Glare Ice (10 page)

“I brought you something.” He held out the bottle. “I thought we could have a good time.”

She clutched the dog. “No, not today.”

He walked right up to her, close enough to see the wind whip tears into her eyes. What was the matter with her? She had always been such a scaredy-cat. “Let me see the dog.” He reached out to take it, and she pulled back from him. He hated when she did that, pulled back as if he was going to hit her.

“No. You get away from us. I know what you did with Buck. And I will tell the cops if you touch me.”

“What’re you talking about? Me and Buckie needed to get to know each other. That’s all.”

“I hate you.”

“What’re you up to, babe?”

She tried to turn away, but he grabbed her arm. He had the bottle of champagne in the other hand. She wouldn’t say anything.

“Do I have to beat it out of you?” he asked.

She bent over and set the little dog down and yelled, “Run, Snooper, run!” The dog tore up the path to the house.

Jack just wanted to talk to her, but she was striking out at him, trying to get away. He kept a good grip on her arm so she couldn’t pull away from him. He had wanted to have dinner with her. Now it didn’t seem possible. If she would only hold still. The burn ignited. He hated her doing this to him. She had to stop. He didn’t bother unwrapping the bottle of champagne. The blows were muffled by the brown paper bag.

The first half of the dinner had gone fine. Rich had had trouble carving the turkey, but everyone had teased him, and it had given them something to laugh and talk about.

Then Meg dumped a cranberry mold that hadn’t molded on her new velvet top. Claire could tell by the way she tightened her lips that she was about to cry. She looked up at her mom, and her lips quivered. “It will wash out, Meggy.”

“But, Mom, it’s sticky.”

Then Rachel started to scream from the next room.

Bridget lifted herself up from the table with the movements of a much older woman. She looked as if she was about ready to fall over from sleep deprivation. She picked up Rachel from her bed of pillows and brought her back to the table. The baby writhed in her mother’s arms and wept.

Beatrice’s face spelled deep disapproval. But she said nothing, just scraped the tines of her fork across her plate to get the last of her stuffing.

Rich tried to smooth things over by asking his mother about her weekly bridge game.

“Oh, no one wants to hear about that,” Beatrice snapped. “The game will die out when my generation passes on. Nobody plays it anymore. And it’s a fine, intelligent game. No one wants to take the time to learn it. They would rather watch TV or play those stupid Nintendo games.”

It wasn’t that Claire didn’t like Rich’s mother; it was that she found her exhausting. She wasn’t sure what role she was supposed to play with her, and she felt as if she was struggling to make conversation.

Everyone finished eating in relative silence. Even Rachel calmed down long enough so Bridget could finish her food.

Meg jumped up as soon as she was finished and asked if she could get the pie.

“Wait until everyone is finished, sweetie.”

Rich stood up. “I’m done too. Let’s go into the kitchen and get that whipped cream ready.”

A few minutes later, her darling daughter proudly brought out the pumpkin pie so everyone could see it before it was cut. Rich came behind her with a big bowl of whipped cream.

“My, that looks nice,” Beatrice said.

Meg beamed. “Mom, can you cut it? I don’t want to ruin it.”

Claire stood and cut the first piece and graciously gave it to Beatrice after Rich had smacked a large dollop of whipped cream on it. Then they served everyone else. Claire sat down and took a bite of her pie. Something was very wrong with the pie. It was not sweet at all.

Meg held her mouth open and screamed, “Mom.”

“Spit it out on your plate.”

Meg did as she was told.

“Did you put sugar in the pie filling?”

“Yes.”

“What sugar?”

“The stuff in the bowl by the stove.”

“Oh, dear, that’s salt.”

Meg started to cry. Claire felt like joining her. Rachel did. Beatrice pushed her pie plate away.

Bridget, who had not said much the whole meal, stood up and plopped Rachel in Beatrice’s lap. Claire wasn’t sure who looked more surprised—the old woman or the baby. Beatrice looked as if someone had dumped the rest of the pumpkin pie on her lap. Her hands flew up as if she didn’t want to get them dirty.

