The Dead of Winter (A Piper Blackwell Mystery Book 1)

by Jean Rabe

  “Clay City,” Piper said. It was a town near the Daniel Boone National Forest in Kentucky that she’d road-tripped through once.

  “I announced to my parents I was Buddhist, and that I wanted to be a monk. It probably had the same impact as if I’d said I was gay. Maybe they could have handled that easier. They were in denial, disbelief. Fortunately Zach stood by me. In the end, love won out. My high school graduation present was a round-trip ticket to Bangkok. They wanted me to go to college, but they also wanted me to get ‘Buddhism out of my system.’ I never used the return half of the ticket; I still have it, non-refundable back then, worthless now. I use it as a bookmark.”

  “So it was a one-way trip.”

  “Yes. I stayed. I was at peace, and it took me two years before I was welcomed as a monk. Twenty was a magic age for the temple I chose. I guess they wanted me to be sure, too. And so I have been serving in the Pathum Thani Temple for the past eight years.”

  “And you’re happy.”

  “I am at peace,” Anthony repeated. His face was serene. “Buddha said, ‘Peace comes from within, do not seek it without.’ Though I suppose I sought it by going to Thailand. Yes, I am happy.”

  “So you haven’t been back to the house since you left after high school?”

  “No. It will be good to see it again, even though the circumstances are sad. I plan to stay there while—”

  “We haven’t released the house yet,” Piper cut in. “Though I’ll check with my detective and see if we can hurry that up, and at least get you a winter coat out of the closet.”

  Anthony looked puzzled.

  “I understand your father didn’t have a will, and you and Zachary are the only relatives. If there are no claims on the estate, the house belongs to both of you. But at this time we’re still treating it as a crime scene. And because it is a crime scene—”

  “Ah, I understand. I will make other arrangements for a place to stay. I still have friends in this area, Evansville and Rockport mostly. Jacob…Jake…lives in Rockport and—”

  “—is on vacation. We’ve been trying to talk to him.”

  He frowned. “Perhaps I will stay with my brother, then. Owensboro is just across the river. It is unfortunate that Jake is not here. He and I were very close, and he went with me to the temple in Louisville our senior year. He did not find enlightenment, but he was a good sport about it. I was looking forward to catching up.”

  “What can you tell me about Jake…Jacob Wallem?” That was chief among her questions.

  A semi barreled by, throwing slush on the windshield. Piper pumped the brake and turned on the wipers, sprayed washer fluid and watched as the icy gray stuff melted and left a slime trail across the glass.

  “In high school he excelled in shop classes and in the summer worked for a builder. He started his own company three or four years ago. Jake told me about it in a Christmas letter and sent me emails with pictures of his projects. He knew I was Buddhist, but old friends like Jake still send me Christmas cards. I welcome the correspondence. Christmas is always a good time for keeping in touch. And Jake occasionally skyped with me.”

  “Did you get a card from Jake this year?” Piper had been driving under the speed limit, but she sped up now, two miles above it. She wanted to get back to the office and find out where Jacob Wallem was vacationing.

  “Yes. It was machine printed, and I suspect it was the same letter he sent everyone. You know, one of those newsletter-things, an accounting of the year.”

  Piper remembered that Conrad had received a Christmas card and newsletter from Jacob.

  “But at the bottom of the letter Jake scrawled a personal note about doing some work for my dad and about volunteering at the animal shelter because his business slowed in the winter. He loved dogs.” He closed his eyes and his lips worked. Piper thought maybe he was praying. “I was hoping Jake would be at the funeral tomorrow.”

  Piper intended to go the funeral; Randy and Oren were planning on it, too.

  “Anything else you can tell me about Jake?”

  “We stayed in touch. But I haven’t seen him in ten years, I can tell you that. When we were in high school he was a magnet for trouble, like my brother. But Jake wasn’t into drugs. It was staying out late, skipping classes, a little graffiti, some minor vandalism. Your dad picked him up once and gave him a ‘talking to’ I guess you’d call it. Scared the crap out of him. When I started following the tenets of Buddhism, I tried to get Jake to take a look, thought it might smooth him out. I think his roofing business did that, though, his energy turned into construction rather than destruction.” He touched his fingers to the vent and adjusted it so the heat blew against his face. “I truly was hoping to see Jake again.”

