Snowfall On Haven Point

The sheriff’s department was the same. He had a million things to do before the end of the year—and that wasn’t counting the investigation into the missing evidence.

Damn Bill Newbold anyway. How was Marsh supposed to endure three weeks of enforced medical leave?

As an elected position, the sheriff of Lake Haven County technically reported to the voting public. The county commission couldn’t legally stop him from reporting to work—but the county commission oversaw all county departments and had budgetary control over his department. Newbold was pissed enough right now that Marsh wouldn’t put it past the man to do all he could to block the badly needed deputy pay increase Marsh had been wrangling for since his election.

For the sake of his department, he could roll over for a few weeks, do as much work as possible from home.

“I’ve got to run,” Wynona said. “Pete apparently needs to go out. Are you sure you’re all right alone tonight?”

“Perfectly.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that. Be nice to Andie, okay? You know things haven’t been easy for her.”

Yeah, he knew. His gut twisted. Detective Robert Warren had sat in the county jail for months after his plea deal and had been transferred to the state penitentiary only a few weeks earlier. Marsh had purposely kept his interactions with the man to a minimum and had made sure Warren had no cause to claim his treatment at the Lake Haven County Jail was anything less than proper and humane, especially considering the sheriff’s own personal connection to one of his victims. Wynona.

It was one thing to know in the abstract what Warren had done to Andrea Montgomery. Facts on a report, testimony during his sentencing hearing. It was something else entirely when he thought about that soft, sweet-smelling woman and her cute kids having to live in fear for the better part of a year because she had once trusted the wrong man.

CHAPTER THREE

“THESE ARE ABSOLUTELY PERFECT,” Andie exclaimed the next day as she looked at the cheery watercolors laid out on her neighbor’s kitchen table, a garden of flowers blooming with soft, lovely color to take the edge off the wintry day.

She shook her head in amazement. “We had one short conversation about you designing something for me, that’s all, yet you came back with exactly the right concept for my clients.”

“Oh, I’m so happy you think something will work!” Louise Jacobs glowed with pleasure. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Ever. I’ve always just painted for my own enjoyment, really. It was such a challenge—but a wonderful one.”

“I knew you could do it. I have loved the watercolors you sell at Point Made Flowers and Gifts and I had a suspicion my clients in Boise would, too. It’s the perfect mood and tone for their natural remedy spa services, exactly what I wanted, and I am certain they’re going to love it.”

“I hope so.”

“Trust me. I’ve been trying for weeks to capture the right tone and mood for their website redesign and ad campaign, but nothing seemed to feel right. I couldn’t get to the heart of it, but you’ve managed it. You have a gift, my friend.”

Louise beamed. “I’m so happy you like them.”

Andie saw the possibility of a very successful partnership moving forward. “If you’re all right with it, I’ll buy each one for the price we talked about.”

“Oh, you don’t have to pay me anything. I was happy to do it. I should pay you, actually. I needed the distraction and it was so nice to be back in my studio. I haven’t been able to pick up my brushes in months. Not since...”

Her voice trailed off, eyes bleak with grief. Andie touched her hand. “I’m so sorry, my dear. How are you doing?”

Louise looked down at the bouquet of watercolors for a moment, then offered a strained smile. “I’ll be glad when the holidays are over. Everyone told me how hard all the firsts would be. It’s so true.”

“Yes. It is.”

Jason had died in November, the week before Thanksgiving. Andie had no clear idea how she’d made it through that first December. She had been in a fog of shock and disbelief that her perfect world had imploded so wildly.

Last December had been tough in its own way, for reasons she didn’t want to think about.

Louise and Herm’s only daughter had died just five months earlier. No doubt the wound still felt jagged and raw.

“I wish we didn’t have to celebrate the holidays this year, but Herm wants us to go ahead with all our usual traditions, even though none of us has much holiday spirit. He thinks we need to build new traditions with Christopher, now that he’s living with us.”

