Drop Dead Cold

by Karin Kaufman

  “Oh. Really?” Boy, had I missed the obvious. If those two knew each other, how easy would it have been for Joel to distract Nadine or even ask her to leave the bus for a moment to get something from her car? “I didn’t think about that. All I knew was that everyone but Tom was on the bus when I pulled into the parking lot.”

  “We’re not too shabby at detecting, are we?”

  Was he joking around a little or taking a jab at me and my nosiness? A bit of both, perhaps?

  “Does it sound to you like Joel had a deal with Nadine? She recommends a big insurance payout, and they both take a cut?”

  “We’re about to find out,” he said. “You can pick up your backpack now, by the way. And drive safely on your way home.”

  “What about the break-in at my house?”

  “We’re on it.”

  In a burst of energy, moving speedily for a man who had rammed his vehicle into a train trestle just the day before, Rancourt took off, shouting for an officer named Goodwin to follow.

  I pursued them both down the hall and caught up to Rancourt. “Detective, we still don’t know who killed Gavin Dearborn—or who drove you off the road.”

  “One thing at a time, Mrs. Brewer.”

  He came to a stop at the front desk, already out of breath. “We have a positive lead on the car that hit mine. In Bickford. Someone I collared three years ago, spent eight months in county jail. We just happened to be on the same road. He recognized me, think he lost it.” He stopped to draw a deep breath. “Sometimes hard feelings don’t die out, they fester. Go home, Mrs. Brewer, and thank you.”

  Feeling strangely unsettled, I drove for Birch Street. I’d been dead wrong about Rancourt’s run-in with the trestle, thinking at first it was Comeau’s doing, then later, being just as certain that one of the other birdwatchers had done it. With the police close to arresting Joel for Nadine’s murder, I should have been happy. Another killer would be off the streets. But Joel hadn’t murdered Gavin, and neither had Sierra.

  Then again, my track record of late was nothing to shout about. Was I so certain Comeau was a killer?

  Maybe Ray’s journal would answer some pertinent questions and point me in the right direction. I didn’t buy that Comeau had read about Ray’s murder in the Lewiston papers. He knew Ray from somewhere—or someone—else. After all, he’d taken the trouble to talk to both me and the Dearborns about him. This was a man obsessed.

  I parked my Jeep outside my house and entered through my side door, my eyes instantly going to the hutch. It was sheer habit. I always looked for Minette the minute I got home.

  After I got the kettle going, I went upstairs for the journal. I’d half expected not to see it where I’d left it, but there it was, in the drawer by my bed. Downstairs in the kitchen, I made herbal tea and sat at my kitchen table, turning to where I’d left off in the journal at Minette’s insistence.

  “I think she meant they were dead, but I couldn’t think what tragedy would wipe out an entire family of fairies,” Ray had written.

  Not only her family, but others as well. They were driven out and even killed. It astounds me to think of all that chaos going on in the gentle woods across my street, and none of us humans aware of it. Did the killings happen at night? Were the bodies of the dead flown away? I never saw any bodies, but Minette was very clear that fairies had died, though she didn’t want to talk about it. It was difficult to get details, but she called the chaos and death “Olc.” She even spelled the word for me. This fairy knows the alphabet!

  I met Minette in September, and I think this murderous event happened the summer right before. Minette said there were bad fairies, “very bad fairies” were her words, and that they had taken over the Smithwell Forest. They were there when we hunted for blueberries in September, but she said she couldn’t see them or hear them at that time.

  Well, why couldn’t it be so? If there are bad humans and human wars, why can’t the same tragedies and evils affect fairies? When I asked her if fairies lived elsewhere in Maine, she said yes, but there were “many” in Smithwell and “not so many” in Portland and Bangor and other places. And she said Smithwell had always been her home. She never wanted to leave, and she didn’t want to turn over her precious woods to these barbarians. “Barbarians” is my word—I chose it because of how Minette quivered when she talked about how her woods had become frightening.

  She talked of other frightening creatures too, though I’m not sure “creatures” is the right word because she told me very little about them. Only that they lived in the woods and scared her.

