Snow Way Out (5 page)

My face twitched in return. “Uh, you hold the light and I’ll look.”

“Good idea.” He straightened up immediately.

“Thank you! They were mixed up with some junk on the bottom.”

“Backpack: the new purse.”

I turned the lock on the front door, pushed it open, reached for the panel on the immediate right, and flipped on the light. I blinked against the assault to my eyes. The shop had a surreal feel at that time of night. I walked over to the shelf where I’d seen the snow globe, but it wasn’t there.

“That’s odd. It’s gone.”

“The snow globe with the death scene?” Clint stood close beside me.

“Yes. It was right here.” I touched the empty space.

Clint rested his hand on his gun. “Let me do a walk-through.”

Aside from the main space, which was filled with shelves holding an assortment of items for sale, there was a bathroom, a small storage area, and a smaller office space in the back of the store. The coffee shop sat on the south side of the shared brick wall. It, too, had a bathroom, but only one storage area, which had once been a kitchen.

It took mere minutes for Clint to search the two shops. “Clear. The back room windows are secure. No sign of a break-in, Cami.”

“Camryn. Well, someone was here after I left.”

“You’re sure the door was locked?”

“Positive.”

“And you’re sure no one was in the store before you left? They could have been hiding in one of the back rooms.”

Eewy eew. “Um, I’d say no, but I guess I can’t swear to it. I know no one was in my bathroom or storeroom because I’d been in both of them right before I discovered the snow globe in the first place. But the other rooms? I mean, I’m pretty sure everyone from the class left, and why would they hide here anyway? Plus, you need a key to lock and unlock my shop door from either the inside or the outside. So even if someone was in the store, they’d need to have a key to lock it after they left.”

Clint pulled the memo pad and pen from his pocket. “And who all has keys?”

“My parents. Pinky—I mean Alice—Nelson. Me. Erin Vickerman. I think my parents gave one to Mark Weston a few years ago. Every once in a while they’d forget to lock up and he’d discover it on one of his evening checks. It was easier to just give him a key so they didn’t have to get out of bed to come down here.” My parents. What were they going to think of all this?

“Makes sense. Anyone else? Past employees?”

I shrugged. “Have to ask my folks.”

“May want to change your locks, just in case.”

Just in case. Didn’t he believe me about the snow globe? Granted, if I were him, I’d have trouble believing it myself. But that raised a very important question. Which one of the trusted key holders had made a snow globe that depicted a murder scene before the murder had even occurred?

T
he long, emotion-filled day, a downright unbelievable night, and wondering if one of my friends had actually killed a man caught up with me. It seemed like a robe of weariness had dropped on my shoulders, and I leaned against the shop’s front counter for support.

My exhaustion was obvious because Clint said, “Maybe you better sit down while I finish up. Unless you want me to run you home first.”

I straightened my spine a bit. “How much more is there to do?”

“I’m going to check the shelf where you saw the now-missing snow globe and look for fingerprints.”

“Oh. Well, I’m fine, really.” I could pretend a while longer. “I can run a pot of coffee, if you’d like.”

“None for me. You go ahead.”

None for me, either, or I’d be awake the rest of the night for sure. In case the trauma of the evening alone didn’t do it.

I sat down on the swivel stool behind the counter, where I had a decent view of most of the shop and a great view of the Brooks Landing assistant chief of police at work. He was busy with his flashlight looking at shelves from various angles. My parents had a mirror mounted high on the wall in a nook that was partly hidden from view. I studied that for a time. If anyone had been in the shop earlier when I was working on the computer, it would have been impossible for them to hide. In the public shopping area anyway.

Who had left the snow globe on the shelf for me to see before I left for the evening, but had come back to retrieve it before anyone else saw it when the store opened in the morning? What if I had taken it, knowing it didn’t belong there? Had that same person known I’d be walking home that night? And did he or she know me so well that they knew I’d cut through the park and find the body? Or was it all one weird coincidence?

Maybe the person had left the globe accidentally and didn’t expect or want me to see it at all. Maybe that person was watching from somewhere, and when I went to the bathroom, seized the opportunity to try to grab it. But I wasn’t gone as long as they’d hoped, and they’d had to hide beneath one of the shelving units instead. But they could have grabbed the snow globe on the way to their hiding spot. Maybe they had tried and, because they were nervous, couldn’t grip it, and bumped it instead. That’s why it was snowing.

Nothing made sense. What kind of a person would make a snow globe of a murder scene? And the more I thought about it, the snow globe must have been made before the murder. I was alone in the shop after the class, and no one else had come in. I went into the back for only a minute or two before I left for the night, but the front door was locked anyway. And not long after that I discovered Powers’s body. Could it have been a completely wild happenstance? One of the snow globe class members had designed a scene that turned out to be true?

