Wolfe, She Cried

by Addison, Bliss

“What month is it?”

  “June. It’s the night of my graduation.”

  “Are you alone.”

  “No. Simon is here. He took me out to dinner, then we went to the prom. He looked so handsome…I love him so much.” She giggled. “No, Simon, we can’t. Not here. Someone might catch us.” She frowned and whimpered.

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “No, no, no.”

  “Is Simon hurting you, Evie?”

  “Simon would never hurt me. He loves me…loves me so much, and I love him.” She whimpered again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m all right.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “It’s…it’s just ...”

  “Just what?”

  “My mother. She doesn’t like Simon.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of his heritage. She calls him half-breed, says I’m too good for him.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I want her to like him, to see the good in him, to see past his heritage and the color of his skin.”

  “And if she doesn’t change her mind?”

  “She said she won’t pay for college and’ll cut me off if I don’t break up with him. I don’t want to. I can’t…” She cried.

  “Evie, think back to when you were a little girl.”

  She giggled. “Higher, Daddy, higher! Faster, Daddy, faster! Look at me. I’m flying. More. More…”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m four-and-a-half. When I turn five, Daddy says he’s going to have a big party for me with a clown and everything.”

  “You love your daddy very much, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Very much. He’s the best.” She frowned.

  “What is it, Evie?”

  “No, Daddy, no.” She squeezed her eyes closed, squinted and shook her head from side to side. “No, Daddy. Please. What are you doing? Where’s Mommy?” She screamed.

  “Evie, it’s just a dream. Nothing can hurt you.”

  The crying stopped. “Good. You’ll wake on the count of three, feeling calm and relaxed.”

  She nodded.

  “One…two…three.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fine.” She thought a moment. “Really good, in fact.”

  He smiled. “Evie, I’d like to see you again next month.”

  Something traumatic had happened to her in childhood, something that involved her father, just as he thought. “Just one more visit.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  She returned his smile. “Okay.”

  “All set for the big day?”

  “Pretty much. I can’t wait.”

  “You’re going to be a beautiful bride. I hope you have good weather.”

  “We will. God smiled down on us when he brought Simon and me together. He’ll make our wedding day perfect, I’m certain of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Humming beneath his breath, Simon drove from Evie’s to the station. The first sign of the forecasted Nor’easter came in the form of seemingly unthreatening soft, fluffy snowflakes. He knew differently.

  He strode to the counter and took the telephone messages Tallulah handed him. “How’re our supplies?”

  She looked at him over her butterfly-winged glasses and pursed her lips. “Good morning to you, too, Simon. How are you?”

  He sighed and pasted a smile. “Good morning, darlin’. How are you?”

  “Just hunky-dory. Nice of you to ask.”

  “That’s the kind of man I am.” He repeated his question.

  “All well stocked. We could hole up here for days.”

  “With guests?”

  “Plenty for them, too.” She stood and walked to the counter. “Henry brought in the foldaway cots and blankets from storage.”

  “How about kerosene for the heaters?”

  “Aubrey’s out getting it now. And the snowmobiles are all gassed.”

  “Looks like you have everything under control.”

  She arched her brows. “Like I don’t always?”

  “I’ll see how it goes, but if it’s what they say, we’re on twenty-four seven.”

  “I’ll advise the deputies. What about Evie? Want me to call her in?”

  He thought of Evie alone in her cottage weathering the storm in warmth or out in it chancing frostbite and accident. “We’ll manage without her. We did before.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “If you have something to say, Tallulah, now’s the time.”

  “I think it’s cute how you want to protect her.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do too.”

  Simon knew when not to argue. “You can go home now while the getting’s good.”

  “What and leave you fellas to fend for yourselves? I don’t think so.”

  “That’s very generous of you. But—”

  She pruned her lips. “Nothing generous about it. Looking after my own interests, is all. You fellas will probably blow up the place trying to light one of those heaters, then I’d be out of a job.” Her wrinkled cheeks folded into accordion pleats. “I love it when you get all protective papa bear like, so old school.”

  “You’re going home.” The wind howling and ramming the windowpanes forced a command. “That’s an order.”

  She saluted, obviously changing her mind. “Aye, aye, captain.”

  The scene from his office window didn’t look hazardous. Quite the opposite, in fact. Perfect white flakes fell onto the limbs of fir trees and rooftops. Plumes of white smoke puffed from steel or brick chimneys.

  Within an hour the wind pounded the building like a battering ram and snow fell relentlessly.

  They got their first call. A fender bender on Main.

  Thirty minutes later came their second. A car plowed into a house on Jefferson. From there, the calls came nonstop. Visibility was almost nil and winds gusted to sixty miles per hour.

  Simon and his deputies camped out at the station for the duration, handling calls and rescuing stranded motorists. Department of highways closed the roads. Simon and his crew transported emergency victims— there were two of those — to the hospital by snowmobiles equipped with bush sleds. Angie Barrow’s son decided to come into the world two weeks early, and Jarvis Edison fell from the roof of his house — strangely enough — after he lost control of his snow blower while removing snow. Things settled down near midnight with a station filled with stranded motorists. Also strangely enough, motorists who left the safety of their homes to attempt to get into town either for food or gas for generators.