  Then she told me that other humans knew about fairies in Smithwell, and some of them were also bad. On more than one occasion she’d seen a man with a net and a birdcage, and he could not have used either for butterflies. She said she had to be most careful when she foraged and took her eyes off her surroundings. A net is a horrible thing to contemplate. I’ve told Minette she must stay in my house and garden and not return to the forest until it can be made safe. But how will I do that? Humans are after her too, and I have no idea how to stop them.

  Oh, what had I done? What had I foolishly, stupidly done? I jumped to my feet, bundled myself in my coat, hat, and gloves, and shot out the front door, nearly tripping over my own feet as I raced for Birch Street and the woods.

  CHAPTER 17

  The snow wasn’t deep, but hidden fallen branches forced me to slow to a jog on my way to Minette’s maple tree. Landing face-first on an old log and then dying of the cold was a real possibility if I didn’t watch my step. But could I find her tree? One woodland maple looked like any other to me, so Minette had always led me to her old home, and now even the silver ornament I’d hung from a branch was gone.

  I stumbled and came to a stop, heaving for breath, my heart racing. I needed to get my bearings, to work out how far I was from her maple tree. Scanning the forest, I searched for familiar sights. Following the path of previous footsteps seemed out of the question. A quarter inch of new snow had fallen in the forest. It shimmered on the branches, shining like sugar crystals in the rays of the low, fading sun, a scene both beautiful and bitter. To see Gavin’s prints, as well as mine and those of the police officers and medical examiner, I’d have to stumble on them. There was no spotting them from feet away.

  Cupping my hands around my mouth, I called out for Minette and waited, my gaze drifting skyward.

  This was madness. Was I anywhere near her tree? What if Comeau was lurking among the pines and he’d heard me call Minette’s name? Take a deep breath and calm down. It’s far more likely you’ll get lost and freeze to death.

  Looking for the slightest hint of human movement, I stared into the woods, pivoting to my left and right, even turning back to search the woods I’d just passed through. Seeing nothing, I again shouted Minette’s name.

  Nothing.

  The only sound was a chickadee calling from a nearby fir and a few brown leaves rustling in the wind.

  I walked on, and after a minute, I thought I recognized the trumpet-shaped log behind a maple—the one that had been covered in mushrooms but was now covered in snow. Was this her tree?

  Behind me, I heard the distinct sound of boots on the snow, and I froze in disbelief. How had I missed someone in the woods? When I spun back, Comeau was fifteen feet away, smiling at me like the lizard he was.

  “What are you doing here?” I shouted.

  “Hello to you too,” he replied, giving a tiny bow. “I could ask you the same, non?”

  “I live here. You don’t.” I scanned the forest floor for a branch big enough to hurt Comeau but not so large I couldn’t wield it in self-defense. He took a step forward and I stuck out my right hand, commanding him to halt. “Not another inch!”

  “Calmez-vous, my dear Mrs. Brewer. I was paying my respects to Mrs. Dearborn after her loss and thought I’d take a stroll before going home. Is that so strange?”

  Utter claptrap. “So it’s pure coincidence you ran into me in the middle of the
woods?” I didn’t like the idea of taking my eyes off Comeau, but I’d spotted a nice-sized branch a few feet away and decided to grab it. “Stay where you are.”

  Comeau chuckled as I wrenched part of the branch free from a withered shrub and then brought it to my chest like a sword.

  “If I wanted to hurt you,” he said, palming back his long, gray hair, “you would be hurt.”

  “Gee, you know how to make a girl feel at ease.”

  “I’ve told you what I’m doing here. Can you return the favor and tell me what you’re doing all alone, deep into this forêt magique?”

  “What’s magical about it?” I snapped. My irritation with the man was growing as quickly as my fear of him. He was a coward, speaking as ambiguously as possible so that when I fought back, he could declare I must have misunderstood him. Lord, how I wanted my husband’s old survival pocketknife. Comeau’s smarmy face would crumble at the sight of it. “I’m going back to my house, and you’re going to stay well clear of me.”

