When the Snow Falls

by Fern Michaels

“Why don’t you take James . . . uh, I didn’t catch your last name.”

  “Wexford,” James said. He stuck out his hand toward Dwayne, who grasped it and shook it.

  “I’ll be back,” Dwayne said, dropping a smile on me before heading for the door. I was pretty sure his sudden need to leave had been manufactured, ostensibly to give me some time with my old friend, but in truth, he’s pretty good at knowing when I’m feeling insecure and does nothing to help me, which pisses me off no end.

  “Wine bar?” James asked.

  “Follow me,” I said, leading him down the hall to the back door.

  Five minutes later, we were seated at one of the small booths lining one wall of Wine About It. We’d eschewed the bistro tables scattered around the room for something more private. A man and a woman sat at the bar, which was a huge slab of blondish wood with whorls and knotholes that had been smoothed and lacquered to a high gloss. They each had a glass of red wine and a flagon between them and had their heads close together.

  James settled himself across from me and folded his arms on the wood top, a piece of prefab with none of the bar’s character, though smooth and lacquered as well. My mind’s eye was still watching Dwayne leave through our office’s glass door, climb into his truck, which was parked out front, and drive away.

  “Darcy’s in trouble and she needs your help,” James said.

  The waitress brought us a menu with their wine and appetizers. I glanced down at the list of almonds, olives, a chèvre disk with lavender and fennel served with honey and nuts, various wheat crackers and bread sticks, and wanted them all. Holding myself back, I asked for a glass of cabernet, the cheapest on the menu though at a price that still caused my heart to palpitate, especially since I wasn’t sure how much cash I had and didn’t want to add to my credit card debt. But then James stepped in and ordered for me, in that proprietary way real wine connoisseurs—or at least the ones who think they are—are wont to do. I would have objected, but he finished with, “I’m buying,” so I kept my mouth shut apart from saying thank you and just waited. What the hell, a free drink is a free drink, and free is a very good price.

  In the name of fairness, I said, “Before we go any further, you should know Dwayne’s the man in charge of Dwayne Durbin Investigations.”

  “But you work there.”

  “I work for him,” I agreed. “But he’s the man. Truly. I know you and I are acquaintances—”

  “Friends,” he corrected.

  “—but you’d be better served by Dwayne.”

  “Well, he’s not here now, is he?” He lifted his glass and waited for me to do the same. We clinked rims and then tasted the wine. So, okay, I’m not a wine connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination, but . . . it was pretty damn good. I wanted to leave it on my tongue awhile, and I think I might have lost track of the moment because I missed something and caught up only when I heard him say, “. . . didn’t hang around. Besides, I want you. You, me and Darcy . . . we all come from the same place. We’re compadres, y’know? You gotta hang onto that stuff. Friendship. Roots. That’s what it’s all about.”

  I never think of Los Angeles as a town where one has deep roots. Everybody there seems to be from somewhere else, but okay, my family and his and Darcy’s had been there long enough for us to graduate high school. However, no matter what James was trying to sell me, I knew I didn’t come from the same place as James and Darcy, not in terms of social equality, at any rate. Both of them were from wealthy SoCal families, whereas my brother and I had been raised by a single mother after dear old Dad ran off with his secretary and started a new brood with her. Let me add that I have no contact with either my father or those half siblings, which works for me and, apparently, for them, too.

  But the point is, by no means were Darcy, James and I from the same place socially or economically, though my mother always made sure Booth and I had everything we needed and has done all right for herself over the years. My common ground with Darcy and James began and ended at Braxton High. Go, Tigers.

  “We need to hire you,” James was going on. “Just tell me what your rates are; we can pay. Darcy and I are very comfortable.”

  “Well, that’s great,” I answered, for lack of anything better to say. I didn’t know what Darcy’s problem was, but the last thing I wanted to do was reunite with either one of my old classmates. Was I being crabby and unreasonable? No . . . I have too strong a recollection of Darcy swooping in on me and trying to intimidate my other friends, as if I were some prize to be claimed. She’d wanted me for her own, and she was a bull about going after what she wanted. Now don’t get me wrong, I like myself quite a bit. But that doesn’t mean I’m not wary of others who find me irresistible for no good reason that I can see.

