Cold Snap

by R. L. Perry

  “You see,” David said. “Everybody loves you, Mary. We’re even willing to be in harm’s way, to sell our bodies to the night.”

  “We’re not in harm’s way!” Silvia interjected.

  “Well then,” David said, “let me put it another way. If anything should happen to us, Mary, do you promise to cut us a deal on a used casket.”

  “Just drink your champagne,” Silvia said.

  “I’ll bury you in velvet,” I promised.

  David shot me a smile and a thumbs-up.

  We drank our champagne, shared a few more laughs. And, even without the cuts of pie, we were excited about the prospects of working together on a project. Christmas was still in force, and even with the mistletoe, the champagne, and the wonder of it all, we couldn’t help but notice how each of us rejected the chocolate pie when Wanda, the waitress, brought the cart around. Our stomachs were full . . . as well as our minds. And I could see the wheels of progress turning as we all attempted to counter our overindulgence with new focus and energy.

  We laughed. We talked about nothing. And I could see that Silvia and David did not seem eager to leave, but I was thinking of Lance, wondering what new revelations might await us on the second eve of our engagement. “You’d better get back home,” Silvia told me eventually. “You don’t want to keep Lance waiting.”

  “Yeah,” David said. “With a ring like that, you can bet he’ll be expecting a lot for his money.”

  Silvia buried her head in her hands. I blushed. David knew he had scored a zinger.

  “I have the funeral tomorrow,” I said eventually. “And I’ve already signed the death certificate. So . . . ”

  “Work quickly,” David added. “I get it.”

  I nodded.

  “Should we synchronize our watches?” David asked.

  “Enough,” Silvia said. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening. “

  But it was a beautiful night—wonder and music all around. Someone had selected Nat King Cole on the jukebox. The tinsel and red lights outlining the door frames offered a shimmering array of hope. There was still a bowl of eggnog on the bar counter and, pressed into a niche near the cash register, a tiny wooden crèche gave witness to the gifts of love. A young couple, wrapped in the heaviness of winter, entered and sat at a table in the distant corner.

  “You know what I’d like?” David said.

  “What’s that?” I wondered.

  “A snow cone.”

  Silvia guffawed.

  “Yeah,” David continued. “A snow cone would be good. Raspberry. It would make this weather more palatable. Even warm it up. I’ve got a feeling that it’s going to get a lot colder around here.”

  I didn’t disagree. Somehow I knew that we were just beginning to shiver. Once we started lifting up the permafrost, we were going to uncover far more than we wanted to know.

  There was ice all around.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As I was driving home Lance called and gave me a review of his day. “Rather quiet for the most part,” he said, “but we did have four drunks in the tank, a couple of DWI arrests, and one house fire. I drove over to assist the IFD with crowd control. People always want to gather to watch. Even when it’s two below zero.”

  “Hope no one was killed,” I said.

  “No. But kind of funny,” Lance said. “Some guy thought it would be a good idea to deep fry a turkey in his fireplace. The oil spilled over, ignited, and set the place on fire. Everyone got out. I didn’t ask if they saved the turkey.”

  “Truth is stranger than fiction,” I said.

  “You should know,” Lance told me. “I’ve heard your stories. Got any new ones?”

  I didn’t want to tell Lance that Silvia and David were helping me to get to the bottom of Sheila Carrington’s death, but now that Lance and I were officially engaged I thought it would be expedient to give Lance some work to do. We were working the same side of the street, after all, and in many ways our work overlapped. I just didn’t want to make life more difficult—nor cause Lance any hardships.

  “I’ve got Sheila Carrington’s funeral tomorrow,” I told him. “But there are some loose ends I’d like to tie up. Any way you could give me an escort to the cemetery tomorrow? Probably be a small attendance, but at least we could work together for a few minutes.”

  “How far is the procession?”

  “About a mile,” I said. “It’s the small cemetery on Raceway Road.”

