The Iced Princess (10 page)

After putting the carton back, I downed the milk in a long drink then headed to the living room where I dropped the penny in the blue and brown ceramic dish filled with the other pennies from heaven I'd found over the years. Why I'd saved them was a good question I didn't have a good answer for. But finding this one helped calm my fears, and I went back to bed, got under the covers, and gratefully fell into a dreamless sleep.

—

W
hen I awoke bright and early Thursday morning, the first thing that came to mind was the frightening image of Molly from my nightmare. I stared at the ceiling a minute then closed my eyes to imagine the soundless words she had uttered. I'd thought she'd mouthed, “My killers are in the shop,” meaning there was more than one. That didn't make sense if the man Pinky had seen turned out to be the culprit. Unless she meant the person who put him up to it. Maybe Molly had really said, “My killer is in the shop.”

I squeezed my eyes tighter and tried my darnedest to make out even one face in the crowded shop, but there was not a clear, identifiable one in the bunch. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling again, chiding myself for acting like Molly's words were real. It was only a dream, my brain trying to work out what had happened and why. We hadn't even gotten the official report on her cause of death. Although, it seemed clear the officials thought she'd been poisoned, which backed up what Clint surmised as soon as he noticed her red skin tone.

That got me to thinking about Emmy Anders, the person the Brooks Landing Police Department was most interested in. And that triggered the memory of one of the faceless people in my dream: a small, gray-haired woman who was wearing the outfit Emmy had on that fateful day. A feeling of doom spread through me and settled like a giant lump in the pit of my stomach.
Emmy, the longer you stay away, the worse it looks.
And if she never came back, it would certainly help convince Pinky and me that she'd done the deed, after all.

I phoned Pinky at her shop. “How are you doing there this morning? You need me to come in early?”

“I'm okay. Mark was here when I opened and hung around awhile. He just left, after checking every square inch of your shop and mine. No one hiding out, and no weird-looking envelopes or packages addressed to you. Or to me.”

“Good. All right then, I have some errands to run before I open, but I'll keep my cell phone with me in case you need me.”

“Okay, thanks. Gotta run. My faithful usuals are here.”

“'Bye.”

I looked at the outdoor thermometer, attached to the kitchen window by Sandra McClarity. She was the dear
woman who'd lived here until she died, shortly before I returned to Brooks Landing. Sandra had been a childhood friend of Berta, my biological mother, so I'd enjoyed our visits when I was home on college break or taking a few days' vacation from my job. I was thrilled when her family offered me her place to rent until they decided to sell it.

It was 35 degrees Fahrenheit, only three degrees above freezing, so I'd need a long coat for extra warmth on my fact-finding adventure. Forty minutes later, I'd eaten, gotten ready, and was out the door. The home I rented was a smaller rambler with a detached garage in the back. I kept a second automatic garage door opener in my purse to avoid punching in the code on the door. And as the days got colder, I would appreciate the spare opener even more. I climbed into my tan Subaru, started it up, and eased onto the alley then turned left on my way to Emmy's neighborhood.

I didn't know who any of Emmy's neighbors were. I hoped to recognize at least one or find someone willing to talk to me. I rang the doorbells on four houses before a man, about Emmy's—and my parents'—age opened his door. He looked kindly enough, but I patted the Mace in my pocket, just in case. Overall, I felt quite safe in Brooks Landing, but I kept it despite Clint's warning that I needed to take a class on the proper use of the stuff. I'd been meaning to spray a small amount near my face to see how I'd react, but I never got around to it.

I smiled, hoping to look harmless. “Hi, I'm Camryn Brooks.”

“I know who you are.” The more I studied the man, the more familiar he looked. “I'm Lester Susag.”

“Of course. Golly, it's been a few years.” He'd lost most of
his hair and put on at least fifty pounds in the last eighteen years. He'd owned a gas station in town when I was growing up.

He scratched his chin. “I'd say so. What can I do for you?”

