by Joanne Fluke
A LETTER FROM JOANNE FLUKE
Years before Hannah Swensen had baked her first cookie at The Cookie Jar, I wrote novels called “psychological suspense thrillers.” Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for the books, my characters became very real to me, and writing about their demises scared me half to death! Winter Chill is not an exception, and it definitely lives up to its title. It’s truly chilling, and not just from the freezing temperatures.
It’s true that Minnesota winters are beautiful, with the sun sparkling on gleaming white snow, glittering icicles hanging from stark tree branches, and skies so blue, no color chart has ever been able to capture the color. Children bundled up like colorful mummies in parkas and snow pants make snow angels and build snowmen, while their older brothers and sisters put on skates and glide across the surface of a frozen pond. It’s a lovely picture, but not everything about winter in Minnesota is lovely.
Winter can mean gray skies, snow blowing so hard in the cold North winds that you can’t see to walk from your door to the mailbox, and temperatures so cold that ice forms on the inside of windows. “Cabin fever” strikes when your car won’t start, the cable goes out, and there’s nothing to do except shiver through the long, dark nights alone. It’s not a rosy picture, and being trapped in a small house while winter weather rages outside can cause the imagination to take such a bizarre twist that even the sanest mind starts to unravel.
When I wrote Winter Chill, I had just moved to Southern California, and it’s true that you can take the girl out of the Minnesota winters, but you can’t take the Minnesota winters out of the girl. I’m still in Southern California, and even though it almost never gets below freezing, I still have my parka, snow boots, and mittens . . . just in case, don’cha know?
Books by Joanne Fluke
CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE MURDER
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MURDER
BLUEBERRY MUFFIN MURDER
LEMON MERINGUE PIE MURDER
FUDGE CUPCAKE MURDER
SUGAR COOKIE MURDER
PEACH COBBLER MURDER
CHERRY CHEESECAKE MURDER
KEY LIME PIE MURDER
CANDY CANE MURDER
CARROT CAKE MURDER
CREAM PUFF MURDER
PLUM PUDDING MURDER
APPLE TURNOVER MURDER
DEVIL’S FOOD CAKE MURDER
GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER
CINNAMON ROLL MURDER
RED VELVET CUPCAKE MURDER
JOANNE FLUKE’S LAKE EDEN COOKBOOK
VIDEO KILL
WINTER CHILL
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
WINTER CHILL
JOANNE FLUKE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
A LETTER FROM JOANNE FLUKE
Books by Joanne Fluke
Title Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
DEAD GIVEAWAY
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
Her cheeks were red from the cold, and she grinned up at him as he turned on the seat. “Come on, Daddy . . . just once more. Please?”
“Better make it quick.” Ronnie Powell snapped his visor down and glanced at his watch. “It’s coming down pretty heavy, and you two are novices. Five minutes more and we start for home.”
“You heard the boss.” Dan put his machine in gear as Laura clasped her hands around his waist. “Hang on tight, honey. Here we go!”
They left Jenny and her dad in a cloud of white snow. The wind rushed past her stinging cheeks, and she laughed out loud. Jenny was right. Riding on a snowmobile was almost like flying. The cold took her breath away, and she narrowed her eyes to slits, squinting into the frozen brightness. They were rounding the far corner of the trail now, between the tall pines, and she didn’t want ever to go home. If only she had wings and could fly through the snow forever!
She gave a delighted squeal as the machine made a sharp turn to the right, cutting across uncharted snow between the trails. They were taking a shortcut directly through the center of a deserted field. She could barely see now, the snow was swirling so fiercely. The wind tugged at her blue and white stocking cap and threatened to blow it off her head.
“Oh!” Laura let go for an instant, pulling at her knitted hat with both hands. It was an early Christmas present from her mom, and she didn’t want to lose it.
“Hang on, Laura!” Dan turned for only an instant, but that was enough. The heavy Snow-Cat crashed headlong into an innocent mound of snow covering an abandoned harrowing machine.
“Daddy!” He sensed rather than heard her cry. Somehow he managed to hang on to the snowmobile with one hand, but she was gone, tipped out in a tumbling arc, propelled forward by the force of the crash. There was a sickening lurch as the machine toppled, and he heard a snap like a firecracker as pain exploded in his head. His last sight was of his small daughter’s body caught fast, impaled on the old farm implement’s sharp, rusty prongs. It seemed to take forever for the darkness to come, rolling over him in deep, compassionate waves.
The wind picked up around two thirty and blew the snow in rattling gusts past the kitchen window. Soon ice crystals were pinging against the glass, and Marian peered out into the blinding swirls, listening for the car in the driveway. They should be on their way home by now. It was rotten weather for snowmobiling. She put on the coffee and poured milk into a saucepan for hot chocolate. Dan and Laura would be cold when they came in.
An hour passed as she paced between the stove and the window. Perhaps they had stopped on the way. It was just like Ronnie Powell to convince Dan that they needed a hot brandy. Laura and Jenny were probably munching hamburgers at the truck stop right now, while their fathers sat in the bar. There was really nothing to worry about.
