by Elaine Viets
I prayed the LaRouches’ delicate snow princess was still alive. I had to find Juliet. I wasn’t supposed to be investigating a missing person. That was Detective Budewitz’s job. But he was new to the department, an outsider used to Chicago’s mean streets, not the sly, subtle destructive ways of the wealthy Forest dwellers.
I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child. I’d had the heart-crushing experience of losing my husband, Donegan, two years ago. If I could help find Juliet, her parents wouldn’t have to suffer that numbing, pointless grief. The last thing I wanted was to do my job – to examine Juliet’s frozen body.
CHAPTER 2
Tuesday, December 27, 7:30 a.m.
The LaRouches nearly slipped on my snow-frosted porch on the way to their car. It needed to be cleared off before someone was hurt. Rick the handyman was due sometime this morning, but I wanted to get started in case I had more visitors before Rick arrived.
People always wanted the details of my strokes and coma, but I was sick of talking about them. I wanted to forget them. That’s why I gave the LaRouches my standard line: I’ve made a full recovery after the strokes and brain surgery, but that’s not quite true. I’m still not up to full strength, but I didn’t want to sit in my kitchen jangling my nerves with more coffee. By the time I’d dressed in my warmest clothes, slipped the snow and ice grips on my boots, and dug the snow shovel out of the garage, I was sweating.
At first, stepping out into the cold felt good. The snowfall sparkled in the sun like spilled sugar, turning my white stone house into a storybook creation. But the frigid air slid down my throat and clutched my lungs. Even my nose hairs were frozen. That never happened in storybooks.
I brushed away the snow icing on the white wooden railing of my gingerbread porch and slid slightly. Gripping the railing with one hand, I pushed the snow off the flat porch. Soon my fingers were numb and so was my nose. My lungs hurt from the cold. Under the first layer of soft snow was ice, and now the porch was even slipperier. I needed rock salt. How was I going to drag a fifty-pound bag out of the garage?
Quit being such a wuss, I told myself. Pour some salt into a bucket and get on with it. I was still holding the shovel when the Forest’s hippie handyman, Rick DeMun, rumbled up my gravel drive in an ancient pickup with a snow plow attachment.
He cranked down the window, and I swore I saw clouds of pot smoke waft out. “Angela! Why didn’t you wait for me? Here, let me do that.”
He jumped out of his truck, his vintage brown suede fur-lined ranch coat flapping around his legs, its fur-lined hood and a peace sign balaclava protecting his face, and ran for the back of his truck.
“Cool coat.” My voice was muffled by the wool scarf wrapped around my mouth. “Where did you get it?”
“Etsy,” he said. “Summer of love – 1968.”
I knew he longed to return to that enchanted time. He pulled a snow shovel out of the back of his truck, along with a bucket of rock salt.
“Here,” he said, taking the shovel out of my hands and propping it against my door. “Let me finish this.” He put some muscle behind his ice-chopping, shoveling, and scraping as he cleared the porch, moving surprisingly fast for someone wearing so many layers of clothes. I watched him shovel from a sunny corner of my porch. He worked at a steady rhythm.
Rick was a renegade rich kid, a Forest insider who was a successful local contractor. In the winter, he also removed ice and snow. Rick’s hard-charging parents were puzzled that they’d raised a gentle pothead who worked at his own pace. The rest of the Forest rejoiced: he was reasonable, reliable, and resourceful when he fixed their ancient plumbing and drafty old buildings.
When he finished the porch and started on the steps, Rick was panting slightly. “I had to clear Old Man Du Pres’s drive first,” he said, “and I was slowed down by the searchers. You know Juliet LaRouche is missing?”
“Her poor parents were here at six-thirty this morning asking if I knew where she was. They’re worried sick. They think she got lost on the path to her house.”
Rick stopped for a second and looked at me. “If she’s really lost in the woods, they should be scared. How are they ever going to find her? Have you looked at this place – I mean really looked?” His arm swept the sun-dazzled scenery, where parties of searchers trudged through the snowy fields and poked at the snow-burdened brush at the edge of the woods.