  Studying the phone, Simon stretched out on the sofa in his office. He checked the time: 12:55. Too late to call Evie. They probably wouldn’t have phone service much longer. Maybe he should call. She was comfy in her cottage with plenty to eat and plenty of firewood and Bear to keep her company. Still, he worried. It would always be this way, he knew.

  Above the howl of the wind, he heard someone calling for help. He jumped up, ran to the window and saw a beam of light through the haze of blowing snow. A flashlight, maybe. He put on his coat, ski pants and boots, sprinted through the hallway and out the door. The force of the wind almost slammed him back against the door. Crystallized snow bit at his eyes and exposed skin. He pulled the hood of his parka over his head and shielded his face with his arm.

  “Is someone out here?”

  “O-over h-here.”

  “Shine your light toward the sound of my voice,” Simon yelled.

  A second later, an unsteady streak of light shot through the dark.

  He lowered his shoulders, ducked his head, jumped from the stoop into knee-deep snow and using the beam of the flashlight as his guide, plowed through waist-high drifts through the parking lot. His breath labored by the time he reached the figure huddled
in a ball between two cars. He grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him to his feet. Surprised to see his deputy, he exclaimed, “What in hell are you doing out? I sent you home hours ago. You’re one lucky bastard. If I hadn’t heard you, we’d be going to your funeral this week.”

  He flung Henry’s arm over his shoulders and carried him fireman-style through the snow.

  In the waiting area, he set him in a chair and caught his breath. “Crazy son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered, walking to the coffee machine. He filled a cup, reached behind the counter and took the flask of rum Tallulah kept for medicinal purposes and poured a generous dollop in the coffee.

  “Here, Henry. It’ll warm you up.”

  Coffee sloshed over the rim in his shaking hands.

  When Henry’s teeth stopped chattering, Simon asked, “What in God’s name were you doing out? I told you six hours ago to go home.”

  “I-I s-stopped off at D-Deb’s to see if she w-was ookay.” He looked at him and grinned, a sheepish one. “I-I lost t-track of time. W-when I left it was pretty bad out. S-shorter to come h-here than h-home. I t-thought I could make it, but I-I ditched my car in a whiteout o-on the h-highway near Chance River.”

  “And you walked from there? My God, man, that’s two miles.”

  Henry nodded. “L-Longer when you’re b-bucking a high wind. There weren’t any taxis a-around,” he grinned, “and m-my cell phone d-didn’t work.” He removed his knitted hat and got out of his parka.

  Simon went to get him something dry to wear. He came back with an orange jumpsuit. “Here, put this on. It’s the best I can do.”

  Henry stripped down and looked at himself. “I’m a carrot.” He turned and hung his wet clothes on a hook at the door.

  Simon stared at the black lettering emblazoned between his shoulders: HPD. “Only from the front. From the back you look like an inmate.”

  For a moment there was only the sound of the wind howling and iced flakes of snow hitting windowpanes and snoring.

  Simon hooked a thumb over his shoulder when Henry looked in the direction of the cells. “Visitors at the inn.”

  “How many did we get?”

  “Twelve.”

  He looked up at the lights and squinted. “Least we still have power.”

  “Still have phone, too.”

  Simon listened to the wind slamming against the building, rocking the ancient floor joists. “Maybe not for much longer. I’ll get you something to eat. Go to my office.”

  He returned with cereal bars and juice boxes.

  Henry helped himself. “Thanks, chief.”

  Leaning against the desk, Simon crossed his legs and shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Seeing a lot of Mrs. Miller, are you?”

  Henry stopped in mid-bite.

  Simon saw something in his eyes. A flicker of recognition, or a flicker of guilt?

  “Some.”

  “You care about her.”

  Henry stared at his stockinged feet. “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  He nodded.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Since high school.” He blew out a lungful of air.

  “Did you date her back then?”

  He shook his head. “What girl wants a boyfriend who stutters?”

  “You only stutter when you’re nervous or agitated.”

  “I was always nervous around her back then. Besides, she had eyes only for poodle butt.” He blew out a lungful of air. “I don’t have an alibi for the night Miller was killed and I don’t own a twenty-two. I didn’t kill him.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “No, but you wondered and you got to do your job.”

  Simon uncrossed his legs, walked behind his desk and sat. “I’m not sure I’d be so understanding.”

  “Yes, you would. You like to see all sides.”

  “That would serve you well if you’re guilty.”

  He nodded and grabbed a juice box. “It would. If I were guilty.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At nine o’clock Sunday morning Evie strode into the station, waved at Tallulah and entered Simon’s office. He looked up from a report and smiled. “Well, hey there. How’s my—”

  “You’re coming with me.” She grabbed his coat. “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I can’t leave. There’s still too much to do. People are still being plowed out of ditches and traffic needs to be directed. Reports to write up.”

  “Henry and Aubrey can handle it.”

