A Cold Christmas (27 page)

“Yeah, it's all in the Cayman Islands.”

She looked at him.

He grinned. “Hey, if it's good enough for gangsters…”

“How'd you get this money?”

He shook his head. “That I'm not going to tell you. I want an attorney now.”

She told Ellis to let Mat make a phone call and then put him in a cell.

Demarco's digging into Mat's life had turned up some very interesting information; it showed just how clever Mat and Branner Noel had been. Under the name MB Publications, they purchased access to a database of credit card numbers from Prairie Central Bank, over two-and-a-half million names. MB Publications and various other businesses, MJB Care, BNJ Services, B&M Bill Inc., then billed the cardholders for small amounts every month, $19.99 and under. They used five different merchant accounts to process the transactions. The imagination boggled at how much money they racked in, staggering amounts. They'd been so slick; they were never arrested or charged with any crime. There'd never been enough evidence.

Branner Noel, she speculated, wrote account numbers on the backs of the old photos so he wouldn't forget. Whatever papers there were besides those in the safe-deposit box had been destroyed. The two accounts in the box held numbers that were the dates of his wife's birthday and his own birthday, no problem remembering. Those he dipped into because he needed funds.

Credit card fraud wasn't her job. Finding Noel's killer was. As she went to her office, the itsy bitsy spider crawled back into her mind.

38

All day Susan chipped away at the pile of work on her desk. Her head ached, her eyes were gritty, her throat dry, and her entire being longed for sleep. Apparently, an all-nighter was beyond her. The itsy bitsy spider kept playing through her mind. It was December 23, seven o'clock in the evening. Around three tomorrow afternoon she was scheduled to leave for San Francisco. That gave her roughly twenty hours to clear three homicides and pack her suitcase. All the coffee she'd had was sloshing uneasily in her stomach, and the caffeine jangled her nerves.

She scribbled her name, closed the folder, and tossed it to the other side of her desk. As she was reaching for the next folder, the itsy bitsy spider that had been tapping at her subconscious finally broke through. Spider tattoo!

Leaning back, she examined the thought, turned it over and looked at it from the other side. Her heart started pounding with the high she always got when pieces started falling in place. All she needed was evidence.

Right. Her balloon of excitement started leaking.

After another ten minutes of thought with nothing developing, she picked up the phone and told Hazel to have White call her.

*   *   *

Ettie Trowbridge sat at the long table in the interview room, looking so serene—platinum hair perfect, makeup discreet, tan pants and tan shirt with brown swirls spotless and unwrinkled—that severe doubts started eroding Susan's brilliant idea. White and Ellis, one on either side of the door, nodded when Susan came in.

“Mrs. Trowbridge,” she said. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soft drink?”

“Nothing, thank you, dear. But you can call me Ettie and tell me what this is all about.”

“You'd better call your attorney. You're going to need him.”

“Attorney? I don't even know one. At least not here. Why don't you just tell me why I'm here?” She sounded as though she was going to reach out and pat Susan's hand. There, there, there, tell me about it.

Susan recited the Miranda warning. Ettie looked bewildered.

“Are you waiving your right to an attorney?”

“I guess I am. At least for the moment. Now, dear, please explain.”

“Why did you come to Hampstead?”

“My son was here, and my grandchildren.”

Susan nodded. “You told me they meant everything to you. You'd do anything necessary to keep them safe.”

“Certainly.”

“Anything,” Susan repeated, “including perjury. You lied at the trial twelve years ago when you said you'd seen Branner Noel hit his wife many times. You swore to it because you knew your own son killed Noel's wife.”

“Nonsense,” Ettie said.

Susan sat on a corner of the table, one leg dangling. “No? Was it you who killed Noel?” She leaned forward and rested her elbow on her knee. “When he was released, he came to Hampstead looking for you.”

“Preposterous.”

And Susan was beginning to think it was.

“Noel spent twelve years in prison. Twelve years of hell for something he didn't do. Then he got released and came looking. Was it self-defense, Mrs. Trowbridge? He came to make you admit your lies, threatened you, and you killed him before he could kill you?”