  “I think I can handle that,” Lance said. “We can talk about the specifics tonight.”

  I knew what he meant. “I’d like that,” I said. “My place or yours.”

  In the background, I could hear the police scanner piping in breaking news. There were hints of laughter, talk. I could picture Lance and his police buddies marking the close of another day with hoisted Diet Cokes and leftover powdered donuts. “I’m leaving in ten. I’ll drive straight to your kitchen,” Lance said. “And then have dessert in the bedroom.”

  I agreed with a sigh. And by the time I pulled the car into the driveway, unlocked the front door, and turned on a few lights, I felt as if Christmas Eve was still with me, a long pull of joy and gratitude that would not soon dissipate, no matter how cold.

  I changed into something comfortable and aimed for the kitchen. Although cooking was not my strongest suit, I created what I could from the supplies in the pantry and whipped up a nice pot of bowtie pasta with chicken and herbs. Broccoli on the side. I set out the plates. Napkins. Glasses. Lit a centerpiece candle.

  As I was rounding out the meal I couldn’t help but think about my own life—how far I had come and how, even with the plethora of relationships and lives I had touched, how few people thought of sending food to their funeral director at Christmas. I was a far cry from the Carringtons, what with their bustling business and employees tussling for recognition. My countertops were empty while theirs was full.

  Still, I completed the meal, feeling grateful for what fate had given me in Lance. I lit another candle and tried to hide my excitement.

  Everything was ready, including my libido, when I suddenly noticed flashing red lights in the driveway. Startled, I bolted from the kitchen and headed to the front door where, much to my surprise, I saw Lance jogging up the front walk. He had a purpose, and when I opened the door—cold air sucking the breath from my lungs—he didn’t waste time.

  “Mary, get your coat,” he said. “Just got a call on the radio. You’ll want to see this. Come with me.”

  “What?”

  Lance wouldn’t answer, but he did help me bundle up. He turned off the stove. I blew out the candles. Another dinner ruined. And then we were out the door, both of us sliding into the front seat of the patrol car as Lance tossed the car into gear and squealed up the street toward our rendezvous.

  We were a quarter of a mile down the road before I could catch my breath to ask, “What’s this about? What happened?”

  Lance struggled with the dispatch dials, kept his eye on the road. Momentarily another voice echoed over the radio and I heard Lance say, “I’m on it.”

  At last he turned to me as we pushed onto the highway entrance ramp, lights flashing, siren blaring. Cars peeled away from us on either side. Scenery scrolled by. The center lines on the highway were dots as we sped forward into the night. “I was just about to leave the station when the call came in. They found a car that had driven off the highway up ahead. Looks like the driver lost control, went over an embankment. He’s dead.”

  I was confused. This wasn’t the kind of togetherness I had imagined. I was white knuckled on the dash board as we veered around slowing cars and semi trucks. “What’s this about?” I asked. “Why are you taking me to the scene of a car accident?”

  “They’ve found a car that might belong to someone you know. We traced the license plate number.”

  My heart skipped a beat. My throat tightened.

  I didn’t want to imagine the outcome.

  Chapter Fourteen
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  I breathed a sigh as we raced down the highway toward a shelf of other flashing lights, an enclave of fire trucks, ambulances and emergency crew—including a tow truck—working desperately to hoist a battered car from the bottom of a grassy ravine, a twenty-five foot drop-off littered with broken glass and metallic shards. Lance parked on the apron of the road, kept his lights flashing, and said, “Wait here. When we get the car up on the level ground I’ll come get you. You might be able to make a positive identification of the driver.”

  I closed my eyes, prayed for strength, as I watched the wrecker crew working the hydraulics. All eyes were focused on the bottom of the ravine and the ascending car—from first glance, a mid-sized Chevrolet. My first thoughts were of Silvia and David and Rose, but none of them drove a Chevy, and as the car continued to ascend, pulled by the thick cable of the tow, I had flashbacks of former cars and former lives. I wondered why Lance wanted me to be involved. But then, I was the coroner, too. I could handle death. Lance knew it.

