Snowed Under

by Rickie Blair

  “Any of Mickey’s stuff still here?”

  “The cops took it all away.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  He shrugged. “Mom was happy. Saved her throwing it out, she said.”

  “I have something that belonged to Mickey. Could you take a look at it?” Pulling the wool hat from my pocket, I handed it over.

  “Cool,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “Mickey loved this hat… picked it up during his peyote days.” Willy peered closely at it, fingering the tears. “What happened to it?”

  “The dogs wrestled over it, I think.”

  “That’s weird. Mickey never let this hat out of his sight.” He handed it back.

  “Maybe because of this?” Turning the hat inside out, I showed him the secret pocket.

  His mouth gaped in astonishment. “Cool. What was in it?” He brightened. “Money?”

  “Remember I said at the bakery that those crossword clues belonged to Mickey?”

  “Yeah. I was meaning to ask how you knew that.”

  “This is where I found them. The clues were in this hat.” I dangled the torn fabric from one hand, raising my eyebrows.

  “Cool.”

  “Indeed. Cool. Now—Viper. Do you have any idea who gave Mickey those clues?”

  He crossed his arms, intently regarding the hat, his brow furrowed. In the opposite corner of the basement, the furnace kicked on. Warm air wafted over us from a vent in the ceiling.

  “No,” he said finally, uncrossing his arms. “I don’t.”

  I knew it was too good to be true that Mickey might have confided in his friend. To be honest, I was beginning to think Mickey Doig was a one-way acquaintance—with all the information flowing in Mickey’s direction.

  Perhaps my disappointment was obvious, because Willy added helpfully, “He used to walk Old Man York’s dog.”

  “And that’s significant because—?”

  Willy glanced around the room, almost as if he were afraid of being overheard. Then he leaned in. “Mickey was after his money.”

  “But Oskar didn’t have any money.”

  “Nah. Not true. He was loaded. Just didn’t flash it around, that’s all.”

  “I see. Do you have any evidence to back that up?”

  “Whoa.” Willy jerked back. “Evidence? You’re a nice lady, Verity, but I’m not getting involved with any cops.”

  Restraining the urge to point out that, at not yet thirty, I hardly qualified for the “lady” moniker, I said, “This is between you and me, Viper. I will tell no one. Unless you don’t really know anything at all, and you’re just making this up.”

  That had the desired effect.

  “I know lots of stuff that goes on in this village.” He tossed his stringy hair.

  “Then tell me—what did Mickey plan to do?”

  “I don’t know that. Not exactly. But somebody did something wrong, and he found out about it. It was worth a lot of money, he said.” Nodding sagely, Willy sank back against the sofa.

  “That’s all you know?”

  “That’s all I know. Keep it to yourself.” He flicked a cautionary hand in the air as if he’d just confided a state secret.

  Outside, I flipped up the hood of my parka before carefully negotiating the newly slippery walkway. More sleet had fallen while I’d been inside, and the yew trees were starting to bend. The promised ice storm had started.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Snowplows and sanders rumbled past as I drove along Main Street and up the two-lane road that zig-zagged up the Escarpment. Falling sleet spattered the snow and pinged off the truck’s roof. Tree branches hung low over the pavement, weighed down with a coating of ice. The power lines were also heavy with ice, sparkling in the muted winter sun. As I drove past, that sun—by now only the barest suggestion of yellow in a groggy gray horizon—dipped even lower.

  The truck had reached the top of the Escarpment when my phone rang. Jeff’s name flashed on my call display. I flicked on the speaker. “Hi. I tried to call you, but your voice mail is full.”

  “I know.” He groaned. “I’m working my way through it. Where are you? At home?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The storm’s getting bad, Verity. You shouldn’t be out on the roads.”

  “Stop worrying, Jeff. I’m fine. I’m on my way to Rose Cottage. And I’m in the truck. It’s not like I’m driving Emy’s Fiat.”

  “Emy doesn’t drive that car in weather like this, does she?”

  I paused, carefully considering my answer. “Probably not?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Five minutes from home. If that.”

  “Do you have plenty of candles?”

