Frozen Ground

by Webb, Debra

  What she had considered as the snow had fallen that first winter after her mother’s murder, was what her brother might be feeling and thinking as he sat in his prison cell. Had he been afraid? Lonely? Sad?

  Abbey had sat through every hour of the trial. She’d listened to all the testimony, the expert witnesses—all of it. Some part of her had never really believed her brother was the killer. Perhaps believe wasn’t the right word. It was a sort of disconnect between what she was hearing and what her heart would allow her to absorb. Though he never said as much, she was certain her father had felt that same disconnect.

  Steven could not have killed their mother.

  Yet, the evidence and a single witness who had no reason to lie insisted that he had, and the jury concurred.

  Enough with the trekking down memory lane. She stood and started back to the path. Another cup of coffee was in order and then she needed to get to work. The rasp of brush against brush had her stalling and turning toward the woods on her right. She listened for the crunch of footfalls on icy snow or frozen leaves. The whisper of bare limbs against bare limbs.

  Nothing.

  There were any number of wildlife species running around in these woods. Her scent had likely stirred one or more. The place had been vacant long enough for a sudden presence to prompt unrest. Nothing to worry about, she decided as she walked back to the house.

  Inside, she peeled off the layers of protective outer wear and poured another cup of coffee, then checked her cell phone.

  Maybe she should give Garrett a call. They could have lunch. Catch up. At some point during the arrangements and her father’s funeral she had learned that he still wasn’t married. Nearly a year later now, he certainly could be. She’d never been in a serious relationship, much less married. Focused, that had been her watch word. Get through college. Find the dream job. Write the book.

  There hadn’t been time for anything else.

  Was the real issue time or had she still been drifting along in that personal fog? The part of her life that included intimate relationships on permanent pause? Had she ignored those needs to avoid having to deal with that awful day? In truth, had she or her father ever really dealt with the ramifications of such a tragic loss and the stunning violence it had included? It was far easier to immerse herself in her studies and then her work.

  Now here she was, thirty, alone and suddenly uncertain about too many things.

  “Why the hell are you going there?” Abbey shook her head. Being in this house had her obsessing about the past.

  She picked up her notepad and focused on what she should be doing. Making a list of the items she wanted to keep and of those she felt compelled to ship to Steven. So far there was nothing penciled in under either heading.

  Upstairs, she went into her father’s bedroom and began sifting through decades of his and her mother’s lives. The scent of mothballs stirred in the closet. The clothes were all in good condition. Those could be donated. There wasn’t any jewelry other than a few inexpensive pieces that had belonged to her mother. There was a pearl necklace Abbey intended to keep. It was the one heirloom that had been handed down through her mother’s family. She made a note of the item on her list but didn’t find it in the jewelry box.

  Considering her cramped apartment in Manhattan, she restrained her emotions and went for practical in her selections. She moved on to the en suite bath. A make-up table sat next to the pedestal sink. All these years, her father had left it exactly as it was the last time her mother had used it. The perfume she had worn, her few cosmetics, all sat exactly where she’d left them—except the lipstick she’d loved. Her father had never packed up any of her mother’s things, so the two items had to be around here somewhere. Abbey opened the small center drawer to see if the lipstick or the pearls were there, but they were not. There was only a brush and a handheld mirror.

  She was certain she had seen the missing items when she picked out her father’s clothes for his funeral. The pearls had been lying atop the jewelry box. Had someone from the maintenance company put the necklace up somewhere?

  Or taken it?

  The lipstick wasn’t something she would expect to be taken by anyone. More likely it had been lost at some point. She probably hadn’t seen it the last time she was here. The mind sometimes filled in what one expected to see, particularly during a time of extreme stress—like her father’s unexpected death.

  She shook off the painful memory. Focus, she reminded herself. There was a lot to be done.

  Chapter Two

  9:20 a.m.

  Standing in the middle of a homicide scene was the last thing Sheriff Garrett Gilmore wanted to be doing on a Sunday morning—any morning, for that matter. Yet, here he was.

  Garrett surveyed the backyard where Dottie Hansen lay prone on the cold ground not a half dozen yards from her back door. Dark crimson from what appeared to be multiple stab wounds stained her ruffled pink dress. Strangely it didn’t appear to have run down the sides and puddled on the snow beneath her. Maybe there was more under the body, but he’d have to wait until the coroner arrived to check it out. Her bare feet were blue, as much from the fact that blood no longer flowed freely through her veins as the freezing temperature. He shook his head. Who the hell would do something like this to a woman closer to seventy than sixty? Dottie had lived in Park County her whole life. She baked for the church fundraisers. Taught elementary school for nearly four decades before retiring.

  It didn’t make one lick of sense.

  Two crime scene techs went through the somber steps of documenting the scene. Evidence would be collected. The coroner was on his way. Three of Garrett’s deputies were searching the yard and the tree line, while two others scoured the house. So far they’d found no reason to suspect anything had been taken from inside the house—not even the cash in Mrs. Hansen’s handbag was missing—which left them without a clear motive for this brutal act.

