Snow Way Out

by Christine Husom

  He was right about being the police department’s number one suspect. It still made the most sense to me that he turn himself in to the police and let them sort it all out. Even if he was innocent of the murder, he was guilty of leaving without telling his probation officer where he’d gone to. And if he hadn’t come to Brooks Landing to kill Jerrell Powers as he had supposedly threatened to do, why had he come here?

  I saw a Ford pickup pull up to the curb and park. Clint jumped out and was at my shop door by the time I stood up. He rapped loudly on the door like he was waking the dead. When I opened it, I had to admit I was relieved he was there. “I drove around the area, including your back parking lot, and there was no sign of him.”

  “He acts like a ghost the way he disappears, but I can tell you after having his arms wrapped around me that he really is flesh and blood and strong muscles.”

  Clint’s eyes narrowed and he stared at me for a full minute before he spoke. “I’m going to contact all the rental property owners downtown and see if I can find out where in the hell he’s hiding out. I’d run his picture in the local paper again, but it doesn’t come out until Tuesday. The bad part about having a weekly, instead of a daily, newspaper is when we need to get information out now.”

  “I guess a lot of folks around here aren’t into social media, but you have that computer image of the picture I altered from the Buffalo County Sheriff’s Office. Maybe you could get more copies made and distribute them to local businesses and churches in the next couple of days. Someone is bound to have seen him and know where he’s staying.”

  Clint came close to smiling. “You may have something there. I’ll get on that first thing in the morning.” His serious look returned. “Now tell me everything Arnold did and said to you, as close to word for word as you can remember.”

  Even though I’d been in a state of intense fear for those few minutes, it seemed like my senses had actually been more acute than normal, and I gave him the entire play-by-play. When Arnold had put his hand over my mouth, the funny detail that came back to me was that it had smelled like soap. More on the antiseptic side, rather than aloe or pine or lavender. At least he had cleaned up before the visit.

  Clint listened carefully, mostly maintaining a blank expression, but his eyebrows lifted and lowered a few times. “In any case, he hasn’t got me convinced. Arnold says he had nothing to do with Jerrell Powers’s murder, but he won’t come forward, turn himself in. That alone speaks more of his guilt than his innocence.”

  There was no reason for me to defend Benjamin Arnold to Clint at that point. But there was an important thing Clint seemed to have put out of his mind: the murder weapon had come from Erin Vickerman’s house. At least, one that looked like hers that had gone missing. Clint was planning to talk to everyone Erin remembered being at her home in the past month. Pinky had discovered it was missing three or four weeks before. Benjamin Arnold and Jerrell Powers had both been inmates in the halfway house at that time. There was a fairly long list of potential suspects, but unless Arnold was in cahoots with one of the locals, it eliminated him from consideration based on that one piece of evidence alone, as far as I was concerned.

  “Let’s get you to your car. I’ll follow you home and make sure you get in safely.”

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Clint proved to be Johnny-on-the-spot running multiple copies of the cleaned-up version of the photo I had altered with the black Sharpie. When I got to work on Friday morning, a Brooks Landing police officer had already dropped two copies off and requested that Pinky and I hang them in our shops. Pinky was sitting on a chair behind her counter looking at it. “Morning, Cami. You know what? It’s kind of creepy, but this picture of Benjamin Arnold makes him look a lot like Jerrell Powers.”

  “They do have a very similar look, that’s for sure. I have no idea why he’d dye his hair to make himself look like Jerrell Powers, of all people, but maybe he didn’t hate him as much as everyone thinks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stay sitting while I tell you what happened last night.” But Pinky didn’t stay sitting. She jumped up and was on the other side of the counter halfway through my story.

  “Cami Brooks, first of all you didn’t call when you found Jerrell Powers in the park. Okay, I can sort of get that because it was late at night. But then you get stopped and grabbed by the bad guy the police have been hunting for for two weeks, and you didn’t call. And it was early.”

