happened to the tree?” he yelled.
“You don’t know?!” Lem exploded.
“Of course I don’t know! I woke up early and decided to come on over. The others will be here by eight o’clock. And where’s our flatbed?”
Viddy exclaimed, “Lem, I told you it didn’t make sense for those Rockefeller Center people to cut our tree down early. But who else would have done it?”
Next to her, her husband straightened up to his full height, which had shrunk to six feet one, pointed through the woods with an accusatory finger, and bellowed, “That no good skunk Wayne Covel did this!”
Almost four hours later, when the Meehans and the Reillys arrived on the scene, Lem was still sputtering that accusation for all the world to hear. Because word had already gone out that somebody had managed to make off with a three-ton tree, the expected crowd of one hundred had grown to three hundred and counting. The woods were swarming with reporters, television cameras, and stringers from the major networks. To the delight of the assembled media, what had begun as a feel-good piece of Americana had turned into a major news story.
The Meehans and Reillys made their way to the police captain at what appeared to be the command post at the edge of the clearing. Alvirah was scanning the crowd in the hope that Opal might have gone directly there if she was running late.
Jack introduced himself and the others and told the captain that Alvirah was writing a story for a New York newspaper. “Can you bring us up to date, Chief?”
“Well, this tree that was supposed to end up in your neck of the woods got swiped. We found a flatbed abandoned on route 100, near Morristown, which I think may have been involved in the crime. They’re tracing the registration. The Rockefeller Center people have offered a $10,000 reward for the tree if it’s still in good condition. With all this coverage,” he pointed to the cameras, “you’re going to have a lot of people on the lookout for that tree.”
“Do you think it might be kids who did this?” Alvirah asked.
“They would have to be darn smart kids,” the Chief said skeptically. “You don’t just go and chop down a tree that size. Cut it at the wrong angle, and it could fall on you. But who knows? It could turn up on a college campus full of tinsel, I suppose. I doubt it, though.”
Lem Pickens was finally calming down. He had not left the spot for nearly four hours, except for his rushed trip with the police to bang on Wayne Covel’s door at twenty of seven. Even Lem’s righteous wrath could not keep him warm any longer. Viddy had gone back and forth to the house a couple of times to get a cup of coffee and warm up. Now, as they walked past the police chief, they stopped.
“Chief, has anyone spoken to that low-down tree-napper Wayne Covel again?”
“Lem,” the Chief began wearily, “you know that there’s nothing to ask him now. We routed him out of bed this morning. He denies knowing anything. Just because you think he’s responsible doesn’t make him responsible.”
“Well, who else would do this?” Lem demanded. By now it was a rhetorical question.
Alvirah seized the moment. “Mr. Pickens, I’m a reporter for The New York Globe. Could I possibly ask you about someone who worked for you years ago?”
Lem and Viddy turned and focused on the group.
“Who did you say you were?” he asked.
“We’re all from New York, and you’d be interested to know that between us all, we’ve solved a lot of crimes.” Alvirah introduced the group to the Pickenses.
“I read your books, Nora!” Viddy exclaimed. “Why don’t you all come up to the house for a cup of hot chocolate, and we’ll talk.”
Wonderful, Alvirah thought. We’ll be able to ask about Packy Noonan without interruption.
“Yeah, come on,” Lem said gruffly, confirming the invitation with a wave of his sinewy hand.
Alvirah turned to the police chief. “My friend went out cross-country skiing early
“You don’t know?!” Lem exploded.
“Of course I don’t know! I woke up early and decided to come on over. The others will be here by eight o’clock. And where’s our flatbed?”
Viddy exclaimed, “Lem, I told you it didn’t make sense for those Rockefeller Center people to cut our tree down early. But who else would have done it?”
Next to her, her husband straightened up to his full height, which had shrunk to six feet one, pointed through the woods with an accusatory finger, and bellowed, “That no good skunk Wayne Covel did this!”
Almost four hours later, when the Meehans and the Reillys arrived on the scene, Lem was still sputtering that accusation for all the world to hear. Because word had already gone out that somebody had managed to make off with a three-ton tree, the expected crowd of one hundred had grown to three hundred and counting. The woods were swarming with reporters, television cameras, and stringers from the major networks. To the delight of the assembled media, what had begun as a feel-good piece of Americana had turned into a major news story.
The Meehans and Reillys made their way to the police captain at what appeared to be the command post at the edge of the clearing. Alvirah was scanning the crowd in the hope that Opal might have gone directly there if she was running late.
Jack introduced himself and the others and told the captain that Alvirah was writing a story for a New York newspaper. “Can you bring us up to date, Chief?”
“Well, this tree that was supposed to end up in your neck of the woods got swiped. We found a flatbed abandoned on route 100, near Morristown, which I think may have been involved in the crime. They’re tracing the registration. The Rockefeller Center people have offered a $10,000 reward for the tree if it’s still in good condition. With all this coverage,” he pointed to the cameras, “you’re going to have a lot of people on the lookout for that tree.”
“Do you think it might be kids who did this?” Alvirah asked.
“They would have to be darn smart kids,” the Chief said skeptically. “You don’t just go and chop down a tree that size. Cut it at the wrong angle, and it could fall on you. But who knows? It could turn up on a college campus full of tinsel, I suppose. I doubt it, though.”
Lem Pickens was finally calming down. He had not left the spot for nearly four hours, except for his rushed trip with the police to bang on Wayne Covel’s door at twenty of seven. Even Lem’s righteous wrath could not keep him warm any longer. Viddy had gone back and forth to the house a couple of times to get a cup of coffee and warm up. Now, as they walked past the police chief, they stopped.
“Chief, has anyone spoken to that low-down tree-napper Wayne Covel again?”
“Lem,” the Chief began wearily, “you know that there’s nothing to ask him now. We routed him out of bed this morning. He denies knowing anything. Just because you think he’s responsible doesn’t make him responsible.”
“Well, who else would do this?” Lem demanded. By now it was a rhetorical question.
Alvirah seized the moment. “Mr. Pickens, I’m a reporter for The New York Globe. Could I possibly ask you about someone who worked for you years ago?”
Lem and Viddy turned and focused on the group.
“Who did you say you were?” he asked.
“We’re all from New York, and you’d be interested to know that between us all, we’ve solved a lot of crimes.” Alvirah introduced the group to the Pickenses.
“I read your books, Nora!” Viddy exclaimed. “Why don’t you all come up to the house for a cup of hot chocolate, and we’ll talk.”
Wonderful, Alvirah thought. We’ll be able to ask about Packy Noonan without interruption.
“Yeah, come on,” Lem said gruffly, confirming the invitation with a wave of his sinewy hand.
Alvirah turned to the police chief. “My friend went out cross-country skiing early
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