  “Yes, the light is fading. Look, it’s violet.”

  “Don’t mistake me for a frail old woman, Comeau. If you think I won’t fight you and hurt you, you’re wrong.”

  Comeau put a hand to his collarbone. “Madame, I have no intention of harming you. I only wanted to talk.”

  “I’m done talking with you. I invited you into my home, and then you abused that invitation by invading my home. You don’t think I know it was you? Now you stand here smirking at me, telling me you mean me no harm? Not having the guts to tell me what you’re really after? Move!” I raised the branch.

  “Oh, quelle violence!”

  “Now!”

  “And I only wanted . . . only . . . to talk. And I believe . . . I believe you are aware . . .” He was faltering, uncertain of his next move. Good. I had him rattled.

  I strode forward, brandishing my weapon and growling like a crazed bear for good measure. Let him think I’m totally nuts, I thought. That I could actually kill him.

  Comeau stepped to the side as if to let me pass, his lips twisting into a sick smile. “Fairies, Madame.”

  I sucked in my breath and froze in place.

  “Yes, Madame. How is that for honesty? You know what I’m saying. You’ve known all along. The moss by the lake, oui?”

  “Moss? You’re crazy.”

  “The tiny footprints on the chair too.”

  So the creep had broken into my home. Oh God, he’d seen Minette’s sooty prints in my living room. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Finally I say what you’ve been wanting to hear, and this is your reply to me? This is an uneven exchange. I saw the teacup with the cotton balls, like a fair-one’s bed. Delightful.”

  “I won’t tell you again. I’ll hit you so hard you won’t . . . you won’t—”

  “Know what hit me?” he said with a snicker. “Listen to me for one minute. You can start walking”—he spread his arm out in the direction of Birch Street—“and I’ll keep a good distance as I speak. You can’t deny me that.”

  “You’re certifiable,” I said, heading for home and clinging with all my might to the branch.

  I passed by him, and to my relief he didn’t start to follow me until I was ahead of him, and then he walked fifteen feet to my left, where I could keep an eye on his movements.

  “Mrs. Brewer, I once met a friend of Ray Landry’s. A woman named Irene Carrick.”

  Refusing to let on that I recognized the name, I repressed a flinch and kept moving.

  “I asked her about fairy lore. You know, of course, that she wrote a small book on the subject. Fairy Lore and Horticulture in Smithwell. I flattered her and she opened like a spring blossom in the sun. She doesn’t believe in fairies, though she’s heard all the stories about these woods. So I asked her who did believe in the little creatures, and she said her friend Ray Landry horrified her one day by letting on that he did.”

  “Ray was eighty-one,” I yelled.

  “And then I discovered that Mr. Landry had every intention of telling you about his discovery.”

  “He never did.”

  “Perhaps not, but you and Mrs. Carrick talked about Ray’s discovery. She laughed, but you did not.”

  Irene Carrick, you and I are going to have a talk about your gossiping ways. “So what?”

  “Et alors, I met Mr. Gavin Dearborn. He believed in possibilities, unlike his small-minded accountant wife. He loved small plants and small things.”

  I willed myself to keep moving, to not look his way because I knew he’d see fear in my eyes.

  “We met at an alpine garden show. I knew that Mr. Landry once bought an orchid for his fairy.”

  My heart was racing. “How on earth do you know such a stupid thing?”

  “Mrs. Carrick, of course. He didn’t tell her that was what it was for, but she suspected. As I was going to say, alpine plants are fairy favorites, though Mr. Dearborn didn’t know that. He loved them because he loved them.”

  I saw the edge of the woods and quickened my pace.

  “Mrs. Brewer, you know what I’m saying is true. Mr. Gavin Dearborn knew. A new house reveals its secrets. He told me about these secrets, and I suspected them, but he wouldn’t show me the evidence of their truth. Did he show you, his neighbor? You can tell me. I’m merely an interested third party. I too have my hobbies. Choses que j’aime.”