  “Pinky, as a matter of fact, I did call. First I phoned Mark, right after it happened. And then I tried both you and Erin when I got home. None of you answered. It seems like all three of you are avoiding me, and I can’t figure out why.”

  Pinky’s eyes darted to the left. “Nooo, really?” She pulled her cell phone out of her pants pocket and looked at it. “Sorry, Cami, I don’t know how I missed the call.”

  I gave her biceps a squeeze. “It’s okay, but now you know I tried to tell you last night. I’m sure Mark’s heard all about it by now, and Erin will, too, when school lets out.”

  Pinky pulled on her headband and adjusted it. “Well, anyway, now that the police are circulating this picture, they’ll find Mr. Arnold before long, and you can feel safe again.”

  I nodded and glanced up at Betty Boop. “Golly, it’s time to turn on my lights and open the door.”

  Pinky handed me a copy of the picture. “They’re asking us to hang this up, either in our front window or in some prominent place in our store.” I didn’t want it in the window and chose to hang it on the front counter.

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Mark stopped by before noon. He stuck his thumbs in his service belt and shrugged. “I came by to apologize about last night. I had turned my personal cell off when I was on duty and forgot to turn it back on.” He handed me a business card. “Here’s my work number. I should have given it to you when this whole thing with Powers started. If you ever need me right away, call that number. I never turn that phone off.”

  I took the card. “Thanks. It turned out fine last night. And I could have called nine-one-one, too.”

  Archie Newberry came in a minute later. “Mornin’.”

  “Archie, long time, no see,” I said.

  “No, it seems like you’ve been off somewhere prit’ near every day I’ve been by. And we’ve been mighty busy trying to get all the autumn tree trimmin’ and everything done before the snow flies. Then it will be groomin’ trails and clearin’ the ice-skatin’ rinks and fixin’ equipment for the next season.” He sat down at the counter and picked up the picture Pinky had been looking at earlier. “Who’s this?”

  “An updated image of Benjamin Arnold,” I said.

  Pinky waved the towel she was holding. “I was supposed to hang that up.”

  “He looks like somebody I’ve seen before,” Archie said.

  Mark’s ears perked up and he leaned in closer to Archie. “You remember where?”

  “Ah, well, let me think.” He studied the picture. “He kinda looks like that no-goodnik—that Powers character.”

  “Is that right?” Mark took another look at the picture. “Yeah, there is some resemblance with the darker hair. Not so sure what the glasses do for him.”

  “They make him look like a rock-and-roll singer from when I was a kid. A guy named Buddy Holly,” Archie said.

  “Archie, even us younger people know all about Buddy Holly,” I said.

  “I suppose. Well, Pinky, if I can get a cup of today’s special, I’ll be movin’ along.”

  We chatted until Archie left, and then Mark zeroed in on me. “I hear you’ve got that big party tonight.”

  Pinky’s eyebrows shot up toward the ceiling.

  “Don’t even try to talk me out of going, Mark.”

  Mark lifted his hands with his palms toward me. “I wasn’t going to. But if things get too wild, give me a call and I’ll come rescue you. That’s what friends are for.”

&nb
sp; It was best to be polite. “Thanks, friend, I will put your work cell phone number on speed dial.”

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  As I zipped up the back of my Marilyn Monroe dress, I tried to think of a way to get out of going to the costume party. When my friends had all been so against it, I had dug my heels in, much as I would have done as a teenager. But the die was cast, and I was committed. Plus, it would be beyond rude to think of some excuse not to go. And I’d learned, in my years in the senate office, that the more elaborate the explanation, the more fake the excuse sounded. A man had called me one time to cancel an appointment, saying he’d just broken his ankle and would be laid up for a while. When I happened to run into him a few days later as he was rushing unimpeded down an office corridor, it was pretty obvious he had lied.

  I turned my attention back to the costume. Someone had taught me a trick of turning panty hose into vintage-looking nylon stockings with a seam in the back by drawing a black line on them. I had a pair ready for the occasion, and after I’d put them on, I turned in front of the full-length mirror to be sure the lines were straight. Then I put on the shoes and buckled them. I took a final look at my hair and makeup and declared myself presentable.

