Freezer Burn: A Maggie Mercer Mystery
FREEZER BURN
A MAGGIE MERCER MYSTERY
JILL S. BEHE
DEVILDOG PRESS
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
About the Author
Also by Jill S. Behe
Also From DevilDog Press
Thank You
Copyright © 2015 by Jill S. Behe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing by Rob Miller
Cover Art by Dane @ebooklaunch
Created with Vellum
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Big THANK YOU to…
The Rebel’s fans – for their much valued support, and their patience.
Rob, my editor and friend – for his great sense of how best words and sentences work together.
Tracy Tufo, at Devil Dog Press – for continuing to make my dreams a reality.
The Berwick Veterinary Hospital – for answering my questions about multiple partners and sterility. Any exaggeration is all on me.
For Laurie Jean—
Friend
Confidante
Sister
CHAPTER 1
TUESDAY MORNING
Mid-January 2009
I MOVED in and kissed his bristly chin. “You and Ricky be careful out there today.”
We were in Wyatt’s kitchen finishing our coffee—much needed by me. I’m a grumpy morning person without my first hit of caffeine. Especially when the morning starts so darned early.
“Count on it, sweetheart. You’re not scared to be alone, are you?”
My eyes rolled and I pushed away. “As if.”
Chuckling, he swooped in for a real lip-lock that left me wishing we had another hour … or two.
My name is Magdalena Elizabeth Susannah Maria-Louise Mercer, a widow with two grown sons who live two towns over. I’m the dispatcher/admin-specialist for the Mossy Creek Police Department, and although not an officer of the law, I do have an honorary peacekeeper’s badge which gives certain privileges when dealing with lawbreakers.
A huge fan of detective stories, I’ve fancied myself a private eye from when I was barely in my teens watching Magnum, P.I., Remington Steel, and reading the exploits of such masters as: Nero Wolf, Sam Spade, Hercule Poirot, and Miss Marple, just to name a couple.
I like to think some of their methodologies rubbed off.
Are you snickering?
Ahem.
Our one officer, Ricky Anderson, played high school football with my oldest, and is a quarter of the way through his second year in law enforcement. While still a rookie, he proved worthy of the badge while investigating the death of Miranda Richards.
Wyatt Madison, the chief of police, excels at keeping the crime rate of Mossy Creek to a minimum.
Speaking of….
He’s also my fiancé. I still have to pinch myself to make sure it’s all real. As with any small town, rather than minding their own, most residents are prone to speculate about other people’s business. Therefore, over-the-clothesline, the relationship between Wyatt and I is the current hot topic. And to my way of thinking, there’s been too much behind-the-hand talk about whether we’re breaking any rules.
We’re not.
You did not just wink.
His boss is the same as mine, so technically we’re not fraternizing. But there’s no stopping diehards from psst-psst-ing whenever they see us together.
I feel like grabbing a bullhorn: “Come on, people, it’s going on seven months since we started dating.”
Shrug.
But I don’t.
Playfully squooshing me up against the kitchen counter, Wyatt reached around to grab the mid-sized cooler masquerading as a lunchbox. “Thanks for taking such good care of me, hon.”
His six-foot-four-inches were heavy as they leaned against me. No, he’s not fat, not by any stretch of the imagination, but still, the edge of the counter was digging painfully into my lower back. I smiled and patted his cheek. “You’re welcome, big guy. Don’t forget your thermos.” Another kiss. “Just so you know, I packed enough for Ricky, too.”
“Of course you did.”
My head tilted, eyes narrowed.
Wyatt backed up. “Hey, how about we do something Friday night?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“You betcha.” He winked. “Don’t want my woman irked at me. Besides, it’s been a while since we went out.”
I had to laugh. “You got yourself a date.”
“Great.” He glanced at the clock on the stove. “But we gotta go. Rick’s probably waiting.”
They were rendezvousing at the office and carpooling out to the lake. That meant I had to be ready or I’d be walking to work. (Sigh.) “I’ll be just a sec.”
Normally we wouldn’t be leaving so early, but Wyatt likes to be out at the lake before most everybody else arrives. Says it’s because he likes to go over the plan of the day with the project foreman.
Can’t prove it by me.
On a good day, the drive to the lake takes 20- to 30-minutes. But with the current snow-covered roads, it can take an hour or more. Even longer if somebody gets stuck. And with the weather the past month or more, we’ve had way more bad days than normal.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge Wyatt wanting to get a head start, but as mentioned, mornings aren’t my best part of the day. Especially when jolted from a magnificent dream by a bleeping alarm.
No, bleeping is not a substitute for a bad word.