  “Yes,” I answered, exasperated. Between Emy, Adeline, and Jeff, I had enough candles to light the entire Escarpment. Possibly someone should inform NASA.

  “Be careful where you put them. You should be using battery-operated lanterns.”

  “For heaven’s sakes, Jeff—”

  “Sorry. It’s just—I worry about you.”

  “I know. And I love that about you.”

  “Is that all you love?”

  I smiled. “Now you’re teasing. You get yourself over to Rose Cottage, and I’ll show you which parts I love.”

  “Wish I could, but we’ll be working all night.”

  “Does that mean you’re not following up on Mickey’s case?”

  “Your local police department can do more than one thing at a time, you know.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We found evidence Mickey owed the wrong people money, possibly drug debts. We think he was dealing, in a small way, and may not have paid his supplier on time. Or even double-crossed him by trying to go into business on his own.”

  I refrained from gloating. “Then it was murder, after all?”

  “Not necessarily. But unpaid drug debts could be a motive. We’re taking it seriously. Keep that to yourself for now.”

  “What about the threads from the van’s muffler?”

  “A wool garment, possibly a scarf. That would be readily at hand if it was a crime of opportunity.”

  “Woman’s or man’s scarf?”

  “No way to tell. It was navy blue. Could be either. Or not a scarf at all. Could be a sweater.”

  A vision of Henri’s intruder barreling past me on the walkway came to mind. “Henri Vartan’s attacker had a scarf wrapped around his face. It was navy, too.”

  “Probably a coincidence.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “A lot of people have navy scarves, Verity. I have one.”

  “Hmmm. Where were you that afternoon?”

  “Very funny. Enough about Mickey’s case. I’ve told you too much already.”

  “Well, I have something to tell you. Those crossword puzzle clues were fakes. The whole thing was a contest started by Henri and the girls.”

  “I know.” He groaned again. “Henri called me. Look, sorry—I don’t have time to talk about it now. I’m only calling to make sure you stay off the roads. The Weather Channel is calling this the storm of the century.”

  “They always say that.”

  “Still. Are you—”

  “Nearly home.”

  “Stay safe,” he said before hanging up.

  “You too,” I muttered over the dial tone.

  The road that meandered along the conservation area was narrow. Even in summer, drivers had to back up to let another vehicle pass on the curves. But today, with snowbanks piled high on either side, it was even worse. I focused on keeping the pickup on the straight and narrow, conscious of the ice-laden branches looming above me.

  It was slow going. I had plenty of time to think. Emy’s idea that I should investigate the villagers’ little mysteries had seemed clever at the time. I no longer believed so. Take Mickey’s death, for instance. How would I have found out that he owed money to drug dealers? Did I even want to know something like that? Police officers were backed by the full weigh
t of the law, not to mention automatic weapons. What did I have—besides an ancient pickup truck and a talent for word games? Jeff was right. I should stick to lawn mowing and woodland garden design. Let smarter minds than mine probe the village’s secrets.

  I had almost convinced myself until I remembered Oskar York’s connection to Mickey—and Noah’s warning. Whatever happened to Mickey Doig, it was probably self-inflicted. As in—his own fault. Given Jeff’s recent disclosure, Noah was probably right. Worse, what if Oskar got caught up in Mickey’s bad timing?

  A branch groaned and dipped overhead, shedding a load of snow that thumped onto the roof of the cab. Instinctively, I slowed the truck before noticing in the rearview mirror that a dark-colored SUV was coming up the road behind me. The SUV kept plowing forward until it was almost hugging the rear of my truck. I flailed my arm, trying to signal the driver to go around.

  Instead, his lights flashed.

  What does he want me to do? Drive off the road? Hoping to signal my reluctance to speed up on such a treacherous route, I tapped on the brakes.

  The SUV driver ignored my brake lights, moving even closer. If I had to make a sudden stop, he’d hit me.

  “All right, all right. I’ll move over,” I muttered. Gingerly, I edged the truck to the side of the road, steering clear of the snowbanks, to give the SUV room to overtake me.

  It accelerated, pulling out to pass on my left.