“I can’t take any more crying. I need to sleep.” Bridget left the room.

Beatrice didn’t seem to know where to put her hands. The baby curled up against her and looked as if it was about to slide onto the floor. Beatrice gingerly put a hand behind its head and then began to jiggle her knees.

Miraculously, the baby stopped crying. Meg sniffled. Beatrice gently jostled the baby and then picked up her spoon. She looked at Meg with a smile. “You know what one of my favorite desserts is?” she asked.

“What?”

“Whipped cream.” She proceeded to pile mounds on her plate and Meg’s.

Then the phone rang. Claire looked at Rich, who shrugged and shook his head. She answered it.

Claire recognized Sven Slocum’s voice, even though he didn’t identify himself as he tried to get out his words. She could tell he was frightened. “She might be dead. You have to come. It’s bad.”

C
LAIRE
had never seen anything like it: a brilliant splash of red blood cut across the new fallen snow like bright carnelian paint splashed across a freshly gessoed canvas. The battered woman looked as if she had been caught making angels in the snow—her feet splayed apart, her arms flung wide—but her broken face told another story. It was smashed, the nose twisted, the lips bruised, the eyes battered. Claire could hardly recognize the woman as Stephanie, but the pale blond hair tucked under a cap gave her away.

And then on top of the woman sat the small brown-and-white dog, shivering and watchful. As they approached, it started to growl.

Sven stood near, wringing his hands. “He won’t let me get near her. I’ve tried, and he barks.”

“He’s only a little dog,” Claire said, slowly inching toward the woman.

“But he bites,” Sven said.

Rich told her to stop. “I’ll get him to come to me. It’ll be better.” He sat down on the snow. “Come here, guy.” He patted the snow in front of him. “You’ve done your job. Now, come.” The last word he said very forcefully, and the little dog jumped down off Stephanie’s motionless body and begrudgingly walked up to Rich. Rich scooped him up and told him he was a good dog.

Claire allowed herself a moment to think of Rich’s reaction to this scene—she was sure he had never seen anything this gruesome before—and then moved right in on Stephanie. She hoped the EMTs would be here soon. She had called the ambulance from her house before she left.

Please let her be alive, she prayed. The eyes looked the worst, swollen shut with dark blue mottling all around the hollow.

Claire remembered the abused woman in Minneapolis who had been blinded by her husband. He had taken a knife to her eyes, tried to carve them out, and left two gaping holes in her head. So she knew it could be worse.

The bone of Stephanie’s nose looked crushed and crooked. Claire figured that’s where most of the blood had come from. Bending close, she thought she detected a breath. A finger to the carotid gave her a weak but steady response.

“Stephanie,” she said and nudged the woman. A faint groan whistled out into the cold, quiet air.

“Rich, she’s still alive. Go to the house and get blankets. We don’t want to lose her to shock.”

Claire looked around at the crime scene. Give it up, she told herself, for soon it will be polluted with more footprints than you can paw through. Snow was covering the tracks of whoever had been here. She would do the best she could, once they got Stephanie safely in an ambulance, but at the moment she had to concentrate on the life of this woman and forget about her assailant.

She couldn’t help but ask Sven, “Did you see anyone, Sven? How did you happen to come here?”

He stood right behind her. “Is she going to be okay? Such a nice woman, Stephanie is.”

“I don’t know. Can you answer my questions?”

“She called me a couple hours ago. Left a message on my machine. Her car wouldn’t start. I wasn’t home. I had gone to some friends to eat turkey and all. When I got home about twenty minutes ago I got her message and came right away. This is how I found her. No one was here. I think whoever did it parked just off the road. Past where my car is.”

“I’ll check there later. Thanks.”

Rich brought the blankets, having left the dog in the house. They covered her as best they could without moving her. Claire looked up at Rich. She had started to count on him. “Is there anything else we can do to get her warm without moving her?”