Andie looked around the comfortable open-plan house, artfully decorated with greenery, ribbons, candles in slim holders. “It’s so warm and cozy in here. I’m sure that’s helped him feel more at home.”

As if on cue, a thin, gangly boy with shoulder-length dark hair and a semipermanent scowl wandered into the kitchen. Louise’s thirteen-year-old grandson stopped short when he spotted the two of them.

“Oh. I didn’t know somebody was here.”

“Hi, Christopher.” Andie smiled at the boy, whose scowl seemed to deepen in response. “No classes at the middle school today?”

His blue-eyed gaze flashed to his grandmother for an instant before turning back to her. “Um, sick day. I think I’m coming down with something.”

Judging by his bloodshot eyes and his greenish features, she suspected his sickness might be morning-after regret. Once in a while after a bad day on the job, her husband used to go on a bender and his symptoms were remarkably similar.

“Oh dear. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

He gave a halfhearted shrug. “Guess we’ll see. Nana, what’s there to eat?”

Louise pursed her lips, her eyes worried. “I made Scottish shortbread this morning.”

He gave a revolted look. “Isn’t that like head cheese?”

“That’s sweetbread, dear. Shortbread is basically a bar cookie made with butter and sugar. They’re in the tin.”

“Right here?”

She nodded and he opened the tin. After a moment’s consideration, he picked up a couple of them and took a bite from one as he opened the refrigerator and stared inside.

“If you’re ready for lunch, I can make you a sandwich or there’s leftover chicken noodle soup from last night I could warm up,” Louise offered.

He closed the refrigerator door. “This is probably good,” he said around the mouthful of cookie. “I’m not that hungry.”

“You can’t just eat a cookie,” Louise exclaimed. “Especially if you’re coming down with something.”

“I said I wasn’t that hungry, okay?” he snapped and abruptly stalked out of the kitchen.

Louise watched him go, eyes glassy with unshed tears. All her pride and excitement about the watercolors and Andie’s approval of them seemed to have drained away during the short interaction with her grandson.

“How is he doing?” Andie asked gently.

One of those tears slipped out and slid down her friend’s cheek and she brushed it away with an impatient hand. “His mother’s dead and his father wants nothing to do with him. He’s stuck living in a new town he hates with his boring old grandparents who have never raised a boy and don’t know how to talk to him. He hates school, hates his teachers, hates doing homework. He’s made a few friends, but...” Her voice trailed off.

“But?”

“I’m not sure they’re the nicest young people. They seem to run wild at all hours of the day and night, with no parental supervision that I can see.”

Louise seemed so disheartened that Andie couldn’t help giving her a little hug.

“He’ll make it through this. Please don’t worry. Time is the great healer. It’s a truism because it’s just that—true. That’s all he needs. He’s got you and Herm, two of the very best people I know. That’s far more than many children have in similar circumstances.”

Certainly more than Andie had known. Oh, how she wished she could have had someone like Louise in her life, someone sweet and kind and welcoming.

“He’s a good boy,” Louise said, wiping away another tear. “He’s just so angry all the time.”

Andie remembered that anger after her own mother died, along with confusion and fear and overwhelming grief. Puberty was tough enough, all raging hormones and intensified emotions. The loss of a parent made that transitional time that much harder, even when the parent hadn’t been the best a kid could ask for.

“I’m sorry,” Louise said after a moment. “You didn’t come here to listen to my problems.”

“That’s what friends do.”

“How are you these days?”

She would much rather talk about Louise’s problems, any day of the week. She knew what was behind the question. Everyone in Haven Point knew about the incident over the summer when the situation she had tried to escape by moving here from Portland had caught up with her, when she had been held at gunpoint by the man who had raped her the previous year, then stalked her for months.

Andie was doing her best to move beyond her past so she could work toward building a new future with her children here. She knew Louise’s question was offered in kindness, but she really didn’t want to talk about Rob Warren and the hell he had put her through.

“Everything’s great,” she said, pinning on a bright smile. “I’m really looking forward to Christmas in Haven Point. I can’t imagine a prettier place to spend the holiday. It’s perfect.”

