The Snow White Christmas Cookie

Prozac, you name it. And, cue the drum roll, it’s all just sitting out there in those mailboxes waiting for someone to snatch it and sell it. We are not talking about someone taking Hank’s Christmas cookies or a DVD stocking-stuffer of Cars 2. We are talking about the illegal trafficking of prescription drugs. Now, were you ever going to mention that to me or were you just hoping that I’m totally stupid?”

Paulette breathed in and out for a long moment, her right eye twitching slightly. Then she reached for her coffee mug and took a sip, the mug trembling in her hand. “I’m not real proud of myself right now. I’m supposed to be in charge. I am in charge. I do a damned good job, too. My people work hard and smart and safe. They respect me. And, at the first sign of trouble, what do I do? Go running to good old Rut. I guess I feel like I’m in over my head,” she confessed. “And I’m a little ashamed of myself. A lot ashamed. I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

She gazed at Des searchingly. “Can you help me?”

“I’m sympathetic to your situation. The postal inspectors won’t understand our local customs. You don’t want Hank to get in trouble. I get that. But this may be a serious matter. I don’t have a lot of leeway here.”

Des’s cell phone vibrated on her belt. The 911 dispatcher was calling to report that the owner of the Village Bootery had just apprehended a shoplifter trying to slip out of the door with a four-hundred-dollar pair of Ugg boots.

The shoplifter was eighteen-year-old Kylie Champlain.

Des stood up and reached for her Gore-Tex storm parka. “Paulette, I’ll be in touch, okay?” Then she hurried outside, jumped into her cruiser and took off.

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

CHAPTER 4

Ordinarily, the historic district was one of the most splendid sights on earth when snow was coming down. And there had to be a blanket of eight inches of it by now, Mitch figured as he drove past the fork to Johnny Cake Hill Road. Dozens of neighborhood kids were sledding down the steep hill that was, in warmer months, the third fairway of the country club. He took it slow and easy when he rounded the bend by the steepled white Congregational Church. He had snow tires on his old Studey pickup, not to mention two sixty-pound sand bags positioned over each rear wheel. But it still didn’t handle well in heavy snow like this, which clung to the majestic old maples and the beautiful colonial mansions that were all decorated for the holidays.

Ordinarily, it warmed Mitch’s insides to make this drive on such a morning. The frantic modern world was forced to surrender to a kinder, gentler pace from out of another era. It was all so peacefully unreal that he half- expected to hear a director, most likely Frank Capra, holler, “And … action!” But Dorset Street was no movie set. And this was no movie. And today Mitch’s insides weren’t feeling warm at all. Because Bryce Peck’s very real life had abruptly ended this morning. What Mitch felt inside was a hollow emptiness. The quiet that enveloped him as he drove along wasn’t serene. It was ominous. Because Mitch had been there himself. Wrestled with his own demons after Maisie died. For months he’d seen no point in going on. Only his own pain. He couldn’t imagine that the pain would ever end. Didn’t believe it ever would. He remembered quite clearly the words he’d said to himself that first rainy night he’d arrived in this little gem of a town on a Weekend Getaway assignment for the newspaper’s travel section. He’d checked into his room at the Frederick House Inn. Taken a bath in the claw-footed tub. Then burrowed into his canopied bed and, lying there grief-stricken and alone, had thought: I am so glad I do not own a gun for my personal protection. Because if I had one I would shoot myself.

Bryce had been clean and sober. A terrific woman loved him and believed in him. He was home again. Hell, he even owned that beautiful home, according to Josie, who had both a professional and personal stake in him. And now he had nothing and no one. Bryce had had every reason to stare down his demons and keep on going. And yet he’d chosen death. Why? “Just an awkward stage,” he’d scrawled on that stupid Post-it. As if that explained a goddamned thing.

It would be a white Christmas this year. No doubt about that. But it would not be a merry one.

When Mitch reached Maple Lane he pulled up outside of Rut’s little farmhouse and got out, surrounded by the snowy silence as he tromped his way to the front door. Last night’s party hadn’t been the old postmaster’s only Christmas gift. Madge and Mary had also granted his deepest wish, which was to spend a night in his own bed instead of returning to Essex Meadows. Thanks to the blizzard, he wasn’t going anywhere now. The sisters were looking in on him regularly to make sure he was okay.

Rut answered the door wearing a navy blue wool bathrobe over a flannel shirt, baggy slacks and carpet slippers. “Good morning, young fella,” he said, turning up both of his hearing aids. “I can see from your long face that you’ve come to bring me some sad news. I’ll spare you the discomfort. I already heard about him from the Jewett girls. So let’s you and me crack open a couple of bottles of stout and drink to the poor son of a bitch. Somebody ought to.”

“All right, Rut,” Mitch said, unzipping his coat.

“Nice to be back in my own place, let me tell you,” Rut chattered as he led him into the parlor, where a fire was going in the potbelly stove. “Not that I’ve had more than two minutes to myself. Mary insisted on tucking me into bed last night at ten o’clock sharp. Made sure I took my pills. And when I opened my eyes at six this morning Madge was already here to feed me my breakfast and more pills. And then Tina showed up to clean up from last night. She just left. I’ll let you in on a little secret-the timing of this here snowstorm suits me just fine. I’d much rather be here than at some halfway house for the soon-to-be departed. But the doctors won’t allow me to be on my own anymore. It seems I get to thinking on things and forget where I am.”

“That happens to me with great regularity.”

“At your age it’s okay. But when you get to be my age people take a mighty dim view of it-especially when you’re behind the wheel of a moving automobile at the time.” Rut tottered into the kitchen and returned a moment later carrying two glasses of foamy stout on a serving tray along with a plate of leftover deviled eggs and ham sandwiches. He set the tray on the coffee table. They raised their glasses in the air. “Here’s to Bryce, who never had a happy day in his life,” the old fellow declared. “I hope he’s found himself some peace.”

They drank. Then Rut eased himself slowly down into his favorite overstuffed chair, his slippered feet up on the ottoman.

Mitch sat in a chair across the coffee table from him, helping himself to a deviled egg. “Is it true that he owned the house on Big Sister?”

“He did indeed,” Rut confirmed. “Lucas left it to him, which riled Preston to no end, let me tell you.”

“Why didn’t Bryce want anyone to know about it?”

Rut shrugged his soft shoulders. “That was Bryce. He had a renegade streak a mile wide. A tough one to get to know, too. Talked to hardly a soul here in town except for Glynis.”

“The family’s lawyer?”

Rut nodded his head. “I hear he paid a call on her last week.”

“How did you hear that?”

“Her secretary happens to be a cousin of mine.”

“Rut, is there anyone in Dorset who isn’t a cousin of yours?”

“Bryce and Glynis were childhood friends, you know. Back before Lucas died and Preston gave Bryce the boot.”

“Was Bryce visiting her as his friend or his lawyer?”

“That sort of information my cousin can’t share with me. She’d lose her job.” Rut sipped his stout. “The house will pass to Preston now. He’ll be mighty pleased about that.”

“You’re not the first person who’s said that to me today.”

Rut peered at Mitch over the rim of his glass. “Josie’s a fine looking girl. High-spirited, too. She’ll find herself another fellow pretty fast. Or one will find her.”

“I suppose so.”