The Dead of Winter (A Piper Blackwell Mystery Book 1) Read online

  The Dead of Winter

  A Piper Blackwell Mystery

  Jean Rabe

  The Dead of Winter

  A Piper Blackwell Mystery

  Copyright © 2016 by Jean Rabe. All Rights Reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.jeanrabe.com

  First Edition Kindle eBook

  Imajin Books: www.imajinbooks.com

  October 17, 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-77223-275-2

  Cover designed by Ryan Doan: www.ryandoan.com

  Praise for THE DEAD OF WINTER

  “Mystery just got a little less cozy in THE DEAD OF WINTER.” —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Steven Savile

  “Jean Rabe delivers a suspenseful morsel that not only celebrates the Yuletide season, but also keeps you up at night with a well-crafted mystery. THE DEAD OF WINTER is chilling indeed!” —Raymond Benson, New York Times bestselling author (James Bond books) and author of The Black Stiletto series (optioned by ABC studios)

  “THE DEAD OF WINTER was a blast—lots of fun to read! Jean Rabe’s characters come to life through the written word, and it takes a real writing talent to accomplish this feat.” —Denise Dietz, USA Today bestselling author

  “For years I’ve admired Jean Rabe’s work in the science fiction and fantasy genres, and now, with THE DEAD OF WINTER, she’s applying her considerable talents to the field of mysteries. The first in a very promising series with an attractive main character, Piper Blackwell, a female county sheriff who faces obstacles both on and off the job while investigating a puzzling homicide. Very much recommended.” —Multiple award-winning and three-time Edgar nominee author Brendan DuBois

  “Author Jean Rabe has created a great new little town mystery series with her first offering in the Piper Blackwell series. Newly elected, following in her ailing father’s footsteps and experiencing resistance from the ranks, Piper follows the trail of a cold, merciless killer. Fans of small town settings and an interactive cast of characters will enjoy this introduction to a crew that will definitely continue finding bodies!” —Mel Odom, bestselling author of the Makaum War series

  “Author Jean Rabe has created a great new little town mystery series with her first offering in the Piper Blackwell series. Newly elected, following in her ailing father’s footsteps and experiencing resistance from the ranks, Piper follows the trail of a cold, merciless killer. Fans of small town settings and an interactive cast of characters will enjoy this introduction to a crew that will definitely continue finding bodies!” —Mel Odom, bestselling author of the Makaum War series

  For Juliana

  Acknowledgments

  I thank Randall Lemon for his Christmas cards that inspired this tale, Sheriff Jim McDurmon and attorney John Rudisill for sharing their knowledge of Spencer County, Bob Jenkins of Fort Campbell for providing background on the Screaming Eagles MP division, Paula Lawlor for her devious demises, and Vicki Steger, William Gilsdorf, Lee Goldberg, and Raymond Benson for lending their discerning eyes.

  Somewhere in this book is a hidden “Easter Egg,” a link to 3 FREE Qwickie novellas by 3 bestselling authors. This is a time limited offer, so happy reading and hunting!

  One

  Monday, January 1st

  Conrad Delaney’s body leaned against a life-sized stuffed Santa on the seat of a glossy black sleigh. It looked like he was going for a ride with the jolly old elf.

  The centerpiece of Conrad’s front yard, the sleigh was red the last time Piper saw it. That was more than a dozen years back when her dad drove the family through the county to take in the Christmas lights. Piper had begged to stop so she could sit with Santa, but dad kept driving…on to the next display, and the next.

  Large burlap sacks filled the back of the sleigh; artfully spilling from one were boxes wrapped in colorful plastic and tied with red and green bows, everything held in place with fishing line. The ribbons fluttered in the chill breeze that cut across the snowy landscape.

  Piper shivered and turned her coat collar up.

  For variety sometimes Conrad put big stuffed animals in the mix, and one Christmas he reported a four-foot-tall Teddy bear stolen. The sheriff’s department recovered the bear about a month later, hanging from a telephone pole out on Highway 545 near the monastery, fluffy guts spilling out. It had been a hot news item for the town of Fulda, which boasted a population of two hundred.

  One hundred and ninety-nine now.

  A thin layer of frost had formed on Conrad’s face, the spotlight making it sparkle like he’d been dipped in glitter. His lips formed an “O” similar to the expression on Santa’s plastic visage, and his eyes, the washed-out blue of a winter sky, were locked open in a perpetual thousand yard stare.

  He looked peaceful sitting there in his dark jeans and gray wool sweater, a single line of egg-white reindeers parading across his chest, bright red Merry Christmas mug in his cupped hands that contained, Piper guessed from the look of it, coffee.

  “Happy New Year, Sheriff Blackwood.”

  Piper glanced over her shoulder to see her chief deputy. He cut through the gawkers on the driveway—the people from the farmhouse across the street who’d been celebrating. The owner of the farmhouse had walked over to invite Conrad to the New Year’s Eve festivities and discovered the ice cold truth of the tableaux. He called 9-1-1, and then all the partiers came over for a gander.

