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

by Jean Rabe

  “Cold,” Oren said.

  “As this winter day.” Piper walked back down the driveway, stopping even with the snowman display. “What the hell’s keeping Randy?” The yard was unbroken white, except for a path from the front door to the snowmen where it looked like the snow had been brushed.

  “The killer covered his tracks,” she said. “He hadn’t bothered to cover them at Conrad’s—the nosy neighbors did that for him—and there weren’t any tracks at Abigail’s because her staging was inside. Here, he covered his tracks.”

  “Nervous maybe.” Oren followed her. “This is a later kill, probably less than twenty-four hours ago. So maybe he’s grown wary. But still at it. We need to find one of the cards Sam sent out. I’ll check with the neighbors, look inside for an address book.” He shook his head. “He’s one of ours, you know, the killer.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked for the best way to approach the snowmen without disturbing too much of the scene.

  “One of us, a county man. The people he’s killed were born here, Randy checked. All of them born here. Never lived anywhere but this county, except for Conrad when he served in the Marines. Oh, they moved around to different little towns, but always in the county. They have…had…deep roots, so I’ll wager whoever killed them has the same ties. Just got to figure the connection, figure out what set the guy off. Gornisht helfn.”

  “And figure out who he is. We need to find that roofer.” The possibility of calling the State flickered in her mind. Maybe she should call the State, maybe it would keep someone else from dying. But if the killer was a local, someone from the State would be at a disadvantage; they wouldn’t know the people like Oren and Randy did…and her father. She’d pick her dad’s brains again tonight and see if he had any ideas.

  Three bodies in nearly as many days.

  He’d bought eleven Merry Christmas mugs.

  “My case,” she whispered. “My damn case.” She’d never backed down from anything. She wasn’t ready to call the State. “Where the hell is Randy?”

  Piper picked an approach and gingerly stepped out into the yard. “There’s a connection between Samuel Reynolds and Conrad Delaney,” she said loud enough for Oren to hear. “No thread to Abigail…not yet.”

  She heard the crunch of snow behind her, Oren following, and then she heard a car shush by. It stopped in front of the house, as the driver craned his neck to get a better look. After a moment, it kept going.

  “Conrad sent this man a Christmas card. I saw it on his end table. I don’t recall if Conrad received one from Samuel Reynolds.” She’d read the cards over and over, had some of the verses and the names of the senders committed to memory. But Sam, Sammy, or Samuel didn’t surface in her thoughts. “Nearly forty years apart in age, but they were connected by a Christmas card.”

  “Small county. Lots of people are friends with each other, regardless of age, but anyone who’s—”

  “—spent a good amount of time here knows that,” Piper finished. “Yeah, I know.” She carefully edged near to the corpse. Samuel Reynolds was held in place with twine. The Merry Christmas mug had tipped, half of its contents spilled. She could smell that it was beer. Apparently the killer knew enough about his victims to stage them with their favored beverage.

  Oren crunched closer, and she wished Randy would have showed up rather than her chief deputy. Where was he? She’d radioed him on her way over.

  “Look at his eyes,” Oren said. “See the tiny red spots?”

  “I can spell,” Piper returned sharply. “P-e-t-e-c-h-i-a-l.”

  Twenty-Two

  Jacob Wallem’s driveway hadn’t been shoveled in days, and there was a drift across it that went three feet up against the side of the house. It was a ranch with a low-pitched gable roof, ash gray vinyl siding with black shutters on the irregular sized windows, and a one-car attached garage, which had a deep drift against it. The roof was charcoal and had flecks of something that sparkled. A roofer would have a nice-looking roof, Randy figured. In fact, the outside of the entire house, though the design hinted that it was built in the 50s or 60s, appeared in first-class order. It was probably well landscaped, too, just couldn’t tell under the mounds of snow.

  Randy parked on the street and looked in the mailbox—it was stuffed, he doubted that another envelope could be jammed inside. A mix of letters and catalogs on first glance; he’d go through it later if he needed to. If Jacob had gone on vacation, he forgot to have his mail held.

