Patterson rubs the back of his neck and looks towards the ground. “Have you got any ideas? I mean, I know what you do, I’ve seen it up close. Do you know anything we don’t?”
I almost laugh at his stammering, but I’m too pleased at being asked. “I remember seeing what was either a sticker or a patch of snow on the car. That car there looked similar and has the same sticker. Once I touched the car, I knew the kids weren’t here. But when I touched the sticker, I got a flash of one of the little girl’s toys I saw in the wrecked car.”
All three of them stare at me for a moment. Mom’s mouth is hanging open and she shuts it with a quiet snap. “You got that from touching a sticker?”
I shrug, uncomfortable by her obvious admiration. “It’s not really anything. I do think the stickers are related somehow, though.”
“What is it?” Patterson asks.
“It’s a membership sticker for the Barr Harbor Beach Club. You know, that super ritzy lake community up by Vinton.”
Grandma gasps suddenly. “Barr Harbor. I know someone who has a place up there. You won’t believe it.” She fairly glows with the information.
The three of us say in unison, “Who?”
Grandma is so pleased with herself, she draws out the moment. “Paula Whitlow. She comes in for a quick trim once in a while. Although she normally goes to one of those overly expensive salons in Fort Wayne. She’s constantly bragging about something or other. She talks about her lake house up at Barr Harbor Beach Club.”
“Paula Whitlow,” Patterson says. “Any relation to Jared?”
Grandma beams with pride again. “She’s his mom.”
My blood churns with excitement. “The kids would definitely have gotten into a car with their grandma. Does she drive a light colored sedan?”
Grandma’s face drops and she shakes her head. “I’ve only seen her in a massive SUV.”
“Not a sedan with one rim that doesn’t match the others?” I ask desperately.
Grandma shakes her head. “Just the big black thing.”
I turn my eyes to Patterson. “It can’t be a coincidence,” I plead. “I felt something from that sticker,” I point to the car in the driveway. “It’s related to the kids somehow.”
“I agree, but what do you want me to do about it? I’m just patrol.”
Excited now that I have a direction to move in, I say, “Tell Lucas and Dustin about the link as soon as you can. Have them ask the kid’s dad about it and get me an address. If they are in an interview right now, I can’t call them, but you should be able to get the message through. As Lucas to text me Paula’s address once he gets it.”
“I’ll try,” Patterson says. “What are you going to do?”
“You’re coming home, right?” Grandma Dot asks, but she already knows the answer.
“I’m going to Barr Harbor. Tell Lucas and Dustin to come when they’re done.”
Mom still holds the container with a few meatballs left in it, and I take it from her. She lets me have it eagerly, even gives me the lid. “Are you hungry?”
I share a smile with her. Growing up, she’d ask me that all the time. It’s pretty standard mom-words, but I know it was her way of opening a conversation and showing me she cared at the same time. “Won’t be after I eat these. You don’t happen to have any sodas in the truck do you?” I ask Grandma.
“Gabriella, you’re not driving up to Barr Harbor now. It’s an hour away and the middle of the night.”
I slip a glove off and pluck a cold meatball out of the juice at the bottom. “So?” I say through a mouthful of food. “I’m not going to go home and pretend to sleep. Not when I might be able to find the kids.” I pop another meatball in my mouth, then snap the lid back on. “Sodas? Or even coffee. I need some caffeine.” I lick the cold sauce off my fingers.
Grandma hangs her head. “There’s still some in the thermos from this morning.” She pulls the door of the truck open and it squeaks loudly. Finding the thermos on the floorboard, she hands it to me. I give it a shake, it feels about half full.
I twist off the cap and down a few drinks of the ice cold coffee. It tastes terrible, but it will help keep me awake.
Patterson has watched all this in silence, but he clears his throat now. “Um, we have the little matter of the trespass call,” he says. “Mr. Gottlieb is still sitting on his porch waiting for me to arrest you.”
