The Snow White Christmas Cookie

by David Handler

“He’s certainly a likely candidate. I also have my eye on Pat Faulstich. Everywhere I go I keep tripping over him. He was rummaging through the mailboxes when I had Dorset Street staked out this afternoon. And tonight he showed up on Kinney Road—supposedly to plow the neighboring driveways.”

  “That’s interesting. I wonder if he has a connection to Josie.”

  “So do I.”

  “Any idea where Casey was tonight?”

  “Paulette told me he was at the Rustic, same as every night. I offered to call him for her but she didn’t want me to call anyone. The woman went totally Garbo on me.”

  Mitch beamed at her. “That was totally an old movie reference. I’m rubbing off on you, admit it.”

  “It’s true, you are.” She sighed. “Won’t be long now before I’m talking for hours on end about the pulsing cinematic muscularity of Mr. Stan Fuller.”

  “It’s Sam Fuller. And just for that I’m going to make you watch The Steel Helmet.”

  “Yum, can’t wait. What was she wearing?”

  “Who?”

  “Josie. You said she showed up here not long after I left. Just wondered if she was wet or muddy or whatever.”

  “Her slicker and rain boots were wet. Her hair was dry. So were her jeans and her socks.”

  “She could have changed clothes before she came over here. She didn’t happen to smell of whiskey, did she?”

  “No, she didn’t. I pumped her a bit about her childhood in Maine.”

  “And?…”

  “She got surprisingly defensive, bordering on hostile.”

  “Mitch, we have to take a good, hard look at her. Will you be okay with that?”

  “Sure I will. Do what you have to do. I just have one small problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “Think about where we’re going with this. We’re suggesting that Josie Cantro is a cold, calculating predator who’s been using her life-coaching practice to troll for juicy prey. That she targeted Bryce, bedded him, killed him and picked him clean. That she’s the proverbial black widow—an evil bitch who has no sense of morality and zero conscience. I’ve spent a decent amount of time around Josie and, well, I’m not there yet. Are you? Do you really think that’s who she is?”

  “I don’t know. But I can guarantee you this—starting first thing tomorrow morning, we sure as hell are going to find out.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “AWFULLY DARNED NICE OF you to do this, Mitch.”

  “My pleasure, Rut. Well, not a pleasure. But I’m happy to do it.”

  The old postmaster was riding next to him in the Studey. Rut had spent another night in his house on Maple Lane, what with the torrents of rain falling on top of all of that snow. Mitch was driving him back to his room at Essex Meadows, with a stopover to pay a call on Paulette, his grieving protégé.

  “Don’t know what to say to her,” Rut grumbled. “I never know what to say after somebody’s gone.”

  “You don’t have to say a thing. It’s enough that you’re showing up.”

  It was a bright, beautiful morning. The air was incredibly fresh. But it was also chilly enough that last night’s rain had frozen over in the hours before dawn, leaving a gleaming coat of ice behind. Mitch had to take a scraper to his pickup’s windshield and spray its door handles with WD-40 before he could pry the doors open. Frozen puddles remained here and there on the plowed road surfaces, although those would be thawing soon. It was supposed to climb into the toasty upper thirties by the afternoon.

  He’d expected to find many cars parked outside of Paulette’s raised ranch on Grassy Hill Road. This was Dorset. Friends and neighbors always showed up when you were hurting. Yet only Casey’s blue Toyota Tacoma was parked in the driveway.

  Rut sat in his heavy wool coat staring at the house. “She doesn’t have any family to be with her. Her parents are dead. And the folks at the Post Office need to get their work done. They’ll stop by later to pay their respects, I imagine. Paulette isn’t the sort who makes a lot of friends. But Hank had a million of them.” The old man heaved a reluctant sigh. “Guess we’d better go on in. It’s not getting any warmer in this here truck. You should have the heater looked at, young fella.”

  “Rut, there is no heater.”

  “Well then, that explains it.”

  Paulette’s front walk and steps hadn’t been salted or sanded. The brick pavers were perilously slick.

  “You’d better hold on to me, Rut. I don’t want you to fall.”

