Snowfall
Snowfall
Book Jacket
Praise for
New York Times
bestselling author
SHARON SALA
“Spellbinding narrative…Sala lives up to her reputation with this well-crafted thriller.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
Remember Me
“Wear a corset, because your sides will hurt from laughing! This is Sharon Sala at top form. You’re going to love this touching and memorable book.”
—
New York Times
bestselling author Debbie Macomber on
Whippoorwill
“Ms. Sala draws you in from the very beginning. She delivers main characters who will touch your hearts and quirky secondary characters who will intrigue you as you try to figure out whodunit.”
—
Romantic Times BOOKclub
on
Butterfly
“
Whippoorwill
is a funny, heartwarming story, set in a raw, untamed land and rich with indelible characters that will stay with you long after the last page is turned. I didn’t want it to be over.”
—Deborah Smith,
New York Times
bestselling author of
A Place to Call Home
“Once again, Sharon Sala does a first-rate job at blending richly developed characters and inspired plotting into an unforgettable read.”
—
Romantic Times BOOKclub
on
Dark Water
Also by SHARON SALA
THE CHOSEN
MISSING
WHIPPOORWILL
OUT OF THE DARK
DARK WATER
REMEMBER ME
REUNION
SWEET BABY
MIRA Books is also proud to publish
Sharon Sala under the pseudonym
DINAH M
C
CALL
Watch for Dinah McCall’s next novel
of romantic suspense
THE SURVIVORS
SHARON SALA
Snowfall
When we are born into this world, we do not choose the family we are given, only the friends we yearn to keep.
Throughout my life there have been many, some fleeting, some steadfast, who stood, not by me, but with me, through the proverbial thick and thin.
I cannot name you all, but you know who you are, and I cherish my place in your life. You have unselfishly given me both your presence and your time.
I can only hope that, in return, I did not fail to return the favor.
Contents
One
You will suffer for the sin.
C
aitlin Bennett took a deep, shaky breath as she reread the letter in her hand. No matter how many times she read it, the warning didn’t change. It was the latest in a chain of hate mail she’d been receiving for the past six months. Each one she received was worse than the last.
When they’d first started coming, she’d chalked it up to nothing more than a disgruntled fan. As C. D. Bennett, bestselling mystery author, it wasn’t the first weird fan letter she’d ever received. But when the second, and then the third, came, each with a similar message of retribution, she began to get nervous. Public figures were often murdered with less provocation.
Deciding to err on the side of caution, she had called Boran Fiorello, an old friend of the family and a detective with the 45th precinct. When she showed him the letters, he was most understanding but didn’t consider them truly threatening, and as she looked back, she could understand his reaction.
The first three letters were almost ambivalent, written in an “I don’t like you because” style. It was no wonder he wasn’t impressed. Fiorello had sent her home with a pat on the back and a promise to take her out to dinner sometime soon.
But the letters kept coming, each one a bit more threatening than the last and renewing her anxiety. Certain that Fiorello would take these more seriously, she called him again. That time his response had been brief, almost distracted. He’d told her that there was no law against not liking what she wrote and no law against telling her about it. Short of receiving an actual physical threat, which she had not, he didn’t think she had anything to worry about. Feeling suitably chastened, she’d given up, even though the tone of the letters continued to darken.
Now she had just over two dozen, and all very obviously from the same person. The last one had come this morning. The bright crimson of a felt tip pen on white paper was eye-catching; part of what the writer most likely intended. But it was the perfect bloodred drops added to the bottom of each word that gave her chills. The letters appeared to be seeping blood, and where there should have been a signature, there was an accumulating pool of blood instead. It was the perfect visual assault—horrifying without striking a single blow.
She was scared—as scared as she’d ever been in her life—yet there was nothing but words on which to base her fear. She’d never been accosted, never received a threatening phone call, never had one moment when she’d experienced physical danger.
A small clock on her desk began chiming the hour, and as it did, she jumped at the sound. Dismayed by the time, she put the letter in the file with all the others and then hurried to her bedroom.
In less than an hour, a car would arrive to take her to DBC Studios. Kenny Leibowitz, her publicist, had arranged her personal appearance on the
Live with Lowell
show to promote
Dead Lines,
her newest release. She didn’t like the publicity part of the business, but she dealt with it. Doing television was her least favorite thing, especially when it was on the DBC network. She began a mental countdown of the interview as she put on her makeup.