  Lionel Hansen, Dottie’s husband, had arrived home at seven-thirty this morning from a business trip. He’d driven all night to get here. When he’d unlocked the front door and come inside, he’d noted how cold it was. He’d walked through the living room and into the kitchen. The back door had been standing open, framing the view of his wife lying dead on the ground.

  Rigor mortis had begun its slow, inevitable trek through her body. The coroner would make the final conclusion, but Garrett was guessing she’d been dead at least two or three hours when her husband arrived home. And that had been nearly two hours ago. Of course, the freezing temperature slowed everything down and made determining the exact time of death difficult. Since the victim had been home alone the night before, there was no way to determine when her attacker had arrived or when the murder had taken place by any other measure.

  Front door had been locked, no windows were broken or open which suggested the intruder had entered through the back door. Yet, the back door showed no signs of forced entry. Had someone knocked and Mrs. Hansen stirred from sleep thinking it was her husband? Had grogginess prevented her from considering that her husband wouldn’t have had to knock? Or had she assumed he’d forgotten or lost his key?

  Garrett turned to his right-hand man, Deputy Sheriff Kyle Wagner. “I’m going to talk to Hansen again. Let me know when the coroner arrives.”

  “Will do,” Wagner assured him as he lifted his shoulders, pushing his collar closer around his ears.

  Garrett made his way into the house, through the kitchen to the living room and down the hall to the bedroom where Lionel Hansen sat on the bed he and his wife had shared for more than forty years. Garrett had wanted to ensure Mr. Hansen was away from the fray of official activities. This end of the one-story house had been thoroughly gone over already. Nothing had been found to indicate the killer had entered or searched any of the three bedrooms. Ushering the man into that area seemed the best way to keep him insulated from the horror in his backyard.

  Hansen looked up as Garrett paused in the doorway. His eyes wer
e red rimmed, his face somber. “There are people I need to call,” he said wearily. “Arrangements need to be made.”

  The Hansens didn’t have any children, but they were active in church and in the community. The couple had many friends.

  “I understand and you have my word that we’ll finish up here as soon as we can.” Garrett sat down in the chair that flanked the bedside table. “I’ve asked you a lot of questions already, but there are a few more.”

  Hansen rubbed his forehead; his hand shook ever so slightly. “Sure, sure. Do what you have to do.”

  “About what time do you and your wife usually go to bed?” Garrett needed to determine if his scenario that the intruder had awakened Mrs. Hansen was feasible or if she had potentially still been up. Had she come into the living room, discovered the intruder and ran out the back door, or had she answered the door thinking it was her husband? The latter seemed the most logical since there was no sign of forced entry. No indication the lock on either door had been tampered with whatsoever.

  What didn’t fit was her manner of dress. She wasn’t wearing a nightgown or pajamas which contradicted the scenario that she’d already gone to bed and was awakened by someone at the door. And the bed was still made. Whatever Dottie Hansen had been doing, she hadn’t gone to bed before trouble appeared at her home.

  “Since we both retired,” Hansen said, then released a heavy sigh, “we’ve been staying up to watch the late news. Then we have a glass of warm milk and talk about the next day’s plans, the weather.” His shoulders moved up and down as if he didn’t really know what else to say. “Night before last we were talking about Christmas.” Liquid pooled in his eyes. “I don’t know what in the world I’m going to do now.”

  “Eleven-thirty? Midnight?” Garrett asked gently, stirring him back to the question.

  Hansen nodded. “That’s about right. Since she hadn’t changed into her gown, she may have fallen asleep on the sofa.”

  Or Mrs. Hansen may have been awake when her killer arrived. Garrett glanced at the bedside table. “Do you both have cell phones?” He opted not to use the past tense. The man was well aware his wife was dead. No need for Garrett to point out the obvious.

  “She refused to bother with one. Always preferred the house phone. But I have one.” He shook his head. “I called her about ten and told her I was heading home. She wanted me to wait until this morning and make the drive, but I didn’t see the point in staying another night and, with the storm hot on my heels, I couldn’t take the risk. I wish to God I hadn’t gone at all.”

  Though he was retired, Lionel Hansen worked with the biggest auction house in Livingston. From time to time, he drove to another city or state and picked up a rare antique or some piece of priceless art. On occasion his wife went with him. It was too bad she hadn’t gone this time.

  The home’s landline was in the kitchen with an extension in the bedroom. If some unidentifiable sound had awakened her, why not hide in the bedroom and call for help? The phone was right there. If the intruder had come in through the back door, why run in that direction? Whatever her intent, she hadn’t been fast enough to escape her killer. As far as Garrett could tell, she had at least four stab wounds in the back. He’d noted no other visible indications of injury. The murder weapon may have been the missing knife from the block on the counter. Hansen had stated there was one missing. The killer had obviously taken the murder weapon with him…or her.

  The concept that the manner of death was eerily similar to another one some sixteen years ago nudged him. Abbey’s mom, Ellen, had been stabbed in the back. Her body had been on the ground in her own backyard as well.

  Uneasiness slid through Garrett. He hated the idea that when Abbey heard this news she would be reminded of that nightmare all over again.

  “She sounded fine when you spoke by phone?” he asked the older man.

