The Christmas Thief by Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark Page A

shades were never snapped up before the crack of noon.
    But there was no activity at all around the farmhouse. The van was parked directly at the front door. Any closer, and whoever was driving would have gotten out in the living room, Opal thought. She waited for twenty minutes. There wasn’t a sign of anyone getting up to milk cows or feed chickens. I wonder if they have animals in the barn, she thought. It really is big. It looks as if it would hold all the animals on Noah’s ark.
    She skied to the left to try to get a look at the license plate on the van. It was a Vermont plate, but from where she was standing, it was impossible to make out the numbers on it. It would be taking a risk, but she had to get closer.
    Opal took a deep breath, skied out of the woods and into the clearing, and didn’t stop until she was a few feet from the van. I’ve got to make this fast and get out of here, she thought. Now very nervous, she whispered the numbers on the green and white plate. “BEM 360. BEM 360,” she repeated. “I’ll write it down when I’m out of sight.”
     
    Inside the farmhouse, at the very table where only hours before conviviality had reigned, three hungover, tired, and angry crooks were trying to figure out how to recover the flask of diamonds that had been their ticket to lifelong easy living. The machete with Wayne Covel’s name engraved on the handle was in the center of the table. The local phone book was open to the page where Covel’s name and phone number had been circled by Packy. Covel’s address was not listed.
    Milo had already made two pots of coffee and two batches of pancakes with bacon and sausage. Packy and the twins had devoured the breakfast but now ignored his cheerful suggestion: “One more batch of pancakes for growing boys?”
    All three were casting malevolent stares at Covel’s machete.
    Might as well rustle them up, Milo thought, as he began to spoon batter into the pan. Their bad fortune had obviously not affected their appetites.
    “Milo, forget the Magic Chef routine,” Packy ordered. “Sit down. I’ve got plans for you.”
    Milo obeyed. Intending to turn off the pancakes, he instead flipped the flame under the frying pan that was brimming with bacon grease.
    “You’re sure you know where this crook Covel lives?” Packy asked accusingly.
    “Yes, I do,” Milo confirmed proudly. “It’s in the second page of that article I showed you about the tree. It said how unusual it was to find two trees worthy of Rockefeller Center in the same state, never mind on neighboring property. Everybody knows where Lem Pickens lives, and Covel’s right next door.”
    Benny wrinkled his nose. “What’s burning?”
    They all looked over at the stove. Flames and smoke were rising from the ancient cast-iron frying pan full of grease. Next to it the pancakes were rapidly turning black.
    “You trying to kill us?” Packy screamed. “This place stinks!” He jumped up. “I get asthma from smoke!” He ran to the front door, yanked it open, and hurried out onto the front porch.
    Standing only a few feet away, a woman on cross-country skis was staring at the license plate on the back of the van.
    Her head jerked around, and their eyes locked. Even though over twelve years had passed, there was instant recognition on both their parts.
    Opal turned and in a futile effort to escape pushed down hard on her poles, but in her haste she slipped and fell. Instantly, Packy was on her, his hand firmly covering her mouth, his knee on her back, holding her down. A moment later, dazed and terrified, she felt other hands grab her roughly and drag her into the house.

22
    A lvirah awakened at 7:15 with a sense of anticipation. “It feels like the beginning of the holiday season, doesn’t it, Willy?” she asked. “I mean, to be seeing the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree here in its natural setting, before it’s all lit up in New York.”
    After forty years of marriage, Willy had long since become