One Frosty Night. Janice Kay Johnson
ELEVEN
WHERE WAS THAT damn dog?
Marsha Connelly stomped into the woods, swearing when she noticed the laces on her right boot were straggling and now snow-crusted. Grunting, she bent over far enough to tie and double-knot them. After she straightened, it took her a minute to regain enough breath to bellow again.
“Blarney!” she bellowed. “You come right this minute!” Blarney. She only hoped neighbors thought the blasted dog’s name was Barney. What was wrong with Barney or Riley or Felix? Or even just Dog? But, no, she’d had to let the grandkids name the new puppy back a couple of years ago, when he’d been charming and small enough he couldn’t yet bowl people over in his enthusiasm.
She could see his footprints in the snow; that was one good thing. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have a clue where he’d hightailed it off to. On the other hand, it was aggravating to have snow on the ground in October. October!
“Blarney!”
Marsha wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but she was starting to worry about the dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks dog. And they said golden retrievers were smart! Well, not this one. Still, it wasn’t like him to take off like a rocket and not come back. He was pretty willing to please, on the whole. Just big and energetic and cheerful. She didn’t like to think he might have slipped on icy rocks into the creek or, who knew, not so long ago there’d still been some trappers around here. Imagining the steel jaws crushing his leg made her swear some more.
She had to stop every couple hundred yards to catch her breath. Could be that young doctor was right, saying she needed to get some exercise. Except how could you exercise when you couldn’t breathe? Answer me that, huh?
What with everyone using their woodstoves and inserts, the smell of smoke was sharp in her nostrils. The air was so still today, she had no doubt a gray pall hung over the valley, clinging to the lowland between the mountains rising sharply to each side.
She stopped dead, cocking her head. Had she heard a bark? She called the dog’s name and definitely heard an answer this time. She kept calling, and he kept barking, but he wasn’t getting any closer. So he’d gotten himself stuck somehow.
Mumbling about dumb dogs, she kept right on through the woods, tripping a few times, getting snagged by a sharp blackberry cane disguised by snow in a small clearing. Every so often she called, “Blarney!” and the dog answered.
He didn’t sound as if he was hurt, so maybe he’d just gotten his collar caught on something. Only why had he taken off like that in the first place? And gone so far?
She remembered how restless he’d been during the night, wanting out. He’d stood at the window whining until she’d grabbed the book from her end table and threw it at him. Then the minute she did open the door this morning, he shot out.
At last, she saw his plumy tail waving furiously just the other side of a mature cedar with low, sweeping boughs. Her puzzlement grew as she circled the tree, because he didn’t look to be snagged on anything at all. He had all four feet planted as if he’d grown there like the snowberries and ferns.
“All right, what is it?” Marsha grumbled.
Blarney dipped his head as if to bury his nose in the snow, which she’d seen him do in play, only whatever snow there was here in the woods was thin and crusty.
And then she saw what he guarded, and her mouth dropped open.
It was a woman, curled up as if to sleep and lying on her side, wearing only jeans and athletic shoes and a sweatshirt. No hat, no coat, no gloves or scarf. And she was dead; there was no mistaking that. Her skin was bluish white, her lips and eyelids a deeper blue. Ice rimed those lips and glittered on her eyelashes.
And, oh, dear merciful God, she was a girl, not a woman. Maybe fourteen or fifteen. Slight and immature.
And frozen to death, here in the woods approaching Crescent Creek, which Marsha could hear burbling in the not-too-far distance.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she whispered, tears burning in her eyes. This poor girl hadn’t been here but overnight. Marsha had looked at the outside thermometer before she went to bed, and it had registered thirty-nine degrees. The snow had been slush these past few days, until another cold spell hit during the night. If she’d let Blarney out when he’d asked—
Assailed by guilt, she said roughly, “Good dog, Blarney. You stay while I get help.”
He barked, and stayed where he was when she turned and hurried as fast as her old legs would carry her back the way she’d come.
SNIPPETS OF CONVERSATION from surrounding tables in Guido’s Italian Ristorante came to Olivia Bowen as she waited to find out why her mother had wanted to have lunch with her.
Lunch out, when they’d sat at the breakfast table this morning without exchanging a single word. Dinner last night, too, without anything important being said. And, yes, status quo the day before that. They were living in the same house, and she had been trying to get her mother to talk to her for weeks. Months.
“...can’t believe a film crew was here again.” Arnold Hawkins, his self-important voice unmistakable.
“...don’t understand why the police...” A woman’s voice.
“At least, thanks to this town, she has a respectable resting place.” Claudia Neff, an insurance agent. Also sounding smug.
Olivia was glad the town of Crescent Creek had cared enough to raise the money to bury the still-unidentified girl found dead in the woods. She just wished they’d been motivated by genuine philanthropy rather than the self-conscious awareness that they were acting on a world stage for the first time in their lives. The mystery of the girl who had seemingly appeared from nowhere, died for no apparent reason and been buried by a community of people who had tenderly taken her to their collective hearts was still an internet sensation.
Jane Doe’s death was a watershed for this town, one that made Olivia uneasy more than anything.
Maybe because her father had died only a month later, as if—
There was no as if, she told herself firmly. What possible connection could there be? They all knew Dad’s heart had been damaged by the first attack. It had only been a matter of time. She’d come home to Crescent Creek to take over Dad’s hardware store and lumberyard to give him peace and to spend time with him.
Listening to the receding footsteps of