“Every estate is wooded and has little creeks and streams that flood in the spring, then turn into dry gullies. There are limestone outcroppings, and so many caves, ditches and sinkholes I can’t count them. Her body could have fallen into one of them and been covered by the snow. If that happens, she won’t be found until spring.”
“Please don’t say ‘body.’ I’m on call today, Rick. I don’t want to investigate her death. I’m hoping she’s still alive.”
“My little sister Daisy thinks she is.” Rick was shoveling the top layer of snow off the steps with swift, sure strokes. Shovel, shovel, crunch. Shovel, shovel, crunch. “Daisy was at the party last night. She thinks Juliet’s hiding at somebody’s house.”
“Really?” I felt a warm surge of hope. “Your sister knows Juliet?”
“They’re buds. It’s ‘Juliet this…’ and ‘Juliet that…’”
My teeth were chattering so much I could hardly get the words out. “Will your sister talk to me?” Weird. My speech sounded slurred, like I’d been drinking.
“Angela, you’re shaking so bad you can’t even talk. That’s hypothermia. Get inside.”
“But –”
“Now! It’s seven below.” He hopped up the stairs, took my arm, and opened my front door. “Inside.” He gave me a slight push. “You’re not dressed for this weather. That wool hat isn’t warm enough. Another sign of hypothermia is clumsiness. You can’t risk a fall. Go in, warm up, and make me some hot coffee. I’ll finish the sidewalk and come in for a cup before I do your driveway.”
“But I need to know about Daisy.”
“And I’ll tell you on my coffee break. Make me coffee, woman.” Rick’s mock command made me laugh.
Once inside, I realized Rick was right – something was wrong. I was still shivering, but my heart was pounding. I felt dizzy and clumsy. I picked my way carefully across my living room and plopped down in a kitchen chair. After sitting a while, I felt a little better. If I felt like this after being outside for what – I glanced at the clock – twenty minutes – how could Juliet survive a walk home in ten below weather wearing only a light jacket, a strapless dress, and heels?
I hoped Rick’s sister was right and Juliet was hiding with her friends. But why would a girl her parents said was so good do that?
I knew that answer, too. As a death investigator, I learned the dead had many secrets: good husbands had long-running affairs and good wives had gambling habits. I remembered the Forest suicide who’d secretly maxed out her credit cards and gambled away her home’s equity on the St. Louis river boats, then killed herself when she ran out of money. And teens? They lied about everything: their boyfriends and girlfriends, drugs, money, you name it. Maybe Juliet had a Romeo she didn’t want her parents to know about, and she was sleeping in his bed while Mummy and Daddy skied at Telluride. I hoped so.
I could hear Rick shoveling my sidewalk. My heart rate had slowed to nearly normal, and I didn’t feel dizzy. I poured out the sludge I’d made for the LaRouches and made fresh coffee. Then I found a loaf of banana bread in the freezer and warmed it in the microwave. Now I could hear the dull ping of rock salt hitting concrete.
By the time Rick was stamping the snow off his boots in the mud room, I had hot coffee and warm banana bread on the table. He came into the kitchen, bringing the cold and his cannabis cologne with him. He was wearing a hairy sweater over an insulated undershirt. He sniffed the coffee-scented air, then looked at the loaf on the plate. “Is that banana bread?”
I handed him the butter. “It is. Eat up and get warm, then tell me about Daisy and Juliet.”
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Rick gulped his coffee, slathered the banana bread with thick slabs of butter, and two slices later said, “How come you’re interested in Juliet? I thought you only worked on dead people.”
“I do. And I don’t want to have to investigate Juliet’s death. I’m not supposed to investigate her disappearance at all. It’s not my job, not my department. I’m sticking my nose in a police investigation. If it was another detective,” I didn’t mention Greiman’s name, “I wouldn’t trespass. He’d shut me down and report me to the ME. I’m hoping the new guy won’t mind my help. The last thing I want is a dead girl during holidays – or any time, for that matter.”