  “I don’t want me to fall either,” Rut said, grabbing hold of Mitch’s arm with a grip of iron.

  They made it up the steps to the frozen welcome mat. Mitch rang the bell.

  Paulette opened the door, smelling strongly of wine and cigarettes. Her face softened when she saw Rut standing there. “Hello, Rutherford,” she murmured, blinking back tears.

  “Hey there, young lady,” he said gently, stepping inside to give her a hug. “Anybody else here?”

  “Not right now. A bunch of neighbors came by with casserole dishes but I sent them packing. Why do people always bring casserole dishes when somebody dies? Hank’s dead and so, what, I’m suddenly supposed to be in the mood for ham and scalloped potatoes?”

  Mitch stood there salivating. Maybe she wasn’t, but he sure was. He had a nice big hunk of Harrington’s ham in the fridge, too. Plenty of Yukon Golds. Assorted bits of stinky Cato Corner Farm cheeses. Yummy.

  “I didn’t feel like talking to anyone,” Paulette added, leading them inside past her cluttered living room, which Mitch noticed had a really cool vintage Lionel train set all laid out and ready to go. “Besides, a postal inspector from New York City showed up here at the crack of dawn and grilled me for a solid hour. Get this, will you? They’re bringing in a temporary supervisor from Norwich. I have to stay home for a few days.”

  “That’s because you’re grieving,” Rut said to her. “You should take some time off. And I’m sure he wasn’t grilling you. Just following procedure.”

  “No, he was definitely grilling me. Treated me like I don’t know how to do my job. He was a nasty little man. I didn’t care for his tone at all.”

  There were two big recliners in the TV room, which smelled of cigarette smoke and dirty laundry. The television was turned off but Mitch could hear a TV blaring from somewhere else in the house. Paulette sat down in one of the recliners and lit a cigarette. A half-empty gallon jug of cheap Chablis and a wineglass were on the end table next to her.

  She poured some wine into the glass. “Care for any?”

  Rut said, “Kind of early in the day, isn’t it?”

  “I’m taking a personal day. That means I can do anything I personally feel like doing, which happens to be getting slightly blitzed.” She gazed up at the old man, her eyes crinkling. “Why did he do it, Rutherford?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that, hon.”

  “I would have helped him. I would have done anything for him. He didn’t have to steal.”

  “Slow yourself down. You don’t know for a fact that Hank was stealing.”

  “He texted me. He said it was all his fault.”

  “The man was preparing to take his own life. There’s no telling what he meant by that. He could have been referring to how unhappy he was. Trying to let you know that it was his own doing, as opposed to something you might have said or done. That makes sense, doesn’t it, Mitch?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Sure it does. So don’t get out ahead of yourself, okay?”

  “I just wish … If Hank felt cornered and desperate he should have told me.”

  “You’re right, he should have. But fellas aren’t made that way. We don’t go crying to mommy.”

  Mitch nodded. “We’re taught from a very early age that it’s a sign of weakness.”

  “Is that right?” Paulette shot back. “Tell me, what’s weaker than killing yourself?”

  Mitch had no answer for that. “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”

>   “Go right ahead.”

  He went into the kitchen, where the counter was crowded with those casserole dishes from Paulette’s neighbors. He could hear the TV louder from in here—it was coming from down in the basement. The door to the basement stairs was open. A plastic laundry basket heaped with dirty clothes was parked there, which explained the ripe aroma. Mitch nudged the basket aside with his foot and started down the steep wooden stairs.

  A lot of people who owned raised ranches made an effort to convert the basement into an extra room. They installed paneling and flooring. Dropped a ceiling to cover the electrical conduits and copper pipes that ran along the joists overhead. Not Paulette and Hank. Theirs was strictly a bare-bones, cement-floored basement. For décor there was a Kenmore washer-dryer and a clothesline with sheets and towels hanging from it. An electric space heater was doing what it could to fight the chill down there, and a towel had been shoved under the door to the garage to keep the draft out. But it was cold in the basement that Casey Zander called home. Also messy. There was a Ping-Pong table heaped with sports magazines and newspapers. A convertible sofa bed, which was open and unmade. Dirty clothes were heaped everywhere. A sprung easy chair was set before the TV in the corner.

