Misty nods, shivering. She must be chilled through in those damp clothes. And terrified.
Calla puts a hand on her trembling shoulder as Bella goes into the entry hall.
“We meet again,” Grange says. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”
He crosses the threshold, brushing white powder from his shoulders and reaching back to close the door. It slams behind him like a gunshot.
“Sorry about that,” he says quickly, hand still on the knob. “It was the wind. Where’s the boy’s mother?”
Ah, yes. Mr. Warm and Fuzzy himself.
“Right here. I’m Misty Starr, and this is Odelia’s granddaughter, Calla . . .”
“Delaney.”
“Sorry,” Misty says. “I’m not good with names.”
“Misty Starr.” Grange writes it down on his clipboard.
“Yes. Two Rs.”
A star, a star, Bella hears in her head. Oh, if only this were Bethlehem and three wise men—or even one wise man—would guide Jiffy safely home.
“I saw the sign out front,” Grange says. “What’s your real name?”
Bella probably shouldn’t be surprised by the question. Sometimes it seems as if no one around here is who they claim to be.
She’s met more than her share of villains who used stolen identities or simply passed themselves off as ordinary people. And just the other day, she’d overheard Misty’s client on her cell phone laughing about using a pseudonym for her reading.
Wait a minute.
That was the day an SUV with Ontario license plates was parked in front of Misty’s house. The border is just over an hour away. In the season, Bella hosted nearly as many Canadian guests as Americans, and yet . . .
Yuri Moroskov was part of a money-laundering crime ring that smuggles contraband through Canada. Could Misty’s client have been connected to the Amur Leopard, too?
Lily Dale’s refrain echoes back to her.
There are no coincidences.
* * *
“So you’re Mary Ellen Arden. Is that your maiden or married name?” Grange asks Misty.
“Married. My maiden name is Grzeszkiewicz, but I’ve never used it. Even when I was a kid, people just called me Meg.”
“Meg? Not Mary Ellen.”
“Yes. Mary Ellen. My initials were M-E-G. Meg is a lot easier than trying to say Grzeszkiewicz.”
“Spell it,” Grange commands.
“G-R-Z . . .” Misty begins, but she stops spelling, stops breathing, when the phone rings in Calla’s hand.
“It’s Blue.”
Grange frowns. “What do you mean, blue?”
“Her boyfriend,” Bella explains. “That’s his name. Blue Slayton.”
“Did you find him?” Calla is asking.
Misty closes her eyes. Pleasepleasepleaseplease . . .
“Okay, well, keep looking . . . yes . . . What? Where? . . . How long ago?”
“What is it? What happened?” Misty asks. “Did he find something?”
“Hang on,” Calla says into the phone, then tells Misty, “No, he didn’t.”
“Mrs. Arden?” Grange prompts her, gesturing with his pen. “Your maiden name? You were spelling it for me.”
“Oh. Right.”
Calla turns away with her phone. It doesn’t allow her any more privacy, because every word on her end is still audible, but they can’t see her expression. Still, Misty can hear the trepidation in her voice.
“Are you sure? . . . Okay, well maybe it’s not . . . No, I know . . . I just—”
“Mrs. Arden?” Grange says, waiting for her to finish spelling her name as she prays that the dismal-sounding phone call might miraculously transform to word that her son has been found.
“Uh, Z-E-S—”
“There are two Zs?”
“Three.”
Grange scowls and clears his throat. “So it’s G-R-Z-Z-Z . . .”
“What? No!” She turns back to listen to what Calla is saying.
“I know, Blue, but . . . Yes. I just can’t—”
“Miss Delaney!” Grange barks. “Can you please chat with your boyfriend somewhere else?”
Calla looks up, startled. She mouths sorry and grabs her parka, draped over the newel-post. She puts it on and steps outside, phone still clasped to her ear.
Ignoring Misty’s accusatory look, Grange commands, “Spell your maiden name again from the beginning, please.”
Eyes narrowed, expression taut, she complies.
Grange writes it down and asks her a few more basic questions. Then he flicks his blue-gray gaze in Bella’s direction and asks Misty if she’d like to continue the conversation privately.
“First you kick out Calla, and now you want Bella to go, too?”
“I didn’t kick her out. Her phone conversation was interfering with my investigation.”
“But her conversation was about my son!” Misty can see Calla through the window, out in the snowy street talking to a man who must be Blue. He’s unrecognizable, his lean, muscular frame bundled in layers of down, his features and even gender obscured by a ski hat and scarf. Calla, in a thick parka, hugs herself against an icy wind.
How long will Jiffy last out there in this weather? What if he’s lost?
She can’t bear to think of it.
She should have been watching him more closely. She shouldn’t have let him walk home alone.
Bella turns toward the door, zipping her own jacket to her chin.
Misty grabs her arm. “No, Bella, don’t go! No matter what he says. I don’t want to be alone right now.”
“Try not to worry. I’m sure it’s going to be all right. But I really need to—”
“You can stay,” Grange cuts in. “I didn’t mean to chase you out of here. Some people prefer not to involve outsiders in domestic matters.”
