3 Requiem at Christmas

by Melanie Jackson

  It took some pulling since the snow had built up, but she was finally able to get the door open about halfway before it wedged solid in the snow.

  “Oh, damn,” she said, but the wind tore her words away. Not that the man in the car was in any state to hear her swearing.

  The driver was dead, and Juliet found herself very much wishing for her gun because the corpse had a knife in its chest. Actually in its stomach but angled upward toward the heart. There was also a tear in the throat that had bled heavily and a look of horror on his face. An open passenger door suggested—in case she had had any wild theories—that this wasn’t a bizarre suicide but rather a murder. Or a poorly timed fight that had ended in a killing which the murderer had fled.

  But fled where? There was nowhere to go.

  Juliet spun around, looking for danger, but in the snow it was impossible to see if anyone was near her. There had probably been tracks and maybe blood in the snow but they were long since filled and she had no idea where the killer was.

  Horror swamped her usual prescience, but her brain made note of several things for later recall as her eyes darted among the trees. The dead man was wearing a kilt in a tartan that belonged to Clan Buchanan. She wasn’t an expert on tartans, but the Buchanan tartan was exotic enough to recall since it looked a bit like Halloween had thrown up all over a circus tent. The knife in his chest was what the Scots called a sgian dubh. Most people thought of them as Scottish costume accessories, like a sporran or tam, but they could be—and in this case it obviously was—completely functional. The corpse wore a gold signet ring on manicured hands. Custom kilt, jewelry, Jaguar—the man had died wealthy.

  Juliet craned her neck to look in the back, just in case there was another person or perhaps an injured dog. In the backseat on the passenger side there was a leather satchel and sticking out of it was a musical score. She couldn’t see the full title but it began with REQU. There was also a Las Vegas newspaper, and a torn bag in thick creamy paper that said Winter’s Candies and Confections and a few pieces of red and green rectangular foil on the seat and floor, and the odor of chocolate in the air which blended sickeningly with the smell of blood. The dead man must have had quite a sweet tooth and no regard for his upholstery, because some of the wrappers had left chocolate smears on the leather. Indeed there seemed to be some chocolate wafers on the floor and seat. What had he been doing? Unwrapping his chocolates to eat them all at once? Or opening and then dropping them if he didn’t like the flavor?

  That was crazy. No one would be playing with candy while having a knife fight in a blizzard. There had to be some other explanation but she couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think period. Her pulse was beating so hard that she feared her eyeballs might actually leave their sockets.

  Juliet shivered and it wasn’t just with cold, though that was getting to be a danger all its own since she was losing feeling in her extremities.

  She shouldn’t interfere with a murder scene but…. Juliet reached in and switched off the engine. There was no smell of gasoline but why take chances on there being a fire if there was some damage to the car that she couldn’t see? And the man was past caring about the weather. A part of her wanted to look for a wallet, to put a name to the body, but the dead man was very bloody and there was gore all over his sporran, the only place where he might carry a wallet on his person.

  Instead she forced the door closed and tried to think what to do. Her brain seemed frozen and she wondered if she was slipping into hypothermia.

  For starters, she would get her gun. Then she would try calling for help. She had been warned by Garret that reception was spotty up in the mountains, but that was the first thing to do.

  With the wind at her back, she made good time back to her car, but the driver-side door refused to open. She ended up going around to the passenger’s side of the car and, after digging away some of the snow, managed to get the door open far enough to crawl inside. The heat was a benediction and after a moment her teeth stopped chattering though her eyes continued to tear. That might not have been because of the cold.

  Even with gloves, her fingers were numb and barely able to open her purse, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t get a signal on her phone. She also had her “baby Glock” but admitted her hands were so cold that she probably wouldn’t be able to release the safety catch, let alone fire it, even if danger knocked on her door.

  And she really, really needed to go to the bathroom. She wanted that more than she did her next breath.

  “W-w-well h-h-hell.”

  The Jaguar was blocking the road. The keys were in it, but if it had been possible to pull it back onto the lane, surely the killer would have taken the car, even if it meant being encumbered by a corpse. Or he could have tossed the body in a ravine. Whatever, he surely would have taken the car instead of risking death in the storm had it been possible to move the car.

  Assuming she managed it, going off and just leaving the body didn’t feel right, but Juliet did not want to be encumbered with a corpse either. Especially not a bloody one that didn’t have an official death certificate explaining that the knife wasn’t hers. The police got upset when people were murdered and you took the body with you. They often blamed whoever had the body in their possession until something better came along.

  Of course, they also blamed people who left the scene without making a statement, she thought groggily. Not that she had any chance of getting around the Jaguar with her own car, and trying to make it up the hill going the other way wasn’t an option either.

  But clearly, whether blocked in or not, she couldn’t stay where she was. Her gas tank was more than half full, but the chances of anyone coming along to rescue her before she ran out of fuel and froze solid were slim. And the storm was worsening. And it was nearing full dark. There were no other cars and no houses. If she was going for help, she had to leave at once.

