The Snow White Christmas Cookie

by David Handler

  Okay, that settles it. I have officially eaten my last bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

  Casey fell to his knees, gasping and heaving, then toppled slowly over onto the slushy gravel, a low, animal moan coming from him.

  Tommy was not without mercy. He helped Casey back up onto his feet, patting him gently on the shoulder. Then he steered him back toward the front door of the Rustic, Casey looking none too steady on his feet.

  Mitch stayed where he was, safely hidden behind the woodpile as they made their way inside. He continued to stay there, waiting. Sure enough, Casey came back outside a moment later—this time with Gigi clutching him by the arm. He still wasn’t moving real well. The two of them got into his Tacoma, Gigi behind the wheel, and started out of the parking lot. Mitch wanted to see which way they turned when they pulled out of the driveway. As he stood there, waiting, a shadow fell across his face. Then he heard a flurry of movement. He started to turn around but wasn’t nearly fast enough—something had already smashed him on the back of his head.

  And then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 15

  GRISKY WAS PACING THE conference room and flexing his biceps. Pacing and flexing. The G-Man was impatient. The G-Man was amped. Partly, this had to do with his sacred Christmas travel plans. “Every damned flight out of JFK tomorrow night has been scrambled because of the damned blizzard,” he blustered. Mostly it had to do with the fact that Postal Inspector Sam Questa had failed to show up on time for Grisky’s two o’clock quarterbacks meeting.

  Yolie and Toni were there. Des was there. Capt. Joey Amalfitano of the Narcotics Task Force, aka The Aardvark, was there. The sandwiches and coffee from McGee’s Diner were there. But Questa was a no-show. And would be one, Des felt certain, until precisely 2:17. Grisky would be kept waiting the same exact number of minutes that he’d kept Questa waiting earlier that morning. Boys. They could be so pissy.

  “Do you realize I may actually have to spend Christmas here instead of in Cancún?” Grisky raged on, pacing and flexing.

  “Boo-freaking-hoo,” Yolie growled.

  Des glanced at her watch. It was 2:16.

  Sam Questa came bustling through the door ten seconds later—smack-dab on pissy man-time. Questa removed his coat and sat down at the table, reaching for a sandwich and a container of coffee. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, biting into his sandwich. “Got held up in an interview.”

  Grisky narrowed his gaze before he sat down, too. “Okay, let’s see where we’re at,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. He really liked to do that, and it was really starting to get on Des’s nerves. “Resident Trooper Mitry? The ball’s yours.”

  “Pat Faulstich’s story didn’t exactly check out,” she reported. “Lem Champlain didn’t send him to plow those driveways on Kinney Road last night.”

  Grisky shook his head at her. “And this is important because?…”

  “Everywhere I go I keep tripping over him. He’s clean, but he has an older brother, Mickey, who’s doing a nickel at the Baskerville Correctional Center in Mecklenburg County, Virginia, for transporting three hundred pounds of marijuana. And he’s a Rustic Inn regular, same as Casey Zander.”

  The Aarvark shifted uncomfortably in his chair at her mention of the Rustic, though he said nothing.

  “What does all of this add up to?” Grisky demanded.

  “Maybe something, maybe nothing. But I’m keeping my eye on him.”

  “Fair enough. Snooki, you’re next.”

  Toni the Tiger stared across the table at him in silence.

  He tilted his jarhead at her curiously. “Snooki?…”

  “My name is Toni,” she said to him between gritted teeth. “I also answer to Sargeant Tedone. But if you call me Snooki one more time I am going to make a bow tie out of your balls. Got it?”

  Grisky held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Got it.”

  “Good,” she said, slamming the door on what had to be the shortest crush on record. There truly was hope for this girl—even if she was a Tedone. “I’ve just spent several hours at the Headmaster’s House with the geek squad looking into Josie Cantro.” Toni leafed through her notepad. “Our local life coach has what I’d classify as a lively bio. For starters, her birth name isn’t Cantro. It’s Hoyt. Josie Ann Hoyt was born on August 1, 1981 in Augusta, Maine. Cantro is her mother’s maiden name. We found this out when we deepened our search into the details surrounding her father’s shooting death.”

