In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel

by M. R. Sellars

  The leading edge of the predicted arctic front was already hitting the town, and the breeze it carried had sharp teeth. The exposed areas of her cheeks bore the weather-reddened bite marks to prove it.

  Constance peeled off her gloves and scarf, stuffing them into pockets, then pulled off her coat. As she perched herself on one of the vinyl-topped stools at the lunch counter, she draped the heavy outer garment across her lap in a bid to warm her frozen legs. Snatching up a folded paper menu, she looked it over while her stomach serenaded her yet again.

  That Place was far busier than it had been the last time she’d visited. It wasn’t at capacity, but she counted nearly one-dozen customers with a single quick glance. She had positioned herself at the empty end of the U-shaped counter, the farthest position away from any of the other patrons. She already knew they weren’t overly excited about her presence here in town—or so she’d been told. Thus far the receptions she’d received seemed to support that, so why make them any more uncomfortable. Besides, as it happened, she wasn’t feeling particularly social at the moment either, so she broke one of her own rules and sat with her back to the door. She was too tired and hungry to worry about it.

  It was only a few moments before Stella came over and asked, “Coffee?”

  Constance gave her an animated nod. “Yes, please.”

  “Regular?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The girl’s demeanor was suitably cordial, but her body language was patently guarded, much as she had been the times before. Once she had filled a mug and placed it in front of the federal agent she said, “What can I get you?”

  Constance shot a last glance at the menu then placed it to the side and said, “How about a short stack, and two eggs on the side. Scrambled.”

  “Do you want bacon or sausage with that?” Stella asked, her words flat and automatic.

  “Do you have turkey bacon?” Constance replied.

  “No ma’am, just real bacon.”

  She started to decline then felt her stomach rumble. “That’s fine. Bacon sounds good. Do you have any grapefruit juice?”

  Stella shook her head. “Just orange or cranberry.”

  Strike two. Constance mulled it over for a second, then nodded. She preferred grapefruit and would normally just skip juice if it wasn’t available, but she also knew her kidneys were probably screaming for something besides coffee and cola. “Okay. Cranberry will work. And a large water.”

  “Okay. I’ll have that out in just a couple of minutes.”

  Once Stella had started toward the doors at the back of the lunch counter, Constance set about doctoring her java. Two sugars, one creamer, as usual, unless Ben was responsible for making it, of course. You simply couldn’t resuscitate his coffee, no matter what you dumped into it. She’d already tried more time than she could count. It was a lost cause.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost 8:30. Ben had been planning to take the day off since they were supposed to be spending it together. She’d try him after breakfast. Maybe he could help her with that bizarre holiday riddle, and a friendly voice definitely wouldn’t be unwelcome either.

  The murmur of unintelligible conversations between patrons provided a dull base rhythm for the kitchen noises issuing at odd intervals from beyond the café doors at the back of the small restaurant. Punctuating the muddy soundtrack came the sudden clang and grind of an old, mechanical cash register. Constance looked up to see a diner paying his bill, and after he exchanged a pleasantry or two with Stella he waved to some of the other customers and started for the door. When he hooked around the end of the counter he glanced at Constance, his lips stitched together in a thin frown. When their eyes accidentally met, he gave her a curt nod. The motion was tense, as if it was something he didn’t want to do, but because custom dictated it so, he had no choice. She returned the gesture and focused her attention back on her coffee.

  A moment later, a bell pealed out a metallic jangle, and a stiff blast of icy wind immediately groped at her back. She could feel the uncomfortable massage of its chilled fingers even through her heavy sweatshirt and the insulated crew top she was wearing underneath.

  She gave a slight shudder as she hunched forward, trying to escape the gust, then finished stirring her coffee and laid the spoon aside on a napkin. She cupped her hands around the mug and huddled over it, allowing its warmth to soak into her palms. The brass bell finally rattled a second time as the door swung shut, ending the unwanted touch of Old Man Winter.

  However, the reprieve didn’t seem to last.

  She didn’t hear the man at first. In fact, she felt his presence and then she smelled him. A deep chill was radiating outward from his coat, just as it would from a block of dry ice. It expanded through the air between them and brushed against her cheek. With it came the unmistakable scent of spicy aftershave. It reminded her of something she used to give to her grandfathers for Christmas when she was a little girl.

  She had just lifted her cup and was taking a sip of her coffee when the man slipped onto the stool at her right side. Even though there were several others available, he had chosen the one immediately next to hers. She heard him shifting on his seat, and then his upper arm briefly pressed against her own. However, it was not as if it were an accidental brush. It lingered there just long enough that it seemed almost deliberate.

  She immediately tensed and her mind began ticking through the options.

  Her first inclination was to fire off a sarcastic volley, asking if she was in his way. However, she thought better of it before the words escaped. She needed to keep her foul mood contained, especially given her pariah status among the people of Hulis already. Barking at one of them certainly wouldn’t gain her any friends.

