Murder on Ice

by B. T. Lord

  She started towards him, her right arm outstretched, her heart wide with longing. She gathered him to her and embraced him warmly. She smelled his scent. Felt his soft hair brush against her cheek.

  Felt how stiff and unresponsive he was.

  No, no, no.

  With her heart hammering in her chest, she refused to release him. If she continued to hold him, she could continue to hold onto her illusion that all would be well. She’d finally tell him what he’d waited a year to hear. And it would all be okay. The past few weeks would disappear and it would be--

  He pulled away and her illusion cracked and shattered into a thousand pieces. Against her will, she looked over his shoulder, into what had once been their bedroom. In the doorway stood a suitcase, and a duffel bag with his hockey equipment. She took a step back and questioningly met his eyes. He looked away.

  “How’s your arm?” he murmured.

  “Better,” she answered in a voice that sounded too wooden to be hers. “Doc says with physical therapy, it should get back to normal.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  His bangs fell into his eyes.

  Wait! Maybe there’s still a chance. Maybe if I empty my heart to him, this can all be reversed. I can still save us. I can recoup what we had.

  “Jace, there’s something I –“

  He shook his head. “Don’t say anything, Cammie.”

  No. No. No. Listen to me!

  “But I need to. I want to.”

  He shook his head again. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I know you had to do your job. I know what it looked like when you found me at Eli’s house. I know how hard you worked to try and find anything that would prove my innocence. Jesus, you even got yourself shot in the process. I get all that. But,” he sighed deeply. “I don’t know. The fact that, for one second, you really believed me capable of murder is something I can’t get past. I’ve tried. I really have. But I can’t. And I feel like a shit because I can’t.”

  Her emotions were at a standstill. Her love, her desire, her hopes oozed out of her and pooled onto the floor around her feet. She felt nothing. She was in a dream that was real and tangible, even though it all felt unreal and intangible.

  Her eyes strayed back to the suitcase.

  “Where will you stay?” She asked in that same deadened voice.

  “The mayor says I can stay with him until I find a place.”

  She had no response. All the words she’d planned to say lay withered and dry in her throat. Jace grabbed his suitcase and hockey equipment and walked past her.

  “I’m sorry about all this. I really am,” he said as he paused at the door.

  She said nothing.

  “Take care of yourself.”

  She remained silent.

  He let himself out the door. She heard his truck fire up, heard the crunching of his tires against the snow. Then he was gone.

  Alone in the sudden oppressively silent cabin, she opened her hand and watched as his necklace slipped through her fingers onto the floor. She took off the necklace he’d given her and smiled mirthlessly as she noticed a missing crystal at the base of the crescent moon.

  How appropriate.

  She too let this fall to the floor.

  The door she’d tentatively opened slammed shut, its locks forged by bitterness and anger.

  She’d been stupid to try. Here was a perfect example of why she so mistrusted love. It was too easy to say those three little words. To feel in the moment. At the same time, it was so easily discarded. As if it hadn’t ever really existed. Just a trick to be conjured up when necessary, then put back into the magician’s box when done.

  She believed Jace had loved her. Or had convinced himself he had. Yet, for all his declarations, he’d so easily tossed it aside. Over one moment when she’d believed him guilty.

  For Chrissakes, Jace, with all the evidence, your own mother would have thought you guilty.

  He’d done more than trampled underfoot what they’d had. He’d taken that small window inside Cammie’s heart and barricaded it once more. No more light would shine through it. Oh no. She was never, ever going to go through this again. The aftermath just wasn’t worth it.

  As if in a trance, Cammie crossed to the tiny kitchen and opened the cabinet above the refrigerator.

  When she’d inherited the cabin from her father, she’d searched every cubbyhole and dust ridden corner, finding a surprising number of bottles of scotch and whisky stashed away, as if he’d been hoarding for an apocalypse that he didn’t live to see. She’d thrown them all out. Except the bottle of single malt scotch she now took down. Why she kept it, she didn’t know. Maybe it was for the same reasons she kept his threadbare recliner. Or his fishing poles above the window. Or his dog eared copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.

  God knows, there weren’t any good memories associated with his things. All she could recall were his impenetrable walls of drunken silence, his complete withdrawal from the world. From her mother. From her. All those nights she’d spent crying because she didn’t understand.

  She understood now.

  Dispensing with a glass, she opened the bottle and took a long hard swig. And coughed as the scotch scorched a path down her throat.

  Walking over to the picture window, she stared out over the frozen pond, feeling its cold and frozen surface seep into her soul.

  “Here’s to you, Dad,” she whispered before taking another swallow of the smooth, numbing liquid.

  T H E E N D

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thank you for taking this trip to Twin Ponds. Good reviews are so important to us independent writers, so please stop by Amazon and let me know what you think.

  You can find me on Facebook at

  https://www.facebook.com/BTLordWriter/

  And my website: www.btlordwriter.com

  If you haven’t already done so, sign up for my newsletter through my website and download my free novella “Murder To Die For”. I had so much fun writing it and I hope you enjoy it. It features Cammie and the gang in a standalone story. I promise not to bombard you with emails – just notices on upcoming releases and giveaways to thank you for supporting me and my series.

