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

by Jean Rabe

  A small jewelry box on top of a chest of drawers was next. He lifted the lid and a shelf raised with it, four small compartments filled with pierced earrings. Underneath was a tangle of necklaces, some real gold…he knew real gold. He pulled one of those out, guessed it was eighteen inches, a thin ropy thing that caught the light coming in through the window, had a pretty little butterfly charm hanging on it. Hadn’t intended on taking anything, but he’d not gotten his girl a Christmas present. Late, sure, but when she saw it was real gold, she’d adore him for it. He dropped the butterfly necklace in his front pocket and closed the box. The chest of drawers was narrow, and the four drawers weren’t filled all the way. Underwear, which he carefully moved around—no money, she knew better. T-shirts, a couple of sweatshirts, one tan with an eagle head in a black shield and 101st in block print, had some wear to it, a couple of nightshirts, an assortment of socks.

  Smiling at his secret exploration, he backed out of the bedroom, closing the door, surveying the living room one more time and spotted a small stack of books on the floor next to the futon.

  “Whatcha reading, bitch?” He padded over and knelt, tipping his head sideways so he could read the spines. Library books from the plastic covers and labels on the bindings. One a biography of Truman, Michael Moorcock’s Tales From the End of Time, Philip Kerr’s A Five-Year Plan…looked like some sort of mystery or thriller. No books that looked to be her own property or that were current bestsellers, though maybe she had a Nook or Kindle or some such and bought the electronic editions. Less clutter that way, certainly less to pack. Observation: Piper Blackwell lived here, but it didn’t look like she intended to stay. Maybe she figured her dad would die soon and she could move into the big house, where there was plenty of furniture and most assuredly better carpet; he probably had a lot of books, too. But that notion didn’t explain the lack of boxes, the relatively small selection of clothes. Seemed like everything she owned could fit in three big suitcases. Maybe she embraced a minimalist style, was one of those souls who could be happy in the tiny houses they advertized on the Internet. Or maybe she hadn’t been out of the Army long enough to accumulate stuff. No collection of refrigerator magnets or paperweights, no action figures, no Beanie Babies, nothing to let him get a good read on her.

  Didn’t matter, did it?

  Soon she wouldn’t have the opportunity to accumulate anything.

  He crept toward the desk, finding a slight dip in the floor. Whoever lived here next might want to fix that—get up in the middle of the night and walk over it, you might trip. A telephone was on the back corner, one of those old banana shaped things like he’d seen on That ’70s Show. He lifted the receiver: no dial tone. She probably relied on her cell, that’s what most younger folks did, right? Only one drawer, and he tugged it open to find a thin laptop inside. He took it out, set it on the desk, then eased into the chair, which was wood and old and he didn’t want to break it.

  The laptop wasn’t full-sized, not more than ten or eleven inches across. Acer was the brand; he’d never heard of it. There was also a cable for it in the drawer, but he turned it on without plugging it in, discovered it had enough battery life.

  “Let’s look into your soon-to-be-short life, Sheriff,” he cooed. But when the startup screen faded, it asked for a password. “Oh, piss.” He turned it off and put it back in the drawer, just as he’d found it. No use trying to fathom what code she used, probably something from her Army days or the name of a childhood pet.

  “Pop this popsicle stand,” he decided, leaving and closing the door. It still latched, he’d only jimmied the lock, hadn’t broken it.

  Out the back of the garage and through the neighboring yards, keeping close to the hedges before coming out to his pretty ice blue ride. Maybe he’d just go cruising for awhile, go buy that six-pack of A&W at the Rockport grocery store, head to Owensboro and stop in at the mall on Frederica, the Macy’s or Penny’s there, or better yet the Rue21—trendier. He could come back late tonight; it was easier at night, especially if he could catch them sleeping…like he had with old woman Thornbridge. Easier to get both of them now since they had separate digs. It was stupid to come here during the day, feeling all cocky because he’d got a car. He hadn’t brought any of his signature mugs along, had forgotten them in his closet. He couldn’t kill Piper and Paul Blackwell without a mug…even if neither had sent him a Christmas card.

