“Apology accepted.”
She gazed at Des searchingly. “Can you help me?”
“I’m sympathetic to your situation. The postal inspectors won’t understand our local customs. You don’t want Hank to get in trouble. I get that. But this may be a serious matter. I don’t have a lot of leeway here.”
Des’s cell phone vibrated on her belt. The 911 dispatcher was calling to report that the owner of the Village Bootery had just apprehended a shoplifter trying to slip out of the door with a four-hundred-dollar pair of Ugg boots.
The shoplifter was eighteen-year-old Kylie Champlain.
Des stood up and reached for her Gore-Tex storm parka. “Paulette, I’ll be in touch, okay?” Then she hurried outside, jumped into her cruiser and took off.
It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
CHAPTER 4
ORDINARILY, THE HISTORIC DISTRICT was one of the most splendid sights on earth when snow was coming down. And there had to be a blanket of eight inches of it by now, Mitch figured as he drove past the fork to Johnny Cake Hill Road. Dozens of neighborhood kids were sledding down the steep hill that was, in warmer months, the third fairway of the country club. He took it slow and easy when he rounded the bend by the steepled white Congregational Church. He had snow tires on his old Studey pickup, not to mention two sixty-pound sand bags positioned over each rear wheel. But it still didn’t handle well in heavy snow like this, which clung to the majestic old maples and the beautiful colonial mansions that were all decorated for the holidays.
Ordinarily, it warmed Mitch’s insides to make this drive on such a morning. The frantic modern world was forced to surrender to a kinder, gentler pace from out of another era. It was all so peacefully unreal that he half-expected to hear a director, most likely Frank Capra, holler, “And … action!” But Dorset Street was no movie set. And this was no movie. And today Mitch’s insides weren’t feeling warm at all. Because Bryce Peck’s very real life had abruptly ended this morning. What Mitch felt inside was a hollow emptiness. The quiet that enveloped him as he drove along wasn’t serene. It was ominous. Because Mitch had been there himself. Wrestled with his own demons after Maisie died. For months he’d seen no point in going on. Only his own pain. He couldn’t imagine that the pain would ever end. Didn’t believe it ever would. He remembered quite clearly the words he’d said to himself that first rainy night he’d arrived in this little gem of a town on a Weekend Getaway assignment for the newspaper’s travel section. He’d checked into his room at the Frederick House Inn. Taken a bath in the claw-footed tub. Then burrowed into his canopied bed and, lying there grief-stricken and alone, had thought: I am so glad I do not own a gun for my personal protection. Because if I had one I would shoot myself.
Bryce had been clean and sober. A terrific woman loved him and believed in him. He was home again. Hell, he even owned that beautiful home, according to Josie, who had both a professional and personal stake in him. And now he had nothing and no one. Bryce had had every reason to stare down his demons and keep on going. And yet he’d chosen death. Why? “Just an awkward stage,” he’d scrawled on that stupid Post-it. As if that explained a goddamned thing.
It would be a white Christmas this year. No doubt about that. But it would not be a merry one.
When Mitch reached Maple Lane he pulled up outside of Rut’s little farmhouse and got out, surrounded by the snowy silence as he tromped his way to the front door. Last night’s party hadn’t been the old postmaster’s only Christmas gift. Madge and Mary had also granted his deepest wish, which was to spend a night in his own bed instead of returning to Essex Meadows. Thanks to the blizzard, he wasn’t going anywhere now. The sisters were looking in on him regularly to make sure he was okay.
Rut answered the door wearing a navy blue wool bathrobe over a flannel shirt, baggy slacks and carpet slippers. “Good morning, young fella,” he said, turning up both of his hearing aids. “I can see from your long face that you’ve come to bring me some sad news. I’ll spare you the discomfort. I already heard about him from the Jewett girls. So let’s you and me crack open a couple of bottles of stout and drink to the poor son of a bitch. Somebody ought to.”
“All right, Rut,” Mitch said, unzipping his coat.