  “Let me tell you what happened,” James said, inhaling a deep breath as if he were getting ready to launch into the yarn of the century.

  I interrupted before he could start. “How did you know how to find me?”

  He blinked, as if he couldn’t believe the question. “Social media.”

  “I’m not on social media,” I stated firmly. I have resisted Tweeting and Facebooking and Instagramming or whatever, and frankly, I’m kind of proud of myself in that regard, although I’m not completely out of today’s electronic world. I have taken a selfie or two.

  “Somebody knew about you and put it on their page,” James continued. “Darcy saw it. She has lots of friends, so when she got arrested, she asked me to find you, and somebody knew you were with Durbin Investigations. I called the number and the voice mail said you’d just recently moved to this address.”

  He’d clearly called Dwayne’s cell, which he uses for his business as well. “Arrested?”

  “Darcy’s been accused of kidnapping.”

  Whatever I’d been expecting, that sure wasn’t it. “Kidnapping,” I repeated in disbelief. Then, “Oh,” as I considered she might be one of those people seeking to steal their own child back from an ex.

  “It’s not like that,” he said, reading whatever was on my face. “She’s done nothing wrong. She was helping a woman, and things just kind of got out of hand.”

  Darcy helping someone and it got out of hand . . . I braced myself, feeling that this could be one of those stories that once told would be impossible to unhear. I could already picture myself throwing my hands over my ears and loudly crying, “La, la, la, la, la!”

  “You know how Darcy is,” James said on a heartfelt sigh. “Always looking out for people.”

  I could feel my lips pinch in as if I’d sucked on a lemon and made a show of clearing my throat so I could move my mouth around. Darcy was the kid who always waved her hand to be called on in class, and she’d volunteered at every charity event, soup kitchen, and dog rescue, and this was in high school, when the rest of us were only interested in who was doing what to whom and who had the most expensive shoes. Not that I played well in that group, either, as I had a tendency to read books and play video games and generally wait for high school to end. I’ve always kind of known Darcy’s interest in me ran in the she-needs-to-be-rescued vein, which I strenuously objected to, though she paid me no mind. Luckily, she’d fastened onto boys somewhere in there, eventually settling on James, and therefore finally leaving me alone.

  “You know the Vista Bridge,” he said.

  “The suicide site?”

  He pointed at me like bingo. “Darcy’s with the Think Twice suicide prevention group. They’re one of the groups that patrol the bridge to stop people from making a fatal mistake. We’re all waiting for the city to do something about the problem. A lot of people could be saved if there were just some barriers erected.”

  “Uh . . . I thought barriers had been erected.” The iconic Vista Bridge had been around since the early nineteen hundreds and was a beautiful Portland landmark that spanned one of the busiest city highways. It was also a favorite spot for determined suicide jumpers, and as yet, no one has come up with the answer to solving the problem bec
ause the bridge is listed on the National Register of Historic Places and would need to be fitted with architecturally appropriate barriers at a multimillion-dollar cost that’s currently not in the city’s budget. If you polled me on the issue, I would be reluctant to add permanent screening /walls to the bridge. I mean, people who want to end their lives by jumping off a bridge will probably just go to some other bridge, won’t they? And Portland’s a city of bridges, of which Vista is just one.

  But then, I spend most of my energy trying to save my own skin, so I’m clearly no judge.

  “There are temporary barriers,” James enlightened me, “but you can get around ’em if you really want to, and some of these poor unfortunates really want to.”

  “So, what happened with Darcy?”

  “This woman. This . . .”

  “Poor unfortunate?” I suggested, when he seemed to be struggling for the right words.