  Well, he could kill them without his signature mug, but it wouldn’t be proper. Besides, he might as well use some of the mugs he had left. Only needed to save one; something to drink a root beer slushee out of. He laughed at that thought as he drove away.

  “You’re gonna love this pretty gold necklace, Babe. Got it special, just for you.” He’d poked through old woman Thornbridge’s jewelry, but it was big clunky stuff, not at all elegant. This chain Sheriff Blackwell had offered up…that was classy. It was a good thing he hadn’t killed her when he’d run her off the road the other night. He wouldn’t have thought to come to her place, and so he wouldn’t have acquired this shiny little thing.

  He laughed louder.

  Twenty-One

  Samuel Reynolds lived at the edge of New Boston. His ex-wife Nicky had found his body when she’d come back to pick up some toys and clothes the twins forgot.

  Sam’s corpse was posed against the largest of three snowmen in his front yard, arms around the middle section and tied in place with twine, and affixed to one hand was a bright red Merry Christmas mug. His lips were pressed against the side of the snowman’s face as if kissing it, and they shared a long red scarf wrapped around both their necks.

  Piper parked on the shoulder near the end of the long driveway. Nicky leaned against her car, which was butted up to a barn-like garage.

  Oren pulled up before Piper had taken a dozen steps, and he was quick to trail her.

  There were no houses directly across the road, so no lookie loos to contend with, and also perhaps no witnesses. But the cars that drove by slowed, some to a near stop, the drivers and passengers twisting their necks to gawk.

  Nicky stuck her hands under her armpits. “I’m staying right here,” she hollered. “Don’t want to look at him again. You can come back here if you wanna talk.”

  “Fine,” Piper said, too soft for Nicky to hear. She looked over her shoulder. “Let’s chat with her first. Obviously our victim isn’t going anywhere. I called Dr. Neufeld. She said she’ll probably be an hour.” Piper was surprised Randy wasn’t already here. She knew Oren had been re-interviewing some of the Hagee partiers.

  The driveway hadn’t been plowed for a few days, so there were tire ruts in the snow. If there’d been any tread to point to the killer’s vehicle, it had likely been obliterated by Nicky driving her Escape over them. Piper walked through the snow, avoiding the tire tracks…just in case Randy could lift something useful. It was several inches deep and came up over the tops of her ankle-high boots. The cold winnowed its way in as she crunched through it.

  “Hi, Sheriff,” Nicky said.

  No tears, Piper noticed. Nicky’s cherry red face was colored from staying out in the cold. She was skinny, about five-five, Piper put her, with blonde hair that didn’t match her darker eyebrows—so from a salon. The cut was clearly professional, a reverse bob, and her mascara thick, eyelashes curled. One of her friends at Fort Campbell had said, “A woman can never have too much money or mascara.” Said friend had re-upped and was posted to Spain.

  Nicky wore a parka with a fur-lined hood that flopped down between her shoulder blades, probably hadn’t wanted to wear it and mess her hair. She had a distressed flap handbag sitting on her trunk; it looked pricey. The car was a BMW, but an older model, and there were half-dollar size rust spots on the fenders.

  Nicky rocked back and forth and bobbed her head. The image of a pigeon sprung into Piper’s head.

  “I called you all right away,” she said. “Used my cell. I haven’t been in the house, and there’s some stuff in there I need, kids’ clothe
s, a few toys they forgot. That’s why I’m here, they kept hounding me, wouldn’t shut up about the stuff. Gave me a migraine. Anyway, I knew he was dead when I turned in the driveway. Seen him frozen to the snowman. I didn’t want to get close, you know, so I pulled up here where I couldn’t see him and called. Took you long enough to get here. I’m freezing. Can you get me in the house so I can get the stuff and get out of here? I don’t have a key and the back door’s locked. Sam…he’d never locked the back door before.”

  No trace of grief whatsoever, Piper decided, a woman as cold as this winter day.

  “Ma’am,” Oren said. He tipped his hat to her. “Your husband—”

  “Ex-” she cut in. “Ex-husband. God, but I don’t know whatever I saw in him. Married him right out of high school. I think I just wanted out of my folks’ house. Got pregnant too young. Love the twins, though. We have…I have…twins, a boy and a girl—Samantha and Keven with two Es. Sammy had them for a week at Christmas and they left some stuff. That’s why I came back.”