“I have some questions about Emmy Anders if you don't mind letting me in for a few minutes.”

He drew his eyebrows into a single line frown. “I don't mind at all. Come right in.”

His house was the reverse floor plan of Emmy's. The living room was in the center of both houses, but Emmy's kitchen was off to the right, and Lester's was off to the left. He led me to the living room. “Can I take your coat?”

“Oh, no, thanks.” I sat down on the side chair he pointed to, and he sat on the one opposite it.

“That was quite the ordeal you had at your parents' store day before yesterday, and I was real sorry to hear Molly Dalton had died. She was a regular customer of mine back before I sold my station. But I sure can't say the same for her husband. He was kind of snooty, if you ask me. I'd see him go to the fancier place across the street that had a car wash. But never mind about that now. You're here about Emmy.”

“Yes, thank you. She had just started working for Alice Nelson and me, helping us for the holiday season. She and Molly started the same day, in fact. But then Molly died and Emmy got called away to help someone. I was wondering if you might know where she went, where it is her sick friend lives?”

Lester's face wrinkled up when he squinted. “Emmy went off somewhere?”

“Yes, she said she was leaving early yesterday morning.”

“Lo and behold. No, she didn't mention it to me. I noticed her living room lamp was on last night when I got home from my bowling league, about ten or so.”

“Would she leave her lamp on when she's gone?”

“I wouldn't think so.”

“Did she talk about a friend who has been having health problems, one who might need Emmy to drop everything at a moment's notice?”

“No, I can't say she's talked about anyone like that. Have you tried her cell phone?”

“I didn't know she had one.” She told me she didn't.

“Sure she does, like most of us seniors in this day and age.” Lester patted his pocket. “It's comforting to know that help is just a phone call away.”

I smiled. “Do you have her number?”

“No. I know she called my house from her cell phone once or twice, but I never thought to write the number down. I have her home number, though.”

I nodded. “I don't mean to pry, but have you gotten to know Emmy?”

Lester smiled. “Well, as a matter of fact, we have stepped out a time or two, for dinner or what have you. I lost my wife four years ago, and it's been nice to have someone to do things with once in a while. And neither one of us is interested in anything serious, so it works out just dandy.”

I wasn't there to hear the details about their relationship, but it seemed like I was talking to the right guy, after all. “I'm so sorry about your wife.”

He drew his lips into a thin line and nodded. “I still miss her like the dickens, but I can't bring her back.”

“No.” I paused for a second. “But it's good to know you've found a friend in Emmy. And don't take this wrong, but she's always seemed a little lonely to me. I wasn't sure if she had any real friends around here.”

“You're right about Emmy being lonely, but she mostly keeps to herself anyway. I think she got real hurt, probably when her husband died. And I wouldn't be surprised if she's afraid she'll get hurt again. I've been there myself.”

“Did her husband die suddenly?” I felt a twinge of guilt asking that.

“I just don't know. When I asked her about him, she said she just couldn't talk about it. It struck me as kind of strange, because after my wife passed on, that's all I could talk about for a long, long time.”

“I guess each one of us handles things a little differently, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“I wonder why Emmy moved to Brooks Landing at this stage in her life, with no family here or anything.”

“That I do know. She was downsizing from a bigger home in Minneapolis. She used to drive through Brooks Landing on her way to a vacation spot up north, and she thought our small town was quaint.”

The word “quaint” sounded funny coming out of Lester's mouth and made me smile. “Okay. Well, I better get to work and let you get on with your day.” I stood up. “It was good seeing you again.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Cami. It seems to me you must be looking for Emmy for a particular reason, like you're worried about her.”

“Lester, between you and me, I am a little worried, because she left so suddenly and didn't tell me where she was going. I wanted to talk to her to see if she's all right.”

Lester stood and put his hands on his hips. “Now you got me to wondering if I shouldn't be worried myself.”

That was the last thing I wanted him to do. I gave a little chuckle. “Hey, no need for that. How about we make a pact? If I hear from her, I'll let you know. And if you hear from her, you let me know. Deal?” I offered my hand.

