The Snow White Christmas Cookie (17 page)

Paulette shook her head. “Nothing like that. But he did know a lot of people here in town. Maybe one of his firehouse or marching-band buddies put him in touch with someone. And he worked at John’s barber shop every Saturday. God only knows what sort of riffraff slithers in and out of there.” She heaved a pained sigh. “We could have licked it together. Taken out a second mortgage on this place. Sold one of our cars. Who cares? It’s only money. But Hank wouldn’t let me help him. He just kept saying, ‘It’s my baggage, not yours.’ He was a stubborn bastard. They’re
all
stubborn bastards.”

“Paulette, are you positive you don’t want me to call Casey for you? I’m sure he’ll want to come straight home.”

“The Rustic
is
his home. This is just where he sleeps.”

“Is there anybody I can call for you?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“So someone can be with you. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

“I
am
alone,” she said, reaching for her wineglass. “I’m going to be alone for the whole rest of my life. I may as well start getting used to it.”

*   *   *

“So how’s my good friend Yolie Snipes?”

“She’s been happier. An entire boxed set of Feds will be swarming all over this by tomorrow morning. Yolie doesn’t play well with others.”

“Is she still partnered with Toni the Tiger?”

“She is.”

“Which one of them has started wearing patchouli?”

“Mitch, how on earth did?…”

“You reeked of it when you walked in that door. And I happen to know that there are no head shops in Dorset.”

Des shook her head at him. “I swear, sometimes you terrify me.”

All she’d wanted to do when she walked in that door was shuck her wet uni, jump into a hot shower and then into Mitch’s nice, warm bed. But Mitch, who was seven-tenths Jewish mother, had insisted she eat a late supper after her shower. So now she was seated on a blanket in front of the fire stuffing herself on the world’s most gigantic, delicious meat loaf sandwich. Clemmie and Quirt were crouched next to her, sniffing at her plate with keen, busy-nosed interest. Outside, the rain was still coming down. It was good to be warm and dry in front of this fire with Mitch and the cats. It was good to be Des Mitry tonight—as opposed to Paulette Zander, who was sitting in that dingy house with only a gallon jug of cheap Chablis and her dead boyfriend’s electric train set for company.

“You’re positive that Hank’s death wasn’t a suicide?”

“Couldn’t be more positive.” Des set aside the remains of her sandwich and took a sip from her glass of milk. “Someone staged the suicide scene, sent Paulette that text message and then took off in a second car. Whoever did it had a partner. We’re looking for two people.”

Mitch gazed thoughtfully into the fire for a long moment before he said, “Are you going to finish that sandwich?”

“It’s all yours.”

He dove in, continuing to stare into the fire. She knew that stare. His wheels were turning.

“What are you thinking, doughboy?”

“That I should have put some of Sheila Enman’s bread-and-butter pickles on this. Also something truly crazy. What if Bryce’s suicide was staged, too?”

“That’s not crazy at all. Yolie’s already fast-tracking Bryce’s autopsy. Although I don’t understand why someone would want to kill Bryce.”

“Why
Josie
would want to kill him, you mean.”

She frowned at him. “Josie?”

“No one else was out here this morning when he died. There were no tire tracks in the snow, no footprints.”

“Okay, let’s say you’re right about that.…”

“Oh, I’m right.”

“Why would Josie do it?”

“I can help you when it comes to a motive,” he said, shoving the last of her sandwich into his mouth. “Mighty big one, too.”

“Well, don’t be bashful. Let’s hear it.”

“Josie showed up here not long after you left with some very interesting news—Bryce asked Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux to draw up his will for him last week. He hadn’t had one before, apparently. Guess who he left his house to? Go ahead, take a wild guess.”

“Um, okay, somebody who has long blond hair and isn’t named Preston?”

“Bingo. Glynis phoned Josie to warn her that Preston totally freaked when he found out. Glynis thinks Preston will contest it in court. She wants Josie to hire a lawyer and stand her ground.”

“Is she going to?”

“Too soon to tell. Josie seemed genuinely stunned by the whole thing. Swore to me that she didn’t know a thing about what Bryce had done.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Honestly? When it comes to Josie I’m not sure what to believe.” Mitch gulped down what was left of Des’s milk. The man did not know how to leave any food or beverage untouched. “Let’s just riff here for a sec. Let’s say Josie killed Bryce so that she could score his megamillions house, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Why would she need to kill Hank, too?”