  In the glare of my headlights, a bumper sticker glowed bright orange.

  Leafy Hollow Farmers’ Market. We like it fresh.

  I half expected to see a “Turnips Aboard” sign.

  The SUV hadn’t pulled all the way back in when a dump truck loaded with snow crested the hill ahead, rumbling toward us. The truck driver would never be able to stop in time. I wrenched the steering wheel over to make more room.

  My pickup truck veered off the road toward the nearest snowbank. When I tried to turn back, the rear end fishtailed on the icy road and the truck spun around. With a jolt, the front end slammed into what felt like a solid block of ice.

  The airbag exploded, hitting me in the chest and face.

  Then, everything went still.

  Gradually, I recognized the sound of sleet spattering against the windshield.

  I assessed my body parts, one by one. They were all attached. All I had to do was back up the truck and get the heck out of there.

  Gunning the engine, I shifted into reverse. Even over the shrieking of the wind, I heard tires spinning against ice. The truck heaved and shuddered, but went nowhere.

  With a shiver of misgiving, I got out to check the damage.

  I was alone on the road. The dump truck was gone. So, too, was the SUV. The only sounds were those of the wind whistling through the trees and the hiss of sleet hitting the ground.

  The front of my truck was stuck in an icy snowbank. But that wasn’t the problem. The two front wheels had plunged through the drift and over the edge of the ditch at the side of the road, where they hung uselessly in the air. It would be impossible for me to get the truck back on the road. I’d have to call for a tow.

  I climbed back into the cab, shucked off my clammy gloves, and dialed the auto club.

  “Is anyone injured?” the female dispatcher asked.

  “No. But my truck isn’t going anywhere without a tow. Can you send someone?”

  “I can add you to the list, hon, but it’s a two-hour wait. Or longer. Our drivers are swamped with calls, with more coming in all the time.” She sighed. “You’d think people would stay off the roads on a day like today.”

  I tried to chuckle, but my throat was dry—unlike my parka, which was dripping water into the truck’s footwell. “I’ll try something else.”

  “You want me to add you to the list?”

  “Might as well. But I can’t stay here. It’s too cold.”

  “When someone’s free, we’ll give you a call.” She clicked off.

  Glumly, I regarded the phone. Time to call in the cavalry—otherwise known as Jeff Katsuro, Hero Boyfriend. I was reluctant to disturb him, but I knew he’d be annoyed if I didn’t. I made the call.

  To tell the truth, I only wanted to hear his voice. Jeff’s calm demeanor would soothe my growing anxiety. Besides, I loved talking to him. I had been alone a long time. It was comforting to be in a stable relationship again—to have someone who would always take my calls.

  His phone rang and then picked up. “You’ve reached Detective Constable Jeff Katsuro. Leave a message.” Beep.

  “Hi, Jeff. I—”

  “The mailbox is full. Please try again later.” Click.

  Great. No tow truck, no boyfriend riding to the rescue, no—I glanced through the windshield at the sky—sunshine, even. The darkness had closed in.

  I decided to try the police station’s main number, knowing they could radio Jeff. Even if he wasn’t able to come himself, he would know what to do. As I dialed, I reconsidered. There would be casualties on a day like this, and injured people needing ambulances and paramedics. Car crashes could block major intersections, delaying snowplows and emergency responders.

  It was wrong to take Jeff away from serious calls to pick up his girlfriend.

  Briefly, I considered calling the local fire department. After the arson at Rose Cottage—there had also been that embarrassing cliff rescue, which I hoped they’d forgotten—I was on a first-name basis with Captain Bob Valens and all of his crew. I even knew the fire station’s cat, an enormous, cuddly white tom who was no threat whatsoever to the station’s vermin. After searching for their number, I started to dial.

  But I clicked off that call, too. Winter weather brought fires sparked by candles, blocked chimneys, and overloaded furnaces. Captain Bob and his crew would have their hands full. After all, I wasn’t hurt, and home was nearby.

  The road I was marooned on followed the border of the conservation land, so there weren’t any doors to knock on. But it was barely a fifteen-minute walk to Rose Cottage. And my truck wasn’t blocking the road, so I could leave it stuck in the ditch. If I was lucky, I might hitch a ride with a passing motorist.