“What rubbish, dear,” Ettie said, her demeanor as perfect as when she'd come in. “Now, if it's all right, I have some gifts to wrap.”

So much for threats. With no evidence to hold her, Susan had to let her go. After Ettie had gathered her coat and purse and scarf, she nodded pleasantly at Susan and walked out.

“All right,” Susan said to White. “Here's what we're going to do.”

*   *   *

Susan sensed change coming. Or maybe it was just the excitement of getting close and it had been so long since that had happened she'd forgotten what it felt like.

The radio in the pickup crackled. “Suspect leaving residence.”

She was a block south and moving parallel with White. She hoped he wouldn't get too close and spook the suspect. She had told him if he lost her, he was dead.

“Headed north on Ellington.”

Silence. “East on Oak.”

The suspect zigzagged through town as though suspicious, and she started to get nervous.

“Turned north on Falcon Road.”

Her heartbeat picked up, she hit the overheads and mashed the accelerator, sped down Ninth and went right on Iowa out to the county road, another right and right again on the far end of Falcon Road. She doused her lights, cut her motor, and slid from the pickup. The temperature had dropped; the always-present wind simply gained force and got worse. Her nose, throat, and lungs were held in a vise grip of cold. It seeped through the soles of her boots. Not a fit night for man or beast. Moonlight let her walk along the road without stumbling.

When headlights popped up, coming at her, she dropped behind prickly shrubs. The vehicle stopped, the suspect got out. A flashlight flickered through the trees as the suspect made a descent down the slope toward the river.

“Now,” Susan whispered in her radio.

White came roaring up, lights going, siren wailing. He rocked to a stop, tumbled from the car, and thrashed down the slope. “Freeze! Police!”

Susan scrambled down the embankment. Ettie, caught in the blaze of White's flashlight, froze, one hand shading her eyes, the other holding up a gun.

“Drop the gun!”

Ettie fired it, whirled, and ran. Moonlight glistened on the black water. She stumbled and dropped the gun as she scruffled her feet searching for purchase. She fell, banged her head on a rock, and slid swiftly toward the river. A loud splash followed.

“Get an ambulance!” Susan yelled.

Ettie made a strangled squealing gasp. Her arms flailed. Susan waded in and lost her footing in the rush of the current. Chunks of ice bumped against her. The cold took her breath away.

“Give me your hand!” She grabbed at Ettie, who was panicked, choking and sinking, then bobbing up and splashing away at the water.

Susan thrashed, grappled for the bottom with her toes, lost her balance, rode the current. She had to get Ettie and herself out of the water or they'd die. The low water temperature would send their bodies into shock, shutting off all functions. Clothing would act like an anchor and muscles would cramp.

“Ettie! Don't fight!”

With a gulp of air, Susan lunged for Ettie, and her fingers clutched the edge of the woman's jacket. Ettie spluttered, made wild lunges. Susan tugged on the jacket until she had both her hands on Ettie's arm.

The river pulled them around a curve, sweeping them under a fallen tree. She clutched a branch. It broke with a sharp crack and they floated helplessly on. Susan rolled onto her side, kicked, and groped with one arm toward the bank.

When she realized she could feel the river bottom with one foot, she dug her boot into the mud. Moving slowly, one foot, then the other, she struggled toward the river's edge until the water was shallow enough that she was able to stand. The cold wind hit.

Ettie choked, gasping and coughing.

Shaking so hard her teeth clacked together, Susan arrested her for the murder of Branner Noel.

39

Snow started falling at ten
A.M.
on December 24. With no warning and the fury of Moses destroying the golden calf, the worst snowstorm in fifty years swept across the plains of Nebraska and Kansas, shrieked across the entire Midwest, and whipped all the way to the East Coast. Nothing moved. Roads were blocked, airports closed, people stayed inside.

In Hampstead, the parade was canceled and the power was out. Wind screamed down the chimney, making the cat's hair stand on end. Around six, Susan braved the dark and the snow torn around by the howling wind and floundered to the garage. She gathered the last few pieces of firewood in a bucket and flailed back to the house. Plunking the bucket on the hearth, she put logs on the grate. Swearing and grumbling, she crumpled newspaper and shoved it in with the poker. After more newspaper, she finally got a fire going. Very cozy Christmas Eve.