  In the meantime, here’s a preview of the second book in the Twin Ponds Murder Mystery Series – Murder by Misadventure.

  Murder by Misadventure

  ***

  Book 2 in the Twin Ponds

  Murder Mystery Series

  PROLOGUE

  February

  First this ingredient. Then another. Hmmm. Not too much of this and a pinch of that. Everything had to be right. It was vital that everything be just right.

  Next came the book. Things had to be done in their proper order. It was carefully opened and a puff of air that spoke of death and decay filled the kitchen. The book was old. Its pages bore witness to the generations it had been in existence, the handwriting faded in places and almost illegible. But the power it contained was still potent.

  Still deadly.

  A finger ran down the various words – some easy to pronounce, others difficult. But it didn’t matter.

  Laughter filled the room as a harmless rhyme was recited.

  Double double toil and trouble.

  Fire burn and caldron bubble.

  I will say what needs to be.

  What is your life worth to me?

  In a tiny, one room cabin, tucked in the woods on the shore of Mkazawi Pond, Paul Langevin abruptly awoke from a sound sleep. It had been another busy day and he’d gone to bed early, falling asleep almost immediately.

  He now stared at the ceiling, orienting himself, a brief question in his mind.

  What had awakened him?

  The air was chilly. Glancing over at the small Franklin stove across from his bed, he saw a collection of dying embers glowing through the glass front. He was reluctant to get up from beneath his warm blankets, his body heat creating a cozy spot. But something tugged at him – urging him
to arise – pushing him towards his back door.

  Paul was a bearish man, standing tall and straight despite his 70 years. However, as much as he tried not to admit it, age was starting to catch up to him. In the past, he could have easily sprung from his bed. But now, aches and pains in his joints and back accompanied him as he threw back the heavy covers that were a collection of patched over quilts accumulated over the years. Slowly and painfully, he hoisted himself to his feet and shivered as he stretched out the kinks in his muscles before padding over to the coat rack he kept near the front door. He threw on his boots and long wooly coat, then turned, took a few steps across the small cabin and opened the back door.

  A blast of frigid night air hit him hard as it careened across the pond and seemed to aim itself right at him.

  I’m getting too old for this, he thought, at the same time knowing he wouldn’t ignore the inner voice that drove him to venture out of his warm bed and into the icy night.

  He stepped out onto a small wooden deck and took a long, deep breath. Opening his senses, he felt rather than observed the wild life around his cabin. In the tree behind his home, he felt the heartbeat of an owl. Near the pile of logs he kept in a tiny shed next to the cabin, he felt the pulse of a fox. He looked up at the sky, never tiring, despite his age, to be awed by the brilliant canopy of stars and constellations that blinked back at him.

  He let out his breath, its vapor dancing before him. He looked out over the frozen pond, the light from the perfectly round, full moon painting shadows of the tall pines onto the thick layers of ice.

  He waited. Patiently. With no thoughts of past or future. Soaking up the energies of the moment.

  After a while, he shrugged. Maybe he was getting too old. Maybe it was a simple dream that had awakened him. Nothing more.

  With his snug, cozy bed calling out to him, he started to turn back towards the door. A strong gust of wind suddenly blew across the pond. This time, it deliberately threw itself against his face and chest. He involuntarily took a step back, momentarily stunned at the ferocity of the air. He’d felt the wind many times over the years, but this was different. There was fear in this wind. With the fear came a warning. He scanned the horizon, reaching out slowly and tentatively with his senses. Burrowing into dark cubby holes, beneath the snows, beneath the leaves covered by thick blankets of white, around the trees and up into their black finger-like limbs.

  Abruptly, a knowing exploded into his conscious mind. He sucked in his breath.

  This is not good.

  Horror shot through him – a dread he had not felt in years. It gurgled up from the pit of his stomach and washed over him, sending violent tremors throughout his body that had nothing to do with the chilly temperatures.

  With a cry, he stepped back into the cabin and slammed the door behind him. He leaned against the wood, trying to catch his ragged breath. He closed his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge what was out there. He attempted to veer his mind away, fill it with a list of things he had to do in the morning. He chanted a song under his breath. But through it all, the knowing would not go away. It seized him and held on, unwilling to relinquish its hold on his mind and his soul.

  This is definitely not good.

  Emmy Madachuck was beginning to lose feeling in her toes. She wiggled her feet in her boots, but it was no use. She was going to have to make a move, or risk freezing to death in the front seat of her Jeep. What a ridiculous sight that would be. Frozen within a few feet of a warm house.

  She glanced out the window towards the bright lights that beckoned. A light snow was beginning to fall, but then, at this time of year in this remote town in Maine’s northwestern corner, it was always snowing. And consistently cold, with below zero temperatures. It wasn’t unusual to freeze to death if someone wasn’t careful.

  Emmy, however, was one of those people who were overly careful in everything she did. Freezing to death a few yards from warmth was not of those situations she would ever fall victim to.

