Thin Ice

by Paige Shelton

  I’d spent a long time not paying attention to those bells. I was never doing that again.

  “I’m still good with numbers if you need me for any of that. I’m also a good sounding board, my grandfather always said so. If you’re serious, sure, let me know how I can help.”

  “I am serious, and I will let you know,” Gril said. He sent me a quick look. “I’m not too proud to admit that I’m a small-town lawman with few resources, Ms. Rivers. I’m happy to have another resource in town, a consultant, if you will. I also hope it gets figured out quickly and no real investigation is necessary, but still.”

  “Yeah. But still,” I said.

  “So, since you were a secretary and all, do you use shorthand to write your books?” Gril asked, changing the subject.

  “Nope. I never used it as a secretary. For my books, I write on my typewriter and then scan in the pages and edit from there.”

  “Seems tedious.”

  “It’s how I started, and I can’t seem to do it any other way.”

  Gril nodded. “Good with both numbers and words. That’s a rare combination.”

  “That’s what my grandfather always said.” I smiled sadly but kept my attention out the windshield.

  Gril took another right onto a road that was even rougher than the one we’d been on. It might not have been considered a road. It was wet from an earlier rain, though there was enough brush on the ground to keep it from being too muddy. There were no flowers out here, daisies or otherwise, but thick trees that seemed deep, dark, and unfriendly. It would be difficult to run through these woods, which also meant it would be difficult to chase someone through them.

  “Why is it unclear? Murder or suicide?” I asked.

  Gril just shook his head and didn’t look at me. “Hard to pinpoint it, but it’s just … something.”

  “Hmm,” I said. I’d heard that sort of thing before. Gramps had done a lot of investigating just because something sat funny with him. Instinct, gut feeling, whatever it was, Gramps thought it was important to listen to it. It looked like Gril thought so too.

  “We’re spread out here,” Gril continued. “We used to have a slightly larger downtown but there was a fire. We have other places of business throughout the woods. We’re a small community, only about five hundred full-time residents, but we still need things. One thing we used to have was a newspaper, not much in the way of delivery people, but folks could stop by and pick up a paper copy if they wanted to, and a bunch of copies were always left downtown for pickup there too.”

  I didn’t mention that Donner had given me many of the same tour highlights.

  Gril parked the truck directly outside a double-wide tin shack put together with four old and uneven sides. Its weathered gray walls were topped by a green peaked tin roof, and the entire structure leaned a little to the right. A hand-painted sign was nailed atop the door. BENEDICT PETITION.

  “How has that building survived? Surely it snows like crazy around here,” I said.

  Gril half-smiled. “Well, so far so good, but reinforcements have been made. It’s an old hunting shed. What do you think?”

  “You want me to hunt something or work at a paper?”

  “I want you to be the paper. Well, only if you want to. Old Bobby Reardon started it and did it for years. There’s no rent on the building, and there’s no charge for subscriptions. We couldn’t pay you, but Detective Majors said you don’t need money.”

  “I have book deadlines.” I didn’t add if I ever write again, but the words echoed in my mind. They wouldn’t go away.

  “Oh, this wouldn’t interfere with those. Not much news up here. Mostly, you would note event times and places, things like potlucks and Girl Scout meetings. It’s pretty easy. We don’t have enough Internet access throughout town to make a website or anything, but if you lean over that way, you’ll see another building.”

  I leaned to the left and saw a small brick building about half a football field into the woods.

  Gril continued, “It’s the library. Most times, the library’s Internet access works okay from the Petition’s building, but it’s not a far walk to the library if need be. You’d write the paper, print copies, and drop some off at the Mercantile where people can pick them up. Once a week. Bobby died almost a year ago. We’ve missed him and the paper. You could work from here. Ride a bike from the Benedict House for now. Winter comes and you’re still here, we’d have to come up with other transportation. I think it would make a good cover for you. You could work, write your books in there, and no one would know the difference.”

  “I told Viola and the others that I was a consultant.”

  “For what?”

  “Office organization.”

  His eyebrows came together as he looked at me. “Like Hailey from 37 Flights? Do you think they believed you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gril shrugged. “I think you could make it work here. And I’ve saved the best part for last. We have a very spotty cell phone signal around here, but for a reason we never could understand, it’s good here.”

  I nodded. That part did sound appealing. “How would we justify me being the paper? I mean, we can’t tell anyone I’m a writer.”

  “Bobby didn’t have any writing experience. We’d’ve given the non-paying job to someone else if they wanted it, but no one else did or does. No experience necessary. Grammar and punctuation aren’t all that important either; you’ll see. We’ll just tell everyone you wanted something more to do while you’re visiting, and this was my first idea. It’ll be good to have it back, no matter how temporary.”

  “Can I think about it for a day?” I said, only because it seemed like the right thing to say. I didn’t want to commit to anything and, given a day, maybe I could find a better way to say no.

  “I think it would be better if you just did it for a day. Come on, I’ll let you in, show you around the place, and you can have some time to get acquainted with our Petition. I think you’re going to like it.”

