No Time for Tinsel
By
Susan McNeill
Roberts
I
“Not again!” Cassie Simmons
groaned as an all too familiar rustle and swish from the front part of the
house indicated her daughter had struck once more. What Alice's personal vendetta was against
this particular Christmas tree Cassie could not determine. Most of her autistic daughter's eighteen
years had been spent in this house, and for all those years the family’s
holiday tree was located in the same position, in front of the large living
room window of their old two-story Craftsman.
The window overlooked a gravel-topped circular
driveway that connected their home to the winding road of their small
subdivision in Falling Creek Community.
Balanced by a lighted wreath in a complementary window gracing their entry
hallway and topped by brass candles in the upstairs windows facing the street,
the house glowed through the trees like a setting from a Norman Rockwell
Christmas card. Minus the snow, of
course, it seldom snowed in the foothills of South Carolina and then usually
not until late January or February. Now
to complete the cozy picture both inside and out the tree would have to be
righted yet again.
It really was amazing,
Cassie reflected as she returned the long-suffering tree to its upright position,
how few ornaments and lights become disarranged in this process. This makes six – no, seven - times the poor
thing’s been toppled this year.
She sighed and shrugged. This could not go on.
“Scott!” Her best schoolteacher voice penetrated an all
too brief pause in frenetic drumming overhead.
Whatever was on the middle school band’s current play list, it certainly
was not Silent Night.
Drumming sons aside, life with Alice was
never dull. In fact, it sometimes seemed
no sooner had Cassie dealt with the latest challenging behavior (such a good
word challenging, so much nicer than say, destructive or downright disastrous)
than hey-presto off she would go in yet another unsettling direction. Over the years their house evolved into a
minor fortress – wooden or brass lamps, for example, instead of fragile ceramic
ones; deadbolt locks on exterior doors; keyed locks on interior doors. Alice had long ago found ways to breach those
convenient push button spring locks.
Cassie reaffixed her daughter's Christmas ornament from last year,
a picture of Alice’s stocky body dressed in a pink tightrope walker's costume
with a pink ribbon crowning her short, dark hair. That ribbon had not lasted long. Someone must have snapped the picture before
the start of Wood Community Developmental School's Spring Fest: someone who
knew Alice well. The photo was glued
inside a glitter-covered lid from a Jif peanut butter jar. Wise in the ways of the school's special
population, each year's Christmas project came with a sturdy pipe cleaner for a
hanger instead of the more traditional flimsy wire hook.
This particular student was
sitting in her chair by the living room fireplace, gently rocking and
looking rather too pleased with herself for Cassie's complete peace of mind. Scott, the youngest of Cassie's three children
and a seventh grader at Falling Creek Middle School, clattered downstairs. He stopped at the wide opening into their
living room. Crooked wire frame glasses
sat atop his tousled blond hair. Scott’s practiced eyes, blue-gray like his
mother’s, calculated the lingering results of all too familiar chaos.
“What is her problem?
Does she realize Josh is going to be working tonight or did something
happen at school today?”
"If it did they were
kind enough not to let me know. At least
she returned with all her clothing intact, so it couldn’t have been too bad. Get the stepladder, will you, Scott? We'll either have to wire the tree in place
or continue this nonsense, and I'm not sure how many more soakings our carpet
can take."
Cassie
gathered thin wire and a pair of tough scissors from a drawer of the secretary. How fortunate she neglected to remove the
hooks over the window, standard holiday precautions from Alice’s youth.
"There," she said
minutes later, "that should make it relatively impregnable." Alice had never made an all-out assault on a
Christmas tree yet, although many a Halloween pumpkin nestled snugly against a
sheaf of cornstalks on their wide front porch met with a tragic fate in what
was now referred to as the Simmons Annual Pumpkin Roll.
***
“Cassie, what’s up, girl? Santa’s not due ‘til next week. Time
ta get a move on if you wanna make choir practice.” The amused voice of her stalwart friend broke
into Cassie’s reverie.
Ministering angels come in many forms. Nancy Decatur was Cassie’s own age of
forty-six but from a far different background.
Years of growing up in rural West Virginia combined with a rough and
tumble family history produced a broad range of experiences without damaging
Nancy’s dry but vivid sense of humor.
Her chosen profession involved handicapped populations: her
down-to-earth approach to life was always a welcome relief.
Alice glowered at Nancy. As Cassie frequently said, Alice was
retarded: she was not stupid. If Alice
made a mess while Nancy was there, Alice would be the one cleaning it up.
II
"The holly and the ivy, when they are both
full grown, out of
all the trees that are in the wood, the holly wears the crown…"
Cassie indulged in a detour through Main
Street’s Victorian decorations in downtown Woods Ford. Old fashioned street lamps ablaze with white
lights were festooned with greenery and ribbons while shop windows held
life-sized vignettes of Christmas through the ages. Arriving at the impressive red brick church,
she found a space in its packed parking lot.
Grabbing her music folder, she slid out of the car and into the chilly
night.
“Hey guys, watch where you’re
going!”
As Cassie approached the fellowship hall, she
collided with several of her fifth grade students hurtling through its side
door.
“Gosh, we’re sorry, Miz. Simmons,” Kenny Lorens
gasped as he followed his best friends into the parking lot.
The three scouts were lugging heaping trash bags
towards the dumpster. From the clinkings
and rustlings within their black plastic depths, the evening’s activities must
already be in full swing. The scouts
arrived right after school today to finish wrapping presents donated for needy
area families. These were now under the
large tree in the fellowship hall among gifts for the church staff. Flushed with excitement, the three eager lads
returned to duty even before Cassie hung up her coat and headed towards the
choir room.
St. Paul Methodist Church had a full Wednesday
night program. Both Boy Scout and Cub
Scout troops met there as well as a number of church committees. Bell ringers and choir groups rounded out the
full schedule. Due to the large
percentage of church members who came on Wednesday evenings, adult Sunday
school classes alternated producing tasty but economical meals in the spacious
kitchen at one end of the long fellowship hall.
