by Lee Hollis
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter. But for those of you with kids, you can sympathize with me when it comes to having a moody teenager. Add a fever and chills into the mix and you have a disaster in the making.
I grabbed my car keys and winter coat and slipped into my boots while noting what extra remedies I would need to pick up at the Rite Aid, since I knew our medicine cabinet was pretty bare. Then, bracing myself with a big sigh, I headed out the door to the car and off to the high school.
With my daughter finally bundled into the backseat of the car and complaining loudly of how achy and awful she felt (why didn’t the school ever get an epidemic of laryngitis?), we finally began the fifteen-minute journey home and my cell phone rang again. I glanced at the number and my heart sank. It was my son’s junior high school. And sure enough, on the other end was the school nurse requesting that I come and pick up Dustin right away, as he seemed to be suffering from flu symptoms.
Well, as every parent knows, when two teenagers are down sick with the flu, there is only one word that best sums up what any hardworking mother experiences over the next few days—torture!
I said a quick prayer to myself as I headed to Dustin’s school to pick him up and steeled myself for the tough days ahead. I am acutely aware as to why I never went to nursing school after high school like some of my friends. I just don’t have that kind of patience!
As expected, the first day was filled with an endless stream of “Mom, I’m hot!” “Mom, I’m cold!” “Mom, can I have soup?” “Mom, I can’t eat this soup!” “Mom, can I have toast?” “Mom, why isn’t there strawberry jam on my toast?” “I hate strawberry jam!” I was already reaching my breaking point.
By the end of the second day, I was physically exhausted from running up and down the stairs, catering to their every need, but still trying to maintain a sweet smile on my face. It was the Christmas season, and I knew a positive outlook was my best shot at making it through this crisis.
In between my Florence Nightingale duties, I was also trying to plan a menu, prepare food, wrap gifts, scrub the bathroom, polish the floor, and dust the furniture for Christmas Eve. I kept my eye on the prize: a big piece of my chocolate bourbon pecan pie. I did have a minor meltdown on the third day. I screamed up the stairs at the kids that if I heard one more whiny “Mom!” the flu wasn’t the only thing they were going to have to deal with. That shut them up pretty quick.
I collapsed on the couch and closed my eyes for a brief moment of rest. All of a sudden my cell phone, which was lying on the coffee table in front of me, began buzzing nonstop. I tried meditating to ignore it, but about a dozen text messages were coming through at a furious pace. It was my kids upstairs obeying mother’s orders not to yell, but choosing, instead, to communicate through their smartphones for their immediate needs.
I jumped up off the couch and raced upstairs and, though not proud of myself, ranted and raved and threatened to cancel Christmas if I didn’t get at least five minutes of peace and quiet. I must have yelled pretty hard because my head began pounding, so I stormed off to my bedroom to lie down for a spell.
The good news is the kids felt much better by the time the Christmas Eve dinner rolled around. The adults sang cocktail-infused “Santa-tini” Christmas carols all through the night. There were yummy smells of turkey and ham and stuffing wafting in from the kitchen, and gales of laughter as everyone toasted and sang, full of happiness and good cheer.
At least that’s how I thought it was going. I could only imagine the fun that everyone was having downstairs as I huddled, shivering, under a stack of blankets in my bed. Yes, I had caught the kids’ flu and was so sick that I couldn’t even make it downstairs to join the festivities.
It was only later, the following morning on Christmas Day, that I managed finally to drag myself out of bed and downstairs to have a piece of that chocolate bourbon pecan pie. It was the only thing I could think about. Unfortunately, all I found were two empty pie plates on the counter and a note propped up beside them that said, Your Best Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pies Yet! Love, the Gang
I hope you all have a merry Christmas this year. I know I will. And to make up for missing last year, I will be having an extra “Santa-tini” or two and making three chocolate bourbon pecan pies. One just for me!
“Santa-tini” Cocktails
Ingredients
2 ounces chili-infused vodka
2 ounces good chocolate liqueur
Cocoa powder
Cayenne pepper
Whipping cream
One small chili pepper
Mix some of your cocoa powder with a pinch of cayenne and rim a chilled martini glass with it. Add the vodka and chocolate liqueur to a shaker filled with ice and shake it well, then pour into the martini glass. Top with the whipped cream and place your chili pepper on top of that. A guaranteed hot time will be had by all!
Now, let’s combine two of my favorite treats, bourbon and chocolate, but in a pie! What could possibly be better than that?
Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie
Ingredients
1 piecrust of your choice, homemade, store-bought, etc.
Filling
3 eggs
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
½ cup light corn syrup
½ cup dark corn syrup
½ cup your favorite bourbon
2 tablespoons melted butter
½ teaspoon salt
1½ cups pecan halves divided in half
¾ cup bittersweet chocolate baking chips divided in half
Place your crust in a pie dish and flute your edges. Set aside until ready to use.
