Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 (9 page)

She put the car into first gear and tried to move forward, but the wheels spun. She shifted into reverse, lifted the clutch gently, and again the wheels spun. She could see nothing out her rear mirror, not even a reflection of her taillights on the blowing snow. She shifted back into first. The car moved a few inches, tires spinning. The bark of the pine tree groaned against the door. She backed up, then rocked forward again, pleased to find an old skill still existed. She put it in reverse, and lifted the clutch. There was resistance, then suddenly the car bounced hard over something and slid around the tree, tilting more obviously backward. That scared her, and she jammed on the brake pedal, forgetting it was useless. The clutch slid out from under her other foot, and the engine died.

She started it up again, but the car ran only briefly before choking and stammering. She twisted the wheel, pumping the gas pedal, then the stink of raw gasoline filled the car and instantly she turned the ignition off.

I'm okay, I'm still okay,
she reassured herself.

She left the headlights on, set the emergency brake, and found a flashlight in the glove box. It had been a while since she'd needed it, and she was unhappy to discover the batteries were half dead. She opened the door just an inch. The gasoline smell was stronger outside, and snow came in with a rush, driven by the wind.

The tilt of the car combined with the push of the wind to make getting out a serious effort.

She tried to walk around the car. An old fallen tree blocked her way to the back, stubs of branches poking up through the snow. That's what she'd backed over, and apparently something sticking up had punctured her gas tank. The car's back end was buried in a sprawling evergreen bush, and the shaggy-barked pine tree was a big old monarch. She turned around and went back, looking for the skid marks she'd made coming down the slope. She found them and followed them upward, slipping and falling, until suddenly she was on the road. She turned and looked down at her car.

All she could see was a light twinkling behind curtains of whirling snow.

Betsy trudged up the road for five minutes, the dying flashlight not much help. She hadn't changed out of her work clothes before setting out for Heidi's place, and the powerful wind whipped under both her heavy coat and her box-pleated woolen skirt, chilling her halfway up her thighs. When she stopped and turned off the flashlight, she didn't see the lights of a store, a house, or a barn anywhere.

Then she turned around, and she couldn't see her headlights, either. Alarmed, she started back. The wind was strong, shoving and tugging at her as she walked. Staggering onto the slope was her only warning that she was not keeping to the road. This happened three times, and by then she was wondering if she'd gone past her car. She stopped to peer all around. An extra strong gust of wind stung her face and she turned her back to it. And there were the headlights, gleaming fitfully from down the slope. As suddenly as they appeared, they were gone again in the yellow swirl her dying flashlight's beam made of the snow flying all around her.

But having found her direction, she looked for the skid marks—they were nearly drifted over—and half fell, half slid along them back down the slope, until she reached her car. After another struggle, she got the door open enough to get back in. There, she shut off the headlights and sat in gasoline-scented darkness to catch her breath.

Now she was scared.

“
H
ello, Godwin? It's Jill. Say, do you have Heidi Watgren's phone number?”

“I already called her. Betsy never arrived.”

“Oh, heck.”

“My very words, or nearly. I was hoping she got there and Heidi had the sense to make her stay.”

“Me, too.”

“Is it too soon to file a missing person report?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But this is different. I hope she has sense enough to open that box.”

 

Betsy's stumble back down the slope had warmed her up but left her caked with snow. She had knocked the worst of it off before getting back into the car, but her coat and skirt were now damp, even wet in places. And once she started cooling off, she kept cooling right into chilled.

The stink of gas wasn't as overpowering now. Maybe most of what had spilled had evaporated or run away downhill. Was there still some gas in the tank?

She turned the key to Utilities, then turned on the running lights to make the dash light up. The gas gauge indicated a little less than a quarter of a tank. She'd had close to half a tank when she started out, and she hadn't used that much driving.

And gasoline vapor was explosive. Maybe she shouldn't try to start the car. But she was freezing, and rescue seemed remote.

Take a chance,
said a small but certain voice inside her head.

She unlatched the door in case she had to get out fast, took a deep breath, held it, and twisted the key in the ignition. The car cranked strongly, but the engine didn't catch. Nor did it catch on fire.

She released the key, exhaled. After a few moments, she took another breath and cranked again.

No joy.

There was gas in the tank, and the battery was working fine. Why wouldn't it start? She twisted the key angrily, pumping the gas pedal hard and fast. Still nothing.

She sat in silence for awhile, feeling a kind of weightiness, as if the snow was piling onto her head and shoulders instead of the roof and hood of her car. The gasoline stink was strong enough to make her feel lightheaded, so she cracked the window on the passenger side. What was the correct procedure when one was lost on a back road in a blizzard, with no stores, houses, or traffic, wearing a damp overcoat, sitting with the window open in a car that wouldn't start?

 

John heard a tiny noise of scrubbing and came to investigate. Godwin was doing what he usually did when he was frustrated: cleaning the bathrooms. John didn't like Betsy—she sometimes took Godwin seriously, and John liked him boyish—but here was his lighthearted boy so upset over the woman that he was scrubbing the grout on the floor with a toothbrush. John came in to lift him by the elbows and take the toothbrush away from him.

“Goddy, it's not like she's gone down the Colorado in a cabbage leaf. She's in a nice warm car somewhere, listening to the radio and missing her dinner, which she can well afford to do. She'll be found as soon as the snow stops and they start clearing the roads.”

