Drop Dead Cold

by Karin Kaufman

  Emily sat straighten, peering out the windshield. “It looks like every single squad car in the department is there.”

  When Bouchard waved me on, I stopped the Jeep and rolled down the window. “Officer Bouchard, it’s Kate Brewer.”

  He bent low. “Kate, sorry. I didn’t see.”

  “What happened here?”

  “It’s Rancourt. It looks like someone ran his car into the trestle. They just took him to the hospital.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Bouchard told me that Rancourt had been taken to the trauma center at Franklin Memorial in Bangor. The detective’s condition was serious but not life threatening, he said, and then he ordered me to stay away from the hospital. “I’m not kidding, Kate. Stay out of the way and let the doctors do their job. I’ll interview him this evening, and you can see him later.” Bouchard knew me too well.

  “Any clue on who did this?” I asked him.

  “No, and Rancourt won’t be in any condition to talk to anyone for a while.”

  “I was going to tell him that Richard Comeau showed up at my house.”

  Bouchard furrowed his brow. “You mean after you got home? Just now?”

  “That’s right. He didn’t threaten me, but . . . well, he kind of did. His whole manner is threatening. Anyway, he probably drove down this road not long ago, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he did this. He was in a white BMW.”

  “Rancourt was heading in the other direction.”

  “What?”

  “Rancourt’s car was hit as he was driving toward your house, not away from it, like Mr. Comeau would’ve been.”

  I looked to the fire truck ahead, and to where a tow truck was now inching up to the back end of Rancourt’s SUV, trying to secure a winch line to the vehicle without joining it in the ditch. Of course. The accident had happened on the other side of the trestle bridge, with the SUV facing the opposite direction. “I see. Still, Comeau could have turned around farther up the road and gone after Rancourt, right?”

  “I guess so.” Bouchard swallowed a skeptical smirk. “But does that seem likely?”

  “Yeah, all right, maybe not. Was Nadine Sullivan murdered? I’d like to know if a murder suspect was at my house.”

  “What was Comeau doing at your house?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “What do you mean he wouldn’t say? Did you ask?”

  “I couldn’t get anything out of him.”

  Judging by the expression on his face, Bouchard was having trouble understanding me. “He said nothing? Then what’s the point of seeing you?”

  “I think he may be dangerous,” Emily said.

  “He said he knew of something that would interest me,” I added, “but when I asked him what, he said he wasn’t at liberty to say. And he talked about Ray Landry. Remember him?”

  Bouchard nodded. “Your neighbor—the guy who was murdered last October. That’s kinda funny.”

  The car behind me gave a polite honk, and I put the Jeep in drive. “Was Nadine murdered? Did it have to do with the powder?”

  “Rancourt thought it might be fentanyl. Turns out it’s carfentanil, which is a hundred times more potent. I’ll look into this Comeau guy. In the meantime”—he paused and glanced at Emily—“you two ladies be careful.”

  Bouchard gestured for me to move on and gave a nod to the car behind mine.

  I thanked him and drove off, wondering where to go next since a trip to the police station was now off my list.

  Minette stirred in my pocket, and when I glanced down, her head was above my pocket hem. “Kate, someone bad hurt Rancourt.”

  “I know.”

  “You must be careful. What’s car . . . carfen . . .”

  “Carfentanil. I’ve heard of it somewhere.”

  Emily retrieved her phone and did a quick search. “It’s used to tranquillize elephants and other very large mammals. It’s been on the streets in Maine for a few years, and the police say it’s become a real problem. And get this. It’s made in both China and Mexico, and most of it flows through Mexico, though you can buy it online direct from China in small amounts.”

  “That means it’s easy to get.”

  “Easier than it should be.”

  I slowed, pulled into the breakdown lane, and stopped. “Anyone on that bus could have had it.”

  “Someone might have put it in Nadine’s backpack before the tour.”

  “Then why wouldn’t she have touched it earlier, when she rummaged around and took out her camera and gloves? Besides, she complained that someone had been in her backpack after we stopped at the first birdwatching spot.”

