Northwest: Deep Freeze Part 10

"I'm Internet-friendly."

"So while I'm out freezing my b.u.t.t off in the worst storm of the century, you're surfing the Web," he accused, leaning one hip on the edge of his desk as he reread the report.

"And drinking hot cocoa and eating bonbons, while I'm at it." One reddish eyebrow arched impishly. "Isn't that the way it should be?"

"Absolutely," he said sarcastically as he tried to wrap his brain around this new information. "Why alginate and latex?"

"It might have something to do with why her teeth were filed down."

Looking up, he asked, "You think we've got a sadom.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic dentist on the loose?"

"I don't know what we've got." Suddenly she wasn't kidding. Carter felt the humor disperse with the chill in the air. "But I don't like it."

"Neither do I."

"They think she's been dead nearly a year."

Carter nodded, reread the notes on the report.

"Any other information?"

"The crime lab's working on it, but they didn't find any tire tracks or footprints to cast and, so far, no other evidence in the surrounding area."

"She didn't crawl into the log by herself."

"No, but whoever did it covered his tracks, and it's been a long time, nearly a year. Seasons change, wild animals drag off body parts, soil erosion and rain wash away footprints. Any evidence that might have been left could be buried deep. So far, though, metal detectors have found nothing." BJ ran a hand through her short hair. "You know what bothers me? The teeth. I keep coming back to that. Why kill someone and take the time to file down her teeth?"

"Maybe he did it while she was still alive."

"Jesus. Don't even say it. I hate dentists and drills and...G.o.d, that's just so twisted."

"Maybe it's how he gets off."

"Then we've got to nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"If he's still around. A year's a long time. Maybe he's already slipped up and is serving time. The State Police are checking to see if there are any other cases, solved or unsolved, like this one."

"Nothing's like this one," she said. "At least I hope not."

"Me, too," he agreed as she headed down the hall and he settled into his chair. He checked with Missing Persons again, and finished a report on the accident on the freeway while taking calls and keeping one eye on the window where snow was piling against the icy panes.

Jenna pulled her ski mask over the lower half of her face and walked the three blocks from the garage to the post office. According to Skip Uhrig, the owner of the garage, her Jeep would be ready within the next couple of hours. All that was wrong with her rig was a faulty alternator.

One problem down, a few thousand to go, she thought as she crossed the street and tried to avoid slipping on the icy pavement. Snow was slanting from the gray sky, thick enough that it was impossible to see the length of the street; both her kids were at home, as the schools had let out early because of the weather, and so far, none of the repairmen she'd called had shown up. "It's still early," she told herself as she pushed her way past the gla.s.s door into the post office, a yellow-brick building that had been erected before the turn of the last century.

There was counter s.p.a.ce for four clerks, but only one person was helping customers. Not that it mattered. Only two people were waiting and one, a tall woman bundled in parka, scarf, and ski pants, kept looking over her shoulder to eye Jenna as she opened her post office box and withdrew a stack of mail. Jenna didn't pay much attention. It happened all the time. Either people recognized her and were suddenly tongue-tied in the face of her celebrity, or they studied her surrept.i.tiously, the wheels in their minds turning quickly to try and connect a face with a name. Those people didn't expect to see her in a small town, running the same errands they were.

Since she had some hours to kill, she decided to walk the few blocks to the theater and see if Rinda wanted to go to a late lunch or grab a cup of coffee at the local cafe. Stuffing the mail into her purse, she shouldered open the door and hustled down the street. Few people were on the sidewalks and the usual slow traffic had dwindled.

Think of it as an adventure, she told herself, as she made her way down an alley where trash bins, parked cars, and garages were covered in four inches of snow. She hurried briskly through a parking lot to the old theater. Its steeply pitched roof was covered in white, its belltower knifing upward to the dark sky, its stained-gla.s.s windows glowing from the lights within. The once-upon-a-time church appeared bucolic and had a Currier and Ives nostalgia, until you looked more closely and noticed the blistered and peeled paint, some rot in the siding, crumbling mortar on the brick walkways, and a dark spire that seemed incomplete and somewhat sinister without a cross mounted at its highest point.

