3 Madness in Christmas River Page 7

  Chapter 18

  The blue sky was beginning to fall into shades of purple as I walked toward downtown. An icy wind rocked the trees back and forth. The temperature began to plummet as the light faded.

  I picked up the pace.

  I hadn’t gone into work that day.

  Later that morning, we were able to take Huckleberry home from the vet. When they carried him out of the backroom, I swear that I felt my heart cracking.

  His body was wrapped up in bandages, along with his left front leg. He was woozy and out of it after the sedatives they’d given him, and his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth unnaturally.

  Kara drove us home, and I spent the afternoon watching him sleep in his doggy bed.

  I felt sad and guilty, but as the hours dragged on and I had more time to think, another feeling was starting to take hold.

  Anger.

  I flashed back on those harsh, dangerous eyes behind the ski mask.

  I shivered thinking about the man kicking my dog. About Huckleberry’s chilling whimpers.

  The thought that the man might get away with it filled me with rage.

  I wanted to see him pay for what he did. I wanted to see him suffer the way my poor little Hucks was suffering right now.

  Deputy McHale had been pushy and insensitive. But I knew that underneath that smug, judgmental exterior, he was only trying to do his job. And I’d just been in such a state of hysteria that I hadn’t been able to appreciate that.

  I came to the conclusion that I didn’t much care for Deputy McHale. But Daniel had said he was good at what he did. In fact, of all the deputies at the department, Daniel seemed to think Deputy McHale was the most capable, trumping Trumbow by a longshot.

  Maybe there was something I wasn’t seeing in him.

  Chunky flakes of snow began to cascade down as the dusky purple sky faded into hollow greys.

  I pulled my hood over my red knit hat and tried to walk faster, my snow boots crunching loudly against the sidewalk.

  My car was in the shop getting fixed up and wouldn’t be ready until sometime the next day. Hence, the reason I was walking instead of driving.

  I thought back to the man in the ski mask. His words echoed in my head.

  You better listen if you don’t want to end up like your dog.

  Try as I might to understand, I didn’t know what that meant.

  Listen to what?

  I didn’t know why someone would want to hurt me.

  I couldn’t think of any enemies I’d made. For the most part, I was just a lady who loved baking pies. My life was simple. I hadn’t done anybody great wrong, and I tried to live my life as a decent citizen.

  Save for my fierce Gingerbread Junction streak and the fact that I was marrying the sheriff of Pohly County, I couldn’t think of any reason anybody would hold a grudge against me.

  The snow picked up its intensity.

  I turned the corner. The faded brown sign for the sheriff’s station squeaked loudly in the wind.

  Regardless of what I thought about Deputy McHale, he would have to do his job and help me.

  Chapter 19

  It was 15 minutes to 5, and the Christmas River police station was a ghost town.

  The lights were all off, like I was coming in at 3 in the morning instead of a few minutes before the end of the work day.

  A lone deputy, Billy Jasper, sat at the front desk staring at the computer intensely and clicking his mouse.

  I would have bet $10 he was playing solitaire.

  “Hey Billy, is Deputy McHale around?”

  Billy jumped up in his chair, dropping the mouse on the pad. He looked up from behind his glasses with a jarred expression.

  “Uh, no, Mrs. Bright—I mean, Ms. Peters,” he said, acting like he’d just been caught at school doodling in his notebook instead of doing his algebra. “He, uh, he went home half an hour ago.”

  I bit my lower lip in frustration.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning around and heading for the door.

  “Any time!” he yelled after me, a little too eagerly.

  Most days I would have reached out more to Billy Jasper. He was the newest recruit at the police station, a rookie in just about every sense of the word. Daniel was a compassionate person and never said a cross thing to or about Billy. But I could tell that sometimes, Billy’s naivety and lack of common sense irritated him.

  Still, Billy was a nice enough kid, a good deal nicer than some others at the station. I always made an effort to be extra kind to him.

  But I just couldn’t find it in me to go the extra mile tonight.

  I left the police station, lifting my hood over my head. The snow was coming down even harder, large clumps of it falling from the darkening sky. I wished that I had asked Kara to drive me instead of being stubborn and thinking I could walk in this kind of weather.

  I started heading in the direction of home, my feet feeling heavy as they sank into the gathering snow. I tried to walk fast, but it was hard to do when you couldn’t see where you were going on account of the snow.

  I was just about past downtown and preparing to make the hike back to my house, when the old weathered sign for the Pine Needle Tavern appeared in front of me like a mirage in the desert.

  I stood underneath it, thinking about whether or not to go in and wait out the heavy snowfall.

  A sudden gust of bitterly cold wind made the decision for me.

  I reached for the familiar iron handle and went inside.

  Chapter 20

  The tavern was crowded.

  I shook my coat free of snow, hung it up on the rack, and headed straight for the back bar where I planned to take a seat and wait out the snow storm, knowing full well that it might not let up for several hours.

