Snowbound Snuggles

by T. F. Walsh

  He waited and let understanding seep in.

  “I . . . I can accept that Scott’s dead. I can’t accept . . . refuse to understand . . . why no one seems to care. The police put his file at the bottom of the pile. We’ll work on it when we have more time. When all the other gun violence cases are solved. Even Daryl sits on his hands, listens politely, and does nothing.”

  He’s tracing the new partner. Digging into family background. Working on Scott’s case every day. Brad exhaled, aware to the end of his missing fingers that he couldn’t say a word to Laura. “A host of people care, Goldilocks.”

  “Even the park ranger?”

  “Affirmative. He cares more than most.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I won’t be in to open the office until late, Brad. Have you called Ken?”

  “He’s next on my list.” Brad poured fresh coffee into his travel mug. The official sunrise remained close to an hour away. Lights glowed from the high windows of the milking parlor where his parents worked with the herd. Time to touch base, let them know to expect he’d be gone all day.

  A couple of minutes later, after leaving a text for Ken, the Rolling Hills Realty broker, and stashing his coffee in the truck, he entered the bright world of the milking area. Sanitizer and cattle breath greeted his nostrils.

  “Late night. Is everything okay?” Robert continued to clean an udder prior to attaching the milking machine.

  “Good as expected. Sheriff will be by for a look in daylight.” He checked the number on a bright yellow ear tag. The reality in this familiar place cleared more of the haze from his mind. Morning farm chores and the ritual with the coffee maker distracted him from thinking of Laura finally asleep when he’d left with Daryl half an hour ago. “I’m headed to Wagoner.”

  “All day?” His mother called from the cattle entrance door.

  “Expect so. I’ll call if you need to set a supper plate for me.”

  “Drive careful. Eric plans to come up for the weekend. Let Amy know if you can give him a ride.”

  Brad smiled at mention of his nephew. The boy exhibited all the signs and symptoms of having inherited the dairy farmer gene. He begged to spend school breaks helping his grandfather and complained the minimum at the dirty, physical chores. “Message received.”

  Before starting his truck he dialed Kim’s cell. She didn’t answer so he left a message that Frieberg Investigations would accept the case. “One of us will be contacting your parents later today. We’ll want to see your uncle’s house.”

  • • •

  “Say again.” The dark-haired man slammed the fridge door, turned his back to it, and concentrated on the distinct, hoarse voice on the phone.

  “Don’t play deaf. Right on your doorstep. Deal with it.”

  “Certainly.” Sweat crept from his skin and pooled in the valley between his shoulder blades. Who? When? And all those other questions that would do nothing but endanger his own life halted on the back of his tongue.

  “Use the alternate number to report. That is all.”

  He swung his arm, intending to hurl the pre-paid cell across the room but instead pushed it down the counter until it stalled against the coffee maker. His throat tightened as if the very walls shrank the space. He needed to pace—and think.

  After the first circuit of the kitchen, living room, and hall he left a voice mail at the office informing the clerk that he’d be working from home today. The fresh snow worked in his favor. She’d shrug and most likely put in her hours doing Sudoku puzzles and taking a half dozen phone messages.

  In the middle of the second pass through the living room, he paused and watched the sheriff’s SUV lead a Wisconsin State Patrol car southbound. Not much in that direction except the tree farm. Do they suspect? Did I forget something? He resumed pacing and pushed against the doubt waving in one quadrant of his brain. With the initial incident in the middle of a stormy night, he wanted them to be doing a simple daylight follow-up.

  Did Big Eddie know about the woman? Impossible. She remained a local, personal problem. His steps halted in front of the gun safe. No, it was risky. But the little notion grew as he pivoted. The idea took on a life outside of his conscience, making his stomach knot. “Only as a last resort.”

  What threatened the organization enough to have his boss call this soon? Jobs for contract operatives were spaced six months to a year apart, for safety. The payment for the Beel job still bounced around his offshore accounts. He glanced at the kitchen calendar. Tomorrow the funds made their final transfer.