  “What if it was in there before, and the killer was frustrated that she hadn’t touch it yet, so he moved her backpack?”

  I thought a moment. “That’s possible.”

  “Yipes,” Emily said, still scrolling the phone’s screen. “It’s so powerful, a speck of it absorbed through the skin can kill you.”

  When I saw a red car approach on the other side of the road—driving too slowly, even for the icy conditions—I gripped my steering wheel, ready to take off.

  “Who is it?” Emily asked.

  “No one I know. I don’t think.” A nervous winter driver? I wondered. Probably. But after seeing what had happened to Rancourt, who was no slouch in the self-protection department, I’d vowed not to let my guard down, no matter how paranoid I appeared. I watched the car until it passed, and only then did I ease my hold on the wheel. “I’m being cautious, that’s all. All three of us are going to be cautious.”

  Emily put away her phone and shifted sideways in her seat. “So who are these birdwatchers and what’s their connection to Nadine Sullivan?”

  “That’s the question. Do you think Laurence could help?”

  “I’m sure he could.”

  “Not to take advantage of his friendship.”

  “Nah. He loves this kind of thing.”

  “That’s because it’s second nature to him.”

  “He’s not a spy, Kate.”

  “Of course not. Never crossed my mind.” I checked my rearview mirror and pulled into the street. “Let’s stop at the tour company. They have an office downtown. Minette, stay hidden. Don’t poke your head out, even for a second.”

  A couple minutes later I turned onto Falmouth Street. Downtown Smithwell was a cluster of brick buildings and clapboard houses centered on Falmouth and four cross-streets—Essex, Front, Water, and Pleasant. A small downtown for a small town, population about six thousand. Funny thing was, the population never varied much. Every year a few aging residents died, and every year a few outsiders moved to town and took their places, most of them in search of a quieter life. In any case, in my twenty years in Smithwell, the town had never altered the sign on Route 2 that read, “Welcome to Smithwell, pop. 5,997.”

  I made a left at Water Street, drove a block north, and snagged a parking space in front of a small brick office building. Of the four offices in the building, Wildland Birds occupied the choicest: in front, right on the sidewalk, possessing a large and inviting window allowing sidewalk strollers to view the colorful bird photographs on the walls—and be lured inside. Anyway, that’s what had happened to me when I’d walked past.

  A bell over the door sounded as Emily and I walked inside, and we were met instantly by a woman who leapt from her desk chair to greet us. I’d never seen her before. In her mid-thirties, she cared not a whit for fashion over warmth. Dressed in snow boots trimmed in fake fur, baggy jeans, a turtleneck sweater, and an open, threadbare cardigan that hung to her knees, she smiled at us, told us her name was Sophia, and began to peddle Wildland’s upcoming March tour.

  I stopped her. “I was on today’s tour.”

  Sophia’s face fell. “Oh, holy moly. That. I’m so sorry. How terrible it must have been. Joel was sick about it.”

  Seeing no one else around, and wanting to find out where she would lead me without me prodding, I said little in response. “It was awful.”
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  “That poor woman. Nadine was her name?”

  “Nadine Sullivan,” I said.

  “We’ve never had that happen before. At least not since I’ve been here, and that’s been almost a decade. People just don’t die on birdwatching tours. If they’re old and have health problems, they’re not even allowed to come because the tourists always hike a little.”

  “Nadine was going to ask for a refund.”

  “Really?” Sophia glanced about the empty office. “Why? I booked her, and she seemed so happy to be going.”

  “She was being harassed. A couple of men on the tour were kind of, well, questionable.”

  “Really?” she said again. “I’d like to know about that.” She went back to her desk, took hold of a black notebook, and flipped it open. “Today, today,” she said, running her finger down a page as she walked back to me. “Here we go. First, Mr. Richard Comeau. I remember him. Hard to forget, actually. Was he a problem?”

  “He was definitely a problem,” I replied. The thought that Comeau might be blackballed from the company’s tours because of my response brought no remorse. “He harassed me, too.”

