Snow Way Out (17 page)

“When was the last time I actually had plans on a Friday night?”

“Try last Friday.”

“Oh, yeah. That was a fluke, and we planned the class that night because we seldom go out. And I’m not going to lie to those women who are all excited I’m coming to their party.”

“Tell them you forgot that was the same weekend you had Gophers tickets or something like that.”

“Erin—”

“Or you are going out with your friend, and I will be that friend.”

“I really don’t get why you guys are being so silly about this.”

“There you go, three against one.”

“With all due respect, my friend, this is not coming up for a vote.”

“Well, think about it some more and I’m sure you’ll agree it would be a dumb idea to go.”

Dumb idea?
That got my temperature up. My friends were treating me like I was an adolescent on my way into the proverbial lion’s den. I didn’t want to say anything I’d later regret so I left it at a mild promise and quick good-bye. “I will think about it, Erin. Gotta go, I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up and thought about the irony of the whole thing. I really had no interest in being the main entertainment at the party, sharing the gory details about Jerrell Powers, until my friends went over the top about it. I took a bite of cold soup then put it in the microwave to warm while I considered the best way to learn once and for all if Pinky, Erin, or Mark had any connection to Powers’s death. Deep down inside of me, I didn’t believe they did, but their behavior and the way they were treating me kept sending up red flags.

I finished eating and went to my bedroom to change out of my tomato-stained blouse. It was silly to put on another top at that time of night so I got my flannel nightgown, robe, and bunny slippers out of the closet. I changed out of my day clothes into my nightclothes then sighed. It wasn’t even 7:30 p.m. and I was ready for bed. Way too young to be acting like an old fogy. Going to the Halloween party was probably the best thing for me to do so I didn’t shrivel up before my time. It wasn’t like my social calendar was full; I didn’t even have one. How pitiful was that? All work and no play, as they say.

I moved hangers, searching in the back of the closet for the special costume I’d seldom worn. It was a replica of an ivory cocktail dress Marilyn Monroe wore in the movie
The Seven Year Itch.
I loved the style. I’d found it at an online costume site and ordered it, along with matching 1950s-style high-heel shoes that had open toes and straps that went around my ankles. Those extra few inches made my legs look longer and more shapely. The key was maintaining a graceful gait in them, which was a bit of a challenge.

The dress had a halter-style bodice with a pleated fabric that came together at the back of the neck and closed with little buttons. The neckline was a little on the revealing side so I’d had it altered, especially since the dress left my arms, shoulders, and back bare. It showed enough skin. The halter was attached to a band that fit snugly from beneath the bust down to the waist. A belt tied on the left front side. The skirt was pleated and hung just below my calves.

I lifted the dress to my face and sniffed it. I’d had it dry-cleaned, but it had been a couple of years since I’d worn it, and I wanted to be sure it was fresh. It had picked up a mild cedar scent from the closet, which was fine, and saved me a trip to the cleaners. I rehung the dress and dug through the stack of boxes where the shoes I wore for special occasions were stored. I found the ivory ones and pulled them from their box.

I almost never wore heels over an inch or two high anymore and decided it was best to practice so I didn’t make a fool of myself clunking around on them the night of the party. Off with the bunny slippers, on with the sexy heels. A few seconds after I’d buckled the straps and had gotten to my feet, the doorbell rang. I made it as fast as I could to the door, thinking it might be Mark who had found the bicycler after all.

The door was made of solid oak with no side window to peek out. “Who is it?”

“Clint Lonsbury.”

You have got to be kidding me. It’s too late to pretend you aren’t home so open the door and act cool.
I opened it partway, half-hidden behind it. Clint was wearing jeans and a brown corduroy jacket. The light spilling from the living room cast a warm glow on his face and made his dark eyes sparkle.

“How can I help you?”

“I’d be obliged if you’d let me in, for starters.” He looked at my bathrobe. “Unless you’re entertaining someone.”

I was once again rescued from thinking he was attractive by his assumptions and comments. I pushed the door wide open and Clint walked in. His eyes traveled down my body to my feet. “Quite the getup you’ve got on. The shoes are a nice touch. And explain the extra inches you’ve gained in height. Are you getting ready to go out somewhere?”

Where was that hole I could crawl into? “No, just playing dress-up.”

He started to smile, but changed it to a frown instead.

“Not on your way to bed?”

“Not this early. I wanted to get out of my work clothes and put my pajamas on, that’s all.”

He gave a nod. “The reason I’m here is I need to talk to you about that character you’ve been seeing around town. Mark told me about it and was concerned because you’re concerned.”

Thanks for siccing Clint on me, Mark.
“Want to go sit in the kitchen?”

He lifted his arm. “After you.”

I’d forgotten I’d just finished supper until I saw the remains of my food on the table and cooking supplies on the stove and counter. I cleared off the table as fast as possible so Clint would have a clean spot.