Outsiders might be accurate police jargon, but if he knew anything about Lily Dale off-season, he’d realize that pretty much everyone still in town is an insider.
“My friend is here to help me find my son, Lieutenant, and I need all the help I can get.”
Bella rests a supportive hand on Misty’s shoulder. “I’ll stay for a few more minutes if you need me to.”
Misty wishes she didn’t, but she doesn’t want to be left alone with this man. He rubs her the wrong way. Maybe because his aura is yellow, like her husband’s.
Yellows are smart, confident, independent, logical . . .
Yes, and that’s why she knew from the moment she met Mike that he’d protect her, make her feel safe. For a long time, that was true. But when the wedding rings were on and the baby came along, something—everything?—began to change.
Within his yellow aura, there was also a tendency to put goals and work before personal relationships. She used to admire that strength and independence, the way he didn’t want to lean on anyone. Now she believes he simply doesn’t need anyone. He’s been pulling away, and now, when she needs him most, he’s not here.
To be fair, he doesn’t yet know Jiffy is missing. She’s afraid to tell him because—
“Mrs. Arden!”
“What?”
“I said, ‘What was your son wearing when he left for school this morning?’”
“I don’t remember.”
Grange’s eyes flicker with incredulity or maybe suspicion. “You did see him today, right?”
“Of course I saw him. I gave him breakfast and kissed him good-bye when he left for school, same as I do every morning.”
“But you don’t know what he had on?”
She closes her eyes and bows her head, trying to conjure her memory of Jiffy’s wardrobe or her Spirit guides to help her navigate this nightmare.
“Mrs. Arden?”
Her eyes snap open. “What?”
“Was Michael wearing a coat?”
“No one ever calls him that!”
“Was your son wearing a coat?” he asks evenly.
“It’s December. It’s snowing. What do you think?
”
“I know this is stressful, but let’s try to be patient. Does he have more than one winter coat?”
“That fits? No.”
“So he has one coat.”
“Yes. I just said that.”
“What color is it?”
“Dark green.”
“Wait, didn’t he leave that on the bus?” Bella asks.
Misty frowns. “Did he?”
“I think that’s what he said.”
“Then I guess he wasn’t wearing it.” She looks back at Grange, who writes something on the form, then asks for a recent photo of Jiffy.
She grabs a framed snapshot from a nearby table. “This was taken in May. Jiffy and I met his dad in New York City for the weekend.”
“Oh, I know him. Curious, chatty little kid. He was over at Valley View Manor when I investigated the Leona Gatto case. Are you married to his father?”
“Yes, we’re . . . yes.” But not for long seems to dangle in the air as she toys with a frayed piece of yarn on her afghan wrap.
“Where is he?”
“Deployed in the Middle East.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
“You mean he’s been there for years, or he’ll be there for years?”
“Both, probably.” She shrugs.
Grange writes on his clipboard. “When did you last see him?”
“He had a short leave in May. Before that, it was almost a year.”
“And you last spoke with him . . . ?”
“This morning.”
“About what?”
Misty looks over at Bella, reevaluating whether she wants her to hear this. No choice now.
“About Christmas.”
“Do you want to share the details of that exchange, Mrs. Arden?”
No. I don’t want to share them. I’d love to forget them.
“I was trying to get him to change his mind about coming home,” she says flatly. “Well, not home—here.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Meaning he doesn’t consider Lily Dale home, and he isn’t coming for the holidays. He says he never wants to come here again.”
“I thought you said you moved here in June, and you haven’t seen your husband since May.”
“I haven’t. He was here with me on our honeymoon seven years ago.”
She was in her late teens then, already expecting Jiffy.
“You honeymooned in Lily Dale?”
“Niagara Falls.”
“Where does Lily Dale come in?”
“I’m from Cleveland. We got married there, and Lily Dale was on the way to the Falls. We drove up in Mike’s crappy truck. Some honeymoon. Just overnight, all we could afford back then. Can’t afford even that now.”
“So finances are tight?”
“Very. Always.”
Money is the least of her worries right now.
Yet as Grange makes a note, she wonders why Virgil Barbor hasn’t yet come over to collect his rent. It’s long past noon. What if he shows up in the middle of this interrogation?
“Does your son know about this custody dispute, Mrs. Arden?” Grange asks.
“Custody dispute? I told you, we’re married!”
“Sorry. Slip of the tongue. Is your son aware that you and your husband disagree over how and where the child will be spending the holidays?”
She hesitates. “Yes. He knows.”
“You told him?”
“He was sitting here eating his cereal while Mike and I were arguing, and he asked what was going on, and I told him.”
“So he was upset?” Grange asks.
“Jiffy doesn’t get upset about that kind of thing. He’s used to it.”
“Used to what?”
“You know, me and Mike fighting. He’s an easygoing kid.” She looks at Bella. “That’s how boys that age are, right? In one ear, out the other.” When Bella fails to agree, she mutters, “Well, that’s how my kid is.”
Bella clears her throat. “Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to make things harder on you. Whenever Max sees that I’m upset about losing his dad, he tries so hard to cheer me up.”
“That’s different. Your husband’s dead. Mine’s just a jerk.”
