I move my hand from Pickles to her shoulder and give it a pat. “Merry Christmas, Teresa,” I say quietly. I turn on my heel and step onto the porch. Teresa shuts the door behind me.
The click of the latch and the lock are loud in the deep quiet of the snow covered night. Our boots crunch in the snow as we walk back to the cruiser.
“She didn’t give me a cookie.” Dustin makes an attempt to lighten the mood.
I take the bait thankfully. “Guess she likes me better.” I put the cookie to my lips ready to take a bite.
Justin Timberlake singing “I’m Bringing Sexy Back” cuts into the quiet night. Startled by the sound of my phone, I drop the cookie into the snow and fumble in my pocket to turn off the racy song.
“Good thing that didn’t go off in her house,” Dustin points out, a massive grin on his face. “Let me guess, my sister?”
I finally manage to pull the phone from my pocket and stop the song from playing. “She set that as her text tone the other day. I don’t know how to change it.”
“Sure you don’t,” Dustin teases and sings a few lines of the song as he walks around the car to the passenger side. He suddenly grows serious, “She okay?”
The message from Gabby is short. “Santa duty is done. What next?”
“She’s fine. She just finished dropping off Olivia’s gifts at your house and wants to know what else she can do.”
Dustin continues singing the Justin Timberlake song and climbs into the car without a comment about Gabby. I wonder if the pill he just took is responsible for his happy mood. Considering what we’ve been doing for the last hour, it’s the only explanation.
I text a response to Gabby, “Nothing you can do tonight. LUVU,” and then climb into the cruiser. “What now?”
“We need to find Jared Whitlow.”
“Autumn Hills Apartments.” I put the cruiser into gear and drive out of the lovely, Victorian-inspired neighborhood. Earlier, I’d wanted to bring Gabby here to walk around or go for a run. Looking at all the beautiful homes, I wish I could buy one of them for her. For a few glorious moments, I imagine a life here with Gabby and Olivia.
Dustin’s radio crackles and the imaginary life disappears.
“They’ve located Jared Whitlow,” he says. “He does not have the kids.”
“He may not have them, but maybe he knows who does.”
I speed through the last block of the wonderful neighborhood and turn onto the main road. The sparkling, holiday lights of the estates fade in my rear view mirror. The faint hope of the children being found safe and sound with their dad fades too, replaced with a feeling of dread.
Chapter 9
GABBY
The blasting snow storm from earlier has settled into an eerie quiet. The homes and farms I pass sleep under the blanket of clouds. The full moon behind the cloud makes the entire sky glow with a soft light. On the country roads returning me to Grandma’s farm, the Christmas lights are fewer, mostly just the occasional strand tacked around a window, or a net of lights tossed on a bush.
Except for the Gottlieb Estate. The owners not only gave their home a pretentious name, complete with a large sign and a wrought iron fence, they also have a massive light display. They no doubt paid a professional to hang the lights. I can’t imagine the owners of a place like this dragging out their ladders and boxes of lights. I can’t imagine them doing any of the work a place like this requires themselves. I’m sure they have a landscaper take care of the wide lawn and the well tended trees growing inside the fence.
“They probably even have a maid to do the cleaning and a cook to make dinner,” I complain. My stomach grumbles in response. Grandma Dot’s lovely dinner was hours ago and the few tootsie rolls I found on the floorboard while picking up my gloves did little except make my teeth hurt.
Despite my jealousy thinly disguised as loathing, I find myself slowing to take in the show. The money was well spent as the display is spectacular. My Charger crawls along the black iron fence and drifts to a stop.
My tattoo tingles, just a bit, but enough for me to put the car in park and take a closer look at the Gottlieb Estate. From my car, I don’t see anything amiss. Besides the holiday lights, the house is dark inside. I step out into the snow and walk along the fence. The gate is locked, of course, but I can still look.
Not sure what I’m looking for, I drag my hand along the bars, the different colored fingers of my glove ticking from bar to bar, like a convict killing time. I don’t see anything my tattoo should be interested in.
Once I reach the end of the fence, I turn the corner and follow it down the side of the property. My heart starts to race. Walking along the roadside is one thing, but the side of the property is another. Either I’m trespassing on any land the Gottliebs own outside of the fence, or I’m intruding on the neighboring property. I don’t worry too much about the owner of the open field caring about my presence, but the Gottliebs, whoever they are, probably won’t be pleased to see me stalking their fence.
The expansive home has a side entrance garage so large I could fit four of my houses in it. The concrete parking area is flat and smooth, not a crack in sight. An entire fleet of cars could park outside of the massive garage.
In fact, only one car is parked outside.
My trek along the fence comes to an abrupt halt. The car looks familiar. A light colored four door sedan, it isn’t remarkable by itself, but the sticker in the window is. The shape is familiar, so is its placement.
I need to get closer to see the sticker, make sure this car isn’t the one that took the kids. I grab a bar in each hand and try to haul myself up. My cotton gloves just slide down the bars. Frustrated, I yank off the gloves and try again. The icy bars sting my sensitive palms, but no matter how hard I grip, I can’t climb over.