“It really is, isn’t it?” Louise smiled softly. “The lake seems to change colors every day with the shifting winter light.”

“It must be fun to paint it this time of year.”

“It is.” Distracted, Louise looked down at her watercolors and Andie hoped she was thinking about taking her paints out to the water’s edge to try capturing that stunning blue.

Andie had taken to carrying her camera on her morning snowshoe walks along the river, catching birds flitting through winter-bare branches, the delicate filigree of ice along the riverbanks, the play of sunlight reflecting on the snow and filtering through the fringy pine boughs.

She had found peace here over the last few months, a calm she had needed desperately.

“I saw in the paper that our neighbor next door had an accident of some kind,” Louise said.

Now, there was someone who didn’t give her peace. Marshall Bailey. “Yes. He was struck by a hit-and-run driver a few days ago and ended up with a badly broken leg.”

“Oh, the poor man! Charlene must be having fits!”

“I don’t think Marshall wants his mother to know until she and Mike return from their honeymoon.”

Louise gave an approving nod. “Good decision. Why give her needless worry?”

“I agree.”

“So who’s watching over him?”

Andie raised her hand. “Well, I don’t know that I’d go as far as to say I’m watching over him. Wyn just asked me to check on him a few times a day. I’m heading there after I pick Will up from preschool.”

She felt too foolish to add that she wanted her son to come along as a buffer. “It would be helpful if you and Herm would keep an eye on things, too.”

“Oh, of course. We would be glad to do that. His mother is one of my dearest friends, though she pulled away a little after poor John had his accident.” She paused. “Do you think Marshall would enjoy some of my shortbread? I made plenty.”

“I’m sure he would. I can take it to him, if you’d like.”

“Thank you! Let me find a container.”

She bustled around the kitchen for a moment and ended up producing two tins printed with smiling families of snowmen.

“Here you go. A box for him and one for you and your children, if you’d care for it.”

“Oh, thank you! They will love it.”

These kind little gestures neighbors did for each other here always warmed her heart. She had enjoyed living in Portland. It was a beautiful, vibrant town filled with interesting people, restaurants, shops. But in all the years she had lived there after striking out on her own, it had never really felt as much like home as Haven Point, even though she and the children had been here less than six months.

She glanced at the whimsical owl clock on the wall. “I should go. Will is going to be done soon from preschool. I don’t know where the time went!”

“I’m so glad we had the chance to visit a little. You made me feel a little better.”

“I’m glad.” She hugged Louise, then slid her friend’s lovely collection of watercolors into the portfolio she had provided. “And thank you so much for these. I can’t wait to show them to my clients.”

“I do hope they like them,” Louise said again, her expression anxious.

“How could they not? They’re stunning. You really need to have a show, more than just the few you’ve given Kenzie to hang in the shop. You should think about talking to the owner of that new art gallery that just opened up downtown.”

“Me? Oh, I could never do that! I only paint for fun.”

“Think about it, my dear.” She slid her arms in the sleeves of her coat and headed for the front door. As she neared the stairs, she heard loud, discordant rock music coming from upstairs, then a crash followed by a string of crude vulgarities.

Louise’s cheeks turned pink. “That boy! I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry on my account, Louise. He’s a teenage boy going through a rough time right now. A little creative expression is only to be expected.”

She hugged her friend one more time, then walked out of her house with the portfolio under one arm and the tins of cookies nestled in the crook of the other.

She took a few steps toward home, then paused and turned back to the house next to Louise’s. She could check on Marshall now. Will wouldn’t be out of preschool for another half hour.

Why couldn’t she stop now, drop off the cookies, check to make sure the man was doing all right and then be on her way?

Yes, he made her nervous and she didn’t really want to be alone with him. Or any man, really. Maybe that was all the more reason to push herself into it. While he was big and rough and intimidating, he was also relatively helpless at the moment. This would be a good test for her.

After what had happened the day before, she wasn’t in a big rush to surprise him, so she texted quickly as she headed next door.