  Moments later, he settled at his computer to open the email account of James Beel’s brother. Subject lines in this account looked innocent this morning.

  Suddenly he halted on a new one from the daughter. Time stamp was less than an hour ago and already the parents had opened it. His tongue swept once across his upper lip as he read the message.

  “Frieberg Investigations agreed to take the case. Expect contact to arrange a visit to the house. Digging out of fifteen inches in sunny Bemidji. Banquet for seventy-five tonight. Busy, busy, busy. Kim.”

  He shivered under his dress shirt and sweater vest. Daryl poking around in Beel’s home? The second reason his nerves never relaxed in this place. The man didn’t miss anything, said little, and assembled pictures from shreds. Did he leave a trace when he picked the lock? Did an incriminating scrap linger on the chair where he stored his jacket? He didn’t touch anything without gloves or disturb the towels waiting outside the hot tub.

  Why this one? He prided himself on care and leaving nothing but a dead body for his quick visit to his marks. Accident. Suicide. Two of his favorite words on death certificates. Seven out of eight. Perfect record until a year ago when something tipped off a medical examiner.

  Tanner. Homicide. He stared at his hands above the computer keyboard. They trembled like his chin in sub-zero cold. This would never do. He pushed away from the desk and paced another lap in the rented house. He detoured to the kitchen for a snack, but the first swallow of milk curdled on the way down. He spewed it into the sink and cursed women.

  He snatched a maple flavored hard candy from a shallow dish on the counter and sucked on it the instant his fingers broke the paper.

  Candy. Did I? He rubbed the delicate wrapper between two fingers and forced his mind back to the St. Louis job.

  A few moments later, he returned to the computer, changed programs, and booked Jason Young on tomorrow’s final international flight.

  He packed a suitcase with ordinary items on the chance the TSA did a manual search. The checked bag would languish, unclaimed, in the foreign airport. The change of clothes and toiletries for the carry on he selected with care. After all, he may have to depend on it for a week or more as he made connections in international airports. Cash, carefully withdrawn from several accounts in previous months, ended up divided between duffel pockets and the money belt he wore day and night under his clothes.

  One more piece of unfinished business. All the cooperation he needed was for her to take one of those walks in the Christmas trees in strong daylight. Questions of homicide would come up. It couldn’t be helped this time.

  He formed a small smile. Big Eddie wouldn’t have a say in this one. Not in selecting time, place, or target. For a moment he tried to picture the seven foot, slender, drug importer smiling wide enough for both gold teeth to show.

  He sucked on another candy and willed the maple sweet to untwist another kink in his digestive system. She’d be his first female target. My final mark. Outstanding hair and friendly eyes made even passing remarks with her memorable. No, he mustn’t think of her as a female with a personality. His hands would be steadier and his eye more certain if she remained a target.

  • • •

  Laura pulled three bales of hay from the lower portion of the stack. Today, with over ten inches of new snow, the step pyramid slope of previous days looked like a practice area for mountain climbing. Moment by moment she discovered new twists and
complications to morning chores. Shoveling to open the shed door and to clear the wooden outside manger had not even touched her imagination on New Year’s morning when Roger talked her through the tasks.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  She turned from breaking up the last bale and faced Sheriff Bergstrom. “Are you finished at the workshop?”

  “My associate is tagging the final bit of evidence.” The sheriff gestured with the arm not holding her clipboard.

  “Let’s go to the house. I’ll let the dogs loose on the way past the garage if that’s okay.”

  “Sounds good. How many?”

  They exchanged comments about dogs as Laura led the way. Taffy and Cocoa streaked out of the door and made good use of fresh snow before they inspected the two vehicles and the arson specialist.

  “What did you find?”

  Sheriff Bergstrom opened her covered clipboard on the kitchen counter. “First I want to review a few things with you. When did you last go inside the shed?”