“Nice to be back in my own place, let me tell you,” Rut chattered as he led him into the parlor, where a fire was going in the potbelly stove. “Not that I’ve had more than two minutes to myself. Mary insisted on tucking me into bed last night at ten o’clock sharp. Made sure I took my pills. And when I opened my eyes at six this morning Madge was already here to feed me my breakfast and more pills. And then Tina showed up to clean up from last night. She just left. I’ll let you in on a little secret—the timing of this here snowstorm suits me just fine. I’d much rather be here than at some halfway house for the soon-to-be departed. But the doctors won’t allow me to be on my own anymore. It seems I get to thinking on things and forget where I am.”
“That happens to me with great regularity.”
“At your age it’s okay. But when you get to be my age people take a mighty dim view of it—especially when you’re behind the wheel of a moving automobile at the time.” Rut tottered into the kitchen and returned a moment later carrying two glasses of foamy stout on a serving tray along with a plate of leftover deviled eggs and ham sandwiches. He set the tray on the coffee table. They raised their glasses in the air. “Here’s to Bryce, who never had a happy day in his life,” the old fellow declared. “I hope he’s found himself some peace.”
They drank. Then Rut eased himself slowly down into his favorite overstuffed chair, his slippered feet up on the ottoman.
Mitch sat in a chair across the coffee table from him, helping himself to a deviled egg. “Is it true that he owned the house on Big Sister?”
“He did indeed,” Rut confirmed. “Lucas left it to him, which riled Preston to no end, let me tell you.”
“Why didn’t Bryce want anyone to know about it?”
Rut shrugged his soft shoulders. “That was Bryce. He had a renegade streak a mile wide. A tough one to get to know, too. Talked to hardly a soul here in town except for Glynis.”
“The family’s lawyer?”
Rut nodded his head. “I hear he paid a call on her last week.”
“How did you hear that?”
“Her secretary happens to be a cousin of mine.”
“Rut, is there anyone in Dorset who isn’t a cousin of yours?”
“Bryce and Glynis were childhood friends, you know. Back before Lucas died and Preston gave Bryce the boot.”
“Was Bryce visiting her as his friend or his lawyer?”
“That sort of information my cousin can’t share with me. She’d lose her job.” Rut sipped his stout. “The house will pass to Preston now. He’ll be mighty pleased about that.”
“You’re not the first person who’s said that to me today.”
Rut peered at Mitch over the rim of his glass. “Josie’s a fine looking girl. High-spirited, too. She’ll find herself another fellow pretty fast. Or one will find her.”
“I suppose so.”
Rut continued to peer at him. “Anything you want to get off your chest?”
“Such as?…”
“I had my eye on Josie last night. Something about the way she kept watching one of the other fellas at the party gave me the impression she wasn’t entirely content with Bryce. We’re both men here, so there’s no point in tiptoeing around—it was you who she was looking at. And it’s been you sharing that island with them these past months. Bryce was quite a bit older than Josie. Also plenty frayed around the edges. Everybody knows that you and Josie are friends. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if you were a little something more than that. Can’t say I’d blame you—a healthy young cocksman such as yourself.”
“Rut, I’m the Jewish film critic from New York, remember? I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”
“It isn’t someone else who keeps Dorset’s resident tr
ooper glowing. That there is one contented woman, let me tell you. Always a smile on her face. Any man who can satisfy a gorgeous handful like Miss Desiree Mitry, well, the fellows at the firehouse have nothing but admiration for you, Mitch. Fact is, you’re something of a hero to them.”
“This is an actual topic of conversation at the firehouse?”
“Heck yeah. What do you think they talk about—fire safety procedures? And that’s just the fellas. Imagine what the gals over at the Town and Country beauty salon are saying.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” Mitch said unhappily. This was the downside to living in a small town. Everyone thought they owned a front-row seat to your private life. “Rut, there’s nothing going on between Josie and me. Des is the only woman in my life.”
“Glad to hear it. I felt the same way myself about my Enid, God rest her soul.”
“You told me last night that you lusted after Paulette Zander for years.”
“Still do, truth be told,” Rut conceded. “But thinking about it and doing it are two entirely different things. I always figured a man’s free to dream about any woman he chooses just so long as he doesn’t cross the Mendoza Line.”
“I think you mean the Maginot Line.”
The old fellow frowned at him. “I do?”
