The Snow White Christmas Cookie

CHAPTER 3

At least four inches of fresh snow had fallen since Des drove home from Mitch’s place to put in some time on her portrait of Titus Smart, age nine, whose aunt Marcella, age sixteen, had smashed him in the face with a crowbar approximately twenty-seven times. When Des had asked the blood-spattered Marcella why she’d done it she calmly replied, “I didn’t care for the way he was looking at me.” And so Des not-so-calmly drew and drew. Sleep was not an option, she reflected as she drove her way back out to Big Sister, the Crown Vic’s wipers shoving the flakes aside. It was not quite 8:00 A.M. But, happily, the town plowman had made an early pass through the Peck Point Nature Preserve. She used her key card to raise the barricade and inched her way out onto the narrow wooden causeway, following the Jewett girls’ tire tracks through the deepening snow with great care. It was easy to fishtail on the causeway and sideswipe the railing. Easy to go through the railing and right down into the angry surf below.

Mitch’s bulbous 1956 kidney-colored Studebaker pickup was sitting in his driveway under the fresh blanket of snow. Des drove on past it to Preston Peck’s mammoth, natural-shingled beach house and pulled up next to the Jewett girls’ volunteer ambulance van, which they’d parked outside of the house’s attached four-car garage. Both double-wide garage doors were up. Bryce’s Jeep Wrangler and Josie’s Subaru Forester were parked inside along with a rider mower and a snow thrower. There was a cluttered handyman’s workbench. A chainsaw, weed whacker and other assorted power-driven yard gear hung from hooks on the walls. Lawn furniture and window screens had been stored in the rafters along with the net from the island’s tennis court.

Des squared her big Smokey hat on her head and got out. Headed through the garage past two stacks of firewood and into the house’s mudroom, stamping the snow from her black lace-up boots. The kitchen was spotless and smelled of fresh brewed coffee. It was eerily quiet. Her footsteps resounded like a kettle drum as she strode down the hall into the den, where it didn’t look so much like Christmas in Connecticut as it did Christmas in Miami Beach. The sofa where Josie Cantro sat slumped next to Mitch, huge-eyed with grief, was white wicker with pale blue cushions. Same as the armchairs. The coffee table was white wicker, too. There were no rugs. Just a bare wooden floor that had been painted blue ages ago and become gently worn by thousands of sandy footprints. The summery decor clashed sharply with the snow that was falling outside of the windows that looked out over the sound. Also with the spindly little Christmas tree that stood there in the corner. There was a fireplace but no fire was going. There was a flat screen TV. There was a bookcase that was stocked with old-time rainy day diversions like jigsaw puzzles and Monopoly.

Mitch wore a pair of jeans and a heavy turtleneck sweater. Josie was still dressed in snow-dampened running clothes. Mitch was talking to her in a soft, comforting voice. She barely seemed to hear him.

He glanced up at Des and said, “I made coffee. Want some?”

She shook her head. “Where is he?”

“Through there.” He gestured toward a doorway next to the bookcase.

It led to a bedroom that was right off of the den. A bedroom that was so tiny that Des guessed it was a converted sunporch. There was barely enough room for a chest of drawers, a pair of nightstands and the double bed where the late Bryce Peck lay propped up against a couple of pillows, his head flopped over to one side like a Raggedy Andy doll. His eyes were closed, his complexion already faintly bluish. The Jewett girls were attending to him in their usual quiet, efficient manner. Bryce’s stringy hair was uncombed, his gaunt, weathered face unshaven. He wore a ratty old tie-dyed T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal undershirt. His hands lay open on the bed, palms up. Next to his right hand there were three empty prescription pill bottles. Next to his left lay an empty fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold tequila.

A hand-scrawled note on a yellow Post-it was affixed to Bryce’s chest. Des read it, frowning, before she said, “Good morning, girls.”

“Oh, it’s a lovely one,” Marge responded.

“What did he take?”

“Quite some cocktail,” Mary said. “We’re looking at twenty-four Xanax, thirty Vicodin and another thirty Ambien sleep aids.”

“Were they his pills?”

Mary nodded. “Prescribed by Ed Swibold, that country club shrink up in Essex. The prescriptions were filled in November.”

