The Snow White Christmas Cookie (16 page)

“That sounds really pleasant.”

“Doesn’t it? Glynis wants me to stand my ground. She gave me the names of two lawyers who she said are very good.”

Mitch sipped his wine, peering at her. “You didn’t know anything about this?”

“I had no idea.”

“Bryce didn’t tell you that he’d drawn up his will?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you that he’d been to see Glynis?”

“
No
. And please stop interrogating me, will you?”

“Sorry, I guess I’ve been around Des too long.” Mitch listened to the rain pounding on the roof. “I wonder why he didn’t tell you.”

“It doesn’t surprise me in the least. Bryce could be very secretive. The weird thing is I don’t even want the damned house.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not mine. It’ll never feel like mine.”

“If that’s the case then your lawyer can probably make a deal with the Peck family.”

Josie stared into the fire. “Glynis did mention something like that. Reaching a financial settlement, I mean. It just … It seems so crass and disgusting to be talking about money while Bryce is still lying in a body bag somewhere. As far as I’m concerned Preston can just
take
the damned place. I don’t belong out here. And I for damned sure have no business being a life coach. I’ve messed up everyone who I’ve come in contact with. Bryce chose death over sharing his life with me. Casey is a clinging nutso. And now Hank is gone, too. I’m no good at what I do, Mitch. I’m no good, period.”

“That’s not true, Josie. You’ve helped a lot of people. They count on you. I know I do. I’d miss you if you weren’t around.”

She looked at him searchingly. “Do you really mean that?”

“I really do. Who’ll run with me every morning if you leave?”

She was still looking at him. “Des told you, didn’t she? About finding me on the sofa with Casey. I can see it in your eyes.”

Mitch reached over and stroked Clemmie, who stirred from her nap and began to make small motorboat noises. “See what, Josie?”

“That you’re wondering about me now. Trying to figure out if I’m a scheming, money-grubbing slut. I’m not, Mitch. And I’m sorry I lied to you about what happened. Friends shouldn’t do that to each other.”

“You’re right, they shouldn’t. So why did you?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think less of me. You have no idea how much I look up to you. Mitch, if I lose you I’ll never make it through this. Are you still my friend?”

“Sure, I am,” he said, because it was what she needed to hear. “Don’t sweat it. You’ve got enough to worry about. Seriously, are you thinking about leaving town?”

She nodded her head. “It’s time for me to move on.”

“Will you go back to Maine?”

She glanced at him sharply. “Why would I want to do that?”

“It’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

“Why are you suddenly asking me about Maine?”

“Just curious. You don’t talk much about your childhood.”

“So?”

“So most people do. Have you got any brothers or sisters?”

“I had a father,” she said quietly. “He was a logger and a mean drunk. Used to beat the crap out of my mother and me every Saturday night. He took off for good when I was twelve. After that, it was just mom and me freezing our asses off in a drafty trailer. I’m trailer-park trash through and through, Mitch. I ran away when I was sixteen. I’ve been on my own ever since. I put myself through school. I’ve never had anyone to look after me—especially a big brother.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’re the first male friend I’ve ever had who hasn’t tried to get in my pants. You don’t even joke about it.”

“I’m in a committed relationship, remember?”

“Yeah, like that’s ever stopped any of you.”

“You haven’t met many nice Jewish boys, have you?”

“I haven’t met many nice boys, period.”

“So how do you like it? Having a big brother, I mean.”

“I’m not sure. I still can’t decide whether I should be insulted or flattered.”

“Try flattered. I’ve never had a kid sister. And I don’t want you to leave. Please stay, Josie. If you go away then I’ll have Preston Peck for a neighbor and that would be too heinous to contemplate. Promise me you’ll think about staying, okay?”

“Okay,” she conceded reluctantly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Now how about watching
Palm Beach Story
with me? I promise that you’ll laugh nonstop.”

“No, thanks. I have a ton of stuff to do.” She got up and retrieved her rain slicker and boots, smiling that great big smile of hers. “But thanks, naybs. For everything.”

“Any time, naybs,” he said, thinking that she seemed much more like her usual sunny, upbeat self again.