Blowing warm air onto my fingers first, I wrap my bare left hand on a bar and open my mind. I listen hard for the children, for the kidnapper, for anything to guide me.
The cold metal stings my hand, but nothing else happens.
Discouraged, I put the bright gloves back on and search for a way onto the estate. I follow the fence all the way around back and down the other side. Besides an expensive looking outdoor “kitchen” on the huge patio, the backyard is like all other yards tonight – buried in snow. I eventually make the entire trek back to my car. I can’t leave without touching the car, or maybe even looking into some of the dark windows of the house. I need to be sure the kids aren’t here.
The kidnapped kids could be behind this fence. It’s a perfect place to hide. No one can get in or out without the code to the gate. No one would imagine the Gottliebs, with all their obvious money, would be into driving a family off the road, then stealing the children.
Back inside my Charger, I think about calling Lucas with the information.
“What information?” I ask myself. A very popular type of car with something that may or may not be a sticker that I may or may not have also seen on the kidnapper’s car is not information.
Lucas might not laugh at my call, but Dustin certainly will.
I need to find out more. I need to get over the fence so I can see the car up close.
With sudden inspiration, I start the Charger, flinching at the loud rumble, I remind myself for the hundredth time that I need a new muffler. Once my shop in town gets up and running, maybe I’ll have the cash to fix it. For now, I just shudder at how much noise the car makes.
I slowly pull the Charger off the road and park it parallel to the fence. The moment the car is close enough, I kill the engine. I wait a moment to be sure I haven’t alerted any one inside. The house remains dark inside and none of the curtains move.
My coast is as clear as it will get.
I’m parked too close to the fence to open the driver’s door. Climbing awkwardly over the center console and into the passenger seat, I manage to get out of the car. Only now do I think about the tracks I left in the snow around the perimeter fence and now the tire tracks in the
strip of grass between the road and the fence. There’s no way to hide that I’ve been here.
Deciding that is a problem for the Gottlieb’s in the morning when they see them, I climb onto the hood of my car, then onto the roof. Trying not to think of any scratches or dents I may be causing to my precious Charger, I grip the fence bars. From here, I can reach the top bar of the fence with my boot. I step on the bar, and shift my weight.
The fall to the snowy ground inside doesn’t take long, but my mind still had time to remember something on the way down. “How will I get back over?”
Deciding I’ll deal with that once I get the information I need, I brush the snow off my jeans and hurry to the parking area and the car in question.
Although it is a light colored, four door sedan, once I’m close to it, I know it’s not the same car. I’ve been over and over the car in my memory and besides the sticker in the back side window, or snow?, the car in question also had a slightly different rim on the front tire as opposed to the back. From my vantage point of running through the field, I could only see one side of the car, but I’m almost certain the two rims I could see were not identical.
The car before me is immaculate and very new. The chrome shines in the holiday lights and the white paint is spotless. The wheel wells are not full of dirty, slushy, snow as they would have been if driving around the countryside looking for the children.
The sticker in the back passenger window has the same odd shape as the thing I saw on the kidnapper’s car. On closer inspection, I realize the shape is an anchor. The sticker is from Barr Harbor Beach Club, another pretentious name.
I’ve never been to the “beach club,” but I know what it is and I’m not surprised the Gottlieb’s have property there. Barr Harbor is not a club at all, it’s a high end, gated community on Harper Lake north of here about half an hour. Barr Harbor boasts fancy houses, boat slips and the whole resort life concept, at least as much as Indiana can offer such a thing.
Disappointed this car isn’t the one that took the kids, I at least feel that the Barr Harbor Beach Club sticker has to be a lead. Why else would my tattoo bring me here?
My tattoo isn’t tingling at all now, so maybe I’m grasping at straws with my tired mind. In a last ditch effort for some kind of sign, I take off my left glove and place my hand on the hood of the car.
Nothing useful. I grasp the driver’s handle, hoping for a closer connection.
I do get a vague sense.
An older man, tired, disappointed. Kids couldn’t be bothered to come again this year.
I let go of the handle, filled with sadness for Mr. Gottlieb. I’d imagined the Gottliebs must be a large family, or at least more than one old man. This huge estate, money coming out of his ears, and even his car handle tells me he’s lonely and bitter.
The thought fills me with despair. There’s no way this tired old man has Oliver, Cora and Ian.
I try one more thing with the car and place my bare hand flat on the Barr Harbor sticker. I push my skin into the cold plastic, open my mind and beg God for any sign or direction.
A tingle surges up my arm, but fades before it reaches my shoulder. A vision of the pink bear with the huge eyes I found in the back seat of the car flits through my mind.
That’s it. A tingle and a toy bear. Basically nothing.
Discouraged and cold, my tired mind gives up on the car and thinks of my bed at Grandma’s farm. There’s nothing else I can do tonight, sleep is the only option.
But first I have to get back over the fence.
I survey my options of escape. I already know the fence encompasses the entire estate, tall and un-climbable on all four sides. I wonder if I can somehow push my feet through the bars and against the Charger and reverse rappel my way back over. I’m sure someone could do that, but my track record with coordination isn’t good. It’s my only option, so I at least give it a try.
