Free Snowbound by Bill Pronzini Page B

good, and you could see portions of the white-laced peaks marking higher elevations to the east. You could also see the thickening black snowclouds which obscured their crests, and you knew—sourly, in Coopersmith’s case—that there would be another heavy snowfall later in the day.
    He leaned on the long handle of his shovel as McNeil’s ten-year-old Dodge plowed through the snow on Alpine Street and drew up just beyond his front gate—thinking irascibly: Fine, can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have come calling this morning. With McNeil, he saw, was the café owner’s son; the two of them got out of the car and came over to the gate.
    “Morning, Frank, Larry.” Coopersmith’s voice was bland, without particular interest. “Something I can do for you?”
    “I sure as Christ hope so,” McNeil said. His eyes shone with dark outrage, and his blunt face was flushed. “Somebody broke into the café last night.”
    “What?”
    “That’s right. Broke the lock off the rear door and then propped the goddamn door wide open. Storeroom was filled with snow when Larry and me went in to open up a few minutes ago—snow all over everything.”
    Coopersmith abandoned his careless manner. “What was taken, Frank?”
    “Nothing. Not a single thing.”
    “You positive about that?”
    “Hell yes. First thing we did was check the register and my cash box. They hadn’t been touched.”
    “No supplies missing, either?”
    “No.”
    “Vandalism?”
    “Just the rear door, that’s all.”
    Coopersmith frowned. “Any idea who could have done it?”
    “Damn it, no. It doesn’t make a bit of sense.”
    “You report it yet?”
    “I wanted to talk to you first.”
    In spite of his dislike for McNeil, Coopersmith felt mildly appreciative of the implied confidence. He said crisply, “All right, Frank. Let’s go have a look.”
    He propped his shovel against the cross-slatted fence and went with father and son to the Dodge. McNeil started the car and drove the four blocks to the Valley Café, pulled into the narrow, snowpacked alley that ran behind the building. He parked close to the café’s rear entrance, and Coopersmith got out immediately and went to look at the door.
    The lock, old and flimsy, had been cleanly snapped by means of inserting a crowbar or some similar tool between the door edge and the jamb. There were splinter and gouge marks in the wood there which told him that much. The door was closed now. Coopersmith said, “You wedge it closed from the inside, Frank?”
    “No. Latch still holds, even with the busted lock.”
    Coopersmith opened the door and stepped into the small, somewhat cluttered storeroom. The floor inside was wet, still mounded in places with the snow—melting now —which had blown in during the night. To one side was a half-filled crate of oranges; indicating that, McNeil said, “Crate there was holding the door open.”
    “That where you usually keep it—by the door?”
    McNeil shook his head. “It’s supposed to be over there with the other fruits and vegetables.”
    “Way it seems, then, whoever did it had nothing in mind except letting a lot of snow whip in here.”
    “Yeah. But what the hell for?”
    “Could be a practical joke.”
    “Some joke, if that’s it.”
    “Or it could be somebody wanted to harass you a little.”
    “Why’d anybody want to harass me, for Chrissake?”
    “Well—you ruffle any feathers lately?”
    “Not me. I get along with everyone, you know that.”
    Yeah, Coopersmith thought. He moved slowly around the storeroom, found nothing, and pushed open the swing door that led to the front of the café.
    Following him, McNeil said, “Like I told you: nothing taken, nothing disturbed.”
    They went back into the storeroom, and Coopersmith said, “Best thing for you to do is report what happened to the substation in Soda Grove; but if you want, you can tell them not to bother sending a deputy over. Tell them I’ll look into it—ask around,