  “Happy New Year, Oren,” she returned.

  The chief deputy regarded the yard before traipsing over.

  “Surprised you’re here.” Oren checked his watch. “It’s only a quarter to one. Surprised you’re not out at some bar in Rockport celebrating, a young girl like you.”

  “The coroner is on her way and—”

  “She’s an old friend of Conrad’s. This’ll be hard on her.” Oren Rosenberg was the same age as Conrad, sixty-five, though taller at six-four and built like a linebacker, with curly steel-gray hair that stuck out at odd angles from under his hat. “I got here as soon as I could. It was a drive, and I needed to change first.” Oren was in uniform, complete with the department-issue leather jacket and boots.

  “No one inside,” she said. “I checked. Apparently he lived alone.”

  “Yeah, Conrad had for a few years.”

  “You knew Mr. Delaney?”

  Oren shrugged. “I know a lot of people from working in the department for a stretch.”

  Piper was a foot shorter than Oren, forty-two years younger and wiry, practically child-sized next to the burly chief deputy. She used the small digital camer
a in her right hand to take pictures of the sleigh, then close-ups of Conrad, before turning and taking pictures of the partiers on the driveway, the breath trailing away from their faces in miniature clouds. She wore sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, hadn’t bothered with her sheriff’s uniform, rushing here directly from her father’s kitchen when she’d got the dispatcher’s call at midnight. She’d thrown a pea coat on and now wished she’d gone to her apartment for something more substantial, and—after seeing her chief deputy—to change into her uniform. But she’d thought it would be a simple and quick run.

  Oren reached to his side and pulled his flashlight.

  “I don’t think you’ll need that. Got plenty of light.” Piper indicated the yard spotlight trained on the sleigh and the front of Conrad’s decked-out house. “Probably a heart attack. I saw a little brown bottle of nitroglycerin tablets on the counter in the kitchen.”

  She heard the people on the driveway talking, the comments swirling together. She could make out:

  “Poor Conrad.”

  “Didn’t he have a bad heart?”

  “How old was he?”

  “Sixty-five, just turned I think.”

  “Gone to be with his wife.”

  “Got a boy somewhere around here, right? Maybe in Owensboro? Henderson?”

  “Heart attack, I bet. Or a stroke.”

  “Poor, poor Mr. Delaney.”

  “Maybe a heart attack,” Oren said. He held the flashlight like a baton and gently thumped it against the palm of his free hand. He wore deerskin gloves. “Conrad used to smoke.”

  Piper rocked from one foot to the other. The cold had burrowed through her sneakers and numbed her feet. “I’m thinking he probably came outside to see the old year off, maybe listen to the folks across the road having a good time.” She’d heard their music when she pulled up, loud enough to carry across the county road, moldy-oldies rock, My Three O’Clock Thrill. Someone had returned to the farmhouse and turned it off. Now all she heard was their speculative banter and the shushing sound the breeze-tossed pine garland made against the eaves of the house.

  “Wish I would’ve noticed him earlier, might still be alive.” This from a man in a green parka.

  “You don’t know that,” a woman comforted.

  “It was just his time,” another said. “You know, turn, turn, turn.”

  “The new sheriff is little, ain’t she?”

  “Looks like a kid.”

  “I voted for her.”

  “I didn’t. I voted for Oren.”

  “Poor Conrad.”

  Piper took another picture. “Mr. Delaney probably figured he’d be out here only a few minutes, so he didn’t bother with a coat.”

  Oren turned on the flashlight and stepped right up against the sleigh, shone the beam in Conrad’s eyes. The flashlight deepened the shadows cast from the sleigh, making it look like crooked fingers stretched across the snow toward the blacktop driveway.

  “Probably died fast,” Piper said. She hoped he did. “Probably didn’t feel much. A heart attack.”

  “Maybe,” Oren repeated. Softer: “Maybe a heart attack. More likely murder.”

  Piper felt what little warmth there was go out of her face. She didn’t want this to be murder, wasn’t ready to deal with a murder.

  “It’s in the eyes,” Oren said. “See the red spots in the white? Got some red spots on his forehead, too. It’s called petechial hemorrhage. When someone struggles for air, it increases the pressure, causes capillaries to rupture. The tiny red spots.” He lowered the beam to Conrad’s hands. “You can get petechial with some natural deaths, if it’s something real sudden. But you’d think if he had a heart attack, he would’ve dropped his coffee. Big mug, a lot of coffee.” The mug in Conrad’s hands rested on his knee. A pause. “Doesn’t look like he spilled a drop. In fact, the coffee’s frozen solid. He’s been here a while.”

  “Murder,” Piper said flatly. A rural county like this, a saltbox in the sticks, population two hundred…one ninety-nine now. She sucked in her lower lip. First day on the job and I’m in over my head. Dear God, don’t let this be murder.

  “I’d bet my boat Conrad was murdered.” Oren aimed the flashlight at the ground, the snow disturbed all around the sleigh. Boot prints across boot prints. The snow was also disturbed leading from the house to the sleigh. “Damn the lookie loos, messed the yard all up and down.”

