The Wolf in Winter

by Connolly, John

  “Sure, honey,” said Molly, accepting the cup. “Just take a seat. I won’t be but a minute.”

  Molly went to the refrigerator, removed a half-gallon container of milk, and disappeared into the little kitchen that adjoined the reception area. I could see the young woman from where I sat, and she could see me. I smiled at the child in her arms. She didn’t smile back, but peered out from under the safety of the older girl’s chin before burying her face in her chest. I decided not to bother either of them and went back to finding interesting spots on the wall at which to stare. Eventually Molly returned with the hot milk, and the two ­children—because that’s what they were—vanished back upstairs.

  “Do I even want to know?” I asked when Molly returned.

  “It’s bad,” she said. “But we’ve had worse. There’s always worse. That’s the hell of it. And we don’t usually allow men on the premises after five, so your presence here probably threw her some. Don’t take it personally. Sorry, where were we?”

  “Annie, and the day she left the shelter.”

  “Right.”

  “I’d like to talk to the woman who saw her last. Is she still here?”

  Molly nodded.

  “Candice, but she likes being called Candy.”

  “Will she speak with me?”

  “Probably, but you’ll have to be patient. She’s special . . .”

  CANDY WAS IN HER late thirties. She wore pink bunny slippers, oversized jeans, and a T-shirt that announced she would work for cookies. Her hair was red and unruly, and her chin was speckled with acne. Her eyes were slightly too small for her face, but she had a radiant smile. Had Molly not told me about her while we waited for her to come down, I might not have guessed that she had mild Down syndrome. Molly told me that women like Candy were often referred to as “high-functioning,” but this was a phrase that was generally disliked in the Down community, as it implied a hierarchy among those with the condition. Candy was the daughter of the shelter’s original founders. Both were now deceased, but Candy remained. She cleaned the rooms, helped around the kitchen, and provided company and consolation to those who needed it. As Molly put it, “Candy gives good hugs.”

  Candy took a seat on the couch in the office while Molly made her a mug of hot chocolate.

  “Not too much marshmallow,” warned Candy. “I’m watching my weight.”

  She patted her belly, but still looked disappointed when the hot chocolate arrived with a Weight Watcher’s sprinkling of tiny marshmallows.

  “Oh,” she said. She poked disconsolately at the melting islands of pink and white. “Not many marshmallows.”

  Molly raised her eyes to heaven.

  “You told me you were watching your weight,” she said.

  “I am watching my weight,” said Candy. “But I’m not fat. It’s all right. Don’t worry.”

  She stuck out her lower lip and gave a long-suffering sigh. Molly went to the kitchen and returned with enough marshmallows to cover the entire surface of the hot chocolate and then some.

  “Thank you,” said Candy. “Very kind.”

  She slurped noisily at her drink, and surfaced with a chocolate mustache.

  “Aaah. That’s good.”

  Molly placed a hand on Candy’s arm.

  “Charlie here would like to ask you about Annie,” she said.

  “Annie?”

  “Yes. You remember Annie.”

  Candy nodded.

  “Annie was my friend.”

  Molly had said that Candy had been unusually fond of Annie, and that Annie, in turn, had been particularly good with Candy. Some of the women in the shelter found it harder to deal with Candy than others. They treated her like a defective, or a child. Annie did neither. She simply treated Candy as Candy.

  “Do you remember when you saw her last?” I said.

  “January twenty-second,” said Candy. “A Tuesday.”

  “Can you tell me what you talked about?”

  Candy’s eyes welled up.

  “She told me she was going away. Got a job. I was sad. Annie was my friend.”

  Molly patted her on the arm again.

  “Did she say where the job was?” I asked.

  “Prosperous.” Candy struggled with the word slightly, so that it came out as “Prospuss.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. She said. She told me she was going to Prospuss. She had a job. Was going to clean, like Candy.”

  “And did she mention who had given her the job?”

  Candy thought.

  “No. They had a blue car.”

  “How do you know? Did you see them?”

  “No. Annie told me.”

  “Candy is very interested in cars,” Molly explained.

  “I like to know colors,” said Candy. “What color is your car?”

  “I have two cars,” I said.

  “Two cars!” Candy said, clearly shocked. “What color?”

  “One red, and one blue. I used to have a green car too, but—”

  “Yes? But?”

  “I didn’t really like the color.”

  Candy considered this. She shook her head.

  “I don’t like green. Like red.”

  “Me too.”

  Candy grinned. We’d bonded. Clearly, anyone who preferred red cars to green could not be all bad.

  “Annie didn’t tell you the make of car, did she?” I said.

  “No, just blue.”

  “And the people who owned it, did she tell you anything about them?”

  “They were old.”

  She took another sip of her hot chocolate.

  “How old?” I asked. “Older than I am?”

  Candy giggled. “You’re not old.”

  “So older?”

  “I think so.” She yawned. “Tired. Time for bed.”

