Cold Hollow (Cold Hollow Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

Sophia leaned over the checkout counter and faced Liam. “You are my new cleanup crew. When Layla works, you work. This is only until school begins for the both of you, okay?”

Liam tugged on his father’s pants and looked up at him. “Did you hear that, Dad? I’m a working man now!”

Angus ruffled his son’s hair. “Just don’t grow up too fast, either of you! This old man likes you just the way you are.” The children chuckled and watched as Sophia posted the help wanted sign in the window, and they locked up the shop until the following day.

They returned home to find the landscaper still hard at work, and went inside to unload all of their groceries. They had overspent, but moving into a new home always came with added expenses until things smoothed out.

Sophia had only begun to prepare supper when her cell phone rang. The connection was weak, but there was a woman responding to the want ad in the bakery window. Her name was Myrna Bradbury. She sounded so pleasant that Sophia could not refuse meeting her at the bakery the following morning for a quick interview. When she hung up the phone, she was positively beaming with excitement. Her new bakery was already under way although she had yet to bake a single thing. It would take a week or two to get organized, but that did not intimidate her in the least. She decided to make a tremendous supper for the entire family in celebration.

***

Myrna Bradbury lit the candles in the center of the dining room table after hanging up her phone. She had landed her first job—well, almost. She worked as a seamstress for the town, but things had been slow lately and she found she actually looked forward to getting out of the house, even for a short while, each day. She blew out the match and pulled supper out of the oven. She heard Bob’s truck pull into the driveway, so she rushed to place the items on the dining table. He would want to eat the minute his fat ass hit the seat. She had crushed enough tablets of sleeping medicine into the bottle of Jack Daniels to knock out an elephant. She prayed that he took to his usual routine and guzzled at least half of the bottle before he dug into his food.

Myrna stood in front of the table, waiting for him to enter the dining room; as predicted, he came into the room, stared at the table, and slapped her upside the head. “Good job, bitch.”

He took his seat and immediately wrapped his chubby hand around the neck of the bottle. He downed half of it and placed the bottle down on the table. Myrna took her seat opposite him and ran her hands over the hair he had mussed up. She placed her napkin on her lap and began dishing out the food. Her husband watched her movements and asked, “What are you up to? You’re pampering me.” He dangled the bottle of Jack in the air before him. “Do you want some of the big stick tonight?” He thrust his pelvis in her direction and grinned maniacally while he ran his tongue over his dirty, jagged teeth.

Her eyes were downcast as she replied, “Yes, Bob. It’s obviously what I yearn for.” She said this with all of the enthusiasm of someone who had just picked up dog vomit.

He harrumphed, “Yeah, I remember the days when you had curves and would ride me like a bull at night. Now look at you!”

Myrna looked down at herself. Yes, she had lost some weight. The doctor said that it was from nerves. Moreover, her once long, vibrant, red hair had gone mousy, but that was because the lout sitting across from her never allowed her to go a decent hairdresser or buy anything adequate. Her clothes were now too big for her, but a dime was never allotted for her needs. Her skin, once smooth and supple, was scarred from burns and surgeries—thanks to him. She ignored him and began her meal.

“Yep, that’s right. You got nothing more to say, as usual.”

He shook his head and finished loading his plate with enough food to feed two men. The food was spilling from the corner of his mouth; he ignored it and kept shoveling more into his gaping maw. Occasionally he would stop long enough to take pulls from his bottle of Jack Daniels, and each time he did, Myrna grinned. Before long, his words were garbled and Myrna stared at him. He mumbled something about putting his tools away in his work shed, and Myrna only nodded. She delicately finished her meal as he took his leave. She noticed his plate was clean and he had taken his bottle of booze with him.

She was halfway through clearing the table when she heard him screaming in pain from the backyard. She smiled and put on her apron, hoping he had broken his leg, or worse. She walked outside to the source of his shouting and found him lying on his stomach on the floor of the shed. The entire structure reeked of gas and oil, and she crinkled her nose. She noticed his empty bottle of Jack Daniels was off to the side of where he lay. A bag of grass seed was at his feet. She assumed he had tripped over the bag while carrying his tools inside and landed face first onto a tool; she did not know which. She bent down and rolled him over to find a pitchfork stuck in his face, just above his nose. Blood was tricking from each tine mark. As she stood up, she crossed her arms and asked, “Does that hurt, Bob?”

“Fuck you! Pull it out, hag!”

She shook her head. The pitchfork was in his skin, yes, but not lodged deep enough to do the damage that she had intended. Who would have thought that good old Bob would have saved her some trouble on that night?

She mustered her courage and gripped the handle of the pitchfork so tightly her knuckles turned white. He continued screaming in pain, and she heard a sucking sound as she pulled the pitchfork out. As the blood leaked from his wounds, she slammed her right foot onto his chest to keep him pinned to the floor. With great visual acuity and determination, she raised the pitchfork high and thrust it home into his skull, hitting the previous tine marks with perfection. There. Now her mission was accomplished. His screams were deafening as she scampered back with trembling hands. Then she laughed. It was a soft laugh at first, but then Myrna Bradbury laughed long and hard.

When she finished laughing, she began screaming. Her hands clenched into fists as she railed against him, “You piece of shit! Now you will be at
my
mercy! For the last ten years I’ve put up with your physical abuse, and now
you
have the next ten years or so to experience some abuse that I have in mind for you!”

She watched as his hands reached blindly for her ankles and skittered back again. There was blood pouring from his mouth and eyes. He began gurgling incoherently.

The fingertips of her right hand went to her lower lip as she giggled again and shook her head. She watched him try to pull the pitchfork from his head by himself. His arms were swinging and twitching in all the wrong directions. His legs were twitching too. Myrna began to think that she might have been a bit too rough and pushed that pitchfork in deeper than she had intended.