He took my hand in his, and we shook on it. “Deal.”

“Good. If you have a piece of paper, I'll write my numbers down for you.”

Lester nodded. “And I'll do the same for you.”

—

I
drove away from Lester's wondering why Emmy's lamp had been on the past night. And why she hadn't told the man who seemed to be her best friend that she was leaving. And where in the world she was going. My parents always told a neighbor when they'd be gone, even if it was just overnight, so they could keep an eye on their place.

Emmy Anders kept secrets, including two very big ones: her real name was Emaline Andersohn, and she was the prime suspect in her husband's suspicious death. Jeepers creepers, creepers jeepers. Would we ever see Emmy again? Maybe she had driven across the Canadian border by now. She'd taken on another identity at least once, so what would stop her from doing it again?

—

I
pulled into the lot behind the shops and parked, wishing I didn't have to go to work. Emmy's past and her strange behavior after the police questioned her about Molly's death troubled me no end. How could I even start looking for her when she'd kept the details of her life under lock and key?

Pinky was adding coffee grounds to one of her machines when I walked through the door. “What's wrong?” she said.

I slipped off my coat and laid it on a counter stool. I'd never had a good poker face with my friends. “It's Emmy. I'd like to find out where she is. I just talked to one of her neighbors—you know Lester who used to own the gas station?”

“Sure, I know Lester. Cami, it's up to the police to find her.”

“There's nothing wrong with helping them.”

“They're the police. They have their own special ways of finding people.”

It was better to drop the whole subject. “That's true. Have you been busy?” I walked to the other side of the counter and stood beside her.

“No more than usual. Enough so I didn't think about Molly every single, solitary minute.”

“I dreamed about her last night. Molly, I mean. Actually, it was Molly's spirit, and she was telling me her killers were in the shop.”

Pinky let out a little scream and covered her ears. “That is too scary. See, that proves you have extraterrestrial powers.” She dropped her hands to her sides.

“You mean . . . Never mind.” She had trouble with the word extrasensory. “Getting back to the dream; the shop was full of people, but all their faces were fuzzy, so I couldn't make out who they were. And when Molly talked, she didn't have a voice, so I had to read her lips.”

Pinky covered her ears again. “Molly's ghost was in your shop? What if it comes here for real?” She moved her hands to her shoulders, crossing her chest.

I went on, “Then after I woke up, I wondered if she had really said, ‘My killer is in the shop,' instead of ‘My killers are in the shop.'”

She shook her hands out to release some nervous energy. “I can't stand it. If I have a dream like that I'll probably die of fright right then and there in my sleep. So if that happens, you'll know why I kicked the bucket.”

I reached over and put my hands on hers to stop the shaking. “People don't die from dreams.” They didn't, did they? “Pinky, if you ever have a nightmare like that, call me right away and we'll talk through it.”

“Okay.” She didn't sound convinced. And I'd be surprised if she'd ever had a nightmare in her entire lifetime. Once Pinky was asleep, she slept like a rock. When we were young and had slumber parties, Erin and I could laugh and talk and even tickle her, but she'd be dead to the world until morning.

The shop door bell dinged, and Clint came in looking as forbidding as all get out. “We got the autopsy report this morning.”

Pinky grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Tell us, Clint. I can't stand it anymore,” she said.

Putting aside the tragic fate Molly had suffered, I knew the autopsy results could greatly impact our businesses and maybe even bring them to a sudden end.

Clint was carrying a thin briefcase and pulled out a small stack of papers. He held it up, and we read the two highlighted phrases on the cover sheet: “Cause of Death: Cyanide Poisoning” and “Manner of Death: Homicide.”

The panicky feeling that had become all too familiar the
past two days spread through me and started my heart pounding. “I was hoping you were wrong about the poisoning, Clint.” But I'd known all along he'd been right. Even my dreams of Molly's talkative spirit supported his theory.