“The Mendoza Line refers to Mario Mendoza, the famously light-hitting major league shortstop of the seventies. He was so deficient with a bat in his hands that cracking .200 came to be known as the Mendoza Line.”
“I think you’re wrong about that one, young fella.”
“I could be,” said Mitch, who’d learned never to argue with anyone who was over the age of eighty. There was no point. He reached for a ham sandwich and took a bite, chewing on it thoughtfully. “What do the guys at the firehouse say about Hank Merrill?”
“Hank’s an affable fella. Everybody likes Hank.”
“Everybody except for you, you mean.”
“Don’t think I follow you.”
“I got the distinct impression last night that you don’t care for him.”
“Naw, Hank’s okay,” the old postmaster said grudgingly. “You just need to understand the background of the situation. Paulette fell to pieces when that husband of hers, Clint, ran off. Just sat there in her house day and night drinking cheap white wine and chain-smoking cigarettes. Stopped showing up for work. Any other postmaster would have canned her. But I covered for her. And she got through it eventually. Sobered up, quit smoking. Only, it was like a part of her died inside. She was never the same person again. When I first met Paulette she was a lighthearted gal, quick to laugh, with a smile that’d make you melt. Want to know something? I can’t remember the last time I saw Paulette smile.” He shook his tufty white head. “When she took up with Hank it had been a lot of years since she’d had a man friend. And, well, Hank was still a married man at the time. Cheating on his wife Mary Ann, to put it plain and simple. He and Paulette used to sneak off to the Yankee Doodle for hot-sheet matinees. I didn’t approve. Figured he was using that beautiful, lonely woman strictly for the sex. Turned out I was wrong about that. Hank did leave Mary Ann for her.”
“But you still don’t approve.”
Rut shifted uneasily in the chair. “I don’t think he’s good enough for her. It’s nothing personal. I’d feel that way about any man who came into her life.”
“So that’s all there is to it?”
Rut studied him suspiciously. “What are you getting at?”
Mitch drank down the last of his stout. “Does Hank have money troubles?”
“You know anyone these days who doesn’t? But now that you mention it, he is trying to dig himself out of a deep hole. Believe me, a fella doesn’t work second chair for John the Barber every Saturday unless he’s seriously short of cash.” Rut gazed at Mitch’s empty glass. “You ready for another?”
“Sure thing.”
The old man bustled out to the kitchen with their empty glasses, refilled them and returned. “It didn’t take long for Mary Ann to find out that Hank was cheating on her with Paulette,” he recalled, settling back down in his chair. “She was mad as hell—especially when he asked her for a divorce. Paulette felt terrible about breaking up Hank’s marriage. But I’ve always figured you can’t bust up a marriage unless it’s already broken. Mary Ann’s lawyer saw to it that their assets were divided in a way that was highly favorable to her, on top of which he has to pay her monthly alimony.”
“Is she still living in Dorset?”
“She moved to Farmington. Works at a day care center up there for a whopping nine bucks an hour. Mary Ann is one bitter woman. Or so I hear. Anyhow, about a year after the divorce was finalized, Hank’s mother passed away in Rochester, New York. That’s where he’s from originally. She was by no means wealthy, but she did own her own home free and clear. Hank sold it and cleared enough to make a down payment on a fixer-upper cottage up by Uncas Lake. Hank’s good with his hands. He renovated the place himself, sold it for a tidy profit and bought himself another fixer-upper. Mary Ann eventually heard about this from one of her girlfriends in town and, well, it turns out that either Hank’s lawyer didn’t explain the terms of the divorce settlement to him or Hank didn’t listen. Because Mary Ann was entitled not only to her share of their assets at the time they split up but also to any assets he might come into in the future—namely his mother’s house in Rochester and the net proceeds from the fixer-upper he sold. Hank hired himself a new lawyer and tried to contest it but he lost. Now he owes Mary Ann close to seventy grand. Hasn’t got a nickel of it. The money’s all tied up in the other fixer-upper. The only way he can pay her is to sell it, except nobody’s buying a damned thing these days. This house right here has been on the market for nearly a year and I haven’t had one single offer. Until Hank is able to sell his cottage and lay a lump sum on Mary Ann, he has to scramble to make a structured monthly payment that the lawyers drew up. This is on top of the alimony he’s already paying her. Hank’s in deep. And he can’t very well ask Paulette for help. That wouldn’t be right.” He looked at Mitch shrewdly. “Why are you asking me about Hank’s money troubles?”