“You must be feeling better.”

Where is he going with that?
“What do you mean?”

“Your kitchen is not as pristine as the last couple of times I’ve been here. You know, your cleaning therapy sessions.”

“Right.” I did a wide sweep with my arm and brushed some crumbs on the floor in a gesture of mild rebellion.

Clint raised his eyebrows and sat down. I joined him on the other side of the table. He said, “Tell me what’s going on between you and that bike rider.”

“There is nothing going on. I’m curious about who he is; it’s that simple. I’ve been back in Brooks Landing for a few months now and have never noticed him until this past week. Which I guess doesn’t mean much. He could have just moved to town himself.”

“Or lost his license so now he has to hoof it or bike to the places he needs to be.”

A police officer would think of that scenario. “The part that makes me wonder is I get the impression that either he knows me or he’s got me under some kind of watch.” Another possibility popped into my brain. “He doesn’t work for your police department, does he?”

“My police department? Why would you ask that?”

“Because I find a body in the park, I accidentally leave my fingerprints on the weapon, and suddenly I move to the status of a possible suspect.”

Clint cleared his throat. “If by some wild chance it turns out the man in question is a Brooks Landing police officer, I can assure you he is not on any kind of an assignment to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that makes me feel better on that front, anyway.”

“Tell me why you think he knows you or is watching you.”

“Two reasons. The first is more of an impression, but a strong one. When we made eye contact the two times, he looked at me like he knew me but at the same time didn’t want me to know who he was. The second reason is he seems to be wherever I am. At least, on a bunch of occasions over the last week.”

Clint laid his arm on the table and stared at me until I could no longer maintain eye contact. “It might be as simple as he is taken with your beauty and doesn’t know how to approach you.”

His words and scrutiny sent my entire body into an immediate burn from the inside out. How I was able to restrain myself from sticking my head in a pail of ice-cold water is a good question. Clint saying I was beautiful was the last thing I expected to hear sitting there in my bathrobe and Marilyn Monroe shoes.

He leaned in closer to me, resting his chest against his arm. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m sure you’ve heard that a hundred times.”

“Um, well, not in so many words. Mom likes to quote that old saying, Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I tried secretly to kick off my shoes, but the ankle straps held them on tight.

Clint nodded and continued to stare at me, which fueled the burn. After what seemed like five or six hours, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a little memo pad and pen. He shifted, prepared to write. “Give me the best description of the man that you can. Mark had a general one.”

My body finally started cooling off. It was a relief to focus on something besides myself and I didn’t mind giving him every detail I could think of about the lanky guy. After some minutes of hearing me out, Clint closed his memo pad, stuck his pen in his pocket, and stood up. “Why don’t you stop down at the PD and I’ll show you our collection of mug shots. If this man you keep seeing is in there, we’ll know who we’re looking for. And it’ll give us an indication whether we need to be concerned about his activities or not.”

I rose to my full, new height. “I can do that. How about tomorrow morning, before I open my shop?”

“That’ll work for me. I’ll be in the office most of the day.”

I nodded. “Good. I’ll be there around nine o’clock or so.”

O
n the drive to the Brooks Landing Police Station I again marveled over Clint’s compliment the night before, and how we had made it through twenty whole minutes without arguing. He hadn’t even left a parting wisecrack about what he’d called my “getup” when my ankle turned and I’d grabbed the table for support.

The police station was housed in the city administration building, a sturdy, one-story brick structure that had been constructed about twenty years before. They shared a common front entry then split into separate units. The city offices were on the north side, the police on the south. I went through the door and found an older woman sitting at the front desk. She wore her longish gray hair in a ponytail on top and had a name badge with
Margaret
written on it. Her eyebrows shot up when I approached her, as if I had surprised her. “Our assistant chief is expecting you, Miss Brooks.” She half turned and flung her left arm behind her toward a row of offices that were partially visible above the partition that enclosed her area and went halfway to the ceiling. “Go right on back there.”

“Thank you.”
And good morning to you.

I walked to the right and then down a short hallway that ended with a row of three offices. I found Clint’s in the middle, almost directly behind where Margaret was stationed. I passed the vacant police chief’s dark office. Word had it he was burning up some of his weeks of accumulated vacation time, and he and his wife were off on an extended trip abroad. Not even a murder in his town had coaxed him back from wherever he was.

Clint’s door was open and I heard him talking on the phone. I stepped into the doorway, planning to wait there until he’d finished, but he waved me in and ended his conversation. “Will do. Thanks.”

I slipped in and took a second to admire his office. There was a framed bachelor of arts degree and certificates from a variety of police courses on the wall behind his desk. Clint stood up and drew his eyebrows together, looking like he was ready to dig into some serious work.