Mom stiffens and steps between me and Patterson. I take another drink of the awful coffee, then say, “I’m sure you will figure out something to tell him. If you still want to arrest me tomorrow, come find me. Right now, I’ve got work to do.”
I give a quick hug to Mom and to Grandma then head for my Charger.
“Aren’t you going to stop her from going?” Mom asks Grandma and Officer Patterson at the same time.
“Go ahead and try,” Grandma says. “I’ve learned it’s best to let her do her thing. She usually wins in the end.”
The rumble of my engine drowns out whatever else they say about me. My tires kick up snow as I pull away from the fence. I give a little wave and a shrug as if to say sorry, then speed off towards the interstate.
Grandma’s right, Barr Harbor Beach Club is nearly an hour drive away. I plug my phone in to radio and key up my favorite playlist. It’s the one I usually jog to, not that I’ve had time or inclination to jog since the weather has turned cold. “Thriller” by Michael Jackson begins. As soon as I hear the creaking door and echoing footsteps, I get excited.
With the music turned as loud as it will go, I sing along, my hips dancing in the seat. With good music playing and Grandma’s cold coffee giving me a caffeine rush, the miles flash by. I have no idea what I’ll do once I get to Barr Harbor Beach Club. Hopefully Lucas will have texted me the address I need. If not, I’ll figure something out.
The song ends and I hit repeat. “Cause this is Thriller!”
Not exactly Christmas music, but even better.
Chapter 12
GABBY
The tunes and the coffee keep me going, but I’m butt-dragging tired when I finally take the exit off I-69 that leads to Barr Harbor Beach Club. The club is nestled along the shore of Harper Lake just outside the quaint town of Vinton, IN. When we were kids, our parents brought Dustin and me to Vinton to swim at the beach and have lunch at the boardwalk. For rural Indiana, it was pretty cool. Near the highway, Vinton is like any other town, closer to the frozen lake, the old-style downtown has retained its charm.
The town square with the obligatory center courthouse is smaller than the square in River Bend where my shop is located, but it oozes nostalgia. Vinton is a tourist town trying desperately to resemble a Hallmark Channel movie. A lighted nativity fills one side of the center courtyard and a massive tree sits on the other. I’ve heard rumors of the events they have here at the holidays, tree lighting, live nativity, even an ice carving contest. The results of the contest are on display around the courtyard, the ice twinkling in the lights hung in the trees.
Each shop around the center has also joined in the fun, trying to pull in a few extra tourist dollars before the harsh grip of Indiana winter. Colorful window displays, complete with lights fill most of the windows.
The entire view is almost perfect.
The view from my shop, “Messages,” looks a lot different. I didn’t even put lights up at the shop, although some other stores did. Our courthouse did change the floodlights to red and green bulbs, but that’s the only change. The idea of what could be at home makes me sad.
A huge yawn interrupts my thoughts. Vinton may be beautiful, and maybe next year Lucas and I can come for some of the activities, but right now I have to stay alert and focused.
And search for the kids.
On the edge of town, I find the tasteful gates and massive wooden sign of Barr Harbor Beach Club. On the drive, I’d worried the gates would be closed and locked. Half-way here, I’d given the worry to God. If He needed me to just drive through the open gate, I would. If He needed
me to climb a fence, well I’ve already done that once tonight. An encore performance wouldn’t be a big deal.
Relieved, I drive through the open gate.
The club consists of one road that winds along the lake shore. Huge homes on the lake side have their own private docks, private beaches. Most of the houses on that side are dark, except for the occasional night light. I don’t need to have my gift to sense the houses are empty this time of year. Anyone with the kind of money it takes to own a lake house like that is probably spending the holidays somewhere much more exotic, or at least warm.
The off-lake side is still impressive by most standards, but the houses pale compared to the lake-side estates and the lots are much smaller. The occasional house has a lived in year round vibe. With any luck one of them belongs to Paula Whitlow.
With even better luck, I’ll find the kids safe and sound with their Grandma and all of this is some horrible misunderstanding.
