The Snow White Christmas Cookie

by David Handler

  “I don’t believe so. He hardly ever left the island. Didn’t hang out with anyone. Plus he was flat broke. The monthly check from his trust fund barely covered a week’s worth of groceries.”

  “If that’s the case then how did he pay you? When he was seeing you professionally, I mean. You say you charge seventy-five dollars an hour. Where was the money coming from?”

  “Why is that important?” Josie asked, sipping her coffee.

  “It may not be. I’m just wondering.”

  “Preston paid for it. Also for Bryce’s sessions with Dr. Swibold. Preston and Bryce had a-a strained relationship. When Bryce showed up last summer it hit Preston really hard. He told me he felt awful about the way he’d treated Bryce. Preston is in his sixties now, and he’s had two heart attacks. I got the impression that he didn’t want Bryce sitting on his conscience.”

  “So you’ve been in personal contact with Preston?”

  “By phone and e-mail. And he sent me checks from Chicago when I was coaching Bryce.”

  “I’ll need a phone number for him.”

  Josie fetched her Blackberry from the counter and gave Des Preston’s home and office numbers. “Bryce was a real hard case at first,” she recalled sadly. “He hated the idea of seeing someone like me. Many of my male clients do. Men flat-out hate to ask for help.”

  Des was already well aware of this. It explained why most of the suicides she’d caught in her career were men—going all of the way back to her rookie year, second week on the job, when one of them decided to throw his gray flannel self in front of the 7:32 Metro-North train out of Stamford. Women create support groups for each other. They share their feelings with their friends. Talk. Confide. Depend on each other. Men are taught to be self-reliant. When things go bad they don’t reach out, just retreat into gloomy, lonely isolation. The holiday season, with its feel-goody emphasis on family and loved ones, can be particularly hard for them.

  “I can’t imagine what I’ll do now,” Josie said, staring down into her coffee mug. “Bryce was such a big part of my life.”

  “I’m sure Preston won’t mind if you stay here for a while,” Mitch said. “Under the circumstances, I mean.”

  Josie looked at him narrowly “It’s not up to Preston to mind or not mind. This house doesn’t belong to him.”

  Mitch glanced at Des curiously before he turned back to Josie. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Bryce wasn’t the caretaker of this place,” she replied. “He owned it. Lucas left it to him. Ask the family lawyer if you don’t believe me. Ask Glynis. She’ll tell you. Preston held the purse strings to Bryce’s trust fund, but Bryce has owned this house since the day he turned twenty-one. Preston wasn’t ‘allowing’ Bryce to stay here. It was Bryce who was ‘allowing’ Preston and his family to spend their summers here. Bryce knew how much it meant to Preston’s kids to return to Big Sister every summer. They have happy memories of this place. Bryce had happy childhood memories himself. This had been his home until Preston kicked him the hell out. But it’s not Preston’s house. It was Bryce’s and he-he…” Josie broke off, breathing deeply in and out. “I hardly ever drink coffee. It’s making me all buzzy and I’m rattling on.”

  “You’re not,” Des assured her.

  “Bryce really loved this island,” she said, her eyes growing shiny. “He’d gotten so tired of being rootless. Wanted to settle down here and stay put. Maybe even start a family of his own. Everyone in town thought he was the caretaker. He went ahead and let them think it. That was Bryce’s way. He liked for people to think he was a cheese head, but he wasn’t. Did you know he had a Master’s degree in literature from the University of Montana? He was incredibly well-read and insightful.”

  “He told me he worked construction in Bozeman,” Mitch said.

  “To put himself through school,” Josie said, nodding. “Des, what happens now?”

  “There’s a process. Another officer will come and ask you more questions. So will someone from the Medical Examiner’s office.”

  “What’s the point? It’s obvious what happened.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Sorry, there’s a ‘process.’ I get it. Will I need to be here all day? Because I have clients to see.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand if you have to reschedule.”

  “No, they won’t understand,” Josie said emphatically. “They rely on me.”

  “Then do what you got to do,” Des responded. People coped with grief in their own ways. If Josie needed to be there for her clients then so be it.