  My parents hadn’t seen my costume and asked me to stop by their house on the way to the party. I told them I’d been invited by some new friends I’d met at the coffee shop, but left out that the evening’s main attraction was me and my account of a spooky night’s walk through Lakeside Park.

  I put on a beige thigh-length rain-or-shine coat and dropped the canister of Mace in the pocket. Whether Clint thought I was properly trained in its use or not, it made me feel better. Before I left, I found a small flashlight in a kitchen drawer, turned on the back outside light, then the flashlight, and headed out to the garage, shining the beam around the darker areas. I had started carrying the garage door opener into my house after I’d parked in the garage so I didn’t have to punch in the code manually when I needed access. As the door began to open I looked around to be sure the lanky Benjamin Arnold wasn’t there to scare the living daylights out of me again.

  When I climbed in the car and started the engine, I let out a big sigh of relief then drove to my parents’ house wondering how the evening would turn out. I had not a clue I was in for one of the biggest surprises of my life.

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  “Cami, is that really you?” Tears formed in my mother’s eyes as she took in the Marilyn Monroe package I presented.

  “Beth, your daughter sure does clean up fine.”

  “Yes, she does. Turn around, sweetie, let me see how you look.” When I did as she asked, Mom went on and on. “You even have seams in your stockings. Where did you ever find those in this day and age?”

  I swished the skirt of my dress for effect. “They actually still sell them, believe it or not. But they’re a little too expensive for my taste, plus they seem to get runs pretty easily, so I drew these on a pair of panty hose with a fine-tipped permanent marker.”

  “How very creative of you.” Mom smiled.

  “Not me. I didn’t come up with the idea. One of my D.C. friends gave me that helpful hint when I complained about ruining another pair of seamed stockings.”

  Mom moved her head back and forth. “Your hair, your new beauty mark, your dress, your shoes. They are all so authentic looking.” She closed in from her admiring distance to an arm’s length away from me. “Cami, your eyes, they’re blue.”

  “I got a pair of colored contacts to match Marilyn’s eyes, which I’ve read were called cornflower blue.”

  “Well, glory be, you thought of everything.”

  “As much as I like your natural emerald color, blue looks good on you, too,” Dad said.

  “The party is about to start, so I’d best get going.” I gave each of my parents a hug. “Have a nice, quiet evening, you two.”

  Mom looked at Dad like that was the last thing she wanted. I was not about to pry. We said our good nights and I headed off.

  Tara and her husband, Jack, lived in a nice development northwest of town. Out of the new habit I’d acquired, I glanced down each side street I crossed, convinced I would see a lanky guy named Benjamin, not Benedict, Arnold riding around like the Wicked Witch of the West in Dorothy’s dream in The Wizard of Oz. I smiled at that image.

  There were a number of cars lining both sides of the street in front of my new friend’s house and along the entire cul-de-sac. My heart started to pitter-patter in anticipation of telling a bunch of strangers about my experience two weeks before. I asked myself for the one-thousandth time how I had ever gotten into such a pickle, and then once again blamed my friends for pushing me into it, however inadvertently. In two or three hours, I would slip away and go back into my own comfort zone where I would get out of my costume and into my robe and bunny slippers.

  The neighborhood was filled with strings of orange lights, pumpkins, black cats, skeletons, ghosts. Starlight, moonlight, I hope to see a ghost tonight. . . . That little ditty sprang into my mind as it had right before I’d found Jerrell Powers. No, I really do not want to see a ghost or any other scary creature tonight, except maybe one decked out in a costume.

  Tara had lined her driveway with a number of carved pumpkins, each with a different expression, with candles burning inside. A few smiling ghosts attached to posts were dancing in the cool evening breeze. The house looked friendly enough and some of my anxiety faded.