  Maybe Randy needed to think about a vacation for himself, or simply go somewhere else…other than out to Samuel Reynolds’s house, which would be next after he checked on the roofer. Maybe he needed to go to another county. Vanderburgh, one county over, had a much bigger sheriff’s department, probably higher wages, and he knew the man who assumed the head post a couple of days ago. While they weren’t friends, they were friendly. There was going to be an opening in a month or two, the chief deputy retiring—he’d read that in a state newsletter. And while he wouldn’t be in line for that post—he was certain someone in-house would be moving up—he’d get strong consideration for whatever spot was left vacant. More than one hundred and eighty thousand people lived in Vanderburgh County, and more than half of them were in Evansville. There was a university, arts, theater, museums, a zoo, and a big old showboat on the river where you could gamble and sip fancy drinks. He liked the city in the summertime.

  Forty was looming. Born on Valentine’s Day, he’d be seventeen years older than his boss then. It wasn’t sitting well on his tongue, tasted pretty awful in fact. He imagined it sat ten times worse for Oren.

  Randy had been satisfied here, if not outright happy. He enjoyed his role as sole detective, had lots of friends, roots, was suited to small-town life, and he wouldn’t have considered looking elsewhere until Piper Blackwell took office three days ago. He’d started casting his eyes toward Vanderburgh when she won in the fall, but hadn’t been “all in” on the notion until he actually saw her in the sheriff’s uniform. Too small, too young, and way the hell too inexperienced. She had no business heading up a department she’d not previously served a day in.

  What the hell had Paul Blackwell been thinking, encouraging his daughter to run for sheriff? As many years as Paul had been sheriff—and with the department in general—Randy had thought the man would have put the department and the county first. Just what in the holy hell had Paul Blackwell been thinking? Had the chemo warped his brain? Randy had heard the term “chemo brain,” and wondered if Paul hadn’t been thinking straight.

  Randy had considered taking a run at the office himself…fifteen years with the department was more than enough experience to qualify him for sheriff. But Oren let it be known that he wanted it bad, and Randy was good enough friends with the chief deputy—respected him—that he wasn’t going to compete. Besides, Oren said Randy would move up to chief deputy. So he supported Oren, campaigned for him, and watched in disbelief with him from the country club dining room as the election results came in and gave Piper the win. He believed that the county residents weren’t voting against Oren because of his age, they were voting for Piper because of her last name. Hell, most of them probably thought they were voting for Paul Blackwell all over again.

  So even if Randy had thrown his hat in, the Blackwell name would have steamrolled over him. Twenty-three years old. Twenty-frigging-three years old and she was his boss. He’d been civil about the whole thing, polite to her even, followed her orders to that proverbial “T,” though he hadn’t zoomed right out to the Reynolds’s house when called a little while ago. He had an itch to stop here first.

  He couldn’t say he disliked her. Oren had asked him more than once about that. He didn’t know her well enough to like or dislike her. He liked Paul Blackwell, respected him and had been proud to serve in Paul’s department. But he couldn’t say he respected Piper. And how do you work for someone you don’t respect?

  Randy figured Oren would have retired before Piper moved in. Th
en Randy was certain he’d be in line for the chief deputy post. He could have handled the situation better then, with the promotion, waited it out to see if she passed the sheriff’s exam in the spring…moved into the sheriff’s spot on appointment if she hadn’t, or stuck it out four years as chief deputy if she had and then campaigned for sheriff himself the next go-round. By then everyone would know that Piper was not Paul, and they would not vote for her again.

  That way he could stay in the county.

  But Oren was holding on, hoping Piper’d fail come April. And if she did fail, Oren would get the sheriff’s appointment again, just like he had when Paul Blackwell stepped down because of the cancer. Either way, Randy would be sitting around another term before his shot at a run. Forty-four would be looming.