“That’s cool.” He cut himself a third slice. I poured more coffee.
“Besides, I talked with her parents,” I said. “Those poor people. They’re frantic. Once I saw their faces, I had to do something. Do you think Daisy will talk to me?”
Rick thoughtfully chewed his buttered banana bread, then said, “She might, but she’d be more likely to talk if you did her a favor. Daisy’s not like me. She’s, uh… practical.”
“Can I pay her?”
Rick laughed. “She’s not that mercenary. It’s not like she’s a hooker or anything.”
I blushed.
“She’s more into something for something. Her car’s in the shop and she wants to hang with her friends. I’d drive her, but Mother thinks I’m a bad influence. She won’t lend Daisy her car, but she offered to drive her. Daisy would curl up and die before she’d be seen with Mother. But you, you’ve got a cool car.”
“I remember being like that. Which mall does she go to?”
“Mall?” Rick took a long drink of coffee. “Kids don’t go to malls much anymore. Sadly, these kids hang out at the Show Me gas station mini mart. Freaks me out.”
“A gas station? What do they do there?”
“They vape, smoke, drink Polar cup refills, and meet up with their friends. Occasionally some pot gets sold on the back lot.”
“I hate to sound like my grandmother, but kids nowadays…”
“I know,” Rick said. “They also hang at houses with the kind of parents who want to be friends with their kids. I did that because I like weed, but Daisy doesn’t partake. Daisy and her buds hang at the new Olive Garden.”
I paused, the cup halfway to my mouth. “The Olive Garden? Do they bring two-for-one coupons?”
“Now, now.” Rick grinned at me. “They love those all-you-can-eat bread sticks. I’ll tell Daisy you’re not bad for a grownup. It may take her a while to warm up to you, but she’s dying to go to the Olive Garden.”
“Aren’t all her friends looking for Juliet?”
“Most of them, yeah. But unlike other Forest kids, Daisy hangs with kids from other schools in West County, too.”
West County. The rich part of St. Louis County. “Like Parkway?”
Rick looked embarrassed. “More like MICDS.” Mary Institute and St. Louis Country Day. The rich kids’ private school. Parkway was a public school district.
“The drive will give us time to talk.”
“She wants to go today, if you have time. Can you take her if you’re on call?”
“I don’t have to go into the office. All I have to do is be available when the office calls. If there’s a death investigation, Daisy would just have to spend more time with her friends.”
“She’d like that. She’ll do anything to get out – even talk to a grownup.”
“Deal. Tell me when and where.”
Rick checked the kitchen clock. “She’s still snoozing. I’ll wait till after nine to text her.” He stood up. “Meanwhile, I’ll salt your drive and send you a bill. If Daisy says yes, you know where our house is?”
“Du Champ Road. Second house on the right.”
“That’s it.” He gulped the rest of his coffee. “Well, back to the salt mines – or the salt, anyway. Thanks for the coffee and banana bread.”
I tidied the kitchen, then sat on the leather living room couch, cell phone at my side. I meant to go through the bills, but I drifted off to sleep until I heard the ping of an incoming text from Rick: Daisy’s itching to go. Pick her up at 11.
Rick sent this warning: Remember, Daisy’s a little spoiled. She’s not a bad kid, but you gotta be firm with her.
CHAPTER 3
Tuesday, December 27, 10:54 a.m.
As I drove to Du Champ Road, I watched teenagers in bulky coats, boots, and dark green Chouteau Forest Academy scarves and hats search the ditches along the Forest’s snowy, landscaped streets.
“Juliet!” they called, their shrill voices echoing in the cold. “Juliet!”
The snow muffled their cries and froze their hopes, but the students never stopped calling and searching. Occasionally someone would throw a snowball – the snow was just right, it packed well – but attempts to play were quickly quashed. They were on a mission and time was short. They had to rescue the ice princess.
How long could they keep searching for the girl in this bone-chilling freeze? It looked like the whole Academy had turned out to look for Juliet. Everyone except her good friend Daisy. Why didn’t she say something?
