Snow Way Out

by Christine Husom

  Clint nodded and continued to stare at me, which fueled the burn. After what seemed like five or six hours, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a little memo pad and pen. He shifted, prepared to write. “Give me the best description of the man that you can. Mark had a general one.”

  My body finally started cooling off. It was a relief to focus on something besides myself and I didn’t mind giving him every detail I could think of about the lanky guy. After some minutes of hearing me out, Clint closed his memo pad, stuck his pen in his pocket, and stood up. “Why don’t you stop down at the PD and I’ll show you our collection of mug shots. If this man you keep seeing is in there, we’ll know who we’re looking for. And it’ll give us an indication whether we need to be concerned about his activities or not.”

  I rose to my full, new height. “I can do that. How about tomorrow morning, before I open my shop?”

  “That’ll work for me. I’ll be in the office most of the day.”

  I nodded. “Good. I’ll be there around nine o’clock or so.”

  On the drive to the Brooks Landing Police Station I again marveled over Clint’s compliment the night before, and how we had made it through twenty whole minutes without arguing. He hadn’t even left a parting wisecrack about what he’d called my “getup” when my ankle turned and I’d grabbed the table for support.

  The police station was housed in the city administration building, a sturdy, one-story brick structure that had been constructed about twenty years before. They shared a common front entry then split into separate units. The city offices were on the north side, the police on the south. I went through the door and found an older woman sitting at the front desk. She wore her longish gray hair in a ponytail on top and had a name badge with Margaret written on it. Her eyebrows shot up when I approached her, as if I had surprised her. “Our assistant chief is expecting you, Miss Brooks.” She half turned and flung her left arm behind her toward a row of offices that were partially visible above the partition that enclosed her area and went halfway to the ceiling. “Go right on back there.”

  “Thank you.” And good morning to you.

  I walked to the right and then down a short hallway that ended with a row of three offices. I found Clint’s in the middle, almost directly behind where Margaret was stationed. I passed the vacant police chief’s dark office. Word had it he was burning up some of his weeks of accumulated vacation time, and he and his wife were off on an extended trip abroad. Not even a murder in his town had coaxed him back from wherever he was.

  Clint’s door was open and I heard him talking on the phone. I stepped into the doorway, planning to wait there until he’d finished, but he waved me in and ended his conversation. “Will do. Thanks.”

  I slipped in and took a second to admire his office. There was a framed bachelor of arts degree and certificates from a variety of police courses on the wall behind his desk. Clint stood up and drew his eyebrows together, looking like he was ready to dig into some serious work.

  “Morning, Cam . . . ryn, and thanks for coming in. Here’s the book I was telling you about.” He turned and picked up a binder that was about two inches thick from the bottom shelf of an open bookcase that rested against the wall behind his desk. “Have a seat.” He set it on his desk and pushed it toward me as we both sat down. “The males are in the first section and are arranged in order of age, from youngest to oldest.”

  I pulled the book closer and opened to the first page with a mug shot of a man who looked like he was about sixteen, and then flipped through the subsequent pages. Under each photo there was a description that gave the person’s name, date of birth, height, weight, eye and hair color, and distinguishing features such as scars, marks, or tattoos. Other notes had also been added. One read, He walks with a limp due to a leg length discrepancy. Another was, He has a stuttering condition.

  I went through the first pages of the very young men quickly then slowed down when I got to the men who were in their thirties and forties. There was only one whose description was similar to the lanky guy, and it clearly was not him. I scanned the last of the men’s section, and flipped back in case I’d missed something, and then closed the book. “He’s not in here that I can see.”

  Clint reached over, picked up the mug shot book, and put it back on the case behind him. “It was worth a try anyway.”

  “The next time I spot him, I’ll try to get a picture.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’re not a police officer or private investigator working on a case. At this point, we have no evidence he’s done anything wrong, unless it turns out he was the one who stole that kid’s bike.”

  “There’s something about him. You might recognize him if you see his picture.”