  The sound of voices, singing and laughing, spilled out of the house. As I lifted my hand and extended my finger to ring the bell, the door flew open and a fairy godmother with blue hair answered the door. She jumped up and down, flapping her magic wand, and then gave me a hug and pulled me inside. “Welcome, Camryn, I almost didn’t recognize you walking down the driveway, but knew it had to be you because everyone else who RSVP’d is here. You look so beautiful.”

  “Thank you. So do you, Tara.”

  “She’s here! Camryn Brooks is really here at our party.” She took my hand and called out to her husband, Jack, and friends Emily and Heather by name. They were the first to join us, then at least thirty people formed a semicircle around us. Emily took my free hand. Heather moved so she was standing behind and between us and put her hand on my waist. I was officially trapped but gave what I hoped was a Monroe-like smile.

  It must have worked because someone said, “She looks just like Marilyn Monroe,” in a stage whisper. Jack came up to us and welcomed me then stood by his wife and encouraged everyone to go around the room and introduce themselves. Tara finally let go of my hand. It took a few minutes for everyone to tell me their names. And as hard as I tried to remember some of them, most of them were lost on me as soon as the next one was spoken.

  Tara picked up my hand again and led me to a pair of decorated tables that were laden with food from every food group, and drinks, both alcoholic and not. “What would you like to drink? Jack loves to find new recipes for a festive, Halloween-themed drink.”

  “This year it’s called a Black Cat, made with blackberry liqueur and juice,” Jack said from behind us. “Do you want to try it? It’s light on the liqueur and I think you’ll like it.”

  “Okay. Sure, thanks.”

  Jack dipped a ladle into the punch bowl, poured the mixture into a glass cup, and handed it to me.

  Tara gave me a black cocktail napkin. “Just in case.” She had obviously noticed the way I walked in my high heels and had her doubts about whether the drink would make its way safely to my mouth.

  I smiled and let her lead me around to small groups of people talking and laughing. After a half hour or so of socializing while sipping Jack’s tasty concoction and then taking a couple of trips to the food table for shrimp, meatballs simmering in a spicy Korean sauce, pickle and ham and cream cheese roll-ups, meat and cheese pinwheels, a variety of salads, and sweets, Tara took my empty plate and told everyone it was time to hear my account of my nightt
ime discovery in Lakeside Park.

  Tara led me to stand in front of the drinks table and the other guests arranged themselves; some stood while others sat down. I was tempted to begin with “It was a dark and stormy night,” as so many scary stories did, but it had been a beautiful evening so that wouldn’t have flown anyway. I felt a twinge of guilt sharing my experience because, bad guy or not, Jerrell Powers had been a human being. It struck me that so many people embraced spooky tales, and that they’d chosen me to narrate a real life one at their Halloween party.

  I started the account of how I had left my shop late because we’d had a snow globe–making class there and I had forgotten I’d walked to work. It seemed as though the room temperature rose a degree every few minutes as the tension grew, and the bodies threw off more heat as the story progressed. When I reached the part where Jerrell had fallen off the bench and the reason for it was sticking out of his back, one woman let out a shriek and at least half the people in the room jumped—including me.

  Tara waved her magic wand at the shrieking woman. “It’s okay, Mindy.”

  There wasn’t much to tell after that. I skimmed over the details of how the police and coroner conducted the investigation at the scene. And rather than confess I had stupidly grabbed the knife, I told them if they ever happened upon a crime scene, they should be careful not to touch anything because it would mess with the evidence the police needed to help solve the case.

  People swarmed around me with all kinds of questions, most of which I couldn’t answer. Some asked me to repeat details and wanted to know how I’d felt, what thoughts had gone through my brain, how I’d processed what had happened. I was about to excuse myself to go in search of a bottle of water when Tara tapped my shoulder. I turned to find a serious expression on her sparkly face.

  “Camryn, someone is here to see you. It’s Assistant Chief Clinton Lonsbury.”

  Before I could say “boo,” Clint stepped in beside me, locked his arm through mine, and quietly said, “I need you to come with me.”