Most of the Forest roads had been plowed and salted. An army of county plows were unleashed when the first snowflake hit the pavement, and contractors rolled out to clear the private streets and drives. Driving was fairly easy as long as I kept an eye out for slick spots. I turned onto Du Champ Road and the DeMun house rose like a white cloud above the bare-branched trees, its graceful marble tamed into creamy curves, its shiny black lacquered doors flanked by topiary trees.
Before I pulled up at the front door, a teenage girl slouched out in a long red hooded coat and knee-high black suede boots. I stopped my black Dodge Charger, and Daisy slid into the black bucket seat, bringing a frosty rush of air.
“Hi, I’m Angela Richman.” I turned up the heater.
“Hi.” That word was a massive effort, a boulder Daisy had rolled uphill.
“So you want to go to Olive Garden?”
Daisy nodded, and I wondered if saying “yes” would be too tiring. Rick’s little sister looked nothing like her brother. She was pretty, but she wasn’t an ethereal beauty like her missing friend. Daisy was slim with straw-colored hair and brown eyes. Her delicate complexion was marred by a slight sneer.
“You got any music?” Four whole words.
“Sure, a case of CDs in the back seat.”
Daisy reached back to retrieve the case, flipped through my CD collection, and delivered her verdict. “Mom music.”
That was an insult. “Do you want to listen to the radio?”
“The radio?” Daisy’s voice was etched in acid. “Don’t you have any playlists Bluetoothed to your car?”
“No.”
“That’s how everyone does music.” Daisy sighed, a queen captured by a barbarian. She dumped the CD case in the back, jewel boxes spilling over the foot well, then flopped back into her seat, folded her arms, and plugged in the earbuds she’d produced from her purse. She would endure the next twenty minutes listening to her own tunes.
I panicked. How could I learn anything about Juliet from my silent, surly passenger? I remembered Rick’s advice: She’s not a bad kid, but you gotta be firm with her.
We were on Gravois Road now, the main thoroughfare through the town of Chouteau Forest. More searchers combed the roadsides and the woods in pairs, their calls for Juliet sounding like sad birds. Daisy stared out the window, looking past them. I had almost reached the highway. Time to learn anything was running out.
“Hey!”
Now I had Daisy’s attention. “Why aren’t you searching for Juliet? Don’t you care that she may have frozen to death?” I steered the black Charger carefully, driving slower than usual in this treacherous section, with impatient drivers zipping around me. We were in the Forest business district, passing gas stations, pizza places, and specialty food stores.
“Juliet isn’t dead. I’d know.” A positive torrent o
f speech.
“So where is she?”
“Probably hiding at the Minterns’ house. At Christmas, the Minterns go away for two weeks to Abaco, and they take Trey with them.”
“Trey?”
“He’s one of us. Goes to the Academy. We all have the code to get into his house. Right now, we hang at his house and he’s cool with it, but we have to be careful. If someone makes a mess, we’ll get caught. We use a lot of houses like that during the winter.”
So Juliet was safe at the Minterns’ house. I relaxed a little. The girl would be in trouble when her parents found out, but she was alive.
“Won’t Juliet freeze with no heat in the Minterns’ house?”
“They have to keep some heat on or the pipes will freeze.” Daisy’s tone made me feel like a slow learner. “Her boyfriend probably took her there.”
A semi shouldered past me, splattering my black car with oily slush. I slowed down while the wipers cleaned the window. “Her parents said Juliet didn’t have a boyfriend.”
Daisy snorted. I guessed the girl rolled her eyes but didn’t dare take my eyes off this slippery part of the road.
“They don’t know anything.” Daisy’s scorn could have melted the roadside snow piles. I decided Daisy wasn’t going to the Olive Garden after all. I made a U-turn on Gravois Road, narrowly missing an oncoming car. The irate driver hit the horn as Daisy shrieked, “Hey! What are you doing? The Olive Garden is the other way!”
“And the Minterns’ house is this way. You’re not pigging out on bread sticks while the whole Forest searches for Juliet. You’re not doing that to her parents.”