  The ranger station—at least the sign for it—had only been a few miles back. They would have a radio if not a landline. They could get help. She wasn’t a material witness who was fleeing a crime scene and callously abandoning a dead man. She was doing her best to report a murder to the authorities. Even though she wanted to be involved in another homicide investigation like she wanted a root canal.

  “W-well, I p-p-planned to g-go skiing.”

  Fortunately, her suitcase was in the backseat. This time she dressed with care. Her brief foray into the premature dusk had taught her respect for a high Sierra storm. Leather boots were exchanged for ski boots and wool socks. She struggled into a ski jacket and added heavy gloves and a ski mask. She slung her purse across her body and tucked her phone and gun inside and added a flashlight from the glove compartment, praying she could get back to the ranger station before it was completely dark.

  Since there was a killer out there somewhere, she would have preferred to have kept the gun ready, but it wouldn’t be possible to ski, use poles, and also hold a handgun. Not without shooting her foot off.

  “C-crap. I w-wish I were home with M-marley and s-some eggnog.”

  Chapter 2

  “Oh God! You made me do this. You idiot!” The voice sobbed and the hands shook, but it didn’t stop the man from finishing what needed to be done.

  The matter had to be put right or he was a dead man. His boss would not forgive.

  But where was the damn thing? He had been sure that it would be in the car, but it wasn’t. He’d looked everywhere—even searched the body which was covered in blood. Who knew a man could bleed so much?

  But it just wasn’t there. So it was back in Tahoe. It had to be—and he needed to find it and get it back before his boss discovered it was missing.

  * * *

  The ranger’s station was not far away, and it had on its porch light which Juliet could just see through the snow. Though Juliet loved skiing, she would never willingly try it again under blizzard conditions. She knew she was lucky to be alive. Without the porch light, she would have traveled right past the
tiny side road and never have seen the small cabin. She could have even ended up in a ravine with broken bones or even a broken neck.

  The ranger heard her fumbling with her skis and pulled open the door. Heat rolled out over her and made her moan with pleasure.

  “Good God,” the ranger said, expression and voice equally shocked.

  “N-n-no, J-juliet H-henry,” she answered through numbed lips, managing to free herself from the bindings and push past the older man and into the cabin. The station was small, modest and rustic enough for Abraham Lincoln. The walls were wood, but covered in so many corkboards pinned with notices that the logs were all but invisible.

  “Jack Nyland,” the man answered, closing the door. His tone was bemused.

  The small cabin was warm enough to demand that she take off her outerwear before trying to tell her story. The furnishings were an old scarred desk, an older scarred chair, and a broken-down sofa that seemed a match for the broken-down ranger who was best described as hirsute and leathery. And dry. He hadn’t been out in the storm.

  While she was trying to decide where to put her coat and gloves, Ranger Nyland poured out a mug of coffee and thrust it into her hands. She tossed her coat onto the back of the sofa and then folded herself onto the sagging seat. She was grateful for the hot drink and able to actually sip at it because she had taken care of personal matters before putting on her skis. Squatting by the car had been painful and distasteful, though she had been lucky enough to have tissues in her purse. Hopefully no frostbite had happened.

  Though glad to let her muscles rest, the sofa was a long way from being comfortable and Juliet found herself getting to her feet again almost immediately. She noticed a worn copy of War and Peace on the ranger’s desk.

  “If you’re feeling better, ma’am, perhaps you could tell me what you’re doing here. I mean, you are hell and gone from anyplace. Surely you aren’t from the ski lodge. They shut down days ago when the power went out and no one sent out a missing persons report.”

  “No, I’m not from the ski lodge.” She sounded breathless. Frightened. Juliet took a deep breath, silently chanted her favorite yoga mantra, and then told her host the incredible story.

  The ranger was not stupid, but he was skeptical and basically unimaginative, and he understandably lacked enthusiasm for going out into the storm to see the murdered man for himself. It wasn’t really part of his job. Especially if the man was dead.

  Juliet was glad that she had had a few dress rehearsals with rigid thinkers in her old job because it helped her keep her temper as she argued.

  Nyland sat behind his desk, his shaggy brows rising higher and higher as she talked until he rested his forehead against his folded hands in a prayerful manner. Juliet finally stopped talking.

  “I guess I better call it in.”

  The phone line was down but the ranger did have a radio which he used to contact the highway patrol, who promised to come as soon as they could, but it obviously wouldn’t be real soon. There was no need to rush out for a dead man when there were living people stranded all over the roads who needed help.

  Juliet again urged the ranger to come with her so that they could photograph the body—something she was kicking herself for forgetting to do—when the small window facing east lit up with an orange glow. A moment later there was an explosion, which probably wasn’t all that large, but with the sound trapped in the canyon came across as something impressive.

  “Dear God.” The ranger was apparently a religious man, at least when circumstances were trying.

  “That was probably the Jaguar.” And maybe her car too, a thought which brought a fearsome frown to her face.

  “But you said that you turned off the engine.”

  “I did, but the killer probably went back to finish the job.”

  “Finish the job? The guy was dead—or so you said. What’s to finish?”

  “He was dead. As for what is to be finished—it’s hard to identify a body, let alone determine what happened to cause death, once it has been blown to bits and then had the bits burned. Except for me, the whole thing might have been passed off as some freak accident. It might not have been discovered at all,” she added.