“Mind you, we have no way of knowing if all three pill bottles were full,” Marge pointed out. “But Josie swears that they were. Also that the fifth of Cuervo had never been opened. She told us Bryce was alive when she left to go running with Mitch. She was gone for an hour and change. By the time she got back here, he was dead.”

“Say those pill bottles were full. Would they be enough to kill him within the time frame we’re talking about?”

“Him and a good-sized herd of elephants,” Marge affirmed.

Des glanced around the room. No furniture was overturned, no lamps or windows broken. She moved in more closely and examined Bryce’s skull, throat and hands. Saw no head wounds. No bruising around his throat. No fresh scratches on his hands. No skin, blood or other foreign matter under his nails. There was no reason to think that Bryce’s death was anything other than what it appeared to be-a straight suicide by a man who had a long history of emotional problems and drug dependency. As resident trooper her job now was to report her preliminary observations to the Troop F barracks in Westbrook and obtain contact information for the victim’s next of kin. A detective would take over from there. And a death investigator from the Medical Examiner’s office in Farmington would slog his way down to photograph the body and take Josie’s statement. After that, Bryce’s body would be delivered by hearse to Farmington for an autopsy. The M.E.’s people no longer transported bodies in their own fleet of vans. The job had been outsourced to undertakers.

Des studied that hand-scrawled Post-it on Bryce’s chest again, which read: Just an awkward stage. “What do you suppose that means?” she wondered aloud.

“Bryce used to say that to me whenever he went off into one of his dark places,” Josie answered softly, standing there in the doorway with Mitch. “He’d shrug his shoulders and say ‘It’s just an awkward stage.’ I ought to have those words carved on his headstone except…”

“Except what, Josie?”

“He told me he wanted to be cremated.”

“So his death was something that you two had talked about?”

“He talked about it all of the time. I kept telling the gnarly doofus that I intended to keep him around for a good thirty years. But he … he didn’t expect to be around for long.”

Des nodded, glancing around at the cramped little room.

“We’ve been sleeping down here to save on the fuel bill,” Josie explained. “It costs a fortune to heat this big old place. We don’t go upstairs at all.”

“About those pill bottles,” Des said. “You’re sure they were full?”

“Positive. I count them every morning to make sure. He wasn’t taking any of that stuff anymore. Their presence in our medicine chest was entirely totemic.”

“Entirely what?”

“They were symbolic. They represented what he didn’t need anymore.”

“Was that your idea or Bryce’s?”

“It was something we both agreed to.”

The tiny room fell silent as all of them stood there trying not to look at her dead boyfriend.

“Josie, why don’t we continue this conversation in the kitchen?”

Mitch joined them, topping off Josie’s coffee mug and his own before he sat with them at the round oak table.

“I don’t happen to believe in pills,” Josie stated firmly. “I don’t think they make you healthy-just drug dependent. I’m strictly about self-healing that utilizes energy-based modalities and mind-body practices.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t understand what you just said.”

“I’m saying that we concentrated on harnessing the vast power of Bryce’s mind to return his body to its natural state of being. We detoxified his system of artificial chemicals. We reduced his stress levels. We placed him on a…” She trailed off, staring at Des accusingly. “You think I’m full of crap, don’t you?”

“That’s not true at all, Josie,” Des said.

“Yes, it is. I can see it in your eyes. I happen to be a fully accredited life coach, you know. People value what I do. You would, too, if you needed me. You don’t. You’re someone who has tremendous personal discipline. You exercise, eat right, don’t smoke or do drugs. You’ve got it together.”

Des glanced down at the graphite stick residue that was always there underneath the middle fingernail of her right hand. Yeah, I’ve got it together. I just see dead people is all.

“But most people aren’t like you, Des. They’re weak. And an amazing number of them don’t like themselves very much. I have one client who pays me seventy-five dollars an hour just to go grocery shopping with her twice a week. She says she’d be lost without me. This is an affluent, well-educated career woman. You wouldn’t think she’d need me, but she does. Most of my clients do.”

“Bryce was more than a client to you.”

“Much more,” Josie acknowledged, lowering her blue eyes. “That … never happened before. I’ve never fallen in love with a client. I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to.”

The Jewett girls were done in the bedroom. They said their good-byes and headed back out by way of the mudroom. Des heard their van start up and pull away.