  “Cami, people nowadays don’t take kindly to having their pictures snapped without permission, and you have no idea how he may react, what he might do.”

  “I wasn’t planning to do it if he was up close and personal, or anything.”

  “I’d put that idea to rest and call the PD if you see him again. Call me, call Mark, so we can get this settled and you can rest easy.”

  I nodded.

  “I also wanted you to take a look at a photo of the knife the ME removed from our victim, Jerrell Powers.”

  I squirmed a little in the chair and hoped Clint didn’t notice. “Um, well, I guess I can do that.” The only reason he’d ask me such a thing had to be that he wanted to see how I reacted, how guilty I looked. Right?

  Clint picked up a thick file from the side of his desk and opened it. I glanced down at the photos of the crime scene, but moved my eyes away before I saw much. Clint found what he was looking for and handed the shot of the knife over to me. My fingers trembled a little and I willed them to be steady as I accepted the eight-by-ten-inch color photo.

  A shiver ran through me when I recognized the knife as one from Pinky’s set. Or one that looked very much like it. It had a brown handle and a serrated cutting edge that came to a sharp point. I read the brand name on the blade and knew it was a popular one. There had to be countless people in Brooks Landing besides Pinky with the same set of knives.

  Clint leaned in and I leaned back. I was pretty sure his intense stare was going to make the little makeup I wore melt right off my face.

  “You’ve seen it before,” Clint said.

  Between his look and his words, it was not humanly possible to stop my face from flushing. “Um, if this is the murder weapon, yes, I saw it on that night, um, in Mr. Powers. But I would never have been able to identify it.”

  “So where else have you seen it? Your kitchen drawer, maybe?”

  The man was infuriating. “No. As a matter of fact, I don’t own any knives of that brand.”

  “Then where?”

  “Well, I know Pinky has some like that at her shop, but I’m sure a lot of other people do, too. The company must be the biggest knife seller in the country.”

  “Where does she keep her knives at the shop?”

  “Behind the counter. Pinky uses them to cut those giant muffins of hers for people. Or when she bakes bagels; she cuts them to spread on cream cheese or whatever.”

  “And just about anyone at the counter would have access?”

  “Maybe. I guess.”

  “Hmm. Something to think about. But the first step is finding out if Pinky is missing a particular knife from her set.”

  I bit my tongue. I couldn’t tell Clint that my three friends had been acting strangely all week and that I had a teeny tiny inkling of doubt over whether they had any involvement in Jerrell Powers’s death. And I kicked myself every time I did. The truth had to bubble to the surface someday, and that day could not come soon enough.

  I looked around for a clock. “Gosh, I wonder what time it is. I sort of lost track.”

  Clint turned his arm and looked down at his watch. “Nine forty-four.”

  I stood. “If there’s nothing else, I should get to the shop.”

/>   “No, you go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes myself. I’ll talk to Pinky, have her check her knife supply.”

  “Okay.” My voice was weak, but my knees were weaker.

  Clint shuffled some papers from the Jerrell Powers file and was putting the knife photo in another folder as I slipped out the door. When I walked past Margaret’s desk, I waved good-bye and she gave me a single curt nod in reply.

  “Thank God it’s Friday,” she muttered under her breath as I pushed open the front door. Apparently there was something about me or my visit she didn’t approve of. But that was the least of my worries. My biggest concern at the moment was ensuring that Pinky’s knife set was intact.

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  I let myself in through the Curio Finds door instead of popping in through Brew Ha-Ha like I did most days. One look at my face and Pinky would know something was up. I hadn’t had enough time to compose myself and I was in a near panic about what Clint’s visit would turn up.

  “I’m here,” I called and lifted my hand in a wave that conveniently covered my face as I passed by the archway that connected our shops. Pinky was waiting on a few people at the counter and said, “Hey,” as I sped through to the back storeroom. I hung my coat and purse on a hook and wondered how long it would be before Clint made his official appearance. I went back into the shop and busied myself with turning on the overhead lights and flipped the sign to Open.