  What was it Oren liked to say? Gornisht helfn—beyond help.

  Randy decided he’d call the Vanderburgh County Sheriff sometime tomorrow and ask about that vacancy. In the meantime, he was going to settle the itch about the vacationing roofer.

  He slogged up the drive, the snow wrapping around his knees and the cold easing in deep, feeling with his feet and finding the sidewalk, and then following it to the front porch steps. The snow had drifted over the lowest one, and he nearly tripped. He stood on the top step and brushed the snow off his pants.

  A shiny red ribbon hung from a big wreath on the front door. The door was a showpiece, stained mahogany with sidelights from top to bottom, and it had a brass handleset and lock. Randy gave out a low whistle. “That’s pretty.”

  He stepped up to the door and knocked, knowing that it wouldn’t be answered—if Jacob Wallem was home, smoke would be trailing up from the chimney, the mailbox wouldn’t be full, and someone would have shoveled…at least a little. Buck said he had been over here a few times, but evidently hadn’t bothered coming up to the house, merely reporting that, “Jacob Wallem, that roofer you’re looking for, is on vacation.” Buck said he’d checked with the neighbors, who confirmed Jacob was away. Randy wondered if Buck had bothered to look in the mailbox.

  Randy hadn’t known Buck to skimp on an assignment, was usually known for being thorough. But he’d take him to task about this. Buck should have checked the doors and windows, taken a look inside—but there’d been no tracks leading up to the house except the ones he just made. Maybe Buck had a problem working for a twenty-three-year-old boss, too.

  The radio squawked on his belt, probably the sheriff wondering where the hell he was. He ignored it.

  Randy well knew he was supposed to be at Samuel Reynolds’s house right now, had taken the call from Piper about the body found in the front yard—the third victim of the CCK. He said he’d be over directly, but he stopped here first anyway…it was sort of on the way. Piper could wait just a little while; the body wouldn’t get up and walk off on her. It felt good, this little act of defiance.

  He knocked louder.

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Wallem!”

  He thought he heard something, someone moving around.

  Randy tried to look through the sidelights, but the glass was beveled, designed to let in light only.

  One more knock.

  “Mr. Wallem! Sheriff’s department, Mr. Wallem!”

  A dog bayed, a beagle or basset. Then it started barking and scratching on the other side of the door.

  Randy pressed his ear to the wood. There must have been a little crack between the door and its frame; nothing sealed perfect, did it? He smelled the pine of the wreath and some type of sealant on the mahogany, but he also picked up an awful reek.

  Jacob Wallem—or whoever else was in that house—hadn’t gone on vacation.

  He retraced his steps to his car, while he clicked the radio on his belt.

  “I found the roofer, Boss,” Randy told her. He’d been calling her boss, didn’t respect her enough to say ‘Sheriff.’ “At least I’m pretty sure I found him. Somebody’s in the house—dead. It’s Rockport, so we’re obligated to call the police department.” It was one of two towns in the county that had a police department; the other was Santa Claus, though it had only four officers and often relied on the sheriff’s department.

  She answered him, “Oren’s got this scene, and JJ and Buck are on their way over to help him. I should be to you in about twenty. Can we make the police call after we take a look?”

  “Good idea, Boss.” This was the sheriff department’s case after all. “I’ll wait out front for you, we can go in together.” Randy settled back against the seat of his Crown Vic and closed his eyes. Oren had let him go first into Abigail’s house; Randy would let Piper have the honors here. “I’m thinking it’s related,” he added.

  “To the CCK?”

  “Yeah,” Randy replied. “If Wallem’s our killer, maybe he committed suicide and saved us the trouble and expense of a trial. And if he isn’t our killer, I’ll bet he has a Merry Christmas mug in his hand.”

  Twenty-Three

  Randy forced open the beautiful door and gestured.

  “After you, Boss.”