“Morning, Cam . . .
ryn
, and thanks for coming in. Here’s the book I was telling you about.” He turned and picked up a binder that was about two inches thick from the bottom shelf of an open bookcase that rested against the wall behind his desk. “Have a seat.” He set it on his desk and pushed it toward me as we both sat down. “The males are in the first section and are arranged in order of age, from youngest to oldest.”

I pulled the book closer and opened to the first page with a mug shot of a man who looked like he was about sixteen, and then flipped through the subsequent pages. Under each photo there was a description that gave the person’s name, date of birth, height, weight, eye and hair color, and distinguishing features such as scars, marks, or tattoos. Other notes had also been added. One read,
He walks with a limp due to a leg length discrepancy.
Another was,
He has a stuttering condition.

I went through the first pages of the very young men quickly then slowed down when I got to the men who were in their thirties and forties. There was only one whose description was similar to the lanky guy, and it clearly was not him. I scanned the last of the men’s section, and flipped back in case I’d missed something, and then closed the book. “He’s not in here that I can see.”

Clint reached over, picked up the mug shot book, and put it back on the case behind him. “It was worth a try anyway.”

“The next time I spot him, I’ll try to get a picture.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’re not a police officer or private investigator working on a case. At this point, we have no evidence he’s done anything wrong, unless it turns out he was the one who stole that kid’s bike.”

“There’s something about him. You might recognize him if you see his picture.”

“Cami, people nowadays don’t take kindly to having their pictures snapped without permission, and you have no idea how he may react, what he might do.”

“I wasn’t planning to do it if he was up close and personal, or anything.”

“I’d put that idea to rest and call the PD if you see him again. Call me, call Mark, so we can get this settled and you can rest easy.”

I nodded.

“I also wanted you to take a look at a photo of the knife the ME removed from our victim, Jerrell Powers.”

I squirmed a little in the chair and hoped Clint didn’t notice. “Um, well, I guess I can do that.” The only reason he’d ask me such a thing had to be that he wanted to see how I reacted, how guilty I looked. Right?

Clint picked up a thick file from the side of his desk and opened it. I glanced down at the photos of the crime scene, but moved my eyes away before I saw much. Clint found what he was looking for and handed the shot of the knife over to me. My fingers trembled a little and I willed them to be steady as I accepted the eight-by-ten-inch color photo.

A shiver ran through me when I recognized the knife as one from Pinky’s set. Or one that looked very much like it. It had a brown handle and a serrated cutting edge that came to a sharp point. I read the brand name on the blade and knew it was a popular one. There had to be countless people in Brooks Landing besides Pinky with the same set of knives.

Clint leaned in and I leaned back. I was pretty sure his intense stare was going to make the little makeup I wore melt right off my face.

“You’ve seen it before,” Clint said.

Between his look and his words, it was not humanly possible to stop my face from flushing. “Um, if this is the murder weapon, yes, I saw it on that night, um, in Mr. Powers. But I would never have been able to identify it.”

“So where else have you seen it? Your kitchen drawer, maybe?”

The man was infuriating. “No. As a matter of fact, I don’t own any knives of that brand.”

“Then where?”

“Well, I know Pinky has some like that at her shop, but I’m sure a lot of other people do, too. The company must be the biggest knife seller in the country.”

“Where does she keep her knives at the shop?”

“Behind the counter. Pinky uses them to cut those giant muffins of hers for people. Or when she bakes bagels; she cuts them to spread on cream cheese or whatever.”

“And just about anyone at the counter would have access?”

“Maybe. I guess.”

“Hmm. Something to think about. But the first step is finding out if Pinky is missing a particular knife from her set.”

I bit my tongue. I couldn’t tell Clint that my three friends had been acting strangely all week and that I had a teeny tiny inkling of doubt over whether they had any involvement in Jerrell Powers’s death. And I kicked myself every time I did. The truth had to bubble to the surface someday, and that day could not come soon enough.

I looked around for a clock. “Gosh, I wonder what time it is. I sort of lost track.”

Clint turned his arm and looked down at his watch. “Nine forty-four.”

I stood. “If there’s nothing else, I should get to the shop.”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes myself. I’ll talk to Pinky, have her check her knife supply.”

“Okay.” My voice was weak, but my knees were weaker.

Clint shuffled some papers from the Jerrell Powers file and was putting the knife photo in another folder as I slipped out the door. When I walked past Margaret’s desk, I waved good-bye and she gave me a single curt nod in reply.

“Thank God it’s Friday,” she muttered under her breath as I pushed open the front door. Apparently there was something about me or my visit she didn’t approve of. But that was the least of my worries. My biggest concern at the moment was ensuring that Pinky’s knife set was intact.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

I
let myself in through the Curio Finds door instead of popping in through Brew Ha-Ha like I did most days. One look at my face and Pinky would know something was up. I hadn’t had enough time to compose myself and I was in a near panic about what Clint’s visit would turn up.