Des settled back against a big throw pillow. It had been a long, grueling day. Her body was starting to relax. Not her head though. “We know that Hank was a client of hers a couple of months back.”

Mitch nodded. “And let’s say Hank
was
stealing that stuff from his route. What if
he
supplied Josie with the prescription meds that killed Bryce?”

“Bryce had perfectly legit prescription bottles.”

“That Josie told us were full at the time of his death. Let’s say she lied about that. Let’s say those bottles of Vicodin, Xanax and Ambien were actually empty. For all we know, Bryce was still using them on a daily basis. We only have Josie’s word for it that he was drug free these past weeks. Besides, we don’t know that those are the actual drugs he swallowed this morning.”

“Agreed. That’s why we need his toxicology results. We also need to take a good, hard look at that suicide Post-it of his.”

“What about it?”

“Josie told us that
‘Just an awkward stage’
was a pet phrase of Bryce’s. That he used it a lot.”

“So?…”

“So we’ve been assuming that Bryce wrote it this morning when he was preparing to do himself in. But he could have written it days or even weeks ago. Stuck it on the fridge or the bathroom mirror. Our lab people can determine how long the ink’s been drying on the Post-it. If that ink’s more than twenty-four hours old, then right away this gets way more interesting.”

Mitch looked at her in astonishment. “I didn’t know they could do that.”

“Maybe Josie doesn’t either.” Des lay there, her mind working through it. “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say Josie convinced Hank to supply her with some of his stolen prescription meds. Hell, let’s go all the way in and say she’s the one who convinced him to steal the damned stuff in the first place. How did she manage that? We talking about role-playing exercises on her office sofa again?”

“She could have offered Hank something a lot more enticing than her body.”

“Like what?”

“Like a healthy share of the proceeds once she sold Bryce’s house. More than enough money for him to get out of the mess he was in with his ex-wife. He and Josie no doubt talked about his financial problems when she was helping him quit smoking. Mind you, that would mean she knew weeks ago that Bryce intended to leave her his house
and
that she lied to me about it tonight to cover her tracks. But I have no problem believing that.”

“I don’t either. I also have no problem believing she was doing Hank just for good measure. It’s still the world’s best form of persuasion.”

“Then she bumped him off tonight because he could implicate her in Bryce’s death.”

“And because she didn’t need him anymore,” Des said. “It’s nice and neat. Appallingly so.”

“Wait, I just thought of something. Josie never left the island tonight. I would have heard her car.”

“What if she walked across the causeway and got picked up? Hank’s killer had a partner, remember? Someone else was waiting in a getaway car.”

He tilted his head at her. “Someone like Casey Zander?”

“He’s certainly a likely candidate. I also have my eye on Pat Faulstich. Everywhere I go I keep tripping over him. He was rummaging through the mailboxes when I had Dorset Street staked out this afternoon. And tonight he showed up on Kinney Road—supposedly to plow the neighboring driveways.”

“That’s interesting. I wonder if he has a connection to Josie.”

“So do I.”

“Any idea where Casey was tonight?”

“Paulette told me he was at the Rustic, same as every night. I offered to call him for her but she didn’t want me to call anyone. The woman went totally Garbo on me.”

Mitch beamed at her. “That was totally an old movie reference. I’m rubbing off on you, admit it.”

“It’s true, you are.” She sighed. “Won’t be long now before I’m talking for hours on end about the pulsing cinematic muscularity of Mr. Stan Fuller.”

“It’s
Sam
Fuller. And just for that I’m going to make you watch
The Steel Helmet
.”

“Yum, can’t wait. What was she wearing?”

“Who?”

“Josie. You said she showed up here not long after I left. Just wondered if she was wet or muddy or whatever.”

“Her slicker and rain boots were wet. Her hair was dry. So were her jeans and her socks.”

“She could have changed clothes before she came over here. She didn’t happen to smell of whiskey, did she?”

“No, she didn’t. I pumped her a bit about her childhood in Maine.”

“And?…”

“She got surprisingly defensive, bordering on hostile.”