  Gril agilely moved his burly body out of the truck. I had no idea if he was a good police officer, but I appreciated his efforts to help me, a stranger to his world. I was already beginning to feel the embarrassment from my earlier breakdown, but I had no doubt that he’d never bring it up again, and would shrug it off if I did.

  I got out of the truck and made my way inside to the official and leaning offices of the Benedict Petition.

  Six

  “Here’s the key. There’s everything else. I can get you a new computer, and the printer is good, almost brand-new. Look around. Get a feel.”

  That had been the extent of the tour. There’d been a bicycle with two flat tires sitting in the middle of the space. Gril offered to take the bike while I got acquainted with the shed-turned-newspaper-office. He said he’d get the tires taken care of and return it. I could either walk back to the hotel or wait for him to bring it back. He said he wouldn’t be gone long.

  The newspaper office was made up of two messy desks, two messy tables against walls, a nice printer-copier, a watercooler that Gril said he would replenish, and four file cabinets that overflowed with papers I didn’t think could possibly all be necessary for a newspaper the size of the Petition. Everything was old, about circa last mid-century if I knew my office equipment, and I wasn’t so sure I did. A chalkboard, dusty with old chalk, had been nailed to one of the walls. Whatever had been written on it had been erased, but the board hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. A hula girl lamp sat on one desk, a lamp made with a football base on the other.

  The small space with only one window felt like something out of an old black-and-white movie, like the ones I used to watch at my grandfather’s house late at night on channels that only antennas could find, films with actors like Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. In fact, there was even an old Casablanca poster on the wall, faded and frayed around the edges.

  I blinked back a wave of more nostalgic tears when I saw the large, clunky typewriter
s on each desk, one an Underwood, the other a Royal. I’d always wanted to type on a Royal. I needed to limit myself to one emotional breakdown a day though, so I swallowed the tears. There was something about those old machines. Sometimes I wondered if I’d wanted to be a writer because of the stories in my head or the joy my fingers took in the process of creating them. I sniffed and told myself to shape up.

  I sat at a desk, my finger absently pushing lightly on the Royal’s “B” key, and envisioned myself working there. I looked out the side window. The view of the woods was similar to the view out of my home office in Missouri, but these woods were darker and more unsettling, jammed with more trees. Also, more protective. I’d already determined that these trees could keep out Levi Brooks much better than the trees back home. I leaned backwards, looked out the window, and spotted the library. A brick building that looked like it should be a library, it seemed older but in great shape. Several cars and trucks were parked along one side. It wasn’t too far away. I watched as a young woman and a little boy came out of the doors, each of them carrying a stack of books. The little boy dropped a book, but just as I was about to go outside and call over to let them know, he ran back and got it. The two of them and their books piled into a small car and drove away.

  I turned back to the desk. My Olympia would fit with the other two typewriters, as well as any computer I might get from Gril. I’d hidden some burner phones in my backpack, but one was deep in my pocket. I hoped the cell reception was as good as Gril had claimed, but I’d try it later.

  I was under the impression that I could make the Petition whatever I wanted to make it, but I didn’t know where to begin. Did that matter? I had never studied journalism. I concluded that even if the job was simple, it just wasn’t something I could commit to, even in a small way. It wasn’t me.

  However, just as I made the decision, more thoughts took shape. The building would give me a place to go. I could work and no one would be bothered by my noisy typewriter keys. Working at the Petition might be the perfect cover. And, I reminded myself, I’d never studied creative writing either. I’d just done it.

  I hoped that Levi Brooks would be caught soon, that I wouldn’t have to hide for long. But whatever my tasks here would be, they could be just as easily abandoned by me as they had been by Bobby Reardon. If I said I’d do it, Gril wouldn’t need two weeks’ notice when I left.

  I didn’t know if Gril was serious when he asked if I wanted to polish up my old skills; maybe he was just working hard to give me something to do. But I was curious. No, something a little more than curious, something that could maybe turn into an obsession if I wasn’t careful. It pulled at me, this mysterious local death that might be a murder. Was it simply pure coincidence that Benedict, Alaska, had potentially seen a murder during the same time I was making my way to the small village—a place that didn’t see many murders other than those committed by Mother Nature? Probably. But I couldn’t stop wondering.

  Working at the Petition might also give me a way to gain a quicker understanding of what had happened and if, long shot that it was, it had anything to do with me or Levi. I knew I was overreacting, being paranoid, but it was something I couldn’t seem to ignore.

  Yeah, I wasn’t ever going to ignore those alarm bells again, no matter how loud or quietly they rang.

  As I thought about what I was going to do and the decisions I’d made to get there, to this tiny outbuilding in Alaska, the door opened again, moving gently, but startling me nonetheless. I swallowed a gasp.

  “Tires should be fine,” Gril said as he wheeled the bike in. “At least you’ll have something. I’ll get the watercooler taken care of this evening.”

