Winter's Secret Read online

  They stowed the boxes of hot food in the back of the Jeep. "I'm so sorry you got hooked into this." Wendy passed in front of him and slid into the passenger side of his Jeep.

  Wendy's abashed tone surprised him. Didn't she want him along? He got in the driver's side. "Did you have a reason for me not to deliver the Thanksgiving dinners with you?"

  "Of course not." With both her small hands, she began ruffling the fresh snow from her short hair. "You're welcome to help, but I could have done it by myself." She lowered her eyelashes and her voice. "I just don't like it when Grandfather tries to ...match make."

  He chuckled. "Don't let it bother you." Even as he spoke the words, his mind munched on the concept of matchmaking. It had been a long time since any friend had tried to fix him up, mainly because most of his friends' marriages had failed. Unfortunately, too many cop marriages collapse under the unique pressures of being a law officer.

  He cleared his throat. "I felt like I haven't been able to do anything to help with the Outreach meal today." He'd have to watch his emotions around Wendy. Somehow she'd found a tiny chink in his bachelor armor and had slipped inside, warming him with her sunny presence.

  She sighed, sounding relieved. "Okay. Why don't you just head toward Highway 27 while I check the list?" She glanced down at the handwntten list with its many scribbled notes and fell silent beside him.

  And that was just like her—she never tried to catch his attention. She was more dangerous than that. She caught his notice without even trying.

  Looking out his window to keep his eyes away from Wendy, he drove through Steadfast past Carl and Patsy's Grill on Main Street. In the quiet, he let his mind drift away from Wendy back to today's first hint of another kind of trouble brewing.

  Earlier, as he'd driven through the deserted, snow-blanketed village, he'd experienced a time-travel sensation, as though a century had slipped away and he should be riding a horse through the empty streets. The hush of deep winter had crept inside him, giving him a profound peace.

  But whether he'd been a sheriff a century ago or today, one of his duties was to remind everyone that the law hadn't taken the holiday off. Though it seemed ironic, holidays often triggered an increase in police work, with domestic disputes and people overdoing what they called "holiday cheer." So he'd pulled up in front of the only business open on Main Street, Carl and Patsy's. Through the chilly morning snowfall, he'd walked inside the darkened interior.

  "Hello, Sheriff!" Carl, a stocky, white-haired man well over retirement age, had called out from behind the bar. "Come on in. I'll buy you a Thanksgiving brew."

  Rodd had waved his greeting and sat down on a barstool. A few old men were already at the bar, but they were drinking coffee and watching a muted Christmas parade on the small TV above the bar. Carl and Patsy's place usually gave him no problem. The average age of their customers must hover in the sixties. Carl's was more of a senior center than a bar, completely different from Flanagan's. "Make it a root beer, Carl, and I'll accept."

  Carl chuckled. "One sarsaparilla coming up." He served Rodd a foaming mug. "Feel like we're in an old Western on TV. I'm the friendly old barkeep and you're the teetotaling young sheriff."

  Rodd grinned. "And I just rode through the ghost town."

  Carl nodded.

  Rodd sipped his foam-topped root beer. "Just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving and I'll be hanging around town if you need me. I'm wearing my pager. Later I plan to stop by the church for Thanksgiving dinner. If you hear of anyone who wants to get together for a meal, send him there, would you?"

  "Will do. But my Patsy roasted two twenty-pound birds and stirred up a vat of cranberry sauce last night. We'll be serving turkey sandwiches all day to customers."

  "Sounds like a plan." Then into Rodd's peace, the day's first disturbing note had sounded.

  Wiping the bar, Carl leaned close with his head down. "Sheriff, I heard a rumor. Maybe it's something, maybe not. Kids may be planning a kegger tonight. That useless Elroy Dietz might be getting paid by high school kids to set one up."

  Rodd had given the barest nod, stood up, and put a dollar down. He'd waved good-bye to the men sitting at the bar and left. Then he'd driven around town once more before he parked by the church. All the while, he turned the word kegger over in his mind. A teen drinking party out somewhere isolated was a prescription for disaster. It would take some handling—if it proved to be more than a rumor.

  Now leaving Steadfast behind and with Wendy beside him, Rodd concentrated on his driving. The snow and ice-packed roads and all the dishes of food boxed and stowed carefully in the rear of his Jeep made him negotiate the curves and hills more cautiously. He readily understood why some seniors had decided not to drive in for the Thanksgiving Outreach Dinner. But the thought of the possible kegger irritated him like a painful speck in his eye.

  Wendy interrupted his thoughts. "We're nearly at our turnoff. The Barnes place is just a mile from here."

  Rodd glanced at her. She'd opened her parka, partially revealing her dress, a fine corduroy, reddish brown like oak leaves in the fall. It made her hair look richer, more golden. Was she letting it grow? It looked longer than it had been that first day they'd met at Ma's. Sun glinted in her tiny golden earrings shaped like fall leaves. The same kind of leaf dangled on a gold chain around her neck

  He wished he were the kind of man who could say casually, "You look pretty today." But would she welcome a compliment or retreat from him? She'd pulled away from him that early morning in Good Hope....