“I think it’s safe to assume that when your son left for school this morning, he might have been concerned about not seeing his father for Christmas,” Grange decides. “Possibly resentful, too. If he was counting on his dad being here and now he won’t be . . .”
“This is nothing new. His dad is never here.”
“That doesn’t mean your son doesn’t resent him. Or you.”
“Why would he resent me?”
“All kids resent their parents from time to time, Mrs. Arden.”
“You may have met Jiffy, but you sure don’t know him very well.” She turns to Bella. “Right? Tell him! Jiffy hangs around at Valley View all the time. You know him.”
“I do,” she agrees. “He does. He and Max are good friends.”
“And have you ever seen him angry or resentful?” Misty feels like a trial attorney doing cross-examination.
“No, I actually never have,” Bella agrees, and Misty nods, satisfied.
Jiffy may be a handful, but he’s the most agreeable kid in the world. Misty can’t imagine him running away in a fit of anger, if that’s what Grange suspects.
He turns to Bella. “Have you asked your son if he knows where his friend might be hiding, Ms. Jordan?”
“He doesn’t even know Jiffy’s missing yet. He’s sick at home in bed, asleep.”
“My son isn’t hiding, Lieutenant!” Misty protests. “He’s in danger!”
“What makes you think that?”
“For one thing, he hasn’t picked up his phone.”
“He has a phone?”
“Yes. And for another thing, I’m a medium.”
Ignoring that, Grant says, “Tell me about the phone. Can you track it?”
“If I could track it, you wouldn’t be here.”
“So there’s no locator on it?”
“There might be, but I wouldn’t know. Mike bought the phone for him. I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even want him to have it.”
“Why not?”
Misty ticks off the reasons on her fingers. “He’s too young, too irresponsible, too distracted by it . . .”
“Most six-year-olds are. Why would your husband get it for him?”
“He spoils him with stuff because he’s never here.”
Grange asks for Jiffy’s phone number, and for Mike’s, and for a photo of Jiffy that he can take with him.
“A close-up headshot would be good.”
“A headshot? He’s not an actor. He’s a kid.”
“I mean like a school photo, something like that?”
“School pictures were taken back in September,” Bella says. “And an order form came home in their backpacks.”
“Guess I missed it,” Misty murmurs and waits for a judgy look from Miss Perfect.
But Bella appears sympathetic, pulling out her cell phone. “I have a couple of good shots on my phone from the other day when the boys were helping me paint,” she tells Grange. “I can send you one of Jiffy.”
“Six-year-olds helped you paint?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Scrolling through the photos, she finds several close-ups of Jiffy. He’s in most of them, but she shows Grange one where he’s relatively clean.
“Can I see?” Misty asks.
“Sure.” Bella shows her the picture.
Misty stares down at a broadly grinning Jiffy, who appears to be covered in war paint. “What is he wearing here?” she asks, noting an oversized men’s button-down with the sleeves rolled up.
“Oh, that’s one of my husband’s old shirts,” she says with a bit of an ache in her voice. “I had to get rid of most of his stuff when we moved, but . . . thes
e make good smocks for the boys. I figured you wouldn’t be thrilled if Jiffy ruined his school clothes.”
Even if the school clothes were probably a stained old sweat shirt that hadn’t been washed in weeks.
Touched, Misty thanks her. “I didn’t realize . . . thank you. It was nice of you to do that.”
“Aw, it was nice of him to help me paint. He did a great job.”
“Yeah, that’s hard to believe, but thanks for keeping him busy. Sometimes I get caught up in what I’m working on, and I guess . . .” She glances at Grange. “I really was planning to keep a closer eye on him starting today.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I had a vision yesterday that made me worry about him, and I—”
Grange’s cell phone rings. He looks at it, holds up a finger, and answers the call.
“Grange here . . . yeah . . . where? . . . Do you know if . . . Okay, got it. On my way.” He hangs up and tucks his pen into his pocket. “Sorry, but I have to go.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“An officer needs backup, and I’m closest to the scene. I’ll be back.”
Misty notices that Grange, who tends to make unflinching eye contact, is avoiding it now. His job is to investigate, not provide reassurance, but you’d think Mr. Freeze could summon a smidgeon of compassion.
“But what about Jiffy?” Bella asks.
“I’ll be back,” he repeats, opens the door, and closes it behind him.
Misty mutters a choice word under her breath and looks at Bella. “Think he really will?”
She nods. “It’s a small police force. They’re probably short-handed and overwhelmed on a day like this.”
Outside, a car engine starts up and so does the siren. Fluid red light falls through the window.
Misty looks out into the street as the squad car departs. “Hey, where’s Calla?”
“I don’t know. She was out there a few minutes ago, with—”
“Blue.” She nods. “Bella—”
“Excuse me?” Bella whirls around to stare at her. “Did you just say Bella Blue?”
She didn’t. Not in that order. And she was about to thank Bella for coming over and tell her she’s free to leave, that she should leave, but . . .
Now there’s an expectant look on her face. Misty studies her, taking in her aura. Earlier, she’d noted that it’s blue. Now she finds the depth remarkable. She nods. It fits. Bella Blue.
Dead of Winter Page 15