  Of course, since she was an outsider, that also narrowed the field a bit too. The only person she could think of off the top of her head who would purposely sit next to her was Sheriff Carmichael. Since the sheriff’s department was across the street, he seemed a likely candidate. All except for the fact that he was a cop and an unnaturally observant one at that. She was absolutely certain he would realize that placing himself in such close proximity on the side she carried her weapon would make her painfully uneasy. She couldn’t fathom him doing such a thing, unless for some odd reason making her uncomfortable was his intent.

  No. It probably wasn’t the sheriff. The reality was that not everyone had social skills. The clod next to her was probably completely oblivious to his faux pas, and she was just letting the grumpiness and paranoia override her brain.

  She finished sipping and lowered the mug back to the counter, then swiveled the stool a few inches while carefully repositioning herself to the left side of the seat. She finally stole a quick glance at the man, and as she had surmised, he was not Sheriff Carmichael. However, his face was vaguely familiar. She just couldn’t immediately place where she had seen it.

  He looked to be approximately the same age as the sheriff, maybe a few years older, but it was hard to tell. He was gaunt, clean-shaven and had angular features. Wire rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. His hair was trimmed short in an outdated style that reminded her of pictures she had seen of her father when he was a boy. It was predominantly gray, although dark brown strands were still visible throughout.

  The man was tastefully attired in a dark, heavy topcoat over a starched white shirt, tie, and what appeared to be a charcoal gray suit. As far as appearances went, he looked harmless enough. However, looks aren’t everything, and she knew it.

  After several heartbeats, he said quietly, “Good morning, Special Agent Mandalay.”

  Constance hated surprises. In fact, they were one of the very reasons she hated sitting with her back to the door.

  CHAPTER 18

  CONSTANCE didn’t recognize his voice.

  It actually sounded deeper than she would have expected based on her quick glance at him, but not unnaturally so. In a very real sense it came across as calm and soothing, carrying with it the underlying st
rength and even tone of a practiced orator. However, while the words were clearly audible to her, he was keeping his volume low. It was apparent that he wasn’t interested in being overheard by anyone else in the establishment.

  She forced herself not to outwardly react. His address made it plain that he knew exactly who she was, which put her at a disadvantage. Of course, this was a small town, and word traveled fast, especially where it concerned her. She’d already witnessed the grapevine in action more than once.

  She turned her gaze back in his direction, this time allowing it to linger. She noticed immediately that he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his attention seemed fully occupied by his own hands. His eyes remained fixed on the counter in front of him where he was carefully sorting the blue, yellow, and pink artificial sweetener packets that were nestled in a rectangular plastic container.

  Never breaking his focus on the compulsive task he added, “It’s particularly cold out there today, isn’t it?”

  Obviously he was intent on starting a conversation with her. Playing along for the moment, without missing a beat she replied. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Unfortunate that Arthur is such a miser when it comes to the motel,” he continued, voice still low. “In this weather I’m sure that was an unpleasant walk for you.”

  A hot flush of alarm washed over Constance. She was willing to accept that he might know her name and recognize her on sight based on town gossip. However, that last comment was a different story entirely. While it could simply be an assumption based on the motel owner’s reputation, it had been delivered with too much confidence and familiarity for her liking.

  Holding her ground, keeping her voice steady and matching his volume, she decided to do a bit of fishing. “Who told you I walked?”

  “Nobody, Special Agent,” he replied; then with a matter-of-fact shrug added, “I’ve been watching you ever since you arrived in town.”

  When she dropped her line in the water, she hadn’t really expected to get a strike that hard or that quickly. As signs go, she wasn’t sure whether to consider that one good or bad.

  Feigning nonchalance, she slipped her coat from her lap and laid it across the stool to her left, freeing up her legs in the event she needed to move quickly.

  Slowly, she pivoted the rotating seat a little more, angling her knees toward him and bringing her sidearm farther away. She had no idea what was going on here, but she knew for sure she didn’t like what his admission implied. However, it now appeared that her heretofore inexplicable paranoia might well be justified. Unfortunately, she would have to take solace in that fact later.

  For the moment, she didn’t think he was going to do anything right here in the middle of the diner, even if he was intent on harming her in some way. However, you could never really predict what a crazy person might do. Stalking a federal agent and then openly confessing that fact to the agent in question didn’t strike her as the actions of someone with all of their screws securely tightened. Besides, like Ben was fond of saying, “Better safe than dead.”

  “Watching me…” Constance repeated, following the words with a measured breath. “Mind if I ask why?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “I see. And, you obviously know that I work for the FBI.”

  “Of course.”

  She clucked her tongue then offered up a legal factoid, “So, do you also know that per Missouri revised statute five sixty-five point two twenty-five, everything you’ve just said gives me probable cause to arrest you for the crime of stalking?”

  The man chuckled lightly. He appeared to be genuinely amused by the comment. “I’m not stalking you, Special Agent,” he told her.

  “You and the law obviously have different definitions then, Mister…?” She let the honorific hang in the air between them.

  “My name isn’t important,” he replied.

  “You aren’t helping your case any,” she told him.

  “I’ve simply been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you.”