  We were done. Candy stood to leave, carefully holding her mug of hot chocolate so that it didn’t spill.

  “Candy, is there anything else you can tell me about Annie?” I said.

  The blue car was something, but it wasn’t much.

  “Annie told me she’d write to me,” said Candy. “She promised. But she didn’t write.”

  She turned her attention back to Molly.

  “Must go to Prospuss,” said Candy. “Find Annie. Annie’s my friend.”

  “Charlie is going to look for Annie,” said Molly. “Aren’t you, Charlie?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll look for Annie.”

  “Tell her Candy said she must write,” said Candy. “Mustn’t forget her friend Candy.”

  With that, she trotted off to her room. Molly and I said nothing else until we were sure she was gone.

  “She would have written,” said Molly. “She wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint Candy.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “If I’d been here when she left, I’d have made sure that she gave us details of where she was going. I’d have asked to meet these people who were offering her work. But all the full-time staff were at a meeting that day with the Department of Health and Human Services over on Griffin Street, and we just had volunteers manning the shelter. Volunteers, and Candy.”

  Anything I might have said would have sounded trite, so I said nothing. Instead, I took one of my business cards from my wallet and handed it to her.

  “If you or Candy can think of anything else that might help me, or if anyone else comes around asking about Annie, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call. Also . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think Candy should talk too much about that blue car. I think it might be better if she kept it to herself.”

  “I understand. We didn’t lie to Candy, did we? You are going to keep looking for Annie? I mean, I’d hire you mys
elf if I could afford to.”

  “You forget: I work cheap.”

  This time she didn’t smile.

  “Somehow, I don’t believe that’s true. What you charge and how you work are two different things.”

  I shook her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Molly showed me to the door. As she opened it, there was movement behind us. Candy was sitting on the stairs, just out of sight of the office.

  She was crying, crying beyond consolation.

  I FOUND SHAKY IN his bed at the Oxford Street Shelter. They’d done their best to keep him comfortable while the injury to his head was healing. He still had a headache, and his scalp had begun to itch, but otherwise he was doing as well as could be expected for someone who had been hit over the skull with a liquor bottle. I put him in my car and took him to the Bear for a burger and a beer. When he was settled in his seat, with a rodeo burger on order and a Shipyard Old Thumper in a glass before him, and Cupcake Cathy had fussed over him some, I told him a little of the day I’d had. After all, I was working for him. I’d made him pay me a dollar while he was lying on the hospital gurney. One of the nurses had taken it amiss, and my reputation at Maine Medical was now probably lower than that of most ambulance chasers.

  “So he definitely went to Prosperous?” said Shaky.

  “He didn’t just go there; he got run out of town. Twice. The first time politely, the second time less so.”

  “He could be a stubborn man,” said Shaky.

  “He was a bright one too,” I said. “Brighter than I am, at least, because I’m still not sure what he was doing nosing around an old church.”

  “Do you believe what that cop told you?”

  “I’ve no reason not to. The job Jude’s daughter spoke of could have fallen through. She might have changed her mind about it, or that old couple, if they existed at all, could have reconsidered their Good Samaritanism while she left to get her bags. Or she might just have been unlucky.”

  “Unlucky?”

  “She was a vulnerable woman living on the streets. There are men out there who’d regard someone like her as easy prey.”

  Shaky nodded and took a long sip of his beer.

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve met enough of them in my time, and they don’t all sleep on mats on floors.”

  “You may be right,” I said. “In my experience, the worst of them wear suits and drive nice, well-maintained vehicles. But one thing is certain: as far as the services in Bangor are concerned, Annie dropped off the radar on the day she spoke about that job. I went by the women’s shelter on my way back down here, and nobody has seen or heard from her since then.”

  “And this woman, this Candy, she’s certain Annie said she was going to Prosperous?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean Prosperous is where she ended up.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Go back there. Look for a blue car. See what happens.”

  “Wow, good plan. You have it all worked out. And people pay you for that?”

  “Not a lot,” I said, pointedly. “And sometimes not at all.”

  CHAPTER

  XXVI

  In the living room of Hayley Conyer’s house, Morland steepled his hands over his face, closed his eyes, and made a prayer of thanks to a god in whom he did not believe. It was force of habit, and no more than that. It looked good for him to go to church on Sundays. All of the most influential citizens in Prosperous were members of one congregation or another. Some even believed. Just like their ancestors back in England who had carved faces into the walls of their church, their faith could encompass more than one deity. Morland was not of their kind. He no longer even knew what he believed in, apart from Prosperous itself. All he could say for sure was that no Christian god impinged on his consciousness.

  He was weary from arguing, but at least his view had prevailed, for now. As the guardian of the church, it was Warraner and not Morland who had Hayley’s ear in times of crisis, but on this occasion Morland had managed to sway Hayley. He had been helped by the absence of two members of the board: Luke Joblin was attending a Realtors’ convention in Philadelphia, and Thomas Souleby was currently under observation at a sleep clinic in Boston, having recently received a diagnosis of sleep apnea. In times of crisis Hayley could act without a vote from the board, but Morland had convinced her that the situation wasn’t that desperate. The detective was simply asking questions. There was nothing to link the death of the girl’s father to the town, and the girl herself was no more. Unless the detective could commune with the deceased, he would find his avenues of inquiry quickly exhausted.

