Free Bonereapers by Jeanne Matthews Page A

ever took place. In the meanwhile, she had told Norris that she was going out and, if she was going to enjoy a taste of this bracing climate, now was the time. She dressed and took her excess of curiosity and nervous energy downstairs.
    Encased in so many layers she could barely bend, she fitted the chemical toe warmers she’d bought at a sporting goods store in D.C. into her boots, bundled herself into Erika’s parka, pulled the balaclava over her face, pulled up the fur hood, and set out to explore the mean streets of Longyearbyen. Her primary destination was the public library where she hoped she would find a computer. She didn’t want to risk being caught trolling for information about the Sheridans or Jake Mahler on the Radisson’s computer.
    The first breath she drew outside the shelter of the Radisson seared her lungs and the welter of flying snow stung her eyes. She buried her nose in her collar and squinted down the street to her left. The town was lit up as if it were night, which of course it was, even if it was morning. She made binoculars out of her hands to little effect. Through the blur of white, she made out a jumble of yellow and blue and red and green squares, like pixels on a fuzzy screen. More from inference than from vision, she decided that the colors were houses. Boxy houses with peaked roofs arrayed on a hillside overlooking the main street. There were also colored rectangles that looked like railroad flatcars, probably apartments for the coal miners or the scientists and researchers who cruised in and out of town conducting various studies. A red steeple seemed to float atop the torrents of white, an ethereal reminder that the world’s northernmost settlement had not slipped the boundaries of Christendom.
    A snowmobile sped past her, throwing up a cascade of snow in its wake. Leaning into the wind, she trudged after it. Every few steps, she stopped to brush the snow out of her eyes and get her bearings. There were plenty of lighted signs and storefront displays. The denizens of Longyearbyen did not want for goods or services. It hadn’t occurred to her that there would be so many shops and businesses. There was a sports outfitter, a pizza parlor, a pharmacy, a bank, a combination supermarket and department store, more hotels, even an art gallery. If there was a library, she could avail herself of a computer and answer a few of the questions that nagged her. There might be news articles or blogs about the friction between Tillcorp’s CEO and the agriculture minister and the American media was sure to have dug into Colt Sheridan’s relationship with the company. She might even find something about Eftevang if he was as big a troublemaker as Valerie said.
    Erika’s gasp of horror and dismay puzzled Dinah most of all. Had she seen something when she went roaming last night? Dinah wished she’d asked the man on duty at the Radisson’s front desk for the name and location of the pub where the murder had taken place. He probably knew all about it. In a town this size, it wouldn’t take long for news of a murder to spread.
    She struggled against the headwind for another few blocks without seeing any evidence of the crime scene—no police tape, no sign, no barriers. And if there was a library, it was lost in the snow. Her eyeballs felt as if they were turning into gelato. Somewhere at the end of the street was the wharf and beyond that stretched the icy waters of Adventifjorden, or Advent Bay. The fact sheet posted on the Radisson notice board warned guests not to venture beyond the wharf unarmed because polar bears do not hibernate like their brown and black cousins. They range along the shores of the bay all winter, hunting tirelessly for seals. Or, if the opportunity arose, negligent tourists. A group of young campers had been mauled near Longyearbyen only a few months ago.
    It was impossible to gauge distances in this blizzard. The streetlights didn’t help. Everything looked surreal. On the