No amount of luck will bring their mother or her boyfriend back to life.
That thought makes my chest hurt.
No matter what happens tonight, Christmas will never be the same for those kids.
Life will never be the same.
I lost my mom at 14, but at least I knew she was alive, just locked away from me.
I lost my dad the same night. Beyond the grief, that turned out to be horrible layer after layer.
“Just be safe, and we’ll deal with the rest later,” I whisper to the kids.
I drive the length of the neighborhood and I down the rest of the acid, cold, coffee. At the far end, the lane ends at a community area. The beach club.
The beach is covered in snow, the lake beyond frozen with a thin layer of ice. A small marina stretches into the ice on the far side of the beach. I imagine each slot can be rented by the off-lake residents. There’s a small building between the beach and the marina. Some sort of boat house or storage place. I squint at the building again, not understanding, then see the ice cream cone shaped sign. Of course, a snack-shack. Even a private club has to sell snacks.
I park at random in the lot of unplowed asphalt. The cloud cover had thickened on my drive up here and the moon is nearly indistinguishable in the darkness. The beams of my headlights slice through the dark and illuminate a set of swings on an elaborate play center. Wooden towers complete with bridges, climbing ropes, slides and swings sits empty and forlorn in the snow covered play area. I can see four swings in my headlights, but only one of them moves back and forth as if a ghost was having a go.
If it’s a ghost, I’m not getting a sense from it. But ghosts are not my specialty.
The single moving swing holds my attention, the red seat floating back and forth, the color bright against the white of the snow. The other three swings are still, the red one picks up speed. Mesmerized, I watch it until a violent shake jumps through me.
Unnerved, I put the Charger in reverse and park on the other side of the lot, away from the swings. The entire beach club is covered in fresh snow, powdery and blowing, not the harsh icy snow we got farther south.
I turn off my roaring engine and the wind from the lake blows snow against my windshield, bright fat flakes, reflected in the light. I switch off the lights.
Quite fills the beach club area.
Quiet fills my car.
Quiet is my tattoo.
I check my phone again, hoping for an address from Lucas or even from Officer Patterson. Either Lucas hasn’t gotten the message, or has chosen not to tell me the address of Paula Whitlow.
A misguided hope to keep me safe.
Lucas should know me better.
Frustrated, I tuck my silent phone into my back jeans pocket and climb into the cold. I’ll find her house and if the kids are here, I’ll find them.
He works his way.
I work mine.
I pull the red hood from Grandma’s Christmas hoodie to cover my curls and tie it against the cold. I then pull my coat hood up and zip my coat as high as it will go. At least I’m wearing hiking boots, not my dress boots that I ran through the woods in. So far, my toes are warm. I pull on the mismatched gloves, wishing I had thick winter gloves to wear. My good pair is at home on the table near my front door. If I’d known I would be walking around in the freezing cold of pre-dawn, I might have grabbed them on my way out.
I can hear the swing still moving behind me, the chain rattling in the dark. I make a point not to look at it.
Instead, I turn my face to the overcast sky and talk to God. “Please show me what You need me to see. Please guide my feet where You need them to go.”
Lucas once told me that shoes on the ground is the basis of all police work. Canvassing a neighborhood takes time, but is essential in an investigation.
I might not have a team of cops to help with my canvas, but I’m here and willing to do the work. With my mind open to the universe, searching, straining to hear, I start my trek up the lane.
The first few houses are dark and I know they are empty, so I keep walking. When I come to a house that seems it might have an occupant, I realize the major problem with my plan.
Police can bang on doors in the middle of the night if they need to. If I bang on this door and start asking questions, the police will be here, but not for the reason I need them.
I stand on the road, outside the house I think someone is sleeping inside and check my phone once again for an address. If I at least knew which house was Paula’s I’d have an almost legitimate reason to knock on her door.
My phone is still blank. Not even an early Merry Christmas text from my only friend, Haley.