Of course, there was no way she could pass
through the chattering throng without pausing to speak to several friends and
neighbors.
"Cassie, how is your dad
doing today?" William Harris, their
family doctor, stopped her with a brief inquiry about her father.
“I want you to keep a close eye on that cold of his. We don’t want another bout of bronchitis like
we had last spring.”
Cassie grinned. Bill Harris was one of her favorite people.
“He’s doing much better. He even
drove into town today for his regular senior happy meal at MacDonalds.”
That produced a grunt – as
expected.
“All that way for a free
orange drink! Sometimes he’s simply too
Scottish for his own good.” But Bill
Harris held his fire. They both knew how
much her father missed his wife. He
simply had too much time on his hands.
Cassie was determined this
Christmas was going to be perfect. No
one in her family felt like celebrating last year so soon after her mother’s
passing. Everything was going to be just
right this time, or as right as Cassie could possibly make it.
***
Cassie had hoped to get to
choir practice early enough to check the banks of poinsettias that flanked the
altar rail but there hadn't been time, what with the mess at home and friendly
folks at church. She would have to do
any necessary watering after practice.
Ever since a number of the lovely flowers drooped on Christmas Eve three
years ago, Cassie appointed herself chief plant watcher.
Slipping into position as the
large choir began warming up, she opened her gray music binder and was able to
acquit herself tolerably well when they used the choir room’s piano to fine
tune some of the trickier harmonies.
Then they proceeded through a side door into the large sanctuary. The singers waited in a double line in the
wide center aisle while the choirmaster took his position at the impressive
pipe organ. No mere piano arrangements
would suffice for worship service during this auspicious season. They processed magnificently down the aisle
and up to their places to Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.
Usually Cassie preferred this area on Sunday
mornings. St. Paul’s intricate stained
glass windows came alive as the sun streaked across the eastern sky,
multicolored lights dancing upon warm oak woodwork and red carpeted floor. But the magic of the candlelight service,
hundreds of candles glowing within the dim recesses of the nave and transept,
always made her catch her breath.
As expected, practice ran
late that evening: Cassie still took time to check the flowers. Accelerating as she turned out of the choir
room and into the deserted hallway, she narrowly missed colliding with Ivan
Kormanski as he backed out of the women’s rest room, mop in hand.
“Whoops, sorry, Ivan. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Is all right, Cassie. You want I should check the flowers tonight?”
“Goodness, no. You do too much around here as it is. I’ll bet you still have all the trash cans to
empty.”
“Yust in this building. Jeremiah is doink all the rest. Those scouts wrap plenty presents. Leave plenty mess.”
“Greg must not have been
there.” Little got by their regular
scoutmaster.
“Naw, he had to go back to
flower shop. Big business. I do fine, no problem!” His weathered face flushed with pride over
his mastery of this latest American idiom.
“Cassie, you sure it okay for us to come Christmas
Day for dinner? Much trouble for you,
three extra people.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re all looking forward to your visit. We’ll see you about noon, okay?”
“No problem!”
Although custodial duties were generally carried
out by Jeremiah Gooding, the longtime sexton of St. Paul, Ivan and his family
always seemed to be volunteering as well.
Adopted as Eastern European refugees, Ivan and his twenty-year old son
Stefan had become valued employees at a local manufacturing plant. Daria, Ivan's wife, while speaking little
English, worked in a variety of small jobs at the church. Her care worn face lit up whenever she
assisted in the church nursery. Daria
loved children. Her daughter's family
had left their war-torn country also but had been sent to a sponsoring church
in Germany.
Now the members of St. Paul
were trying to raise sufficient money to bring the couple with their two small
children to join the rest of the Kormanski family in Woods Ford. The church threw itself with typical
enthusiasm into the project. Several
local firms promised matching funds during the holiday season. All the money raised by the church was placed in
a five-gallon pickle jar located in a prominent position in front of the pulpit.
By the time all matching pledges were
collected, funds would be tripled.
Each church group and Sunday School class
conducted special events for the cause.
Even the youngest members of the congregation clamored to be held up by
their parents so they could place their nickels and dimes into the jar
themselves. The Kormanski family had won
the hearts of the entire congregation by their hard work and sincere gratitude.
Cassie filled a large
watering can stored in a cluttered utility closet under the balcony
stairs. Starting at the western side of
the sanctuary, she began working her way around the double row of deep red
flowers, each encased within its own green foil liner. She did not add much water even though a long
strip of plastic had been placed the length of the communion rail as a
precaution against water spots on the splendid oak kneeling bench.
Half way through, her probing fingers came across
something cold and round. A coin had
fallen into one of the pots on the back row.
She picked it up and stood so she could add the coin to the jar.
Which was not there.
***
This
shouldn’t be a surprise, a startled Cassie reasoned to herself. It
had been hard to access the jar on its tall pedestal ever since Christmas
decorating had been completed. Placing
the coin within her slacks’ pocket, she decided to look for Mr. Gooding once
she finished her task. He and the
Reverend Jonathan Edwards were responsible for the jar. They could add the missing contribution at
their leisure.
By the time Cassie completed
her task, it was quite late. The
well-lit parking lot was deserted except for her station wagon and Mr.
Gooding's classic Lincoln Continental.
He came around the corner just then, his hands full of trash bags from
the new Sunday School building. Not
wanting to delay him further, Cassie waved goodbye and hastened on her
way. She would return the offering on Sunday. It was past time for her to return home.
III
Cassie’s Friday morning proceeded as smoothly as
was possible the last day before the holiday break. Over the years, she and her two teammates
developed a master plan made simpler by their interconnecting rooms. Rose Anthony had the largest room: at this moment,
A Muppet Christmas Carol was entertaining the majority of their
students. Wanda Marcus, at the other end
of the team’s complex of classrooms, had a fair amount of floor space: those
students who did not wish to watch the video were playing board games or
chatting in small groups.
