Читать книгу Storm Warning - Michele Hauf - Страница 10

Nine a.m. on a lazy Sunday. Most of the Frost Falls inhabitants were at church in the neighboring town or sat at The Moose noshing on waffles and bacon. Most, but not all.

Susan Olson yawned and scrubbed a hand over her long, tangled red hair. Her eyes were smeared with dark eye makeup, and one streak veered up toward her temple. She wore a Black Veil Brides T-shirt and bright pink sweatpants. They might have graduated the same year, but Jason had been born and raised in Crooked Creek, a town sixty miles west from here. Susan had lived in Frost Falls all her life.

Another yawn preceded “Really? Do you know what time it is, Chief Cash?”

“I do,” Jason reported. He turned his head to block the wind that whipped at the front of the house. “Heard you found something interesting this morning.”

“I knew you’d be stopping by. Just thought it would be at a decent hour. Come in.”

Jason stepped inside the tiny rambler that might have been built in the ’40s. It boasted green shag carpeting in the front living area; the walls were painted pink and—did they have glitter on them? He stayed on the rug before the door. His boot soles were packed with snow.

“Just have a few questions, then you can head back to bed,” he said. “I know Saturdays are your busy night. Hate to bother you, but a woman has been murdered.”

“She was murdered?” Susan’s eyes opened wider. She clutched her gut and searched the floor. “I thought maybe she just died from, like, frostbite or something. Oh my God. I remember her. I mean, I didn’t touch the body, but I did see her face this morning. I always run to check on my aunt Sunday mornings, even though I’m so raging tired after my shift.”

“You...” Jason leaned forward, making sure he’d heard correctly. He tugged out the little notebook he always carried from inside his coat. Pen at the ready, he asked, “Remember her? The woman in the ditch?”

“Her and three others. It was Lisa Powell’s clique. Must have been someone’s birthday. They were loaded and loose last night. But the woman in the ditch didn’t look familiar to me. I mean, I don’t think she was from around here. It’s not difficult to know all the locals.”

Jason nodded and wrote down the information.

“She tipped me a ten,” Susan said with a curl of a smile. “Doesn’t happen often, let me tell you. The people in this town are so stingy.”

“She was with Lisa Powell, and—do you know the names of the other two?”

“Hannah Lindsey and, oh, some older woman. Might have been one of their mothers. They are all older than me, don’t ya know.” She tilted out a hip and fluffed back her hair with a sweep of hand. “Must be in their late thirties, for heaven’s sake.”

Jason placed Susan at around thirty, same as him.

“Not an issue right now,” Jason said. “How long were the women in The Moose? Did they all leave together? Who else was watching your performance?”

Susan yawned. “That’s a lot of questions, Cash.”

“I know. You got coffee?”

“I do, but I really don’t want to wake up that much. I usually sleep until four on Sundays. Do we have to do this now?”

“We do. You’ll remember much more detail now as opposed to later. And I have an appointment in Duluth in a few hours I can’t miss.”

Susan sighed and dropped her shoulders. “Fine. I got one of those fancy coffee machines for Christmas from my boyfriend. I’ll make you a cup. Kick off your wet boots before you walk on my carpet, will you, Cash?”

“Will do.”

Jason toed off his boots, then followed Susan into the kitchen, where a strange menagerie of pigs wearing sunglasses decorated every surface—all the dishware and even the light fixtures.

* * *

YVETTE LASALLE WANDERED down the tight aisles in the small grocery store set smack-dab in the center of Main Street in Frost Falls. The ice on her black hair that had sneaked out from under her knit cap melted and trickled down her neck. If she didn’t zip up and wrap her scarf tight when she went outside, that trickle would freeze and—Dieu.

Why Minnesota? Of all the places in the world. And to make life less pleasant, it was January. The temperature had not been out of the teens since she had arrived. Sure, they got snow and cold in France. But not so utterly brutal. This place was not meant for human survival. Seriously.

But survive she would. If this was a test, she intended to ace it, as she did with any challenge.

This little store, called Olson’s Oasis, sold basic food items, some toiletries, fishing bait and tackle (because crazy people drilled holes on the lake ice and actually fished in this weather), and plenty of cheap beer. A Laundromat was set off behind the freezer section. It boasted two washers and one semiworking dryer. The store was also the hub for deliveries, since the UPS service apparently didn’t venture beyond Main Street.

Frost Falls was a virtual no-man’s land. The last vestige of civilization before the massive Superior National Forest that capped the state and embraced the land with flora, fauna and so many lakes. This tiny town reminded Yvette of the village where her grandparents had lived in the South of France. Except Frost Falls had more snow. So. Much. Snow.

“Survival,” she muttered with determination, but then rolled her eyes. She never would have dreamed a vacation from her job in gorgeous Lyon would require more stamina than that actual job. Mental stamina, that was.

But this wasn’t a vacation.

Something called lutefisk sat wrapped in plastic behind the freezer-case glass. Vacillating on whether to try the curious fish, she shook her head. The curing process had something to do with soaking the fish in lye, if she recalled correctly from a conversation with the store’s proprietor last week. It was a traditional Nordic dish that the locals apparently devoured slathered in melted butter.

Not for her.

Fresh veggies and fruits were not to be had this time of year, so Yvette subsisted on frozen dinners and prepackaged salads from the refrigerator case.

Her boss at Interpol, Jacques Patron, would call any day now. Time to come home, Amelie. The coast is clear. Every day she hoped for that call.

Unless he’d already tried her. She had gotten a strange hang-up call right before entering the store. The number had been blocked, but when she’d answered, the male voice had asked, “Yvette?” She’d automatically answered, “Yes,” and then the connection had clicked off.