  She was gazing out the window again at the snow. “He really did want to be cremated. But I guess I won’t have any say in that, will I?”

  “That’s a family matter,” Des said. “All I can tell you is that those arrangements will be on hold until the Medical Examiner completes the autopsy.”

  Josie’s eyes widened. “They have to do an autopsy?”

  “I’m afraid so. This type of situation is what we call an untimely death. Autopsy’s pretty much automatic. Bryce’s blood will have to be tested. It may be several days before they have the preliminary toxicology findings, though it usually goes faster if they have a specific idea of what to look for.”

  Josie cocked her head at Des curiously. “Why do I get the feeling that you’ve been through this ‘process’ before?”

  “Only because I have.”

  Too damned many times.

  * * *

  Des made a slow circuit through the Dorset Street Historic District. By now the fresh snow had to be six inches deep. The schools were closed for the day. So was Town Hall. When she reached Big Branch Road, Des made a left turn—her hands loose on the steering wheel, foot gentle on the gas pedal—and eased on through the business district, which was adorned up the wazoo with Christmas decorations and lights. The A&P was open, though there were very few cars in the lot. The antique shops, clothing stores and art galleries were open as well. ’Twas the week before Christmas and the economy sucked. No way the shopkeepers were staying home. Lem Champlain’s plow monkeys were out keeping the parking lots clear. Or trying.

  McGee’s Diner on the Shore Road was a shabby, much-beloved local landmark. During the summer it teemed with sunburned, boisterous beachgoers who stopped there to munch on lobster rolls and gaze out the windows at Dick McGee’s million-dollar view of the Big Sister lighthouse. On a snowy December morning Des figured it would be a nice, quiet place to meet Paulette Zander for a cup of coffee.

  A red Champlain Landscaping plow pickup was the only vehicle parked out front when Des got there. Pat Faulstich, the young Swamp Yankee who’d been spending time with Kylie Champlain, sat hunched over a mug of coffee at the counter, a wool stocking cap pulled low over his head. He glanced up at Des when she came in, then looked back down at his coffee, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. Pat had a reddish see-through beard and a thick neck. He was thick through the chest and shoulders, too. Wore a heavy wool shirt, jeans and work boots. A pea coat hung from a peg on the wall next to him. No one else was in the place—unless you count Nat King Cole, who was singing Christmas carols on the radio in the kitchen.

  Dick’s waitress, Sandy, came out of there with a paper bag and a Thermos bottle and set them in front of Pat. “Here you be, young sir, four ham-and-cheese sandwiches. And I topped off your coffee—black with lots of sugar.”

  Pat thanked her and put his pea coat back on. Then he grabbed the bag and Thermos and clomped out of there, his gaze avoiding Des’s as she sat down in a booth. When he got outside he stopped to light a cigarette, watching Des through the front window. Des watched him back. She made him nervous. She made all of the local boys nervous. He got into his truck, his jaw stuck out defiantly, then started it up and pulled away just as Paulette arrived in her Nissan Pathfinder.

  Dorset’s postmaster came in out of the snow wearing one of those full-length quilted down coats that don’t look good on anyone. Not unless an overcooked bratwurst is your idea of looking good. Paulette wore he
r long silver-streaked hair in a ponytail today, but she still had the same tense, preoccupied look on her face that she’d had last night at Rut’s party. She took off her coat and slid into the booth across from Des, sitting in tight silence while Sandy poured their coffee.

  “What’s going on?” Des asked her after Sandy returned to the kitchen.

  “Same old sloppy mess,” Paulette answered nervously, pouring cream into her coffee. “We’ll be out there delivering what we have, but these snow days really do a number on my carriers. Those decrepit old Grumman LLVs of ours are just no good in the snow. Do you know what LLV stands for? Long Life Vehicle. To which I say LOL. Half of ours are falling to pieces.” She removed a paper napkin from the dispenser and tore off a piece, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger until it was a teeny, tiny ball. She set the ball next to her spoon, then tore off another piece of napkin and began rolling that.

  Des watched her doing this for a moment before she said, “Shall we talk about what we need to talk about?”

  Paulette bit down on her lower lip, fastening it between her teeth. “What did Rut tell you?”