Cassie’s smaller room was
wedged between the two but boasted a working sink as well as a commodious
storage closet. Cassie, therefore, was
in charge of cookie decorations and the inevitable clean up. On a round table near the sink homemade sugar
cookies waited alongside a variety of frostings, sprinkles and small
candies. As students had brought their
favorite soda or fruit drink, at the end of the decorating session each small
group would move on to one of the other two rooms.
This year, several students
engaged in heated chess games in the far corner of her room. Cassie was the fifth grade’s academically
gifted teacher: chess was part of her deductive thinking teaching strategy. She was picky about chess etiquette, however.
It was never checkmate until Cassie
declared it was checkmate.
She walked over to observe
the one remaining competition. Kenny
Lorens and Geoff Sandidge were hunched over the table while their buddy Barry
Sterns peered intently from the sidelines. These three boys were the brightest in an
exceptionally bright class. Too bright for their own good, Wanda
Marcus had muttered on more than one occasion: she was the teacher who guided
and graded their convoluted science projects.
They reminded Cassie of her own son Scott as far as academics were
concerned; however, they were several years younger and considerably more
mischievous.
Cassie and her teammates were
lenient with the trio (dubbed the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse) as Geoff
was under a great deal of strain. His
father, a fighter pilot stationed at the nearby Air Force base, was overseas on
assignment. His tour of duty had five
more months to run. Geoff and his father
had a close relationship, sharing interests that ranged from chess to racquetball. They were great collectors who studied all
aspects of any area’s culture to which Geoff’s father was assigned. Major Sandidge believed this softened the separation:
Cassie had a sneaking suspicion Geoff regarded it in a more superstitious
light. He would never speak the name of
the country, for example.
A number of students at Parkside Elementary School
had family members deployed overseas. The
entire staff focused on maintaining a consistent environment: they knew the upcoming
Christmas break would be a particularly stressful holiday.
Cookie decorating and
subsequent cleanup at last out of the way, Cassie returned to view the progress
of the game. Geoff's keen blue eyes were
riveted on Kenny's left hand. It was
hovering between his remaining knight and bishop. Kenny was adept in using his knights with
devastating effectiveness. Usually the
two were evenly matched: today it was obvious Kenny held the upper hand. His unkempt mop of hair, an indeterminate
color Cassie had never been able to classify, seemed to crackle with the
tension of the moment. Now it was
Geoff’s move.
“Would he, would he
capture Kenny’s knight? Such an obvious
move it seemed, especially since knights were Kenny’s weapons of choice, but
such a fatal one.”
Cassie willed herself to walk back to the
sink. Sometimes it was hard not to
intervene.
Of course, Barry was also a powerful player. The craftiest of the three, Barry took particular
delight in distracting his opponents with small talk and meaningless moves, his
hawk-like nose twitching and his hazel eyes dreamy, while his main pieces
waited in the wings for a particular space to open, allowing one of them to
sweep across the length of the board and capture his luckless opponent's queen
or rook.
It was a foregone conclusion Cassie’s spring chess
tournament would come down to one of these three. For all their mischief and intelligence, the
trio was scrupulously honest, as were the vast majority of their team's
seventy-eight students. It was a real
pleasure not to have a budding major criminal this year.
Barry’s amused snort caught her attention. Geoff’s dark head was bent in defeat. That knight had been just too tempting. Cassie looked across the length of the
room. Sharp eyesight was a prerequisite
for survival in the classroom, as was acute hearing.
“Checkmate,” she intoned as the boys gathered up
the chess set and returned it to the storage closet.
Cassie gave her classroom a
final check. The class pets had been claimed for the holidays so she would not
have to return to school until after the New Year. The two guinea pigs (Ethel and Miss Piggy)
left in their traveling cages yesterday.
The classroom seemed strangely empty without their comfortable
chucklings. Students always begged to
care for the animals over vacations: Cassie had never had a problem arise from
any home visits.
Geoff's mother was coming by
this afternoon to pick up Iggie the iguana's palatial wooden cage complete with
climbing branch. One of the custodians
would be there to help her load it into the back of their large van. Cassie made a mental note to remind her not to
forget the scoutmaster's present. The
large gift had somehow been forgotten at Kenny's home Wednesday night and
currently resided on the now depleted shelf in Cassie's storage closet/computer
room where the traveling cages were kept.
That left only Percy, the chameleon. He was traveling, complete with perch, in one
of two large glass containers originally set aside for local green snakes. The reptiles didn't do well in a classroom
environment, however, so Cassie kept their empty containers for moments like
this. Percy was due to be chauffeured in
great style by a palpitating Mrs. Echols who had only given in to her
granddaughter's plaintive requests after being reassured the reptile would
neither shed, nor would he escape.
Cassie grinned to herself. While Percy might not escape (he could hardly
unscrew the screened lid by himself), she was less sanguine about the crickets
in the smaller jar that accompanied him.
Percy had to eat as well, right?
Christmas might be more lively than originally anticipated in the
Echols's home.
Hearing the strains of the
final Muppet Christmas song, Cassie walked over to Wanda Marcus's room to alert
her of the students’ imminent return. Geoff's
mother arrived before the dismissal bell.
She had to pick up his younger sister who attended primary school just
down the road from Parkside. Cassie finished
giving out report cards and watched both iguana and large present vacate the
area. Kenny and Barry tagged along to
assist with unloading the cage at the Sandidge home.
Their kindly custodian returned to carry out
Percy, astutely judging Mrs. Echols might drop the jar should the chameleon
make any sudden moves. The older lady
was already giving dubious glances around the room, trying in vain to determine
where that muted chirping originated.
The offending container had been placed at the bottom of her granddaughter's
backpack. Valerie should be wearing her
jacket as it was turning cold outside, but Cassie could well understand how the
garment was more useful stuffed in the top of her pack.