  That faint hope of a lift soon evaporated in a haze of fog and sleet. I struggled through snowdrifts, dodging slippery ice patches. Water dripped from the rim of my hood into my face, which was soon wet and raw. Ten minutes into what normally would be a casual stroll, I was exhausted, wet, and miserable. Sleet hissed into the snow, and branches creaked overhead.

  Not a single vehicle came by.

  I wondered if I should turn back to the truck. At least it was on the road and visible. Eventually someone would drive past—an emergency vehicle, probably. I could turn on the engine for a while to heat the cab.

  That conjured up an image of Mickey slumped over in his van, his face bright pink. I shuddered. The Coming Up Roses truck had formerly belonged to my aunt. It was nearly two decades old. Did it have venting issues similar to Mickey’s van? Mentally, I added that to my to-do list—check the truck’s exhaust system.

  Ahead, a yellow light shone through the haze, a welcome beacon. I had reached the turnoff to Lilac Lane, and the small stone cottage that perched there. If there was a light on, the occupant—Irma O’Kay, the reclusive artist—must be home. I’d never visited her house, but there was no time like the present. It would be warm and dry, at least, and I could wait out the storm there.

  I struggled up the slippery drive, sleet driving into my face like needles.

  Carefully, I mounted three stone steps to the front door and knocked. No reply. I hammered on the door with both hands, competing with the sound of the keening wind.

  The door opened, and I stumbled across the threshold.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Irma shut her front door against the wind before turning to face me. Two spots of red glowed on her normally colorless cheeks. “Verity—good grief. What are you doing out in this? Did you drive?” She leaned over to peer through the sidelight by the front door. Swirling mist and sleet obscu
red the view. Irma’s cottage was too far back to see the road, anyway.

  “My truck’s in a ditch. I tried to walk home, but the storm’s getting worse. I could barely see my hands in front of me.”

  “Give me your coat.” Irma helped me off with my parka, shook it out, and hung it up on a hook in the hall. She pointed to an antique grill plate in the floor. “Turn your boots upside down over that vent so they’ll dry. And go into the living room—you must be freezing. I have a fire going.” After pointing me in the right direction, she disappeared down the hall. “Back in a sec with tea,” she called over her shoulder.

  I stopped in the doorway, awed. Color overwhelmed the living room. A brilliant yellow fire snapped and crackled in a fireplace edged with vivid blue tiles. Antique lamps with multicolored glass shades glowed green and pink and orange. But the real display was on the ten-foot-high walls, every inch covered with framed prints, oils, and drawings. I recognized Irma’s distinct swirling style in many. Most were abstracts, but several portraits stood out, especially one of fellow artist Zuly Sundae. In the picture, the normally assertive Zuly gazed shyly out at the viewer, one hand resting lightly on the back of her head.

  Drawing an ottoman up to the fire, I glanced around to admire the artwork while rubbing my chilled hands in front of the flames. Then I took out my phone to call Jeff.

  “The mailbox is full. Please try again later.”

  Hanging up, I mulled my options. There was no point in calling Lorne. He’d be more than willing to rescue me, but he’d have to use Emy’s tiny Fiat 500. Jeff was right. That Fiat wasn’t a suitable vehicle to take out in any ice storm, never mind the “storm of the century.”

  I couldn’t call my next-door neighbors, Adeline and Gideon, because they weren’t home. We’re taking a vacation, my aunt had said. Their destination had not been mentioned. I didn’t even know what country they were in.

  Typical.

  Aunt Adeline constantly worried about me, yet my concerns about her welfare were routinely met with a chuckle and, “I can take care of myself.” I’d never been able to adequately explain to her the feeling of dread caused by the phone call that began, “Your aunt is missing and presumed dead.” I finally understood the sleepless nights my mother—Adeline’s sister—suffered all those years ago. Poor Mom. With no husband at home to support her, and a precocious child who worshiped her risk-taking aunt, it must have been tough. At the time, I never gave it a thought.