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condensation and saw that it was snowing again, heavily. He thought that he agreed with her.
     

GRIST FOR THE MILLS OF CHRISTMAS – James Powell

    The tabloid press dubbed the corner of southern Ontario bounded by Windsor, Sarnia, and St. Thomas “The Christmas Triangle” after holiday travelers began vanishing there in substantial numbers. When the disappearances reached twenty-seven, Wayne Sorley, editor-at-large of The Traveling Gourmet magazine, ever on the alert for offbeat articles, penciled in a story on “Bed-and-Breakfasting Through the Triangle of Death” for an upcoming Christmas number, intending to combine seasonal decorations and homey breakfast recipes (including a side article on “Muffins from Hell”) with whatever details of the mysterious triangle came his way.
    So when the middle of December rolled around, Sorley flew to Detroit, rented a car, and drove across the border into snow, wind, and falling temperatures.
    He quickly discovered the bed-and-breakfast people weren’t really crazy about the Christmas Triangle slant. Some thought it was bad for business. Few took the disappearances as lightly as Sorley did. To make matters worse, his reputation had preceded him. The current issue of The Traveling Gourmet contained his “Haunted Inns of the Coast of Maine” and his side article “Cod Cakes from Hell.” marking him as a dangerous guest to have around. Some places on Sorley’s itinerary received him grudgingly. Others claimed no record of his reservations and threatened to loose the dog on him if he didn’t go away.
    On the evening of the twenty-third of December, and well behind schedule, Sorley arrived at the last bed-and-breakfast on his prearranged itinerary to find a handwritten notice on the door. “Closed by the Board of Health.” Shaking his fist at the dark windows, Sorley decided then and there to throw in the towel. To hell with the damn Christmas Triangle! So he found a motel for the night, resolving to get back across the border and catch the first available flight for New York City. But he awoke late to find a fresh fall of snow and a dead car battery.
    It was midafternoon before Sorley, determined as ever, was on the road again. By six o’clock the snow was coming down heavily and aslant and he was still far from his destination. He drove on wearily. What he really needed now, he told himself, was a couple of weeks in Hawaii. How about an article on “The Twelve Luaus of Christmas”? This late they’d have to fake it. But what the hell, in Hawaii they have to fake the holidays anyway.
    Finally Sorley couldn’t take the driving anymore and turned off the highway to find a place for the night. That’s when he saw the “Double Kay B & B” sign with the shingle hanging under it that said “Vacancy.” On the front lawn beside the sign stood a fine old pickle-dish sleigh decorated with Christmas tree lights. Plastic reindeer lit electrically from within stood in the traces. Sorley pulled into the driveway and a moment later was up on the porch ringing the bell.
    Mrs. Kay was a short, stoutish, white-haired woman with a pleasant face which, except for an old scar from a sharp-edged instrument across the left cheekbone, seemed untouched by care. She ushered Sorley inside and down a carpeted hallway and up the stairs. The house was small, tidy, bright, and comfortably arranged. Sorley couldn’t quite find the word to describe it until Mrs. Kay showed him the available bedroom. The framed naval charts on the walls, the boat in a bottle, and the scrimshawed narwhal tusk on the mantel gave him the word he was looking for. The house was ship-shape.
    Sorley took the room. But when he asked Mrs. Kay to recommend a place to eat nearby she insisted he share their dinner. “After all, it’s Christmas Eve,” she said. “You just freshen up, then, and come downstairs.” Sorley smiled his thanks. The kitchen smells when she led him through the house had been delicious.
    Sorley