I hover my blue and pink striped finger over the contact for calling Lucas. He’s probably still interviewing the drunk dad of the missing kids. I don’t want to interfere. I don’t have Officer Patterson’s number, and kick myself for not getting it while I was with him. He could look up the woman’s address for me on their system.
I scroll through the phone and find Haley’s number. We used to be work friends. After I got fired, she surprised me by wanting to be actual friends. She’s also a wiz at finding information on the internet, sometimes even info the cops can’t find.
Before I bother her, I do a quick Google of Paula Whitlow, hoping her lake house address will be listed and easy to find. No such luck.
Hoping Haley cares for me enough to not hate me for calling her hours before Christmas Morning, I push the call button.
She’s groggy and concerned, with a strong undercurrent of excitement when she answers. “If you’re calling me at this hour, there must be something interesting going on,” she says by way of hello.
I fill her in on the details of the night and what I need. Her excitement grows with each sentence. A single woman working at a catalog call center doesn’t get much excitement in her life. Trust me, I know. Still, I feel guilty for waking her.
“I know it’s super late, but I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t just start knocking on doors. And I’m sure these houses have security systems so I can’t peak in all the windows and hope to get lucky.”
“You’re not bothering me at all.” In the background, I hear clicking of keys. I can almost see her face scrunched with interest, her blond hair a mess from sleep. “Using my dusty skills to hopefully find some kidnapped children is the best gift you could give me.”
“I got you an actual gift.” I smile into the phone. “Guess now, I can take it back for a refund. Save a little money.”
“You’re not getting off that easily.” More typing on her keyboard. I wait quietly, letting her work. A blast of lake air blows against my face, and I turn my back to it. “Do you want to call me back once you find something?”
“After all we’ve been through, you think a simple address was going to take all night?” Haley teases. The typing sounds have stopped.
“You found it already?”
“My gift to you. Looks like we both can return the actual gifts we bought.” Haley rattles off the address and I ch
eck it against the number on the house I’m standing in front of. The numbers don’t match. Paula’s house is further up the street.
Truly thankful for her help, I make a request that a “normal” person would have no problem making. For me, it’s a huge leap. “Or we could meet for a drink later and exchange gifts.” Nerves flood my belly. Drinks with a friend in public? Am I nuts? Haley and I once had lunch together when we were co-workers. That was way out of my comfort range, but I’d enjoyed it. She came to my Grand Opening party and we talk on the phone sometimes. For me, that’s the best friend I’ve had since Lucas’s sister when we were kids. That friendship turned out tragically.
“Gabby McAllister, you want to go out and have some fun?” She teases. “Like a girl’s night out?” I can hear her bright smile through the phone.
I feel my face grow warm against the freezing wind. “So,” I say a little defensively. “It’s not that crazy of an idea is it?”
Haley says sincerely, “It’s not crazy at all. I’d love to. I was meeting a few other girls tomorrow, tonight, whatever day it is, anyway. Would you like to join us? They’re nice. Good friends of mine.”
Other women? What did I get myself into?
I swallow hard, and stammer, “Sure, I guess so.” I start walking up the lane as Haley gives me the details, checking the house numbers. The walking does nothing to quell the anxiety of what most women would be looking forward to.
I’m not most women.
Most women aren’t looking for a killer and a kidnapper in a ritzy lake home neighborhood right now.
Haley chats in her easy friendly manner as the numbers climb and I find myself standing at the end of Paula Whitlow’s driveway. “I found the house,” I interrupt her. “I’ve got to go.”
“Gabby, wait.” I put the phone back to my ear.
“Yeah?”
“What are you going to do? If she really did force that car off the road and take the kids, she could be dangerous. Can’t you at least wait for Lucas or your brother, or even call the local cops?”
She has a point, but that’s not my style, I take my order from only One, and He’s tingling up my arm right now. I can’t explain that to Haley.
Message of Murder 04-Message in the Snow Page 9