  “Yesterday morning. I removed a tarp for use in my store downtown.” This was the second time for these questions. How many times had she listened to Detective Wilson and his team go through their list? Eight? Ten? She’d lost count after a while. The entire first week or two mushed together in her memory. “I fastened the latch.”

  “Did you do anything at the workbench? Remove a tool? Plug into any of the electrical outlets?”

  “No. I found the tarp I wanted in the small utility wagon and left.”

  “When did you return to the farm?”

  Laura recited the time from the top of the hour news report concluding as she turned into the drive. She paused before she could spill more details. Experience told her the interview would be smoother if she stayed with the actual questions.

  Fifteen minutes and dozens of questions later, the sheriff snapped the lid back down on her clipboard. “Officially this case is ‘suspicious.’ When should I expect the owner and his insurance company to be in touch?”

  “My aunt and uncle are packing to leave Arizona as we speak.” Laura kept the smile at the memory of Roger’s sleepy voice small. She’d ignored the time difference and telephoned in the mere minutes Daryl left her alone, taking Brad home.

  Laura leaned against the counter and sighed. “You’ve been kind, Sheriff. This conversation went easier than last year.”

  The sheriff halted and turned back two steps away from the door. “Do you have another case of arson in your life?”

  “No. Not a fire.” She shook her head and tried to banish the image of Scott’s slumped body before it crystallized. “My husband was murdered. A year ago. The killer staged it to appear as suicide at first glance.”

  “Where?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Arrest?”

  Laura’s hand reached up to cover the rings. Sheriff Bergstrom looked at her so intently, it felt like an X-ray. “No. They claim that it’s open but nothing’s happened in months.”

  The cuckoo bird in the next room announced the hour before Laura found her voice. The expression on the sheriff’s face asked questions without answers. Daryl’s words from several hours ago—as he’d reviewed the threats against her own business opening—echoed in the silence. No, the idea was impossible. St. Louis and Crystal Springs shared the Mississippi River watershed and little else.

  “Would you like the name of the detective to contact?”

  • • •

  Brad arrived in Wagoner’s main business district half an hour after a clear dawn. Sunlight sparkled off clean white snow in the fields and dictated every driver wear sunglasses. He spotted snowplows working on the streets feeding into the already cleared Old Federal highway that doubled as the town’s main street. He passed the realty office and noticed none of the businesses in the block had opened or begun to clear sidewalks.

  He pulled into the convenience store in the next block, parked, and delayed a minute to watch a pickup with a small front mounted plow work in the adjoining parking lot. He walked across the lot and waved the driver down.

  “What’cha need?” The snowplow operator lowered his window.

  “Safe place to park for the day,” Brad replied. “Where will I be out of your way?”

  “Take one of them places on the east side, near the entrance.”

  “Thanks.” With a wave, he returned to the store and purchased a pair of granola bars for breakfast before moving his truck into the indicated space.

  After coffee and his light breakfast, Brad draped his computer case strap across his chest and stepped away from his truck. He paused at the entrance to the alley and pulled out his camera. Only one set of tracks marred the snow in the alley. He snapped a few photos of the quiet scene before he made a complete circuit of the block. The sign at S&T Travel stated they opened at ten. Lots of time. If they open at all today.

  “Morning,” he said as he stepped into the law office neighboring Rolling Hills.

  The secretary looked up from exchanging boots for shoes. “May I help you?”

  “We’re not open next door yet. If I can park my bag here and borrow your shovel, I’ll do your sidewalk.”

  “Deal.” She pointed to an aluminum scraper and bag of chemicals below a coat rack. “Are you one of their part-timers?”

  “Affirmative. Work out of Crystal Springs.” He glanced in her direction in time to see her blink and quickly look away as he drew his hook out of his pocket.

  “I’ll remember that. Coffee will be done before you are.” She picked up a carafe.

  “Twice in one week,” the realty office receptionist greeted him an hour later. “Should I feel honored or nervous?”

