man she had glimpsed at the farmhouse—the farmhouse where Packy Noonan had just arrived.