The Snow White Christmas Cookie
( Berger and Mitry - 9 )
David Handler
David Handler
The Snow White Christmas Cookie
PROLOGUE
She was already twenty minutes late and it was making him totally crazy. The snow was coming down so heavily that he was starting to wonder if she was going to show up at all. Eighteen inches were expected by nightfall. The schools were closed. Again. The state government offices were closed. Again. The governor was ordering people to stay off of the highways. Again. It was the state’s fourth shutdown blizzard in the past two weeks. Epic stuff. But she’d promised him she’d show up. He checked his cell phone one more time. No messages from her. So he just sat here in the deserted parking lot and waited, growing more and more desperate.
When he’d opened his eyes that morning and seen all of the snow he’d been plunged into total despair, thinking she would bail on him. But she’d called him to say she’d definitely be here, snow be damned, because she really, really needed to feel his arms around her. She needed him. Which he was okay with. Hell, more than okay. She was everything to him. Even though they were only able to meet like this maybe twice a week-just the two of them alone together-she was pretty much all that he lived for.
“What am I going to do about you?”
Those were the first words she said to him. This was back in October at the free flu-shot clinic at the Congregational Church. It was she who approached him. Was waiting outside on the steps for him after he got his shot.
“I–I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered. Because he was kind of shy around women. Especially such pretty ones.
“Yes, you do,” she said with that bold self-assurance of hers. “You keep looking at me everywhere I go but you never talk to me. How do I get you to talk to me?”
“Seems to me we are talking.”
She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Hey, you’re right. We are.”
And, somehow, they ended up together here.
Honestly? He couldn’t believe his luck, although he was a creature of luck and always had been. Pretty much everything that had ever happened to him in his whole life was about luck. But most of it had been bad luck-until she came along.
The first time they’d arranged to get together she arrived before he did, and when he walked in the door and saw the way she was looking at him he experienced such a powerful sexual rush that he thought his entire body was going to explode right there in the middle of the room. He’d never experienced anything like it before. Had never met anyone else like her. He couldn’t believe how calm she was about sex. How completely free and easy she was about her body. She acted like it was the most normal thing in the world to walk around naked in front of him. Of course it helped that she was so beautiful, with smooth, flawless skin and abundant curves in all of the right places. Even more lushly built than he’d dared to imagine. She was vital, alive and gorgeous. Naturally she felt comfortable in her own skin.
He didn’t. Naked, he felt exposed and vulnerable. He cringed at the sight of himself in the mirror. Always had. He wasn’t someone who’d ever been lean, hard-bodied or tanned. Hadn’t been one of those guys back in high school who liked to hang at the beach all summer long, playing volleyball with his muscular buds and their slim, bikini-clad girlfriends. Running into the surf, laughing and frolicking. Zipping around town in an open-topped Jeep with no shirt on. Those guys had been proud of their bodies. Not him, with his concave chest, soft tummy and that terrible acne all over his shoulders and back. He’d hated team sports. Hated anything that called for him to undress in front of the other guys. They called him Pizza Man because his zit-encrusted back looked so alarmingly like a bubbling hot pepperoni pie.
And you don’t just forget something like that.
The stigma had stayed with him, same as those scars on his back had. He’d had his share of women over the years but he was never at ease when he was naked with them. And so they were never at ease around him. Not once, to the best of his knowledge, had he completely satisfied a woman. Whatever it was that made them gasp and moan and scream-they never, ever did that with him. Except for that one time in Atlantic City, and he was fairly certain that Ambrosia was faking it. She was a pro, after all. Honestly? He considered himself to be a total dud as a lover. Same as he was at everything else in life. Nothing more than a waste of skin. Pitted skin at that. That day he’d gone for his flu shot he was feeling about as low as he ever had. He could see no reason to get out of bed in the morning. No reason to do much of anything.
Until he met her. She changed everything. She took an interest in him. She liked him. And, from that first moment when she came walking out of the bathroom naked, she made it clear that she wanted him. Even though he could not imagine why.