The last bell rang. The final load of students departed. The echoes of their excitement faded in the
air. Rose Anthony hurried away with the
children. Wanda Marcus shrugged on her
coat, gave Cassie her Christmas hug and disappeared down the side hall. Cassie heard Wanda's infectious giggle. She must have bumped into someone at the
door. Heavy footsteps approached. Cassie looked up in surprise as a burly police
officer stepped into her classroom.
“Mrs. Simmons, I need a few
minutes of your time.”
IV
“Is anything wrong, Officer?” Cassie could not believe the trite words came
out of her mouth. It was obvious her
brain was much too clogged with Christmas planning.
Jerry West sighed. Sure would be nice to be greeted once in a
while with a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand. He gave himself a little mental shake. The holidays must be getting to him. It was always busier at this time of year,
and good will towards men was not the guiding rule of the day in his job at any
season.
“A few questions about your
time at St. Paul Church last Wednesday night.”
He noted how her face relaxed.
Maybe this trip wouldn't be wasted after all.
“Sure, please sit down. Would you like a sugar cookie?” Cassie was courteous and curious. What on earth could be going on?
Jerry West declined the sugar
cookie with regret. His wife had been
baking up a storm: his uniform was beginning to feel more than a little
snug. He'd better get on with this.
He wedged himself with difficulty into one of the
student chairs at the round table as Cassie took another. She turned an interested face toward him; her
direct blue-grey eyes looked into his.
Kind of attractive, he reflected, although curly auburn hair and an
upturned, freckled nose were not to his particular taste. His wife's dark eyes and glowing complexion
rose in his mind. This was a wonderful
time for his family. That brought him
back to the task at hand.
“You were one of the last to
leave St. Paul on Wednesday night?”
“Yes, probably the very last
except for Jeremiah Gooding. At least no
one else was in the parking lot, and I didn't encounter anyone on my way
through the building.”
“Why’d you stay so late?” - although
Sgt. West knew the answer to that one.
“I was checking to make sure all
the poinsettias were watered. Some of
them dry out faster than others. It had
been a long choir rehearsal and,” she grinned, “there are an awful lot of
poinsettias.”
Nice lady, he thought, but I
bet she can be pretty tough when she needs to be.
“So you saw Mr. Gooding? What time was that?”
“Probably just before ten. He was carrying a load of trash bags from the
Sunday School wing. Thursday is trash
day, you know.”
Don't I ever. By the
time we’d been called, everything was clean as a whistle. Did they have to be so careful? Were they always?
“Did you see anybody out of
the ordinary in the sanctuary or just in the building in general?”
“Not a soul who didn't have a
good reason to be there. No strangers
that I recall. Why? Was there vandalism or is something
missing? Just what exactly is going on
here?”
Sgt. West noted the sound of
a toe tapping under the round table.
“Somethin’s missin’,” he
answered. “I’ve seen all those plants. Must’ve taken some time, what with going back
and forth gettin’ more water. Did
anybody come through the sanctuary?”
“I suppose you mean after the
choir members left?” Cassie was not liking where this conversation was headed,
not one little bit.
“Yeah. The way I figure it, just choir members leave
that way. Other meetin’s are in the new
building ‘cept for the scouts who meet in the basement. But they don't leave through the sanctuary.”
“No, they go up the back way
and through the new building. We're
still having choir practice when they dismiss, so they try to avoid disturbing
us.”
“So, did you see anybody else
in the area at any time that night?”
“Only Ivan Kormanski, right
after rehearsal. He was by the side door
that leads to the choir room and the hall bathroom. He does a lot of odd jobs on Wednesdays to
help Mr. Gooding out. Mr. Gooding is no
spring chicken, you know. His wife's
illness is taking up more and more of his time.
He's been with St. Paul almost forty years now.”
“But you didn't see Mr.
Kormanski's car?”
“Truck, and, no, I
didn't. But then I wouldn't expect
to. He usually walks back and forth to
church. They all do.”
“They live a right good ways
off, don't they? Must be ten blocks or
so.”
“They're used to it. They were farmers before they had to leave
their own country. I believe their only
mechanized vehicle was an old, unreliable tractor, and they considered that a
luxury. We can't get them to drive to
church even when it's pouring down rain. Believe me, it's not as though we haven't
tried.”
“You know 'em well?”
“Ivan and Stefan come out to
the house to cut firewood. Our lot is
heavily wooded, and their small apartment is heated with a wood stove. Between wind storms and just natural
attrition, we frequently need a hand with fallen trees. I provide the trees; they provide the labor;
and we split the wood. They've also been
helpful with other types of major projects.
The only problem is that they won't take any money, so we have to
barter. When they helped with some
repairs to the garage last year, they took my son Scott's old computer in
trade. Stefan is fascinated with
electronics. We hope once his English is
good enough we can enroll him at Wood County Technical College.”
Jerry West sighed. One perfectly good lead shot down.
Cassie's eyes narrowed and
her temper began to rise. What the heck
was going on anyway? Clasping her hands
in front of her (a sure sign her patience was growing thin), she proceeded with
deceptive calm.
“It's possible I could be of
more help if you would be more specific.
Just what is it that's missing?”
“No one can find the money jar
that was near the altar. It was missin’
when Mr. Gooding went in to vacuum the sanctuary on Thursday afternoon.”
Daria's kind face rose before
Cassie's startled eyes. She had been
counting on her daughter's family joining them in the spring. How hurt she would be to think a member of
the congregation committed this malicious act.
But did it necessarily have to be a member?
“When was the last time it
was seen?” she asked, rapidly reviewing her own movements through the sanctuary
that evening.
“It was there durin’ the
children's and youth choir practices that afternoon: several donations were
made at that time. The choir directors
had to put the money in the jar since it was awkward behind all those
flowers. After that, nobody’s sure about
anythin’.”
“Couldn't it have been taken
once everyone adjourned to their own specific areas? I know the outer doors are usually locked
except for the one that leads into the fellowship hall: someone is always there
since the Sunday School committee meets in that particular area on Wednesdays.”
