David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“That was just the eggnog talking. They’re fine. He’d like to see Casey living in his own place, that’s all. So would I. Nothing would make me happier than Casey settling down with a nice girl instead of hanging around at the Rustic with that drugged-out skank Gigi Garanski.”

The Rustic Inn was Dorset’s designated skeejie boy bar. Most of the brawls that Des had to break up during the course of a month took place there. “So Casey’s into Gigi?”

Paulette nodded glumly. “And Gigi’s not even his girl. She goes with Tommy Stratton.”

Whenever there was a brawl at the Rustic, Tommy Stratton was usually in the middle of it. Most people in Dorset knew him as Tommy the Pinhead. He was unsavory, unbright and scary. Hired muscle who was connected with the Costagno crime family. The Costagnos had an iron hold on whatever bad went on in Connecticut, Rhode Island and Western Massachusetts.

Sandy came over and refilled their cups.

Paulette dumped more cream in hers. “Can you help me, Des?”

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me the rest.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Des glared at her. “Yes, you do.”

Paulette cocked her head at her curiously. “No, I don’t. And I don’t understand why you’re being so confrontational.”

“Because you’re disrespecting me and I don’t like it. Are you going to say the words or do I have to say them?”

Paulette sat there in tight silence, reddening.

“Fine, I’ll say them. I used to live with a seventy-eight-year-old woman who happens to be one of those people whose mail has gone missing.”

Paulette grimaced. “Mrs. Tillis, I know. She gave me an earful last night.”

“That wasn’t an earful. If you want an earful just get her started on Rush Limbaugh. Bella’s in good health for a woman her age. But she takes quite a few prescription meds-Lipitor for her cholestorol, Celebrex for her arthritis pain, Synthroid for her thyroid, Boniva for her osteoporosis and two or three others that I can’t think of right now. She gets them by mail from her online pharmacy. People of all ages get their meds that way. A lot of those people have high annual deductibles on their health plans. When December rolls around they try to stock up because they’ve finally met their deductible and, lo and behold, their insurer actually has to foot the bill. This happens to be December, Paulette. Those mailboxes on Hank’s route are bursting with little bubble-wrapped pouches full of meds. It’s a violation of the Controlled Substances Act for online pharmacies to send anabolic steroids or Oxycontin through the U.S. Mail. But they can send just about anything else. Meds that wake you up. Meds that knock you out. Meds that make you feel happy all over. The high school kids here in Dorset love to party with that stuff. Every time I bust up a late-night beer bash I find heaps of Vicodin, Percocet, Valium, Xanax, Prozac, you name it. And, cue the drum roll, it’s all just sitting out there in those mailboxes waiting for someone to snatch it and sell it. We are not talking about someone taking Hank’s Christmas cookies or a DVD stocking-stuffer of Cars 2. We are talking about the illegal trafficking of prescription drugs. Now, were you ever going to mention that to me or were you just hoping that I’m totally stupid?”

Paulette breathed in and out for a long moment, her right eye twitching slightly. Then she reached for her coffee mug and took a sip, the mug trembling in her hand. “I’m not real proud of myself right now. I’m supposed to be in charge. I am in charge. I do a damned good job, too. My people work hard and smart and safe. They respect me. And, at the first sign of trouble, what do I do? Go running to good old Rut. I guess I feel like I’m in over my head,” she confessed. “And I’m a little ashamed of myself. A lot ashamed. I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

She gazed at Des searchingly. “Can you help me?”

“I’m sympathetic to your situation. The postal inspectors won’t understand our local customs. You don’t want Hank to get in trouble. I get that. But this may be a serious matter. I don’t have a lot of leeway here.”

Des’s cell phone vibrated on her belt. The 911 dispatcher was calling to report that the owner of the Village Bootery had just apprehended a shoplifter trying to slip out of the door with a four-hundred-dollar pair of Ugg boots.

The shoplifter was eighteen-year-old Kylie Champlain.

Des stood up and reached for her Gore-Tex storm parka. “Paulette, I’ll be in touch, okay?” Then she hurried outside, jumped into her cruiser and took off.

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Ordinarily, the historic district was one of the most splendid sights on earth when snow was coming down. And there had to be a blanket of eight inches of it by now, Mitch figured as he drove past the fork to Johnny Cake Hill Road. Dozens of neighborhood kids were sledding down the steep hill that was, in warmer months, the third fairway of the country club. He took it slow and easy when he rounded the bend by the steepled white Congregational Church. He had snow tires on his old Studey pickup, not to mention two sixty-pound sand bags positioned over each rear wheel. But it still didn’t handle well in heavy snow like this, which clung to the majestic old maples and the beautiful colonial mansions that were all decorated for the holidays.

Ordinarily, it warmed Mitch’s insides to make this drive on such a morning. The frantic modern world was forced to surrender to a kinder, gentler pace from out of another era. It was all so peacefully unreal that he half-expected to hear a director, most likely Frank Capra, holler, “And … action! ” But Dorset Street was no movie set. And this was no movie. And today Mitch’s insides weren’t feeling warm at all. Because Bryce Peck’s very real life had abruptly ended this morning. What Mitch felt inside was a hollow emptiness. The quiet that enveloped him as he drove along wasn’t serene. It was ominous. Because Mitch had been there himself. Wrestled with his own demons after Maisie died. For months he’d seen no point in going on. Only his own pain. He couldn’t imagine that the pain would ever end. Didn’t believe it ever would. He remembered quite clearly the words he’d said to himself that first rainy night he’d arrived in this little gem of a town on a Weekend Getaway assignment for the newspaper’s travel section. He’d checked into his room at the Frederick House Inn. Taken a bath in the claw-footed tub. Then burrowed into his canopied bed and, lying there grief-stricken and alone, had thought: I am so glad I do not own a gun for my personal protection. Because if I had one I would shoot myself.

Bryce had been clean and sober. A terrific woman loved him and believed in him. He was home again. Hell, he even owned that beautiful home, according to Josie, who had both a professional and personal stake in him. And now he had nothing and no one. Bryce had had every reason to stare down his demons and keep on going. And yet he’d chosen death. Why? “ Just an awkward stage ,” he’d scrawled on that stupid Post-it. As if that explained a goddamned thing.

It would be a white Christmas this year. No doubt about that. But it would not be a merry one.

When Mitch reached Maple Lane he pulled up outside of Rut’s little farmhouse and got out, surrounded by the snowy silence as he tromped his way to the front door. Last night’s party hadn’t been the old postmaster’s only Christmas gift. Madge and Mary had also granted his deepest wish, which was to spend a night in his own bed instead of returning to Essex Meadows. Thanks to the blizzard, he wasn’t going anywhere now. The sisters were looking in on him regularly to make sure he was okay.