Unless, of course, it was all an act. Which he had to admit was entirely possible. Because it was becoming more and more obvious to Mitch with each passing hour that he really didn’t know Josie Cantro at all.

C
HAPTER
11

P
AULETTE
Z
ANDER’S HOUSE WAS
a dreary little raised ranch, just like a lot of the other houses on Grassy Hill Road, a blue-collar enclave up near Uncas Lake. The door of her two-car garage was open. Her Nissan Pathfinder was parked in one space. The other space was empty. No cars were parked in the driveway.

Des rang the doorbell and stood in the rain listening to the thudding of footsteps as Paulette came to the door. She did not relish this. Delivering bad news to loved ones was the hardest thing she had to do—especially when the circumstances called for her to be less than completely candid. At this stage of the investigation she had to paint Hank’s death as the suicide that it was meant to look like. She couldn’t let on that they felt sure he’d been murdered. Not when there was a chance, however remote, that Paulette was mixed up in it herself.

When Paulette opened the door she had on the same sweater and slacks that she’d been wearing at the Post Office that morning. “He still hasn’t shown up,” she told Des warily. “Have you heard anything?”

“May I come in, Paulette?”

The house was even drearier on the inside—the ceilings low, the harvest gold shag carpeting worn and dingy. The stale, overheated air smelled like dirty laundry. Des removed her wet slicker and hat and hung them on a peg rack by the front door. The living room, which was right off of the entry hall, was crowded full of Hank’s tubas—three of them, to be exact—a Christmas tree and an elaborate electric train set that looked as if it dated back to the 1950s. Paulette led Des down a short hallway to the dining room, which had been converted into a TV room. A matched pair of huge plush recliners sat parked in front of a sixty-inch flat-screen TV. Paulette seemed to be watching a reality show about hoarders. Des had always wondered who watched such shows. Now she knew. On an end table between the giant recliners there was a gallon jug of Carlo Rossi Chablis, a half-empty wineglass, an ashtray and a pack of Marlboros. Des could smell spaghetti sauce simmering through the open kitchen doorway. And see that the kitchen table was set for two. The lady was still waiting for her man to come home for dinner.

Paulette flicked off the TV and flopped down in one of the recliners, motioning Des toward the other one. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m all set, thanks.” Des perched on the edge of the recliner while Paulette took a big gulp of wine, then lit a cigarette, pulling on it deeply. “I don’t recall seeing you smoke before.”

“I quit two years ago,” she said with a casual wave of her hand. The lady was more than a bit tipsy, Des realized. “Found these down in Casey’s room. Not my old brand, but who gives a crap. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

“It’s your house, Paulette. Where is Casey?”

“At the Rustic, same as every night. He and all of the other boys. It’s their little clubhouse.”

“When did he leave?”

“After dinner, same as always.”

“You were saying on the phone that Hank didn’t come home from work?”

“No, he came straight home.” She flicked her cigarette ash in the general direction of the ashtray. “Fiddled around with his train set for a while. He drags the silly thing out of the attic every Christmas and sets it up and watches it go around and around. He’s had it ever since he was a little boy. You wouldn’t believe how happy it makes him. Then he put on his coat and told me he had to check on something at the firehouse before dinner.”

“Such as what?”

Paulette let out a hollow laugh. “How would I know? He’s in and out of there all of the time. They all are. The firehouse is
their
little clubhouse. It’s where they go when they want to get away from us. That’s how men are. But Hank’s Mr. Reliable. He’s always back in time for dinner. You can set your watch by Hank.” She stubbed out her cigarette, her face tightening. “I gave Casey his dinner at 6:30 so he could take off for the Rustic. When Hank still wasn’t back by 7:00, I started to get ticked off. It’s a rotten night out there and I’m sitting here all by myself. I tried his cell phone, but it was turned off.”

“Did you leave him a voice message?”

“I sure did. And when he didn’t call me back I started getting worried. I was going to try him again when I noticed the text message that he’d sent me. It sounded
so
unlike him. Also kind of … scary. That’s why I called you. Maybe I’m making something out of nothing. If I am I’m sorry to drag you out like this.”

