Bill Pronzini - Snowbound

Now Coopersmith began filling one of his blackened Meerschaum pipes from the canister of tobacco on the low table between them. “You think the weather will hold, Johnny?” he asked.

“Hard to say. Forecast is clear for the next couple of days, but we may be in for another storm either Saturday or Sunday. If you want a pessimistic opinion, Lew, it will be two or three days after Christmas before the pass is open again.” He paused and frowned into his cup. “I just hope the baby doesn’t decide to arrive until New Year’s now.”

“Even if it does, Ann will be fine. Doc Edwards has delivered dozens of babies in private homes.”

“I know, but I’d feel better if she had hospital care when the time comes.”

“We’ll all feel better once things are back to normal. I don’t like being cut off from the outside world for so long a time, even if it isn’t total isolation. It makes me feel helpless and vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what?”

Coopersmith fired his pipe with a kitchen match. When he had it drawing to his satisfaction, he said, “Well I don’t know exactly. I guess it’s just that I don’t have complete control of my own life at the moment. It’s like being up in an airplane-you’ve got to depend on somebody else. And when you’re dependent, you’re vulnerable. That make any sense to you?”

“I think it does,” Tribucci said. “In fact, I suppose in a way that’s why I keep worrying about Ann and the baby.”

Leaning back in his armchair, Coopersmith sighed and chewed reflectively on the stem of his pipe. At length he asked, “What do you make of the cafe break-ins, Johnny?”

“I don’t know what to make of them. It’s a damned peculiar business, happening two nights in a row like that.”

Coopersmith nodded. On the second occasion, as on the first, the rear door had been jimmied and propped open; but the damage had been considerably heavier, owing to the magnitude of Tuesday night’s storm: bottles and jars blown off shelves and shattered on the floor, cans and perishables ruinously frozen. Frank McNeil had been livid, far more concerned about his private property than the avalanche which had left the valley snowbound. That was the primary reason he had decided to close the cafe until after Christmas.

“I talked to most everyone in the valley yesterday and Tuesday,” Coopersmith said, “and drew a complete blank. Whoever did it pulled it off clean both times.”

“Well, at least it didn’t happen again last night.”

“That’s something, anyway.”

Tribucci made a wry mouth. “McNeil says that’s because yesterday he told Zachary Cain he knew he was the one responsible and was going to have him arrested as soon as the pass is cleared. Says that put the fear of God into Cain.”

“Horse apples,” Coopersmith said.

“Yeah. Cain is a funny sort, that’s true enough, but he just doesn’t strike me as the type to go in for malicious mischief.”

“Me neither. He hasn’t bothered a soul since he’s been here. Besides, the idea that he would do it because McNeil asked me to investigate him when he first came is ridiculous. I told Frank there wasn’t any way Cain could have found out about that in the first place, but trying to talk sense to McNeil is like trying to talk sense to a ground squirrel. He’ll be lucky if Cain doesn’t sue him for slander.”

“That’s for sure,” Tribucci agreed. “Thing is, though, I can’t picture anyone else in the valley doing the break-ins either. Not for any reason.”

“Same here. But somebody did it, and for some reason.” Coopersmith’s pipe had gone out, and he relighted it. “Well, whatever the answer, I’ll see if I can’t ferret it out sooner or later.”

The two men had a second cup of coffee and talked briefly of Christmas, of what gifts they had gotten for their wives-Ellen was in the kitchen, out of earshot-and determined they would get together at Vince’s house on Christmas Eve for some traditional eggnog and cookies and caroling.

When Tribucci had gone to relieve his brother at the Sport Shop, Coopersmith finished his pipe and brooded mildly over the slide and the cafe break-ins. He poured himself a third cup of coffee and, tasting it, decided it could use a little sweetening. He stood up and went quietly to the sideboard for the brandy decanter.

Wearing warm old clothes and a pair of fur-lined boots, the Reverend Peter Keyes left his cottage at the rear of the All Faiths Church at one thirty to do his daily shopping.

He was not as deeply concerned about the pass slide as some of the other valley residents, although it would prevent him from spending Christmas afternoon and evening with his relatives in Soda Grove. Coming so close to Yuletide, it was of course an unfortunate thing; but no one had been killed or injured, for which thanks could be given, and the Reverend Mr. Keyes was not one to question an act of God in any circumstance. For all the inconvenience to his friends and neighbors and to himself, it was nonetheless the season of joy and charity and great faith: the celebration of the birthday of Jesus Christ.

The Reverend Mr. Keyes walked along the side of the church, beneath the three slender, obelisk-shaped windows and the sharply pitched alpine roof with its squared, four-windowed belfry and tall steeple at the rear: a simple frame church which, he felt, suited perfectly the simple life of those who made the Sierra their home. As he started toward the street, he noticed a medium-sized, unfamiliar man standing at the signboard adjacent to the front walk, reading the arrangement of glassed-in plastic letters which told of the coming Sunday services.

The minister altered his path and approached the stranger-no doubt one of the San Francisco businessmen he had heard were staying at Mule Deer Lake. Perhaps, since the man was reading the signboard, he was thinking of attending services; the prospect, if true, was a pleasing one.

When the newcomer heard the Reverend Mr. Keyes’ steps in the snow, he turned. Very dark, he was, almost sooty-looking, with a hard cast to his face and a feral, overbright quality to his eyes. But the minister well knew how deceiving appearances could be, and as he reached the man, he smiled and extended his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Reverend Peter Keyes, the pastor of All Faiths Church.”

“Charley Adams is my name,” Kubion said. He took the proffered hand. “Nice to meet you, Reverend.”

“I noticed you reading the signboard, Mr. Adams. May I ask if you’ll be joining our congregation on Sunday?”

“Well, I just might do that, all right.”

“We’ll be more than pleased to have you.”

“There’s only one service, I see.”

“Yes-at noon. The village is really too small to make more than one feasible during the winter, although we have two throughout the summer season.”

Kubion glanced at the church. “Are the doors open now?”

“Oh, of course. They’re seldom locked.”

“I’d like to step inside for a minute, if I could.”

“Certainly, please do.”

Kubion nodded a parting and moved away along the front walk. The Reverend Mr. Keyes watched him climb the five front steps and enter the church and then smiled gently to himself. Appearances were indeed misleading; Charley Adams was an agreeable sort of person-and no doubt a good and devout, if somewhat diffident, Christian.

He thought Kubion had gone into the church to pray.

John Tribucci was alone in the Sport Shop, stocking shelves in the tobacco section, when the dark stranger came in at two o’clock.

“Something I can do for you?” Tribucci asked pleasantly.

“Well, maybe there is,” Kubion said. “I was wondering if you’ve got any snowmobiles in stock.”