3 Madness in Christmas River Page 9

  I tried to argue, but it was sound logic.

  I let out a sigh and wiped away the smudged mascara from beneath my eyes.

  “My treat,” she said, as I lifted up the heavy bottom of the dress and walked into the changing room. “And I’ll make sure they have some mimosas waiting for us.”

  Good old Kara.

  There was most certainly a reason she was my maid of honor.

  Chapter 27

  I came out of the spa smelling wonderful, feeling more relaxed, but wondering if it had been the best use of my time.

  Not that I didn’t deserve two hours of a cranberry butter massage, Douglas fir pedicure, or a sugar cookie facial after all the stress I’d been under, but I couldn’t help but feel that there were more important things that I should be doing.

  Like taking care of Huckleberry or looking for Marie.

  Or maybe I just wasn’t a spa person.

  For someone like Kara, a trip to the spa seemed to cure her of all her ills. For someone like me, it just gave me more time to think about things.

  I kept thinking about the man who had busted up my car the day before and what he’d said to me after hurting Huckleberry.

  And what he had meant by it.

  And what those photos were supposed to mean.

  After I picked up my repaired Escape from the auto body shop, I drove home from the spa, consumed by all of it. But I didn’t get any closer to figuring out the mystery.

  I rounded the corner to my house, noticing that the driveway was packed with cars.

  With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten that it was Warren’s poker night. It looked like a lot of his friends were in town for the holidays, because the cars almost snaked around the block.

  I found a parking spot on the curb across the street. As I got out, I heard laughter erupt from inside the house. It sounded like Warren and his pals were having a rip-roaring time.

  Chapter 28

  “Pull up a chair, darlin’” Sully said after I brought out a plate of white chocolate chip beer brownies, fresh and steaming from the oven. “If I remember right, you’ve got a mighty mean poker face.”

  The table was crowded with just about every one of Warren’s old friends. I didn’t feel much like joining in the game, but I couldn’t think of an excuse in time.

  After whipping up a quick batch of the beer brownies I always made for Warren’s poker nights and putting them in the oven, I’d spent the evening stroking Huckleberry’s soft fur while he lay there in his dog bed, looking miserable.

  Even the Marionberry pie I’d brought home didn’t seem to cheer him up. He leaned forward, lapping at the tin pie pan listlessly before lying back down. Then he looked up at me with sad, bloodshot eyes.

  Poor little Hucks.

  But I could think of nothing else to help his situation, so I took a seat at the table between Sully and Warren, and let Leon deal me in. Warren patted me on the shoulder before grabbing the biggest brownie on the plate and taking a large bite of it before sweeping up his cards and looking at them.

  “That pretty new weather gal on the local news says an even bigger storm’s coming in tonight,” Larry said.

  “I’m surprised you could understand what she was saying,” Bob said. “She can barely get from one end of a sentence to the other.”

  “Yeah, but she’s easy on the eyes,” Larry said. “That’s all that matters to me. I can read a map just fine on my own.”

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “I think everyone knows that that’s all that matters to you.”

  “Hey, don’t drag my Sheila into this,” Larry said, putting his cards down and giving Bob an angry look from behind his thick bottle-top glasses.

  “Now boys,” Sully said. “Don’t make me go back to my sheriffing days. I’m here just for fun.”

  Larry grimaced, looking at Sully and then back at Bob before picking up his cards and making a sour face.

  I scooped up the cards in front of me and took a look at them. I didn’t have a thing. I took the three worst and pushed them in front of me.

  “These brownies are heaven sent,” Dick, one of Warren’s former mill buddies turned-alcoholic turned-sober preacher for the local Presbyterian church, said. “Absolutely divine. Makes me feel a little less guilty for gambling away the night.”

  “Well, I take that as high praise,” I said, smiling.

  “So Cinnamon, that sheriff boyfriend of yours any closer to catching the vandals that ruined the tree?” Dick said.

  I grabbed the three replacement cards Leon slid over to me. I had a pair of twos. A pretty weak hand. It looked like I was going to have to fold or bluff.

  “No, he’s out of town,” I said. “Deputies Trumbow and McHale are working on it.”

  “Great,” Bob said. “A demoted sheriff and a child. Nothing’s getting solved no how.”

  “I heard about that trouble you had with Trumbow a while back,” Sully said, turning toward me. “I heard that sumuvabich almost arrested you. You ever hold that against him?”

  I shrugged.

  “We’re not exactly buddy-buddy,” I said. “But it’s a small town and I can’t afford to hold grudges. Plus, he’s one of my best customers.”

  “Ha, I bet he is,” Sully said. “I saw him walking down the street the other day. I tell you, the voters of Pohly County wouldn’t have let me get to that weight when I was sheriff.”

  “That’s a crock,” Warren said. “You could have gotten away with bloody murder when you were sheriff. People ‘round here acted like you were one of them real Old West sheriffs that couldn’t be touched. Gary Cooper, is who people thought you were.”

  Sully smiled, and looked down at his cards.