  “I see,” Oren said.

  Piper took a step back and watched Oren, didn’t mind if he asked the questions. She heard music, faint, must be coming from inside the house.

  “Sam drank too much,” she continued. “My dad had drank too much, and I’d married into the same damn problem. One of the reasons I called it quits, Sammy’s beer. That and this little farm. He inherited it from his dad, was hell bent on making a go of it. Cue the Green Acres theme song, baby. I’m no Lisa Douglas, but I wasn’t cut out for something this rural.” She paused. “Court gave me the kids, but he had visitation rights, like this past Christmas.” A longer pause. “The kids said they had a good time. I’m glad they got to spend it with him.”

  “Did Sam have any enemies?” Oren asked.

  Her eyes grew wide.

  “Someone he’d had an argument with, owed money to, anything, anyone—”

  “Holy! You’re thinking someone killed Sammy. I figured he did himself in, drank too much, wandered out to get a little something on with the snowman—I don’t think he was seeing anyone, hadn’t ever since our divorce—and passed out like that, froze to death. You think someone—”

  “Just asking you a few questions,” Oren said.

  “I’m sorry. I really don’t know if someone had it in for him. Maybe he owed somebody money. He had to work at the power plant over by the bridge, couldn’t make enough money with this dump.”

  Not grieving now, not going to be later, and still obviously bitter about her stint as a farmwife, Piper thought. She’s not a suspect. “What is it you said you need from inside?”

  “Clothes, my kids’ clothes, a couple of sweaters, Samantha said. Crap. I have to tell them Sammy’s dead. Maybe they’re too young to understand.”

  “How old—” Oren started.

  “Six. Six years old. Me and Sammy were married less than two years when I got pregnant. After I had the kids, after he decided he wanted to stay on the farm, after he kept drinking, I filed for divorce. And you don’t need to think—”

  “We don’t judge,” Oren said.

  Piper didn’t like Oren, but she had to admit he handled the woman well.

  “Let Sheriff Blackwell take a look inside, and then—”

  “Door’s locked,” she said again.

  “Let the sheriff take a look and we’ll see if you can take the things you want and be on your way. All right?” Oren looked at Piper, as if asking her if Nicky would be free to go.

  “Do you know Conrad Delaney?” Piper asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Abigail Thornbridge?”

  “Who?” Nicky screwed up her face. “How long is this going to take?”

  “Wait here,” Piper said. She went to the back door, and while it was locked, it was old and easy to force. She’d put booties in her pocket, and she slipped them on along with a pair of white gloves, before going inside.

  The house was probably built in the 1940s, but there were obvious updates to the kitchen, the cabinets looking practically new and the bronze knobs shining. The table was old, though, and she spotted a stack of seed catalogs on it, and a beer can in front of the only chair that was pulled out. A glance at the floor. It gleamed in the light that streamed in through the windows. Everything looked clean.

  The music came from a radio on the counter, Ed Sheeran’s Photograph.

  The lights were blinking on the Christmas tree, and an old train chugged around and around the base, endlessly going nowhere. The tree was artificial; she resisted the temptation to unplug the lights. Christmas cards were stacked on the coffee table. She nudged the pile to spread them out, probably two dozen, flipped one over and read it.

  Samuel, I haven’t seen you for a few years and we haven’t exchanged cards in longer than that. But I was going through my attic around Thanksgiving and saw some of Anthony’s and Zachary’s toys. I’d not tossed them. There’s a little John Deere tractor and couple of attachments, some Hot Wheels that I remembered you and Zachary used to race, a little track for them that’s still got the box. Have a big box of Tonka trucks as well. I remember at the summer picnic you telling me you had twins. How about you give me a call after the first of the year and come over and get this stuff. I’d rather you have it than someone I don’t know. And, honestly, I don’t know how to sell on eBay. Happy Holidays, Conrad.

  Piper didn’t see a card from Abigail.