  “Maybe his vacation won’t last much longer.”

  “Maybe. I plan to stay two weeks.”

  “Listen, Anthony…you know, I don’t know what I should call you. Is there some title for a monk, or—”

  “Call me Tony.” He smiled.

  “Tony. Tony, my dad has a guest room. You can stay with him until we clear your father’s house, maybe only a day or two, then you can move in there. And my dad will have an extra coat you can wear. Should’ve bought one at Kohl’s.” How had that popped out? She had offered to buy him a coat at Kohl’s, and he’d turned her down. Let him shiver if he wants to. Piper mentally kicked herself for volunteering a room at her father’s, and the coat. She should have asked first…could have called him, as Randy had found her cell phone and it was riding in her pocket. It had a cracked screen, but still worked.

  “That is most generous. I will thank your father. I remember when he used to be the sheriff.” He waited a beat. “I remember when he arrested Zach and warned my friends about spraying graffiti.”

  “He arrested a lot of people.” Four terms, Piper thought. Thirty years with the department roughly. Was she going to make it through one term? “Yeah, Paul Blackwell was a fixture with the sheriff’s department for a lot of years.”

  “It is good you follow in his stead. Tradition can be important.”

  “Yeah, it’s ducky.”

  She reached the northern part of the county when the dispatcher radioed her about a suspicious death.

  “Maybe the CCK,” the dispatcher said. “But it’s not an old fart this time.”

  Dear God.

  “Send Oren and Randy out. Give me the address and tell them I’ll head right over.”

  She called her father about his houseguest, dropped Anthony off, watched him go inside, and then sped away.

  The killer had bought eleven Merry Christmas mugs, the store manager had said.

  Please, dear God, don’t let there be an equal number of bodies.

  Twenty

  He dropped the pickup off with his girl and told her to keep it hidden because people would be looking for it, and if they connected it to him there would be serious prison time. “Speaking of time, it is time for me to get a new ride, sweetheart,” he’d said. But he kept the license plates—he’d need those for whatever he picked out.

  Later the next morning he walked to a gas station, bought a root beer out of the machine and discovered by the brick-like feel of the can that it was frozen. He stuck the can in an empty pocket, and used his cell phone to call a cab—which deposited him at a car dealer on 41 in Henderson. The soda had warmed up just enough so it was more of a slushee. He drank it while he walked up and down the rows of cars and trucks, thought maybe he’d buy himself a six pack of A&W, stick it outside, and have root beer slushees tonight. No more alcohol for a while. It muddied his thoughts, and he needed to stay clear-headed.

  The hybrids were out of his price range, as he’d decided to only spend the money he’d pilfered from old woman Thornbridge’s underwear drawer.

  He settled on a Ford Focus four-door, a 2002 automatic—a lot more age to it than he wanted, and it had a hundred and twenty-three thousand miles on the odometer. The high mileage helped him talk the salesman down about eight
hundred. They settled on three grand and he paid cash, pulling the wad out of his pocket.

  It was a pretty ice-blue thing with leather interior. He’d not had a car with leather seats before. Running his fingers across them, he decided all future rides would have leather. They gave him a complimentary full tank of gas and sent it through the car wash, and then he was on his way back to Spencer County. This car would do until he could afford something better, a new Prius maybe, a red one; he sure liked the look of those things.

  He needed to check on the sheriff, since she hadn’t been killed—he’d called the department to check and the dispatcher said she would be in the office this afternoon. He crossed the bridge to Evansville and then headed east to Spencer County.

  “I messed up,” he’d told his girl when he dropped off the pickup last night. “I should’ve crawled down that slope and strangled her like I did the others. Should’ve. But I’ll take care of it. Maybe I’ll find some money in her underwear drawer, buy you something nice with it.”

  With all his planning and killing during the holidays, he’d forgotten to buy the girl anything for Christmas. “I’ll make it up to you, babe,” he’d said. “I promise. Stick a needle in my eye and all that shit.”

  She’d just stared at him, so no use apologizing. But he definitely would have to buy her something nice. Maybe a music box. Should’ve stopped by that Santa Store for their after-Christmas sale; might’ve found a fine music box there, one with an itty bitty snow ballerina on top that twirled to some Nutcracker tune. Years and years ago he used to be better about remembering to get people presents.