  “That’s entirely up to you. I’d like to set up in the back room today.” Brad patted his computer case. “I want to check photos from the old files.”

  “Be my guest,” the woman of all work replied.

  Brad settled in at a small desk, pulled out three files of Crystal Springs’ addresses that the agency handled years ago, and booted up his laptop. A little re-arranging of the desktop and he’d appear to be working instead of watching the rear of the travel agency out the window. His camera parked within easy reach might be the only oddity.

  The alley remained quiet while he reviewed Kim’s unexpected visit. He rubbed his cheek at the memory of yesterday’s kiss. Once upon a time he’d imagined her as more than a friend. A trial balloon she’d burst for him without malice. Now, when he was already confused by Goldilocks, Kim popped back into the picture speaking glowing words about her fiancé but kissing him. What was God thinking when he created females?

  No lights or vehicles at the travel agency. Maybe they would close due to weather today. Any male not a customer. Daryl could be specific and general at the same time.

  Brad checked his watch, oh-nine-fifty, at the first growl of an engine in the alley. A gray Ford SUV eased to a stop behind the travel agency. He aimed the camera, shot one photo, and zoomed in for the next.

  A woman in a bright red hat exited from the driver’s seat.

  Mrs. Stennis. He clicked a photo of the travel agent on the rear steps. At that instant the passenger door opened and a tall, lean man emerged. Any male not a customer. He clicked pictures at slow heartbeat intervals until the stranger vanished behind the solid door.

  It took a few minutes to gather enough trash in the office to be convincing. Cold air burned at his first deep breath in the alley. He worked off a garbage can lid, dropped the bag, and got a good shot of the vehicle plate. Stomping fresh snow off his boots he glanced at the travel agency again but couldn’t decide if that was a light on the second floor or morning sunlight reflecting back.

  “Got pics. Ready?” he texted Daryl then stared at the smartphone screen as if his thoughts would conjure a response.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Warm air and a burst of laughter greeted Laura. She blinked at the change of light and stepped further into Jack’s. “Busy.”

  “Friday night fi
sh fry,” Kathy replied. “Table by the window? I see a couple leaving.”

  “Good with me.” She threaded her way through tables, pushing away her hood and opening her parka. She touched a chair back before she realized Daryl wasn’t following them. Now what’s he up to?

  Laura tipped her head toward the bar. Daryl stood near the center of the high counter and raised an index finger to the barkeeper, a stout man in a plaid flannel shirt and generous apron.

  “That’s Jack,” Kathy opened her coat and hung her purse on a chair.

  Laura kept her attention on Jack’s face as he talked with her uncle. “If I’m not mistaken, he’s placed our order for three root beers and fish dinners.”

  Kathy lifted the salt and pepper shakers in turn. “That’s good. I’m hungry.”

  They’re talking about the pool players. One glance off to the single pool table spurred Laura to maintain a neutral face. Best not to stare at Myles. She concentrated on reading the barkeeper’s lips.

  “Half an hour at the most.”

  “He’s off his game tonight. Sank the eight ball third shot in.”

  “Two more on the list. Want to make it three?” Jack made it easy for her as he pulled drinks and kept an eye on his patrons. Her imagination didn’t work hard to supply Daryl’s prompts to the bar owner.

  “What’s so interesting?” Kathy twisted around toward the bar.

  “Long distance eavesdropping.” Heat bathed Laura’s neck at her admission. “I . . . I read lips to some extent. Taught myself the year I suffered a series of ear infections. It comes in handy.”

  “I imagine it would. I planned to give you Jack’s biography but maybe you’d prefer another topic.”

  “No, go ahead. I’ll listen.” She glanced away from Kathy at the memory of Brad listening in dim light and near silence early this morning.

  Three sentences later, she managed to pull her mind back to the mayor an instant before a groan went up from the pool game audience. “I thought basketball was the game of choice.”