Snow Way Out (12 page)

A minute later I heard his car idling in the alley and resumed my spying position. He loaded the bag of tools and bicycle into the trunk of his car. Then he climbed behind the wheel and sat there for what seemed like ten minutes but was probably closer to five. I figured he was writing notes on the incident, what I’d seen, and what we’d found. About the time I decided the action was over, he shifted into drive and rolled on down the alley and out of sight.

After all the late-night activity and being outside in the cold air, I was too keyed up to go back to bed. I went into the kitchen, made a cup of cocoa, carried it to the living room, and curled up on the couch. The eyes of my bunny slippers looked up at me, so I pulled the blanket over them.

As I sipped my cocoa I realized how wrong I’d been when I’d thought living in Brooks Landing after my years in big cities would be boring. Of course, the scary things that had happened the past few days were not the kind of excitement I welcomed in any way, shape, or form.

A wave of emotion rolled over me from out of the blue and I started shaking. Then tears spilled from my eyes and ran down my cheeks. It may have been another reaction to finding Jerrell Powers’s body, triggered by seeing a man running behind my house and learning he was a potential burglar that had crashed his bike by my garage.

Once the tears started, I had trouble making them stop.
Okay, deep breath, you need to focus on positive things instead of negative ones,
I told myself. I started with my family and thought of how much I loved them. Next, I admitted I actually enjoyed working at Curio Finds. It may not have been my career of choice, but it was where I was supposed to be for now.

And it was good to be back with old friends again. Little had I known, a year ago, I would have an adjoining shop with one of them. None of us had planned to be small business owners when we were growing up. I uncovered my feet, took off one of my bunny slippers, and laid it on my chest. I put my arm around the little pink guy, tucked the blanket around my body, and fell asleep.

T
he
Brooks Landing
Weekly News
was on the stands and in the stores by three p.m. Tuesday. I had taken a break from work and went to spend a few minutes with my parents. I was on my way back from the visit at 3:20 when Pinky called my cell phone. “Clint Lonsbury was here looking for you and he did not look happy. Not even a little bit. He said you are to call him the second you get back to the shop.”

“Did he say what it was about? Like, have they found the burglar from last night?”

“Nope, not a word. I even asked him a few different ways, but he would not tell me.”

“Okay, well, I’ll be there in about two minutes.”

I was on Fourth Street, a block from Central Avenue, when I noticed flashing lights in my rearview mirror. I pulled over and stopped, wondering what driving offense I had possibly committed. I was going under the speed limit and hadn’t rolled through the stop sign. When I saw Clint get out of his police car and walk toward mine, I didn’t know whether to feel mystified or miffed.

I remembered my brother-in-law telling all of us at a family gathering that if we ever got stopped by a police officer to be sure to stay in the car and let the officer come to you. He’d learned the hard way what happened because he’d gotten out of his car and had a pair of handcuffs slapped on him before he’d a chance to take a breath, much less say, “Good evening, Officer.” Police officers had strict rules about traffic stops.

I rolled down my window and the smell of burning leaves drifted into my car. It was the time of year when people raked the fallen leaves and either bagged them or burned them in their fire pits.

Clint opened my door. “I need to talk to you. Get out, and we’ll go sit in my car.”

When I saw the sober look on his face, I was not about to argue. I turned off the engine and slipped out of my car. I glanced around, hoping no one was watching the action and might start a rumor that I had gotten arrested. At least I hoped it would be a rumor. With the way Clint was hovering over me, maybe that was exactly what was about to happen. “After you,” he said in a quiet, deep voice.

I walked as fast as I could without running and climbed in the passenger seat of his car. The faster we got it over with, the better. Whatever “it” was. When Clint sat down in the driver’s seat, the entire car was filled with his presence. He picked up a copy of our local newspaper from the center console and held it up so I could see the article Sandy Gibbons had written of my account. “If you would, please explain why in tarnation you’d tell the town gossip that you are considered a suspect in Jerrell Powers’s murder.”

“What?” I was flabbergasted and grabbed the paper out of his hands to read it for myself. I couldn’t believe Sandy would write such a thing after I’d asked her not to. I scanned through the article, using my finger to help keep my place. Clint’s close proximity made it difficult to concentrate. The last paragraph contained the lines that had Clint all fired up. I read it out loud. “‘An unnamed source revealed that the police consider Camryn Brooks a possible suspect in the case.’” I looked at Clint and tried to appear as imposing as he did. “You think
I’m
the unnamed source?”