Using a flashlight, she tracked down candles and lit half a dozen, put some on the mantel and the rest on the end tables by the couch. Courting a house fire, she thought. But with no holiday decorations, at least they gave some hint of festivity. She checked the batteries in her little radio and turned it on to carols. Wrapped in a blanket, a book in her lap, she sat on the floor and tried to read. The flickering flames gave off a strobe effect that made reading difficult and threatened to give her a headache. She gave up and stared at the fire.

Tears clogged her eyes. All alone on Christmas Eve. Her closest relationship was with a cat. The wind freaked Perissa. She streaked through the living room into the dining room, backed into corners, and pounced on shadows. The clock on the mantel struck eight. Five hours ago, she was to have boarded a plane that would take her home. It had been three years since she'd been there.

Perissa stalked into the living room, oozed under the coffee table, and growled. Someone pounded on the door. “It's probably Santa Claus,” she told the cat, and went to answer it.

Parkhurst, looking like the abominable snowman, stood on her porch with a leather satchel in one hand, a lantern in the other. The lantern sent out an eerie glow against the night and swirling snow. Weary traveler of the eighteenth century making his way to the inn.

“Have you recovered or am I talking to the ghost of Christmas past?”

He clapped snow from his hat and stamped it from his boots. “Let me in. It's freezing out here,” he croaked, remnants of the flu still in his voice.

“It's not much better in here,” she rasped, her own voice still harsh from smoke inhalation. “Do you have heat at your place?”

“No.”

“Then come on in.”

He went to the kitchen and took thermos bottles from the bag. “Hot soup.”

“How'd you manage that?”

“Coleman stove.” He shrugged off his coat. “It's from Hazel, in case you're worried. To combat the flu. She gave me enough to last out the winter.”

Susan took his coat. “I don't suppose you brought hot coffee.”

“Got that too.”

“My house is your house.” She draped his coat over the shower rod in the bathroom, trotted upstairs, snatched a blanket from the guest room, and brought it down.

He removed his boots and stretched out on his back, stockinged feet toward the fire. “I didn't know if you had any wood. So I filled up the Bronco.”

She tossed him the blanket and he spread it over his legs. Perissa crouched on a couch cushion, growling like a pit bull.

“I hear you cleared the homicide,” he said.

“Hazel tell you?”

“She said I should forget work and concentrate on getting well.”

“You well?”

“Well enough,” he rasped.

“Finished up last night.” She lay down next to him with her own blanket and, when he looked at her, she felt the pull of attraction, the crackle of electricity.

He looked at her a moment too long before he turned and stared at the fire. “What led you to Ettie Trowbridge?” he said, voice hoarse.

“Bonnie's song.” Susan thought her voice sounded thin. She cleared her throat, then told him how it had stuck in her mind. “Holiday/Noel had a small tattoo of a spider on the back of his neck, just below the hairline. Ettie claimed she'd never seen the man, but when I questioned her she said Caley would never have an affair with a man who had a tattoo.”

“The spider did her in.”

“She saw it when she shoved his head into the furnace.”

“She's the arsonist too, I suppose?” he said.

Susan stared at the fire. “Pauline had a photo album underneath her when the fire got her. It had ‘Grandma's Brag Book' on the cover. The only thing left was a fragment of the cover with GRA on it. She was trying to save photos of her grandchildren, or maybe trying to tell us something about Noel's killer.”

He snorted. “Dying clue?”

“Maybe. Ettie is Zach, Adam, and Bonnie's grandmother. Pauline saw Ettie let Noel into Caley's house and it puzzled her. She knew Mat had taken the children and Caley was sick. She thought maybe Ettie was there to take care of Caley and that Noel—although she didn't know his name—had come to see Caley. But if that were so, why was Ettie letting him in the basement door instead of through the front door like a bona fide guest? Pauline told all this to Ida Ruth.”