Free Snow Blind by P. J. Tracy

at least.
    Even the sound of running water couldn’t drown out the breathy wail of the wind around this north corner of the old farmhouse.Icy pellets of sleet dived out of the dark to tap at the bathroom window, where a layer of frost had built up on the inside wooden sash again. New windows. Maybe that should be first.
    She scowled at the sleet hitting the window as she dried her foot, thinking about moving to California, or Siberia – anywhere she could count on the weather to be reasonably consistent. Two days ago she’d ridden her bicycle the quarter-mile to her mailbox; yesterday the mailbox had disappeared under a foot of snow; this morning a new storm front was adding a coating of ice to the mix, just for openers.
    The cat waited until Iris was sitting on the toilet, then came into the bathroom and simply stood there, staring at her.
    ‘Voyeur. Puking voyeur.’
    Puck blinked at her, then came over to rub against her legs. Iris chose to interpret this as a kitty apology, and stroked the thinning black fur. The cat was fifteen this spring, and probably shouldn’t be blamed for the occasional uproar of an aging digestive system. ‘Poor Puck. Don’t you feel good?’
    The cat began to purr, then promptly threw up on Iris’s other foot.
    It was six a.m. and still dark when Iris finally wentdownstairs to the kitchen. She wore the clothes she’d laid out the night before after an agonizing hour of indecision. Black slacks, white pullover, and a black blazer waiting, draped over the back of her chair. She had purplish smudges under her eyes this morning, and makeup wasn’t helping.
    She was in the middle of her first cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal when the phone rang.
    ‘Is this Iris Rikker?’ a male voice asked.
    ‘Yes, who is this?’
    ‘Lieutenant Sampson. We’re down at Lake Kittering, public landing, you know where that is?’
    ‘Uh …’
    ‘North shore, just past the courthouse, right next to Shorty’s Garage. We’ve got a body.’
    Iris stood absolutely still, connected to a brand-new world by the length of a phone cord. She took a breath. ‘I can be there in half an hour.’
    ‘No, you can’t. The roads are shit. But don’t worry. This one isn’t going anywhere.’
    The click of a sudden disconnect made her blink. She eased the receiver back into its cradle, then took a step back from the phone and hugged her arms. She looked around at her cozy kitchen – white cupboards, dark green wallpaper, a jug of dried flowers on an oak table. It smelled like fresh coffee and the cinnamon candle she’d lit last night. It was anice kitchen – a homey farm kitchen – and phone calls about bodies didn’t belong here.
    There was a full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door, and Iris looked into it as she pulled on a pair of moon boots she’d had for ten years and a black parka she’d bought last week. Something old, something new, she thought, wondering why she looked so small this morning; a little blond-haired woman with blue eyes too big for her face and very pale skin.
    Damnit, there weren’t supposed to be bodies. Bodies had never been mentioned, not once.
    She stared holes into the eyes of her reflection, mentally reinforcing who and what she was – onetime city girl, substitute English teacher at whatever school in the district would take her, and the brand-new deputy who’d been working a scant two months on night-shift dispatch because part-time teaching couldn’t pay the bills – and then she closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. Yesterday she had been those things. Today she was the newly elected sheriff of one of the largest rural counties in Minnesota, and some jackass named Sampson thought she was the person to call when you found a body lying around.
    ‘Oh, yeah,’ she breathed at the mirror, and then headed for the upstairs bathroom at a dead run.
    Puck found her kneeling in front of the toilet.
    Iris looked at her balefully. ‘Watch and learn,