  “Those were the days, all right,” he said. “Things sure have changed, though. A sheriff’s job’s a lot harder than it used to be. All those new rules and regulations. I’m sure you hear about that all the time, don’t you Cin?”

  I shrugged.

  “Daniel’s not a complainer,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he continued. “It’s a whole different game these days.”

  “Aw, quit whining,” Warren said. “You’re living the good life on a Caribbean island. What would you know about sheriffing today?”

  “You’re always using that Caribbean line against me, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t help it. You show up here looking like somebody roasted you over a fire, and I’m supposed to forget that you’re living in paradise.”

  Sully laughed.

  “Don’t forget, I work hard at my boat touring business. Takes a lot of money to live on the island these days.”

  “Yeah, sure. You work hard in the morning, and then you spend the afternoons drinking Piña Coladas. If that’s work, then sign me up.”

  Sully put two five dollar chips into the pot, and it passed to Larry. He put his cards down.

  “A lawman never lies,” Larry said, shaking his head.

  It went to Warren. He grabbed another brownie, stuffed it in his mouth, and stared long and hard at his hand. He looked at Sully’s wrinkled face before throwing down his cards in frustration.

  “I know you’ve got something good there. You can’t lie for nothing, Sul,” he said, shaking his head. “Guess you missed that day in class.”

  It passed to me. I looked at my pair of twos, weak as watered down coffee, and then back up at Sully.

  His face was rigid in the easy going expression it had been most of the night, with just a hint of a smile lurking behind it.

  Most had already folded, and I knew I should have too, but for some reason, maybe because I was a bad poker player, I didn’t.

  I grabbed three five-dollar chips and threw it into the pile.

  “I’ll see you and raise you five,” I said.

  There was a hush of oohs at the table.

  “I admire her guts,” Larry said.

  Warren leaned over.

  “Whatchya doing, Cin?” he whispered loudly. “You’re walking into a mine
. He’s probably got a royal flush there.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe I’m the one with the royal flush.”

  Warren saw there was no talking me out of my foolhardy decision.

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Bob shook his head and folded. Shortly after, the rest of them followed suit. It was just down to Sully and me.

  Sully smiled at me, placing a $5 chip plus a $30 chip in the pot.

  I took a deep breath, and studied my cards again.

  I admitted outright that I was a bad poker player. I had no lying skills, and had a hard time figuring out when other people were bluffing.

  So why was I about to stake $45 on my bad poker skills?

  I wasn’t sure. But something in my gut told me to.

  I played with the $35 white poker chip, smooth between my fingers, and sized Sully up one more time.

  I threw the chip in. The smile faded from his face.

  Another round of oohs broke out.

  Sully looked at his cards and then back at me again, studying my face.

  “You sure you want to do this, little girl?” he asked.

  “You bet I do, old man.” I said.

  “Okay, sweetie pie,” Sully said. “If you say so.”

  He laid out his cards.

  Everyone gasped.

  There was no royal flush, no poker, no straights or even three of kinds.

  All Sully Coe had was a measly pair of threes.

  Enough to beat my hand.But just barely.

  I folded my cards and swallowed the bitter taste of defeat as he pulled the pot toward him.

  “Sully, you son of a gun,” Larry said.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Warren said, scratching his head. “Looks like you’ve learned to bluff, Sul.”

  He grinned.

  “Only on special occasions,” he said, winking at me. “Don’t let it get you down darlin’. I wouldn’t really take money from a bride to be. Let’s say you pay me in brownies and pie instead.”

  “Or maybe I’ll make it all back from you on this next hand,” I said.

  “Goddamn, Warren. I sure admire her guts,” Larry said again.

  Chapter 29

  I didn’t win the money back in the next round, or the round after that.

  But that was okay. Playing poker with the boys had gone a ways to taking my mind off my own troubles. Even when I was losing—though Sully absolutely refused to take my money. Instead, he promised to stop by the pie shop to collect his debt later that week.

  The night was beginning to wind down, and most everyone but Sully had left to get home before the brunt of the next storm system hit.

  Sully lingered on, talking shop with Warren and telling him about life in Puerto Rico. The two of them had been friends for a long, long time, and their lengthy conversations were legendary.

  Warren had gone into the garage to grab a bottle of his latest brew for Sully to take home. I was putting away the poker set when Sully came over to me carrying something. His forehead was wrinkled in a surprised expression.

  I gulped when I realized that he had found the folded photograph of the teenager, which I had left on the kitchen counter.

  “Now where’d you get a thing like this?” Sully said, holding up the photo.

  “I, uh, well, it was—”

  “Do you know who this is?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  Sully glanced back down at the photo.

  “This kid here?” he said, pointing to the teenager. “Went missing from Christmas River more than 30 years ago.”

  Chapter 30

  I stared out the window, looking at the Escape sitting on the street.

  It was almost unrecognizable as a car, buried under a bank of snow and ice thicker than the merengue on top of a pie.

  I always prided myself in my solid winter driving skills. But even I admitted defeat in this one. There would be no getting off this street today.

  I shivered. Cold radiated from the window as the 18-degree air tried to get inside.