  Here Paulette’s pale, jiggly son sat in a flannel bathrobe watching last night’s NBA highlights on ESPN and eating a bowl of what appeared to be Cocoa Puffs. At least he had good taste in breakfast cereals. What he didn’t have was good taste in hair. His henna-tinted mop top made him look like a colorized member of The Three Stooges. He still had a bandage on his forehead from his unfortunate encounter yesterday with Kylie Champlain’s Honda Civic. There was a card table next to the TV that had a computer and printer on it. Stacked on the floor next to Casey’s chair were computer printouts of NFL game stats. Team stats, individual player stats. Mitch had never seen so many stats in his life. Many of the pages had been circled or flagged with Post-its.

  “You sure are into stats,” Mitch observed. “Are you in a fantasy football league?”

  “Fantasy football leagues are for assholes,” Casey replied coldly.

  “I’m in a fantasy football league.”

  “Gee, there’s a surprise.” He glanced up at Mitch, his surly gaze narrowing. “What do you want?”

  “I brought Rut by to visit your mom.”

  “No, I mean what do you want from me?”

  “To tell you that I was sorry about Hank.”

  “Okay, you told me,” he said, turning back to the TV.

  “Also sorry about what happened yesterday on the causeway.”

  Casey didn’t respond. Just sat there eating his cereal and watching the succession of slam dunks that passed for highlights.

  “This is the part where you say you’re sorry, too, and then we shake hands.”

  Casey heaved a sigh of annoyance. “Why don’t you go back upstairs and leave me alone?”

  “Your mom’s pretty deep into the Chablis this morning. Is she okay?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “You two are tight, aren’t you?”

  “She’s my mom. It’s not like we hang together.”

  “Did you hang with Hank?”

  He let out a derisive snort. “Hank played the tuba.”

  “Meaning what, he flunked your coolness test?”

  “We lived in the same house—period.”

  “You also worked together, didn’t you?”

  “We didn’t work together. I’m only there on Saturdays or if somebody’s sick or on vacation.”

  “Are you hoping to become a full-time carrier?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll go back upstairs and leave me the hell alone.”

  “Suit yourself. Nice talking to you. Actually, I lied. No, it wasn’t.” Mitch started back toward the stairs.

  “Wait a sec,” Casey said, allowing a tiny trace of hopefulness to creep into his voice. “Did Josie give you a message for me?”

  “No, she didn’t. But I haven’t spoken to her today.”

  “Yeah, you have.”

  “So now you’re calling me a liar?”

  “I’m betting a million bucks she asked you to tell me something. And that’s why you came down here.”

  “Don’t ever bet with real money, Casey. You suck as a gambler.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.” He peered at Mitch with those nonpenetrating eyes of his. “Are you two getting it on?”

  “Josie and I are nothing more than friends. I told you that yesterday.”

  “I didn’t believe you yesterday. Still don’t.”

  “That’s fine. I won’t bother to set you straight. There’s no point, since you’ve already got life all figured out. Hell, you’re sitting here in your mom’s basement watching TV in your jammies and you’re, what, twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “When I was twenty-eight I was freelancing for two different magazines, teaching a class at NYU and finishing up my first movie encyclopedia.”

  “Goodie for you, asshole.”

  “I’m not bragging. I’m just saying that there was so much I wanted to do every single hour of every single day. Isn’t there anything you’d like to do?”

  “Yeah, there is. I’d like to sit here without you hassling me. Jesus, you’re as bad as Hank. He was always on me about how I should be applying myself. Like I’d take advice from that clown.”

  “You take advice from Josie, don’t you? What does she tell you to do?”

  Casey reached for a pack of Marlboros and found it empty. Crumpled it and tossed it aside. “She doesn’t tell me to do anything. She encourages me.”

  “To do what?”

  He shrugged. “Be more assertive.”

  “Is that why you gave her a black eye?”

  “That was an accident. And I can’t believe she told you about it.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Who did?”

  “You did,” Mitch replied. “Just now.”