  He got a map at the Chamber of Commerce across from the power plant. It didn’t have enough of the streets displayed for Rockport, so he swiped a phonebook from a convenience store and found a map in the back that was more helpful. The book also listed Paul Blackwell’s number and address. “Aces,” he pronounced.

  It was a little before noon when he found the big house. It figured that a guy being sheriff that many years could afford a two-level with a honking big garage and a level above it, too. He’d asked around and learned that Piper Blackwell also lived here. “Double Aces.” With luck, he’d get both of them, leaving just the old Jew to handle the murder investigation. And that would mean he’d be safe.

  Parking across the street and a few houses down, he scampered through the neighbors’ back yards, not worrying about tracks. There were plenty of tracks in the snow from kids who’d been playing. And fortunately there were lots of hedge-like evergreens so he could likely approach the rear of the Blackwell house with no one noticing. He figured the sheriff wouldn’t be home, was out looking for him. But her dad…he’d heard that poor Paul Blackwell had cancer. He’d be home, resting, and not able to put up a fight. He’d get her dad, and then he’d wait. Piper would come home sometime. Maybe the Blackwells had a well-stocked fridge; he was getting a little hungry.

  And hopefully the Blackwells were like everyone else he’d targeted…leaving a door open ’cause they thought they were safe in a tiny town.

  He hurried to the sliding glass door he spotted at the back, tried the latch, and cursed. Locked. These sorts of doors were easy to break into, but it would make noise and that—

  “Huh?” Curled in a dog bed near a kitchen counter was old woman Thornbridge’s pug. Paul Blackwell was a few feet away, shoulders hunched, and it looked like he was talking to the dog.

  Well, the dog would have to find yet another home, wouldn’t it?

  Hey, maybe he’d keep the dog himself. He still had about a thousand left from old woman Thornbridge. He could buy it food, a few toys. It’d been some time since he’d had a dog. His girl wouldn’t mind…at least he hoped she wouldn’t. And he’d be getting her a late Christmas present to ease things over. Should’ve taken the pug to begin with after he’d offed the old lady.

  There was another way in, a smaller door on the side. He stepped to the corner of the house and froze when he saw a car pull in the driveway. It wasn’t an official sheriff’s department car, but it had one of them bubble-lights sitting on the dash. Hey, maybe it was a loaner ’cause he’d trashed the real sheriff car. A man got out, bald, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He reached in the backseat and pulled out a pack. Piper Blackwell was in the driver’s seat, wearing her uniform and hat.

  The man looked fit. He didn’t think he could take the man and Piper. Paul Blackwell? That’d be easy. Old guy with cancer, wouldn’t even work up a sweat over that. But Piper and the bald dude? Not today.

  Interesting, the bald guy went to the front door, and Piper drove away. He could take the bald guy, right? If he had to? Probably a chemo buddy to Paul Blackwell. Chemo made your hair fall out, he’d read. But he looked fit, so maybe the chemo hadn’t wrecked his body yet. Taking Paul and his chemo buddy during daylight might be foolish…and he was far from that. Maybe he’d just dawdle around, wait for night, wait for the bald guy to leave and Piper to come back and get the Blackwells as they snoozed.

  And maybe while he considered his options, he could do some more exploring. Good idea. He scuttled to the back of the garage, found a door there, and slipped inside. Two cars, a Chevy Tahoe SUV, and a little red thing that’d crush like an aluminum can if it got hit—that must be Piper’s. Dad would be too smart and have too much money to buy something so small. A disposable car.

  Drive My Car, the Beatles; Fast Cars, U2; Get in My Car, 50 Cent—that was a great one; Stop Draggin’ My Car Around, Weird Al—that was a stupid one.

  The garage was orderly, like it should be pictured in Home Depot ads. He could see pretty good in here with light coming in through windows in the garage door. One wall had hooks that held all sorts of tools—rakes, hoes, shovels. There were shelves above that with jars and boxes, all labeled. A neat freak.