Why didn’t he call? At four o’clock Marian began to worry in earnest. She tried dialing Sally to see if she’d heard from Ronnie, but the lines were down. The phone was dead, except for a faint mechanical crackling. It was turning bitter cold now, and the wind chill factor was rising. Marian wished that she’d given in and let Laura wear her new blue coat. It was warmer than the old parka. What if they were stuck out there in the middle of the frozen snow?
Marian forced herself to calm down. Of course they were fine. She was just borrowing trouble. But the heavy curtain of snow outside the glass was an impenetrable barrier, and she couldn’t help feeling that somewhere in that wall of icy white, her husband and daughter were in trouble.
Her worst fears were realized when the patrol car drove up outside. They were hesitant about getting out of the car, Sheriff Bates first and then Sally. There was something they didn’t want to tell her, something awful about Dan and Laura. Marian threw open the door and stood waiting, alone and fearful in the numbing cold.
CHAPTER 1
“Lord, we commit unto Thee this body . . . ashes to ashes,
dust to dust . . .” Marian shuddered, turning her face away from the small white coffin. Freshly falling snow left her face wet with the tears she could not shed. She leaned against Sally Powell’s supporting arm and shut her eyes tightly. This wasn’t real. It was only a dream, and she would wake soon to put on the coffee and call Laura and Dan for school.
Last night she had driven home from the hospital after hours of watching Dan in his merciful coma. As she turned past the small cemetery, she saw with horror that one section was in flames. The men at the fire department were kind. They explained haltingly, embarrassed at her ignorance. The ground was frozen; it had to be thawed before a new grave could be excavated.
In the darkness of her living room she had peered through the windowpane, watching the banked fire cast a flickering red glow on the fresh snow. She had hugged herself there in the empty house, pretending that Laura was upstairs sleeping in her yellow-curtained room, that it was all a terrible mistake. But when she looked again, the fire was still there, thawing the ground for her baby’s grave.
“Hang on, Marian. . . . It’s almost over.” Sally’s arm tightened around her shoulders. Tears were running down her friend’s face, and Marian felt a stab of resentment. She should be the one to cry, not Sally. She had lost her baby, and Jenny was still alive. But it wasn’t right to resent Sally. Her grief was real. Sally had loved Laura, too.
It popped into her mind with sudden clarity, her high school’s production of Our Town. She had played the part of Rebecca, Emily’s sister-in-law. The night of the performance was a revelation. These were the same friends she had shared sandwiches and class notes with. Then, in costumes and stage makeup, they were total strangers.
It was the same feeling she had now, the same sense of unreality as she faced her neighbors and coworkers. She was playing the part of a grief-stricken mother, delivering the correct lines, making the proper gestures to an audience of nameless strangers. She was incapable of honest emotion. This was merely a performance. It was not real. She was not real.
He had been aware of the voice for some time now, but he was too tired to care.
“Vital signs are normal, Doctor. Are there any further instructions?”
“Continue with the IV, and turn him once an hour. The funeral’s this afternoon. Marian’s coming in later. Run the blood work again, and call me immediately if there’s any change.”
He tried to open his eyes, but there was something heavy on his eyelids. All he could do was listen, barely breathing, as footsteps receded. There was a stabbing pain in his arm and the realization that the voices had been talking about him!
This time it worked. He opened his eyes and stared at the white-clad figure leaning over him.
“It’s Joyce Meiers.” The nurse leaned closer. “Just relax, Mr. Larsen. You’re doing fine. I’ll get the doctor.”
He was in a hospital. It was clear now, the small room with white furnishings. He was in a room at the Nisswa Clinic, on the far edge of town. But what was he doing here?
“Well, well . . . you finally decided to join us!” Dr. Hinkley’s face swam into focus. “One more little pinprick and we’ll talk . . . all right?”
There was another stab in his arm, and Dan flinched. “What am I doing here? What happened?”
As he asked the questions, he knew. The snowmobile. The sudden storm. The accident. And Laura. What had happened to Laura!
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” His voice was slow and thick as the shot took effect. Tranquilizer. “You said something about a . . . a funeral. Laura’s dead.”
“I’m afraid so, Dan.” Dr. Hinkley reached for his hand, practiced fingers taking his pulse. “Would you like something to put you back to sleep?”
“No.” Even though his voice was weak, the word was definite. “I’ve slept enough. How long?”
“You’ve been in a coma for three days.” The doctor’s voice was kind. “You had a nasty blow to the head, Dan. Now that you’re awake, we’ll do some tests.”
Laura was dead. His baby was dead. Dan tried to think, but his mind was fuzzy. “Marian?” he asked. “Where’s Marian?”
“She’ll be here in a few hours.” Dr. Hinkley released his wrist and wrote something on the chart at the foot of his bed. “Don’t try to think about anything now, Dan. Just concentrate on getting well.”
Was he dying? His body was numb. His legs felt like lead. He tried tentatively to move, but nothing happened.
“My legs!” Dan’s eyes widened. “They’re gone!”
“No . . . It’s all right, Dan,” Dr. Hinkley said soothingly. “Your legs are fine . . . nothing wrong at all. You’re just experiencing some difficulty in moving, that’s all. It’s probably a simple blockage caused by the accident. Nothing to worry about. Now, relax and let us take care of you.”