  No signs of a struggle here, she moved on to the bathroom, which also looked clean, then the first bedroom she came to—twin beds inside, a few toys on the floor and sweaters folded on the end of the bed near a square depression in the quilt where a suitcase might have sat.

  The master bedroom was not as neat, men’s clothes tossed on the floor, the bed a rumpled mass of blankets and pillows, just how she might picture a single man leaving it.

  She grabbed up the toys and clothes and went outside. “This what you’re looking for?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Samantha has been pitching a big one because of that stuffed bear. I bought her a new one, but it wasn’t her ‘Bubby Baby,’ so I drove all the way over here just for that damn thing. Should’ve done it yesterday and saved twenty-four hours of my sanity. Left the kids at my mom’s. Crap. Now I gotta tell them about Sammy when I pick them up. Crappity crap.”

  Nicky juggled her prizes and opened the passenger door, dropped them on the seat. “So I can leave now, right?”

  “When was the last time you talked to Sam?” Oren asked. He leaned against the trunk, blocking her from driving off.

  Nicky gave out an exaggerated theatrical breath, which barely moved her perfect bangs. “Yesterday. I called him on my lunch break at the shop, probably noonish, said I wanted to come get the damn stuffed bear and whatever else the kids left. He argued with me, said he’d take good care of everything and they could get it when they came up again. It’s like he thought I wouldn’t bring ’em back. I have to ’cause of the court order, but not until summer. Anyway, he finally caved and said I had to get up here before two. He works—worked—the three to eleven shift at the power plant.”

  “So he was alive yesterday,” Piper mused.

  “Sure. It wasn’t his ghost I talked to.”

  Piper had a few more questions. “Did you get a Christmas card from Sam?”

  She shook her head, again her hair barely moving, evidence it had a good amount of spray or gel on it. “Haven’t gotten a Christmas card from him since a year after the divorce was finalized.” Nicky gave a wistful smile. “But he always sent the kids one, well two. He sent them separate cards, though they were always the same design. Sammy bought boxed cards, and never those variety mixes.”

  “Do you remember the design from this year?”

  Nicky set her hands against her hips. “Really?”

  “It could be important.”

  “Really?” She asked it louder. “I couldn’t tell you, no reason to pay attention. Snowmen. It had snowmen on it. Sammy always sent cards that had s
nowmen. He liked snowmen.”

  “Do you know if he had any work done on this house in the past year?” Piper looked for the thread that would connect Samuel to Conrad and Abigail. “Roof work maybe, some—”

  “He had new kitchen cabinets put in, and Lord knows he didn’t do the work himself. Oh, Sammy was handy around a farm, but woodworking…he flunked shop in high school. I remember that. Couldn’t build a birdhouse, and then senior year when he was working with a blowtorch he lit another kid’s farts. That story was all over the school, and it got him sent home for three days. Kitchen cabinets. Don’t know where he bought them or who put them in. What’s it got to do with—”

  “It’s just a question,” Oren said.

  “Well, I’ve got a question, can I go now?” Nicky headed around the front of her car to get to the driver’s seat. “Seriously, can I go now? I got Shelly running the shop today, but I told her I’d be back to close up. I’m gonna have to hurry to make it.”

  “Sure,” Piper said. “But we want your phone number, where we can reach you, in case we have more questions.”

  “I probably ain’t gonna have more answers.” Nicky grabbed her handbag off the roof and looked inside, her manicured fingers—complete with snowflake decals on blue polish—darted in and brought out a business card. She waved it and Piper came over to get it. “I’m sorry about Sammy,” Nicky said softly. “He wasn’t all bad.”

  Nicky’s Beauty Boutique was printed in raised hot pink letters against a pale pink background. “That’s my shop number, and the one under it is my cell. Sammy had a will. He told me he’d drawn one up a year ago, worried he might have an accident plowing or planting or something. The kids are in it, get everything. He said I’m not. If you go through the house, you can bag up all his clothes and take them to Goodwill. People need clothes this time of year. The kids aren’t going to want his clothes.” A pause. “They’re not gonna want this damn farm either.” She got in, and after Oren moved, drove away.