Free Cover of Snow by Jenny Milchman Page B

car? What made him stay the extra hour in the woods and wind up freezing to death?”
    The Chief stood up behind his desk. “Honey,” he said. “It’s the lack of answers that make a person die all over again. Why would you do that to yourself?”
    I shook my head. For the first time since the funeral, I couldn’t say.
    â€œThis is a time to hunker down,” the Chief said. “Mourn. Join with your family. I met your family the other day. They’re good folks.”
    I wiped my face, and the Chief dug into his breast pocket for a handkerchief.
    â€œWill you think about what I’ve said?”
    I nodded.
    â€œGood,” he said. “No, you keep that,” he added, as I halfheartedly held out the scrap of sodden cloth.
    The Chief came around and opened his door.
    When I walked out, Dave Weathers angled his body away. Vern’s brother was built like him, a bit softer and looser, but just as large. Dave’s arm accidentally brushed against his desk, sending a few items sliding to the floor. He was stooping, sweeping them together, as I reached the door.
    I exited against a wall of icy wind, zipping up my coat, then saw Club come out behind me. His face was chapped and raw, angry-looking, as if he’d spent time outside without wearing his mask. He flexed gloveless hands as I greeted him.
    â€œI’ll be salting later,” Club remarked. “We’re in for a big one.”
    I glanced up at the snow-blank sky. “Can I ask you something, Club?”
    He didn’t answer right away, fingering his holster, a steady—if apparently mindless—gesture. “Cold out here,” he said. “Want to sit down in my truck?”
    I looked at him. “Sure.”
    We crossed the buried lot. After we’d closed the doors, Club fired the ignition and turned on the heat. “What’s up?”
    I swallowed. “Do you have any idea why Brendan might’ve been taking painkillers?”
    â€œPainkillers?” Club echoed. “Nope. I sure don’t.”
    â€œOr sleeping pills maybe.”
    Club shook his head.
    I stripped off my gloves and held my hands out to the blowing air. “You guys were working late a lot the last few weeks.”
    â€œSure,” Club replied. “Happens. You know that.”
    A sneeze overtook me, and I looked down. The seat I was occupying was thickly coated with black fur. I smiled, sneezing ferociously again.
    â€œGod bless,” Club said absently. He was staring out the window. “The only thing I can tell you about Brendan’s last days is he was doing a lot of talking. More than usual even.”
    â€œTalking?” I said. “About what?”
    Club shrugged. “You know. How it’s hard to do what we do. Protect the good when there’s scum all around. Pardon,” he added.
    I sniffed in deep. “Yeah. That sounds like something Brendan used to talk about.” Brendan’s face—his whole stance—used to change when he did, become stiffer, more intense. I would attempt to humor him out of it, make jokes about small town intrigue, who would mow the town square this summer, but Brendan lost his customary wit during those times.
    â€œMowing is big business up here, Chestnut,” he told me once. “Goes along with snow-plowing.” He’d spread his hands against a pane of glass, whitened at the time with frost and flakes. “Enough said.” But clearly it hadn’t been enough. “Bills can run to hundreds of thousands of dollars in these parts. When that kind of money is at play, the gloves come off. Anything can go.”
    I’d thought about it later, the various interpretations of that phrase. Had Brendan meant “anything goes”? Or “any corner can be cut”?
    I gave another sneeze.
    â€œYou know?” Club was turning down the heat. “Maybe it would be a good idea to go see your family. Get a little time