Her fingertips trembled on her lower lip as she cocked her head and watched her husband struggle. She finally sighed and said, “Honestly, Bob. You give new meaning to the phrase, ‘Stick a fork in it, it’s done.’”

She turned and laughed all the way back to the house. She had a difficult time holding it together long enough to call for a rescue.

The police and rescue had been to their house many times before, so they were not surprised by the call to that address; however, they were surprised by who the victim was this time. They knew Bob was an alcoholic, so Myrna’s story about him falling onto the pitchfork stuck.

When the rescue pulled away with her husband in the back, and after she had told the police what they wanted to hear, Myrna Bradbury went into her house. She locked all the doors, pulled the blinds, and jacked up her old phonograph as loud as it would go. She stripped down naked and took a nice, hot bubble bath.

***

Nazar pulled on his long, black leather riding jacket and pulled the hood up over his head. His evening patrols of the small town always consisted of this ritual. The residents expected it. Actually, he thought that it gave them a sense of security knowing that each home was checked on each night, come rain, snow, sleet, or hail. Yes, he often felt his duties were similar to the mail carrier, only much more involved. He had heard the rescue and police cruiser heading toward the small town hospital, so he took off in the direction of the Bradburys. He knew that trouble had been brewing there for a long time and wanted to get the story firsthand. He made his way down side streets and walked until he arrived at the side door of the humble two-bedroom home they had lived in for the last ten years. He knocked hard three times and heard the volume of blaring music lowered. There was the sound of shuffling bare feet, and he heard Myrna’s mouse-like voice ask, “Who’s there?”

Nazar stared at the door. “It’s me, Nazar.”

“Give me just a minute and I’ll be right with you.”

Nazar stared at his shoes until the door creaked open and Myrna stood there in a bathrobe with what appeared to be dye in her hair.

***

Myrna excused her appearance and offered Nazar a seat at their kitchen table. His eyebrows rose as he asked, “Are you preparing for a special occasion? It appears I’ve caught you in the middle of dyeing your hair?”

She fidgeted with the coffeepot, poured him a mug full, and deposited it in front of him. “Yes, I have a job interview in the morning at the new bakery. I want to try to look halfway decent.”

Nazar seemed to be in an unnaturally good mood that night, and Myrna was grateful. She stared at his face and memorized his features. He had what she considered a long, lean face. His features were sharp, his eyes dark brown. His dark-brown hair always hung to the base of his ears, and on more than one occasion she had seen him tuck it behind his ears. She never saw him smile, so she had no idea what was behind those thin lips of his. He was a tall man at a little over six feet, and slender. He was the town’s keeper. He instituted the rules of survival, to preserve the town and keep it running. Some of his rules and fees were harsh, but it was for the good of all its inhabitants. The spring, summer, and early fall were the leanest of times in town. When late fall and winter struck, the tourists poured in to see the foliage, pick fresh apples, purchase maple syrup, and to ski their tight asses off at the nearest resorts. Everyone respected Nazar. You had to. If you didn’t and fell behind on the till or angered him in any way, you disappeared, and so did all of your possessions. No one knew how he did it, and no one wanted to know.

She watched him blow on the steaming cup of coffee and raise his eyes to her. “You better get some makeup to hide that black eye for your interview. How is good old Bob doing tonight?”

She shook her head and her lower lip trembled. “Not good. He was terribly injured. I am afraid a new job has opened up in town for a landscaper. I am truly sorry.”

He sipped the coffee and shrugged. After placing the coffee mug down, he interlaced his fingers atop the table and asked her to take a seat. “It’s no matter to me if Bob can’t work anymore, Myrna. I want to know if you will be able to make the till on your own.”

She sat down opposite him and nodded. She extended her right hand out and placed it over his. “Yes, I believe I can. Please don’t kick me out of this house. I’m optimistic about this bakery job, and my seamstress duties always pick up in the fall and winter. I will make the till. I want a chance to become independent.”

“What if Bob lives? You
will
have extra expenses.”

She forced her eyes to water and looked at Nazar pleadingly. “I don’t think he will. The paramedics said it was not good. I’m going to see him first thing in the morning before my interview.”

His head tilted as he took her in. “You don’t seem to be overly concerned about him.”

Her hand squeezed his interlaced fingers. “Would you be?”

He gave her a consoling smile. “I suppose not. I’ll tell you what. I will give you one month off paying the till. After that, it’s due on the first of each month until the tourists hit town; however, the ‘living fee’ is still due in December. How does that sound?”

She smiled, and Nazar noticed that she had a beautiful, even, white smile. It then dawned on him that he had never seen Myrna Bradbury smile. “It sounds absolutely perfect. I can’t thank you enough.”

He stood and straightened his long coat and hood. “No need to thank me. Just meet the till and everything will remain the same.” He then stared at her and twirled his forefinger at her head. “You better rinse that out now, I think it’s done.”

***

Myrna released a subtle laugh and escorted him to the door. He heard the dead bolt click behind him, shook his head, and continued his rounds of the small town. He did not give a crap about Bob Bradbury. The man had allowed alcohol to change him and turn him into a beast. Nazar figured that he had gotten what he deserved.

He had a new family to check up on and made his way in that direction. He knew they had leased the new bakery and loved the fact that they were going to employ at least one of the town’s residents. He hoped Myrna did get the job, but in order to do that, she would have to lose her timid ways and become as confident as she used to be. He held out some hope that she was able. Otherwise, he would have to take matters into his own hands. Something he didn’t look forward to, but often did anyway. His was an odd situation. He liked to see how people adjusted to major changes in their lives. The strong ones always did well, while the weak ones mewled of their unfortunate predicament and withered away to nothing.