Josie gazed out the kitchen window at the snow, which was now coming down so hard that you could barely see across the beach to the water. “I could never, ever convince him that he deserved to be loved. And he was so depressed this morning that I decided he ought to see Dr. Swibold again. Mitch and I were talking about it while we were running.”

“It’s true, we were,” he confirmed.

“Josie, is there any chance Bryce was self-medicating without your knowledge? Scoring drugs on his own?”

“I don’t believe so. He hardly ever left the island. Didn’t hang out with anyone. Plus he was flat broke. The monthly check from his trust fund barely covered a week’s worth of groceries.”

“If that’s the case then how did he pay you? When he was seeing you professionally, I mean. You say you charge seventy-five dollars an hour. Where was the money coming from?”

“Why is that important?” Josie asked, sipping her coffee.

“It may not be. I’m just wondering.”

“Preston paid for it. Also for Bryce’s sessions with Dr. Swibold. Preston and Bryce had a-a strained relationship. When Bryce showed up last summer it hit Preston really hard. He told me he felt awful about the way he’d treated Bryce. Preston is in his sixties now, and he’s had two heart attacks. I got the impression that he didn’t want Bryce sitting on his conscience.”

“So you’ve been in personal contact with Preston?”

“By phone and e-mail. And he sent me checks from Chicago when I was coaching Bryce.”

“I’ll need a phone number for him.”

Josie fetched her Blackberry from the counter and gave Des Preston’s home and office numbers. “Bryce was a real hard case at first,” she recalled sadly. “He hated the idea of seeing someone like me. Many of my male clients do. Men flat-out hate to ask for help.”

Des was already well aware of this. It explained why most of the suicides she’d caught in her career were men-going all of the way back to her rookie year, second week on the job, when one of them decided to throw his gray flannel self in front of the 7:32 Metro-North train out of Stamford. Women create support groups for each other. They share their feelings with their friends. Talk. Confide. Depend on each other. Men are taught to be self-reliant. When things go bad they don’t reach out, just retreat into gloomy, lonely isolation. The holiday season, with its feel-goody emphasis on family and loved ones, can be particularly hard for them.

“I can’t imagine what I’ll do now,” Josie said, staring down into her coffee mug. “Bryce was such a big part of my life.”

“I’m sure Preston won’t mind if you stay here for a while,” Mitch said. “Under the circumstances, I mean.”

Josie looked at him narrowly “It’s not up to Preston to mind or not mind. This house doesn’t belong to him.”

Mitch glanced at Des curiously before he turned back to Josie. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Bryce wasn’t the caretaker of this place,” she replied. “He owned it. Lucas left it to him. Ask the family lawyer if you don’t believe me. Ask Glynis. She’ll tell you. Preston held the purse strings to Bryce’s trust fund, but Bryce has owned this house since the day he turned twenty-one. Preston wasn’t ‘allowing’ Bryce to stay here. It was Bryce who was ‘allowing’ Preston and his family to spend their summers here. Bryce knew how much it meant to Preston’s kids to return to Big Sister every summer. They have happy memories of this place. Bryce had happy childhood memories himself. This had been his home until Preston kicked him the hell out. But it’s not Preston’s house. It was Bryce’s and he-he…” Josie broke off, breathing deeply in and out. “I hardly ever drink coffee. It’s making me all buzzy and I’m rattling on.”

“You’re not,” Des assured her.

“Bryce really loved this island,” she said, her eyes growing shiny. “He’d gotten so tired of being rootless. Wanted to settle down here and stay put. Maybe even start a family of his own. Everyone in town thought he was the caretaker. He went ahead and let them think it. That was Bryce’s way. He liked for people to think he was a cheese head, but he wasn’t. Did you know he had a Master’s degree in literature from the University of Montana? He was incredibly well-read and insightful.”

“He told me he worked construction in Bozeman,” Mitch said.

“To put himself through school,” Josie said, nodding. “Des, what happens now?”

“There’s a process. Another officer will come and ask you more questions. So will someone from the Medical Examiner’s office.”

“What’s the point? It’s obvious what happened.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Sorry, there’s a ‘process.’ I get it. Will I need to be here all day? Because I have clients to see.”

“I’m sure they’ll understand if you have to reschedule.”

“No, they won’t understand,” Josie said emphatically. “They rely on me.”

“Then do what you got to do,” Des responded. People coped with grief in their own ways. If Josie needed to be there for her clients then so be it.

