They came to the end of the hall up the stairs and the door to the tower room. Judy tried the doorknob. “Oh drat, it’s locked.” Her face fell, disappointed. “I guess we’ll have to wait and get the key from Buck.”
“No we won’t.” Farrie bent to press her eye against the keyhole. “It’s just a ole-fashioned spring lock, no tumblers or nothing like that. I need a pin.” She straightened up and took off the big hat.
“We don’t need to do that,” Scarlett said quickly.
“Good golly, can she really do it?” Judy’s eyes had grown rounder. “Open a locked door?”
“Well,” Farrie said, “for a lock with tumblers I need a little knife.” She had taken the rhinestone pin off the front of the wedding hat. “But a pin will do for this old spring lock. I can hot-wire cars, too.” She bent to the door, the opened pin in her hand. “I can open the door on a ninety-three Coupe de Ville and get inside in no time. I got a uncle, Lyndon Baines Scraggs, who showed me how to do car locks. But I’m way faster now than he is.”
At that moment the door clicked and swung open. Farrie stepped back, grinning. “See? I told you it wasn’t no big thing.”
The Victorian turret room was cold. Storage boxes were stacked against the walls and a dressmaker’s dummy stood by the window. Scarlett shied at it. “What’s that?”
“I guess that’s Sheila’s dress form,” Judy told her. “Sheila’s mother sewed for her all the time she was in college. Sheila always had the prettiest clothes! She was Homecoming Queen, and Rush Week Queen, and Harvest Ball Queen – Mrs. Grissom was always making her some kind of evening dress, Sheila never wore the same one twice.”
Scarlett stood in front of the dummy, fascinated. Here, in this house, people not only learned to cook out of books but they sewed, too. And according to Judy never wore the same clothes twice.
“C’mon,” Judy said, brushing past her, “let’s open the window.”
They threw up the sash and a blast of frigid air rushed in. Scarlett crowded into the bay. They hung out over the sill, the shingles of the roof just below.
“Look!” Farrie cried.
The Grissoms’ house stood on the western side of Makim’s Mountain overlooking the Nancyville valley. The mountainside fell away sharply. Faint snow drifted in the bitter air, frosting the oaks and pine trees and the roofs of houses farther down. In spite of the snowfall they could still see the town, the spires of churches, the trees on the courthouse lawn.
“That’s where they’re going to have the living Christmas tree,” Judy said, pointing. “My mom and dad have been working on it for two weeks, getting people to volunteer.”
“Living Christmas tree?” Farrie’s breath was like smoke in the cold air. She hung into space and Scarlett took a firm grip on the back of the peach satin dress.
“Used to be the Living Christmas Pageant,” Judy explained. “One year I was a shepherd, and you freeze to death not moving at all while people drive by in their cars. We used to have a contest every year for the Best Baby Jesus, but babies could only stay out fifteen minutes at a time unless it was pretty warm at Christmas like it was last year. When Jason Ellison won his mother wanted to use an electric blanket but Susan Huddleston, the county welfare worker, said that fifteen minutes was still the limit.”
Scarlett knew who Susan Huddleston was. “What happened to the Baby Jesus this year?”
“He got eliminated.” Judy shrugged. “The government said we were breaking the law holding a religious spectacle on county property. So this year we have to have something non – nonspectaclarian.”
Judy thought it over, frowning. “Anyway, Mr. Ravenwood, who teaches the high school chorus, said we could have a Living Christmas Tree.” She leaned out to point. “Down there next to the courthouse in all those trees. If you look real hard you can just see where they’re building it.”
“I can’t see anything.” Farrie followed the pointing finger. “What is it?”
“I just told you, the Living Christmas Tree. It’s a big wooden thing shaped like a Christmas tree. And when you look at the back of it there’s steps and places for people to stand on. We haven’t had a rehearsal yet but Mr. Ravenwood says that you stand on your part of the steps and you’re holding candles in both hands. That’s the living Christmas tree part. People are supposed to be living Christmas tree decorations.”
Farrie made a sound of sheer awe.
“And you sing,” Judy added, “Christmas carols. The whole tree is singing and people drive by and see that.”
Scarlett looked at her. “Singing?”
“It’s a sort of Christmas concert. There are a lot of people that are still mad about the Best Baby Jesus contest, though.” Her face brightened as she pulled back inside. “You’re going to stay here with the sheriff until after Christmas, aren’t you?”
Scarlett hesitated, aware that Farrie was looking at her pleadingly. “Well,” she said slowly, “unless something changes.”
“Oh, I don’t think anything’s going to change, according to what my mother said. That means you can volunteer for the Living Christmas Tree. All you need to do is stand there and sing.” Judy Heamstead saw the look on Scarlett’s face. “You can sing, can’t you?”
Scarlett was trying to think of something to say.
“Yeah,” she said finally. She was feeling like she was throwing away the last chance they had, and helpless to do anything about it. “Farrie can sure sing.”
Eight
“Tripped over the dog, did you?” Dr. Halliwell asked. “I bet that’s the first time old Devil Anse got away because a lawman fell over a pet. How’re you with cats?”
“Doc, look,” Buck began.
“That’s a pretty interesting animal.” The doctor looked over his glasses at Demon’s vast length stretched out on his office carpet, her paws crossed over her muzzle. “I’ve never seen one quite like it. ‘Course, as you know, Yorkshire terriers are my passion, the wife’s, too. However, I saw a Neopolitan mastiff one year at the Atlanta Dog Show,” he said, looking reminiscent. “Biggest damned thing I ever did -”
“Doc,” Buck interrupted forcefully, “if you like dogs you can have this thing.” He struggled to his feet, favoring his swollen right arm and hand. “In fact, the way things stand right now, I’ll do pretty nearly anything to get rid of it. It’s developed some sort of obsession about sticking close to me – you won’t believe this but it even follows me into the men’s room and stands there, watching. It’s driving me nuts!”
“Sit back and calm down,” the doctor told him. He reached over and took Buck’s nose between thumb and forefinger and moved it slightly. “I feel a little play in the cartilage there. Want me to stabilize that nose with an adhesive strip?”
Buck pulled back quickly. “Hell no, I don’t need my nose taped up! I’m not exactly looking like a role model for the department as it is.”
Dr. Halliwell raised his eyebrows. “Have it your way. But we’re not fooling around here, Buck. Just because I popped that shoulder back in the socket doesn’t mean you don’t have to take care of it. I want you to keep the arm in a sling for the next ten days.” At Sheriff Grissom’s audible groan he went on: “Except, of course, you can take it off when you go to bed.”
“I can’t keep my arm in a sling,” Buck protested, “not for ten days! Look at me. A banged-up nose, my right arm useless, and I’m busier’n hell this time of the year what with hijackers and the crazy business about no Christmas pageant on the courthouse lawn -”