  A set of stairs lead up, and he decided to have a look, see what treasures the Blackwells stored up top. Some of the steps creaked, like they were grousing that he was trespassing on them. A door at the top was locked, but it was old and he got it open with his pocketknife. He stepped inside and was surprised to see an apartment. The door opened into a small living room.

  “Well hello, Sheriff Blackwell,” he whispered. She lived here, not in the big two-level. Probably wanted her own space, probably was the only way her old man could lure her back to boring-as-hell Rockport. “Stay above the garage, honey, and I’ll stay out of your hair. I don’t have hair, I have cancer.”

  There were a couple of framed photos on a small desk, of young people in battle dress uniforms, Piper in one of them…that’s how he knew this was her crib. And there was a framed picture above a gray futon couch—the only wall decoration that he noticed. It was oversized for a photo, maybe eleven by seventeen, matted to make it look even bigger, a Christmas tree in the background, Paul Blackwell and maybe his wife—ex, he corrected as he knew a lot about the old sheriff—and two little girls. Couldn’t tell which one was Piper. The frame was wood, pitted, maybe old or maybe it was designed that way on purpose—some people liked the battered-look stuff.

  The place had shag carpet that looked like dingy fire, oranges with yellows woven into the mix, faded near the window where the sun had come in and bleached a perfect square. Did they still make shag carpet? He knelt and took off his gloves, ran his fingers through it, expecting it to feel good. Instead it was scratchy and there were places where the nap had worn away, showing the canvas weave beneath. She could do with new carpet, something from the past two decades, he thought. But she wouldn’t have to worry about it, would she? Piper Blackwell would be dead before the week was out. Somebody else could put in new carpet.

  Maybe she’d be dead before this day ended.

  The kitchen connected and was also small, furnished with a table for two with a Formica top and padded straight-backed chairs covered in vinyl. Could be a set out of That ’70s Show, he thought. He used to catch the reruns on Netflix. And, oh my, avocado green appliances—fridge, stove, dishwasher. Bet you couldn’t buy someth
ing in that color now unless it was a special order. The Sunbeam microwave looked new, small, still had a price sticker on the door, $53.85. A glance in the fridge: carton of milk, which he opened, took a big swallow of and then spit in…just because; jug of orange juice with the seal still on the cap; three apples on a shelf; a half-used pack of turkey slices; a big bottle of Gatorade; a carton of eggs with six inside; and a package of Kraft American slices that hadn’t been opened yet. He liked cheese, even that garbage, but he tamped down the urge to dig in. The freezer held three frozen dinners, the good kind, Marie Callender’s Sesame Chicken, Three Cheese Tortellini, and Golden Batter Fish Fillet. Maybe she didn’t eat beef. Cabinet above the sink had a little box of chicken flavored Rice-A-Roni, a jar of Bustelo Supreme freeze-dried coffee, a container of sugar cubes, and three cans of tomato soup.

  Not many groceries, even for one person. He wondered if she ate out a lot and didn’t like to grocery shop.

  Two doors off the living room, the one standing open led to a good-sized bathroom with a claw-footed tub and shower. He peeked in the linen closet: two bath towels, a couple of smaller towels, four bars of Zest, an unopened box of toothpaste—the tube in process on the sink—shampoo and conditioner, a four-pack of crap paper. Not much stuff, he thought. Not into loading up on extras.

  The closed door yielded up a bedroom, a double bed with a plaid comforter, old leather easy chair by the window next to a stick lamp, footlocker at the end of the bed. Nothing on the walls, though when he looked close he saw tiny holes where pictures used to hang, spotted a little nail that she’d neglected to pry out. The nail bothered him, should be covered up. The closet didn’t have many clothes in it, mostly casual, a nice suit—probably had worn it campaigning—only one dress, so dark purple it looked black at first glance. The footlocker had tennis shoes and a pair of army boots in it; a handgun—he didn’t know what kind, as he wasn’t into them—and a box of bullets; and another box that he carefully opened—medals—a decorated war hero, eh? A Purple Heart. Impressive. There was also a cheap plastic frame with a certificate in it bearing a Screaming Eagles logo. He took it out and closed the footlocker…after he made sure everything else was the way he’d found it. Then he carefully hung the certificate on the nail. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. And if she did, so what? She wouldn’t have to puzzle over it long.