Snowbound Snuggles

by T. F. Walsh

  Heat flowed to her fingertips and toes. She wanted to linger here, learn the man stirring up settled dust of emotions.

  He moved his fingers into the base of her braid, drawing her closer.

  She drifted for a moment. The rootlets from that seed that sprouted during their conversation the other night gripped tightly around a deep place within her.

  This is wrong. I’m married.

  Brad ended the kiss, pulled her face to his shoulder. “Shhhh.”

  Was she crying? No. Remembering too much of the wrong things. She lifted her head, pulled away, and whispered, “It’s not right. Too soon.”

  His hand cupped her chin and insisted she face him.

  “I’ve waited a long time to do that Goldilocks. I’d never hurt you.”

  “Not your fault. Nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.” Her voice gained strength as she separated from him and stood. “I feel like a traitor. And don’t remind me that Scott died. I’m well aware of that.”

  He pushed up to stand in front of her, picked up her right hand, and rested it across his hook. “You didn’t.”

  Two blinks and the world returned in focus. Where had her logic and loyalty spun off to? How dare an emotional flame emerge before she found justice for Scott’s death?

  “Stay in the world of the living, Laura. You deserve a few more good decades.”

  Laura gazed down at her fingers resting lightly on stainless steel. Neither of them could claim wholeness. Her mind failed to draw a direct comparison between his visible and her interior wounds. “Damaged. Not broken. That’s become one of my mother’s favorite reminders.”

  “Have you made any new friends since . . . ”

  She shook her head. “He’s still out there. Scott’s murderer. I put all sorts of faces on him—dangerous, evil eyes, or scars like a movie gangster. I can’t forget.”

  “I’m not asking you to. And if I had enough information, I’d seek him out and drag him to justice. Or would you want to deal with him in private first?”

  Is that what she wanted? Revenge sounded hard, with a shade of corruption all of its own. She talked of justice. Law enforcement and legal systems might solve the case but Scott remained dead.

  She gathered a deep breath, mixed it with a portion of the courage he must have transferred in the kiss, and lifted her gaze to his eyes. A trace of mischief twinkled back at her. “You’re the park ranger.”

  • • •

  “Latrine is clean.” Brad halted beside Laura’s ladder and snapped a salute.

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “Duty calls me to go wear another hat for the rest of the day. Are you going to be up on that ladder much longer?” He glanced again to check the lock on the braces.

  She broke off a piece of tape and reached forward. “Only the bottom left now.”

  “Would you like to show me those basketball skills of yours?”

  Her face stretched into a silent question as she descended and stepped away from the aluminum stepladder.

  “The high school opens the gym to the community for a couple of hours on January Wednesdays. On a good night you get your choice of volleyball or hoops.”

  “The idea has potential.”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nineteen hundred.”

  She smoothed her large “Opening Soon” sign and anchored a lower corner before turning her face to him. “I’m capable of driving into town on my own.”

  Bright blue letters on a white background announced Laura’s planned bookshop to the community. He figured she’d applied enough tape across the top and upper quarter that it would hold if blizzard winds got inside. “Didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I’ve got the notion independence and good manners can get along. Might save a drop or two of gas if we ride together.”

  “When you put it that way.” Her lips formed a brief smile.

  “We’re set then.” He controlled the slant of his mouth. It was a poor substitute for pulling the tape dispenser out of her hand and kissing those inviting lips until they were both out of breath. But the public sidewalk outside the window and the locksmith working down the hall encouraged him to practice impulse control. “Will you wear your hair down? Like it is today?”

  “Open gym sounds casual enough for that.”

  He left her with a nod and stepped into afternoon cold. Images of Laura and snatches of her soft Southern edge to certain words from her Missouri education chased each other around his brain during the two-block walk to the Springs Press building.

  He didn’t regret the kiss. Part of his mind admitted to looking for the opportunity. And he was not disappointed. He pressed his lips tight as if to reclaim at least a shadow of the pleasant sensation.

  Her words after breaking the kiss did surprise him. Deep down he’d expected the “too soon” comment. But what was the deal with labeling herself a traitor? Did she actually consider marriage vows binding in the territory between death and justice?

  He blew out a stream of air and watched the vapor cloud vanish as he stepped forward. During the years since Laura’s final summer visit he’d pursued a few girls. He accepted a little competition for their affection with other students or soldiers as normal. Going up against a memory put him in new territory.

  Twenty minutes later, he grinned at the computer screen. One of the Social Security numbers he’d fed into the program this morning hit on activity. James Carlstead’s deceased college roommate collected a paycheck last week in Rochester, Minnesota. He picked up his phone and tapped in a text to Daryl. “Info on Carlstead.”

  Daryl and a bundle of winter air entered from the alley entrance before five minutes passed. “This better be good. You cut short organ practice on a tricky prelude.”

  “I believe so. But then, I’m conceited, prejudiced, and generally full of it.”

  Daryl responded with a laugh to go with his uneven smile.

  “This is what I’ve done so far.” Brad directed his boss’s attention to a list of contacts.

  Both men set to work sending emails and making phone calls to authorities in both states. Their low voices in short phrases filled the tidy office with an electric tension.