She was gazing out the window again at the snow. “He really did want to be cremated. But I guess I won’t have any say in that, will I?”

“That’s a family matter,” Des said. “All I can tell you is that those arrangements will be on hold until the Medical Examiner completes the autopsy.”

Josie’s eyes widened. “They have to do an autopsy?”

“I’m afraid so. This type of situation is what we call an untimely death. Autopsy’s pretty much automatic. Bryce’s blood will have to be tested. It may be several days before they have the preliminary toxicology findings, though it usually goes faster if they have a specific idea of what to look for.”

Josie cocked her head at Des curiously. “Why do I get the feeling that you’ve been through this ‘process’ before?”

“Only because I have.”

Too damned many times.

Des made a slow circuit through the Dorset Street Historic District. By now the fresh snow had to be six inches deep. The schools were closed for the day. So was Town Hall. When she reached Big Branch Road, Des made a left turn-her hands loose on the steering wheel, foot gentle on the gas pedal-and eased on through the business district, which was adorned up the wazoo with Christmas decorations and lights. The A amp;P was open, though there were very few cars in the lot. The antique shops, clothing stores and art galleries were open as well. ’Twas the week before Christmas and the economy sucked. No way the shopkeepers were staying home. Lem Champlain’s plow monkeys were out keeping the parking lots clear. Or trying.

McGee’s Diner on the Shore Road was a shabby, much-beloved local landmark. During the summer it teemed with sunburned, boisterous beachgoers who stopped there to munch on lobster rolls and gaze out the windows at Dick McGee’s million-dollar view of the Big Sister lighthouse. On a snowy December morning Des figured it would be a nice, quiet place to meet Paulette Zander for a cup of coffee.

A red Champlain Landscaping plow pickup was the only vehicle parked out front when Des got there. Pat Faulstich, the young Swamp Yankee who’d been spending time with Kylie Champlain, sat hunched over a mug of coffee at the counter, a wool stocking cap pulled low over his head. He glanced up at Des when she came in, then looked back down at his coffee, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. Pat had a reddish see-through beard and a thick neck. He was thick through the chest and shoulders, too. Wore a heavy wool shirt, jeans and work boots. A pea coat hung from a peg on the wall next to him. No one else was in the place-unless you count Nat King Cole, who was singing Christmas carols on the radio in the kitchen.

Dick’s waitress, Sandy, came out of there with a paper bag and a Thermos bottle and set them in front of Pat. “Here you be, young sir, four ham-and-cheese sandwiches. And I topped off your coffee-black with lots of sugar.”

Pat thanked her and put his pea coat back on. Then he grabbed the bag and Thermos and clomped out of there, his gaze avoiding Des’s as she sat down in a booth. When he got outside he stopped to light a cigarette, watching Des through the front window. Des watched him back. She made him nervous. She made all of the local boys nervous. He got into his truck, his jaw stuck out defiantly, then started it up and pulled away just as Paulette arrived in her Nissan Pathfinder.

Dorset’s postmaster came in out of the snow wearing one of those full-length quilted down coats that don’t look good on anyone. Not unless an overcooked bratwurst is your idea of looking good. Paulette wore her long silver-streaked hair in a ponytail today, but she still had the same tense, preoccupied look on her face that she’d had last night at Rut’s party. She took off her coat and slid into the booth across from Des, sitting in tight silence while Sandy poured their coffee.

“What’s going on?” Des asked her after Sandy returned to the kitchen.

“Same old sloppy mess,” Paulette answered nervously, pouring cream into her coffee. “We’ll be out there delivering what we have, but these snow days really do a number on my carriers. Those decrepit old Grumman LLVs of ours are just no good in the snow. Do you know what LLV stands for? Long Life Vehicle. To which I say LOL. Half of ours are falling to pieces.” She removed a paper napkin from the dispenser and tore off a piece, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger until it was a teeny, tiny ball. She set the ball next to her spoon, then tore off another piece of napkin and began rolling that.

Des watched her doing this for a moment before she said, “Shall we talk about what we need to talk about?”

Paulette bit down on her lower lip, fastening it between her teeth. “What did Rut tell you?”