He got so incredibly nervous when she started to undress him. If she’d made fun of him or put him down he would have gone straight home and killed himself. But it hadn’t been like that at all. It had been wonderful. She was so gentle and kind. Her touch excited him beyond belief. She was delighted by how he responded to her. “Flattered” was the word she used. And then they were together right there on the sofa and she was alive under his touch, gasping and crying out his name and it was … incredible. He was incredible. Potent. Confident. In charge. He had no idea why it was so different with her, but it was.
For the very first time in his whole life he was the man he’d always wanted to be.
After their first time together, she was pretty much all he thought about, day and night. The scent of her. The way she felt in his arms, so silky smooth, supple and strong. The way he felt. He was a brand-new man when he was with her. A bold, strong man who could take on any situation and not feel overwhelmed. Not feel the need to drink or get high to keep it together. He was together, thanks to her.
He wasn’t someone who had ever set long-term goals for himself. He’d just lived his life day to day, making his share of blunders along the way. But because of her, he was now thinking about tomorrow. Making plans. Making things happen. That’s what a man did. Thought big and acted big. He still wasn’t entirely certain where their relationship was heading. They hadn’t talked about that yet. And she did have someone else in her life. But he knew exactly where he wanted it to go:
Hawaii.
He was going to surprise her with two plane tickets to Honolulu just as soon as he had enough money stashed away. Enough so that they could stay there in the warm sun together for as long as they wanted. Forever, if he had anything to say about it. And to hell with everyone else.
Hawaii.
Just the two of them on a deserted beach somewhere. Sipping tall, cool drinks. Making long, slow love whenever, wherever they felt like it. It was like a dream. Except this was no dream.
I am making it happen.
That’s what he said to himself as he sat in the empty parking lot waiting for her, his heater blasting, wipers barely keeping up with the snow that was falling in heaps on his windshield. A big orange town plow truck went rumbling by, the ground shaking as its blade scraped hard against the pavement.
And then he saw her car coming toward him through the snow. She parked next to him and got out. He could tell right away that she was upset about something. Although she insisted it was nothing.
“Are you sure? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“I’m fine. I’m just so sick of all of this snow.”
“Me, too,” he said, picturing the two of them on a beach together in the sun. Her in a bikini. Him in a pair of trunks and nothing else, just like one of those tanned, muscular guys he knew back in high school.
&
nbsp; The room was ice cold. She turned up the heat before they took off their hooded parkas. He wore a new plaid wool shirt and corduroy slacks. He never used to pay much attention to what he had on. Now he did.
“I’d like to play a game today,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Sure thing.” He loved her games. “What kind?”
“I want you to punish me.”
“Punish you?” This was something entirely new. “Why would I want to punish you?”
“Because I’ve been a bad girl.”
“You have? What did you do?”
She shook her head. “That’s not part of the game.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you feel like. I’ll do whatever you say. Just make me pay, okay?”
“I don’t understand.”
She sighed impatiently. “Then I’ll make it simple for you. Just this once pretend that I’m the ’fraidy cat.”
“I’m not a ’fraidy cat,” he shot back.
“It’s just an expression.” She studied him curiously. “You’re awfully thin-skinned sometimes.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for yourself. I don’t want you to be a yutz. I want you to make me pay, damn it!”
“Okay, here goes…” He felt himself growing taller, his chest puffing out a bit. “Stand there and close your eyes.”
She obeyed him.
“And don’t move. Not a single muscle.” It was he who moved toward her. First, he unzipped her jeans and yanked them down so roughly that she let out a yelp. Then he put his hands up underneath her turtleneck sweater, grabbed hold of the sleeveless cotton thingy that she wore instead of a bra and ripped it from her body, tossing it aside.
She started breathing heavily, her breasts rising and falling. “Don’t stop!” she whispered urgently. She was actually into this. Liked what he was doing. “Keep going!”