“Aren’t you?”

“When I gave Sandy the story, I did not tell her anything like that. Maybe one of your officers did.”

“No, they know better than to give statements to the press without approval from the chief. What exactly did you say?”

“I can’t remember exactly, but if she got that”—I stuck my finger in the paper—“from anything I said, then . . . then . . .”

“Then what?”

“She was using artistic license, narrative license, or whatever it’s called.” I took a final look at the paper, folded it, and laid it down. Then my cell phone rang. I picked it up to shut it off and saw the incoming call was from Pinky. Something may have happened at one of our shops. “I should take this, if it’s okay to answer. It’s Pinky.”

Clint nodded.

I pushed the talk button. “Hello.”

“Holy moly, Cami, are you all right?”

“Pretty much.”

“You don’t sound all right. Did you have an accident? It takes, like, three minutes to drive from your parents’ house and it’s been fifteen. I’m dying to find out what Clint had his drawers tied up in a knot over. Where are you anyway?”

“In Clint’s police car.”

“She’s safe, Pinky,” Clint added. He’d obviously heard the entire conversation. Cell phones were not very private.

“Ahhhh, okay, I’ll let you go, ’bye.” Pinky’s words were rapid-fire and she’d hung up before I even had time to process them.

“Maybe Pinky is Sandy’s source,” Clint said.

“I don’t think so. She may get caught up in gossip from time to time, but she is very loyal to her friends. And protective.”

Clint nodded. “It sounds like you’d better get back to work. And try to stay out of trouble.”

I wanted to ask if he’d found out anything about the would-be burglar, but his words irritated me out of his car instead.

I parked in back of the shop and when I walked around to the front, who had pulled up to the curb and was getting out of his police car? None other than the man I was annoyed with himself. I tried to ignore Clint, but he followed me into Curio Finds.

“I’m back,” I called to Pinky through the archway. She popped her head in, but when she saw Clint behind me, she backed away without saying a word.

Clint stopped and struck a pose that made him look like he was at some official event: he stood with his legs a few feet apart and clasped his hands behind his back. “I meant to tell you about the owner of the bicycle we found by your garage, but the article in the paper distracted me.”

“Oh, who was it?”

“The bike belongs to a ten-year-old boy. His mother called to report it was stolen last night. She correctly described it, and the two of them picked it up from the station a while ago. The little guy, Jacob, was pretty happy to get it back.”

“The would-be burglar stole a little boy’s bike? That almost seems worse than breaking into someone’s garage. Why would he do that?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it boils down to perceived need and opportunity.” Clint sounded like a college professor.

“Which means?”

“He’s equipped with burglary tools and has no wheels to drive around searching out a good place to break into. He spots a bike sitting in a yard and grabs it. It speeds up his mobility—until he crashes it. He’s worried the noise alerted the neighbors so he takes off while the getting is good.”

“Any ideas yet who ‘he’ is?”

“No, he was clever enough to wipe the bike clean. We only found one partial fingerprint that was too big to be the boy’s. I lifted it, but it’s not enough to positively identify anyone, unless you knew who the person was and could compare one partial print to another.

“He must have been planning to dump the bike when he was done with it or he wouldn’t have wiped it. I’ll even give him the benefit of the doubt and say he might have wanted to return it to the kid’s house. Who knows? In any case, he must have been wearing gloves.”

I envisioned the running man and would agree that was possible. “I can’t say for sure, one way or the other.”

“Most likely. I think gloves are included in a burglar’s toolbox.”

I thought Clint was being facetious, but I didn’t dare smile in case he was serious.

“The good news is that there were not any reported breakins last night or so far today. He might have been passing through town and is hopefully long gone by now.”

“That’d be a good thing to hope for,” I said.

“I’ll leave you to get back to your business.” He gave me a single nod then yelled, “Good-bye, Pinky.”

She stuck her head around the corner, which proved she had been listening in. “’Bye, Clint.”

When Clint was safely back in his police car and out of earshot, Pinky jogged over to me with the ends of her head scarf flying around her. “What in the world did he talk to you about in his police car? If you can tell me, that is.”

“It was the last line in the newspaper article our dear friend Sandy Gibbons wrote.”

“Which was . . . ?”