  “Bitch,” he said, surprising me by his vehemence. “She climbed up on the barricade and was working her way around it to jump when Darcy stopped her. Darcy risked her life to do it. She took her home and really poured her soul into saving the woman. Her name’s Karen Aldridge, and Darcy talked to her for hours and calmed her down. It took all night, but Darcy felt Karen had really turned a corner. But now Karen’s claiming that Darcy kidnapped her. Held her against her will! My God, the police came and escorted Darcy to the station!”

  “Wow,” I said, for lack of a better response.

  “You said it,” James agreed. “It was a real mess. Luckily, the DA is at least halfway reasonable. He suspects it’s a trumped-up charge, so they’re not planning to prosecute, thank God. I mean, Karen could have left any time that night but chose to stay with Darcy. Yes, the gates were locked, but it wasn’t as if Karen was chained to a chair or anything. If she’d really wanted to leave, Darcy would have let her out.”

  “Okay . . .” I said. I wasn’t exactly sure how I could help.

  “Darcy’s such a good person. It’s just been devastating. She’s been meaning to get in touch with you, but now it’s imperative. She needs a good friend on her side. She can tell you more about the lawsuit.”

  “The lawsuit?”

  “That awful woman is suing Darcy. Well, suing us. For millions. Can you believe it?”

  “Well . . . huh. Sounds like she’s found something to live for,” I pointed out. James did not appreciate me finding anything a wee bit humorous in their plight and pulled back from me. If he were a turtle, he would have retreated into his shell.

  “It’s not a laughing matter.”

  “Sounds like you need a good lawyer, not a private detective,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, we have that, too, but Darcy really wants to talk to you.”

  “I . . .” I looked around the wine bar, trying to think of a way to ease out of the whole thing. A good friend of Darcy’s I was not, and I sensed another tar baby if I got involved at all. I could well picture Darcy plying her special brand of advice and concern on a hapless, would-be suicide, and I could see this person—Karen Aldridge, in this case—running out of Darcy’s house in a panic, hanging onto the bars of the gate and screaming for help. Maybe this wasn’t exactly the picture of what transpired, but it was close enough in my book. For sure I’m no expert on the mind of someone contemplating suicide, but it had to be damaging to be with Darcy.

  I could also see how a crafty lawyer might find a way to make a few bucks off the wealthy Wexfords through the use of an unstable client. Not saying that was the case here, but come on. Moneyed people have been sued for far less.

  James’s cell phone emitted a quick beep that sounded like a text had come through. He glanced at the screen. “It’s Darcy. She wants to know if you’re coming today.”

  “Coming where?” I shook my head. “I’ve got a dog at home waiting for me. Maybe . . .” I was going to say tomorrow, but my tongue wasn’t forming the word.

  “To the house. She needs to see you today. I was sent to bring you back. My car’s just out front.”

  “James, I can’t. I really do have other obligations.”

  “Well, go home first, and then I’ll pick you up there.”

  “No . . . no . . .”

  “Jane, we pay well.”

  I stared at him, painfully aware of how much my bank account could use a boost. “I can drive my own car,” I said slowly.

  “Then you’ll do it? You’ll come by tonight? Good. I’ll tell Merina there’ll be three of us for dinner.”

  “Merina?”

  “Our cook. Darcy’s a fabulous chef, but Merina helps out, and since this terrible debacle, she’s taken over.”

  I stared at him. I was torn between running for my life and the thought of sitting down to a complete dinner. James hadn’t shown a flicker of interest in Wine About It’s appetizers, while my saliva glands had gone into overdrive. Now, at the mere mention of a meal, I swallowed hard for fear that I might drool. I asked, “What time?”

  Chapter 2

  James and I said good-bye at the office’s back door and he circled the building to look for his car, which was parked outside the front of the building. I unlocked the door and walked back down the short hall to the main room, where I found Dwayne slamming down a heavy box full of files onto the credenza, lining it up with another box. There were several more on the floor.

  “You’re back,” I observed.

  “Just picked up some old case files from the house,” he said.