I watched Clint work for a few more minutes. He looked like he knew what he was doing, and I was moderately impressed. When I asked if I could do anything to help him, he shot me a look that clearly said,
Stay as far away from me and my police work as possible.
What he said out loud was, “No, but thanks.” Jiminy Cricket.

Clint tapped his flashlight against his cheek. “Martha Stewart work here, or what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Clean, maybe?”

“Oh, well, I did wipe off all the glass shelves earlier today.” I glanced up at the clock on the wall to verify it was still the same day. Not yet midnight. The morning was long ago and far away in my memory.

“Are you for hire?” I think he meant it as a compliment, but I felt a little insulted.

“No.”

Clint jutted out his chin. “If there was someone who placed, then later removed, a snow globe from your shelf, they did not leave any fingerprint evidence to prove it.”

If? I would admit to a moment of forgetfulness here or there, but I have never had a hallucination in my life. The “visits” from my parents, mostly my mother, didn’t count. And it wasn’t like I actually saw them; it was more like I knew they were there.

Well, if Assistant Chief Lonsbury did not believe me, he could conduct his own official investigation and I would conduct my own less-official investigation. He had a primary suspect. I’d figure out my own list. May the best man or woman win.

Why drag out this misery any longer? “So, if you’re all done here, then I’m ready to go home.”

He slipped his flashlight into its holder on his duty belt. “Yes. Long day, I’m sure. You have a shrink here in town?”

I sat on my hand to stop myself from throwing a stapler at him.

“No. Why do you ask?” I controlled my voice, which was difficult.

“Seems like maybe you’ve been under a lot of stress, what with what happened in D.C., and then tonight. . . . I just thought some counseling might be a good idea.”

When the coroner had suggested it earlier, I’d thought of it as something to consider. When Clint said essentially the same thing, I wanted to run for the hills. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

The ride home was even tenser than the ride to the shop. The front bucket seats in the police car were not far enough apart for my personal comfort. Clint drove with his left hand and rested his long, muscular right arm on the middle console between our seats. I scrunched my body as close to the passenger door as possible, but it made little difference. He could have easily touched me by simply waving his fingers to the right. Fortunately, he didn’t.

After I’d given him my home address, neither of us spoke until he pulled up in front of my modest 1960s brick Tudor-style home. The motion detection lights on either side of the front door flicked on and lit up the front seat of the car. Both Clint and I flinched at its brightness.

“You bought the McClarity place, huh?” He shifted into park.

“Ah, no. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying here in Brooks Landing, so I’m renting for now.”

Clint moved his jaw forward slightly. “Well, it’ll at least have to be until our department gets through the murder investigation. You weren’t thinking of leaving anytime real soon, were you?”

I reached for the door handle and pulled. “No. No immediate flight plans.”

“Is your house locked?”

He would have to ask me that. “No, but—”

“We’ve had one murder in this town already today—”

“I have friends here, unlike Jerrell Powers, who seemed to have made enemies for himself wherever he went.” I got out of the car.

“Like you?”

“Good night.” I remembered my manners. “Oh, and thanks for the ride.” I shut the door.

Clint jumped out from his side. “I’ll go in with you, check things out.”

“Why?”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

This day would never end. Clint followed me to the front door then put his arm in front of me so he could lead the way. He was a man on a mission and it was simply easier to let him do what he felt compelled to do. He turned the knob and pushed open the door. As he stepped inside, he drew his gun. It occurred to me he had been itching to do that since he’d first arrived on the murder scene. Police training, I supposed.

“Wait here,” he whispered over his shoulder. As much as I wanted to follow him, I rested my back against the rough brick exterior wall by the door and waited. It seemed an eternity passed before Clint returned. His gun was back in its holster.

“Come on in, it’s clear.”
Gee, thanks for inviting me into my own home, Officer
. “You keep your house pretty much spotless, too.”

“Cleaning is like therapy for me.” I’d had no intention of giving him one iota of personal information about myself. Exhaustion must have lowered my defenses.

“Hmm. Looks like you’re in therapy a lot.”

“If there’s nothing else . . .”

Finally he took the hint and walked to the door. “Lock up behind me.”

“Yes, sir.” I did as he’d instructed, then I dropped my backpack on a chair and plopped onto the couch. I turned to lean my back on the armrest and stretched out my legs. The house was still furnished with most of the owner’s furniture. Sandra McClarity had died about two months before my return to Brooks Landing.

She had been one of my favorite people because my birth mother, Berta, had loved her so much. Berta and Sandra McClarity had been best friends from kindergarten until Berta’s death over thirty years before. Sandra had been like an aunt to me while I was growing up, and she’d been privy to secrets I couldn’t tell my real aunt.

