Death, Snow and Mistletoe

Death, Snow and Mistletoe

by Valerie S. Malmont

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Reissue)

View All Available Formats & Editions
Choose Expedited Shipping at checkout for delivery by Wednesday, July 28


Murder in the holiday spirit

It was Christmas in Lickin Creek, and all through the town something was stirring..The borough council was quarreling about the color of the Christmas lights. A social worker wouldn't let a living baby be part of the town's living crèche. And some ladies were stretching the limits of their leotards in a pageant called the Nutcracker. All in all, former New Yorker Tori Miracle was basking in the quaint glow of her adopted Pennsylvania town, when suddenly the season went sour. A boy was missing. A thirty-year-old mystery resurfaced. And now two people have been murdered. With her boyfriend—the town police chief—out of town, Tori must help his befuddled replacement. And what she finds out, or should be finding out, is making Tori the next target—of someone only in the mood for murder....

Related collections and offers

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780440236016
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 11/28/2000
Series: Tori Miracle Mysteries Series
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 320
Sales rank: 1,134,546
Product dimensions: 4.18(w) x 6.90(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Valerie S. Malmont is the author of the Tori Miracle mysteries, including Death, Lies, and Apple Pies and Death Pays the Rose Rent. She grew up on Okinawa, Japan, and studied anthropology at the University of New Mexico and library science at the University of Washington. Malmont lives in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania.

Read an Excerpt

O come all ye faithful

The stone spires of trinity evangelical Church hovered like gray ghosts in the  star-studded darkness above Lickin Creek. Brilliant splashes of  colored light streamed from the church's authentic Tiffany windows  and lay on the snow-covered brick sidewalk like gleaming jewels  spilled from a pirate's treasure chest. The air was warmer now than  earlier this afternoon when the first snow of the season had fallen  on this small, pre-Civil War town.

Garnet had left his huge blue monster-truck with me to use while  he was in Costa Rica, but I still had  trouble manipulating it in tight places, so I parked on the street  rather than trying to squeeze into one of the narrow spaces in the church  parking lot.

I was scheduled to photograph the cast of the Lickin Creek Community  Theatre rehearsing the annual Christmas pageant, and as usual I was running  late—but only by half an hour tonight, a definite improvement. Was it my  fault that three churches in the borough had trinity in their  names? I'd been unfortunate enough to visit the other two first.

I grabbed my canvas fanny pack, my notebook, and the  Chronicle's antique camera, and ran toward the neo-Gothic  building. After trying the front doors and finding them locked, I finally  entered the church through a side entrance, which was an anachronism of glass  and aluminum decorated with a wreath of plastic greenery and ribbons. I found  myself in a long beige hallway, facing a row of closed doors on either  side.

After disturbing the choir at practice and barging into an Alcoholics  Anonymous group meeting in the nursery, I followed a trail of noise down a  flight of concrete steps and through a set of double doors into a basement room  that ran the length of the church. To my left was a small kitchen, separated

from the larger room by a waist-high counter on which stood several  stainless steel coffee urns and many heaping platters of cookies.

The main part of the hall, on my right, was packed with people, mostly  women. I recognized several members of the Lickin Creek borough council as well  as several county commissioners, and I guessed this was the politically correct  basement to be in this cold winter evening. Some people wrestled with an  enormous pile of evergreens in one corner, while others sat on metal folding

chairs in small groups, chatting and drinking from Styrofoam cups. The rows of  flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast an odd lavender glow on everyone


Six women stood on the stage at the far end of the room, silently  studying their scripts. I relaxed when I realized that the rehearsal had not

yet begun. I'd be able to get my pictures and be on my way home to feed my cats  in a few minutes. The thought of a cozy evening at home with Fred and Noel,  watching a good sci-fi film on TV, was almost too pleasurable to bear.