  Inch by inch the car moved up the ravine until, at last, the rear bumper crested and the rest of the automobile settled down upon the deflated tires with a hiss. I was no expert on car mishaps, but from all appearances of the smashed hood, the car had come to rest at the bottom of the ravine some hours before. There was no smoke, no smoldering, no hot radiator vapor. My thoughts were born out by the fact that the fire fighters and EMTs moved upon the scene in a slow, methodical manner. No rush to put out a fire, no concerns for a gasoline eruption.

  I could also see through the backdrop of glaring headlamps and flashlights that there was no body in the car. But momentarily some EMTs emerged from the side of the ravine, each strapped to climbing ropes and pulleys, raising a wrapped body behind them. The deceased, wrapped tightly in white like a mummy, came up slowly but was quickly gathered into many hands and lowered to the edge of the pavement.

  Cars on the highway continued to slip by, most going slowly enough to gawk at the scene and return home with a tale to tell. And when I looked ahead, I also noted a local news van pulling onto the shoulder, the crew with cameras and microphones trolling for the latest story for the evening newscast. All told, the gathering on the highway was becoming a town, growing up fast with take-charge leaders, workers, and onlookers. Lance was about to help move back some of the crowd when another officer stepped in and corralled the gawkers to a safe distance.

  Lance finally walked my way, opened my door, and took me by the arm. He led me across the crumbled asphalt to the body. He knelt down, peeled back the sheet. “Do you know him?” he asked.

  I did. It was Phil Carrington.

  “We thought so,” Lance said. He gave a nod to another officer who gave a nod to one of the EMTs who put in a call to the morgue.

  “I was probably the last person to see him alive,” I said. “We had met this morning to plan his wife’s funeral.”

  “And then there were two,” Lance said.

  I drew my coat more tightly around my throat and, for the first time, shivered in the wind. I was glad that I had picked up my earmuffs before leaving the house. And had I blown out the candle on the table? Had we turned off the stove?

  “Why don’t you get back in the patrol car,” Lance said. “We can handle everything from here.” I was about to turn to go when Lance stood up, embraced me quickly, and offered a quick kiss on the cheek—a gentle reminder, in his sweet way, acknowledging both his love for me and his appreciation. I wished I could have returned the favor, and even more so.

  As I retreated into the warm lair of the patrol car, I patted my gloved hands together and examined the scene. Looking back, I noted that there were no skid marks on the road, nor any on the shoulder leading over the ravine. There were not even any tire tracks in the snow-glazed grass, no muddy spray along the asphalt. I was amazed that anyone had even noticed the car down below. Or had they?

  I realized that Phil Carrington, when he drove down the ravine, had not attempted to brake at any time. He may not have been going at a high rate of speed. He had slipped silently away in the afternoon without fanfare.

  I removed my cell phone and made a phone call to the morgue. Blanch answered again. “Blanch . . . Mary Christmas here,” I said. “You won’t believe this, but you’re going to have double-duty tonight. Last night it was Sheila Carrington, and in a few minutes they will be bringing in her husband, Phil. He was just found in the bottom of a ravine.”

  “Just got that call,” Blanch said, but she didn’t know the specifics. “You gonna take this one, too . . . when I’ve completed the autopsy?”

  “Not sure about that yet,” I said. “But I would like for you to be extra thorough with this one. If you can have an assistant take notes I do want to get your report as soon as possible. I’ve got a funeral in the morning, but if you can get the information to me prior, all the better.”

  “I won’t assume anything,” Blanch said. She wheezed, coughed. And then she hacked.

  “I really appreciate your help on this one,” I said. “I’ve never had a situation quite like this.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” she said. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” She laughed, a kind of pathetic diatribe in itself. I said goodnight and hung up as the EMTs rolled away with Phil Carrington’s body in the back.

