A Wicked Snow

Her perfume was jasmine.

“I have gigantic mole problems,” she said without a trace of irony. “Big ones. And I want to take every goddamn one of them out. They are ruining my garden.”

The young man at the counter turned down his cassette player and Elton John’s voice went to a whisper.

“We can recommend some pesticides for that. Rid-it-Fast is a good one.”

Claire shook her head. “That won’t do,” she said, putting her purse down on the counter and pulling out her checkbook. “I want a pound of sodium cyanide.”

The young man made a face. “That’s enough to kill every mole in Spruce County,” he said. “You sure you need that much? I mean, there are other ways, to kill ’em, you know.”

“Look,” she said, her demeanor suddenly shifting to extreme irritation. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve poured gas on them. I’ve flooded their burrows with the garden hose. I’ve even driven spikes through their velveteen bodies. I want something that will kill them fast, once and for all.”

The young man nodded. He felt uneasy, but he didn’t say so. “Okay, I guess. Though I think you’re overreacting.”

She pointed to the sign hanging behind him.

ELEMENTS, INC., THE HOMETOWN CHEMICAL COMPANY. WE’RE HERE FOR YOU

She no longer smiled. “If you’re here for me as your sign proclaims, then you’ll tell me how much a pound of the poison will cost me?”

The young man took out a records book and thought that the woman was a complete bitch.

“Name?” he asked.

“Mrs. Logan. Claire Logan.”

“You know, Mrs. Logan, you really need to be careful with this stuff. Even the slightest bit can kill a man in about five minutes. Suffocates him at the cellular level.”

“Thanks, but I know what I’m doing.” She got out her checkbook. “Five minutes, you say?”

BOOK THREE

Mother

CLAIRE: Nothing more needs to be said here, Marcus. Am I making myself clear or am I just talking to hear the sound of my own voice?

MARCUS: You are something else. You’re knocking off these old geezers and acting like I’m doing something wrong because I don’t do things fast enough for you?

CLAIRE: Listen, my dear. Let’s get one thing straight. I’m doing all the work. This is my deal. You are helping me because I allow you to.

MARCUS: (angry) Allow me to? You ungrateful wench! [Writer Dante Martini had written “bitch” in his draft, but network censors changed it.]

CLAIRE: (her back to the camera, she drops her bathrobe) Let’s not argue. Draw me a bath. And come rub my shoulders. You can bury the guy from Idaho in the morning.

MARCUS: What about the kids? They might overhear us.

CLAIRE: Don’t worry about them. Hannah is over at Michelle’s and the boys are zonked out on Dimetapp. They love the grape flavor.

—From the script for the February 1978 ABC

Movie of the Week, “Twenty in a Row,”

starring Kate Jackson as Claire Logan

Chapter Twenty-five

The salmon served in Warden Thomas’s dining room was a little dry, which was odd because it was poached in very good white wine with scallions and should have been moist. But the Waldorf salad was exactly as Hannah Griffin preferred it, light on the mayonnaise dressing, with large pieces of walnuts and grapes among sweet-tart apples. She wondered fleetingly if a serial killer or some notorious rapist had been the chef, but she dismissed the thought because she knew no inmates could wield a knife at the prison, at least not official cutlery in the kitchen.

Polite conversation filled the first few minutes as Hannah and FBI agent Jeff Bauer worked past the awkwardness and the bizarre circumstances of their reunion. They had time to kill after their interview with Wheaton had been cut short by the prisoner’s mealtime requirements. The break was welcome. Bauer could see that Hannah was a grown woman now, beautiful and intelligent. She was a mother. A wife. And she had sought a career in law enforcement as a CSI.

No surprise there, he thought. Any psych student could have pegged that choice.

Bauer was older, wiser, maybe even a little jaded by the years. But Hannah saw him as he had been to her that terrible day, twenty years before: a hero. He’d kept himself in good shape, and though he was in his forties, his features were still taut and his jawline crisp. Jeff Bauer still appeared as he did when they met in the Rock Point Inn almost two decades before.

Hannah speared a bite of salad. “I knew we’d see each other again one day,” she said.

“I thought so, too.” Bauer smiled. “I tried to keep tabs on you, best I could. You know, without getting in the way of you living a life.” His demeanor changed and the smile disappeared. He had meant to mention Leanna sooner. “I’m sorry about your aunt. I heard she passed on a while back.”

“It’s been five years,” Hannah said. She put down her fork and on her lap, she folded her napkin in an accordion fold. She was nervous. “Aunt Leanna was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in March and was dead before Memorial Day. Not much can be done for the disease, no matter what they say.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Your uncle?”

“Uncle Rod’s doing all right. Still running the store. Still missing the only woman he ever loved. We’re close. He loves Amber.”

Bauer looked interested. “That’s your little girl?”

“Yes,” she said. Hannah reached for her purse, but, of course, it wasn’t there. It was with the guards at the visitors’ screening room. No purses, wallets, nothing could be brought inside. She’d show a picture later. They