Can I stop by now?

His answer was so succinct, she had to smile.

Why?

Homemade shortbread, she texted back.

His answer in reply made her smile turn into an actual laugh. Door’s open.

Apparently Wyn hadn’t been joking about his sweet tooth.

Despite the warning she had just given him, she didn’t feel right about just barging in, so she rapped a few times on the door before opening it. “Hello?”

“Back here,” he answered, with the same brevity of his texts.

This time she found him on the recliner, with a book open on the table beside him and a rugby match muted on the TV. The worst of the bruises on his face seemed to be fading, she was happy to see, and his color looked better than it had the day before.

“Did you get breakfast?”

He nodded. “I grabbed some toast and coffee, plus a yogurt and banana.”

He probably needed groceries and had no way to get to the store. She should have thought of that the night before and at least checked to make sure he had basics. Guilt pinched at her. She was doing a terrible job of filling Wyn’s small request to watch over her brother.

“I need to run to the store later today. If you can think of anything that sounds tasty, I’m happy to pick it up for you. Just make a list.”

“Homemade shortbread is a good start,” he said, a blatant reminder to turn over the goods.

She fought a laugh and set the tin on the table beside him. “Here you go. It might still be warm.”

Without hesitation, he opened it and popped one small square into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed with a look of clear appreciation. “Oh, wow. That’s delicious.”

“I wish I could take credit for making it, but it’s a gift from your neighbor next door. Louise Jacobs.”

He had just been about to pop a second piece in, but at her words he froze for just a second and returned the cookie to the tin. “You’ve been to see Louise and Herm?” he said, his tone oddly neutral.

“Only Louise. Herm volunteers once a week, stocking shelves at the library. Apparently retirement didn’t completely agree with him and he gets bored during cold weather when he can’t fish as much. Louise is a friend of mine and she’s doing a little work for me.”

“What kind of work?”

She held up the brown portfolio. “I’m a commercial graphic artist—computer graphics, mostly, but photography, sometimes oil on canvas. I needed a watercolor, which isn’t exactly my specialty, and Louise was kind enough to work up a few possibilities for me. They’re wonderful.”

“Oh. I guess I didn’t realize she was artistic.”

“She considers it more of a hobby, but she’s really talented. And not just in making shortbread.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked distracted—whether from pain or something else, she couldn’t tell.

“Is there anything I can get you right now?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“I’ll refill your water bottle while you make a list of what you’d like me to pick up at the grocery store.”

“You don’t need to do my shopping.”

Good grief, trying to help the man was about as easy as climbing Mount Solace in a blizzard.

“You might as well tell me. If you don’t, I’ll just look through your kitchen cabinets and see what staples seem to be missing. Who knows what I might come back with?”

He gave a sigh that sounded more resigned than annoyed. “Fine. I’ll text you a list of a few things. Does that work?”

“Perfectly. See? You’re getting the hang of this whole accepting-help thing.”

“I don’t believe you’re giving me much choice, are you?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I have just enough time to reheat a little more stew or I can probably throw together a sandwich if you would prefer.”

He didn’t sigh this time, but she could tell he wanted to. “Stew would be fine,” he finally said. “Thank you.”

“Give me a second.”

After dishing some into a bowl and popping it into the microwave, she spent a moment straightening up his mostly clean kitchen while it reheated. She added a couple of the rolls she had brought the evening before and cut up an apple she found in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator.

“Here you are. Soups and stews are always better the second day, if you ask me.”

“Agreed.”

“I wasn’t snooping—okay, I was snooping a little—and I noticed you didn’t have milk or bread and the only other banana looked pretty ripe. I can pick those up for you and whatever else is on your list. And if you think something sounds good for dinner, let me know.”

“Stew is fine by me, if there’s enough for one more go-round.”

She raised an eyebrow. “My stew is remarkable, I will admit, but you can’t have it for every meal.”

“You’re not running a short-order restaurant here. I’m fine with whatever. I’ve got frozen dinners in the freezer that will do.”