A middle-aged woman filling sugar containers at the kitchen counter  waved at me. "Hey, Tori. Nice to see you again. We've got some great  goodies—if you like chocolate." The congenial speaker was Ginnie  Welburn. I'd met her a few times at various functions, and although she was ten  or twelve years older than I, we were drawn to each other by virtue of both  being relative newcomers to Lickin Creek.

I grinned at Ginnie and patted my fanny pack. "Do I like chocolate?  Where do you think these hips came from?"

"Good, that Lori Miracle's here from the paper." The voice came from a  woman on the stage who was swaddled in a politically incorrect but  drop-dead-gorgeous mink coat. I recognized her as Bernice Roadcap, who,  along with her husband, was a well-known local real estate developer.

"Come up here, Lori," she ordered. "We'uns is ready to have our  picture taken."

Before I could say "It's Tori," a full-bodied matron stepped  forward and protested, "We are not ready, Bernice. Weezie's not  here yet."

As I walked toward the stage, Bernice turned to the woman who had just  spoken. In my limited experience, nobody had ever crossed Bernice Roadcap and I  expected a battle, but she surprised me by saying in a meek voice, "Sorry,  Oretta. I hadn't noticed."

The woman Bernice had addressed as Oretta stepped to stage front, planted  her hands on her hips, and balanced herself on wide-apart feet. She wore an  enormous pale-blue polyester pantsuit and a blouse covered with pink and purple  hibiscus blossoms. Around her throat was a choker of silver and amber beads, so  tight I wondered how she swallowed. Looking at her, I promised myself I most

definitely would restart my diet tomorrow. I know how it happens; one night you  go to bed a size ten and you wake up the next morning an eighteen.

Not a hair dared to move in her bright gold bouffant as she glared down  at me. "You're the new Chronicle editor?" It was more an  accusation than a question.

I couldn't keep from staring at her gravity-defying bosom. I had no  idea anyone still manufactured corsets like that. Maybe a special order? I  fought back a giggle and said, "I'd like to take the picture now. I have other  stops to make."

"We always have our picture taken during the final, dramatic ending of  the pageant rehearsal. You'd know that if you weren't new to town."

"I really don't have time to wait," I said. "I'll just snap a picture  or two and—"

Oretta tapped her foot. She was staring at me as though I'd lost my mind.  "You'll wait until the end. It's the way we've always done it!" she  announced.

In the short time I'd lived in Lickin Creek, I'd become very familiar  with that phrase and its evil twin, "We've never done it that way." Hit me  with a two-by-four half a dozen times and I get the idea. There was no  use in arguing; I might as well find a comfortable place to park myself for the  next hour.

Oretta turned to face her cast. "No point in waiting for Weezie any  longer. She doesn't have any lines near the beginning, anyway. Places,  everybody. Bernice, stand over there—stage right—next to the palm  tree. Have you all highlighted your parts? It would be nice to hear you reading  the right lines tonight." She glared at one of the hapless women, who seemed

to shrink several inches. Another rummaged through her purse, extracted a  bright yellow marking pen, and began to diligently mark her script.

Silently cursing myself for being such a wimp, I shrugged off my jacket  and took a seat on a metal folding chair in the front row. Ginnie Welburn  appeared next to me bearing a cup of steaming coffee and a couple of cookies

wrapped in a red paper napkin. "Thought you might like some nourishment," she  said with a grin.

"How did this happen to me?" I whispered, accepting the gift. Little  Santa faces smiled at me from the napkin.

"Whatever Oretta Clopper wants, Oretta Clopper gets," Ginnie said.  "She's one of those natural forces you just can't fight."

"Who is she? The name's familiar. Isn't the new borough manager named  Jackson Clopper? Are they married?"

Ginnie snickered. "Don't let her hear you ask that. Oretta's the  ultimate snob, and in her opinion, Jackson crawled out of the lower depths when  he was hired to be borough manager and should be made to return there as soon  as possible. I believe her husband, Matavious—who's almost a  doctor—and Jackson are some sort of fifth cousins once removed, or  whatever they call it around here."

Customer Reviews