“That an unnamed source revealed that the police consider me a possible suspect in Jerrell Powers’s murder.”

“No.”

“
Yes, and Clint figured it was me.”

“The only thing you did when Sandy asked you that question was change the subject.”

“I know.”

“Well, I’m glad the little boy got his bike back and no one else had a breakin.” She smiled when she realized she was confessing that she’d overheard what Clint had said.

“Me, too.”

“Hey, maybe we should catch a bite to eat somewhere tonight. We could both do with a little relaxation. And Erin might want to join us.”

“It’s a school night.”

“I know for a fact she eats dinner whether it’s a school night or not.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I guess we don’t have to get wild and stay out late.”

Pinky shook her head and lifted her eyebrows. “I have not stayed out much past midnight in probably ten years.”

• • • • • • • • • • • •

P
inky, Erin, and I met at Sherman’s Bar and Grill at 6:30. The building, which had been a department store when we were kids, had been converted to look like a ski chalet with interior walls of old, dark wood and decorations that celebrated Minnesota winter sports like antique sleds, ice skates, toboggans, snowshoes, skis, and hockey pucks. I’d been told they changed the decorations for the summer months. Crowds of people were milling at the bar, talking and laughing. It was busier than we’d figured it would be on a weeknight.

The hostess greeted us with a smile. “If you’d like to wait at the bar, it shouldn’t be more than five or ten minutes before we have a table ready for you.”

Pinky led the way and found two remaining seats in the horseshoe arrangement. “You two sit down; I’d rather hover,” she said.

“With your height, it’s easier to scout around for men if you’re standing, you mean,” Erin teased as she climbed onto a bar stool.

“That’s true, but then what if I find one?”

“When Mr. Right comes along, you’ll know what to do,” I said, speaking from years of observing the relationships my parents and other committed couples shared; not from personal experience.

Pinky sighed. “I thought Kirk was Mr. Right all through high school and our first six months of marriage.”

“We all thought he was a nice guy. He had everybody fooled,” Erin said.

Pinky flicked her hand as if shooing an insect away. “Water over the dam.”

The bartender, a young woman, laid napkins on the bar in front of Erin and me, and one in between us for Pinky. “What can I get you ladies?”

“Orange juice for me,” Erin said.

“I’ll have a glass of whatever beer is on tap,” I said. I’d grown up in an Italian household where wine was the alcoholic beverage of choice, but I preferred beer.

Pinky laid her hand on my shoulder. “And I’ll have what she’s having.”

“Coming right up.”

Pinky bent her head down between us. “Don’t look now, but Eye Candy Clint is over there, having dinner with Mark.”

Erin turned her head toward Pinky. “
Eye Candy
Clint?”

“Don’t ask,” I said.

“You don’t mean . . . our assistant chief of police?” Erin said.

“One and the same, because he is,” Pinky said and gave us each a pat on the back.

“As long as you don’t call him that to his face,” I said.

Pinky laughed. “I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.”

“He is your basic hunk,” Erin said.

I groaned. “Not you, too.”

“Just making an observation. And no, he’s not my type.”

I don’t think he’s anybody’s type.
Unless you’re attracted to eye candy police officer hunks.

“Mark just spotted me and waved. Now Clint is looking this way,” Pinky said out of the side of her mouth.

Erin and I both swiveled in our seats. “That man is everywhere,” I said then turned back when the bartender said, “Here you go,” and set our drinks down.

Erin paid for our drinks before Pinky or I had the chance. “It’ll be my turn next time,” Pinky said as she leaned in and picked up her glass.

“Fancy meeting you girls here,” Mark said behind us.

Erin turned around, and I braved a look myself. Yup, Clint was with him.

“Busy place for a Tuesday,” Pinky said.

“Sherman’s is always busy,” Mark said.

A middle-aged woman squeezed in between Clint and Mark. “Excuse me.” She looked directly at me. “Would you autograph this for me? Right at the end of the article.” She handed me a newspaper and pen.

The request caught me off guard, to say the least. The look on Clint’s face told me he was a little surprised himself. And so were my friends. I had a split second to determine what to do, and I decided granting her wish was not that big of a deal after all. I penned my barely legible signature and handed it back to her. She smiled broadly. “Thank you so much!”

“Okay, that was strange,” Pinky said after she’d left.

“For Pete’s sake, Cami. I mean really,” Erin said.

Clint scowled at me. “You could have refused.”