the hall. Jackson Clopper leaned back in his folding chair and glowered directly at Oretta. At least I hoped it was Oretta he was glowering at and not me because he truly looked frightening. I wondered why he'd come.
Looking over the kitchen counter, I could see Ginnie removing pies from the ovens. I also caught a momentary glimpse of red and guessed that it was Weezie's jacket. I hoped the poor woman wasn't in for a beating when the Cloppers got home.
Stanley Roadcap occupied a seat near Bernice's fur coat, with a half-made holly wreath apparently forgotten on his lap. Praxythea stood in the back of the room, distributing signed eight-by-ten glossies.
There were other people present, their faces familiar but names unknown. Perhaps by the time I left Lickin Creek, I'd have all its citizens straight in my mind.
I suddenly realized the two other goddesses were staring at me. “Excuse me?” I said.
“Hail to the great mother,” Oretta cried, with a touch of impatience in her voice. I realized I'd missed my cue.
“Hail to the great mother,” I said with enthusiasm.
“Hail to the wycann,” came from Bernice.
“Hail to the—” I stopped and looked at my script. Was wycann a misspelling of wiccan, another word for witch? Lots of New Age witchcraft was going around in feminist circles in New York, I knew, but here in Lickin Creek? And in a Christmas pageant? I hardly thought so.
“Hail to the goddess,” they chirped in unison.
On the other hand, maybe it was possible.
Matavious cranked up the volume on his portable player and the music to the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” filled the room.
“I drink from the Goblet of Life.” Bernice raised the Styrofoam cup to her lips and drank deeply.
More likely it was the Goblet of Martinis, I thought cynically.
It was time for the dance of the muses, and Oretta groaned her way down from her bar stool. But before the dance could begin, Bernice dropped the cup, opened her mouth, and uttered a noise that was a cross between a belch and a gurgle.
“What, dear?” Oretta said. “Bernice! Are you all right?”
A stream of greenish-yellow bile shot from Bernice's mouth and splattered Oretta's chiffon-covered bosom.
“Ohmygod!” Oretta screamed.
Bernice's eyes opened wide as if she had seen something that surprised her, then she doubled up, clutched her stomach, and crashed to the floor.
I ran across the stage, pushed past the stunned actresses who were frozen in their spots, and dropped to my knees next to the woman a second or two before Matavious Clopper scrambled onto the stage. I moved back a little to give Matavious room to work, but not before my nose was assaulted by the nasty smell of gin, cinnamon, and something else—almonds.
“Call an ambulance, somebody, quick!” Stanley Roadcap yelled frantically. “For God's sake, Matavious, you're a doctor. Do something!”
“I'm trying,” the chiropractor snapped. His fingers were on Bernice's throat, trying to find a pulse.
Bernice was frighteningly still, her mouth bright red.
Speculations began to fly. “Heart attack … stroke … too much estrogen … not enough … my doctor says … ptomaine … stomach flu … like when my appendix burst …”
The white cup lay on the floor where Bernice had dropped it. I bent over and sniffed it. It had most definitely contained spiced cider laced with gin. And there was that other smell, too. Almonds. “Don't anyone drink the cider,” I yelled, as I struggled to my feet. I moved quickly to the front of the stage. “Please, people, don't drink the cider!” To prevent panic, I added, “It might be spoiled.”
My warning was picked up by the people gathered below and carried to the back of the room. Those people who held cups quickly put them down and stared up at me with anxious eyes.
“Somebody call the police,” I urged.
“I already did,” Ginnie said, at my side.
It occurred to me that nothing could have been added to the cider urn, since so many people had drunk from it without ill effect. It must have been something she brought with her. “Where's Bernice's thermos?” I asked.
Her gentleman friend stepped forward, holding it up. It was seized from his grasp and passed from one person to another until it reached me. No point in worrying about fingerprints now, I thought, and quickly unscrewed the lid. I sniffed, expecting the same odor I'd smelled in the cup Bernice had drunk from, but as far as I could tell, the liquid in the container was straight, unadulterated gin. Whatever had