The McClarity home had always had a warm, friendly atmosphere. I figured the reason was Sandra McClarity herself, but even after her death, the house smelled and felt almost the same. The family had removed the prized heirlooms, which included some of the antique furniture. I imagined as the rest of Sandra’s possessions were moved out, it would gradually lose the built-in warmth.

“Well, this has been a day to make the whole D.C. scandal seem not so bad. Falsely accused is decidedly better than getting killed,” I said out loud. I had lived alone so long, if I didn’t talk to myself, I probably wouldn’t exercise my voice box enough. I patted the can of Mace still in my pocket—I hadn’t remembered that potential weapon when Clint had interrogated me. When I pulled it out, the penny I’d found on the pathway in the park came with it and dropped onto my lap. I picked it up, noticed the date on it, and smiled. It was my biological mother’s birth year. “Thanks, Mama, for doing your best to stay close all these years. If you were trying to warn me to turn around because you knew Jerrell Powers’s dead body was just a little ways down the path, then thank you. I’ll try to pay closer attention next time.”

I put the penny back in my pocket and pulled the warm fleece blanket that was draped on the back of the couch over me. I tucked a corner of it under my back and grasped part of the top in my folded hands on my chest. I didn’t have the energy to get paper and pen, so I made a mental note of everyone I knew who did not like Jerrell Powers. Erin Vickerman was first on the list. Or maybe it should be May Gregors, followed by Pamela’s sister, Lauren.

Then there was Pamela herself. She couldn’t be ruled out yet, despite her apparent love for Powers. Not to mention Mark Weston, who had been protective of Erin since high school. If he’d thought Powers posed a danger to her, what would he do? Of course, Pinky and I would do whatever we could to help defend Erin, if it came to that. Even Archie Newberry was there for all three of us. Actually, in a town like Brooks Landing, the list of others like Newberry who would show their support was probably a mile or two long.

Sandra McClarity’s cuckoo clock startled me when the little bird popped out and crowed, followed by eleven more noisy appearances. Midnight. Yesterday was officially over and today had begun. I closed my eyes, convinced I wouldn’t be able to turn off my brain long enough to sleep.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

T
he ringing telephone awakened me Saturday morning. I sat up and glanced at the clock, amazed I had slept soundly for eight hours. I snatched my cell phone off the coffee table and braced myself when I read the display. I pushed the talk button and was greeted by a very upset Pinky on the other end. “Mark just left my shop and you are in the deepest doo-doo ever. I can’t believe you didn’t call me last night.”

“I didn’t call because you had an early day, and you needed your rest.”

“Who died and made you my mother?”

“Pinky—” I kicked off the blanket.

“Sorry, that was mean. I shouldn’t have yelled, but you were involved in a murder. Jerrell Powers’s murder, to be specific. Oh, my God!”

“Not in the actual murder—”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You have to tell me every single detail.”

My phone beeped, alerting me I had another call coming in. I glanced at the caller ID. “Pinky, it’s Erin calling, so I better take it. I’ll be down at the shop by nine and we’ll talk then.”

“Okay,” was her reluctant reply.

I hit the talk button. “Hey, Erin.”

“Don’t you dare try to act like nothing happened.” Her voice rose and I had to move the phone away from my ear.

“You’ve obviously heard.”

“Mark just called. It’s actually on the metro news stations, but they didn’t name the person who found the body. I couldn’t believe it when Mark said it was you.”

The media must have picked up the murder information from the Buffalo County Sheriff’s Office. There had been no reporters on the scene the previous night. And thankfully none of them had called me. Erin sucked in a loud breath, then continued, “You didn’t think that one of the first things you should do was to call your best friends? Especially since one of them was the victim’s victim?” Victim’s victim. That was a good way to put it, I thought.

“Erin. What would you have done about it anyway? And you know very well you got a better night’s sleep by not getting a call like that at midnight.”

“Well—”

“Why don’t you meet Pinky and me at our shops about nine? I will disclose every single solitary sordid detail.” Since it was Saturday, Erin had the day off from school.

“I’ll be there.”

We said our good-byes and hung up. I stood, folded the blanket, and smoothed it over the back of the couch. After a long, hot shower, I dried myself with a towel, then wrapped it around my body and made my way to the bedroom closet. Because of my previous career position, I had a wardrobe filled with suits, with both skirts and pants, and dresses with jackets that turned them into business attire; plus I had more casual, longer skirts and jeans. I no longer battled with my weight and I had finally accepted the fact that I had a curvy shape. My mother called it “an hourglass figure, like Marilyn Monroe’s.”