  Lance was standing in one lane of the highway now, directing traffic, the ease of the traffic palpable with fewer cars, his breath rising and falling across his body as he waved his glow wand and kept the cars moving. The fire trucks packed up and left. The two-man crew with the tow truck continued to hoist the crushed car onto the flatbed—a demolition likely headed for the scrap yard now, perhaps after the police had had an opportunity to examine the remnants more thoroughly.

  I cast my gaze toward the stars—eager to see the light. They were there, few in number, but visible above the ambient glare of the city, the skyline of Indianapolis dimly evident to the east, rising above the flat-line of concrete and asphalt like a row of blackened teeth. The moon, still a sickle and a shell of dark putty, was poised in the sky like a bowl.

  Lance waved the last of the oncoming traffic through the roadside flares and then, handing off the job to his backup and the ever-present news crew, hastened back to the car. He slammed the door, gave an uncomfortable whimper, patted his cheeks and then warmed his hands against the vents. “What a night,” he said. “Nothing out there fit for man nor beast.”

  I checked the dashboard temp gauge. It was three below zero. All of the light had drained away from the highway and darkness was creeping into the Midwest. We had a full view of the road shoulder and the ravine—and before Lance pulled away I asked, “So, as you look at this scene, what do you make of it? You’ve seen accidents like this before.”

  Lance studied the area for a moment. “You’re a detail person,” he said. “I think we both know that guy didn’t try to stop. There are no skid marks. He just drove over the edge. And the fact that he was thrown free of the car. He must not have been wearing his belt. Looked like he died of massive internal injuries.”

  “Blanch, at the morgue, will call me tomorrow with her report,” I said. “I’ll let you know what she finds.”

  “You always have to sign the death certificate?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Another one.”

  “Does that strike you as odd? He dies while driving home from the funeral home?”

  “It does,” I admitted. “But I’m sure I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Lance said as we pulled away at last from the scene. We were headed home, not as quickly or in the manner as we had arrived, but brisk enough for my sense of time and sensibility. The dashboard clock flashed 9:07. The evening, still young, held some promise.

  But we were both cold, and hungry, and yet filled with an insatiable heat. There was nothing left to do but satisfy all of our needs.

  Lance drove on, toward home, toward sanctuary, toward food and the warmth of my arms. Nothing in recent me
mory had felt so surprisingly cold and welcoming at the same time—my body wrapped in blanket and comforter while at the same time throwing it off to be exposed to Lance and all that he wanted to give me. I was receptive. It was, after all, Christmas—and what better season was there to receive those gifts that could keep on giving? It wasn’t food, per se, but satisfying, nonetheless.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When the alarm clock sounded the day opened before me like a blank slate. Lance was already on the job; he’d left behind another note on the nightstand. I rose, showered, dressed, and made my plans. I had a funeral to conduct and far too many unanswered questions. As I thought about the cold night previous, I discovered an irony in the coffee pot—and I was gladdened to see that the temperatures had stabilized, and even risen slightly, overnight. The sunrise, pink and beautiful through the barren trees, reminded me of the crab apple blossoms of Easter.

  I read the morning paper as I drank two cups and then slipped out of the house, once again, to head to the funeral home. It was a beautiful morning, and being on the road at sunrise filled me with hope and promise.

  When I arrived at the funeral home I encountered my first surprise. Rose had returned. But I should not have been shocked by her dedication.

  “I thought we agreed that you’d begin in the New Year,” I told her as I entered.

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “I heard about what happened. I couldn’t let you manage this alone. You don’t worry about me. And besides . . . I have nothing better to do just sitting at home. I would rather be useful. And you do need me!”

  “Well,” I said, “I won’t turn down help as long as you’re here. I’ve got to get things ready for this Carrington funeral.”

  “I’ve already checked the chapel,” Rose said. “The chairs are in nice, even rows. I’ve arranged the flowers that have been delivered. The lights are on. Furnace is working. I’ve got the flags ready for the procession. And . . . I made a pot of coffee.”