“Rub her hands. Get her to feel your contact. It might bring her out.”

Claire took off the black woollen glove Stephanie was wearing, took her small white hand in hers, and rubbed it. Claire didn’t know if she believed Rich that it would make the woman warmer, but it did give her something to do, and she did believe that human touch could bring people back from the brink of death.

“Stephanie, we’re here. You’re going to be all right.” Claire heard the words come out of her mouth automatically. She hoped they were true.

Another truck pulled up at the end of the driveway, and a big man burst out of it. As he came closer, Claire saw that it was Clay Burnes, the emergency medical technician who had also shown up at Buck’s drowning. She hoped the ambulance would be close behind. They needed to get her out of here.

“We meet again,” he said as he came up to her.

“Unfortunately.” She stood up and allowed Clay to get in close to Stephanie. As he checked her over, Claire filled him in on what she knew. He was nodding his head and indicating that he was getting good response from Stephanie. She groaned again and turned her head to the side.

“Do you know who did this?” he asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“We can assume a guy,” he stated.

Claire nodded.

“What did he use on her?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Haven’t had a chance to look. He might have taken it with him.” Then she added, “Clay, this woman was Buck’s girlfriend.”

Clay looked up at her, his eyes wide and unblinking. “What the hell is going on here?”

The ambulance roared in, pushing its way through the plow drift across the end of the driveway. Two men jumped out of the vehicle, and one burst out of the back. Claire stepped back and watched as they circled Stephanie, working on her as Clay orchestrated their moves.

Rich had hated leaving Claire at Stephanie’s, with blood all over the snow, and the woman carefully packed off to the hospital. Claire was left to tramp through the snow and see if anything had been left behind that would identify the bastard that had beaten up Stephanie. But someone had to get back to their guests.

Snooper whined on the seat next to him. Claire had told him the name of the dog before he left with it. Rich reached over and petted the little guy. He must be pretty upset—losing two owners in less than a week. Rich hoped Stephanie would be back on her feet soon, but he didn’t count on it—she had looked so horrible.

When he saw that the dog was still shaking, he unzipped his jacket, put the dog inside, and zipped it back up. The dog hunkered down into the jacket, not even his head showing.

The snow had all but stopped when Rich drove back up to Claire’s house to rescue Bridget and his mother. He pulled into the driveway and sat for a moment, trying to calm down. He felt like he wanted to slam his fist into a wall, into any man who would do that to a woman. How could Claire go on seeing that kind of stuff day after day?

Maybe she didn’t see it that frequently down in Pepin County, but she must have seen it far too often in the Cities. Even down here, it happened. People ignored such abuse, thought it wasn’t their business when their neighbors were beating up their wives and battering their kids.

It sickened him. He wanted to walk up the bluff and down and get it out of his system, but he had to go in and reassure his mother and Bridget that everything was all right. After all, it was Thanksgiving. Since the dog seemed comfortable, he left him inside his jacket and got out of the car.

When he walked into the house, the first thing that surprised him was the quiet. The second was that the kitchen was clean. Then he found his mother sitting on the couch, reading a book to Meg, who was already in her pajamas. The baby Rachel was sleeping, tucked in next to his mother, a bottle resting on her chest. Maybe she would make a good grandmother someday—if she ever got the chance.

When he asked where Bridget was, he was told she was still sleeping in the guest bedroom.

Meg looked up at him, pleased with herself. “Beatrice and I did the dishes. I wiped.”

Rich walked up to his mother and kissed her forehead. “Good job, Mom.”

“Someone had to make order out of all this. Tell Claire we improvised a little when we put the dishes away.”

“We even changed the baby’s diaper, and it was a poopy one.

“I remembered how,” his mother said. “It’s so easy now with those disposables. They have the tape built into them. What a breeze.”

Rich wondered if maybe what his mother needed wasn’t less responsibility, but more.

“Where’s Claire?” Beatrice asked.

“She had to stay and do some work.”

“Work?”