  The flashlight beam returned to Conrad’s face.

  “Petechial hemorrhage.” Oren made a tsk-tsking sound, and Piper had to strain to hear him over the people still talking on the driveway, louder than they needed to be, the volume likely fueled by the alcohol they’d consumed at their party.

  “Poor, poor Conrad,” had become a mantra.

  “But you’d know all about petechial hemorrhage, Sheriff, if you had some experience,” Oren said.

  Not only was this Piper’s first day as sheriff, having won the election in November, it was her first with the department.

  “If you’re curious, the coroner can tell you all about petechial hemorrhage,” Oren continued. “Or a youngster like you, so Internet savvy, you could Google it on your phone.” He took a step back. “Most likely strangulation, suffocation. Coffee mug in his hand like that? I’d say someone killed Conrad Delaney and set him up here for the neighbors to see. Posed him all nice and proper next to Saint Nick for whatever sick reason. Petechial hemorrhage. P-e-t-e-c-h-i-a-l. Look it up. Bet my boat on it.” He let out a low whistle. “Haven’t had a murder in the county in a few years.”

  “Get the names of those people,” Piper said, tipping her chin to indicate the gathering on the driveway. She held her shoulders straight and pulled in a deep breath. Her teeth chattered. “Contact information on all of them. And talk to the guy who found him and called this in. Chris Hagee.”

  “I’ll get right to that, Sheriff.” Oren clicked off the flashlight and stuck it in his belt loop. “I know Chris. He’s that skinny fellow in the green parka in the middle of the gaggle. Anyone who’s lived and worked around here for any amount of time knows Chris and Joan Hagee…and knows most of the other folks standing with them.”

  Piper bristled and tugged in another deep breath.

  “Anything else you need me to do right now, Sheriff Blackwell?”

  His patronizing attitude was more biting than the cold. Oren had been her opponent in the election for sheriff; she hadn’t won by much, but she had won. Had she made the wrong decision to keep him on?

  “You want me to call in the State?” Oren waited for her reply. “If you’re not up to this, I understand, you never working in a sheriff’s department, never working a murder case. Might be too much for you. I can call the State.”

  A lot of small towns in Indiana called in the State Police to investigate when the sheriff departments didn’t have the resources. If a death wasn’t murder, she’d have to pay the State’s expenses out of her budget. And if it was a murder, why not direct her department to investigate? Her dad had handled a murder or two, certainly. What was to stop her? How could she pass over her very first case? She’d be sending the wrong message to the people who voted for her if she let this one go.

  “Up to you,” Oren prompted. “Your call, Sheriff.”

  Piper had never run from anything.

  “No. We can take this,” she said. “But call Randy.”

  Randy was the department’s sole detective, had a dozen years of experience at that job, three years before that as a deputy. Piper’s experience? She looked at her watch: 12:58 a.m. She’d been sheriff of Spencer County for a whopping fifty-eight minutes.

  Piper’s olive green eyes locked onto Conrad’s sad blue ones.

  She broke the stare and took a few more photos, filled the camera frame with the coffee cup, zooming in. She realized that his fingers were kept in place around the mug by fishing line, like what held the presents to the sleigh. The coffee looked dull in the glow from the yard spotlight, heavy and dense-appearing, and when
Piper swallowed hard she swore she could taste the bitterness of it.

  Piper didn’t want it to be murder…but it certainly was.

  Two

  Oren Rosenberg considered himself old fashioned…or maybe just old, given that his new boss was his granddaughter’s age. He pulled out a narrow notebook and a Sharpie and recorded the names and phone numbers of the people shivering and gossiping on the driveway; it was an easy task, he knew most of them. The other deputies used phones and tablets to text in information. But Oren believed electronics could fail, and paper and ink were more reliable, especially in this weather.

  “Nobody should die on New Year’s Eve, Oren,” Chris Hagee said. “You’re supposed to celebrate life, you know? Drink, dance. Well, dance if you’ve been drinking enough. Watch the ball drop.”

  “Yeah, heck of a way to start off the New Year, eh? Need to talk to you, Chris.” Oren’s conversation was accompanied by foggy puffs.

  Chris rubbed his hands together. “Out here? You’re kidding, right? My bony ass is turning into an ice cube, you know. I was a fool to stay out as long as I have. How ’bout we go over to my place with Joanie and—”

  Oren pointed to his Ford Explorer parked on the side of the road, flashers going. He wanted to get Chris alone. “How ’bout we talk in my car for a few minutes first? I’ll turn on the heater.” He directed the rest to the others: “Free country, you’re welcome to stay out here, but ain’t nothing exciting about watching a dead man in a sleigh. He’s not gonna get up and sing. Why don’t you head on back with Joan and—”

  “I bet it was a heart attack. Conrad used to smoke,” someone wearing an Indianapolis Colts jacket pushed. “Two packs a day, he did.”