  For a second, Casey looked as if he wanted to tear Mitch’s head off. But he’d already tried that yesterday and ended up with his face frozen to the causeway. So instead he stuck out his chin and said, “I guess you think you’re pretty smart. Trust me, you don’t know shit.”

  “I know that you’re in love with Josie.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Josie!”

  “Then why did you ask me about her?”

  Casey said nothing to that. Just sat there in petulant silence.

  Mitch glanced back down at the pile of NFL stats next to his chair. “Are you into the Patriots or the Giants?” Since Dorset was situated halfway between Boston and New York, its residents’ team loyalties were divided right down the middle.

  “Patriots,” Casey grunted. “The Giants play down to the level of their competition. Hardly ever cover the spread.”

  “It sounds like you’re in an office betting pool. Am I right?”

  Casey had had enough. He got up out of the sagging chair and took off his robe. He wore an ancient Metallica T-shirt and long johns under it. He dug a Patriots hoodie and a pair of sweatpants out of a rumpled pile of clothing on the floor and put them on. Then he made his way upstairs to the TV room, where Paulette and Rut sat talking quietly. Mitch followed him.

  “I’m going out for a while, Mom.”

  Paulette frowned at him. “Where to?”

  “Got some errands to run. I’m out of smokes, for one thing.”

  “Okay, son. Would you mind getting me two packs of Merits?”

  “Are you going to give me some money?”

  Paulette fetched her wallet from the kitchen table and removed a twenty-dollar bill from it. “Just do me one small favor, will you?”

  He rolled his eyes. “What is it?”

  “Don’t spend the whole afternoon at the Rustic. I need you here, okay?”

  “Whatever.” He snatched the money from her and stormed out of the house.

  Paulette sat back down, a distraught
expression on her face as she listened to Casey start up his pickup and go roaring off.

  Rut reached over from the recliner next to hers and patted her hand. “Hank was a real fine fellow. Try to remember the good times you two had together.”

  She glanced at him curiously. “I always thought you didn’t approve of Hank.”

  “That’s not true at all. Hank was okay. I was just jealous. I’d be jealous of any man who’s lucky enough to wake up and see your shining face right there next to him every morning.”

  “You’re a silly old man, Rutherford.”

  Rut smiled faintly, his eighty-two-year-old heart overflowing with the hopeless, unrequited love that he’d kept to himself for all of these years. Briefly, Mitch thought he might tell Paulette how he genuinely felt. But Rut didn’t, couldn’t. Just nodded his tufty white head and said, “That’s me, all right—silly.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE WORLD-CLASS PISSING CONTEST—more commonly known as a team meeting—was held in the auxiliary conference room of Dorset’s Town Hall, a stately white-columned edifice that smelled all year round of mothballs, musty carpeting and Ben-Gay. Everyone was there at nine o’clock sharp with the noticeable exception of the agent from the FBI, who Des had no doubt would start throwing his weight around as soon as he walked in. The bureau was incredibly dependable that way.

  Four members of the Connecticut State Police were in attendance: Des, Yolie, Toni and Capt. Joey Amalfitano, a rumpled old-timer who was with the Narcotics Task Force. Des had worked a drug case with Amalfitano on Sour Cherry Lane last spring. Everyone called him The Aardvark due to his huge, down-turned snout of a nose. Des thought of him more as a weasel.

  The U.S. Postal Service had sent Inspector Sam Questa from New York City. Questa was in his late forties and bore a startling resemblance to Fred Flintstone. His huge, blunt featured head was set directly atop a massive torso with almost a complete absence of anything resembling a neck. Seated there at the conference table, Questa gave the impression of being a large man. Yet Des doubted he stood much taller than five-feet-four. He had the stubbiest little arms and legs she’d ever seen. She could not imagine how the man found clothing to fit him. He wore a plain gray suit, white shirt and muted tie. Kept his gleaming black hair combed carefully in place, but didn’t do nearly as good a job of keeping his emotions in check. He glanced repeatedly at his watch, growing more and more pissed as the minutes ticked by. The man didn’t like to be kept waiting by the FBI. The man was feeling disrespected.