A Malicious Midwinter

by Dee Ernst

  A Malicious Midwinter

  Dee Ernst

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Also by Dee Ernst

  Copyright © 2017 by Dee Ernst

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All the characters in this book are the product of an overactive imagination. Any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is a tremendous coincidence.

  If you’d like to learn more about Mt. Abrams, including other books in the series, please visit

  https://mtabrams.com

  To find more of other Dee’s books, go to

  www.deeernst.com

  * * *

  Comments? Questions? An uncontrollable desire to just chat? You can reach me at

  Dee@deeernst.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9970514-9-0

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  No one famous had ever been born in Mt. Abrams.

  Now, there are probably a million towns and cities in the world where no one famous has been born, and the residents of those towns and cities probably gave the fact no thought at all. But in Mt. Abrams, it’s rather a sore spot. The Historical Society in particular spent a lot of time grumbling. Their reasoning was that Mt. Abrams was such a unique place to live that surely someone who had been raised there had absorbed some of that specialness and gone out and done something amazing in the world.

  So, the search for a Famous Son spilled over a bit, which is why when I casually mentioned at the monthly Garden Club meeting that I knew B.G. Riley, several crossover Historical Society folks took an interest.

  “B.G. Riley is pretty famous,” Lynn Fahey said, coming up to me after the meeting.

  I nodded. “Yes. She’d been on the New York Times bestseller list over a dozen times, and the television series based on her Precinct Eleven books is still going strong.”

  Mary Rose appeared from thin air. “I didn’t realize she was a woman. I mean, well, B.G.?”

  I shrugged. “She thought it would be easier to get published if people thought she was a he. Hard-boiled crime books and all.”

  “She would be wonderful for our library program,” Mary Rose continued.

  “What library program?” I asked, although I should have known better.

  Lynn beamed. “We’re working with Carol to bring in some writers to talk about their books. It’s been rather difficult getting responses. But since you know B.G. Riley personally, maybe you could put in a good word for us? It’s to benefit the Historical Society after all, and aren’t you and Carol good friends?”

  I was trapped. I hadn’t even wanted to come to the Garden Club meeting. What could they talk about in October? Winter mulching, in case you really wanted to know.

  I’m Ellie Rocca, freelance editor of mysteries and thrillers, single mom, and occasional snooper into things I should stay out of. I also tend to open my mouth to say things I shouldn’t, which was why, on a freezing February morning, I was waiting at the Lawrence train station for B.G.Riley and her assistant. I was also praying that the oncoming nor’easter would hold off long enough for Beth to give her talk,for the Historical Society serve their tea and cookies and feel good about themselves, and for my obligation to bring a little fame and glitter to Mt. Abrams to be fulfilled before we suffered from some blizzard-related disaster.

  Mt. Abrams had a reputation for being a sleepy little community where nothing ever happened.

  Those of us who lived there knew better.

  * * *

  Beth Graves Riley looked exactly the way you would expect an A-list mystery writer to look. Her dark hair was perfectly done, make-up flawless, and her dark fur coat brushed the tops of her high-heeled boots. We had never met. Our relationship had been built on emails and phone calls, but even if I hadn’t seen her author photo dozens of times, I still would have been able to pick her out. The usual crowd getting off at the Lawrence train station did not smell of Shalimar and money.

  I waved. “Beth, hello. Great to meet you at last.”

  She beamed and swept me into a long hug. “Ellie, my dear woman, you’re so young! I expected some tiny gray-haired librarian type.” She waved a hand behind her. “And this is Glory.”

  Glory was her personal assistant. Glory Rambeau. I had long ago given up trying to imagine people based on their names, but Glory Rambeau had conjured up quite a picture. Glory in person was a bit of a letdown. She was short and obviously underweight to the point of scrawny, even wrapped in a dark, puffy parka, the hood of which was pulled up over her purplish hair. She gave me a quick smile as she shifted an overstuffed tote bag from one hand to the other. I reached to help, but Beth swatted at my hand.

  “She’s young, she can handle it, Ellie. I try not to pamper her too much,” Beth said. “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I can get a quick drink? The train ride over was a horror.”

  Yes, there was a place for a quick drink. Zeke’s was right across the street from the platform. But…the train ride was a horror? It was less than an hour from Penn Station in New York City and had arrived on time. How bad could it have been? And then there was the fact that it was not even eleven in the morning.

  But who was I to argue? She was doing this for me, as a personal favor, with no fee involved, so we crossed over to Zeke’s, which had just opened for lunch, and settled into a booth.

  She ordered a martini, straight up, with Bombay Sapphire gin. Then she slipped her mink off her shoulders and sighed. “I can’t believe after all these years… Ellie Rocca at last.”