  She glanced at a bagged weekly newspaper sitting on the snow near the porch, stepped inside the house, and put booties on as she went. The stench was a thick barrier she had to struggle through. No other smell compared to death, though it varied in intensity depending on how long a body had been destroying itself. This ranked as high as some of the kill sites she’d marched across, likening the odor to a monstrous creature that burrowed into her lungs and held on with sharp, insidious claws. Her shoulders hunched and though the Pop-Tarts were a memory she felt bile coming up.

  Piper concentrated to keep from retching, figuring she was being tested, her detective wanting to watch her toss her cookies and flee to the front yard. She was used to being tested. In Iraq there were soldiers who didn’t accept a woman as an equal, let alone as their commanding officer—despite her having endured the same rigorous training they had and facing the same ordeals. She’d had to win respect during both of her tours; though it came much easier after the downrange night she saved her unit. She suspected some of her deputies would never respect her.

  She barely registered the dog at her feet. It pawed her leg, tail wagging madly, tongue lolled out. It yipped happily. Piper stared at it. The dog was missing half an ear, and where one of its eyes had been, the skin was stitched together to cover the hole. It had three legs, the left front one a one-inch stub. She picked it up to make sure it didn’t run out in the yard.

  “Keep this door open,” she told Randy. “And protocol or no, we’re going to open some windows.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.” She noted the quaver in his voice—the stench had burrowed deep in his lungs, too.

  She opened the door as wide as it would go and left it that way. She cradled the beagle closer and discovered that the dog’s intact eye was milky white. Blind and three-legged, and skinny—the ribs protruded. But the dog was so very pleased to be in the company of someone living. The dog raised its snout and lapped at her chin. The tag on the collar said her name was Merry.

  “I’ll get my kit, Boss.”

  “Randy,” she said as she turned. He was standing on the step just outside. “Good idea you had, stopping here. Who told you he was on vacation?”

  Randy whirled and slogged down the steps without answering. “I’ll get the video camera, too.”

  “Call the Rockport police while you’re out there,” she hollered.

  The dog quivered in the crook of her arm. Piper put it at about a dozen pounds, a smallish beagle.

  “Take a good look,” she told herself, again fighting the urge to join Randy outside and puke in the yard. One of her MP instructors taught her: “enter a scene, stay still, and take visual stock. First impressions are all-important.” Look patiently, diligently, and clues would appear.

  There was no corpse with a Merry Christmas mug in its hand. But she saw the mug almost immediately. It sat in the center of the mantel of the living room fireplace, which was draped with pine garland decorated
with red glass ornaments. Little ceramic buildings with snowy roofs filled the rest of the mantel. Where the outside of the house had been devoid of Christmas decorations, save the simple wreath on the door, the inside was overdone to Piper’s eyes. But she thought her father would approve.

  The tree in the corner was big and beautiful, an artificial flocked spruce covered with gold and red glass balls, gold and red strings of beads applied with precision, and a gold and red star on top, everything perfectly spaced. The tree skirt spread out into the room, thick tiered red lace, like it had been the skirt of a wedding dress dyed for the holiday. Seven unopened packages in fancy foil paper and topped with big lavish bows circled the trunk. The coffee table held one of those miniature villages, a mirror serving as the skating pond on which little figures were posed. A shelf above the widescreen TV was occupied by two dozen of those floppy-legged “elf on a shelf” stuffed toys. Pictures on the wall had been covered with wrapping paper and bows, making them look like Christmas packages.

  The throw on the couch depicted Santa in his sleigh flying above colorful rooftops. Pillows on the furniture were needlepoint, each different—a snowman tipping his hat, Rudolf with a glittery nose, elves making toys, cardinals stringing ribbon on a snow-covered tree, and a Golden Retriever puppy tugging on a Christmas stocking. Her gaze drifted back to the Merry Christmas mug on the fireplace. The beagle licked her chin. Piper couldn’t smell the dog; the stench of a rotting body overpowered everything.

  She heard Randy stomping on the porch, knocking snow off. He came in behind her, setting down the evidence kit.