And so he did. He shoved her down onto the sofa so hard that she bounced a foot up into the air. Pulled off her slip-on snow boots. Yanked her jeans all of the way off and hurled them aside. His own chest was heaving now, and he was aroused beyond belief. Couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough. Naked, he took hold of her panties and tore them from her body, too. All she had on now was her turtleneck sweater. He pulled that over her head-only he was so rough about it that his knuckles struck her left eye, which instantly began to twitch and water.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize! How many times do I have to tell you?”
“But I–I think I just gave you a black eye.”
“It’s okay. Really, it is.”
Except it wasn’t. Because she was crying now. Hell, she was sobbing uncontrollably. Something was really bothering her, he realized as he heard a siren off in the distance. Another car accident, no doubt. There’d been so many on these snowy roads.
“Maybe we’d better stop.”
“No!” she pleaded, clutching at him with great urgency. “Just make me pay, will you?”
He kissed her hungrily. She kissed him back. And then they were together in each other’s arms and he was buried deep inside of her. Never had he been so deep.
“Is this what you wanted from me?” she gasped in his ear.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Oh, yes…” He’d never wanted anything or anyone as much as he wanted her right now. In fact, he was so consumed by pure animal desire that he was barely even aware that the siren kept getting louder and louder.
Not until he heard the screech outside.
Not until his whole world came crashing down upon him.
THE PREVIOUS EVENING
CHAPTER 1
“Master Sergeant, have I told you how incredibly hot you look tonight?”
“Exactly eight times so far,” Des responded as she and the unlikely man in her life strolled arm in arm through the Dorset Street Historic District, taking in the wondrous sights.
Truly, there was no lovelier time of year in the historic New England village of Dorset than the Christmas season. Especially if enough snow had fallen for it to qualify as a genuine white Christmas. And this December had delivered an epic amount of snow. Three monster blizzards had already blanketed the village in forty inches of the white stuff, and Christmas day was still a whole week away. The gem of Connecticut’s Gold Coast had been transformed into an idyllic winter wonderland, one part theme park, two parts Currier and Ives print. Giggling kids were riding their sleds right down the middle of Dorset Street. Families were out building giant snowmen in their front yards. Red-cheeked carolers went from door to door spreading Yuletide cheer as the eggnog flowed at house parties throughout the village. Horse-drawn sleighs took giddy revelers to and fro. Candles burned in the windows of the Historic District’s colonial mansions to welcome them.
Yet another nor’easter was due to blow in by tomorrow morning. But tonight was frosty and clear, with a bright half-moon and stars twinkling in the sky. And so they strolled, swaddled in their winter coats, scarves and hats. Des Mitry, the Connecticut state resident trooper, a lithe, long-limbed, six-feet-one-inch woman of color. And Mitch Berger, the weight-challenged Jewish film critic from New York City whose only experience with violence before he’d met Des had consisted of the films of Mr. Sam Peckinpah.
“Well, I just may have to mention it a ninth time,” he said. “I’m still in a state of awe.”
“Mitch, I’m just wearing my new jeans.”
“Your new skinny jeans. Do you have any idea how spectacular a double-bill this is-your booty and a pair of skinny jeans? Hell, you’re lucky I don’t throw you down in that snow bank over there.”
“Yeah, good luck with that, wild man.”
“Don’t you know what a hottie you are?”
“I know I’ve never worn pants this tight in my life. They feel like dark-washed Saran Wrap. Are you sure they don’t make me look like a skanky teenager?”
“Yeah,” he said dreamily.
“Yeah what?” She came to a halt, shoving her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “You’d tell me straight up if I looked silly, right?”
“Of course. But how can you even think that?”
“Because I’m not fifteen years old anymore.”
“And I for one am glad. If you were we’d have zero to talk about plus I’d be a felon and … hold on a sec, you’ve got something on your face.”
“What is it?”
He took her in his arms and kissed her. “Just me.”
