A Killing Frost. Margaret Haffner
Reading
Tracy Tomachuk heaved a sigh of relief as she shut the door behind Michael and Darryl. ‘Thank you, Edna.’ She whispered a prayer of thanks to Darryl’s mother. Out of the blue, the woman had offered to take Michael for the night. The two nine-year-olds would be up till all hours playing Lego and Nintendo, but it was Edna’s problem, not hers.
As she turned away from the door, Tracy’s eye caught her reflection in the mirror over the hall table and she paused. Yet another wave of annoyance washed over her as she brushed ineffectually at the brown coffee stain on the pocket of her blue dress. Look what Ed had made her do – and it was her favourite dress. The saleswoman had said the colour complemented her eyes.
She scowled at her reflection. Tonight, the most noticeable aspect of her eyes was the matched set of bags under them. God she felt old! When she’d hit forty at her last birthday, it was as if her warranty had run out. Her back ached, her joints creaked and overnight grey hairs sprouted like mushrooms. At least they didn’t show too much in her blonde hair.
She flopped down on the chesterfield in the living-room. Maybe she shouldn’t have been quite so stubborn with Ed – eligible men were as rare in her life as ten-carat diamonds. Still, he wanted to run her life, and that temper of his … Men.
She picked up the remote control, switched on the television and scanned through the channels. Junk. As usual. She snapped it off again and jumped up to circle the living-room restlessly. Men. She’d been having her problems with them lately, that was for sure. First her boss, then Ernie pestering her, and now Ed. Of their own accord her eyes strayed to the buffet. Don’t be silly, she told herself. The papers are safe. Now all you have to do is decide what to do with them.
Stretching out on the chesterfield, she turned the television on again. She didn’t want to think about anything. A vacuous sitcom was all she could handle right now.
Tracy woke with a start. The television still blabbed in the corner, but she knew that wasn’t what had awakened her. Shivering, she wrapped her arms about herself and staggered up from the couch in confusion. When the doorbell rang again, it took her a few moments to figure out what it was. ‘What the hell … ?’ She stumbled forward, checking her watch. Who would be calling at midnight?
Opening the door, she stared in annoyance at her visitor. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ she said rudely.
‘May I come in?’
‘Do you know what time it is?’ she demanded.
‘I need to talk to you.’
Hand on hip, she stood blocking the entrance. The chill November wind whipped around the hem of her dress, transmitting a wave of goose bumps up her legs.
‘Just five minutes, that’s all. I promise.’
Reluctantly, Tracy stepped aside. ‘Five minutes. Say your piece and then go.’
Once inside, her visitor seemed to fill the small foyer. ‘Have you thought about what I said?’
‘I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘But you must.’
A hand was laid on her arm but Tracy shook it off. ‘Keep your hands off me!’ she shouted. She knew she was overreacting, but she felt disoriented from being suddenly awakened. Taking a deep breath, she moderated her tone. ‘I told you my decision. It’s final.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘You might as well go home and get some sleep.’
‘Not so fast …’ Strong fingers grasped her wrist and pulled her hand from the doorknob.
‘Let me go!’ As the grip tightened, a finger of fear traced her spine. ‘You’re hurting me. You have no right …’ Indignation and apprehension sent her voice shrieking upwards. The grin that her words elicited chilled her. ‘Come on, this isn’t funny. Be serious,’ she coaxed, straining to break free.
‘I am serious. Deadly serious.’
Tracy squealed with pain as her arm was twisted behind her back. Cold eyes, empty of compassion and reason, stared into hers.
She shuddered when the gaze shifted, releasing her from her paralysis. As Tracy struggled to free herself, she saw her assailant’s other hand snatch up her new red scarf from the hall table. Before she could even guess the reason, the scarf coiled around her throat.
Her two hands suddenly free, Tracy scrabbled at the choking tie. She struggled as cords of pain tightened around her convulsing lungs. Desperately, she kicked at her attacker’s shins, but she might as well have kicked a mountain. She tried to speak, to say she’d changed her mind, but the tongue protruding from her mouth couldn’t form the words. Red haze misted her sight as her knees buckled. In this world, utter terror was the last thing Tracy felt.
Ed Royce sat in the courtroom with his head in his hands. Beside him, bored but still alert, his guard kept a wary eye on him. At a scarred table in front of him, his lawyer shuffled papers and tried to conceal her anxiety as they waited for the jury to file in. Ed tried to blank out all thoughts and focus on nothing, but pictures kaleidoscoped in his mind. Tracy’s nude, sprawled body … Her distorted and protruding tongue … The colourful splash of the blood red scarf tightened like a garrotte around her slim neck. Handcuffs around his own wrists. His son’s white, agonized face. The quivering jowls of the relentless prosecutor. The revulsion on the faces of the jurors. Dear God, they were going to convict him! He’d never make it in prison. Being kept in gaol while he awaited trial had been bad enough, but the stories he’d heard about the federal prisons … He clenched his teeth and gripped his hair until his knuckles whitened.
He knew he’d blown it in the witness box. He should have heeded his lawyer’s advice and refused to take the stand. Until he’d lost his temper, all they had was circumstantial evidence. He groaned. He’d have plenty of time to work on his self-control while serving a life term for second-degree murder.
Ed shifted slightly in his seat so that he could see some of the spectators filling the rows of seats behind him. Since all the ghouls come out for murder trials – especially ones with a hint of sex – there were only a few empty seats. Even those people talking with their neighbours periodically glanced at him, the accused. He wondered why they bothered. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, not even odd-looking. Without putting his hand to his head, he knew his wavy blond hair looked uncombed – it always did. And his glasses had slid down his nose again. Although he’d lost his incipient paunch in gaol, he still didn’t look like either a hero or a villain. He hated the stares, but the armed policeman by his side ensured he stayed on display like some exhibit in a freak show. Step right up folks! See the two-headed monster, the dog-faced boy, the strangler. He couldn’t bear to see the blood lust in their eyes so he turned back to face the judge’s bench.
Again his thoughts returned to his own testimony. He’d proven the reports of his lightning temper, but at least he hadn’t admitted having a fight with Tracy the night she died. Even under oath he’d denied it and the only person who could have contradicted him was a senile old man who wouldn’t swear the male voice belonged to Ed. Ed sighed. It wasn’t the words he’d said in court, but how he’d said them. His vehemence had made him sound belligerent and unconvincing and the more nervous he got, the more strident his tone became. He buried his head in his hands. What would happen to his son?
Ed’s head jerked up. He hadn’t heard the jury arrive, but there they were, twelve