  “Not a thing. It was Mitch who he reached out to. He told him that a grinch has been stealing Hank’s Christmas tips and Lem’s plow money. Lem claims he’s missing a couple of thou.” Although that particular aspect was a bit iffy. Rut also told Mitch that Lem was tomcatting with an old sweetheart and might be hiding the money from Tina to pay for his fun. “Rut’s hoping we can keep it in the Dorset family because the postal inspectors won’t exactly be down with our quaint, small-town ways.”

  Paulette sat there in stiff silence, rolling another piece of napkin into a teeny, tiny ball and setting it next to her spoon. There were already four tight little balls there.

  Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “There’s more happening than Rut let on, isn’t there?”

  Paulette responded with a brief nod of her head. “Last Monday a dog walker found a huge batch of Hank’s mail in a ditch on Johnny Cake Hill Road. Practically every envelope Hank delivered in the Historic District that morning had been slashed open. Some contents were missing. Others were simply discarded.”

  “Did they take the credit card statements, bank statements and such?”

  Paulette shook her head. “They weren’t interested in those. Or in the paid bills that folks had put out for Hank to take. We found dozens of personal checks to mortgage companies, Connecticut Light and Power, you name it.”

  “Then it doesn’t sound like we’re dealing with identity thieves. What did they take?”

  “Anything and everything of value. People mail all sorts of gifts to their friends and relatives this time of year. They send Christmas cards with cash or prepaid retail gift cards tucked inside. And a million small packages that’ll fit inside of any mailbox—DVDs, CDs, iPods, Kindles. It’s kind of ironic, really.”

  “What is, Paulette?”

  “This is the age of high-tech security. We have elaborate systems to protect our homes and our cars. Yet our mailboxes still sit there by the curb, unlocked and unprotected, twenty-four hours a day. Some folks in town prefer to keep a P.O. box for that reason, but not as many as you’d think.”

  “Are things disappearing from other routes besides Hank’s?”

  “Just Hank’s, near as I can tell.”

  “And how long has this been going on?”

  “About two weeks. Hank’s furious. He’s taking it personally.”

  “Should he be?”

  Paulette’s eyes crinkled at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean is someone purposely singling him out?”

  “I can’t imagine why they would. Hank’s my most popular carrier. I have no idea why his route is being hit—beyond the simple, obvious reason.”

  “Paulette, nothing about this is simple or obvious to me.”

  “Hank’s route is the Historic District, which has the highest concentration of wealthy people packed into the fewest number of miles.”

  “As opposed to a rural route, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Has anyone reported suspicious behavior of any kind? A stranger rummaging through mailboxes, anything like that?”

  “Nothing like that, Des.”

  One of the town’s big orange plow trucks rumbled by on Shore Road, its plow blade shaking the foundation of the old wood-framed diner. On the radio, Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

  “The mail was discarded on Johnny Cake,” Des mused aloud. “That tells me it’s someone local. Out-of-town pros would have taken it with them.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a couple of teenaged kids.”

  Des gazed out the window at the marsh. The snow was coming down so hard she couldn’t make out the lighthouse in the distance. “How, Paulette? How do a couple of young cheese heads cruise through the Historic District on multiple occasions, raid peoples mailboxes in broad daylight—it must be broad daylight because the boxes are full—and not one person has noticed them? A lot of folks are home during the day right now. The schoolkids are getting one snow day after another. The college kids are back for Christmas break. Plus we’ve got our share of retirees living in the Historic District. The arrival of the mail is the highlight of their morning. I find it hard to believe that anyone could hit those boxes repeatedly without being spotted.”

  Paulette made another napkin ball with her thumb and forefinger and placed it next to her spoon. That made eight, nine, ten of them. “Quite a few of the houses are set back pretty far from the road.”

  “And quite a few of them aren’t. Plus the Historic District is busy. People go in and out of Town Hall all day long. I’m thinking our grinch must be someone who has a legitimate reason to be accessing the boxes. Like, say, one of Lem’s plow boys.”