I grip a bar in each hand and push my boots against the car door on the other side. The car isn’t as close to the fence as I need it to be for this to work. I manage to get a few steps up the side, but then fall back to the snow.
I stomp the snow in frustration. The earlier storm dropped several inches, maybe I could roll the snow into balls the way you do to make a snowman, pile the balls up and use them to climb over.
It’s a wild idea, but the only one I can think of. I drop to my knees and start rolling, realizing that I haven’t made a snowman for years. One winter a few years ago, I got inspired on a Saturday home alone and made one in my front yard. I was proud of my little friend, even if I was way too old to be building snowmen by myself. With an unusual need for whimsy, I even put a pair of my gloves on his branch hands.
The cute little guy survived for only two days. When I got home from work on Monday, he was shattered. Some horrible person either kicked him to death or hit him with a bat. I suspected it was kids out to torture the freak. His branch arms were snapped into pieces and my gloves were gone. The kids probably took them as souvenirs from the horrible trick.
I took the loss of that snow friend much harder than an adult woman should. Teasing me, whispering behind my back, even vandalizing my house, those things I’d become accustomed to.
Killing my only friend, even if he was just made of snow, really hurt.
I roll the growing ball through the snow, and block out the memory of the last time I did this. The freshly fallen snow, mixed with the icy crystals that came towards the end of the storm, are not the best for making a snow ball that grows when you roll it.
Just when I start to despair that the idea isn’t going to work and I need to find another plan, the decision to stop playing in the snow is made for me.
I see the black shape speeding through the yard towards me, before I hear it’s growl. Normally, I love dogs and they love me. This Doberman is in no mood for getting to know me as a person. He seems intent on finding out what I taste like.
I scramble to my feet and run from the dog, not sure where I can go for safety. Some trees grow near the fence in the corner of the yard. They are the only protection I see, so I sprint for them.
I have a big head start on the dog, but he’s way faster than I am. Running in a blind panic, I reach the first tree and jump as high as I can onto the trunk. My boots skitter against the bark, desperate for purchase to help me climb. The landscaper has been doing a good job of trimming the lowest branches, leaving knobby remains for me to push my toes against. I grasp the lowest branches and pull with all my strength.
Somehow, I get my butt onto a branch, pulling my feet up high away from the snapping dog. Panting from the exertion, I watch the dog jump against the tree, desperate to get to me.
“Good boy,” I coo, hoping to calm him down. “You treed me good.”
The dog isn’t impressed with my flattery. He finally sits at the base of the tree and stares at me. Every few moments he growls.
“A psychic in a pear tree,” I say out loud, laughing hysterically. I feel a panic attack niggling. My chest grows tight and my ears start to ring. The dog cocks his head as if confused by the strange noises I’m making.
“You’re just a dog, you know,” I tell him, trying to talk myself out of the panic. “I mean, you’re not the friendliest dog I’ve ever met, but I bet you’re a sweetie when you want to be.”
The dog stops growling and lies down at the base of the tree, his head positioned so he can keep an eye on me.
“It’s cold out here,” I continue, shifting uncomfortably on the branch that’s digging into my rear. “Wouldn’t you rather be safe and warm in your dog house or wherever you sleep?”
He flickers his ears but has no intention of moving.
The branch is cutting off the circulation to my legs and an uncomfortable pressure is growing in my bladder. Maybe he’s calmed down enough that he’ll let me out of the tree. I make a move to climb down, testing him. He’s instantly back on his feet, growling and snarling for me to stay put.
I resume my pl
ace on the branch and do the only thing I can think of.
I call Grandma Dot for help.
Chapter 10
GRANDMA DOT
When Emily shakes me awake, I’m sure her presence in my bedroom is a wonderful dream, not a wonderful reality. After years of my daughter being locked in prison for a murder that never happened, I’d given up hope of her ever returning home. The lovely blond woman shaking my shoulder must be an apparition summoned by my longing heart.
“Mom, wake up,” Emily says. She’s real, and solid, and shoving me hard in the shoulder.
My small black dog, Jet, stirs beside me, woken by the harsh shaking.
“What’s wrong?” I ask groggily. “Are you sick?”
She holds the handset from the shop phone out to me. “Gabby needs you.”
I push up into a seated position and click on the lamp. I squint against the sudden brightness, but not before I see a sly smile on Emily’s lips.
“Gabriella, are you okay?” I rub my hand against my mess of curls.
“I’m fine. Well, not fine exactly, but I’m not hurt or anything.”
My shoulders sink in relief. Middle of the night calls from Gabriella aren’t exactly scarce events, but they scare me just the same.
I notice Emily is trying hard to control her smile. “Your mom is about to break out laughing, so maybe you better tell me what’s up.”
“I’m sort of stuck up in a tree.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Emily covers her mouth with her hand and swallows a giggle.
“Then climb down,” I say irritated. “You’re not a cat.”
“Well,” she draws the word out long, “I’m sort of like a cat at the moment. A dog chased me up here and he won’t let me down.”
Emily can hear every word and loses her battle against laughter. The small sounds of her happiness fills my heart and I can’t help laughing too.
Message of Murder 04-Message in the Snow Page 7