  However, it didn’t preclude Twin Ponds’ police receptionist/

  dispatcher from considering the real possibility of turning around and driving home. She could pretend she was sick. Or pretend she’d taken a nap and overslept. She could pretend a host of things to keep her from getting out of her vehicle. But they’d know. Whether it was by her guilty look – she just wasn’t any good at lying no matter how hard she tried – or by an innocuous gesture, they’d know.

  They always knew.

  She couldn’t face that.

  What was once fun and entertaining and informative now filled her with doubt. If only she hadn’t done what she’d done, she could continue coming here. She could continue belonging. But ever since the other day, the doubt monster had started to rear its ugly head. The weird part was that she was getting what she wanted. Only now, she didn’t want it anymore. Not this way.

  You’re being a complete idiot. Even if it’s not really real, you can still enjoy it. And why not? I’m not hurting anyone, am I?

  Was she though? She didn’t know anymore. If she was another sort of person, she wouldn’t care. But she did. A lot. Which made the guilt that much more corrosive.

  She hated when she got this way. If nothing else, she should be awed that after what she’d done, the changes had been almost miraculous. She couldn’t believe it at first. Even after pinching herself a dozen times, it had happened. So just be cool with it, and forget the guilt and doubt. It was all going to go away soon anyway. No one would ever know.

  She unconsciously squeezed the small baggie she held in her coat pocket and grimaced.

  Had it been worth it?

  Yes!

  And no.

  Oh dear, here she went again. Vacillating. God, how she hated when she got this way.

  Glancing at her round face in the rearview mirror, she thought she saw see a tinge of blue on the tip of her nose. Her dark brown eyes widened as she peered at her reflection. Oh no! She was getting frostbite. Great. That’s all she needed.

  Well, as the sheriff always said, it was time to shoot, shit or dismount.

  With a heavy sigh, she opened the Jeep door and stepped out into the frigid night.

  CHAPTER ONE

  On the other side of town, Sheriff Cammie Farnsworth pushed the puck back and forth between the hockey stick, skating easily over the frozen ice of Waban Pond. She eyed the empty goal net and set up her shot. She aimed, raised her hockey stick and –

  Missed.

  Again.

  “Damn it!” she shouted, hearing it reverberate back to her over the huge pond.

  She sighed with frustration as she watched the puck careen across the ice towards shore, mocking her as she once more missed the net. For the fifth time.

  What was it going to take to score a goal? If she stood any closer, she’d be inside the lousy net.

  She unconsciously moved her left arm in a small circle, still feeling a bit of stiffness in the muscle.

  Three months had passed since she’d been shot in the shoulder during the apprehension of a murderer. Thankfully, her habit of wearing multiple heavy sweaters under her parka in an effort to keep warm kept the bullet from doing extensive damage.

  The last murder in tiny Clarke County, Maine had been fifty years before. As the county’s first female sheriff, the pressure had been on to solve the homicide. Especially since the victim was a man who’d meant so much to the townspeople. She’d solved it, earning herself a gunshot wound and the respect of the county. She was still recuperating from the physical injury.

  She wasn’t sure she’d recovered from the emotional injuries yet.

  Still in a funk over how everything had played out, Cammie threw herself into the often excruciatingly painful physical therapy route to keep her mind and body occupied, and away from thoughts she didn’t wish to have. Her hard work and determination gave her back mobility in her arm, though it still wasn’t quite where she wanted it to be. Playing hockey to boost her depressingly almost non-existent
stamina was Doc Westerfield’s idea.

  Samuel Westerfield, known officially as ‘Doc’, was a true blue blooded Boston Brahmin, right down to his John F. Kennedy-esque accent. Standing at 5 ft 6 in, with thinning ginger hair, large round glasses and owl-like eyes, he and Cammie had met in Boston’s tony Beacon Hill section when she’d been a private investigator, and he a victim of a mugging. At the time of the assault, he’d been wearing a stunning Stella McCartney black lace evening dress with matching heels. Unwilling to risk a tear in the gown, he hadn’t put up much of a resistance, which allowed Cammie, who’d been tailing a cheating husband, to step in and rescue him. From this inauspicious beginning, a close friendship was formed.

  When Cammie received word of her father’s death, and the need to settle his estate, she’d reluctantly made the decision to return to the place of her birth. She’d left Twin Ponds, the largest town in Clarke County, fifteen years before under less than ideal circumstances. The thought of coming back to all those painful memories made her queasy. To her relief, Doc decided to accompany her, hoping time away from Boston would ease his family’s constant condemnation of his alternative lifestyle.

  To her surprise, she found an unexpected peace in her father’s old two room cabin on Mkazawi Pond, and a sense of closeness to a man she’d never been able to connect with in life. The unanticipated open arm welcome the townspeople had to her return also helped heal any outstanding wounds she still carried.

  Doc too found peace in Twin Ponds. The townspeople didn’t care he was gay, nor did they care that his favorite way to relax in the evenings was to don women’s clothing and his comfy bunny slippers. Many of the female residents found it appealing when, in the short time it took him to become county coroner and town doctor, they discovered he dispensed excellent medical care with insightful fashion tips.