  We really hadn’t known each other all those years. She had approached me five years ago to re-edit her backlist, with an eye to self-publishing. Her star had been falling at the time, her two previous books had failed both critically and financially, and her publisher had not renewed her contract. After working on four of her old titles in a whirlwind eight months, she handed me a new manuscript, so fresh and surprising I suggested she give her old editor a call. But she’d had it with what she called the ‘stuffy Old Guard’ and wanted to go ahead on her own. It became a bestseller. So had the two books that came after. She called me her lucky charm and sent me checks in her Christmas cards.

  As a freelance editor, I knew what my skill set was, and her newfound success wasn’t because of anything magical I had done. Something in the very style of her writing had changed. It was energized and her thinking was way outside the box. But I was willing to take the credit if it came with cash.

  I had ordered coffee. Glory huddled in the corner next to me, a glass of seltzer gripped so tightly in both hands I wondered who she thought was going to steal it away from her.

  “Thanks for doing this, Beth. I know that Mt. Abrams would not normally be a stop on your book tour,“ I said.

  She sipped her drink tentatively, nodded in approval, and took a few robust sips. “Well, Ellie, I’m not exactly in the big leagues anymore.” She sighed and gazed lovingly at her empty martini glass. “One does what one can.”

  Next to me, I felt Glory stiffen. “You’re making plenty of money,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Beth finished off her drink, looked around for a waiter and signaled for another. “Yes, but where’s the People magazine interview? The spot on Good Morning America?”

  “I told you,” Glory said, her voice getting smaller. “
We need to hire a publicist.”

  Beth glared, then switched on a smile as her drink was delivered. “Maybe you need to get better at your job,” she said, with forced sweetness. She looked at me. “So what are we doing again?”

  “Well. There’s a catered luncheon at the library at one with the Mt. Abrams Library Association, and right after that you have your event, about an hour to talk, Q&A, and copies of your books will be available to sign. Then there’s a tea and cookies thing for the crowd, and you should be heading back home by the four-twenty train.”

  Beth downed her second drink in a single gulp. “Tea? And cookies? What about wine and cheese?”

  “Ah, well…” I glanced over at Glory, who’d turned beet red and looked very uncomfortable. “It’s hard in a place like a public library.”

  Beth licked the remnants of her drink off her lips. “God, who likes tea anymore?”

  I got a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Her eyes darted around the bar, looking for the waiter like a gazelle looking to escape a pack of hyenas. Her lipstick was smeary. She was ordering her third martini in less than ten minutes and she hadn’t had anything to eat. I’d be comatose. The fact that she wasn’t was a sign that she drank like this often.

  Glory stared at the tabletop, her jaw clenched and her eyes hidden behind a fall of purple hair. She shot me a helpless, almost pleading look.

  “Look,” I said. “It’s starting to snow. We’d better get on up the hill. We can hang at my house for a bit. Didn’t you want to show me the new manuscript?”

  Glory’s shoulders slumped with relief as Beth rolled her eyes and agreed. We bundled back up, piled into my Subaru, and were up at my house in less than ten minutes.

  I pulled the car into the detached garage beside my house. Beth stumbled out of the back seat and ran into the driveway.

  “I can see a lake from here,” she called. “How lovely!”

  Normally, it would be lovely. At that moment, the snow was thick and almost blinding. I could barely see my house. How had this storm worsened so quickly?

  Beth and Glory followed me into the house, where my dog, Boot, barked hysterically for about thirty seconds, then curled up in a corner of the couch. We took off coats, shook out scarves, and I headed to the kitchen.

  “Coffee?” I called.

  Glory was at my heels. “I’ll have a cup. Give Beth about an hour to come down a little. Then, start making more.”

  I set a cup in the Keurig. “Is Beth going to be drunk all day?” I asked.

  Glory shook her head. “No. I told you, in about an hour, we can start with the coffee. She’ll pull herself out of it.”

  “This thing starts in less than ninety minutes. Will she be able to put a sentence together by then?”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sure. I’ve seen her do it before.”

  I gave her a long look. “How long has she been like this?”

  Glory looked uncomfortable. “Like what?”

  “Like, getting half in the bag before noon?”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumped, then straightened as she looked me in the eye. “Beth is an amazing writer. I’d read everything she’d ever written before I even went to work for her.”

  “Yes, I agree. She is also, apparently, a drunk. I personally don’t care all that much, but I’m responsible for her and she has got to get herself together.” It was no use trying to explain the precarious social structure of Mt. Abrams, where a single misstep could ruin a reputation. Not that I cared all that much, as I was always walking the line between lovable eccentric and downright pain in the ass, but I had wanted this to go well.

  I handed Glory her coffee mug. “So—how long has she been like this?”

  Glory poured half the container of milk into her coffee. “She was worse when I started working for her. This is actually not that bad.”

  “How has she managed to write?”

  Glory sipped noisily and looked around my kitchen like it was the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “I love old houses,” she said.

  “Glory—” My cell phone made a noise. I sighed and pulled it out of my pocket.