“They say nobody unusual
passed through, ‘specially nobody carryin’ a jar that size. Even if somebody snuck in and emptied the jar
into a large bag, the jar is gone too.
For all we know, it was there all night and early into the next day. You would think,” he sighed, “it’d be noticed
durin’ adult choir practice, but no one we’ve spoken to can remember.”
“I'm afraid I can do no
better than they. I process about midway
down the line on the right side of the aisle and the jar was located on the
left. Did you try asking the lead
sopranos? What with colds and flu this time
of year, I don’t know who was in front.
Surely the first one on the left would have been able to see the pulpit
clearly.”
“Well, it was the minister's
wife. She was keepin’ her eyes either on
her music or on the aisle. It's really
weird,” he shook his head, “how nobody noticed.”
“What does Ivan say? He was in the side hall outside the choir
room.”
“He says he never went in
that night. Once all the scouts left he
went into the basement for a final security check down there. Then he went into the new Sunday School
building to do the same. He spoke with
Jeremiah Gooding to see if there was anything’ else and then walked home. As far as we know, the jar was there when Mr.
Gooding did his final door check. He says
he didn't notice anythin’ out of the ordinary.”
“Well,” Cassie stated, “you
can forget about that line of inquiry right now. The jar was not in the sanctuary when I
watered the flowers. I noticed specifically
but didn't think anything about it. I
just assumed it had been moved to a safer location.”
“Hey,” the detective said as he rose to go, “who
better to get rid of somethin’ that bulky than a custodian? Ivan Kormanski wouldn't take it since that
would hurt his family. But someone with mountin’
medical bills who was possibly being edged out of his job? I'm sorry, Miz. Simmons: I'm afraid it’s way
too possible.”
V
The loss of a pickle jar full of money somehow doesn't seem like a big
deal in itself, Cassie reflected as she hung up the telephone in the small
teacher's lounge. But, of course, it
wasn't that simple at all. It was the
crime against the human spirit that rankled so deeply, the stealing of the
goodwill and high hopes of three kind people who had suffered more than most
folk in Woods Ford could even begin to imagine.
When St. Paul's subdued secretary answered her
quick call, Cassie determined that the minister’s wife was with Daria, Ivan and
Stefan were at work and the church was under lock down while yet another search
was conducted. The Reverend Jonathan was
immersed in an emergency board meeting.
Since there was nothing more to be done at the
moment, Cassie retrieved her coat and purse from the barren storage closet. She hastened toward the main building and the
teachers' parking lot. Once again, she
was the last car to leave. She could
tell by the alacrity with which the gate was closed and padlocked behind her
that, in the custodian's opinion, it was high time.
***
Saturday morning in the old
Craftsman was filled with more than the usual pre-holiday hustle and
bustle. Set aside as a time for family
chores, a slower pace that kept Alice comfortable, this morning they were to
try once again for a family portrait. This
time the photographer was coming to their home.
They had tried it the conventional way several weeks before but with a
noticeable lack of success.
Alice was less than cooperative. Cassie should have known better. Alice had a school picture taken every year
but this was done within her school with plenty of helpers on hand should times
prove challenging. The photographer's
studio was unfamiliar territory, a barren room with lots of odd looking
equipment scattered around. Expensive
equipment, Cassie realized as she saw her unhappy daughter casting a
speculative eye around the space. Before
Alice could drive home her disapproval by slinging a light or two around
(perhaps even the camera and tripod), Cassie canceled the session.
The photographer was a kind soul. It was obvious he had experience with recalcitrant
subjects. Even before his ears stopped
ringing (the studio would have made a great echo chamber), he found a window of
opportunity in his busy holiday schedule for a home session. It had to be early, however, as he had a
small wedding to photograph later in the day.
This suited Josh since Saturday afternoon would probably see the last of
the tree buying rush.
So now their family had
assembled, smartly if casually attired.
This time the grumbling came not from Alice's direction but from
Cassie's father, decked out in starched white shirt, bolo tie and dark blue
cardigan. Ever since his retirement
after 31 years of service as a naval officer, getting him into even remotely
formal garb was a major endeavor.
Wiser by now, Cassie elicited Nancy Decatur's help
to deal with the more mutinous of her crew.
They were grouped around Alice's chair by the fireplace. A red poinsettia on the lamp table contrasted
nicely against the books and family memorabilia on the shelves behind
them. Alice was in a good mood. She had been allowed to maintain her grip on
several small bars of soap, her favored objects of the moment. Also, the pant legs on her new outfit were
allowed to remain pushed up close to her knees.
Apparently, miracles of photo editing could now be
achieved with a mere flick or two of the computer mouse. With Nancy's help and a few pithy remarks out
of the side of Cassie's frozen smile, a satisfactory shot was eventually
obtained. The boys returned the
equipment to the photographer's van; Cassie's father retreated across the
street to his own abode; Alice was redressed in more durable clothes; and
Cassie retired to the sanctity of her own room with a strong cup of tea and a
raging headache.
Later, when Cassie was
changing into clothes suitable for holiday baking, her hand encountered a coin
tucked deep within her slacks’ pocket.
She sat down on the bed: the events of the last few days flooded into
her mind. She turned the coin over and
over in her hand, staring at it as though it were a talisman, a way to help her
solve the puzzle. She turned on her
bedside lamp and studied it under the gleam.
Perhaps this was the key after all.
Cassie walked to her bedroom door and called for
Scott. The magic of the internet would
come in handy right now. Leaving him to
his assigned task, she went down to her waiting kitchen. The delicious aroma of spiced cider drew her
toward the simmering brew. Pouring
herself a mugful, she began assembling the ingredients for her special
Christmas bread. It looked as though
today might be even busier than originally planned.
VI
By the time Cassie and her
children were ready to leave for Sunday morning church, Cassie felt she had
already put in a full day. Scott's
computer expertise proved most enlightening and, if she was correct, the
problem of the vanishing jar would be soon solved. And high time, too.