  Hayley Conyer poured the last of her tea into her cup. It must have been cold and unbearably strong by now, but she wasn’t one to let things go to waste. To her right sat Warraner, his face frozen. That was the other thing: Warraner had wanted them to take action, but he couldn’t specify what kind of action. Killing the detective wasn’t an option, and Warraner had no solution of his own to offer. He just didn’t like seeing Morland get his way. Warraner would rather have been the king of nothing than the prince of something.

  “I’m still not entirely happy,” said Warraner. “This man is a threat to us.”

  “Not yet,” said Morland, for what seemed the hundredth time. He removed his hands from his face. “Not unless we make him a threat.”

  “We’ll discuss it again when Thomas and Luke have returned,” snapped Hayley. She seemed as weary of Warraner as Morland was. “In the meantime, I want to be informed the moment he returns to Prosperous, if he returns here. I don’t want to have to wait to hear it from the pastor.”

  Warraner’s face thawed into a smile. Morland didn’t react. He simply wanted to be gone from the house. He stood and took his coat from the chair.

  “If he comes back, you’ll know,” said Morland.

  He was hungry. Alina would have done what she could to save some dinner for him, but it would still be dried to hell and back by now. He’d eat it, though, and not just because he was hungry. He’d have eaten it even if Hayley Conyer had force-fed him caviar and foie gras during their meeting. He’d eat it because his wife had prepared it for him.

  “Good night,” said Morland.

  “Just one more thing, Chief” said Hayley, and Morland stiffened as surely as if she’d inserted a blade into the small of his back.

  He turned. Even Warraner seemed curious to hear what it was she had to say.

  “I want the girl’s body moved,” said Hayley.

  Morland looked at her as though she were mad.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m far from kidding. This detective’s presence in Prosperous has made me uneasy, and if that body is discovered we’ll all be fucked.”

  Warraner looked shocked. Even Morland was surprised. He hadn’t heard Hayley Conyer swear in a coon’s age.

  “I want the girl’s remains taken beyond the town limits,” she continued. “Far beyond. How you dispose of her is your own concern, but get her gone, do you understand?”

  In that moment, Morland hated Hayley Conyer more than he had ever hated anyone before. He hated her, and he hated Prosperous.

  “I understand,” he said.

  This time, he didn’t call her a bitch when he was alone again. He had a stronger word for her instead, and he used it all the way home. He’d dig up the body the next day, just as he had been told, but he wouldn’t do it alone, because fucking Harry Dixon would be right there alongside him.

  “Fuck!” shouted Morland, as he drove. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  He slammed the steering wheel hard in time with each use of the word, and the wind tugged at the branches of the trees as around him the woods laughed.

  CHAPTER

  XXVII

  There were three towns within a two-mile radius of Prosperous’s limits. Only one, Dearde
n, was of any significant size; the other two were towns in the same way that Pluto used to be a planet, or a handful of guys standing at a crossroads counted as a crowd.

  Every town has someone who is a royal pain in the ass. This role divides pretty evenly between the sexes, but the age profile is usually consistent: over forty, at least, and preferably older; usually single, or with the kind of spouse or partner who is either lost in hero worship or one step away from murder. If a meeting is held, they’re at it. If change is in the air, they’re against it. If you say it’s black, they’ll say it’s white. If you agree that it’s white, they’ll reconsider their position. They’ve rarely held an elected position, or, if they once did, no one was crazy enough to reelect them. Their self-appointed role in life is to ensure that they’re nobody’s fool, and they want as many people as possible to know it. Because of them, things get done more slowly. Sometimes things don’t get done at all. Very occasionally, they inadvertently do some good by preventing from happening that which might ultimately have proved to be unbeneficial or actively destructive to their community, but they manage to do so only on the basis that even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

  If a town is sufficiently large, there may be many such persons, but Dearden was big enough to contain only a single such entity. His name was Euclid Danes, and even a cursory Internet search in connection with Dearden threw up Euclid’s name with a frequency that might lead one to suspect that he was the only living soul in town. In fact, so omnipresent was Euclid Danes that even Dearden wasn’t big enough to contain him, and his sphere of influence had extended to ­encompass parts of Prosperous too. Euclid Danes owned a number of acres between Prosperous and Dearden, and it appeared that he had made it his lifelong business to singlehandedly resist the expansion of Prosperous to the south. His land acted as a buffer between the towns, and he had steadfastly and successfully fought every attempt by the citizens of Prosperous to buy him, or force him, out. He didn’t seem interested in money or reason. He wanted to keep his land, and if by doing so he irritated the hell out of the wealthy folk up the road, then so much the better.