Don't be ridiculous, she told herself, but had thought the old church was a little eerie, an odd choice for the theater, despite whatever tax breaks Rinda had received for restoring the historic building.

Rather than walk up the front steps, she cut around the back and stepped through a door that opened to a landing of a staircase. It wound up to the main part of the theater and curled down to the bas.e.m.e.nt where the kitchen and dressing rooms were located in what had been Sunday-school cla.s.srooms fifty years earlier.

Voices echoed through the stairwell-one she recognized as Rinda's, the other she couldn't place other than it was male and, from the sounds of it, irritated.

"...I told you to talk to Winkle," the man was saying.

"And I told you that would be a waste of time. He and I have a history."

"I know, but that wouldn't keep him from doing his job."

"Look, Shane, I've got a problem here."

"Because someone's stealing trinkets that belonged to a celebrity?" he replied gruffly, and Jenna realized Rinda was talking to the sheriff. Great. Jenna melted back into the shadowy staircase as the man behind the badge ranted on. "Is that really a surprise? What do you expect, Rinda? It doesn't matter if it's Jenna Hughes or Jennifer Lopez or Drew Barrymore or anyone with a face and name that people recognize-people are going to try and get close to her, either by asking for her autograph, or befriending her, or taking a little something that was once hers. Celebrities ask for this kind of thing to happen. It comes with the territory. The price of fame."

"That's a pile of garbage, Shane, and you know it. Thievery is thievery. It doesn't matter who you are."

"That's why I'm here."

"You could have sent one of the deputies."

"Not today," he shot back. "They're too busy. I'm here on my lunch hour as a personal favor to you, okay? Now, I'll look around, but you've already said there isn't any evidence of forced entry, that the only things missing were donated by Jenna Hughes, and that you've searched the entire premises. Have you asked the people that work here?"

"Most of them."

"Most?" he repeated, not hiding his sarcasm.

"Not everyone has been in since I discovered the dress was missing, and I called those I could, but I haven't reached a few."

"Keep trying," he advised. "And talk to Ms. Hughes. Maybe she decided she didn't want to donate the things after all."

Jenna bristled. Why would he think she'd take back her old costumes after giving them to the theater?

"She wouldn't do that," Rinda protested.

"Someone did."

"Not Jenna."

"Then who?"

"That's what I expect you to find out."

He swore under his breath and all Jenna could make out was "...the last time, okay? d.a.m.ned Hollywood types...more trouble than they're worth...should stay in California where they belong."

Jenna had heard enough. She stomped her way up the half flight to what had been the apse, where she walked through the open door and found Rinda and the sheriff standing at the middle aisle between the first row of pews.

Here we go, she thought, as she stepped out of the stairwell and faced the tall man. He was at least six-feet-two or three. Wide shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist and slim hips suggested he was either naturally athletic or that he worked out. Dressed in his uniform, but bareheaded, the brim of his hat twisting in the fingers of one large hand, he was a presence, a male presence. No two ways about it.

"I think I heard my name," she announced.

"Uh-oh." Rinda winced and leaned against the arm of one pew, but the sheriff, his rugged face a mask of indifference, merely looked over his shoulder.

Near-black eyes a.s.sessed her without the slightest bit of interest. "You did if you're Jenna Hughes." His gaze skated over her face and he nodded as if to confirm her ident.i.ty to himself. "So, yeah, you did."

At least he wasn't pretending he didn't recognize her. "Thought so. And...from what I gather, you've already decided you don't trust me."

"I don't trust many people," he drawled. "Comes with the territory."

"I figured," she said as she walked in front of the first row of pews. "But that's too bad." Extending her hand, she stopped directly in front of him, the toes of her boots nearly touching his.

"I don't think so."

"Well..." She angled her face up to stare at him. "...Just for the record, Sheriff, I didn't steal my things, okay? Yes, I was driving an old truck with bad taillights, but this week, that's the extent of my failure to follow the letter of the law."