Rich didn’t want to say more. “Yeah, finish things up.” Snooper’s head came popping out of the jacket. “Oh, I brought a friend home.”

“For me?” Meg jumped off the couch and ran to see the dog.

Rich unzipped his coat and said, “No, Megsly. I’m sorry, but this dog has an owner that he loves very much. He’s just visiting. But could you take him into the kitchen and get him a drink of water?”

He put the little dog down on the floor, and Meg and the dog touched noses. He had guessed they might be friends.

“Snooper is his name,” Rich told her.

Meg called the dog, and the two of them ran off to the kitchen. Rich heard her turn on the faucet.

“Why is he visiting?” his mother asked.

“Because his owner had to go to the hospital.”

“What happened, Rich?”

“A woman was beat up. It was bad.” He thanked the Lord that he had never seen such a sight before. He hoped he would never see anything like it again.

His thoughts went to Claire, walking around in the snow. He wondered if he should think about asking her to quit her job.

The yellow tape was looped across the bottom of the driveway. Scott Lund had come from Pepin and taken as many pictures outside as he could, his flash lighting up the falling snow. She had been on the phone to the sheriff several times, coordinating how to handle the scene. He had agreed that the crime bureau could meet her there tomorrow morning. The snow kept falling, and it wasn’t helping anything.

The snow was silently, constantly covering everything up—one of the attributes she most loved about it. The first snow coming in late fall, early winter, hid the damped-down weeds, the empty trees, the trash along the roadside, the dirt on everything. But now she was fighting it.

She tried to reconstruct the scene. She had gone into the house and walked through it carefully, touching nothing. It was hard to tell whether Stephanie had been leaving for good, but Claire guessed yes. She had packed the essentials. The car was stuffed to the brim. The crime lab could come into the house tomorrow, but she doubted that they would find anything. Claire didn’t think any of the fight happened in the house. It was too neat; nothing looked thrown around.

In reconstructing the action, she imagined Stephanie down by her car, the man arriving on the scene, immediately guessing what she was up to, and going at her right there by the car.

That’s why Claire was walking around outside. If she was going to find anything, it would be out here. It was dark, the only light coming from the porch. The snow gave off its own glow. Claire had a huge flashlight that she was flicking around the edges of the scene. Suddenly, something snapping in the wind caught her eye.

She walked a few steps into the forest. Caught in a pine tree was a paper bag. She lifted it up carefully and peeked in. A green bottle, smashed. As Claire examined it more carefully, she saw that it was a bottle of champagne, the price still on it—$12.99. Not a big spender, but maybe he couldn’t get a more expensive bottle down along the river.

She carefully carried the bag with the champagne bottle to her car and put it in a box in the backseat. Then she sat on the edge of her seat with the car door open and watched the snow come down.

This wasn’t really a storm. Maybe an accumulation of four to five inches. Nothing that significant. Enough to get Stephanie stuck, but not enough to slow down the man who had come to court her with a bottle of champagne. What went on between the two of them that he had turned the bottle on her? How afraid must she have been, to pack up what she could stuff in her car and try to flee? How was this all tied into Buck’s death? Was Stephanie covering for someone else, or had she killed Buck, and was she trying to get away before they figured it out?

Claire hoped she would get these answers the next time she saw Stephanie.

Her son was in love.

It was obvious. He wore it on his face whenever he looked at Claire, whenever he talked about her.

And she seemed like a good woman. She was raising a lovely daughter, had a devoted if slightly wacky sister, a nice house. She seemed like an average housemaker and a decent cook.

But she was a cop.

Beatrice tucked her head under the edge of the flannel sheets on the bed in the room where Aunt Agnes used to sleep. Rich was so careful about everything in his life. He made a good living at raising pheasants, he had his house all paid off, he kept everything simple and clean. How had he come to let this woman into his life?

Beatrice was happy for him, but also scared. This was the woman he wanted, and she wasn’t sure they were a perfect match. Claire carried so much of the world on her shoulders. It might turn out to be too much for Rich to compete with.