David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“That’s interesting. I wonder if he has a connection to Josie.”

“So do I.”

“Any idea where Casey was tonight?”

“Paulette told me he was at the Rustic, same as every night. I offered to call him for her but she didn’t want me to call anyone. The woman went totally Garbo on me.”

Mitch beamed at her. “That was totally an old movie reference. I’m rubbing off on you, admit it.”

“It’s true, you are.” She sighed. “Won’t be long now before I’m talking for hours on end about the pulsing cinematic muscularity of Mr. Stan Fuller.”

“It’s Sam Fuller. And just for that I’m going to make you watch The Steel Helmet .”

“Yum, can’t wait. What was she wearing?”

“Who?”

“Josie. You said she showed up here not long after I left. Just wondered if she was wet or muddy or whatever.”

“Her slicker and rain boots were wet. Her hair was dry. So were her jeans and her socks.”

“She could have changed clothes before she came over here. She didn’t happen to smell of whiskey, did she?”

“No, she didn’t. I pumped her a bit about her childhood in Maine.”

“And?…”

“She got surprisingly defensive, bordering on hostile.”

“Mitch, we have to take a good, hard look at her. Will you be okay with that?”

“Sure I will. Do what you have to do. I just have one small problem.”

“What is it?”

“Think about where we’re going with this. We’re suggesting that Josie Cantro is a cold, calculating predator who’s been using her life-coaching practice to troll for juicy prey. That she targeted Bryce, bedded him, killed him and picked him clean. That she’s the proverbial black widow-an evil bitch who has no sense of morality and zero conscience. I’ve spent a decent amount of time around Josie and, well, I’m not there yet. Are you? Do you really think that’s who she is?”

“I don’t know. But I can guarantee you this-starting first thing tomorrow morning, we sure as hell are going to find out.”

“Awfully darned nice of you to do this, Mitch.”

“My pleasure, Rut. Well, not a pleasure. But I’m happy to do it.”

The old postmaster was riding next to him in the Studey. Rut had spent another night in his house on Maple Lane, what with the torrents of rain falling on top of all of that snow. Mitch was driving him back to his room at Essex Meadows, with a stopover to pay a call on Paulette, his grieving protege.

“Don’t know what to say to her,” Rut grumbled. “I never know what to say after somebody’s gone.”

“You don’t have to say a thing. It’s enough that you’re showing up.”

It was a bright, beautiful morning. The air was incredibly fresh. But it was also chilly enough that last night’s rain had frozen over in the hours before dawn, leaving a gleaming coat of ice behind. Mitch had to take a scraper to his pickup’s windshield and spray its door handles with WD-40 before he could pry the doors open. Frozen puddles remained here and there on the plowed road surfaces, although those would be thawing soon. It was supposed to climb into the toasty upper thirties by the afternoon.

He’d expected to find many cars parked outside of Paulette’s raised ranch on Grassy Hill Road. This was Dorset. Friends and neighbors always showed up when you were hurting. Yet only Casey’s blue Toyota Tacoma was parked in the driveway.

Rut sat in his heavy wool coat staring at the house. “She doesn’t have any family to be with her. Her parents are dead. And the folks at the Post Office need to get their work done. They’ll stop by later to pay their respects, I imagine. Paulette isn’t the sort who makes a lot of friends. But Hank had a million of them.” The old man heaved a reluctant sigh. “Guess we’d better go on in. It’s not getting any warmer in this here truck. You should have the heater looked at, young fella.”

“Rut, there is no heater.”

“Well then, that explains it.”

Paulette’s front walk and steps hadn’t been salted or sanded. The brick pavers were perilously slick.

“You’d better hold on to me, Rut. I don’t want you to fall.”

“I don’t want me to fall either,” Rut said, grabbing hold of Mitch’s arm with a grip of iron.

They made it up the steps to the frozen welcome mat. Mitch rang the bell.

Paulette opened the door, smelling strongly of wine and cigarettes. Her face softened when she saw Rut standing there. “Hello, Rutherford,” she murmured, blinking back tears.

“Hey there, young lady,” he said gently, stepping inside to give her a hug. “Anybody else here?”

“Not right now. A bunch of neighbors came by with casserole dishes but I sent them packing. Why do people always bring casserole dishes when somebody dies? Hank’s dead and so, what, I’m suddenly supposed to be in the mood for ham and scalloped potatoes?”

Mitch stood there salivating. Maybe she wasn’t, but he sure was. He had a nice big hunk of Harrington’s ham in the fridge, too. Plenty of Yukon Golds. Assorted bits of stinky Cato Corner Farm cheeses. Yummy.

“I didn’t feel like talking to anyone,” Paulette added, leading them inside past her cluttered living room, which Mitch noticed had a really cool vintage Lionel train set all laid out and ready to go. “Besides, a postal inspector from New York City showed up here at the crack of dawn and grilled me for a solid hour. Get this, will you? They’re bringing in a temporary supervisor from Norwich. I have to stay home for a few days.”

“That’s because you’re grieving,” Rut said to her. “You should take some time off. And I’m sure he wasn’t grilling you. Just following procedure.”

“No, he was definitely grilling me. Treated me like I don’t know how to do my job. He was a nasty little man. I didn’t care for his tone at all.”

There were two big recliners in the TV room, which smelled of cigarette smoke and dirty laundry. The television was turned off but Mitch could hear a TV blaring from somewhere else in the house. Paulette sat down in one of the recliners and lit a cigarette. A half-empty gallon jug of cheap Chablis and a wineglass were on the end table next to her.

She poured some wine into the glass. “Care for any?”

Rut said, “Kind of early in the day, isn’t it?”

“I’m taking a personal day. That means I can do anything I personally feel like doing, which happens to be getting slightly blitzed.” She gazed up at the old man, her eyes crinkling. “Why did he do it, Rutherford?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, hon.”

“I would have helped him. I would have done anything for him. He didn’t have to steal .”

“Slow yourself down. You don’t know for a fact that Hank was stealing.”

“He texted me. He said it was all his fault.”

“The man was preparing to take his own life. There’s no telling what he meant by that. He could have been referring to how unhappy he was. Trying to let you know that it was his own doing, as opposed to something you might have said or done. That makes sense, doesn’t it, Mitch?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Sure it does. So don’t get out ahead of yourself, okay?”

“I just wish … If Hank felt cornered and desperate he should have told me.”

“You’re right, he should have. But fellas aren’t made that way. We don’t go crying to mommy.”

Mitch nodded. “We’re taught from a very early age that it’s a sign of weakness.”

“Is that right?” Paulette shot back. “Tell me, what’s weaker than killing yourself?”

Mitch had no answer for that. “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”