Des cleared her throat. “Actually, you didn’t. I was already out. There’s no easy way to say this, Paulette, but we’ve found Hank’s Passat by the boat launch at the end of Kinney Road. He hooked up one end of a garden hose to the tailpipe, stuck the other end through his window and—”

“Oh, no…” Paulette’s eyes bulged with fright. “Are you telling me he’s
dead
?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”

Paulette groped for another cigarette and lit it, her hands trembling. “That’s why you didn’t say anything on the phone, isn’t it? I knew it. As soon as you told me you were coming by I knew it was going to be bad news. I-I thought maybe he’d been in an accident. The roads being so bad and all. But not something like-like
this
.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “That text message … that was his suicide note, wasn’t it?”

“It certainly appears that way. Shall I call Casey for you at the Rustic? Have him come home?”

“No, I’m fine,” Paulette said softly, reaching for her wineglass.

“Was Hank acting unusual this evening? Did he seem depressed?”

“He’s been upset about those thefts on his route. I wouldn’t say he was depressed. Hank doesn’t … didn’t get depressed. He was real even tempered.”

“And how were things going between you two? Were you happy?”

Paulette stared at her blankly. “
Happy
? You’re kidding me, right? I haven’t met anyone who’s
happy
in a really, really long time. But I thought we were doing okay. We enjoyed each other’s company. Laughed a little. Made love a little. Not as much as we used to but that’s to be expected, right?”

“Was Hank a big drinker?”

“He liked his beer.”

“How about bourbon?”

“Not real often. Why?”

“He smelled strongly of it when we found him.”

Paulette furrowed her brow. “There’s a half-bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the kitchen cupboard, I think. It’s been in there for at least a year.”

“Would you mind checking to see if it’s still there?”

Paulette got up out of her recliner and went into the kitchen. “Still here,” she called out, returning with it. “I guess … he must have bought a bottle somewhere.”

“Must have.”

Paulette put the bottle of Jack Daniel’s down on the kitchen table and retrieved her wineglass, swaying slightly as she stood there. “Hank was the grinch, wasn’t he? That’s why he did himself in—because you were closing in on him. That text he sent me, when he said, ‘
It’s all my fault. I messed up
.’ That was him confessing.”

“It’s too soon to know at this point. Anything I say would be speculation, and I don’t like to speculate. May I see the text message?”

Paulette fetched her cell from the arm of her recliner, found Hank’s text message and held it out to her. Des studied it carefully. It was just as Paulette had reported it, word for word. “
It’s all my fault. I messed up. Sorry for everything. Take care of yourself.
” All very neat and correct. No typos. No text speak. And she’d received it when she’d said she had—at 7:13.

“You said you left him a voice message?”

Paulette nodded. “It should be on my call log. There it is, see? I called him at 7:07.”

“Paulette, I’m going to need to borrow your phone for a day or two.”

“Fine.” She sat back down in her recliner, sighing morosely. “It’s not much to grab on to, is it? He didn’t say he loved me or he’d miss me. He just said ‘
Take care
.’ Like I was one of his firehouse buddies.” Paulette gulped down some more wine. “What happens now?”

“The postal inspectors will be contacting you in the morning, I imagine. They’ll no doubt want to look into what’s been happening on Hank’s route. Try to determine if, say, he had money troubles.”

“Tell them to talk to his bitch of an ex-wife,” Paulette said angrily. “Her and that lawyer of hers. They tormented the poor man constantly about money. All because his mother committed the cardinal sin of dying. He sold her house and made a few dollars. Worked day and night and made a few dollars more. And for that they hounded him and hounded him.…”

“Paulette, do
you
think Hank was stealing his own mail?”

Dorset’s postmaster considered her reply for a long moment. “It wasn’t like him to pull something sneaky. Hank was the ultimate Boy Scout. His friends and neighbors felt safe having him coach their teenaged daughters. That’s saying something, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“But it sure looks like he was up to no good,” Paulette admitted. “I’d have to be an idiot not to see that. I just find it hard to believe, that’s all.”

“If Hank was stealing prescription meds then he must have had a buyer. Do you have any idea who he might have been dealing with? Did he make regular trips to New Haven or New London during the course of the week? Mention a friend who he visited? Anything like that?”