  Seconds after I’d finished, Pinky’s door’s bell dinged and I heard Clint greeting her. I braved my way over to the archway and watched as he took a seat at the counter next to a man who was paying Pinky for his order. When the man left, Pinky set a cup of coffee in front of Clint. Great, well, at least his slurping might take my mind off things when he questioned Pinky. Clint set the folder on the counter and pushed it away from the mug of hot brew.

  “Cami, quit lurking in the archway. Come join Clint and me for a cup of something before the customers start piling in.”

  I was about to deny that I was lurking, but in fact, I was. “Sure.” I looked up at the blackboard, where she had the menu listed, to see the featured daily special. I read out loud. “The loco cocoa: a hefty shot of espresso tamed with hot cocoa.” I shook my head. “Pinky, where do you come up with those names?”

  She shrugged. “Espresso makes me a little loco. How about you, Clint?”

  Clint raised his hands, indicating he wasn’t going to commit to an answer, then picked up his mug and took a healthy slurp. “Mmm. I’ll give you two thumbs up for the loco cocoa and let you know how I feel in about ten minutes.” He set his mug aside.

  I sat down on a stool, leaving one place between Clint and me. “I’ll try one, too, but I can make it.”

  Pinky waved her hand. “Nah, I’m here.”

  Clint waited until Pinky had made a drink for me and one for herself then opened the folder, withdrew the knife photo, and handed it to Pinky. “Does it look familiar to you?”

  Pinky took a quick look. “Sure. Well, maybe not this one exactly, but I have knives like this.” Her hand opened and she lost her grip on the photo. It dropped and landed on top of the file folder. She stared at it like she was in a trance. “Don’t tell me this is the one, the one that was used . . .”

  “It’s the one.”

  “Holy moly, I’ve never seen a police photo of anything from a crime before. Holy moly.”

  “So your knife set is intact?”

  Pinky looked like she had been caught with her hand in someone’s cookie jar. “I actually seem to be missing the one that looks like that.” She snuck another peek at the photo. “I didn’t think much about it when I couldn’t find it the other day. I wondered if maybe I accidentally threw it away. I have silverware disappear all the time around here.” Most of us knew Pinky was absentminded and tended to lose things. “Or that I’d misplaced it, and it’d turn up in some odd spot.”

  “That might have been what happened, that it turned up in a very odd spot,” Clint said.

  Pinky’s face paled. “I’ll look again until I find my knife. It’s gotta be around here somewhere.” She pulled out the portable silverware sorter she had stored under the counter. There were butter knives, forks, spoons, and a number of cutting knives from the set that the knife was missing from. She looked at me. “Cami?”

  I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know when I’ve used that knife, Pinky.”

  She stepped back until she was resting against the wall counter for support.

  “How often do you leave a cutting knife on the serving counter where others would have access to it?”

  “Pretty often, I guess.” She paused and grew even paler. “So a knife like mine was used in the murder?” Pinky was genuinely distressed, which I would be, too, if I were her. And it backed up my belief that she could not have been the one to do Jerrell Powers in. Had she been covering for someone else, and didn’t realize her knife had been used, after all? “It’s gotta be the most popular brand out there. A friend sold Erin and me a set eons ago.”

  Clint’s eyebrows drew together. “You don’t say. Erin owns the same set?”

  Pinky’s hand-in-the-cookie-jar look returned. “Yeah.”

  His head went up and down in an exaggerated nod then he looked at his watch. “School gets out at what time?” He asked the question like he knew the answer. When neither Pinky nor I responded, he said, “Two forty-five. All right.” Even though his drink had had plenty of time to cool, he took a big loud slurping gulp of it. Pinky was likely accustomed to people with noisy drinking habits and didn’t seem to notice.

  “Good drink combo, Pinky.” Clint reached in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, found some bills, threw them on the counter, then held up his mug. “Can I get this in a cup to go?”

