David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

This much Mitch already knew. Rut had told him. “Any particular reason?”

“He wanted her to draw up his will for him.”

“Bryce didn’t have a will?”

“Not until last week, according to Glynis.”

“I wonder if that means he was, you know, planning to do what he did.”

“I wondered about that, too,” Josie said.

“Why did Glynis call you tonight?”

“To let me know that Bryce left the house on Big Sister to me. It’s mine, Mitch, free and clear. Or it will be as soon as his estate clears probate. She also wanted to warn me that I’m going to have a nasty fight on my hands.”

“What kind of a nasty fight?”

“Apparently, as soon as Des notified Preston Peck that Bryce was dead Preston phoned Glynis to inform her he’d be on the next plane out of Chicago to come here and kick me the hell out. She had to tell him not so fast, cowboy. And Preston went absolutely ballistic. As far as he’s concerned the Big Sister house belongs to the Peck family and it’s going to stay in the Peck family. Glynis thinks he’ll contest the will. Fight me in court over it, knowing that I’m not someone who can afford a long, drawn-out legal battle.”

“That sounds really pleasant.”

“Doesn’t it? Glynis wants me to stand my ground. She gave me the names of two lawyers who she said are very good.”

Mitch sipped his wine, peering at her. “You didn’t know anything about this?”

“I had no idea.”

“Bryce didn’t tell you that he’d drawn up his will?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you that he’d been to see Glynis?”

“ No . And please stop interrogating me, will you?”

“Sorry, I guess I’ve been around Des too long.” Mitch listened to the rain pounding on the roof. “I wonder why he didn’t tell you.”

“It doesn’t surprise me in the least. Bryce could be very secretive. The weird thing is I don’t even want the damned house.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not mine. It’ll never feel like mine.”

“If that’s the case then your lawyer can probably make a deal with the Peck family.”

Josie stared into the fire. “Glynis did mention something like that. Reaching a financial settlement, I mean. It just … It seems so crass and disgusting to be talking about money while Bryce is still lying in a body bag somewhere. As far as I’m concerned Preston can just take the damned place. I don’t belong out here. And I for damned sure have no business being a life coach. I’ve messed up everyone who I’ve come in contact with. Bryce chose death over sharing his life with me. Casey is a clinging nutso. And now Hank is gone, too. I’m no good at what I do, Mitch. I’m no good, period.”

“That’s not true, Josie. You’ve helped a lot of people. They count on you. I know I do. I’d miss you if you weren’t around.”

She looked at him searchingly. “Do you really mean that?”

“I really do. Who’ll run with me every morning if you leave?”

She was still looking at him. “Des told you, didn’t she? About finding me on the sofa with Casey. I can see it in your eyes.”

Mitch reached over and stroked Clemmie, who stirred from her nap and began to make small motorboat noises. “See what, Josie?”

“That you’re wondering about me now. Trying to figure out if I’m a scheming, money-grubbing slut. I’m not, Mitch. And I’m sorry I lied to you about what happened. Friends shouldn’t do that to each other.”

“You’re right, they shouldn’t. So why did you?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think less of me. You have no idea how much I look up to you. Mitch, if I lose you I’ll never make it through this. Are you still my friend?”

“Sure, I am,” he said, because it was what she needed to hear. “Don’t sweat it. You’ve got enough to worry about. Seriously, are you thinking about leaving town?”

She nodded her head. “It’s time for me to move on.”

“Will you go back to Maine?”

She glanced at him sharply. “Why would I want to do that?”

“It’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

“Why are you suddenly asking me about Maine?”

“Just curious. You don’t talk much about your childhood.”

“So?”

“So most people do. Have you got any brothers or sisters?”

“I had a father,” she said quietly. “He was a logger and a mean drunk. Used to beat the crap out of my mother and me every Saturday night. He took off for good when I was twelve. After that, it was just mom and me freezing our asses off in a drafty trailer. I’m trailer-park trash through and through, Mitch. I ran away when I was sixteen. I’ve been on my own ever since. I put myself through school. I’ve never had anyone to look after me-especially a big brother.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’re the first male friend I’ve ever had who hasn’t tried to get in my pants. You don’t even joke about it.”

“I’m in a committed relationship, remember?”

“Yeah, like that’s ever stopped any of you.”

“You haven’t met many nice Jewish boys, have you?”

“I haven’t met many nice boys, period.”

“So how do you like it? Having a big brother, I mean.”

“I’m not sure. I still can’t decide whether I should be insulted or flattered.”

“Try flattered. I’ve never had a kid sister. And I don’t want you to leave. Please stay, Josie. If you go away then I’ll have Preston Peck for a neighbor and that would be too heinous to contemplate. Promise me you’ll think about staying, okay?”

“Okay,” she conceded reluctantly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Now how about watching Palm Beach Story with me? I promise that you’ll laugh nonstop.”

“No, thanks. I have a ton of stuff to do.” She got up and retrieved her rain slicker and boots, smiling that great big smile of hers. “But thanks, naybs. For everything.”

“Any time, naybs,” he said, thinking that she seemed much more like her usual sunny, upbeat self again.

Unless, of course, it was all an act. Which he had to admit was entirely possible. Because it was becoming more and more obvious to Mitch with each passing hour that he really didn’t know Josie Cantro at all.

Paulette Zander’s house was a dreary little raised ranch, just like a lot of the other houses on Grassy Hill Road, a blue-collar enclave up near Uncas Lake. The door of her two-car garage was open. Her Nissan Pathfinder was parked in one space. The other space was empty. No cars were parked in the driveway.

Des rang the doorbell and stood in the rain listening to the thudding of footsteps as Paulette came to the door. She did not relish this. Delivering bad news to loved ones was the hardest thing she had to do-especially when the circumstances called for her to be less than completely candid. At this stage of the investigation she had to paint Hank’s death as the suicide that it was meant to look like. She couldn’t let on that they felt sure he’d been murdered. Not when there was a chance, however remote, that Paulette was mixed up in it herself.

When Paulette opened the door she had on the same sweater and slacks that she’d been wearing at the Post Office that morning. “He still hasn’t shown up,” she told Des warily. “Have you heard anything?”

“May I come in, Paulette?”

The house was even drearier on the inside-the ceilings low, the harvest gold shag carpeting worn and dingy. The stale, overheated air smelled like dirty laundry. Des removed her wet slicker and hat and hung them on a peg rack by the front door. The living room, which was right off of the entry hall, was crowded full of Hank’s tubas-three of them, to be exact-a Christmas tree and an elaborate electric train set that looked as if it dated back to the 1950s. Paulette led Des down a short hallway to the dining room, which had been converted into a TV room. A matched pair of huge plush recliners sat parked in front of a sixty-inch flat-screen TV. Paulette seemed to be watching a reality show about hoarders. Des had always wondered who watched such shows. Now she knew. On an end table between the giant recliners there was a gallon jug of Carlo Rossi Chablis, a half-empty wineglass, an ashtray and a pack of Marlboros. Des could smell spaghetti sauce simmering through the open kitchen doorway. And see that the kitchen table was set for two. The lady was still waiting for her man to come home for dinner.