  “No, they—”

  “Simon, you have to learn to delegate and how else are they going to learn if you don’t give them the experience?” She walked over to him and grabbed his bicep. “Move it, mister, or I’ll be compelled to use force and handcuffs.”

  Lips pursed and hands on her hips like a playground monitor, Tallulah said from the doorway, “What’s going on in here?”

  Evie looked at her. “I’m trying to bust him out, but he’s putting up a fight.”

  Tallulah moved into the center of the room like a Sumu wrestler. “Want me to help?”

  Simon jumped up. “Okay, okay. I give up.” He looked at Evie. “One hour.”

  She grinned. “We’ll see where it takes us.” She winked at Tallulah.

  Outside, Simon halted, obviously reconsidering leaving the station.

  She reached up, cupped his face and kissed him. “Trust me?”

  “With my life.”

  “Then follow me.”

  Despite the quick and definite answer, his skeptical expression told her he seemed doubtful. “It won’t be painful, I promise.”

  He swatted the air. “Rats. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about experimenting.”

  She smiled, a wily one. “You have, have you? Well, that’s not quite what I had in mind, but I can improvise.”

  “I really shouldn’t leave.”

  “Yes, you should. You’re tired and need a break,” she said.

  He followed behind, got in her Explorer and strapped in beside her.

  She pulled onto the snow-packed road and headed out of town.

  He opened his window a crack. “It never fails to amaze me—the snow-laden trees, the white rooftops, the clean, pure scent of the air after a snow.” He sighed. “It’s nature at its best.”

  On the highway a red Chevy Suburban traveling in the opposite lane about a half mile ahead of them oscillated toward the middle of the road, fishtailing in that eerie slow motion way that happened just before something bad took place.

  Evie noticed the vehicle at the same time as Simon. “Keep an eye on that vehicle. He’s driving too fast for the road conditions.”

  She checked the rear view mirror and pumped the brakes, telling the motorists behind her to slow down. Flicking on the blinker light, she slowed until coming to a stop against a bank of snow on the shoulder of the road. The traffic at her rear followed suit. Cars behind the Suburban braked hard, sending their vehicles sideways before coming to a stop.

  “This is going to be one major accident,” she said, not feeling the composure she forced into her voice. “Is your seatbelt well fastened, Simon?” She tugged it. It didn’t give an inch. Satisfied, she sat back and prayed, fingering the medal at her neck.

  Simon looked behind them. “Everyone’s stopped. If he can get his vehicle under control…”

  The Suburban spun counter-clockwise, nosing toward the left shoulder of the road until finally coming to a stop, back end facing oncoming traffic. Without delay, the driver clutched the wheel, steered onto their lane and proceeded in the opposite direction he originally headed.

  “Stupid son-of-a-bitch,” Evie muttered, getting back onto the road. “He was driving too fast for the road conditions. That’s exactly how accidents happen. “

  “What’s his plate read to you?”

  She increased her speed and rhymed off the number.

  He wrote it down and looked up when she flicked o
n the blinker light. “You’re taking me to your cottage? That’s the surprise?”

  “Opportunities are seldom perfect. We have to make them so.”

  In the kitchen, she threw him a towel. “Shower and I’ll set up.”

  “Set up?”

  “You’ll see.” She pushed him toward the bathroom. One minute later, she heard the spray of water. She walked into her bedroom, lit sandalwood candles and a fire in the hearth, spread pillows on the floor and closed the shutters in the window. Everything needed to be perfect. She checked the temperature. Eighty degrees. Perfect. She changed into a pink silk dressing gown, fluffed her hair and dabbed on a pale, frosty snowbunny pink lipstick. Standing in the doorway, she studied the room, pleased with her efforts.

  Simon came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, turban style around his head.

  She laughed. “Down, big boy. That’s the last step.” She splayed her hand. “Welcome to Evie’s Massage Parlor where friendly and loving hands will give you a full body rubdown. You like?”

  He looked around. “I love.”

  “Make yourself comfortable on those pillows, and I’ll get the oil.”

  Kneeling astride him, she rubbed massage oil—a calming bouquet of lavender, cardamom and nutmeg to revive the spirit and rosemary to relieve aching muscles and a scent that sharpened thought. She began with long, circular strokes along the muscles running parallel to his spine. Then the flat muscles groups covering the top of his back and lower neck. Without breaking contact, she moved on to the wide bank of muscles stretching from his lower spine to his pelvis.

  “That feels good.”

  “How about this?” She used two hands and massaged his upper back and shoulders, applying a little pressure.

  “Nice.” Exerting heavier pressure, she asked, “This?”

  “Hmm.”

  She applied even more pressure.

  “Oh, God.”

  Precisely the reaction she hoped for. She smiled. Her hands glided smoothly over his muscles, her movements rhythmic, even and symmetric. Using her forearm and elbow, she massaged the stiffness from his lower back.

  “Aaaah.” He sighed. “Where’d you learn to do this?” His voice sounded thick.

  “I read some books, watched some videos on the subject. There’s foot massage therapy, too. Maybe next time— ”