O-dark-thirty, that’s what Wyatt calls this time of morning—a holdover from his military days. He says, “Duty before beauty, sweetheart,” and thinks that will mellow me.
Pfft!
Oh, you’re right, I could stop sleeping with him, but … would you? Besides, even if we weren’t cohabitating, I’d still be stranded.
If I had a car, I could drive myself. Can you believe it’s been over six months since my poor Gertie
went off to the great car lot in the sky?
Sure do miss her.
Miss my freedom more, though.
Having to rely on others is short-circuiting my independent streak. Me without transpo is … exacerbating, to say the least.
We haven’t spent a lot of time looking for her replacement, either. Wyatt keeps coming up with excuses about how now is not a good time to shop for a car. I’m beginning to think he has an ulterior motive for his lack of diligence.
You think so, too?
Hmm.
Recruit my boys?
Now there’s an idea.
Wyatt went out to start the Jeep while I finished straightening up the kitchen.
In order to melt off the overnight accumulation of snow and ice encrusted on the windows—we’re at his house, and there’s no garage—he has to let the Wrangler warm up for at least 10-minutes.
Mossy Creek’s been having a cold spell, and that’s an understatement. Yes, it’s going to be cold, it’s the middle of January, but you’d think it’d be a smidge warmer in the southern tier of Pennsylvania. Most winters do lean towards the mild side, but not this one.
Brrr!
Funny how we tend to forget what winters in this area were like 30- or 40-years ago. And then there’s those other people, the ones who get everybody in an uproar about the greenhouse effect. Like this is a unique weather pattern. They need a meteorological—see, I do know big words—history lesson.
Greenhouse effect?
Seriously?
Sheesh! We used to have snow coming out our ears every winter when I was growing up. We had a blast building snow forts, making tunnels from one backyard to another, and oh, man, those snowball fights. There were contests for the best snowman or snow-woman; and the more creative of us made snow-babies or snow-animals. All that cold whiteness wasn’t for just a week or two, either. Usually, from about Thanksgiving until the end of March, we’d be living like Eskimos.
And I can’t forget to mention ice skating on the local ponds and lakes. Ice got to be six inches thick, or more.
Of course, I know a lot of the ones yelling about ‘global warming’ are in their 20s. Well, just because they bellow the loudest, doesn’t mean they’re right.
Anyway, it’s been winter since about three days after turkey day with mountains of snow, pelting sleet, icy wind, and bitter bitter cold.
I kid you not.
It’s been quite some time since we had a season like this; seems like Jack Frost has been working overtime. For the past little while, temps have been hovering below zero, and the weatherman isn’t giving us anything to look forward to, just more of the same, at least for the next few weeks.
The thermometer on the bank’s clock, across the street from the office, was reading minus twelve this morning. Not counting the wind chill, of course. Could be the mechanics of the thing were encased in ice, but from the way it felt outside, I doubted it.
Either way, we’re in a deep freeze.
* * *
OBVIOUSLY WAITING FOR ME, Bruce Prescott, photographer for The Mossy Creek Gazette, was … dancing on the sidewalk. Doing a jig has been known to warm a body up, but there was an element of agitation in his bopping cadence.
Wyatt and I said our goodbyes and he and Rick took off for the lake. They’ve been coordinating the helpers and adding their muscles to the construction of the annual toboggan run. I watched it get built one year, and boy, oh boy, is that hard work. Sure is worth it, though. All of Mossy Creek looks forward to the special event as soon as the ice on Grand View Lake gets thick enough.
But.
I had to go around Bruce to get to the lock on the door, automatically checking the immediate vicinity for his usual shadow, Daniel Harris—an over-eager Clark Kent wannabe. Not seeing the big pain in the ass, I turned the key. “Good morning, Bruce.”
“Thank God you’re here, Miz Mercer! Sybil’s missing!”
CHAPTER 2
ON THE CLOCK
HALFWAY INTO THE ROOM, I stopped to look back at him. “Sybil who?”
He crowded me the rest of the way in and I maneuvered the door shut.
“Um.” Bruce swiped at his wool beanie and it came off in his gloved hand. “Sybil, uh, Sybil Tolliver. She’s an investigative reporter from Maryland, or Delaware, maybe Jersey, somewhere over that way. Anyhoo, she was supposed to meet me last night at Annetta’s, to discuss this article she’s writing. Wanted me to take pictures, but she never showed.”
He talked as I flipped on the lights and spun the dial on the thermostat to 68°Farenheit—wishing I could push it to 72. There’s always a sweater hung over the back of my chair, though. It’s been needed, more often than not.
“I got worried and went over to The Inn at the End,” he continued, wringing his cap like it was full of water. “That’s where she’s staying. Miz Jones says Sybil’s not been back since she—uh, Sybil that is—and a gentleman caller left last night around six.