  B.B. King crooned loudly over the speakers, and people shouted even louder over him.

  I sat at the smooth cherry wood bar, waiting for Harold to take notice of me. By the looks of it, he was in the middle of a heated discussion with Craig Canby, a regular at the tavern who had recently quit his job as a school counselor. They were arguing about some controversial call in the 49ers and Seahawks game.

  I took the opportunity to check my phone again, hoping in vain that Marie might have called and that I had missed it.

  But there was no message from her.

  I felt a twinge of worry in my gut.

  Maybe I was overreacting. She had, after all, disappeared like this before. And, in the big picture, she hadn’t really been gone that long. I didn’t even think I could officially file a missing person’s report yet.

  I wondered if I was acting like an annoying, worried mother. Acting like Marie was a teenager, instead of a woman in her 50s who was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

  I let out a sigh.

  No message from Daniel either.

  Daniel and I had been playing phone tag most of the day. I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him what had happened to Huckleberry and me. And frankly, I wasn’t really looking forward to rehashing the whole thing.

  Harold finally noticed I was sitting there and pulled himself away from the debate. He pushed his thick glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and saddled over to me.

  “You doin’ okay, Cin?” he asked. “I heard about what happened to your car this morning.”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said. “But two fingers of whiskey might take the edge off.”

  “You want that on the rocks?”

  “Neat, please.”

  For the second time that day, I said to hell with calorie counting.

  He returned a moment with the glass of golden liquid and pushed it in front of me. I thanked him.

  “You know, it’s just shameful something like that happening in our Christmas River,” he said. “I tell you what, in the days when your grandfather and I were in our prime, this place was
a real paradise. You never heard about things like car break-ins or vandalism, or little dogs getting hurt. Everybody I knew left their doors unlocked and didn’t even think about somebody breaking in.”

  It was the same speech I’d heard Warren repeat anytime anything bad happened in Christmas River. Not that I could blame them for longing for a simpler time. When I was growing up in Christmas River, it was still a lot like that. But being a small town in Oregon, a certain drug scene had crept into the outskirts of the town at that time. I’d always heard rumors about it, and sometimes you’d see some unsavory characters wander into the grocery store to stock up on supplies.

  But they never broke your car window or assaulted your dog.

  Harold had a point about things changing in our town.

  I took a sip of the whiskey. It burned as it ran down my throat, and then filled me with a pleasant warmth.

  “Does the sheriff have any leads about the Grinch who ruined our tree?” Harold said.

  I shook my head.

  “Daniel’s out of town on business for a few days,” I said. “Trumbow and the rest of the team are working on it.”

  I knew Harold meant well, but I wasn’t exactly in a talking kind of mood. Unfortunately for me, Harold was always in a talking kind of mood. That’s what made him such a good bartender.

  “I tell you what,” Harold started in again.

  I took a deep breath. I knew by his expression that I was in for a long story. A story that I just didn’t have the energy for.

  I glanced over at Craig Canby, hoping that maybe he could somehow save me from Harold’s longwinded banter. But when I looked over, I realized there was no hope. He had moved over a few barstools so he could talk to Maddie Stevenson, a barista at the local Safeway Starbucks who was considered a real catch by most of the fellas in Christmas River.

  “When I was a kid, nobody would dream of doing such a thing to the town’s Christmas tree. My generation had respect, you know? This new generation’s just got no respect for anything or anyone. But you can’t put all the blame on the kids. It’s those parents of theirs. These days, kids are given all these choices. Do you want Cocoa Puffs or Rice Krispies? Do you want to play basketball or football? Should we go to Disney Land or Disney World? I mean, when I was a kid, there were no choices. If you were lucky, you’d get some bland oatmeal for breakfast or you’d go hungry. If you had the time to play a sport instead of work down at the mill, you felt lucky. Was it fun for us kids? No, but it was—”

  “I’d like to talk to Miss Peters,” I heard a voice say from behind me.

  I glanced up in the bar mirror, wondering who my savior was.

  I wasn’t exactly happy to see him standing there, but I wasn’t exactly unhappy either.

  “See what I mean?” Harold said, leaning in close to me. “This young fella’s probably one of those choice types. I tell you, a whole generation of them’s gonna wreck the world.”

  He threw his shoulders back, gave the man behind me a sour look, then shrugged. Harold went away to help some other customers at the other end of the bar.

  Deputy McHale took a seat next to me.

  Chapter 21

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” I said.

  “Why’s that?” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “You don’t seem like much of a drinker,” I said. “You only had that one beer at Thanksgiving.”

  “I don’t really like pumpkin beer.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t know whether that was an insult aimed at Warren’s beer, or if he was just being honest. I took another sip of whiskey, letting the awkward silence drag on between us.

  “So what are you doing here by yourself?” he asked.

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Drinking.”