  “And you?” Sophia asked Emily.

  “I wasn’t on the tour,” Emily said, “but I know this Comeau guy a little, and let me just say I’d never want to be alone with him.”

  “We can’t allow that,” Sophia said. “I’ll make a note of his behavior.”

  And she did, literally—jotting something I couldn’t quite make out in the notebook.

  “Do you know any of the other men and women who were on the tour?” I asked.

  I was pushing it, but Sophia seemed the gossipy type, and she hadn’t yet treated me as though I’d overstepped my bounds.

  “Tom Roche,” she said. “He’s all right, I suppose. I finally talked him into going on one of our tours.”

  “I thought his wife talked him into going.”

  “Carrie? No, they’re still getting a divorce. Only their lawyers talk.” She leaned my way, whispering conspiratorially, “He cheated on her, and I heard she’s getting the house and half their bakery business in Old Town. The place flooded in January—frozen pipes in the ceiling—and Tom can’t even open the doors because Carrie insists they sell the bakery and the insurance company won’t pay enough to repair all the damage. Inspectors won’t let him open, so sooner or later he’ll have to sell.”

  “Poor man,” Emily said. “But kind of a scoundrel too.”

  “Comeuppance,” Sophia said with a wink. “Anyway, I knew he needed a mental break, so I encouraged him to go on a tour.”

  I did a little conspiratorial whispering myself. “Can I ask you about Joel Perry?”

  “Joel?” For the first time, Sophia seemed a tad offended. “But he’s one of us. He’s been a driver for three years, and he’s a nice guy. One of the best.”

  “How is he one of the best?”

  “For one thing, he can handle the snarkiest tourist. It doesn’t matter if they’re flatlanders or Mainers—birdwatchers can be a pain in the rear. ‘Where are all the puffins? That’s what I paid for.’ Whine, whine. Like we can control birds in flight. He’s a good driver, too. You could tell, couldn’t you? Didn’t you feel safe, even with the ice?”

  “He seemed a safe driver.”

  “The past few months have been rough for him too, like Tom.”

  “Cheating?” Emily asked.

  Sophia frowned. “No, he’s single. Well, divorced. But no, his house in Dexter burned down last December. What a tragedy that was. He’d worked so hard on restoring it and then wham! It was gone in an hour.” She shook her head sadly, as if the event had wounded her personally. “Well, that’s life.” She sighed deeply and wandered back to her desk, signaling a quick end to our conversation. But I had two more questions.

  “Sophia.”

  She turned.

  “Did you know Nadine Sullivan?”

  “Never met her. I didn’t sign her up. You either, I think.”

  “What about Gavin and Sierra Dearborn?”

  “I signed them. They’d been birding before and were looking for a new tour. Nice couple.”

  “They just moved here.”

  “From Dover-Foxcroft, yeah. They said they needed a break too, but I guess like everyone else on that bus, they didn’t get one.”

  “A break from what?”

  “Their move. They haven’t been here long, and their old house burned down, which must have been a nightmare.”

  I stared.

  Unfazed by her own words, Sophia shrugged, rounded her desk, and sat. But when she looked back to me, comprehension dawned. “Well, that’s funny, huh? Seven people and two house fires. What are the odds?”

  CHAPTER 8

  “How about a million to one?” Emily said, hoisting herself into the Jeep. “Sophia wanted the odds? That’s the odds. Seven people on a bus, and two of them had house fires? Insane.”

  I started the engine. “And one of them owned a business that flooded.”

  “Yes!”

  “Bouchard doesn’t know.”

  “You think?”

  “He’s a good guy, but he’s inexperienced. He won’t talk to Sophia because he won’t see a reason to. Not like Rancourt would.”

  “And right now Rancourt can’t.”

  Minette squirmed a little in my pocket and protested the stuffy confines, but I told her to stay hidden until we were safely out of the downtown area.

  “Should we go someplace else?” Emily asked.