  • • •

  “Jason Young lives at seven fifteen Franklin.” The dark haired man repeated the address on his fresh set of identification. He ticked off items on a mental checklist of steps to give his new persona a recent, credible history. This very afternoon he’d rented a mailbox, opened a bank account in a Minneapolis suburb, and made a credit card purchase. Several more transactions in the next week and Mr. Young would be an upstanding citizen of the Twin Cities.

  He shifted in his seat, the comfort from the new identity eluding him. How soon would Big Eddie get word of this? Harvey had his own reasons to keep quiet. And no one else suspected. Did they?

  His stomach simmered, reminding him that he’d mistreated it with too much coffee again. He ran his tongue across his upper lip and realized he needed to buy more antacids before the end of the day.

  With another glance at the map on the GPS, he left his parking space. One appointment, with a young farmer on the hill southwest of town, and his public business day would be over. He crunched his second to last Tums and started down the street. A block later, he slowed his Jeep to a crawl.

  A large, blue and white sign in the window announced a new business in the former senior center. “Opening Soon. Tanner’s Pages Plus.”

  “She’s moving too fast. Why did she have to go and make it official? She’s complicating the entire situation.” If only things had gone well in St. Louis a year ago. He wasn’t proud of that encounter in the café last week either. If he’d paid a little more attention to chatter in the village instead of focusing totally on his own project during December, he may have been able to turn the initial meeting to his advantage.

  Well, since then he’d come to his senses and taken control of the situation. The sign slapped him to the next level of alertness and prodded him to become less
subtle. These modern, independent women were nothing but trouble.

  What should he do next? He wanted to find a complication for her that was more severe than yesterday’s theft but with a low probability of official questions in his direction. He shuddered at his pre-lunch idea. The license plate had been easy to steal, more difficult to dispose of. He’d cut it into several pieces of course; the tin snips in his tool bag made short work of that. Then he made the rounds of recycling centers and visited three before he’d found one without potential witnesses.

  She had to leave. Turning back the clock less than a week would make life better for the pair of them. Women. They were clueless creatures leaving a wake of confusion and difficulties behind them. And this one—the community’s size made it impossible to co-exist. He intended to claim seniority.

  He completed the three-mile drive to his meeting pondering which step to take next. Certainly another nudge or two and she’d abandon the idea. His stomach squeezed with bitterness.

  He pulled into a farmyard and more than a dozen cats scattered from a sunny patch in front of the open garage. A sleek yellow feline stretched then paraded off in imitation of a queen. A plan gathered as sure as the local rodent control patrol congregated outside the milking parlor. He still needed to work out details. With his skill and a tiny amount of luck the young woman would be frightened out of her wits. And more importantly, out of the village.

  Three hours later, he washed his hands with extra care. Cat managed a bit of revenge. No matter. She’s settled now. He rinsed all the way up to his elbows, examined the fresh scratches, and skipped the antibiotic cream.

  With the last of a roll of Tums in his mouth, he prepared a sandwich for supper and set it within easy reach of the computer. He took one bite and hoped the websites showed good news, in the form of no unexpected developments, tonight.

  The newspaper reports satisfied him. The Kenosha News ran a full obituary including a listing of visitation and funeral service. No mention of the real estate developer in the other sections. He relaxed a bit and called up the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. A smile formed, lingered, and turned into relief when his search by name, partner’s name, and business failed to show recent activity.

  With a click of the mouse he moved to the next task—entering and lurking email accounts of friends and relatives close to the deceased. The first search opened easily. Messages of sympathy, travel plans, regrets at not being able to attend mingled with general statements of surprise at his brother’s death.

  Will I get lucky tonight? He tapped in the name of a neighbor. Last night he’d felt close to success and he intended to build off it. His fingers worked without a break in rhythm, putting in an address and following up with their dog’s moniker and house number. Oh, sweet. The principle did have another acquaintance that didn’t bother with the computer safety layered into less trusting accounts. It was about time he caught an unsecured door. When the receptionist retired, he’d lost a stream of useful facts among the chatter.

  After reading more than he wanted to know about a daughter at Missouri State University, he marked the account and closed it for the night. Tomorrow morning before his public workday, he’d try again to crack the delivery driver’s account.

  “Jason Young,” he repeated his new name as he paced a route between the computer, living room and kitchen. “That’s a name I could get used to. It spills out of my mouth easier than mother’s favorite.”

  Standing in the dim living room he looked out into the night, the fine snow descending earlier now stopped. The night was turning deep cold and clear. In a couple of hours—in that span when all but one percent of the community slept—conditions would be perfect.

  Chapter Eleven

  Laura glanced at the dashboard clock an instant before turning off Roger’s truck. “The morning’s half gone and I’m just arriving at the shop. Not the sort of beginning to the day I planned.”

  She stepped out into cold, still air and a thin layer of fresh snow on gravel. Nature seemed to be demonstrating the difference between hill and valley this morning. Her chores were accompanied by a brisk morning wind stirring last evening’s dusting of snow. There were no tiny drifts and swirls in the shelter of the valley. She turned and shrugged at the sidewalk. Several sets of footprints pressed snow against cement. Mayor Miller’s teasing conversation with Myles popped into her mind and she moved sweeping the front entrance to the top of her “to do” list.