  The thought left her cold in spite of the glowing potbelly stove.

  Had the killer seen her and let her go for humanitarian reasons?

  Or had he—or she—simply been unable to keep up with Juliet once she hit a downhill slope?

  “Damn.” Nyland reached for the radio again. “They aren’t going to like this.”

  * * *

  Juliet was glad that Sheriff Garret lacked the messianic enthusiasm for prompt paperwork and procedure that afflicted Officer Gibbons, who seemed—among other sins—to have about an inch less forehead than was standard in most humans, and had more fuss and whine than any granny. He was very proper in appearance. His buttons gleamed, his shirt was tucked in tight as a drum and his boots were polished, his hair exactly in place. This was actually quite a feat as he had come on a snowmobile. But proper dressing was where his competence ended.

  Juliet could tell Nyland disliked him and decided that she did too. Standing side by side, the two men put her in mind of The Odd Couple. Though rather a Felix herself, this time she sided with Oscar.

  “Since there are no photos, we’ll need to call in a sketch artist—”

  “No need. I am an artist.” Juliet sat down at the desk. Her hands were finally warm enough to function after their second trip into the snowy night to see a burning automobile. She turned over a flyer for a garage sale that hadn’t made it onto the corkboard and proceeded to draw the body as she had last seen it.

  Then, realizing from Gibbons’ and Nyland’s shocked looks that this wasn’t the sort of thing they could put out on the evening news when asking for information about the identity of the dead man, Juliet picked up another flyer for a bake sale and drew a less gory portrait of the dead man. He still looked a little terrified, but what could she do? He’d been dead when she saw him.

  “That should suffice for the media.”

  “If it’s accurate,” Gibbons muttered.

  Juliet was the first to acknowledge that she wasn’t at her best when she was hungry. Reasonable became difficult when she was tired and she had passed tired hours before. That evening, after a return to the scene where there was nothing of the crime scene but a burnt-out hulk of what had been the Jaguar, she was clutching at the last straws of good manners. Her limbic system was still fully functioning, but as her reptilian brain was telling her to lock both men out in the dark and eat all the cookies she knew were hidden somewhere in the ranger’s desk, it couldn’t be counted as a plus.

  Juliet pulled up the last reserves of professionalism. This silly man was a representative of the state police. Though he was used to dealing with traffic violations he did actually have the authority to enforce any state law. The seven points on his badge stood for character, integrity, knowledge, judgment, honor, loyalty, courtesy. She was trying hard to respect that even if she felt the man himself fell a bit short in several of these areas.

  “It’s accurate. Now, I have told you everything I know. Twice. As I said, he had a Las Vegas newspaper in the backseat along with an expensive leather case that contained a musical score. He was wearing a kilt in the Buchanan tartan and there is a Celtic festival going on in South Lake Tahoe—the direction from which he came. If anything else occurs to me I will call you. You have the name of my hotel if you think of anything relevant to ask me or if the homicide investigators wish to be in touch before morning.” Her voice suggested that any questions before an advanced hour of the morning had better be very relevant indeed.

  “But—” Officer Gibbons looked desperate. Murders were above his pay grade, but given the weather he was going to have to deal with the situation until the homicide detectives arrived. Juliet sympathized but she was at the end of her resources.

  “Thank you, Jack, for towing my car down and clearing the road back to the
highway. If you have the chance, please come up for the Requiem Mass. It’s at Saint Clair Church. There will be a seat for you.”

  “My pleasure,” he lied. Nothing about the night had been pleasurable, but he had been raised in the old school where people were taught that good manners cost nothing and one should by God use them.

  “Now, I need to leave. I am exhausted and hungry and my friends are expecting me. And as they are the kind of people who will begin with calling hospitals but end by calling Governor Black and Commissioner Border, it might be best if I got underway before we have a four-alarm fuss.”

  Ranger Nyland’s eyes had actually begun twinkling and he looked a bit gnome-like. Put him the right clothes and he could pass for a large elf. Since it amused him, she supposed that she should have started being ruthless and bossy hours ago. It would have saved a lot of wear and tear on her nerves.

  “Let me help you get those skis on your car,” the ranger said.

  “You’re very kind.” Juliet pulled on her gloves but not her ski mask. The snow had stopped falling when the wind died and the mask with its red lips and pompom nose was undignified.

  “Good luck, Officer. Keep warm,” she said and sailed out the door.

  Chapter 3

  Juliet made it to the Aspens without any further problems or delays and managed to get checked in without a single hitch though with rather more conversation than she would have liked. The manager was an art fan and once she mentioned she was part of the group from Bartholomew’s Woods, he wanted to know all about Raphael and Asher. He also asked her if she wanted a goldfish for her room. Juliet stared at him until she recalled that the inn was pet-friendly and would supply you with a pet if you didn’t have one of your own. The goldfish would have been entertainment—and probably food—for Marley, but since she was alone, Juliet declined the distraction.

  Her room was done in a kind of rustic Victorian style that was comfortable and warm and inoffensively bland, and what flaws there were, like too small a closet, were easy to ignore.