“Just curious,” said Mitch, who was much more than curious. He was keenly interested. Because a grinch was stealing from the mailboxes on Hank’s route. Because Hank owed his ex-wife a fortune. And because if there was one thing he’d learned from Des it was that the solution to a case is often the obvious one that’s staring you right smack-dab in the face.
Meaning that the grinch was none other than Hank himself.
CHAPTER 5
DES WAS JUST PULLING into the shopping plaza directly across from the A&P when little Kylie Champlain came sprinting out the door of the Village Bootery with a pair of Ugg boots clutched under one arm and a look of total panic on her young face. Kylie jumped into a silver Honda Civic with the boots, started up the engine and took off. Or tried to—her wheels just kept spinning. The blizzard had dumped ten inches of the white stuff on the pavement by now and her daddy’s plowboys hadn’t hit the parking lot for a while. Then Des saw Joanie Tooker, who owned Village Bootery, come staggering out the door, clutching her elbow in pain. Des found out later that as soon as Kylie spotted Des’s cruiser she’d shoved Joanie, age sixty-one, roughly to the floor and escaped out the door. Joanie, who’d known Kylie for the girl’s entire life, suffered a dislocated elbow.
Des climbed out of her cruiser and motioned Kylie to get out of her Honda. “Come on, Kylie, let’s talk this out!”
Kylie floored it, the Honda’s wheels spinning and spinning. She was absolutely determined to rabbit on Des.
“Kylie, stop this, will you?”
No use. Kylie’s wheels caught hold and she went skidding out of the lot onto Big Branch heading way too fast in the direction of Old Boston Post Road. Des considered letting her go. Simply putting out a BOLO alert. She had Kylie’s license plate number. Knew where the girl lived. But she was concerned. Kylie was so panicky that she might c
rash into somebody. And so, reluctantly, Des took off after her, hoping that the reality of seeing flashing lights in her rearview mirror would jolt some sense into the little fool.
It was the most pathetic high-speed chase Des had ever been involved in. Not that it qualified as a high-speed chase, since neither of them could do more than twenty in the dense snow. And Des wasn’t even trying to gain ground. She didn’t want to make Kylie drive faster in these blizzard conditions. Just wanted her to know that it was pointless to keep going and that she ought to do the sane, adult thing and pull over.
Good luck with that.
At the intersection with Old Boston Post Road Kylie ran the red light, which ranked as the least of her worries right now, and attempted a sharp left turn. Instead, she made a full 360-degree doughnut in the deep snow before she came to a complete stop right in the middle of the intersection. Thankfully, there were no other cars around. Des came to a halt twenty feet away and gestured for Kylie to get out of the Honda.
And good luck with that.
Kylie floored it again and went slip-sliding her way north on Old Boston Post Road in the direction of Uncas Lake. Again, Des thought about leaving her be. But the girl presented a clear danger to herself and others. Des couldn’t just let her go.
The Post Road had been plowed within the past few minutes. Or at least a single lane had. Kylie powered her Honda all of the way up to thirty as she headed north in the center of the plowed lane. Des continued to give her plenty of room, praying that they didn’t encounter any oncoming traffic. As she went past the turnoff for Frederick Lane Kylie caught up with the town’s big orange plow truck and began to overtake it. Reality alert: Only a total nutso tries to pass a snowplow in the middle of a blizzard. Kylie Champlain had gone total nutso. Actually veered around the plow truck and started to pass it. Until, that is, she practically drove head-on into the oncoming Dodge Ram that was inching its way down the Post Road. The Dodge Ram had to slam into a snowbank to avoid her as Kylie hit her brakes and spun out in the middle of the road. The plow truck driver had no chance to stop. Roared right on past her—missing her Honda by no more than six inches. Des brought her cruiser to a stop as Kylie sat there behind the wheel, eyes bulging with fright. The Dodge Ram’s driver climbed out, waving his arms and cursing.
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