  My delay at the farm included business. She managed to convince herself that the phone calls to arrange electric and phone service for the shop were a good use of an entire hour this morning. A moment later, with her tote bag over a shoulder and a plastic sack of clean rags in her hand, she tramped up the rear steps. Her new key slipped in easily and moved the bolt with a soft “click.” A gentle push and she stepped over the threshold.

  “What?” Laura gasped before retreating one step. She blinked, and still the distinctive shape that didn’t belong remained. Her hand gripped thin plastic handles until her nails dug into her palms. “Who put a dead cat in my shop?”

  Somehow she managed to stash the rags and her tote against the wall with trembling hands. She slid her hands against her thighs, gathering a little strength from cool, quiet, porch air, and approached the still creature.

  An adult, yellow cat rested on gray vinyl tile in the hall between the entrance to the restroom and storage area. One tentative nudge with a sneaker toe confirmed the animal was dead.

  Is that a collar? Pets don’t wander through locked doors to die. She stepped around to the feline’s head and squatted down. An old-fashioned package tag was fastened around the animal’s neck with a length of thick, red yarn. She froze. “Laura” in bold black marker taunted her.

  A full minute later, she retrieved her smartphone and dialed 911.

  “I want to report vandalism.” Laura stayed on the enclosed porch with her back to the scene in the hallway while she gave her location and a summary of the situation. Despite the calm female voice on the other end, Laura couldn’t hold the questions at bay. Who had the new keys? Did some teens have a warped sense of humor bordering on criminal? How could she have made enemies in a mere week? How did you dispose of a dead animal in winter?

  A flash of red—a male cardinal changing tree branches—signaled the normal world remained. She completed a description of the cat for the third time. “Yes, I’ll meet the officer in the parking area.”

  She left a voice mail for Daryl and then spent a long moment trying to imagine his reaction. Would he merely raise one eyebrow in mild confusion? Or would her disjointed sentences manage to create a small crack in his shell built during twenty plus years with the Secret Service?

  Deputy Kingman arrived fifteen minutes later. Intelligence and professional attitude radiated off him from his close-cropped sandy hair to the polished thick-soled shoes. “Dispatcher says you have an animal situation.”

  “Yes.” Laura introduced herself, willed her voice to remain steady, and led the officer inside. “I’ve recently rented the downstairs commercial space. Mr. Anderson from the hardware store installed new locks on the rear door and customer entrance less than twenty-four hours ago.”

  He asked for specifics on the number of keys and their distribution as he studied the locks. Then he used a gloved hand to push the door open and nodded. “Give me a moment to get the camera.”

  The deputy went to his cruiser and she paced an oval on the enclosed porch. All the times last January she spent waiting on law enforcement came back in a rush. The memories halted her feet. She pulled in a deep breath, rested her eyes, and counted to three. The simple action called up Detective Wilson’s image. Calm. Polite. Insistent.

  She tried to banish the first interview with him. No amount of manners from either of them could eliminate the small, shabby interview room or the implication she was a suspect as well as the spouse. “That’s over. We’re almost friends now,” she whispered.

  “Pardon me?” Depu
ty Kingman burst her memory bubble.

  “Nothing to concern you.” She longed for a moment of cold air to put a wall between the past and the present. After all, a dead animal now—a full year and six hundred miles away from Scott—shouldn’t have any connection at all. Then why did the sight of a yellow cat named Laura give her the same physical reaction as the nightmare of Scott’s slumped body?

  “Were you expecting company?”

  “What?” Laura pushed away from the portion of back porch wall she’d claimed and looked down the hall past Deputy Kingman. A man in a black overcoat tested the front door. “That’s my uncle. I called him. I’ll go around and let him in.”

  A few minutes later, Laura huddled over the deputy’s preliminary report while Daryl made a silent inspection of the display area. She nodded at the officer’s choice of words and signed where he pointed.

  “Will they find anything on the tag?” She pointed to the sealed evidence envelope.

  Deputy Kingman cleared his throat. “We’ll send it to the state lab. Any criminal over the age of ten that’s ever seen a cop drama on TV avoids leaving a fingerprint though. So don’t count on a quick solution.”

  “I gave up on speed from police and lawyers a long time ago.” She pressed her lips to prevent further explanation. This officer didn’t deserve bitterness. He had no reason to know about the accumulated stress and frustration of crime touching her a year ago.

  “Case number’s on the second line. Use it if you call with questions.” He handed her the third copy of the form. “I’ll see myself out.”

  “A word, please.” Daryl stepped up to the deputy. “Private.”

  He makes this morning sound like a spy movie. Laura sighed as the two men exited the front. Chores begged for her attention. An unplanned addition topped her list. It appeared as if double bagging the dead animal and putting it in temporary storage outside fell to her.

  By the time Daryl returned she was tying the knot on the first heavy-duty trash bag. “So what urgent business did you have with the officer?”