“Not a thing. It was Mitch who he reached out to. He told him that a grinch has been stealing Hank’s Christmas tips and Lem’s plow money. Lem claims he’s missing a couple of thou.” Although that particular aspect was a bit iffy. Rut also told Mitch that Lem was tomcatting with an old sweetheart and might be hiding the money from Tina to pay for his fun. “Rut’s hoping we can keep it in the Dorset family because the postal inspectors won’t exactly be down with our quaint, small-town ways.”

Paulette sat there in stiff silence, rolling another piece of napkin into a teeny, tiny ball and setting it next to her spoon. There were already four tight little balls there.

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “There’s more happening than Rut let on, isn’t there?”

Paulette responded with a brief nod of her head. “Last Monday a dog walker found a huge batch of Hank’s mail in a ditch on Johnny Cake Hill Road. Practically every envelope Hank delivered in the Historic District that morning had been slashed open. Some contents were missing. Others were simply discarded.”

“Did they take the credit card statements, bank statements and such?”

Paulette shook her head. “They weren’t interested in those. Or in the paid bills that folks had put out for Hank to take. We found dozens of personal checks to mortgage companies, Connecticut Light and Power, you name it.”

“Then it doesn’t sound like we’re dealing with identity thieves. What did they take?”

“Anything and everything of value. People mail all sorts of gifts to their friends and relatives this time of year. They send Christmas cards with cash or prepaid retail gift cards tucked inside. And a million small packages that’ll fit inside of any mailbox-DVDs, CDs, iPods, Kindles. It’s kind of ironic, really.”

“What is, Paulette?”

“This is the age of high-tech security. We have elaborate systems to protect our homes and our cars. Yet our mailboxes still sit there by the curb, unlocked and unprotected, twenty-four hours a day. Some folks in town prefer to keep a P.O. box for that reason, but not as many as you’d think.”

“Are things disappearing from other routes besides Hank’s?”

“Just Hank’s, near as I can tell.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“About two weeks. Hank’s furious. He’s taking it personally.”

“Should he be?”

Paulette’s eyes crinkled at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean is someone purposely singling him out?”

“I can’t imagine why they would. Hank’s my most popular carrier. I have no idea why his route is being hit-beyond the simple, obvious reason.”

“Paulette, nothing about this is simple or obvious to me.”

“Hank’s route is the Historic District, which has the highest concentration of wealthy people packed into the fewest number of miles.”

“As opposed to a rural route, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

“Has anyone reported suspicious behavior of any kind? A stranger rummaging through mailboxes, anything like that?”

“Nothing like that, Des.”

One of the town’s big orange plow trucks rumbled by on Shore Road, its plow blade shaking the foundation of the old wood-framed diner. On the radio, Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

“The mail was discarded on Johnny Cake,” Des mused aloud. “That tells me it’s someone local. Out-of-town pros would have taken it with them.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a couple of teenaged kids.”

Des gazed out the window at the marsh. The snow was coming down so hard she couldn’t make out the lighthouse in the distance. “How, Paulette? How do a couple of young cheese heads cruise through the Historic District on multiple occasions, raid peoples mailboxes in broad daylight-it must be broad daylight because the boxes are full-and not one person has noticed them? A lot of folks are home during the day right now. The schoolkids are getting one snow day after another. The college kids are back for Christmas break. Plus we’ve got our share of retirees living in the Historic District. The arrival of the mail is the highlight of their morning. I find it hard to believe that anyone could hit those boxes repeatedly without being spotted.”

Paulette made another napkin ball with her thumb and forefinger and placed it next to her spoon. That made eight, nine, ten of them. “Quite a few of the houses are set back pretty far from the road.”

“And quite a few of them aren’t. Plus the Historic District is busy. People go in and out of Town Hall all day long. I’m thinking our grinch must be someone who has a legitimate reason to be accessing the boxes. Like, say, one of Lem’s plow boys.”

Paulette’s eyes narrowed. “Or one of my other carriers?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Des, I can’t vouch for Lem’s people but I can vouch for all ten of my full-time carriers and my five part-time subs. They’re honest, hardworking people. Every single one of them has passed the postal exam and undergone a thorough background check-including my son, Casey. There’s no nepotism in the U.S. Postal Service.”

“Casey’s a part-timer?”

Paulette nodded. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to go full-time within the next two years-if they’re hiring. All we hear about these days are cutbacks and givebacks. But it’s still a good career. And Casey’s a good kid. Well, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s twenty-eight. But he’s one of those young men who…” Paulette searched for the words. “Some of them need extra time to find their way.”

