David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“I found out that it’s a whole lot bigger than some kids swiping Hank’s Christmas cookies. Prescription meds are disappearing. That’s serious business. I’m kicking it to the postal inspectors tomorrow. It’s their case.”

“Now that you bring it up something has occurred to me.”

“Um, okay, you brought it up. And something always occurs to you.” Des gazed at him sternly before she rolled her eyes and said, “What is it?”

“That the right answer’s often the most obvious one.”

“You mean that Hank’s been stealing the stuff himself?”

“Exactly.”

“That did occur to me,” she conceded. “It would explain why Paulette’s been acting so tense. Maybe she’s been thinking it, too. Last thing in the world she’d want to do is bring down her own boyfriend. But answer me this-why would Hank resort to stealing his own mail?”

“He has big-time money problems. According to Rut Peck he owes his ex-wife a fortune.”

“Paulette mentioned he’d had a personal setback. He even started smoking again. You do know who helped him quit, don’t you?”

“Are we back to Josie again?”

“Does Rut think that Hank’s capable of something that extreme?”

“Absolutely. Mind you, Rut’s not exactly Hank’s biggest fan.”

“Why not?”

“Because he sees him a rival for Paulette’s affections. Like I told you-Rut’s real sweet on her.”

“The only mail that’s been disappearing is the mail on Hank’s route,” she said slowly. “If Hank has serious money problems then you’d have to take a good, hard look at him. I watched him deliver packages up and down Dorset Street today. Didn’t see him do a thing that wasn’t kosher. But I’d just spoken with him at the Post Office. Maybe he was just being careful.”

“You’d have to catch him in the act, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d have to catch him with other people’s mail in his wrongful personal possession. Except it’s not going to be me. It’s the postal inspectors who’ll go at him. And they’ll go at him hard.”

“There’s no way around that?”

“If he turned himself in they might cut him a deal. He’d have to give up his buyer.”

“What buyer?”

“Someone has been gobbling up those stolen prescription meds. Hank would have to finger that individual along with whoever else he’s been doing business with. If he did that he’d have a chance. He’s a solid career employee, active in the community.”

“But he’d lose his job.”

“Hell yes, he’d lose his job. But if Hank’s our grinch then he’ll have to pay the price.” Her cell phone rang. Des reached for it on the coffee table and took the call, her face tightening as she listened. Then she rang off and started toward the bathroom. Her uniform was hanging on the back of the door in there. “You’d better eat dinner without me. I’m going to be gone for a while.”

“What is it, Des?”

“Another suicide, that’s what. Hank Merrill just took his own life.”

The roads were all slushy and soupy now that so much wind-driven rain was coming down on top of all of that snow. Absolutely no one else was out as Des splish-splashed her way up Route 156, the narrow country road that twisted its way north of the village alongside of the Connecticut River into Dorset’s rural farm country.

Her destination was Kinney Road, a remote little lane that ran straight down to the river. Two immense riverfront mansions had been built there a hundred or so years ago. Both places were dark and neither driveway had been plowed. Evidently their owners were spending the holiday season somewhere warm. The road itself had been plowed very recently. She knew this because the town’s big orange plow truck was idling there in the rain when she pulled into the small parking lot at the foot of Kinney, which was a real happening place during the summer. Folks put their kayaks and canoes into the water there. This time of year no one came around.

Hank Merrill’s black VW Passat was parked facing the river. A garden hose was attached to the Passat’s tailpipe with silver duct tape. The other end of the hose was poking through the top of the driver’s side window, which had been rolled up tight enough to hold it in place. The driver’s door was open, the car’s interior lights on. Madge Jewett was crouched there in the rain having a look at Hank while Mary talked to the town plowman, Paul Fiore, who’d phoned it in. The girls’ EMT van idled next to his plow truck.

Des buttoned her rain slicker and got out, tugging her big hat tight to her head. She started with Paul, a heavyset fellow who worked for the town full-time.

“I made one pass through here this afternoon,” he informed her, running a hand over his face. The man was very upset. “It must have been about three o’clock. Nobody was here. When I came through again just now I noticed the Passat parked over there with its engine running. Didn’t pay it much mind. Figured it was a couple of kids playing grab-ass. They like these out-of-the-way places, you know?”

“Sure, I know,” Des said to him gently.

“I’ve been plowing nonstop since five o’clock this morning, so maybe I’m not as alert as I should be. I’d practically…” Paul broke off, gulping. “I did almost the whole parking lot before I noticed that hose sticking out of the tailpipe. When I realized what I was looking at I jumped right out and shut off his engine. But I knew I was too late soon as I got a good look at him. His eyes were … staring at me. And I’ve never seen anyone that color before.”

“Paul, did you touch him or move him? It’s okay if you did. I just need to know.”

“No, ma’am. Just reached in and shut off the engine.”

“Okay, thanks. We’ll need a statement from you later, but you can take off now. I know you’ve still got work to do.”

“Paul’s going to hang out with me for a few more minutes,” cautioned Mary. “He’s had a bit of a shock.”

Now Des splashed her way over to the Passat.

“Hello yet again,” groused Marge. “Is it just me or is this turning into our worst day ever?”

“We’ve had better, that’s for damned sure.”

Hank was seated behind the wheel, eyes wide open, his face a bright cherry red-carbon monoxide poisoning turns the hemoglobin bright. He wore an L.L. Bean ski jacket, jeans and snow boots. His cell phone was on the passenger seat next to him, along with a roll of silver duct tape, a box cutter and a business card.

“That’s your card,” Marge mentioned to her.

It was the one she’d given Hank that morning at the Post Office. He’d wanted to talk to her in private. Had something he wanted to tell her. Now he was dead.

“Any sign of a suicide note?”

“Didn’t see one. Maybe he left it at home before he drove out here.”

Des moved in for a closer look-and smell. Hank reeked of whiskey. The whole interior of the car did. “Is that Scotch I’m smelling?”

“Smells like bourbon to me.”

“It’s really strong. Why is it so strong?” She sniffed here, there, everywhere. And discovered that Hank had spilled it here, there, everywhere. On his chest. On his pants. On the upholstery of his seat. “So, let’s see, he drove up here and drank a whole lot. Rigged up the hose with the tape, got back in, closed the door and…” She was reaching for Hank’s cell phone-maybe he’d called someone-when she suddenly noticed something and stopped herself, her heart beating faster now.

She fetched the big Maglite and a pair of latex gloves from her cruiser and came back, aiming the flashlight’s beam at Hank’s forehead. On his right temple, there was a highly distinctive purple bruise showing through the cherry red, a perfectly cylindrical ring that was about the diameter of a nickel. She’d seen a bruise just like it once before-when a very messed up Colchester man had pressed the muzzle of a Smith and Wesson.38 Special against his distraught wife’s head and held it there for several minutes before he finally made the decision to use the gun on himself.