“I’m here,” I called and lifted my hand in a wave that conveniently covered my face as I passed by the archway that connected our shops. Pinky was waiting on a few people at the counter and said, “Hey,” as I sped through to the back storeroom. I hung my coat and purse on a hook and wondered how long it would be before Clint made his official appearance. I went back into the shop and busied myself with turning on the overhead lights and flipped the sign to Open.

Seconds after I’d finished, Pinky’s door’s bell dinged and I heard Clint greeting her. I braved my way over to the archway and watched as he took a seat at the counter next to a man who was paying Pinky for his order. When the man left, Pinky set a cup of coffee in front of Clint. Great, well, at least his slurping might take my mind off things when he questioned Pinky. Clint set the folder on the counter and pushed it away from the mug of hot brew.

“Cami, quit lurking in the archway. Come join Clint and me for a cup of something before the customers start piling in.”

I was about to deny that I was lurking, but in fact, I was. “Sure.” I looked up at the blackboard, where she had the menu listed, to see the featured daily special. I read out loud. “The loco cocoa: a hefty shot of espresso tamed with hot cocoa.” I shook my head. “Pinky, where do you come up with those names?”

She shrugged. “Espresso makes me a little loco. How about you, Clint?”

Clint raised his hands, indicating he wasn’t going to commit to an answer, then picked up his mug and took a healthy slurp. “Mmm. I’ll give you two thumbs up for the loco cocoa and let you know how I feel in about ten minutes.” He set his mug aside.

I sat down on a stool, leaving one place between Clint and me. “I’ll try one, too, but I can make it.”

Pinky waved her hand. “Nah, I’m here.”

Clint waited until Pinky had made a drink for me and one for herself then opened the folder, withdrew the knife photo, and handed it to Pinky. “Does it look familiar to you?”

Pinky took a quick look. “Sure. Well, maybe not this one exactly, but I have knives like this.” Her hand opened and she lost her grip on the photo. It dropped and landed on top of the file folder. She stared at it like she was in a trance. “Don’t tell me this is the
one
, the one that was used . . .”

“It’s the one.”

“Holy moly, I’ve never seen a police photo of anything from a crime before. Holy moly.”

“So your knife set is intact?”

Pinky looked like she had been caught with her hand in someone’s cookie jar. “I actually seem to be missing the one that looks like that.” She snuck another peek at the photo. “I didn’t think much about it when I couldn’t find it the other day. I wondered if maybe I accidentally threw it away. I have silverware disappear all the time around here.” Most of us knew Pinky was absentminded and tended to lose things. “Or that I’d misplaced it, and it’d turn up in some odd spot.”

“That might have been what happened, that it turned up in a very odd spot,” Clint said.

Pinky’s face paled. “I’ll look again until I find my knife. It’s gotta be around here somewhere.” She pulled out the portable silverware sorter she had stored under the counter. There were butter knives, forks, spoons, and a number of cutting knives from the set that the knife was missing from. She looked at me. “Cami?”

I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know when I’ve used that knife, Pinky.”

She stepped back until she was resting against the wall counter for support.

“How often do you leave a cutting knife on the serving counter where others would have access to it?”

“Pretty often, I guess.” She paused and grew even paler. “So a knife like mine was used in
the murder
?” Pinky was genuinely distressed, which I would be, too, if I were her. And it backed up my belief that she could not have been the one to do Jerrell Powers in. Had she been covering for someone else, and didn’t realize her knife had been used, after all? “It’s gotta be the most popular brand out there. A friend sold Erin and me a set eons ago.”

Clint’s eyebrows drew together. “You don’t say. Erin owns the same set?”

Pinky’s hand-in-the-cookie-jar look returned. “Yeah.”

His head went up and down in an exaggerated nod then he looked at his watch. “School gets out at what time?” He asked the question like he knew the answer. When neither Pinky nor I responded, he said, “Two forty-five. All right.” Even though his drink had had plenty of time to cool, he took a big loud slurping gulp of it. Pinky was likely accustomed to people with noisy drinking habits and didn’t seem to notice.

“Good drink combo, Pinky.” Clint reached in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, found some bills, threw them on the counter, then held up his mug. “Can I get this in a cup to go?”

Pinky took the cup from him, poured the coffee in a disposable one, popped on a lid, and handed it back. “Put that money away. I can buy my friends a cuppa once in a while.”

Clint stood, picked up the cup, and ignored Pinky’s offer. “Thanks.” He nodded and left.

“Cami, this is serious. My knife is missing and one just like it ended up in Jerrell Powers. Do you think someone really did steal it?”

“I have no idea, Pinky. How long do you think it’s been missing?”