“Something’s wrong, Miz Mercer. She wouldn’t’ve taken off like that. She set up the meet. She’d’ve met me, ya know? Something must’ve happened that she couldn’t.”
“How well do you know this woman, Bruce?”
“I, uh, just met her yesterday, but—”
“Did you check her credentials with your office? Do you know for sure she’s a reporter?”
He frowned. “Well, no. But—”
“Did she tell you anything about the story she was working on?”
He huffed, looking irritated and confused at the same time. “Um, no. But—”
I laid my hand on his arm. “Look Bruce, I’m not saying she was lying to you, but you need to think about those things.”
“Well, yeah. I know that. And I was thinkin’ of that when Miz Jones said she’d gone off with that guy. But she wouldn’t’ve gone. Sybil, I mean. Not if she’d known she wouldn’t be back for our meeting. I wouldn’t think so, anyways.”
Bruce was nothing, if not stubborn, which, in his line of work, could be a good thing. I wanted to roll my eyes. Guys can be so gullible when it comes to aiding a pretty girl. Especially the boys who have trouble looking at a female—without turning every shade of pink—let alone talking to one.
“I understand. But, if I know anything about investigative reporters, it’s that they will follow a lead, without thought or consideration for anyone or anything. They can’t help themselves. So, if she’s for real, I’d say she was off doing her job.”
“S’pose you’re right, but I’d still like it if Chief Madison would look into this, if he could. Please?”
Still in my coat, I waved him to a seat. “Usually, in a missing persons case, we have to wait a couple days, in case the person isn’t really missing, just, temporarily … misplaced. Um. Besides that, the chief won’t be back in the office until Thursday. Maybe this Sybil had already arranged an overnighter with this gentleman caller, and forgot all about your date. Miss D really said that? Gentleman caller?”
“It wasn’t a date, it was a business meeting. And, yeah.” He let out a chuckle. “Sounded loony when she said it, ya know? I think she was just trying to be polite. But, um, Thursday? Geez, this is going to sound, ya know, stupid, but I think she’s in trouble—Sybil, I mean. What if Thursday’s too late?”
“There’s nothing stupid about being concerned. But what makes you think it’s that serious?”
“Just my gut, ya know?” His hands went to his belly. “When she was talking to me, she seemed real skittish. Like she thought she was being watched, or didn’t wanna get caught talking to me. She kept looking around, and over her shoulder, stuff like that. Not really scared-like, but sorta anxious.”
I leaned across my desk for a pen and steno. “Tell you what. I could maybe do a preliminary poke-around. See what’s what. Ask some questions. Talk to some people. How about that? Nothing official, you understand, cuz I’m not an officially official officer of the law.”
Relief chased worry, and a grin appeared, briefly. “That�
�d be great, Miz Mercer. I really appreciate this. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
The knit hat was down over his ears and he was gone before I could say, You’re welcome. Goodbye.
Not two minutes later the front door opened.
Mental sigh.
This wouldn’t be good.
Starting to sweat in my coat, I unzipped it.
CHAPTER 3
SAY WHAT?
“GOOD MORNING, Councilman Talbot. What brings you here?”
The man rarely darkened our door. When he did, it was usually to gripe about something.
“Sure is a cold one.” He rubbed bare hands together before using his armpits as gloves. “Thought the chief might be in.”
I noticed his coke-bottle lenses fogging up as I unwound the scarf from my neck. “No. He left for the lake earlier this morning. Is there something I can help you with?”
It was a subtle reminder as to the whereabouts of the police chief. The Mossy Creek Gazette had run a special ad, inviting their readership to join local police and fire personnel out at Grand View Lake—whenever they could throughout the week—to help build the toboggan run. Of course, that didn’t mean council members read the paper.
While awaiting his reply, I hung my coat on the rack behind my desk.
Venturing further into the room, the elderly borough official stood near one of the guest chairs, apparently not at all bothered by the film of vapor covering his spectacles.
He was agitated, but that isn’t unusual.
“Tarnation. I clean forgot about that. Well….” He stroked his long gray beard—one of his tells when stressed—and blinked at me. “I suppose it would be all right if…. They didn’t say I couldn’t.”
Jonas Talbot’s nervous condition was so much a part of his personality, I often wondered how he’d gotten elected to the ruling body of Mossy Creek. They do have some high priority decisions to make once in a while. But, one of the reasons he was no longer the head librarian was that, as stated in his resignation letter, the literary patrons had gotten too unruly for the peace and sanity of his constitution.
A library, for cryin’ out loud!
Jonas cited a possible mental breakdown if not allowed to discontinue the public service for which he’d been hired.