  Des blinked at her in surprise. “Josie’s father was shot to death?”

  Toni nodded. “When Josie was twelve. Officially, it was closed out as a hunting accident, shooter unknown. Unofficially, the Maine State Police didn’t view it as an accident. The shooting took place in a wooded area less than a quarter mile from Hoyt’s home. No hunters admitted to being in the area at the time. And Hoyt was shot from close range.”

  “How close?” Grisky asked.

  “Less than ten feet.”

  “Yeah, down here in the Nutmeg State we don’t generally call that a hunting accident,” Yolie said. “We call it murder.”

  “They looked very hard at Josie’s mother for it,” Toni said. “It was commonly known that he’d been beating the crap out of her for years. But they had no weapon, no witness, no case. So they wrote it off and moved on. The next time Josie pops up on our radar screen is six years later in Lewiston when she applies for a Maine driver’s license as Josie Ann Cantro, age eighteen. Her life on paper officially starts here—Social Security records, credit cards and so on. She rented an apartment in Lewiston. To support herself Josie Cantro was employed at the Down East Bar and Grill and at a Snap Fitness Center. Meanwhile, under the name Adele Slade, she was also employed as a pole dancer at a club called the Matrix, where she was arrested on numerous occasions for soliciting prostitution and lewd public behavior.”

  “Girl, you haven’t lost your edge,” Yolie said to Des admiringly.

  “What edge?” Grisky asked.

  “The Resident Trooper told us last night that Josie smelled wrong.”

  “She never served any time,” Toni pointed out. “Just got slaps on the wrist. I spoke to an old-timer on the Lewiston PD who remembers her. He told me she’d been out on the streets, hooking and using drugs, ever since she was sixteen. But that she was a smart, scrappy kid who cleaned up her act. She even enrolled at Bates College. Studied there for one semester, according to her transcripts. Then she left town one day and was never heard from again. According to her Social Security records, she relocated to Castine, home to the Maine Maritime Academy, where she worked as a waitress and chambermaid at the Castine Inn. She lived on the premises until 2005 when she filed for a change of address to the home of one James Allen Miller—better known as J.A. Miller, the author of a series of bestselling science fiction novels featuring someone called Torbor the Reclaimer. Do we have any sci-fi fans in the house? No? Anyway, Josie was twenty-four at the time. Miller, age fifty-six, was a widower with two children who were both older than Josie. I spoke to someone on the local PD. It seems that Miller used to eat dinner at the Castine Inn every night. He and Josie struck up an acquaintanceship and eventually it led to something more. He taught marine systems engineering at the academy before he became a bestselling author and bought himself the historic waterfront home that he invited Josie to share with him.” Toni paused to gulp down some coffee. “James Allen Miller died of an overdose of the prescription sleep aid Ambien in 2007. A therapist had been treating him for anxiety-related depression. They closed it out as a suicide.”

  “Damn, this is starting to sound familiar,” Yolie said. “Did the local PD have any reason to suspect it wasn’t suicide?”

  “None. Miller was seeing a therapist, like I said. Had been increasingly despondent in the days leading up to his death, and he left a suicide note.”

  “What did it say?” asked Des.

  “It said, ‘Forgive me, Torbor.’ But guess what Miller did two weeks before he died: He changed
his will. Left his waterfront home to Josie instead of to his two kids.”

  Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “God, maybe she is a black widow.”

  “What’s a black widow?” Sam Questa wanted to know.

  “An attractive young woman who snags rich, lonely men, picks them clean and kills them before she moves on.”

  “I never heard of one of those,” The Aardvark said.

  “Maybe they only exist in the movies,” Des conceded.

  “Maybe not,” Yolie said.

  “Miller was well liked in Castine. Josie was regarded as a scheming little tramp. His children contested the will. Threatened to fight her in court if they had to. She accepted a cash settlement of $100,000 and left town.” Toni glanced down at her notes again. “She shows up briefly on our radar screen next in Portland, Maine, then in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she rented an apartment for a few months before she moved to New Haven. When she got to New Haven she enrolled in an online life-coach program. After that she rented a cottage here in Dorset, set up her practice and eventually met Bryce Peck. You know the rest.”