Just as panic started to set in, there was another prick in his arm and a wave of soft grayness settled down over his mind. Another shot. Don’t think. It was all a bad dream.
The sun reflecting against the highly polished desktop hurt her eyes, and Marian shut them for a moment. She wished the sun weren’t shining. Something should be changed, in honor of her grief. The scene outside the plate-glass hospital window was straight out of a Currier & Ives Christmas card, but her baby was dead. How could this afternoon be so beautiful when Laura was lying in the frozen ground?
“Marian?” Dr. Hinkley pushed a box of Kleenex across the desktop, and Marian realized that tears were running down her cheeks. Why now? And not at the funeral?
“Do you want a tranquilizer for tonight? It helps sometimes, just to get a good night’s sleep.”
“No, thank you.” She had the insane urge to giggle. He sounded as if he were offering her a pastel mint at a party. Would you like a mint, Marian? No? Then perhaps you’d care for an after-funeral pill.
Marian realized with a start that she wasn’t paying attention. Dr. Hinkley was trying to tell her something.
“We think it might be conversion hysteria, Marian.” She tried her best to concentrate. “That’s a term for acute anxiety converted to dysfunction of parts of the body. In Dan’s case the problem is his legs. He regained consciousness briefly this morning, and we immediately ran tests. There’s no sensation in the lower extremities. Even though the paralysis is only in his mind, it has the same effect as a break in the spinal column.”
“Wait a minute.” Marian tried hard to understand. “Are you saying Dan can’t walk?”
Dr. Hinkley nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so, Marian.”
It was just too much to take. Laura was dead now, and Dan was paralyzed. The bright room was closing in on her. There was a sound growing around her, a thin, high-pitched wail. She was shocked to find it was coming from her own throat. And then the afternoon sun began to darken alarmingly, and she was pitching forward, falling into Dr. Hinkley’s arms.
There was a metallic taste in her mouth as Marian struggled to open her eyes. She must have made some sort of sound, because suddenly a nurse was there beside her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Larsen. We had a wonderful night’s sleep.”
The nurse was holding a glass of water to her lips. Marian gulped thirstily. Her lips were stiff. The words formed slowly in her mind.
“Dr. Hinkley? I need to see him.”
“He’ll be here in a few minutes.” The nurse smiled. “You can doze off again, if you want. Dr. Hinkley said to give you the royal treatment.”
She must have responded somehow, for the nurse left and she was alone again. Marian made herself sit up straighter. She knew she had to play a part again, the part of an alert, competent woman. Then the doctor would let her go home. It was important that she didn’t let anyone guess how helpless and frightened she was inside.
Things were better when she applied the light makeup she carried in her purse. The hospital coffee was weak, but it helped. She was ready when Dr. Hinkley came. This time she would not faint.
“The X-rays show no spinal damage, Marian.” Dr
. Hinkley was sitting in the chair by the bed, and Marian nodded alertly. “In Dan’s case, the paralysis is definitely a form of hysterical neurosis. Only his lower extremities are affected. That means he can use a wheelchair, Marian. And he can go home tomorrow, if you think you’re up to it.”
“Yes . . . of course I am.” Marian drew a deep breath. “But when will he recover? You said it wasn’t physical. When will Dan be able to walk again?”
“No one knows, Marian.” Dr. Hinkley reached out to pat her hand. “Dan’s body is punishing him for the accident. He blames himself for Laura’s death. In some cases of Dan’s type, spontaneous remission has occurred almost overnight. But, Marian . . . Dan may remain paralyzed for the rest of his life.”
“I have to help him.” Marian straightened her shoulders. “What can I do, Dr. Hinkley?”
“Good girl!” Dr. Hinkley nodded. “You’re a fighter, Marian, and that’s precisely what Dan needs. Take him home with you tomorrow. There’s no reason why he can’t go back to work in a week or so. He has a commitment to that hockey team of his, and that might just pull him out of this. I talked to Jim Sorensen at the Conoco station, and he says he can rig your van for a wheelchair. You drive it down there this afternoon, if you feel up to it, and Jim’ll work on it tonight. And don’t stay alone in that house of yours. I’ve had calls from half the women in town, offering to stay with you until Dan gets home. You take somebody up on that, Marian. Or I can move an extra bed into Dan’s room, if you’d rather stay here.”
“I’ll stay here with Dan.” Marian’s voice was strong. “He’ll need me if he wakes up. And thank you, Dr. Hinkley. Thank you for being so kind.”
She sat in the chair by the window, looking out at the gathering darkness and hearing the deep, even sound of Dan’s breathing. He had opened his eyes once and had seen her sitting there. It seemed to satisfy him, for he had gone straight back to sleep without a word. Marian turned to study her husband’s sleeping face. He was a handsome man, rugged and muscular. They’d called him “the Viking” when he’d played hockey in college. But Dan had never wanted to be a professional hockey player. He’d wanted to teach history and coach hockey on the side. He took the job in Nisswa because of Harvey Woodruff’s persuasion.