“Are you this stubborn with everyone or am I receiving special treatment?”

If she didn’t know better, she might have thought the stoic sheriff almost smiled, for a minute there. “My deputies would probably say the former,” he answered.

“That makes me feel a little better. I need to run, but make sure you text me your list. I probably won’t have a chance to go shopping until after Chloe gets home from school, but we’ll bring groceries and dinner around five thirty, if that works. Meanwhile, you’ve also got leftover pie and Louise Jacobs’s shortbread.”

“What else could a guy possibly need?”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SCENT OF flowers again lingered in the room after Andrea Montgomery blew out of his house as quickly as she’d come.

He couldn’t seem to escape it. He shifted in the recliner, wishing he could find a spot that was comfortable for more than five seconds.

It wasn’t only the general discomfort from his smashed-to-smithereens leg or his various other aches and pains that left him edgy and unsettled. Her mention of the Jacobs family next door was even more disconcerting.

He knew Herm and Louise from way back. Louise had been good friends with his mother—in a roundabout way, that friendship had been the catalyst for everything that came after.

When he first moved into Wyn’s house here on Riverbend Road in late summer, he had made it a point of going over to say hello to them. It had been the neighborly thing to do, hadn’t it?

Since then, he had spoken with them a few times in passing, but he worked long hours and their schedules didn’t seem to coincide, plus he didn’t really have an obvious excuse for stopping by.

They had bumped into each other a few times at the only grocery store in town—which was one of the main reasons he didn’t do his shopping in Shelter Springs, five miles away, even though the two grocery stores and the box store there were larger and had a far more extensive selection.

He had decided those rare encounters at the little store in Haven Point were worth the disadvantage of having a choice between only two brands of dishwashing detergent.

He needed to figure out a way to do more than say hello in passing. That was the entire reason he was living here in his sister’s house instead of his perfectly adequate—and certainly more conveniently located—apartment in Shelter Springs, after all.

In some vague corner of his mind, he had thought maybe he would wait until after the holidays before he burst in and shook their world completely. He glared down at the stupid cast. He could still go talk to Herm and Louise after the holidays, but some idiot in a stolen SUV had added a complication he never would have anticipated.

How could he show up now, in this completely useless state, when he couldn’t even go to the grocery store on his own?

Though he wasn’t really hungry, he forced himself to take another few bites of Andrea Montgomery’s delicious stew. His body needed fuel to heal, and the faster he healed, the faster he could return to work.

He was on his third bite of stew when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He set down his spoon and checked the message from Jackie Scott, the assistant he had inherited from the previous sheriff, asking him a question about holiday overtime. He answered her question, which led to two more follow-up texts in quick succession.

Three texts in a row was his personal limit. More than that warranted an actual conversation instead of an endless string of thumbed communications via text or email.

He quickly found her number on his phone and Jackie answered on the first ring.

“You’re not supposed to be working, Sheriff. You should be resting.”

He didn’t bother reminding her she had been the one to text him about overtime.

“I’ve rested plenty. Just because my leg is broken doesn’t mean my brain is. How are things there?”

“Ken Kramer is walking around like he won the lottery since the commission named him acting sheriff. He tried to move into your office, but I wouldn’t let him. I told him you left the door locked and I didn’t have the key, and if he wanted it, he would have to go there and take it from you.”

“I believe I won’t hold my breath,” he said.

Both of them knew Ken would never do that. On the surface Ken Kramer pretended to be loyal and supportive after Marshall defeated him in the last election, while behind the scenes he whispered and spread rumors. He was the kind of man who was really good at sneaky, underhanded sabotage but didn’t have the stones for outright confrontation.

He was also a brother-in-law to County Commissioner Newbold. The joys of small-town politics.

“I’ve also got about a hundred things I need you to sign. I’ll try to swing by one day this week.”

“Sounds good.”

Jackie was hyperefficient, organized and the exact opposite of Ken Kramer. Taking over the job a year ago would have been a nightmare without her on his team to help the transition.