“I know, you're right. But I do wish she'd listened to me when I warned her about going out in the storm!”

John felt his usual reply to that complaint—“Why would anyone listen to a silly little goof like you?”—was inappropriate. Which later caused him to reflect that while his relationships tended to end when there were signs of maturity, he didn't want to end this one with Godwin. Interesting.

 

It had been a long time—not hours, though it seemed that long. The bones in Betsy's feet ached with cold, as did the tips of her fingers. She wished she'd brought mittens along. Each finger in its lonesome sleeve of the driving gloves yearned to snuggle against its fellow. Perhaps she should take the gloves off and put her hands in her pockets. Perhaps she should get into the backseat and huddle up under her coat, maybe go to sleep. She could escape this nightmare for a few hours and perhaps wake to daylight and the sounds of traffic.

No, wait, going to sleep in the cold was a very, very bad idea.

She began to move as violently as she could in her seat, stamping her feet and waving her arms. Her feet hurt when they hit the floor, but she persisted, and she felt the pain lessen. In a little while she was warmer. And the stirring of her blood made her thinking a little clearer.

Perhaps it would help if she took off her coat and used it as a blanket. She could cover that little bare section of shin above her boots that way. Suddenly that seemed the most desirable thing in the world.

But trying to take off a full-length wool coat while seated behind a steering wheel of a car in the pitch dark is at best difficult. And the confusing lean of the car didn't help. During her efforts to get out of it, Betsy fell over sideways and knocked against the big Christmas gift Jill had given her. Suddenly a light went on over her head. There had been something significant in the tone of Jill's voice as she suggested Betsy bring it along, “to open if you slide off the road.” She reined in the wild hope that rose in her breast, even as she decided the coat could wait and went through another struggle to get it settled back into place.

She turned on the overhead light and reached for the package. She'd forgotten how large and heavy it was; it took two tries before she got it pulled close to her.

The Christmas paper looked even more glorious in the dim light, though the bow was a little crushed. Betsy took a deep breath and then rapidly dismantled the wrapping. The box inside was a sturdy grocery store refugee printed with a soup maker's logo. With trembling fingers, Betsy pulled off the heavy gray tape holding it shut.

The top item appeared to be thin aluminum foil folded into a square eight inches on a side. But it was almost as flexible as cloth, and it kept unfolding larger and larger, until it was as big as a sleeping bag. It was a space blanket; Betsy had seen them on television. They were supposed to keep people warm even in outer space. She arranged it around her shins and thighs and lap, turning it down at the top so her arms were free.

Already she was smiling. God bless Jill!

Under the space blanket was a very odd assortment of items: a bright-orange toy snow shovel with a folding handle; a pair of empty coffee cans in two sizes; a very large chocolate bar; a can of salted cashews, two bottles of designer water, a box of wooden matches; a heavy flashlight with batteries already in it; a couple of votive candles; heavy, rough-leather mittens made of sheepskin turned inside out and stuffed inside a thick knit wool hat; a ten-pound bag of kitty litter; and, still in its box, a cell phone. Under the cell phone was a note in Jill's neat printing.

Betsy's eyes stung with tears. Jill knew what a fool Betsy was; she knew Betsy hadn't been giving this weather the respect it deserved. Betsy should have listened to her, listened to all of them warning her not to go out.

At the very least, Betsy should have put together her own winter survival kit. There had been an article about it in the paper weeks ago.

If she'd made up her own survival kit, then at least the candy bar would have almonds in it.

She smiled at this thin joke. It was the cellular phone, of course, renewing her courage. The worst that could happen now was that she'd have a whacking great towing bill. And so long as he was whacking at her wallet, maybe she could persuade the tow truck operator to make a little detour to Heidi's place to pick up that damn pillow. Betsy snorted and shook her head. Amazing! She'd gone from being afraid she was going to die to being concerned about June Connor's Christmas.

She wondered what the charge was for cellular phone service. And wait, it was possible that her car had mushed against that tree hard enough to be dented. If so, that might generate the biggest bill of all, because Betsy had a $500 deductible on her car insurance.

She tossed the shovel and kitty litter into the backseat; that solution was out. And with the smell of gas still permeating the inside of the car, she'd better not strike a match.

The directions pamphlet for the cell phone seemed daunting until Betsy realized it was printed in five languages. In short order she had the phone plugged into her cigarette lighter and was dialing, first a number to activate it, then 911, and pushing the send button.

Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.
“Nine one one, what is your emergency?” said a woman's voice.

“I've had an accident with my car. I slid off the road into a tree, and now I'm stuck.”

“Are there any injured parties?”

“No. And I'm alone in the car.”

“Is there another vehicle involved?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“Don't you have one of those ID things that tells where the call is coming from?”

“All it says is that this is a cell phone.”

Uh-oh. “Ah, I don't know where I am. I started out from Excelsior on Nineteen for an address in Shore-wood. Let's see, I was driving for about forty minutes, and I made three or four turns. But that's not very helpful, is it?”

“No, ma'am. Can you see any landmarks?”

“No. In fact, I could barely see the road. I didn't see any lights, either, or I would have stopped to ask my way, even at a house. This may be a back road. There hasn't been any traffic for a long time, since before I skidded off it. I slid down a little slope, and I'm jammed against a big pine tree. I've been sitting here for a long time.”