  “I could buy a truck.”

  “Sure, if you want. But you might want to make sure you’re staying before you do that.”

  I nodded. “Chief, I have some questions for you regarding the alleged murder we spoke briefly about. Could I get some answers, on the record?”

  He looked perturbed and confused at the same time. “That’s not really what I had in mind, either with the job at the Petition, or helping me.”

  “Well, that’s what I want to make it. I’d love to help you out in any way I can, and if you’re okay with that, I’ll also take this non-paying job and do my best with it.”

  A variety of expressions continued to move over and around the shaggy beard and grimy glasses, but ultimately he said, “All right. I have a few more minutes. Let’s talk.”

  Gril didn’t think I’d really write an article about the recent death, I could tell. He probably thought I was just being writer curious, researching, gathering information. He might have been correct, but as we talked, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the information. I just knew I needed to have it.

  The name of the deceased was Linda Rafferty. She and her husband, George, had moved to Benedict three years earlier. They’d come from South Carolina, crossing the globe to get away. Having lost a teenage child to a car accident, their grief had been their compelling force. They’d purchased a home in what Gril called the West coordinate. Though not a part of any official map, Benedict was spread out in sections, four directionally named, square-ish vast plots of land. It proved an efficient way to give directions.

  Quiet folks who mostly kept to themselves, from the moment they’d arrived in Alaska, George and Linda had devoted themselves to the Glacier Bay National Park, working some paying jobs but also volunteering in any way that was required.

  “What ways are required?” I asked Gril. “What do people who work at a park made of glaciers do?”

  “Boat tours, kayak tours, set up camping, look after the visitors’ center, café, and there’s a lodge there too. All of us help out if we need to, you’ll see, but I know that both of them worked housekeeping for a while. Linda had been working in the café recently. And … I was…” He stopped abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re going over to check out a lead or something?”

  He looked at me a long moment, and his eyes changed, hardened. Only a short time ago he was speaking to a new resident, someone frightened and emotional, and now, for all intents and purposes, I was asking questions as a member of the press, one that he’d hired. This was a quickly transforming acquaintanceship, and probably not exactly what he had in mind.

  “Look,” he said as he stood, “get acclimated. I’m glad you want to do this, but I’m not sure it’s what you think it is. Look over old copies, old files, whatever is in here. You’ll see that you have time to write your books and work on the Petition—in its original incarnation. Feel free to call me if the bike doesn’t work. There’s a good cell signal here. And, I’ll call if I have anything I’d like to run by you. You said you’re good with numbers, crime scene measurements?”

  “Yes.”

  He placed a business card on the desk. “Good to know. And, call me if you need anything at all. I know it’s been rough.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The space was compact so he didn’t have to take many steps to get to the door. Once there he hesitated and turned to face me again.

  He sent me a small smile, one that came with duty and obligation. “Welcome to Benedict, Beth. We’re glad to have you here. I know you’ve been through a lot, but I really do believe you are safe. I will receive manifests of all visitors coming over via ferry, and Francis keeps track of everyone flying in. I check with him all the time, will do so even more now. I hope you can enjoy your time and relax.”

  “I feel safe,” I said. “I feel a little like I’ve traveled to another planet, but I think that’s good. Thank you for everything.”

  In fact, I felt safer, but not completely safe. Maybe I just needed some time, maybe it was normal, considering what I’d been through, that all my senses were still on high alert, that I wasn’t ready to relax. After hearing about Linda Rafferty, there didn’t seem to be any way at all that her
death had anything to do with me, but my deep curiosity hadn’t abated.

  Gril nodded, and then turned to leave, closing the door just as gently as he’d opened it a few minutes earlier.

  I looked around the shack some more. It was a complete mess, and I did need to get acclimated to Benedict, Alaska.

  Gramps’s words rang in my mind. “No better way to learn how to do something than in a small-town job.”

  I got to work.

  Seven

  I’d just finished clearing off the top of one of the desks when a knock sounded on the door. I froze in place and the silence that followed grew big in my ears.

  I gritted my teeth and held my breath. I understood my post-traumatic reaction, and I also understood it was uncalled for. It was as if I was operating in two different but parallel realms. I knew normal, remembered it, could see it there next to me. But I was in that other realm, where the monsters lived.

  The knocks came again. “Hey, Beth.”

  I deflated with relief at the female voice. I was pretty sure it was Viola. I’d taken off my cap, but I put it back on and then stepped over a couple of piles of paper to get to the door.

  “Hey, Viola.” I unlocked and then opened the door wide.

  “Hey, yourself.” She squinted. “I brought some of my world famous—not exaggerating there—chicken soup in a thermos, but we need to talk. Gril told me you’d be here.”

  “Come in.”

  She stepped over the threshold. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I’m just getting started. Did Gril tell you what I’m doing?”

  “He said you were the new Bobby. Don’t know about that though. Bobby’s mud boots will be pretty hard to fill. You got what it takes?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m willing to try. For free, even.”