  Paulette’s eyes narrowed. “Or one of my other carriers?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Des, I can’t vouch for Lem’s people but I can vouch for all ten of my full-time carriers and my five part-time subs. They’re honest, hardworking people. Every single one of them has passed the postal exam and undergone a thorough background check—including my son, Casey. There’s no nepotism in the U.S. Postal Service.”

  “Casey’s a part-timer?”

  Paulette nodded. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to go full-time within the next two years—if they’re hiring. All we hear about these days are cutbacks and givebacks. But it’s still a good career. And Casey’s a good kid. Well, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s twenty-eight. But he’s one of those young men who…” Paulette searched for the words. “Some of them need extra time to find their way.”

  “From the way Hank was talking last night, it sounded like he and Casey don’t exactly get along.”

  “That was just the eggnog talking. They’re fine. He’d like to see Casey living in his own place, that’s all. So would I. Nothing would make me happier than Casey settling down with a nice girl instead of hanging around at the Rustic with that drugged-out skank Gigi Garanski.”

  The Rustic Inn was Dorset’s designated skeejie boy bar. Most of the brawls that Des had to break up during the course of a month took place there. “So Casey’s into Gigi?”

  Paulette nodded glumly. “And Gigi’s not even his girl. She goes with Tommy Stratton.”

  Whenever there was a brawl at the Rustic, Tommy Stratton was usually in the middle of it. Most people in Dorset knew him as Tommy the Pinhead. He was unsavory, unbright and scary. Hired muscle who was connected with the Costagno crime family. The Costagnos had an iron hold on whatever bad went on in Connecticut, Rhode Island and Western Massachusetts.

  Sandy came over and refilled their cups.

  Paulette dumped more cream in hers. “Can you help me, Des?”

  “I’m still waiting for you to tell me the rest.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Des glared at her. “Yes, you do.”

  Paulette cocked
her head at her curiously. “No, I don’t. And I don’t understand why you’re being so confrontational.”

  “Because you’re disrespecting me and I don’t like it. Are you going to say the words or do I have to say them?”

  Paulette sat there in tight silence, reddening.

  “Fine, I’ll say them. I used to live with a seventy-eight-year-old woman who happens to be one of those people whose mail has gone missing.”

  Paulette grimaced. “Mrs. Tillis, I know. She gave me an earful last night.”

  “That wasn’t an earful. If you want an earful just get her started on Rush Limbaugh. Bella’s in good health for a woman her age. But she takes quite a few prescription meds—Lipitor for her cholestorol, Celebrex for her arthritis pain, Synthroid for her thyroid, Boniva for her osteoporosis and two or three others that I can’t think of right now. She gets them by mail from her online pharmacy. People of all ages get their meds that way. A lot of those people have high annual deductibles on their health plans. When December rolls around they try to stock up because they’ve finally met their deductible and, lo and behold, their insurer actually has to foot the bill. This happens to be December, Paulette. Those mailboxes on Hank’s route are bursting with little bubble-wrapped pouches full of meds. It’s a violation of the Controlled Substances Act for online pharmacies to send anabolic steroids or Oxycontin through the U.S. Mail. But they can send just about anything else. Meds that wake you up. Meds that knock you out. Meds that make you feel happy all over. The high school kids here in Dorset love to party with that stuff. Every time I bust up a late-night beer bash I find heaps of Vicodin, Percocet, Valium, Xanax, Prozac, you name it. And, cue the drum roll, it’s all just sitting out there in those mailboxes waiting for someone to snatch it and sell it. We are not talking about someone taking Hank’s Christmas cookies or a DVD stocking-stuffer of Cars 2. We are talking about the illegal trafficking of prescription drugs. Now, were you ever going to mention that to me or were you just hoping that I’m totally stupid?”

  Paulette breathed in and out for a long moment, her right eye twitching slightly. Then she reached for her coffee mug and took a sip, the mug trembling in her hand. “I’m not real proud of myself right now. I’m supposed to be in charge. I am in charge. I do a damned good job, too. My people work hard and smart and safe. They respect me. And, at the first sign of trouble, what do I do? Go running to good old Rut. I guess I feel like I’m in over my head,” she confessed. “And I’m a little ashamed of myself. A lot ashamed. I apologize.”