  “That’s good work, Sergeant,” Yolie said.

  “Real good,” echoed Grisky. “Aside from the fact that we don’t know the rest. Is she or isn’t she responsible for the deaths of Bryce Peck and Hank Merrill?”

  “And what, if anything, does she have to do with our stolen mail?” Questa wondered.

  “Maybe she and Hank were in on it together,” Des said. “The two of them had mutual interests. Hank had serious money problems. And Josie needed drugs—the drugs that she used to kill Bryce. We know that she’s a clever girl. Clever enough to cook up this grinch smoke screen. Clever enough to persuade Hank to steal for her by promising him that when she got hold of Bryce’s house she’d bail him out with his ex-wife.”

  “That plays pretty sweet,” Grisky said. “Keep talking.”

  “When the grinch thing started setting off alarm bells Josie went proactive. First, she took care of Bryce the same way she took care of J.A. Miller in Castine. Then, last night, she eliminated Hank because he was the one man, the only man, who could link her to Bryce’s death.”

  “It was a two-person job,” Toni pointed out. “Who helped her?”

  “Casey Zander, who else? That’s why she’s been sleeping with him. She’s got Casey wrapped around her little finger. He’d do anything for her—including help her do away with his own mother’s boyfriend.”

  “I’m liking this more and more,” Grisky said. “We’d better make sure baad Josie doesn’t leave town.”

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Des assured him. “Bryce’s half-brother, Preston, is on his way here from Chicago to contest Bryce’s will. Odds are she’ll accept a financial settlement just like she did in Castine. But she’ll stay put until then.”

  Grisky turned his attention to Yolie. “Please tell me you’ve come up with some forensics that actually tie her to these deaths.”

  “The M.E.’s office fast-tracked Bryce Peck’s autopsy,” she responded. “Bearing in mind that it takes them longer to find what they aren’t looking for than what they are, the toxicology so far confirms that it went down exactly as it appeared—Bryce washed down massive doses of Vicodin, Xanax and Ambien with a bottle of tequila. They’ve found no bruising. His skin and fingernails have yielded nothing. It still looks like a straight suicide.”

  Grisky frowned at her. “Then how’d she do it?”

  “Maybe she forced him to swallow the pills at gunpoint,” Des suggested. “There’s a .38 in the mix, remember?”

  “Maybe,” Grisky allowed. “But good luck proving that. How about the Kinney Road crime scene, Lieutenant? You find the missing bourbon bottle?”

  “I’ve had eight trainees digging through the snowbanks around that parking lot for six solid hours. And more men searching the woods seventy-five feet in every direction just in case Hank got out of the car and heaved it. So far we haven’t found so much as a shard of broken glass. There are no fingerprints on Hank’s cell phone. No partials or smears, no nothing. It was wiped clean. We tracked the so-called suicide text message that he sent to Paulette Zander. It did originate from that locale on Kinney Road. And when Paulette received it she was in the vicinity of her home on Grassy Hill Road.”

  “She told me she was downstairs doing laundry,” Des said. “Didn’t notice she’d gotten it until a few minutes later.”

  “We had troopers canvass her neighbors up and down Grassy Hill Road. A woman who lives across the street, two houses down, said she saw Hank’s Passat go out at about 5:30, which confirms what Paulette Zander told Master Sergeant Mitry. He headed off in the direction of Frederick Lane, which would be the way he’d go if his destination was Kinney Road. She also saw Casey’s Toyota Tacoma go out an hour or so later. Casey went the opposite way—toward the Old Boston Post Road, which is where the Rustic Inn is located.”

  “Could the neighbor confirm that Hank was alone in his car?” Des asked.

  Yolie shook her head. “Couldn’t even confirm that it was Hank behind the wheel. Just Hank’s car. Same goes for Casey’s Tacoma.”

  Grisky frowned at Des. “Where the hell are you going with this?”

  “Just playing out the what-ifs.”

  “We can’t build a case on what-ifs,” he said pointedly.

  “My bad, Agent Grisky. Next time I have a question I’ll raise my hand. Will that make you happy?”