"Oh, G.o.d," Rinda whispered. She braced herself on her seat and turned paler with each exchange between her friends.

"Good to know." One thick brow lifted. The sheriff shook her hand in a firm, warm grip but didn't allow even the hint of a smile to change the contours of his face. Letting go of her fingers, he didn't seem the least embarra.s.sed that she'd overheard any of the conversation.

"I told him you wouldn't take the dress," Rinda said, some of her color returning.

"That she did." His gaze was rock-steady, nearly harsh, dark brown eyes that, she guessed, didn't miss much. They were set deep in his skull, guarded by black eyebrows and placed above high cheekbones that hinted at a Native American ancestor not too many generations back. His hair was near-black and thick, only a few strands of silver daring to show. "As a matter of fact, Rinda's been singing your praises to me ever since you moved here."

Jenna shot her friend a look guaranteed to cut through stone. Lifting her palms, Rinda shrugged, acting as if the entire direction of the discussion was out of her hands.

Jenna said, "But you set her straight, right?" She was too tired to rein in her anger and she felt her cheeks flush. Why the h.e.l.l was this bohunk of a lawman prejudging her? "You saw fit to let her"-Jenna hitched a thumb in Rinda's direction-"know that I wasn't all that great, that maybe I couldn't be trusted."

His dark eyes glinted, but beneath his moustache one corner of his mouth twitched as if he were amused at her bl.u.s.ter and bravado. She supposed if he smiled there was a chance he might be handsome. A slim chance. To another woman.

Carter nodded. "I just want her to remain objective."

"Hey!" Rinda cut in. "You don't have to talk about me as if I'm not here!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Carter said.

Jenna almost grinned. So he did have a sense of humor. Not that it mattered. "Look, Sheriff, I know you're busy," Jenna said, angling her chin upward in order to study the man. "I think the easiest thing to do would be for me to replace the missing items with other things I've got at the house." Rinda seemed about to argue, but Jenna went on. "And this time we'll lock them in a closet and only Rinda will have the key."

"But the dress and bracelets and-"

"Maybe they'll turn up," Jenna said. "If not, we'll just make do. I've got another dress that will work and lots of costume jewelry."

Rinda shoved stiff fingers through her hair. "Oh G.o.d, Jenna, I feel awful about this."

"It's not life and death, though."

Carter's jaw hardened, as if somehow she'd insulted him. "Robbery is a crime just the same. I'll talk to Sergeant Winkle at the city. He'll send someone over. In the meantime, I'll look around." He turned back to Rinda. "Show me where the items were stowed."

Celebrities, he thought later as he crossed the street to the cafe. Who needed them? He'd done his duty for his friend and paid back one of a million favors he owed Rinda, but he was finished with the case of Jenna Hughes's missing black sheath. d.a.m.n, what a waste of time. And the "victim" didn't even seem to want his help. He'd seen her from a distance a few times in the past year and a half, but had never met her formally. He was surprised not so much at how pet.i.te she was, but that despite her small size, there was a presence to her-not what he'd expected.

In the theater she hadn't exhibited any of the creeping Hollywood paranoia or demanding-princess att.i.tude that, he supposed, were stereotypes. From the few minutes he spoke with her, she seemed levelheaded, if a bit feisty, bullheaded, and unaware that even without any makeup he could see, she was drop-dead gorgeous. She hadn't even seemed too p.i.s.sed off about the ticket. Not that he cared. He stepped over a pile of snow pockmarked with sand and gravel, a reminder that the snowplow had been through earlier. G.o.d, it was cold. With no end in sight. In fact, the weather service predicted things would get much worse. There was even talk of the falls freezing solid.

He didn't want to think about that, nor the last time the cascading sheets of water had turned to ice and the tragedy that had ensued. In his mind's eye, he saw David, noticed his feet slipping on the slick sheet of ice...Carter slammed his mind shut to the image and felt the same frozen fear that always accompanied the memory. He glanced up at the sky where snow was falling relentlessly and hoped the weather would break before all the ice-climbing idiots found a way to descend on this place and pull out their picks and ropes and crampons to scale the falls.