Inevitably the host of this particular show seemed bent on bringing up the fact that her father was Devlin Bennett, who, among other things, had founded Devlin Broadcasting Company. After that, he seemed compelled to mention that when her father died, he’d left all his millions and his holdings, which included DBC, to Caitlin. Doing television meant she had to cope with the one-liners about owning the network and buying her way into fame. It didn’t seem to matter to the glib talk-show host that her books had an average eighty-five percent sell-through, which was phenomenal in and of itself. All Lowell was looking for was the laugh. She didn’t like his snide remarks, but she dealt with them in a witty and urbane manner, giving the host as good as he gave. To his credit, he loved it—and her. He didn’t know that Caitlin was cringing inside, or that she would much rather have been home watching videos of old movies and having her favorite snack, a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich. To too many people in the world, she was a poor little rich girl who played at being a writer. Although her father had been dead for almost five years, Caitlin had been forced to accept the fact that she would forever live in his shadow. Not for the first time, she was wishing for a man in her life, and maybe children. She wasn’t just afraid, she was lonely. But wishing didn’t produce results.
Her makeup finished, she rummaged through her closet, snatching the first warm black outfit she came to, and began to dress. One good thing about being a writer—nobody expected you to look pretty. You just had to be smart. By the time her car arrived, she was ready and waiting.
“So…Caitlin…may I call you Caitlin, or should I say Ms. Bennett? After all, you are my boss.”
Caitlin smiled what she hoped was a forgiving smile and tried not to wince. God. Where did they get those people? Ron Lowell was an attractive man, but his brain seemed stuck on Rewind. This was the fourth time in as many years that she’d been on his show promoting a book, and he always started her interview in the exact same way.
“I don’t care what you call me, as long as you buy the book,” Caitlin quipped.
The audience roared, and Ron Lowell beamed. The interview was getting off to a good start. He picked up the book and made a pretense of flipping through the pages, although his focus was definitely on the swell of her breasts beneath the black knit dress she was wearing.
“So the new book is called
Dead Lines.
Tell us about it.”
Caitlin leaned forward. “It’s a murder mystery, Ron.”
He grinned. She’d fed him the perfect line.
“Which means you’re not going to tell us anything juicy?”
Another round of titters floated up from the audience. Although Lowell couldn’t see them, he thrived on the sound.
“I didn’t say that,” Caitlin said. “I will tell you that it has nothing to do with meeting a deadline. Picture this, if you will. A beautiful inn in the Adirondacks filled with people who’ve come for an enjoyable weekend. An early winter storm drops two feet of snow on the mountains, making the roads impassable and snowing everyone in. All the utilities go out. No phones. No electricity. No communication with the outside world. Then people start to die…and not from natural causes.”
“
Oooh,
I get it,” Lowell said. “Dead lines of communication.” Then he began wiggling his eyebrows in mock fright. “And the killer must be one of the guests, because no one can get in or out, right?”
Caitlin just smiled.
Lowell beamed back. “I know. I know. Read the book.”
“Ah…brains to go with all those good looks,” Caitlin said.
The audience laughed again, and Ron Lowell glowed in appreciation.
Minutes later they broke for commercial and Caitlin got up to leave. Lowell stood to shake her hand, and when he did, held it a little longer than usual.
“How about some dinner after the show?”
Caitlin smiled as she slipped her hand out of Lowell’s grasp.
“Ron, I would love it, but another time, okay? I’m on a
real
deadline with my next book, and I need to work. Thanks for a wonderful interview, though, and I hope you enjoy the book.”
She was so smooth he never knew he’d been brushed off. By the time she got off stage, she was sick to her stomach from nerves.
“Caitlin, darling! You were marvelous, as always.”
Caitlin made a face at Kenny as he helped her into her coat.
“Next time you better ask me first before you book one of these things. I need more warning.”
Kenny kissed the side of her cheek, then winked. “Of course,” he said, straightening her coat on her shoulders. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit outside tonight. Looks like it might even snow.”
Caitlin shivered at the thought and ignored the fact that he hadn’t promised anything regarding her scheduling. She sighed, reminding herself that he was only doing his job, then shivered. She hated winter. If it weren’t for the promotions Kenny had set up here in the city for the new book, she would have gone south weeks ago.
As she began to button up her coat, Kenny caught her hands in his own.
“Let me, dear,” he said. “Your fingers are almost blue. Didn’t you bring gloves?”
“I think I left them in the car.”
“Poor baby,” Kenny murmured, as he buttoned her up, then clasped her hands in his, pretending to warm them.
What he wanted was to hold her hand, and Caitlin knew it. He had been making delicate passes at her for some time now, and it was all she could do to fend him off without ruining their working relationship.
“They’re warmer now. Thanks,” Caitlin said, and stuck her hands into her pockets as one of the producers led them through the backstage maze to an exit door.
The limousine was waiting just outside in the alley. Kenny opened the door before the driver could get out. Caitlin stepped into the interior, settling into the luxurious leather and bone-melting warmth with relief.