  Hansen nodded. “She was worried about the storm. Since I’d already set out, she wanted me to get home before it reached Park County.” He exhaled another of those big, resigned breaths and scrubbed at his face. “Those damned Japanese vases are still in my truck.”

  “Would you like me to have one of my deputies take them to the auction house for you?”

  Hansen closed his eyes and considered the question for a moment. He finally opened them once more and shook his head. “I should take them. I’ll have to go to the funeral home anyway. I can’t believe this. It just can’t be.” He lowered his head into his hands.

  “When I first arrived,” Garrett began, “one of the things I asked you to do is to mull over the idea of who might have wanted to hurt you or Mrs. Hansen.”

  The older man lifted his head and met his gaze. “The answer is easy, Garrett. No one. We don’t have any enemies. We don’t have a thing in this world worth killing for. A little money in the bank but nothing here at the house. We’ve not offended anyone or made anyone angry. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  The answers were exactly what Garrett had expected. The Hansens were good people. Not at all the type to draw trouble. Their home was small and modest, nothing that would bait a thief.

  And yet, Dottie Hansen was dead. Murdered.

  “If you think of anything at all,” Garrett said, “let me know. For now, we’ll operate under the assumption this was a stranger passing through looking to steal money or something easily converted to cash.”

  Except the thirty dollars in cash remained in the victim’s purse. Credit card was still there. There were no computers save the laptop Hansen had with him. The old television was not valuable enough to bother stealing. No silver or other goods readily marketable.

  If Garrett set robbery aside, the manner of death spoke of something far more sinister. Revenge. The number of stab wounds suggested an emotional kill.

  Hansen exhaled a big breath. “If it’s okay, I’ll just stay in here until your people are done. I can’t bear to see…what has to be done.”

  “Is there anyone I can call to come pick you up? You might be more comfortable getting out of the house until we’re through here.”

  This time he shook his head no. “I want to stay. I want to be here when they take her away.”

  Garrett put a hand on the man’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Let me know if I can get you anything at all.”

  He moved back into the living room and found Deputy Keith Sanders. “Keep an eye on Mr. Hansen,” he said quietly. “I don’t want him doing anything irrational.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Garrett exited the house. He glanced at the sky. Judging by the way those clouds were gathering, the storm wasn’t going to go around them. He was hoping the storm’s path would edge past Park County but apparently that wasn’t going to happen. Damned thing had played havoc in Canada yesterday. Eastern Montana was dead in its path and the timeline Channel 31 forecast was coming way too fast for comfort.

  He located Prater, one of the deputies having a look around the yard. “Anything?” he asked.

  Prater moved his head side to side. “Nothing, Sheriff. No tracks of any kind.” He gestured to the long and narrow gravel driveway that led from the road through the woods and to this clearing where the house and barn stood. “I walked the length of the drive just to ensure whoever came last night hadn’t gotten off the gravel. No luck. Didn’t find any footprints anywhere around the house. With that recent snow melt there are plenty of soft spots, but he missed every single one.”

  The way the temperature was dropping anything that wasn’t frozen hard would be by dark. “Make sure everything gets a second look by a fresh set of eyes. I don’t want anything missed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The coroner’s van arrived, and Garrett felt some measure of relief knowing the body would be moved soon. He hated like hell for Mr. Hansen to have to endure much more of this nightmare. It would really make life less complicated if the poor man would go to a friend’s place and stay for the day—maybe a couple of days considering the storm coming. Garrett
was torn between needing his input and wanting to protect the elderly man from further pain.

  Doc Amos Taylor climbed out of the van on the driver’s side. His assistant, Bart Henshaw, hopped out from the passenger side. While Taylor headed toward Garrett, Henshaw went to the back of the van to gather the gear they would need. Garrett had known both men since he was a kid. Henshaw had gone to school with his younger brother and Taylor was a friend of his father’s. That was pretty much the way of it in this county. Everyone knew everyone else.

  The rattle of the gurney being pulled from the back of the van jerked Garrett back to the here and now.

  “That storm is picking up steam,” Taylor said. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to catch hell tonight.”

  Garrett had that same feeling. “Keeps life interesting.”

  Taylor jerked his head toward the house. “So we got ourselves a murder?”

  “Afraid so. Dottie Hansen.”

  The coroner frowned. “Damn. She’s a good friend of my sister’s. Is Lionel here?”

  Garrett gave a nod. “He found her. Got home this morning. The back door was standing wide open and Mrs. Hansen was outside on the ground.”

  “It’s a shame,” Taylor said with a shake of his head, then, “Let’s get to it.”

  They walked around to the back of the house together. Only yesterday the snow had been melting, the sun shining. Then the storm changed its path and the weather made an abrupt reversal. The evidence techs had finished their work around the body and had moved onto the main living areas of the house. Henshaw and the gurney rolled up behind them, the wheels crunching on the freezing ground.

  Taylor crouched down and began his examination of the victim. As he moved through the steps, Garrett stood back, having another look at the scene from a different perspective. He ignored the body on the ground and visually examined the back porch. The swing was still adorned with pillows. Wood stood in a basket next to the door. No clutter. Nothing turned over or out of place.