  Pinky took the cup from him, poured the coffee in a disposable one, popped on a lid, and handed it back. “Put that money away. I can buy my friends a cuppa once in a while.”

  Clint stood, picked up the cup, and ignored Pinky’s offer. “Thanks.” He nodded and left.

  “Cami, this is serious. My knife is missing and one just like it ended up in Jerrell Powers. Do you think someone really did steal it?”

  “I have no idea, Pinky. How long do you think it’s been missing?”

  She shrugged. “I wish I knew. You know how scatterbrained I am at times. It could be a week, more or less.”

  Pinky’s group of businessman regulars came in, followed by an older couple. I helped her until I saw a woman in my shop and went to attend to her.

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  The day dragged on as I kept thinking about the fact that Erin and Pinky each owned a knife like the one used to kill Jerrell Powers. And Pinky’s was missing. Clint hadn’t warned us not to contact Erin, but I presumed he wouldn’t take kindly to me sending her a warning text. I wondered what Erin would have to say.

  The lanky guy peeked in my shop window from behind his Buddy Holly glasses and put all thoughts of the murder weapon on hold for the time being. When our eyes met, he turned and headed north. I set the snow globe of an ancient castle sitting on the Rhine River bank I was dusting back on the shelf and hurried to the door. When I pushed it open a cold, damp breeze sent a chill through me, but didn’t stop me from taking off at a jog after him. But he had once again disappeared. I figured he must have gone down the narrow walkway between our building and the next, so I took that route.

  When I reached the parking lot, I saw the backside of him as he rode away on the bicycle. “Hey, I want to talk to you,” I called out. He didn’t hear me, or else he pretended he didn’t, because he kept going. I was a little out of breath from nerves and the jog, short as it was. I reached into my pocket for my cell phone to call Mark then remembered I’d left it on the shop counter. Doggone it, anyway. The nippy air and the need to call the police propelled me to hurry back to the shop as fast as possible.

  Pinky was standing in the archway when I
got back in. “I didn’t know where you’d gone to. Your phone was ringing, but by the time I realized you must not be able to answer it, they’d hung up. What’s up? Your face is all flushed.”

  “That strange man looked in my window just now, and I tried to catch up to him, but he was faster. Which, of course, doesn’t take much since most people are.” I found my phone and dialed Mark’s number. It went to voicemail, so I tried Clint’s.

  “Assistant Chief Lonsbury.”

  “It’s Camryn. He was just here, looking in my window, but got away before I could talk to him.”

  “Are you talking about your alleged admirer?”

  “Yes. Do you think you can track him down?”

  “I’m in the office, but I’ll have the two officers on patrol look for him. Was he on foot?”

  “No, he was on his bicycle.”

  “Are you able to give a description of the bike now?”

  “Not exactly. But I know for sure now that it was black.”

  “That works. Which way did he go?”

  “Across the back parking lot toward First Avenue.”

  “Okay, hold on while I get on the radio and give the info to my officers.” I heard Clint give his badge number and call for two other officers by their badge numbers. I recognized one as Mark’s: 513. Clint relayed what I’d told him then I heard Mark and another male both say, “Ten-four.”

  “Are you there, Camryn?” Clint said.

  “I am.”

  “You got a good look at the man in question?”

  “I did, and he is definitely the same guy. No doubt in my mind. If I could just figure out why he looks vaguely familiar.”

  “My point is, when he looked at you, did you feel threatened in any way?”

  I thought about that a few seconds. “No. I got the impression he wanted to tell me something but lost his nerve when we made eye contact. It’s just odd.”

  “Until we figure out what in the heck he is up to, watch your back. Now that you’ve had another encounter and another good look at the man, I’m going to talk to the county, see if we can schedule an appointment for you to work with their sketch artist. It’d help our officers to see what he looks like, or close to it. Might prevent them from stopping the wrong tall man riding a bike.”