In a large bowl, beat eggs, brown sugar, corn syrups, bourbon, butter, and salt until blended. Stir in one cup of the pecans and a half cup of the chocolate chips. Pour into your ready piecrust and top with remaining pecans and chocolate chips. Bake in a 325-degree preheated oven for 50 to 60 minutes or until crust is golden brown and filling is puffed. Cool completely, slice, serve, and enjoy!
Chapter 32
“Look, Hayley, I’ve gone over the facts of this case about a dozen times and nothing makes sense,” Bruce said, sitting behind his desk the following Monday as he bit into a grilled meat loaf sandwich on a whole wheat roll he had picked up at the Epi Sub & Pizza Shop on Cottage Street.
Hayley sat opposite him on an uncomfortable metal chair in his tiny, stuffy office at the Island Times. “But that doesn’t mean you close the book on it. There has to be something we’re all missing.”
“Would you mind opening the door a bit more?” Bruce said, wiping some stray ketchup off his cheek with a wadded-up napkin.
Hayley turned to see the door already half open. “Why?”
“I just want to make sure everyone knows we’re simply having a professional conversation about a local murder investigation and that nothing inappropriate is going on in here.”
“I’m sure they know that, Bruce.”
“Sometimes people get the wrong idea.”
“You mean after what happened at the Christmas party?”
“Do you have to bring that up?”
“Is that the reason you’re so nervous to be alone with me?”
“No, of course not.”
“Come on. You were never concerned about us talking in your office alone before that incident. I thought we decided to forget about that whole office-party thing.”
“Just crack the door open some more, would you, please, Hayley?”
Hayley sighed, reached over, grabbed the handle, and opened the door all the way before calling out, “In case anyone out there is wondering, Bruce and I are having a strictly professional, work-related dialogue about his next column. Is everyone clear on that?”
There was a single “yeah” from the sales office.
Everyone else was out to lunch.
“Thanks for that,” Bruce said, frowning.
“Let it go, Bruce. I did the morning after it happened.”
Hayley su
spected that the silly groping incident was far more magnified in Bruce’s mind because it brought up some unresolved feelings he might still have for her, but there was no way she was ready to delve into that discussion, given the drama she was currently juggling with Aaron and Lex.
“I’m not even sure what to write about in my column anymore. I’m as stumped as the police are.”
“There are questions you can raise, Bruce. For instance, Sergio found a lit pipe in Garth Rawlings’s hand.”
“So?”
“So, if someone is smoking a pipe, doesn’t that suggest he was casually minding his own business right before he was killed?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And if Sabrina’s findings are to be believed—that Garth suffered massive internal injuries, which was what killed him—how does that square up with him smoking a pipe? That would mean the killer had to get inside the locked warehouse somehow, beat him to death, then take the time to light a pipe and put it in between his fingers before fleeing the scene! It’s a ridiculous scenario!”
“What if someone bludgeoned him outside the warehouse, attacked him on the street, but he was still alive after they left, and he managed to stumble back inside and lock the door, but then died from his injuries before he had the chance to call for help?”
“That still doesn’t explain the lit pipe! Wouldn’t you call 911 before you took the time to light up a pipe and smoke it?”
“It sure is a head-scratcher. I’ll give you that,” Bruce said, polishing off his sandwich and tossing the napkin, the wrapped wax paper the sandwich came in, and a crumpled brown bag into the wastebasket next to his desk.
“Sergio examined the pipe. The only fingerprints he found belonged to Garth Rawlings. So Garth lit that pipe himself before whatever happened to him happened.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do?”
“Just keep the story alive. I don’t want this case to be swept under the carpet. I want whoever is responsible to know we’re not letting this go, and eventually we’re going to nail him.”
“You mean Nick Ward.”
“Yes.”
“You are one hundred percent certain it’s him?”
“Yes.”
“Even though there isn’t a shred of evidence that implicates him?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re relying on your woman’s intuition?”
“That’s a sexist term, Bruce. I prefer ‘gut instinct. ’”
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll keep writing about the case. But if you ask me, this is one mystery that is going to remain unsolved.”
Hayley took that as a personal challenge.
She stood up and stepped outside the office. “Thank you for that very enlightening review of the case, Bruce. You’re a crackerjack crime reporter and I am happy to report to everybody within earshot that there was not even a mild flirtation going on during our constructive conversation.”
Hayley heard giggling coming from the sales office.
Bruce came out from behind his desk and angrily slammed his door shut.
Hayley had not taken her lunch hour yet, so she closed out her computer, threw on her winter jacket, and headed to her car. She drove directly over to the building that housed Garth Rawlings’s kitchen warehouse. She wasn’t sure why. She just thought walking around the outside of the building once or twice might tell her something she may not have thought of previously. She knew there were no windows for an assailant to enter through. The only way inside was through that locked door. When she parked her car out front, she noticed that Lex’s construction office next door looked closed up and deserted. She assumed the guys were probably out doing a contracting job at a local residence. The yellow police tape draped across the front door of Garth’s office had finally been removed by the police, indicating Sergio felt there was no further need to scour the inside for clues.
