Tom Lutey

Hot on the frozen trail of copper thieves, Royce Lynch climbed through a gaping hole cut in a chain-link fence, studied the drag marks of ill-gotten gains too heavy to carry, then shared some observations torn straight from the probable script of CSI Spokane Valley. These criminals, according to the freight truck dispatcher in the Yardley industrial yards, were stupid.

Early in the planning for the U.S. Figure Skating Championships, it was clear Spokane didn't have enough ice for the weeklong skate-a-palooza. Someone suggested a frosty sheet be put down in the newest addition of the Spokane Convention Center, though the temperature inside was a balmy 70 degrees and its centralized air didn't exactly dial all the way down to winter wonderland.

It was barely 8 degrees Friday in St. Joseph's Cemetery. The cold seemed to emanate from the ground, making it difficult to even stand. But Sue Greenfelder wasn't going anywhere. She had waited six months for this day, waited for a 4,600-pound angel to grace this site, the burial ground of Greenfelder's husband, Chris. Now tethered to the groaning arm of a small crane, the angel hovered overhead.

It's 10:30 Monday morning as the women of St. Mary's Catholic Parish trickle into a spare church conference room, each with a bag of yarn, primed for higher purpose. The 10 women exchange pleasantries as their coffee cools, then cross themselves, bow their heads and get down to the business of prayer shawl ministry.

Remember Chance? Chance was a year-old black Labrador who pawed at readers' hearts in March after neighbors discovered the pup buried beneath a concrete stair landing of a Spokane Valley apartment.

Car thieves stole Barbara Williams' Nissan Altima in broad daylight last week as she worked less than 50 feet away at the cash register of Snyder's Bakery Thrift Store in Spokane Valley. It was Thursday afternoon. Two minutes earlier, Williams had been staring right at her 1995 four-door while talking on the phone with a co-worker. A customer had asked for help finding some whole-grain bread, and when Williams returned to her post the car had vanished.

They gunned down Jesus, Ocho Cinco, and the Butt Pirate before anyone really knew what was going on. "Wait. Wait," John Long stammered, fumbling the buttons of his video controller. Shots ricocheted off the cyber rocks surrounding his action game character. The ruthless space aliens of the video game "Halo 2" were closing in and with their arrival, Long's chances of winning a $399 Xbox 360 were fading fast.

The saying Devin Malmoe penned onto his bedroom mirror was "live life like it was your last day." Now nobody utters the phrase without shaking their head. "He was a good kid and he touched everybody's heart," said Devin's mother, Bridgett Malmoe.

Poverty missed Colleen Stevens by two generations, but it left an unmistakable mark on her grandparents. Her grandmother Charlotte Sullivan saved Saran Wrap as if it cost $50 a roll and hoarded sugar as if it couldn't be bought for less than a day's wage. Her grandfather James Sullivan wouldn't let as much as a piece of string go to waste on his road construction jobs.

The tiny barrel stove in Don Bergman's garage was working overtime as the old cowboy grabbed his chainsaw and headed for the door to greet another stranger. "Do you have one picked out?" Bergman asked.

The Vanhorn family lawn looks like a who's who of Christmas. There's Santa on a chopper-style motorcycle, a cranky 7-foot Grinch, a Frosty snowman so tall it would take an acre of snow to build him from scratch. A movie plays on the brilliant white surface of their garage door. And the soundtrack to this scene? Not "Jingle Bells," but rather the endless whisper of mechanized air, which is quickly becoming the melody of Christmas for lovers of inflatable displays.

The kids in the Solar Energy choir make lighting Spokane Valley's Christmas tree look so easy. Gathered beneath its dark branches in the parking lot of the mostly vacant University City Shopping Center, they sing jazzy songs, soulful songs, even boogie-woogie until the lights seemingly respond like embers to their steaming breath. They even summon Santa Claus, who rolls up in what can only be described as St. Nick's version of the Popemobile, a delivery truck with living-room sized windows cut into its sides for full visibility of the Velveteen One.

The food drive was on at Central Valley High School last week, and Bob Plumb had come up with a novel idea. He'd tally the pounds he had lost the previous year and donate that amount in canned goods. It was going to be as much a statement as a donation. The 16-year-old had visions of strapping on a backpack, perhaps filling a couple suitcases, and lugging his load from class to class, the new Bob giving the old Bob a piggyback ride.

The wife of fallen hunter Nate Swagel met their next-door neighbor last Thursday to empty the Cabela's pack that had sat undisturbed since the 49-year-old was found on Monumental Mountain dead from hypothermia. They were looking for answers, something tucked away with Nate's hunting knife, rifle rounds and fire starter that would explain why he didn't make it home Oct. 17. And just maybe Mari Swagel and Rory Pike hoped to find out why something so bad could happen to such a good man.

Hugh Boyd would have loved the Veterans Day assembly at Freeman Elementary School. The first-graders' heartfelt pledge of allegiance, the fourth-graders slowly but steadily playing the "U.S. Army Anthem" on their recorders, was worth fighting for. Boyd wasn't there. The U.S. Army Air Force Lieutenant, who flew cargo planes across the Himalayas during World War II, died years ago but his uniform was on hand along the with a short story of his 95 missions over 530 deadly miles of mountains known as "The Hump."

Three weeks after burglars pried their way into Don Juan's Tailoring in Spokane Valley, the front door lock still rattles around in its socket like a size 6 foot in a size 10 shoe. That is how owner Rosa Figueroa found the door that Monday, as she held her shop key briefly between her index finger and thumb before realizing the gate to her livelihood was completely ajar.