While a brief footnote in Friday's newspaper's
police reports contained a barebones account of the problem, an enterprising
reporter (no doubt with thoughts of Pulitzer prize sugarplums dancing in his
holiday head) turned it into a front-page Sunday tearjerker complete with color
picture featuring a tremulous Daria standing next to the empty pedestal upon
which the jar had resided.
Cursing all reporters in general and herself in
particular for wishing to wait until she could confirm her own suspicions in
person, Cassie banged around the kitchen in a solitary snit that morning. Even Alice knew when it was best not to add
complications to an already contentious situation and remained compliant while
the normal Sunday morning hubbub was underway.
Since Josh was driving his grandfather's car to
church that morning, the three siblings were able to make an early escape. They would stop on their way to deliver three
of the Christmas 'twist' tree breads to be left in the church office for the
Reverend Edwards, Jeremiah Gooding, and the Kormanski’s. As Scott was carrying out the last of the colorful
Christmas boxes in which the iced bread was housed, he regarded his mother
solemnly.
“It’s not much to go on, you
know. Someone else might have dropped it
after all.”
“I know. I was up half the night thinking about it,
turning over other possibilities in my mind, but I just couldn’t come up with
any that fit the events as we know them.
If I’m right, today is the most logical time for something to
happen. And logic does play a big part
in this,” she gave a grim smile, “even if it was spur-of-the- moment logic.”
Scott glanced up at the
clock. “Do you have everything in the
crockpot you need for Brunswick stew? We’ll
save you a bowl if you’re delayed after church.”
Cassie hung up her apron and
headed for her purse and coat in the hall closet.
“Let’s hope I
am. Now scoot or we’re both going to be
late!”
VII
Before Cassie headed off to
her own Sunday School class, she located Jeremiah Gooding and Ivan Kormanski
standing gloomily together in the deserted fellowship hall. One glance around the room reassured Cassie
she was in time. The two men brightened
after she had a brief word with them. While
not understanding the reason behind her request, they were happy to have
something positive to do. They set about following her instructions with an
added spring to their steps. This was
the season of hope after all.
* * *
It wasn't until the offertory
hymn began that Cassie had a moment to glance around the sanctuary. Usually the Sunday service right before
Christmas was less well attended, since everyone would be back for the
traditional Christmas Eve candlelight one.
Today, however, the large church was packed. The congregation came to show their concern
for the Kormanski family’s plight. Daria
was sitting in the third row with Ivan and Stephan and seemed much better. She had responded with gratitude to the many
kind words her family received upon entering the sanctuary.
Cassie scanned the row, expecting to see Josh and
Scott in their usual place. It took her
a while to locate them since they had opted to sit in the balcony. She caught Scott's eye. He nodded his head to one side. Ah yes, no wonder they chose to sit up
there. Everything and everyone was in
place as they should be.
Cassie's neighbor gave her a
firm nudge with her elbow, returning the alto to more immediate concerns. Belle Frazier's rich contralto spread through
the sanctuary in her much-anticipated solo, The Jesus Gift.
“Shall I bring him silver;
shall I bring him gold? Shall I bring
him diamonds, white hot, stone cold?”
As the full choir
joined in, Cassie's spirits soared with the music. She always enjoyed a challenge. Extracting everyone from this brouhaha with
minimum damage was her ultimate goal.
She also had a minor score to settle.
This situation was not resolved yet.
***
“Oh, Elizabeth!”
Mrs. Lorens turned as Cassie addressed her. She was older than most parents of Cassie's
current students. A comfortable woman
with a warm smile and understanding eyes, Cassie counted her as one of her
favorite parents as well as a good friend.
She was standing at the base of the balcony stairs, about to exit the
sanctuary with her three charges. Her
husband and younger son must have left to warm up the car although the weather
was due to turn unseasonably mild later in the day.
Cassie paused a moment to catch her breath. It had not been easy, encumbered with choir
robe and music, to traverse the length of the sanctuary through the large crowd
in time to get to them. Apparently, Josh
had dropped something on the stairs, however, which obstructed the balcony exit. Catching her eye, her elder son gave a
sideways grin as he moved to bring the car around before Scott returned from
the Sunbeam Class with Alice.
“I was wondering if you could
spare the boys for a short while. I need
their help and I'll be glad to drop them off at the country club, say in thirty
minutes or so? And here's Barry,
too. Quite a change from services at
your synagogue, I would imagine.”
“Yes,” Kenny chimed in. “We were so impressed with Mrs. Anthony's world
religions lesson the other day that we wanted to do some more research. We went to erv shabbat with the Sterns on Friday night.”
“We think the exchange will
be culturally enriching,” Barry added.
Cassie's eyes narrowed as she
beheld the three of them. The year was
already half over. She was not sure just
how many reforms she could attempt in the time remaining to her.
Kenny's mother was taking in
the scene with quiet enjoyment. “We can
certainly spare the boys for a little bit, although I believe they are
riding with Mrs. Sandidge.”
Yeah, right! thought Cassie. Misdirection at its best. By the time their parents realized the boys
had been 'left' at the church and returned to pick them up, the innocent little
tykes might (or might not) have been able to affect the switch.
Keeping the fragile emotional state of the
Sandidge family in mind, Cassie preferred to insert her more experienced hand
into the proceedings. The church was
almost empty. What she planned should
not take too long, especially if Ivan and Mr. Gooding had cleared the crucial areas
as requested.
Cassie and the three miscreants
entered the silent sanctuary and went up behind the altar. She sat down on the piano bench and surveyed
them with professional interest. Divide
and conquer appeared to be the best plan of attack.
Turning to Mr. Cultural
Enrichment, she said (through teeth that just avoided being clenched)
“Go....get....the....jar.”
Barry started to say
something when Cassie's mean look, which had been perfected over twenty
years of teaching, hit him solidly between the eyes. He left, weaving a bit as he headed toward
the now empty fellowship hall and its gaily decorated Christmas tree.