  Comeau followed me across Birch Street. On the other side of the road, still clutching my branch like a lifeline, I turned to face Comeau. “You’re babbling. Worse, you’re babbling in French.”

  “A third of Maine speaks French. You don’t like it?”

  “It’s a beautiful language, but coming out of your mouth it’s just another way for you to appear to be something you’re not. Don’t ever come near me again. The police are on to you, Richard Comeau. They’re watching my house, and they’re watching you.”

  He laughed and stuffed his ungloved hands in his pockets—the first sign I’d seen that he wasn’t completely impervious to the cold.

  “Get into your car and get out of here,” I said, trying to sound more assertive than I felt. Inside, I was quivering.

  Thankfully, Comeau gave me another one of his curious bows and walked off toward his white BMW, which I now saw was parked at the bottom of the Dearborns’ driveway.

  I dashed inside my house, locking the front door and then checking the locks on the side door, back door, and all the windows. When I came back downstairs, I breathed a sigh of relief when I found Ray’s journal where I’d left it, on my kitchen table.

  But before I could even sit down, my doorbell rang. I’d seen Comeau head for his car, and I seriously doubted he’d double back after our confrontation. When I peered through the peephole, I was glad to see Sierra on my front step.

  “That freak was at my house again,” she said, pushing through the half-opened door.

  “Yeah, I know. We met in the woods just now.”

  “What?”

  I shut the door. Sierra’s jaw was to the floor.

  “Just now. I was taking a walk in the woods, and there he was. He told me he was at your house earlier, paying his respects.”

  “I was at your door ten minutes ago.” She wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself. “So he said he was paying his respects? That’s garbage, Kate. He was asking me about Gavin again, hours after his body was found. It’s too weird.”

  “Did you let him inside your house?”

  “Idiot me, yeah. And here”—she reached into her pocket for her phone—“I thought you’d want to see this.”

  “Let’s go to the kitchen.” I led the way, tossing my coat over Ray’s journal before she could see it. “Have a seat. What have you got?”

  “A photo of Comeau.” She grinned broadly.

  “Oh, that’s useful.”

  “Thought it might be.” She pulled out a chair and sat. “That police officer, um, Bouche.”

  “Bouchard.”

  “I called the sta
tion. He said he was looking for more information on Comeau. I asked what he meant by that, and he wouldn’t tell me.” Sierra handed me her phone. “I told Bouchard everything I knew about him, but I forgot about this photo.”

  There was Comeau by the lake, where we’d first stopped, looking toward Sierra, seemingly unaware that his photo was being taken. Joel Perry was in the background, looking away from the phone’s camera. “You took this on the tour?”

  “Yeah, Comeau was looking right at me and had no idea I was snapping him since my phone was partly in my pocket and I was pretending to talk to Gavin.”

  “Would you send this to me?” I fished my phone out of my purse and pulled up my number.

  While Sierra worked on sending the photo, I gazed out my kitchen window, half expecting Comeau to walk past it and give me one of his reptilian grins. Every fiber of my being told me he was a dangerous man, especially for Minette, but was my near-obsession with him blinding me to other facts? “Sierra, what made you take that photo?”

  “Comeau’s a creep. First he finds me in the grocery, and then, on the bus, he talks about my house and secrets, as if Gavin and I had secrets.”

  “He meant the rumors about fairies.”

  “Oh, brother.” She rolled her eyes and gave me my phone. “Just in case, I wanted a picture to show the police. Something about that guy is trouble, Kate. I feel like . . . I know this sounds unreasonable, but I feel like he’s going to come back again.”

  “It’s not unreasonable. Keep your doors locked.”

  Alarm filled her eyes. “I wish Gavin was here.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “Do you still have that journal? I’d like to read it tonight. It sounds dumb, but it’s the last thing Gavin read, and it would make me feel close to him.”

  Though I knew it might comfort her to have Ray’s journal back, I wasn’t ready to let it go. There was too much to learn about Minette. And so I selfishly told her I’d given it to neighbors who had also loved Ray. “I’ll get it back to you tomorrow, if that’s okay?”