She touched his beaming face with her fingers. Never before had a man made her feel this happy. “Doughboy, are you ever going to act your age?”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Good.”
They were on their way to an eggnog party at old Rut Peck’s house. Rut had served as Dorset’s postmaster for thirty-seven years and seemed to be related to everybody in town. He definitely knew everybody. And he’d lived across from the firehouse in the same upended shoebox of a farmhouse on the corner of Dorset Street and Maple Lane ever since he was born. Until last summer, that is, when the eighty-two-year-old widower got lost driving to his dentist across the Connecticut River in Old Saybrook. When the police stopped him for running a red light two hours later he was sixty miles away in Bridgeport and not sure how he’d gotten there. A small stroke, his doctor determined. Rut wasn’t allowed to drive after that. Nor did it seem like a good idea for him to be living alone. His cousins, Marge and Mary Jewett, the no-nonsense fifty-something sisters who ran Dorset’s volunteer ambulance service, had moved him into a unit at Essex Meadows, an assisted-living facility, and put his house on the market. But because of the Great Recession he still hadn’t gotten a single decent offer. When Marge and Mary asked the old postmaster what he wanted for Christmas this year, he told them he wanted to come home for an old-time eggnog party. And so they’d obliged him. His cleaning lady, Tina Champlain, who continued to keep the place tidy for prospective buyers, had set up a tree in the parlor a
nd decorated it. There was a wreath on the front door and electric candles in every window. Tina’s husband, Lem, had cleared all of the snow from the driveway and front walk.
Rut was waiting right there at the door to greet them, happy to be home again with so many friends. He was a short, stocky old fellow with tufty white hair and a nose that looked remarkably like a potato. His eyes were an impish blue behind his thick black-framed glasses. He wore hearing aids in both ears and a big red Christmas sweater that one of his many widowed lady friends must have knitted for him.
Inside, the parlor smelled of nutmeg and fresh spruce. A fire crackled in the potbellied wood stove. Dozens of bright-eyed people were chattering excitedly as they sipped eggnog and nibbled at the high-cholesterol circa-1957 hors d’oevres that Dorseteers seemed to love. Mitch could not get enough of them. After he’d shed his coat he headed right for them, salivating with fat-boy delight over the array of deviled eggs, cocktail weenies, and chicken livers wrapped in bacon. There was an entire sliced ham, cheeses, a basket of bread and rolls. There was wine and assorted soft drinks to go along with the eggnog which, judging by the decibel level of the revelers, was spiked with bourbon but good.
Rut was one of those rare people whose friendships cut across Dorset’s class lines. Bob Paffin, the blue-blooded first selectman, was standing right there sipping eggnog alongside a full-blooded Swamp Yankee like Paulette Zander, Dorset’s current postmaster, whose father, Gary, had maintained the village’s septic tanks. Paulette was there with her live-in boyfriend, Hank Merrill, who was a postal carrier as well as assistant chief of Dorset’s volunteer fire department. Actually, it looked as if half of the fire department was there.
Des was also happy to spot Bella Tillis, who until very recently had been her housemate and now lived practically next door to Rut’s place at the Captain Chadwick House, the Historic District’s choicest condominium colony. She’d moved in two weeks ago along with three of the six feral kittens she and Des had rescued from behind Laysville Hardware. Bella, a feisty seventy-eight-year-old bowling ball of a Jewish grandmother from Brooklyn, was Des’s next door neighbor in Woodbridge when Des’s ex-husband, Brandon, had dumped her for another woman. Des wouldn’t have survived without Bella. And part of her missed having Bella around. Although it was awfully nice to have the bungalow overlooking Uncas Lake to herself again. Des’s studio was spread out all over the living room. Her heart-wrenching drawings of the murder victims she’d encountered were tacked up here, there, everywhere. She drew them in the early light of dawn, deconstructing the haunting memories line by line, shadow by shadow. It was how she dealt.
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