His cell phone blasted and he stepped under the awning of the Canyon Cafe to take the call, which happened to be about another report of a car sliding off the road. A state trooper was already on the scene and taking care of it. No injuries, just a frightened driver and a totaled Chevy Impala.

Carter snapped his phone shut. The good news was that while he was in the theater poking around, his cell phone had rung three separate times and no doubt both Rinda and Jenna Hughes had heard his side of the conversation about the serious problems facing the department. Even bullheaded Rinda had seemed to understand that the missing dress would have to wait. Carter had to focus his attention on the life-threatening situations brought on by the storm. Jackknifed semis, kids life-flighted to hospitals, and an unidentified dead woman found up at Catwalk Point took precedence over some ex-Hollywood star's missing costumes.

A couple of men in ski wear walked out of the cafe as Shane strode in. The Canyon Cafe was small, with only a few booths, a scattering of tables, and a long counter with stools that were usually occupied by locals. The little restaurant had been an inst.i.tution in Falls Crossing for over fifty years and was known for all-day breakfast, large greasy burgers, onion rings, and thick wedges of home-baked pie.

Shane ordered a cheeseburger basket and coffee to go, ignored the attempts of the waitress to flirt with him, and once the order was filled, didn't waste any time, but headed outside where the temperature seemed to have plummeted again. The wind was harsher, its screaming edge raw enough to cut through leather and bone. Icicles hung from the eaves of the buildings-long, clear daggers that reminded him of the day David had suggested they climb the falls.

Carter had been sixteen at the time and a dumb-a.s.s kid to boot. Both of them had been stupid, full-of-themselves, spot-on cretins, he thought angrily as he climbed the courthouse steps. Jaw tight, he made his way to his office, left his door ajar, then dialed up the city police where he left Wade Winkle a voice mail message about the "crime" at the theater. As he talked, he managed to slide out of his jacket and shoulder holster.

He wondered what, if anything, Winkle would do.

Not his problem.

He'd had as much contact with Jenna Hughes as he wanted.

After dropping into his chair, he opened the tiny ketchup packets and drizzled ketchup over his small carton of French fries. They were cold and limp, but he was so hungry he didn't mind. He'd managed to take three bites of his burger when BJ appeared and rapped on the edge of his door before striding in. "Isn't it a little late for lunch?" she asked, balancing a hip against his desk.

"I was busy." He leaned back in his chair, set the burger on its white paper bag in the middle of his desk. "Chasing crime at the Columbia Theater in the Gorge."

"At the theater?"

"Don't ask," he said, as an image of Jenna Hughes burned through his mind. Just as she had much too often in the last few hours. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed the sack with its nest of fries toward BJ. "Help yourself. Anything new?"

"The State Police are checking with all the dental alginate and latex suppliers and widening the missing persons search. And there's talk of closing I-84 if there's not a break in the weather."

"I figured." Things just kept getting worse.

"A couple of s...o...b..arders are missing up at Meadows Ski Resort," she said, mentioning the local ski resort as she picked up a fry and plopped it into her mouth.

He was attacking his burger again, but still listening.

"Ski patrol is looking, and there's already power outages in Hampton-the weight of ice on the branches is snapping limbs, taking down wires."

"Sounds like the fun is just beginning," he said, tucking a slice of escaping onion under the top bun.

"Oh, yeah...we're in for a blast." She straightened and stretched, rotating the kinks from her neck as she glanced out the window. "I wonder when this weather is gonna let up."

"Never."

"Yeah, right," she said with a mirthless chuckle. "The storm's gotta break soon." There was a note of desperation in her voice and Carter understood it. He had the unlikely sensation that until the temperature elevated, things around Falls Crossing were just going to get worse. A lot worse.

He closed his eyes, felt the tingle of snow against his bare skin. Tiny, frigid flakes that were meant to cool, but heated his blood. He was hard. Rigid. Standing naked in the small clearing, old-growth firs surrounding him, their needles coated in ice and snow, the wind whistling through their heavy branches, he felt the call. The need.