  “Well,” she said after a handful of empty seconds ticked by. “I’m pretty sure that’s what we are doing right now, but I have to be honest—I’m not terribly inclined to continue.”

  “I hope that you will reconsider and listen to what I have to say.”

  This peculiar old man was starting to wear on her already raw nerves, but she really didn’t want to create a scene here in the diner unless she had no choice. As long as he was keeping his hands to himself and not making any sudden moves, she figured she would play along. Maybe in a few more moves she could suss out his end game and know whether to arrest him or call the nearest mental hospital to see if they had an escapee.

  After a short pause she responded. “Give me a reason to. I really don’t care for the cloak and dagger approach, so let’s start with a name.”

  “All right then,” he replied. He gave a slight nod but still didn’t look up from the perfectly organized sweetener packets. “Call me Ed.”

  She turned the name over inside her brain. It rang a bell, but the note was a little off key, so she couldn’t yet name the tune. “Okay, Ed,” she replied. “That’s a little better. Now, obviously you have my undivided attention—for the moment. I’d say now is your chance to talk.”

  “Not here,” he said.

  “Funny,” she replied. “Why did I have a strange feeling you were going to say that?”

  “I was hoping that we could have a discussion somewhere more private,” he offered, ignoring her observation.

  Constance took a sip of her coffee but kept her eyes on him over the rim of her cup. After placing it back on the counter she said, “And when you say private, is there someplace specific you have in mind?”

  “We could go back to your room at the Greenleaf. My car is right outside.”

  Constance raised an eyebrow and snorted involuntarily as she fought to stifle a sharp chuckle. There were “holster sniffers” everywhere, so why not here? She’d had plenty of men—and even a few women—with rampant law enforcement fetishes try to pick her up over the years, but she had to admit this was a new and different approach. She took a moment to process what he had just said, but no matter how she looked at it, the question that came to her lips was the same. Finally, keeping her voice low she asked, “I’m sorry, but are you propositioning me?”

  “Not in the way you assume,” he replied, voice even and devoid of any real emotion. The words were simply a statement of fact.

  She continued to roll his name around in her head, assuming for the moment that he wasn’t lying. There was something about it that was bothering her. She usually had excellent recall, but maybe her spell of clear headedness had come to an end, and the exhaustion was taking over again.

  She watched him in silence, pondering the information that lay somewhere just beyond her grasp. He, however, still hadn’t looked up at her. His eyes remained focused on the sweetener packets. He had long since completed sorting them, but he would still occasionally reach out and adjust one, then another. Apparently they weren’t exactly right in his estimation, which told her he definitely had more than just a mild touch of OCD.

  Obsessive…

  Obsession…

  Fixation…

  Fetish…

  The words collided with his name as they tumbled through her thoughts. The resulting clash sparked a connection and the memory was recalled.

  She cocked her head to the side and said, “You own the hardware store, right?”

  “No, Special Agent, I do not,” he replied.

  The answer wasn’t what she had expected to hear. Adding up the stalking, the name he’d given, the OCD, and his veiled proposition, she had concluded he was Ed Ruble, the hardware store owner with the shoe fetish Sheriff Carmichael had warned her about.

  While Constance was still pondering the blind alley she’d just followed, Stella appeared on the opposite side of the counter and placed a short cranberry juice and glass of water in front of her.

 
; “Sorry about the wait,” the waitress apologized. With a bit more cheer than she’d displayed earlier she turned to the man next to Constance and said, “Good Morning, Pastor Reese. Your usual?”

  He replied, “Good morning, Stella. Yes. Thank you.”

  “Be right back,” she told him.

  Stella hurried to the other end of the counter, then returned with a fresh mug of java for the pastor. She shot him a quick smile, even though he never really looked up, and then she was off again to attend to other patrons.

  Once she was out of earshot, Constance said, “Pastor Reese… Well…at least now I know your real name.”

  “Ed is my real name,” he returned.

  “Your whole real name then,” she told him. “Listen, I don’t know what your game is here, but I’m not playing. And, just so we’re on the same page, I don’t make a habit of taking strange men to my motel room.”

  “I assure you, Special Agent Mandalay, I don’t have a game, as you put it. All I want to do is talk.”

  “But apparently you do have some kind of proposition for me.”

  “Yes. For us both.”

  “Well, Pastor, if you’re looking to save my soul, I’ve already heard the sales pitch, so you’re wasting your time.”

  “Yes. I am hoping to save your soul,” the Pastor replied. “But not in the sense you might imagine.”

  He carefully plucked a yellow packet from the freshly arranged cube, then holding the edge pinched between his thumb and forefinger, flicked it three times with the index finger of his other hand. After that, he meticulously folded a crease in the top edge. Constance watched in silence as he proceeded to tear the packet along the crease with the same painstaking precision, then carefully poured the contents into his coffee. After laying the empty packet aside, he picked up his spoon and stirred the brew first three times clockwise, then three times counterclockwise. After that, he tapped the spoon a trio of times on the edge of the mug, and then balanced it with practiced ease across the rim, perfectly perpendicular to the handle. Sitting back, he folded his hands in front of himself on the counter and simply stared at it.