“From the way Hank was talking last night, it sounded like he and Casey don’t exactly get along.”

“That was just the eggnog talking. They’re fine. He’d like to see Casey living in his own place, that’s all. So would I. Nothing would make me happier than Casey settling down with a nice girl instead of hanging around at the Rustic with that drugged-out skank Gigi Garanski.”

The Rustic Inn was Dorset’s designated skeejie boy bar. Most of the brawls that Des had to break up during the course of a month took place there. “So Casey’s into Gigi?”

Paulette nodded glumly. “And Gigi’s not even his girl. She goes with Tommy Stratton.”

Whenever there was a brawl at the Rustic, Tommy Stratton was usually in the middle of it. Most people in Dorset knew him as Tommy the Pinhead. He was unsavory, unbright and scary. Hired muscle who was connected with the Costagno crime family. The Costagnos had an iron hold on whatever bad went on in Connecticut, Rhode Island and Western Massachusetts.

Sandy came over and refilled their cups.

Paulette dumped more cream in hers. “Can you help me, Des?”

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me the rest.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Des glared at her. “Yes, you do.”

Paulette cocked her head at her curiously. “No, I don’t. And I don’t understand why you’re being so confrontational.”

“Because you’re disrespecting me and I don’t like it. Are you going to say the words or do I have to say them?”

Paulette sat there in tight silence, reddening.

“Fine, I’ll say them. I used to live with a seventy-eight-year-old woman who happens to be one of those people whose mail has gone missing.”

Paulette grimaced. “Mrs. Tillis, I know. She gave me an earful last night.”

“That wasn’t an earful. If you want an earful just get her started on Rush Limbaugh. Bella’s in good health for a woman her age. But she takes quite a few prescription meds-Lipitor for her cholestorol, Celebrex for her arthritis pain, Synthroid for her thyroid, Boniva for her osteoporosis and two or three others that I can’t think of right now. She gets them by mail from her online pharmacy. People of all ages get their meds that way. A lot of those people have high annual deductibles on their health plans. When December rolls around they try to stock up because they’ve finally met their deductible and, lo and behold, their insurer actually has to foot the bill. This happens to be December, Paulette. Those mailboxes on Hank’s route are bursting with little bubble-wrapped pouches full of meds. It’s a violation of the Controlled Substances Act for online pharmacies to send anabolic steroids or Oxycontin through the U.S. Mail. But they can send just about anything else. Meds that wake you up. Meds that knock you out. Meds that make you feel happy all over. The high school kids here in Dorset love to party with that stuff. Every time I bust up a late-night beer bash I find heaps of Vicodin, Percocet, Valium, Xanax, Prozac, you name it. And, cue the drum roll, it’s all just sitting out there in those mailboxes waiting for someone to snatch it and sell it. We are not talking about someone taking Hank’s Christmas cookies or a DVD stocking-stuffer of Cars 2. We are talking about the illegal trafficking of prescription drugs. Now, were you ever going to mention that to me or were you just hoping that I’m totally stupid?”

Paulette breathed in and out for a long moment, her right eye twitching slightly. Then she reached for her coffee mug and took a sip, the mug trembling in her hand. “I’m not real proud of myself right now. I’m supposed to be in charge. I am in charge. I do a damned good job, too. My people work hard and smart and safe. They respect me. And, at the first sign of trouble, what do I do? Go running to good old Rut. I guess I feel like I’m in over my head,” she confessed. “And I’m a little ashamed of myself. A lot ashamed. I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

She gazed at Des searchingly. “Can you help me?”

“I’m sympathetic to your situation. The postal inspectors won’t understand our local customs. You don’t want Hank to get in trouble. I get that. But this may be a serious matter. I don’t have a lot of leeway here.”

Des’s cell phone vibrated on her belt. The 911 dispatcher was calling to report that the owner of the Village Bootery had just apprehended a shoplifter trying to slip out of the door with a four-hundred-dollar pair of Ugg boots.

The shoplifter was eighteen-year-old Kylie Champlain.

Des stood up and reached for her Gore-Tex storm parka. “Paulette, I’ll be in touch, okay?” Then she hurried outside, jumped into her cruiser and took off.

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.