  “I see now why you’re in the crime-solving business,” I said.

  My sarcasm came out sharper than I wanted it to. He was quiet.

  “I walked down here tonight to find you,” I said, finishing the last of my drink. “But the station was deserted.”

  “Just because no one’s there doesn’t mean no one’s working,” he said.

  “Good line,” I said. “I bet that works with all the ladies.”

  He leaned in closer to me.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened this morning? Or are you going to make me work for it? Because frankly, Miss Peters, I don’t have a lot of time to waste begging if you can’t figure out that I’m just trying to help you.”

  I felt my ears grow hot. I swallowed hard.

  I’d had just about enough of him.

  “Did anybody ever tell you that you’re an asshole?” I said.

  I stared at him straight in the eyes. I wasn’t going to take this off of some 20-something. Not after giving him a seat at my Thanksgiving dinner table.

  And not after all the kindness Daniel had shown him.

  His face flushed suddenly, and he didn’t speak. I signaled Harold for another drink, satisfied that I’d gotten under his skin, the way he’d been getting under mine all day.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I don’t have time to be nice,” he said.

  “You ought to make time,” I said, starting in on a fresh drink, the buzz of the last one rushing through me. “You ever hear that expression, ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?’”

  He didn’t say anything for a few moments, and I enjoyed my drink quietly.

  “Maybe you should give it some thought,” I said.

  “All right, Miss Peters,” he said. “Can I help you with what happened today?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was being serious, or if he was being sarcastic, but I was past the point of caring.

  All I wanted was for the bastard who hurt my dog to get what he deserved.

  Deputy McHale dug around in his pocket and pulled something out. He placed it in front of me.

  “Maybe we should start here,” he said.

  I peered at the photo between the plastic of the zip lock bag, realizing that things had just gotten a lot more complicated.

  Chapter 22

  “You’re not really walking home in this, are you?”

  We were standing underneath the awning of the Pine Needle Tavern, watching the white wall of flakes blow sideways in the wind.

  It was practically a whiteout.

  I zipped up my jacket and pulled my hat down over my eyebrows. I wasn’t cold. The whiskey had taken care of that.

  “I do it all the time,” I said.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Owen said.

  “Do you have a better one?”

  “My car’s here in the lot. I can have you home in a few minutes.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’d rather walk.”

  “I’d rather you not.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree then,” I said, starting off toward the direction of my house.

  I felt a hand clutch the back of my arm.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Don’t make me drag you.”

  I had told Owen just about everything that had happened that morning. The way the man looked, what he’d said, and then what he did to Huckleberry. I told him about Marie going missing. I told him about the photograph of the teenager that had been inside the ornament left on my porch the day before.

  The same teenager in the photo that had been left on my busted windshield this morning.

  I didn’t know what any of it meant. All I knew was that I was being targeted. And that I had nothing to lose by telling Owen everything.

  We’d spent at least an hour going over the details. He’d ordered a beer and barely touched it. I had another whiskey, even though I knew I really shouldn’t have. But the pleasant fogginess of the drink gave me a sense of relief that had been in short supply these days, given the amount of stress I was under and the strict diet I was holding myself to.

  And frankly, I didn’t want the feeling the whiskey was giving me t
o end.

  “You’re not dragging me anywhere,” I said, focusing hard on my words as not to slur. “I live close by.”

  “It’s at least a mile. And I know you’re feeling toasty now, but a few minutes into it you’re going to regret not taking me up on my offer. Now, c’mon. You know that Sheriff Brightman would never forgive me if I let you walk out into this blizzard.”

  I stopped in my tracks. The wind whipped hard into my face, and I thought about Daniel.

  Owen was right.

  “Fine,” I said, letting him lead me to the patrol car. “But I’m only doing this so you won’t get in trouble with the sheriff.”

  “Whatever you say,” he said.

  Owen opened the door of the car for me, and I climbed inside. It smelled clean and fresh, like he’d just had it detailed. I was sure that not a single item was ever out of place in this car.

  He got in, pulling his beanie off and brushing the snow from his hair before starting the engine.

  He pulled out of the parking lot, going too fast, and briefly slid on a patch of ice before turning out onto the street.

  “I’m not sure if this is much safer,” I said.

  We drove in silence for a while. I noticed he went the speed limit on every street.

  “So, what’s your plan?” I said, staring out the window. “Is Christmas River just a pit stop for you before going onto a bigger and better town?”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing,” he said. “That I’d want to do better than a small town in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s not a bad thing,” I said. “I felt that way too growing up here. I got out. But a few years after I left, all I wanted to do was to come back.”

  “I guess we’re different people,” he said. “This place makes me feel like I can’t breathe. Everybody’s just right there in your business all the time.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “The women of this town especially,” he said.

  I smirked, thinking about Kara and the way the young deputy seemed to make her completely forget about the two-year relationship she had with John.