“Mitch, we have to take a good, hard look at her. Will you be okay with that?”

“Sure I will. Do what you have to do. I just have one small problem.”

“What is it?”

“Think about where we’re going with this. We’re suggesting that Josie Cantro is a cold, calculating predator who’s been using her life-coaching practice to troll for juicy prey. That she targeted Bryce, bedded him, killed him and picked him clean. That she’s the proverbial black widow—an evil bitch who has no sense of morality and zero conscience. I’ve spent a decent amount of time around Josie and, well, I’m not there yet. Are you? Do you really think that’s who she is?”

“I don’t know. But I can guarantee you this—starting first thing tomorrow morning, we sure as hell are going to find out.”

C
HAPTER
12

“
A
WFULLY DARNED NICE OF
you to do this, Mitch.”

“My pleasure, Rut. Well, not a pleasure. But I’m happy to do it.”

The old postmaster was riding next to him in the Studey. Rut had spent another night in his house on Maple Lane, what with the torrents of rain falling on top of all of that snow. Mitch was driving him back to his room at Essex Meadows, with a stopover to pay a call on Paulette, his grieving protégé.

“Don’t know what to say to her,” Rut grumbled. “I never know what to say after somebody’s gone.”

“You don’t have to say a thing. It’s enough that you’re showing up.”

It was a bright, beautiful morning. The air was incredibly fresh. But it was also chilly enough that last night’s rain had frozen over in the hours before dawn, leaving a gleaming coat of ice behind. Mitch had to take a scraper to his pickup’s windshield and spray its door handles with WD-40 before he could pry the doors open. Frozen puddles remained here and there on the plowed road surfaces, although those would be thawing soon. It was supposed to climb into the toasty upper thirties by the afternoon.

He’d expected to find many cars parked outside of Paulette’s raised ranch on Grassy Hill Road. This was Dorset. Friends and neighbors always showed up when you were hurting. Yet only Casey’s blue Toyota Tacoma was parked in the driveway.

Rut sat in his heavy wool coat staring at the house. “She doesn’t have any family to be with her. Her parents are dead. And the folks at the Post Office need to get their work done. They’ll stop by later to pay their respects, I imagine. Paulette isn’t the sort who makes a lot of friends. But Hank had a million of them.” The old man heaved a reluctant sigh. “Guess we’d better go on in. It’s not getting any warmer in this here truck. You should have the heater looked at, young fella.”

“Rut, there is no heater.”

“Well then, that explains it.”

Paulette’s front walk and steps hadn’t been salted or sanded. The brick pavers were perilously slick.

“You’d better hold on to me, Rut. I don’t want you to fall.”

“I don’t want me to fall either,” Rut said, grabbing hold of Mitch’s arm with a grip of iron.

They made it up the steps to the frozen welcome mat. Mitch rang the bell.

Paulette opened the door, smelling strongly of wine and cigarettes. Her face softened when she saw Rut standing there. “Hello, Rutherford,” she murmured, blinking back tears.

“Hey there, young lady,” he said gently, stepping inside to give her a hug. “Anybody else here?”

“Not right now. A bunch of neighbors came by with casserole dishes but I sent them packing. Why do people always bring casserole dishes when somebody dies? Hank’s dead and so, what, I’m suddenly supposed to be in the mood for ham and scalloped potatoes?”

Mitch stood there salivating. Maybe she wasn’t, but he sure was. He had a nice big hunk of Harrington’s ham in the fridge, too. Plenty of Yukon Golds. Assorted bits of stinky Cato Corner Farm cheeses. Yummy.

“I didn’t feel like talking to anyone,” Paulette added, leading them inside past her cluttered living room, which Mitch noticed had a really cool vintage Lionel train set all laid out and ready to go. “Besides, a postal inspector from New York City showed up here at the crack of dawn and grilled me for a solid hour. Get this, will you? They’re bringing in a temporary supervisor from Norwich. I have to stay home for a few days.”

“That’s because you’re grieving,” Rut said to her. “You
should
take some time off. And I’m sure he wasn’t grilling you. Just following procedure.”

“No, he was definitely grilling me. Treated me like I don’t know how to do my job. He was a nasty little man. I didn’t care for his tone at all.”