A Wicked Snow

Chapter Thirty-five

The Griffin house on Loma Linda Avenue was so still, so hushed, that the omnipresent sputter of the air conditioner irritated Hannah. She wondered how it was that she had not made it a priority to have it repaired. The rumble noise coughed and hummed and rolled. Home early and alone, Hannah glanced over her shoulder as she stepped inside. A small figure ran toward her as she locked the door behind her. It was Amber’s tabby. Hannah ran her hand over the cat’s silky fur and cupped the animal’s chin.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. Even at five pounds overweight, the cat always seemed hungry. It padded after Hannah as she went to the kitchen with her small bag of groceries.

It was ten minutes before six. Amber was still at her dance lesson, and Ethan was probably charming the other mothers as they waited in the parking lot of the studio. She emptied a box of brown-and-orange kibble into a dish set on a plastic place mat under the breakfast bar and poured fresh water into another bowl. A happy cat started to eat and purr. Hannah retrieved the bottle of the California chardonnay that she liked more for its label of a braided wreath of oak leaves than she did the taste of the wine, which she sometimes found too sweet and overly fruity. She poured herself a glass, a big glass. The globe of the stemware was almost grapefruit size. Hannah flipped through the mail and settled herself in a chair to watch the TV news before her husband and daughter interrupted her small moment of tranquility. Her mind raced. Her boss had sent her home and Marcella Hoffman was trying to snare an interview by sweet-talking Ripp. As a talk show ran its credits over the pockmarked faces of its guests and its sanctimonious host, she went over to the window to close the white plantation shutters. Coppery light reflected from the neighbor’s windows, the beginning of the evening sun as it dipped slightly lower in the smog-smeared sky.

The cat snuggled next to Hannah’s feet as she returned to her chair to watch the news. On the screen in front of her, helicopters careened in the air as images of the newsgathering process were paraded. A handsome man with a yellowish suntan and teeth too big for his mouth announced the lead story.

Wine splashed on Hannah’s thigh. It was an involuntary response. She looked at her hand holding the chardonnay as the chilled liquid rounded the lip of the glass and dribbled down the stem. It was almost the feeling of an earthquake, deep and hidden. Hannah set down her wine and stared straight ahead, absentmindedly using her hand to wipe at the spill. Yet all the while, she could not take her eyes off the screen.

“…speculation is running throughout the Northwest that an Alaskan woman named Louise Wallace is the notorious serial killer Claire Logan…”

She set the glass hard on the coffee table. Hannah could feel her heart pump faster and the bile in her stomach rise through her esophagus. She grabbed her hands together and gripped tightly.

The image of an elderly woman flashed across the screen in slow motion. It was brief. Hannah leaned forward as though closer proximity could enhance her view. But it only made the picture appear as though it had been a painting by Seurat, tiny specks of color with soft edges blurring from one side of the screen to the other. Besides, the video was out of focus and the woman’s head was turned in such a way that only the side of her head could be viewed, but not enough so that her profile could be made out. While the newscaster went on, more images filled the screen. A sign for the town of Kodiak. An old car. A dog barking in front of what appeared to be a fishing camp. In the last shot, the same woman held a blue-and-white windbreaker over her head in the fashion of felons who wish a semblance of anonymity, or anyone who has been caught on tape on a video-vérité cop show.

Her eyes fastened to the screen, Hannah’s pulse raced as the anchor went on to another story. Fifteen minutes went by, but Hannah heard none of the other stories. Instead, she thought only of her mother. The ringing phone jolted her back to the moment. She grabbed at the receiver and pressed it to her ear.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hannah?” It was Bauer’s gentle voice. “Are you all right?”

“A little shaky, I guess.”

“You just saw her on the tube, didn’t you?” He let out an audible sigh. “Damn it,” he said, “I wanted to warn you before the news hit down there. Don’t you ever listen to your phone messages?”

Hannah felt the warm and numbing effects of the chardonnay. She glanced at the answering machine. Its red eye mocked her with a steady wink.

“I hadn’t played them yet.”

“Jesus,” he said. “I’m very sorry, Hannah. I wanted to—”

“Is it her?”

Bauer hesitated for a second. “Probably not. I mean, we really don’t know yet. You know the media runs with a story like this faster than we do. They don’t mind burying an apology in agate type in the classified section later or at the end of a newscast. We can’t. We never say we’re sorry, so we don’t like to rush.”

“Do you think it’s her?”

“Could be.” Bauer said. “I honestly don’t know.”

“What are the facts, Jeff?” Hannah reached for her glass and gulped more wine. She glanced at the clock. Their conversation would be cut short at any minute. A little dancer and her daddy would be coming through the front door.

“Sketchy. She’s doesn’t have a ‘Sosh’ number. No driver’s license either. Needless to say, she’s not talking. Not a peep. And get this—she has no fingerprints.”

“You mean she hadn’t left any prints at the scene?” Hannah asked, though after she said so, she knew fingerprints were of no real value. None had been left at the farm to compare with: the whole place was ashes and rubble.

“This lady’s fingertips have been scarred over or something. Somehow erased. She either had some terrible accident at the cannery like she says or she erased them with a blowtorch or an acid dip. I don’t know. But there isn’t a damn thing there. They are completely smooth.”

“I see. What does she look like? The TV shot was so quick, I could scarcely tell.”

“Like an old lady. Kind of tall, graying hair, blue eyes.”

“My mother had blue eyes. Has blue eyes.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“How tall is she?”

“Tall enough,” he said. “Look, we don’t know anything. So sit tight. Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. Ethan will be home soon.”

“Good. Hey, got your message about Liz Wheaton. We’re running her information now. I’ll let you know as soon as I get anything of interest. Sit tight.”

“Okay. Call me with anything at all. I mean it.”

Hannah hung up. Her timing was good. She heard Ethan park the cruiser and she heard Amber’s little feet run up the sidewalk to the front door. She did her best to shake the worry and concern, the coiled snakes of mixed emotions, from her face.

“Mommy!” Amber’s exuberant voice called out. “We’re home!”