  I turned up the heater, and gave Chrissy and Tiana a call to let them know not to come into work today. The shopping tourists that perused the streets of Christmas River this time of year were determined and foolhardy, but I had to believe that even they had a little sense in them. Sense enough to see that all that ice wasn’t going to let them get a foot outside of their hotel rooms.

  I went downstairs, brewed a pot of holiday spiced coffee, and poured myself a cup. Warren was usually up by now, but I sensed that he had a poker night hangover. Between all those brownies he’d been shamelessly packing away, and the homebrew that he kept filling his pint glass up with, I was sure he was going to be out for at least another couple hours.

  I took another sip of my coffee.

  Sometimes, cold winter mornings were the loneliest time of the day.

  I took a seat in front of the television and flipped it to the TV news station. It was a humdinger of a storm that had swept through Pohly County, breaking trees in half and causing power lines to go down, and yet another part of the storm was expected to blow through late tonight. Larry’s weather girl was dancing around the screen, tripping over her words and not making much sense. But she didn’t need to. The images said it all.

  We were in for a hell of a bad winter. That was for sure.

  While the weather girl fumbled even more words, my mind started churning over the story Sully had told the night before.

  He vanished like he never existed.

  His story about the missing teen echoed in my head.

  The boy in the photos that had been left on my doorstep and on my car windshield was named Anthony Matthews. He grew up in Christmas River. He had a reputation as a trouble-maker. He got caught stealing cigarettes from the local convenience store a half a dozen times and spent time in the county juvenile detention. But despite his run-ins with the law, he wasn’t that bad of a kid, Sully had said. Just troubled.

  The name was familiar, I realized. I must have heard of the story somewhere before.

  It was back in early 80s, before my time, when he went missing one summer night. Last anyone saw, he was driving out to the lake, a popular hangout for kids in this town. And then nobody ever heard from him again. Sully was sheriff then. He spent years looking for the kid and his truck before realizing the case just led to a dead end.

  A lot of people thought Anthony Matthews just blew out of town and never looked back, the way so many high school kids living in a small town dream of doing.

  But Sully said he never bought that theory.

  Sully said it wasn’t long before the case went cold. And nobody cared much about the disappearance of a troubled teen.

  “If it had been a pretty blond homecoming queen, this town would have ran itself ragged searching,” Sully had said. “But as it was, nobody cared about a kid who was probably going to end up in the state penitentiary. Nobody but me.”

  It was a sad story, and looking into Sully’s face as he told it, I knew that it still haunted him.

  Then, he asked me where I got the photo.

  “Somebody left it on the porch one morning,” I told him. “I don’t know why. I’ve never heard about any of this before.”

  “Hmm,” Sully said, rubbing his chin. “That’s pretty strange.”

  “What do you think happened to him?” I asked.

  “I always thought Anthony met a bad end,” Sully said. “Somebody killed him. Somebody got away with murder. And believe me, their time’s coming. It may not come from the law, but I believe things have a way of working themselves out in the end.”

  I thought I saw something burn in his eyes when he said that, reminding me of a preacher delivering a hell-fire and brimstone sermon.

  I was sure that back in the day, Sully Coe had been a pretty imposing sheriff.

  He left our house about an hour after that. Warren sent him home with a 22-ounce bottle of his special reserve beer.

  Before leaving
, Sully tipped his hat at me.

  “I’ll be by the shop to collect on that debt later this week,” he said.

  “I look forward to it,” I said, smiling.

  Sully left, and I spent the rest of the night thinking about Anthony Matthews.

  Now I was spending the morning thinking about him too.

  I stared at the morning newscast, wondering just what the cold case of a missing teenage boy had to do with the strange things going on in Christmas River.

  I was awakened from my thoughts by a bump on my leg.

  I looked down.

  Huckleberry was looking at me, his little nub wagging. There was a brightness in his eyes that I hadn’t seen since before he was hurt.

  I put my cup of coffee down on the table, knelt down, and threw my arms around his soft fur. He nuzzled my neck, and I felt my heart lift. For the first time since that man had kicked him, I felt sure that Huckleberry was going to be okay.

  Which was a very good thing, because since he’d first showed up on the doorstep of the pie shop nearly two years ago, the two of us had practically become inseparable.

  I didn’t know what I would do without my Hucks.

  “C’mon,” I said, gently lifting him. “You’re not supposed to be walking around.”

  I placed him back in his doggie bed and filled his food bowl up with more kibble. He lay on his stomach and started eating from it.

  I went back to my cup of coffee.

  What did any of this mean?

  And where in the hell was Marie?

  I was tired of asking questions that had no answers. And I was tired of thinking about any of it.

  These few weeks leading up to the wedding were supposed to be some of the most exciting in my life, but instead, they had been filled with danger, loneliness, and a sense of pervading dread.

  I sighed.

  And just when I thought the outlook couldn’t be any grimmer, the power went out.

  Chapter 31

  “You’re what?”

  I sucked in freezing air. My lungs burned as I tried to get enough breath to speak.