She turned toward the two
remaining felons. Kenny was holding up
tolerably well but Geoff looked so miserable she stemmed the torrent of
reproach welling within her. They were
only ten years old, after all.
She held the coin in the palm
of her hand. Funny how much it resembled
a tarnished quarter even though it came from half a world away. “I believe this is yours,” she said to Geoff.
The range of emotions that
flew across his face brought tears to her eyes.
He had been suffering so much these last four days. No wonder Kenny got the upper hand in chess. It was a miracle Geoff had been able to play
at all. However, he hadn't been the only
one who had been hurt – not by a long shot.
“I think I can pretty much
figure out what happened, but please stop me if I get anything major
wrong. The coin was put into the jar by
mistake, and you three snuck in here during Wednesday dinner to try to get it
back. Only the jar tilted off of the
pedestal and broke?”
“It didn't make any noise,
but when we tried to pick it up we found the bottom had come clean off, and the
rest was in two big pieces,” Kenny was babbling in an attempt to explain all
before she looked at him that way.
“I suppose it would have been
expecting too much for you to just find someone and explain what had
happened?” Cassie asked with commendable restraint.
Geoff
spoke up, “I was afraid they would think I was a sissy, making a lot of fuss
over a little coin and not wanting to share with the Kormanski's.”
Gee, kids were fragile.
Sometimes Cassie forgot just how sensitive young boys could be. She had probably erred a lot even with her
own two. Raising Alice was such a
struggle. How often had she missed the
telltale signs? Probably much too often. She dragged herself back to the present. Kenny was looking significantly relieved
although Geoff could not as yet look her in the eyes.
Barry returned with the large
scoutmaster's present, the box still as colorfully wrapped as it had been when
they had placed it Friday in the storage closet 'for safe keeping'.
Cassie's scientific curiosity
was aroused. She leaned forward.
“Let me see the bottom.”
Barry, who had in the interim
recovered a good amount of his saing froid, proudly showed off the
mechanism that allowed them to open the specially constructed box, cover the
lone pickle jar on the closet shelf then close the bottom again with no one
being any the wiser.
No, Cassie silently admitted, half
a school year would not be time enough to deal fully with this bunch. Still, there were stop gap measures.
“So, where's the money?” She returned to the piano bench.
Geoff gave a nervous giggle, “You...you're
sitting on it.”
She surveyed them with a
jaundiced eye. Kenny and Geoff knew the
Kormanskis better than Barry did. But
even so. Her hands twitched convulsively.
She was able to subdue them before she grabbed the boys' necks and shook them
until their teeth rattled. Cassie arose
and removed the top layer of music under the lid of the bench. There it all was in an untidy heap: coins,
bills, checks.
“Give me the jar.” It was Barry who complied, reaching in his
pocket to retrieve one of his father's handkerchiefs. He polished the container inside and out
before handing it to her. CSI
must be right on top of his favored TV programs list.
She used the handkerchief in
turn, secretly annoyed with herself in forgetting this elementary precaution,
while the boys replaced the missing booty.
The jingling coins made quite a racket in the now silent church. Opening the door to the utility closet, they
secreted the jar behind the mops and brooms that leaned in one dark corner. Upon gaining the safety of the old station
wagon, Cassie was surprised to find she was holding her breath. The ensuing adrenalin rush as they turned the
corner and headed to the country club caught her by surprise. Not for worlds would she acknowledge a fellow
feeling with her merry band. She took
her responsibilities seriously.
Benevolent vengeance must somehow be wreaked or they might be tempted to
soon again venture into dangerous waters.
Arriving at the club some
five minutes later, she pulled into a convenient parking place and turned to
the three boys in the back seat.
Releasing Geoff, who scuttled inside with alacrity, she spoke softly.
“While this might have been
just a jolly adventure for you two in aid of a good friend, the apparent theft
hurt some very kind people and caused a great deal of trouble to a number of
others, including already overburdened police investigators. I want you to think long and hard about that
in the next few days. There may be
something yet you can do to rectify at least part of the damage your little
intrigue caused. I think I'll just go
inside with you.”
“No,” as their faces became panic stricken, “I'm
not going to tell your parents but only because of the trouble it would
mean for Geoff and his family. I
wouldn't count on this much indulgence in the future, if I were you,” she added
as she saw a gleam return to Barry’s eyes.
She and two subdued young men
walked under the portico of the mellow old building and into the large dining
room where they were met by Kenny's parents.
As the duo turned to make a dash toward the linen covered buffet table
where Geoff was heaping his plate with roast beef and scalloped potatoes,
Cassie's arms whipped out and enveloped their shoulders. Holding them firmly she smiled at the two adults.
“The boys and I were talking
on the way over. They thought it would
be a great idea if they volunteered to do something over the holidays at the
police station.” Heartened by the
noticeable wince she felt in their shoulders, she continued, “Perhaps they
could put a new coat of paint on the break room. Quite a generous thought, isn't it?”
Kenneth Loren's eyes
glittered as he contemplated his young son and heir. Meeting Cassie’s steady gaze, he took a deep
breath then considered for a long moment before he replied.
“An excellent idea. Barry's father and I will take care of the
details. No sense bothering you over the
holidays.”
As the two scamps headed
toward Geoff and food, Kenny's mother turned to their teacher. “You must get a
great deal of satisfaction out of your job, Cassie.”
“Oh,” Cassie replied as she observed the
retreating forms, “It has its moments.”
IX
Monday morning found Sgt.
West surveying a tall pickle jar sitting in the center of the pastor's neatly
organized desk.
“Tell me again how you found
it,” Jerry West turned a bemused gaze toward the older man.
“Jeremiah Gooding and Ivan
Kormanski discovered this message when they returned from cleaning the church
nursery after service yesterday. It was
stuck in the handles of the double doors that lead from the main lobby to the
narthex.” He held out a folded piece of
paper.
