That was the beginning of a trend. Every kid in the room between the ages of three and fourteen lined up behind Rae for a chance to get their picture taken with the scary black angel. Or witch, whatever. Money is money. I fluttered my wings at each of them before Chico took the shot, and they screamed in joyful terror. The noise was giving me a headache.

Between each customer, I noticed Chico would glance up at the disco ball and open his mouth to say something. Another kid diverted his attention every time.

Most of the dads lined up, too, and the bucket overflowed. I wasn’t worried about ending up on YouTube or Facebook. No one would recognize my paint-covered face or believe these were my boobs. Poor Bambi went completely unnoticed.

Old Bert Thiesson caused me a moment’s discomfort when his hand wandered too far down my back and I had to jab him in the ribs. He was definitely frisky for someone a hundred and ten. I was glad to see Mr. Archman made it. He hobbled in, arm still in a cast. He gave Chico the snake eye but consented to a photo, sighing dramatically and throwing ten bucks in the bucket. He definitely looked thinner.

“This will be your before picture, Mr. A. Next year, after you’ve lost the hundred pounds, we’ll take an after picture!”

He shook his head. “Maybe you can enlarge this one and prop it beside my casket. But promise me you won’t deliver my eulogy, Miss Cornwall? It might be difficult, but I’d roll in my grave.”

“Oh, Mr. A — can I call you Earl? — none of that talk, now. I’m going to come over and visit you again. I need some advice on storing, um, Second World War souvenirs, if you get my meaning.”

He gave me a signature eye roll and stumped quickly away without warning me not to call him Earl. I was serious. I had to remove Grandpa’s weapons from my garage before somebody in my family was charged. Maybe me and Earl could store our guns together.

Fang brought his four kids over and introduced them as Edsel, Chevy, Nash, and Hudson.

“Are you naming the next one Studebaker?” I asked him.

“We’re thinking maybe Packard.”

They all had Fang’s sharp, dark eyes and straight, white teeth, which showed up nicely in the picture. One was a little girl about five, and it crossed my mind that Faith could have looked very much like her when she was this age. Fang threw five dollars in the pail. I should have told Rae it was five bucks per kid.

Even Fern Brickle stopped by to chat and admire my outfit. She contributed twenty dollars and gamely put her arm around my waist for a photo. We were making money hand over fist. Glory cast me a baleful glare once in a while, but stayed away. Too bad. I so wanted a picture of the two of us together. It might go viral. The Ice Queen and the Black Angel. A new Christmas classic.

The Weasels arrived by snowmobile, smiling and waving like they were starring in a Viagra commercial. Andrea would be driving my Crossfire. Neither wanted a photo with the busty black angel, apparently. They avoided eye contact with me, and I saw panic in their faces as the crowd continued to swell and push them ever closer to the forest tableau. Andrea had on her Jimmy Choos, and I just barely held back a snort of derision. Who wears Jimmy Choos on a snowmobile? I said to Chico, “If the Weasel gets within shutter range, get a shot of us.” That might give me more blackmail material should I again need it someday.

“Listen, Bliss,” Chico called back. “I remembered what happened to the Polaroid shots from grad night.” He raised his eyes to the disco ball.

“What?” I looked up. The spotlights caught the silvery facets of the ball as it gently revolved above our heads.

“I got a ladder and used my jackknife to slice it open near the top. I slid about a dozen pictures in, one by one. A kind of time capsule. Then Mr. Archman made me get down.”

“Do you think they’re still viewable?” From what I remembered of Polaroid pictures, they faded after a time, faces first and the brighter colours last.

“Not likely. Alternating cold and heat wouldn’t do them any good. But we should look. Maybe we’ll see something that might help the police figure out … you know.”

“Come over tomorrow, okay, and we’ll cut the ball open.” The memento I had worked so hard to acquire would be destroyed, but what if Faith’s yellow dress showed up? And somebody else was in a picture with her? It was a long shot, but we had to look.

Before he could acquiesce, Dwayne Rundell cut through the crowd and stood in front of me, hands on belt. He had his official face on, meaning he just looked dumber than usual.

“What now, Dwayne? I haven’t driven my car in a week, so whatever your problem is, it can’t be related to anything I’ve done.”

“You can’t walk around with that dagger hanging off your belt.”

I had completely forgotten the bayonet. I put my hand over the hilt … handle. “What are you talking about?” I refrained from adding idiot, so I can’t be blamed for what followed.

“It’s a prohibited weapon. Hand it over.” He was attracting an audience of ear-flapping, nosy eavesdroppers.

“It is not a prohibited weapon! It’s part of my costume. You need to look up the regulations on prohibited weapons because, clearly, you’re an idiot.” Heat surged through my body and moisture collected in my cleavage. This was harassment. I didn’t care what Neil called it.

Dwayne reached over and pulled the bayonet out of my belt. He raised it over his head, out of my reach. If he thought I was going to jump for it, he was wrong. I tried to breathe, but nothing happened. Sweat trickled down my back, under my wings. I drew my foot back and prepared to kneecap him.

Neil was suddenly there between us. My sandal connected with his shin. He grunted and closed his hand over my bicep. He nudged Dwayne ahead of him. “Both of you. In the hall. Now!”

In the hallway, he pulled us along until we were out of sight and earshot of the crowd in the atrium. He stopped in front of one of the plant rooms.

He looked from Dwayne to me, then back again. “This stops now. Hear me? Dwayne, a bayonet is not listed as a prohibited weapon. The legality is in the intent. She’s not using it as a weapon of defence or with intent to harm. Carrying a bayonet as part of a costume is not illegal. To charge Ms. Cornwall under these circumstances will most likely earn you a reprimand from a judge for wasting his time.”

He looked at the bayonet. “Take that and put it in the back of my Cherokee.” Dwayne trudged away without one word out of his stupid mouth.

When Redfern turned back to me, his voice was taut with anger. “Will there ever come a time when you treat an officer — any officer — with respect? And not make a public scene?”

When I opened my mouth, he overrode me. “Well, Bliss? Is expecting you to conduct yourself with even a modicum of decorum a hopeless objective?”

What an arrogant asshole! My head was going to explode with rage. I held my index finger under his nose. “We already had a discussion about the bayonet, remember? Now, instead of sticking up for me, you side with your half-witted constable. Again. But that’s fine, okay? You don’t need to have my back. From now on, I rely on myself and nobody else. And another thing, don’t call me Bliss anymore, okay, Redfern!”

I whirled away, but turned back. “Just bite me! Okay, Redfern?”

I stomped back to the atrium. People stared at me but I didn’t care. Chico took a few more pictures of me with kids and dads, but it was clear the party was winding down. Redfern returned and called for attention.

“Folks, the weather has worsened. I’ve been in touch with the OPP, and they’re planning to close Highway 21 shortly. Within the next few minutes, I suggest that everyone make their way to their vehicles and head back to town. Drive slowly and you should be fine. We have a snowplow waiting at the corner to lead the way. Thank you.” His face was brick red and I suspect my own displayed a similar shade of anger.