  “Where are you going to put them?” I had a faint buzz on from the wine and was waiting for it to clear before I headed home. It was about four o’clock, so I had some time before my seven p.m. dinner with James and Darcy.

  “Don’t know yet. I’m going to scan ’em onto the computer and then figure it out.”

  “Wow,” I said, surprised. Dwayne’s in love with hard copy and has made a point of making me write down all my notes.

  “I’m keeping files from the last few years right here,” he said, kicking a cowboy-booted foot in the direction of his credenza, “but I want ’em on computer, too.”

  “You’re getting so high-tech, I can hardly stand it.”

  He snorted at that.

  I noticed the mistletoe was no longer in sight and asked him about it. He said he was giving it to Darlene, his sometime cleaning lady, which I found sort of disappointing. I helped him organize files and even learned how to scan them, but at a little after five I decided I’d better go. I’d told Dwayne about the case, such as it was, but he just nodded and distractedly said to keep him informed. He’d just wrapped up a couple of minor jobs that I wasn’t involved in and now was apparently free and easy for the holidays, but he hadn’t asked what I was doing, and I hadn’t offered up any information, so we were just . . . getting the office together and that was it.

  I stopped by an ATM on the way home, and my balance reminded my why I’d taken the Wexford job. My cell rang as I was nearing the turnoff to my cottage, and I recognized the ringtone I’d chosen for my mother. I had to wait until I was in my driveway before I could answer or risk getting a ticket. The cottage I rent is on a flag lot, so the driveway’s on the long side before I reach my front door. I have a new, almost landlord who has a tendency to drop in unexpectedly, so I did a quick survey but didn’t see his car or any signs that anyone else was there. The back of the house is on one of Lake Chinook’s canals, so it’s possible someone could come by boat.

  “Hey,” I greeted Mom as I pulled in front of my cottage.

  “Merry Christmas, almost. I was thinking about what I’d like for Christmas from you, so I thought I’d give you a call and let you know what it is, talk it over with you.”

  I pulled the phone from my ear and squinted at it. My mother, who invests in real estate and has managed to do very well for herself businesswise and therefore is too busy to lay any kind of holiday guilt trip on me, wanted a gift? She just doesn’t play those kinds of games, and we’ve always gotten on famously because of it. This, howe
ver, sounded bad already. I put the phone back to my ear. “I’m not flying your way for the holidays. I actually have a case of my own.”

  “With a retainer and everything? Good for you,” Mom said enthusiastically.

  No . . . no retainer, though the promise of money was there. I wasn’t sure what kind of case it was yet, but I’d wanted to toss that out to forgo any kind of pressure she might exert. Not that she’s known for coercion, but anything can happen. “I’m meeting with the client tonight.”

  “Oh, okay. Actually, it’s something else. Do you remember me mentioning my friend Roberta Lambden? The one who lives in Portland.”

  “I know you have a friend here,” I said carefully.

  “Well, she’s in need of a little help. She and her husband, the rat bastard—he’s always been a rat bastard, don’t get me started—recently split up. He’s basically kicked her out of the house. I don’t know what he did to have such total control of their assets, but he’s got her over a barrel. She needs a place to stay for a few days, maybe till Christmas. I told her—”

  “No.”

  “—that I would talk to you—”

  “No.”

  “—to see if you had room. It would just be for a few days.”

  “Mom, I have one bedroom. You know how small the house is.”

  “But you have a couch, right?”

  “Mom . . . no. I have a dog, and a busy life.” Even though I was protesting, I could hear in my voice that I was weakening. “I’d like to help your friend, I really would, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  “She doesn’t have much money. I could wire her some . . . maybe she could stay in a low-end hotel,” Mom mused.

  “No, don’t do that.” The thought of my mother shelling out hundreds of dollars for a friend I could easily house was anathema. I was torn between selfishness and selflessness.

  “It would mean a lot to me,” Mom said.

  “Okay, give me her number and I’ll call her.”

  “Don’t worry. I already gave her yours, so I’ll just let her know that she can call you any time.”