  It was my oldest daughter, Cait. She, her younger sister Tessa, and boyfriend Kyle were all out in the Poconos with my ex-husband, skiing. The school system granted what was called a mid-winter break, and they had all left the previous Saturday. Cait sent me a picture of her and Tessa standing in front of a ski lift, grinning through a swirl of snow.

  More snow yay!!! She texted.

  Here too, I sent back, then slid my phone back in my pocket.

  Glory had used the interruption to escape back to the living room. I walked in and found Beth on the couch, sound asleep, mouth open, snoring. Glory, standing before the fireplace, smiled nervously.

  “Sometimes, a nap helps,” she said brightly.

  Beth snorted loudly from the couch, a bit of drool on her lower lip.

  Perfect.

  * * *

  Sam Kinali and I had been using my temporarily childless house as our own personal love-nest since the previous Saturday. By love nest, I do not mean we were acting like bunnies on all the furniture—after all, he was over fifty, and I was starting menopause. Rather, he moved in some clothes and things. He’d had a toothbrush here for a while, but now there were actual clothes. We’d been having breakfast together, then dinner, and he took Boot on her evening walk, because he loved the cold weather almost as much as I hated it. We lounged on the couch together and watched old movies or read. I’d even spent part of one night in Cait’s room because of his snoring.

  It had all been quite lovely.

  That morning, before he left for work, he moved the generator from the garage to the back porch, so if we lost power I could easily plug in and keep the home fires going, so to speak. The generator had been my Christmas gift to myself after Hurricane Sandy swept through years before, leaving the entire community of Mt. Abrams without power for eight days. Generators had been sold out all over north Jersey after the first three days, and I couldn’t get one delivered to the house until after Thanksgiving. Once it arrived, I felt much more secure. I’d only had to use it twice since then, but it was worth every penny spent.

  I was pretty sure I’d be using it again, and soon, even though it looked like the storm had abated. The sky still looked ominous, but there were only a few tiny swirls of flakes. Glory and I sat in my upstairs office, and I went over the new manuscript. It was brilliant. The new series was set in the near future, in a small town police station grappling with previously unknown technology brought in by the new, decidedly forward-thinking police chief. The chief was genderless, which was apparently a thing in the near future, and of course clashed with the older, more conventionally gendered detectives on the force. It was a combination of sci-fi, thriller, and social commentary. The sex scenes broke all sorts of new ground. It was the kind of series that could have easily been dismissed in traditional publishing, or worse, edited down to safe conventionality. It was perfect for the still-growing indie market. I loved it. Almost enough to forgive Beth and her ridiculous behavior.

  We went downstairs. Beth was still sprawled on the couch. I found the television remote and clicked. The Weather Channel was calling it the storm of the century. It looked like the entire mid-Atlantic was getting clobbered. Yes, there was a lull at present, but the full storm was still raging, and not expected to stop until sometime tomorrow. In the short span of twenty minutes, as Glory and I watched, the possibilities went from bad to catastrophic, with predictions of power outages, thousands of commuters stranded, and a second storm coming up right behind.

  “All that’s missing is the abominable snowman version of the zombie apocalypse,” Glory said at last.

  Beth made a noise from the couch and I looked at Glory.

  “One hour,” I said. “We have to be in the library in one hour.”

  Glory went over to Beth and shook her gently. “Beth, nap time is over. We need to get you re
ady.”

  Beth murmured something that sounded like a line from a David Mamet play.

  “Beth,” Glory said louder, “we have a presentation, remember? At Ellie’s library?”

  Beth responded, more loudly, suggesting I do something physically impossible with my library.

  I went into he kitchen to call Sam. “Please tell me you’ll be home early tonight with Indian take-out.”

  He laughed. “That’s your emergency comfort food. What’s going on?”

  “Beth is a drunk, she’s been passed out for over an hour and we need to be at the library by 12:45, or I’ll have to leave Mt. Abrams and change my name.”

  “Oh.”

  “This blizzard is going to be a whopper, and if the generator doesn’t start, we’ll have to burn the furniture for heat and maybe eat the dog.”

  He laughed again. “The generator is fine, and you have enough canned stuff to last us until April. Is she really a drunk? Sorry. I know this little event today is a big deal in the Mt. Abrams social hierarchy. But I’m sure you can pull it off.”

  Glory came into the kitchen and started making a cup of coffee. I took that as a good sign. “Are you going to have to stay at the station much longer?” He was a police detective, and if a State of Emergency was declared, would have to remain available. He had a Suburban that was perfectly capable of driving through any type of weather.

  “I think I’ll just stay until we have a plan in place, then I’ll spend the rest of the day looking for an open Indian restaurant. Anything else we need?”

  We. He said we. I smiled happily, all alone there in my kitchen. “I’m thinking vodka. If Beth and Glory get stranded here because of the weather, I’d hate to come up short.”

  “You could always put them on a train back right now,” he said.

  “True, but then there’s that have-to-leave-town thing again. Let me know what’s going on, okay?”