  Wendy wasn't like any of the women he'd dated in the past. He liked women with long hair, classy women who wore makeup and perfume, women who made him want to don a suit for a date. But none of them had kept his interest like Wendy Carey had. Ever since their trip to Duluth, her sincere face had popped into his mind at will. He halted this line of thought. Some men just weren't cut out for it—especially cops. That was one of the reasons that his father had delayed remarrying until he'd retired early from the Milwaukee PD.

  "Here's the turn." She pointed the way.

  Soon, he parked in front of an old house with peeling yellow paint. Snowflakes blew around as though tired, aimless. In the sharp air he helped Wendy get out the covered tray from the box in the back. He was about to carry it in when his cell phone rang.

  "I'll take it in." Wendy lifted the tray from his hands and walked up the short flight of steps to where an old man in a worn green sweater held open the door for her.

  Watching her go, Rodd opened his cell phone and climbed back inside his Jeep.

  "Hello, Sheriff." The voice of the dispatcher sounded perturbed. "Mrs. Beltziger out on Casey Road wants to talk to you."

  "Mrs. Beltziger? What does she want?"

  "I'm not important enough for her to tell," the dispatcher said with a sardonic twist. "You have to call."

  "Okay." He gave dispatch his location and hung up. Since anyone could own a radio with a police band and many county residents had them, he'd decided that he and all his deputies should be equipped with cell phones and pagers for privacy. Digital cellular messages couldn't be picked up by others unless they had high-powered electronic equipment. The fact that dispatch contacted him via cell phone, not radio, said that Mrs. Beltziger wanted her communication with him kept private. He punched in the Beltziger number and identified himself.

  A woman with a forceful voice spoke in quick even beats. "We need you to come out here. It's that Dietz bunch. They're always up to something."

  Instinctively, Rodd didn't appreciate the woman's complaining busybody tone. He didn't think he'd like her as a neighbor any more than the Dietzes probably did.

  She went on, "I think some of the younger ones are planning a kegger over in that old barn way back on their property."

  So the kegger, that speck in his eye, rubbed and stung him more. "Why do you think that, ma'am?"

  "It's happened before on holidays, and late last night I seen that Elroy Dietz drive by our house, then off the r
oad to the old barn. Ain't any reason for him to be out there. And this morning, I seen several young boys—teens—snowmobile out that way."

  "Is that unusual?"

  "On Thanksgiving Day it is. I'll bet you anything that Elroy bought a keg or two of beer for his nephews and their friends for tonight. Though where he got the money, I don't know. Now I don't want a bunch of liquored-up kids driving snowmobiles onto the ice on Tamarack Lake over here or smashing into trees," she insisted.

  "I don't either, ma'am. I'll get right on it."

  "Well, I hope so, but don't you let on to them Dietzes it was me that called. They're an ornery bunch, especially that sneaky Elroy. He's just as bad as the Riekers. I hear you're making up to Wendy Carey. Did you know she's a Rieker on her mother's side—"

  Rodd cut her off. "Don't worry, ma'am. This conversation is confidential."

  "Good. Now don't mess this up like you did that business at Olson's. Good-bye." Click.

  Rodd strangled the receiver in his hand. Listening to the dial tone start, he hung up. Mrs. Beltziger needed to reread her copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People. Her comment about Wendy had come close to making him hang up on her. Who cared who Wendy was related to? Then to top it all off, the unpleasant woman had put into words the fiasco at Olson's. That had been his best shot so far at catching the Weasel red-handed. In the weeks since, the snowmobile thief had lain low.

  Now a kegger might be on today's agenda. Rodd called dispatch to find the location of another deputy. He was on the other side of the county busy enforcing a no-contact order. Rodd told dispatch to have the deputy contact him as soon as he could.

  When Wendy let herself back in, cold air rushed inside the Jeep. She eyed him. "Can you go on, or do you need to be off on a call?"

  "I've got time," he said, keeping his tone light. A sharp woman, Wendy had already picked up on his preoccupation. He drove back onto the highway. Now he could discuss his plan to catch the Weasel."I contacted Gus Feeney in LaFollette."

  "What did he say?" Her quick interest showed in her voice.

  "He said he'd think about it. He seemed to think that I should keep the thief in Steadfast."

  "That sounds like someone from LaFollette, not Gus. Maybe it's because you're new in the county."

  "Why would someone in LaFollette—"

  "It's just an old feud between the two towns. But my grandfather and Gus served together in the Korean War , and vets from any war are welcome at the VFW for bingo. You just have to ask him again."

  "I will. The big bingo night fund-raiser is still two weeks away. I want to have time to really build up how successful the event will be so Gus will become a target. Or should I say his house?"

  "How will you do that?"

  He grinned. "My deputies and I will prime the gossip pump, and I'll ask Old Doc to really promote it and Gus in Cram's paper. Then Gus will have to be overcome with the excitement—his heartbeat becoming irregular—and be taken into the clinic. I've driven past Gus's house, and an ambulance would have to go past Flanagan's both ways. I'm certain the thief, whoever he is, will be there and want to find out who is in the ambulance. And if the thief doesn't nibble the bait, Old Doc could keep Gus over a second night."