  “Results will make me happy,” he barked, swiveling his jarhead back to Yolie. “Did you get anything from Hank Merrill’s autopsy?”

  She glanced down at her notepad. “The M.E. confirmed that the cylindrical bruise on his forehead is a dead-nuts match for the nose of a Smith and Wesson .38 Special. Hank didn’t have a permit for any such weapon. No handgun permit at all. But he did have a coworker who owns one. A carrier at the Dorset Post Office named Abe Monahan.”

  “Monahan, Monahan…” Sam Questa leafed through his own notes. “Here we are: Abe’s been at the Dorset branch for seven years. His wife’s a Realtor with Coldwell Banker. They have two kids, ages ten and twelve. Own a home on Bittersweet Lane. Abe keeps the .38 Special on a shelf in his bedroom closet.”

  “How in the hell do you know that?” Grisky asked him.

  “After Lieutenant Snipes mentioned the bruise this morning, I instructed my people to ask each and every employee if they own a .38 Special.” Questa’s eyes hardened at him. “Like I told you—we’re professionals.”

  “We’d better take a good look at this Abe Monahan,” Grisky said.

  “He’s in Boca Raton with his family,” Questa said. “Has been for the past three days. We had to interview him by phone. It was a planned vacation. He bought the travel package two months ago.”

  “His neighbor on Bittersweet has a key to the house,” Yolie reported. “She let us in so we could determine if his .38 Special was still in his bedroom closet—which it was. There’s always a chance it was removed and then put back, so we’re having our people examine it for prints and skin residue.”

  “Do we know if anyone has been inside of that house since the Monahans left for Boca?” Des asked.

  “Yeah, we do.” Questa stuck out his lower lip as he scanned his notes. “A lady who cleans for them once a week—Tina Champlain.”

  Grisky looked at Des curiously. “Is she related to Lem Champlain?”

  “She’s his wife. Hmm…”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Des smiled at him sweetly. “Not a thing, Agent.”

  “The .38 Special’s a common weapon,” Yolie pointed out. “Someone else who Hank knew could have purchased one illegally.”

  “Or someone who he didn’t know,” Toni said.

  “Could be,” Yolie acknowledged.

  “Could be won’t get me to Cancún,” Grisky huffed. “That’s not good enough. The ball’s yours, Inspector Questa. What have you got?”

  Questa took another bite of his san
dwich, chewing on it thoughtfully. “A very well-run branch office of the U.S. Postal Service. The building security is excellent. The keypad code has been updated according to proper procedure. All keys to the deadbolts are accounted for. All vehicle keys and scanners are stored overnight in the safe. Only Postmaster Zander and her senior clerk know the combination to the safe. The U.S. Postal Service isn’t perfect. We encounter branches that are sloppily run. Branches where the employees take liberties. This isn’t one of those. Postmaster Zander’s people respect the job and they respect her. These are all first-rate employees—with the possible exception of that son of hers, Casey, who comes across like a bit of a whiner.”

  “Only because he is one,” Des said.

  “Bottom line? The only blemish on Postmaster Zander’s record is that she didn’t report these mailbox thefts to us in a timely fashion. But I think it’s obvious to everyone at this table why she didn’t. We’re continuing to explore every possible avenue. Delving into the bank records and spending patterns of every driver, loader and clerk in Norwich who comes in contact with the Dorset-bound trucks. My opinion? We won’t turn up a thing. It looks to me like Postmaster Zander’s boyfriend, Hank Merrill, by all accounts an otherwise decent guy, got into financial trouble with his ex-wife and resorted to stealing his own mail in order to pay her back. When he realized he was going to be subjected to the public humiliation of a criminal investigation he decided to take his own life.”

  “Makes sense,” Yolie said. “Except we’re positive he didn’t take his own life.”

  Questa nodded his huge head. “Which means we’re back to looking at Josie Cantro, his alleged partner in crime. She killed him and tried to make it look like a suicide. That’s the only way it makes sense to me.”

  Grisky turned to The Aardvark now. “Do you have anything new? Please, God, say yes.”

  “I have a name,” he answered, slurping loudly from his coffee container. “Richard Paul Fontanella, age fifty-four. Better known as Slick Rick.”