The policeman read the
message aloud, “Matthew 7:7”? Although
he had been a faithful member of Pine Forest Baptist Church in northern Wood
County since his birth, at the moment he could not bring the quotation to mind.
“'Seek and ye shall
find.' Jeremiah Gooding recognized
it right away. So they looked in
the sanctuary one last time, at last locating the jar in a dark corner of the
utility closet under the stairs.”
“We must have checked that
area at least three times!”
“I know. There is no doubt it had to be placed in that
location sometime after the last search on Friday.”
“And whoever placed it there
had to have been inside the church after yesterday's service. The doors were locked?”
“Yes, at that time of day you
could get out but not in. Jeremiah and
Ivan worked together all morning. The
church nursery was very busy. They left
to clean it about the time the last few people were filing out. No one saw the note until they returned to
the area about 12:30.”
Sgt. West looked again at the
note. “Bold typeface but obviously
computer generated. I suppose we could
check it for prints, the jar also.”
Jonathan Edwards gave a
gentle smile, “I really don't think that will be necessary, do you? The money appears to be all there. Whatever happened or whoever has been involved
might be a mystery best left unsolved.
There must be some good reason why it was returned in this fashion.”
Sgt. West gave the minister a
considering glance. “If that's okay with
you. It’s less trouble on our end. We're always snowed under at this time of
year... and besides, there's always Luke 17:3.”
“Ah, yes. 'If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if
he repents, forgive him.' How very
appropriate.”
Jerry West gave a wry grin,
“We hear that one a lot in our line of work.”
***
Tuesday evening, the Reverend
Edwards stopped Cassie as she headed down the corridor toward the choir room to
prepare for Christmas Eve service.
“I saw the article in today's
paper about the return of the jar.
Everything should be back to normal now.” Cassie decided to get in the
first shot.
Jonathan gave his gentle
smile, “Yes, things are just fine.
Better than fine actually: that front page article brought in lots of
additional donations these past two days.
It looks as though we should have no trouble financing the family's trip
and initial housing expenses.”
He gave a thoughtful pause,
“I don't think we'll add those contributions to the jar until after tonight's
service. Can't have it too full, you
know. Wouldn't want to discourage any
last minute contributions.”
Cassie looked her pastor with
considerable admiration. She seldom saw
the eminently practical side of his persona.
“Well, I'd better be on my
way. We have one piece we want to
review, and it's getting late.”
As she turned to make her
getaway, the minister added. “You know,
it's a funny thing about that jar. Sgt.
West and I decided fingerprinting was unnecessary. It was probably wiped clean anyway. Everyone knows about fingerprints these
days. No, it was something I noticed
after he had gone. That was a Vlasic
pickle jar.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and yet I'm quite sure
our church only purchases Mt. Olive ones.”
Details, details, details.
Cassie returned his steady
gaze, “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Jonathan.”
“Indeed he does. Merry Christmas, Cassie. I hear you're having
quite a big dinner tomorrow.”
“Bigger than originally
planned. The Harris's daughter and her family
are stuck in a blizzard at the Denver airport so Dr. and Mrs. Harris will be
joining us as well. Oops, there's the
music- I've got to go!” Cassie moved
down the corridor with a ladylike walk that nearly resembled a gallop. Things were getting a bit too sticky for her
complete comfort.
***
The Christmas Eve service was
drawing to a close. Cassie picked up her
candle and holder. She looked around the full sanctuary at the many people she
had known for so long. Moving was part
of a Navy family’s way of life. She had never been able to put down roots until
she moved to this special place. It made
Cassie all the more protective of everything she held dear.
She saw her two sons, Scott sitting close to Daria
and Stefan; tall Josh and his lovely girlfriend Lori on Scott's other side. Her father and Alice had opted to stay at the
house with Nancy Decatur to keep them company.
Cassie looked towards the main sanctuary doors where Ivan and Jeremiah
Gooding kept faithful watch, flanking the overflowing jar. No way they were going to let it out of their
sight again. Jonathan was going to have
quite a time wedging in all those additional donations, but she was confident
he was up to the task.
A quick glance at the balcony
showed the Loren and Sandidge families in their usual places. Scanning farther along the pew past faces
both familiar and new, she noted one family in particular. A small boy of about seven or so was standing
next to a lovely woman, radiant in her last trimester of pregnancy. Cassie's experienced eye determined the baby
was probably a girl. A boy of about ten
stood on his father's other side. They
must live in the county as he did not attend Parkside School. She glanced up at the father, stolidly
arrayed in dark suit and tie, and simply stared.
Catching her eye, Sgt. Jerry
West gave her a deliberate wink. Rapidly
returning her gaze to her immediate surroundings, Cassie stood up with her
fellow choir members. Lighting her
candle in turn, their voices intertwined on the moving Silent Night. One by one the candles were lit, row upon row
and aisle upon aisle, filling the dim sanctuary with their glow of hope and
peace. At its conclusion, the congregation
filed out, murmuring Christmas greetings to their nearest neighbors.
***
Cassie left the choir robing
room, pulling on her coat as she went. A
cold front was winging its way eastwards, and late night sleet had been
forecast. Already her thoughts were on
tomorrow's large dinner and the way she would have to juggle roasting the large
turkey, glazing the ham and preparing a plethora of side dishes in her two
ancient ovens. How she would accomplish
it remained a mystery to her, as did Alice's unprovoked assaults upon this
year’s Christmas tree.
She flung open the outer door
to the parking lot then came to an abrupt halt to avoid colliding with a group
of people who stood entranced just outside the door. Their upturned faces were rapturous in the
frosty air as huge snowflakes whispered out of an invisible night sky, gilding
the waiting landscape with their silent magic.
“It'll never stick,” said one
of the older members with regret.
“It doesn't have to,” Cassie
replied, “it's perfect just the way it is.”
And it was.
Author: Susan
McNeill Roberts, wife, mother, retired school teacher, and author, now lives in
Summerton, S.C.