Hayley got out of her car and circled around the building.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
She walked back to the front of the warehouse.
She felt a chill.
Not from the cold wintry air.
It was more like a feeling.
As if someone was watching her.
She scanned the area.
No sign of anyone.
She was definitely alone.
Maybe Bruce was right and this case would just remain an unsolved mystery.
She started crunching through the hardened snow back to her car; then a heavy wind gust blew through and she heard a rattling sound.
Hayley pivoted to see the door to Garth’s office bang against the hinges.
That wouldn’t happen if the bolt had been slid securely in place.
Hayley raced over and turned the knob.
Sure enough. Someone left the door unlocked!
She opened it and poked her head inside. “Hello?”
No answer.
She quietly entered, shutting the door behind her.
She decided that this would be her last chance to find anything that would shed some light on what really happened that fateful night. And if her final search of the crime scene turned up nothing, she would be done investigating.
After nearly thirty minutes of wandering around the kitchen, her last-ditch, spur-of-the-moment fishing expedition was officially over.
She found nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Bruce was right.
Garth Rawlings’s death was going to be an unsolved mystery perhaps featured on a couple of true-crime shows, like the Investigation Discovery network or CBS’s 48 Hours Mystery, but otherwise soon forgotten.
She was about to turn to leave, when a bag was suddenly thrown over her head and arms of steel encircled her, pinning her arms to her side. The attacker lifted her violently up off the ground. She struggled mightily in his grasp as he half carried, half dragged her over to the far end of the warehouse before releasing her with one arm and wrapping the other around her neck in a choke hold while reaching for something. She heard some kind of door open; and before she knew what was happening and could tear the bag off her head to get a look at her assailant, she was shoved inside a bitter-cold space. Her head smacked against something hard. She grabbed at it and it felt like a big slab of frozen beef.
She knew exactly where she was—the walk-in freezer that Garth kept his food stored in so it wouldn’t spoil.
She finally managed to rip the bag off her head just as the door slammed shut, enveloping her in darkness. She ran over and pounded on it, but she knew in her heart that it was hopeless. The person who threw her in here was already gone.
Hayley reached for her cell phone.
No bars.
No signal.
No way to call anyone for help.
It was only a matter of time before she would succumb to the harsh freezing temperature and the lack of oxygen.
Someone had left her here to die.
Chapter 33
Panicked, Hayley banged on the steel freezer door for almost five minutes, screaming at the top of her lungs for help, but to no avail. There was no one outside. She felt so helpless. Her lips quivered and her whole body shivered. She hugged herself in a vain attempt to keep warm. She was angry she didn’t fight back harder against her attacker. Deliver a swift kick to his shins. Maybe he would have loosened his grip long enough for her to get away. But that was all hypothetical. The reality was she was stuck in here and she was now in a very serious and deadly situation.
She used the light from her cell phone to look around. There were just stacks of frozen meats and vegetables and cartons of ice cream. A couple of hanging slabs of beef were there. Nothing she could use to aid in any kind of escape. The freezer door was sealed up tight. Her phone was already flashing its low battery signal. Once her phone was dead, she would be in total blackness, left all alone with her last thoughts before eventually succumbing to hypothermia.
She sank to the floor and hugged her knees. There was
nothing for her to do. She wondered who would find her, how long it would take. Her kids would call Sergio when she didn’t come home. Sergio would contact Aaron. There would be a thorough search around town: the Island Times, Drinks Like A Fish, all of the places she normally frequented. Sergio would sweep her house and office for clues, but he wouldn’t find anything suggesting she was at Garth Rawlings’s kitchen warehouse. The last person she spoke to was Bruce, and she gave no indication where she was going when she left him—only that she was taking her lunch hour. Then Sergio would check all the local restaurants that were open this time of year. And would turn up nothing. No one would have seen her. She drove over to the warehouse almost on a whim. That meant someone had to be following her and was afraid of what she might find here.
How long? How long would it take before someone finally opened the freezer and found her frozen corpse? Days? Weeks? Months? The only person who used this place was very much dead.
She wanted to close her eyes.
Fall into a deep sleep.
At least, then, she would finally escape this arctic hell.
Her eyelids were heavy.
Her fingers were numb.
She hugged herself more tightly.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Hayley fought the urge to close her eyes, but the idea of relief from her surroundings was overpowering.
She was giving up.
Her last thoughts were of her children.
And how much she loved them and would miss them.
And then everything went black.
She wasn’t sure how long she was out before she felt a pair of hands grabbing her coat.