  “Where can we get information on the flood and fires?” I answered. “Joel Perry’s house was in Dexter, the Dearborns’ house was in Dover-Foxcroft, and Tom Roche’s bakery is in Old Town. Or was. But where does Tom live?”

  “Laurence can tell us,” Emily said flatly. She strapped herself in. “Head for my house.”

  “Are you sure he won’t mind?”

  “He’s bored to death, and it’s too cold to work in the yard. Let’s go.”

  As soon as we hit Route 2, Minette flew out of my pocket and shot to the Jeep’s console. The day’s feeble sunshine—that weak, white light of a Maine February—hadn’t made a dent in the ice encroaching on the asphalt from the breakdown lanes. Normally I liked winter, but I’d had a bellyful of it this year and could hardly wait for April, cold and rainy as that month could be. The forsythia would be in bloom, and soon after, so would the hardy purple azaleas and rhododendrons. Provided it wasn’t too cold, April in Smithwell was colorful and fresh, like a second breath of autumn.

  And for Minette, the forest would come alive in the spring. The first of the wild leeks would pop their heads above the soil, followed by dandelion leaves, sweet fern leaves, and wild carrots. She would forage for delicacies in the woods across Birch Street, and I would follow her there. In August, I’d collect wild blueberries again, as Michael and I had done before he’d passed.

  “Will we talk to Rancourt?” Minette asked me.

  “Not today,” I said. “He needs his rest.”

  “Did Comeau make his car crash?”

  “For now there’s no way to know. It could have been any of them on that bus. Or maybe it was an accident.”

  “I don’t like the Comeau.”

  “Neither do I, and you won’t be seeing him again if I have anything to say about it.”

  I managed to avoid the icy patches on my driveway, thank goodness, so there were no backward-sliding incidents on the way to my garage. I left the Jeep parked outside, and while Emily walked to her house down the flagstone path between our homes, I headed inside mine, Minette once again hiding from view in my pocket.

  The second I stepped through the side door, a tingle crept down my spine. Wrong. Gently holding my pocket closed, I whispered, “Stay hidden.”

  Minette squeaked.

  “Shhh.”

  I stood in the open doorway as I scanned the kitchen, leaving myself an escape route. First I saw the tea kettle—on the counter, though I’d left it on the stove. T
he chairs—moved. The moss Minette had left on the table—gone. And the hutch. Good heavens! The cotton balls I’d placed in Minette’s teacup were now on the shelf next to the cup, and all the teacups had been moved. Each was only an inch or so out of place, but without a doubt they’d been moved. And at that instant, I knew why they’d been moved. Comeau had searched them.

  I wheeled back, raced out the door, and made for Emily’s house, dodging the ice along the path. “Stay hidden, Minette,” I commanded.

  I punched the doorbell like a lunatic until Laurence answered. “My house was broken into,” I said breathlessly.

  “Just now? Is someone there?” He took my arm and pulled me inside. “Did you call the police?”

  He was six feet four, with an almost military air about him, and the moment he spoke, I stopped hyperventilating. “I didn’t have time. I just got out.”

  “Kate?” Emily hurried toward the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m calling the police,” Laurence said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Someone broke into my house while we were out.” I hauled Emily into her living room, away from the kitchen and Laurence. “Minette’s still in my pocket.”

  “Oh.” She gazed at my right pocket. “Ohhh. That’s a real pickle.”

  “Pickle?” Minette said.

  I pulled back the top of the pocket, glared at Minette, and put a finger to my lips.

  “Laurence will go bonkers if he sees her,” Emily said quietly. “I don’t want to commit my husband to a mental institution. Not until he’s at least seventy.”

  “I had to get out of there, and I couldn’t leave her behind.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “This really is a pickle.”

  “All right, Kate,” Laurence boomed as he walked into the living room.

  Startled, I jerked and spun back to face him.

  “The police are on their way. You need to sit down and try to relax. It’s under control.”

  “Yes.” I sat on the MacKenzies’ well-stuffed armchair. “Thank you.”