  "Sounds good. I'll pray about it."

  He made no reply. They reached the next stop.

  Wendy glanced at him, a worried look on her face.

  He paused. Something was bothering her. He looked at the house, then back at Wendy. "Why don't I deliver this one?"

  "No, I don't think you'll ..." She confessed, "This is Veda McCracken's house—"

  "Then I'm definitely delivering this one—"

  "No, I—"

  Rodd climbed out and went to the back. The least he could do today was protect Wendy from the woman who counted Wendy her enemy.

  "I—" Wendy tried to object again.

  "I'll be right back." With tray in hand, he trotted up the rickety steps and knocked on the door.

  Veda opened the door, scowled at him, took the tray, and slammed the door.

  "Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Miss McCracken!" he said to the door. Back in the car, he cleared his throat. "Would you mind telling me what that woman has against the world?"

  Wendy lowered her gaze. "Veda is my father's aunt."

  "Your aunt?" This close relationship between Veda and Wendy hadn't occurred to him, but again he had overheard comments, which now became clearer to him. "I won't hold you responsible for that! Why is she angry all the time?"

  Wendy tried to smile. "My grandfather tried to answer that for me once. He showed me a picture of my grandmother, his late wife, who was Veda's older sister. She was blonde, petite, and very pretty—and popular, he said. She was everything that Veda never was. Grandfather said Veda was jealous of her older sister from the cradle. It made her spiteful when people went on and on about how pretty and sweet her older sister was. He thinks that's why she first became so nasty. But..."

  "But?" Rodd prompted.

  "But my mother always says that Veda just enjoys being mean. She likes people to shy away from her, be afraid of her. And some try to keep on her good side like Miss Frantz. Controlling people must make Veda feel powerful or something. I don't get it myself."

  Rodd let the unpleasant topic drop. Why spoil Thanksgiving with thoughts about Veda McCracken? Only God knew what made a woman turn so bitter.

  Wendy and he made five more quick stops, and then Wendy asked him to drive to Flanagan's.

  "Flanagan's?" He'd already intended to stop there after Thanksgiving dinner in his official capacity in an attempt to daunt its rowdier customers from making trouble.

  "I think my Uncle Dutch will be there." Wendy sounded stung by Rodd's disparaging tone; her voice stiffened.

  Guilt over embarrassing her made his face warm. Here she was showing true charity. And he was coming off as a holier-than-thou hypocrite.

  She went on in a subdued tone, "I need to drop a dinner off for him. I promised Mom."

  "Fine." While more snowflakes landed on his windshield, he drove over the empty roads to the bar. Wendy stirred his compassion. First Dutch Rieker, now Veda McCracken—Wendy had been burdened with a fine set of relatives.

  Though only noon, several cars and trucks were already parked around Flanagan's under its garish green shamrock sign. Loud country music blasted from inside.

  He parked and glanced at her. He just couldn't see this young woman going into a dive like Flanagan's. "I'd be glad to take it in for you."

  She turned to him and smiled with her head cocked slightly. "No, I think I should do this myself." Her gaze slid down from his face to her lap. "I haven't been to Flanagan's since ...well, for a very long time. I hate to go in, but I think this is what I should do. Uncle Dutch, no matter what his faults, is still my mother's brother."

  Her words only strengthened Rodd's high opinion of Wendy Carey. He got out and walked to her side and helped her out.

  Helping her walk over the packed-down gray snow on the gravel parking lot, Rodd escorted Wendy inside with quiet pride. He paused just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the murky interior. All eyes turned toward him, the usual response he received when entering Flanagan's. Over the haze of cigarette smoke, he picked out Dutch's white blond hair. Wendy must have seen it too, because she made a beeline for the man.

  Rodd also located Elroy Dietz at the end of the bar, playing a pinball machine. Elroy hit the jackpot and did an odd little hand-pumping gesture and peculiar hooting laugh. Would he be arresting Dietz tonight? The odor of stale beer and cigarettes hung in the sluggish air, a sickening mix. To Rodd, Wendy glowed like a pure-white candle. Didn't anyone else notice it?

  "Wendy girl!" Holding a cue, Dutch straightened up from the pool table. The blaring jukebox fell suddenly silent, letting the other sounds surface—the crack of balls hitting each other at the break, the swish of water as the bartender washed glasses, and the low rumble of voices.

  Walking behind Wendy, Rodd met
each glance with a hard stare, letting everyone know they'd better be on their best behavior.

  "Happy Thanksgiving, Uncle Dutch." She let the scruffy man hug her with one arm and kiss her cheek.

  "Same to you, honey. What's that in your hand?"

  "Since you wouldn't join Sage and me at the church, I brought you a plate of dinner."

  "Well, thank you. I miss your mother this year. She can sure cook a turkey."

  Rodd noted the sincerity in Dutch's voice. How did Wendy Carey and Dutch Rieker fit in the same family? It made him wonder about Wendy's mother ...about Harlan's late son, too. How had a Rieker married a Carey?

  Wendy replied softly, "I miss Mom too."

  Dutch received the plate from Wendy. "But I'm happy for her. She snagged herself a good man this time. She finally got her happy ending."