Wrong numbers generally didn’t know the names of those they were misdialing. And an assumed name, at that. Had it been Jacques? Hadn’t sounded like him. But he’d only said her name. Hard to determine identity from one word. Impossible to call back with the unknown number. And would her boss have used her cover name or her real name?

The call was not something to take lightly. But she couldn’t simply call up Interpol and ask them for a trace. She was supposed to be dark. She and her boss were the only people aware of her location right now. She’d try her boss’s number when she returned to the cabin.

Tossing a bag of frozen peas into her plastic basket, she turned down the aisle and inspected the bread selections. Not a crispy, crusty baguette to be found. But something called Tasty White seemed to be the bestseller. She dropped a limp loaf in her basket. She might be able to disguise the processed taste with the rhubarb jam that she’d found in a welcome gift basket when she’d arrived at the rental cabin.

When the bell above the store’s entrance clanged, she peered over the low shelves. A couple of teenage boys dressed in outdoor gear and helmets joked about the rabbit they’d chased with their snowmobiles on the ride into town.

Town? More like a destitute village with a grocery/post office/fish and tackle shop/Laundromat, and a bar/diner/strip joint—yes, The Moose diner offered “pleasure chats” and “sensual dancing” in the far back corner after 10:00 p.m. on Saturday nights. The diner did dish up a hearty meal, though, and Yvette’s stomach was growling.

Her gaze averted from the boys and focused beyond the front door and out the frost-glazed window. Had that black SUV been parked before The Moose when she’d arrived? It looked too clean. Not a beat-up rust bucket like most of the locals drove. And it wasn’t dusted with a grayish coating of deicing salt that they seemed to sprinkle on their roads more than their meals around here. She couldn’t see the license plates to determine if it was a rental.

Yvette was alert for something she felt was imminent but was unable to say exactly what that could be. It reminded her of when she’d worked in the field. A field operative had to stay on her toes and be constantly aware of her surroundings, both physical and auditory. A wise state to embrace, especially in a town not her own.

She’d take a closer look at the SUV after she’d purchased her groceries.

The teenagers paid for energy drinks and left the store in a spill of laughter. Making her way to the checkout, Yvette set her basket on the counter.

“Bonjour, Yvette.” Colette, the shop owner, a Canadian expatriate Yvette had bonded with because she spoke fluent French, fussed with the frilled pink polka-dot apron she wore over a slim-fitting black turtleneck and slacks. “Twenty dollars will do it.”

Surely the bill was thirty or more.

Yvette nodded, unaccustomed to kindnesses, yet receiving such generosity felt like a warm summer breeze brushing her icy neck. Very much needed lately.

She handed over the money. Colette packed up her provisions and helped Yvette fit it all into the backpack she brought along for such trips. She looked forward to riding the snowmobile into town for twice-weekly grocery trips. And today, despite the single-digit temperature, boasted bright white sunshine. A girl could not ignore fresh air and the beautiful landscape. She always brought along her camera and stopped often to snapshots. It was a good cover for an agent, but photography had also always been a hobby she’d wanted to take to the next level.

“Those wool leggings look très chic on you,” Colette commented, with a slide of her gaze down Yvette’s legs. “But you really do need to wear snow pants if you’re snowmobiling in this weather.”

“I’ve got on layers.” Yvette waggled a leg. The heavy boots she wore were edged with fake fur, and the leggings were spotted with white snowflakes on a blue background. Beneath, she wore thermal long johns, an item of clothing she hadn’t been aware existed until she’d arrived here in the tundra. A quilted down coat topped it all.

Fitting the backpack over her shoulders, she paused at the door while Colette walked around the counter and met her with a zip up of her waterproof coat and a tug at her scarf (which happened to match her leggings—score one for fashion).

“You don’t have a helmet to keep your ears warm?” Colette asked. She eyed Yvette’s knit cap with the bobble of red pom-pom on the top. “You foreigners. I’m surprised your ears don’t drop off with frostbite. It’s colder than a polar bear’s toenails out there. And with the wind chill? Uff da.” The woman shuddered.

“Don’t you mean mon Dieu?” Yvette countered.

Colette laughed. “Minnesota has gotten into my blood, chère. It’s uff da here. Want me to order a helmet for you?” She tapped the pom-pom. “We order directly from the Arctic Cat supplier in Duluth. Takes only a day or two. And some are even electronic so you can turn on the heat and listen to music.”

“Sounds perfect. The helmet provided by the cabin is too big for me and tends to twist and block my vision. Thanks, Colette.”

“You heading across the street for a bite to eat? I see the chief’s snowmobile just pulled up. That is one fancy machine. And I’m not talking about the snowmobile.”

“The chief?” Yvette glanced across the way. “You mean a police chief? What’s up?”

“Nothing of concern, I’m sure. It’s just, have you met Chief Jason Cash?”

“Should I?”

Colette winked. “Uff da, girl, he’s the hottest catch this side of the Canadian border. Young, handsome and cocky as hell. But none of the local girls can seem to turn his eye.”

“I am hungry,” Yvette said with a wistful glance across the street. For so many things she’d not had in almost two months. Sunshine. A buttery croissant. Conversation. Sex.

“Good girl. Tell the chief I said hello.” Colette pushed the shop door open and virtually shoved Yvette out.

Bracing for the blast of cold, Yvette cursed how easily she had succumbed to the suggestion she hide out overseas until the heat on her blew over. Her boss had chosen this location and given her a cover identity. He hadn’t told her exactly what it was that could implicate her, but she knew it had to do with her photographic memory. Thing was, she never really knew what some of the stuff that she worked on meant, as it was generally out of context and merely a list or scramble of information to her brain.

Boots crunching on the packed snow, she crossed the wide double-lane Main Street. A couple of pickup trucks with snow chains hugging the tires were parked before The Moose, as was one of the fanciest, most powerful snowmobiles she had seen. Walking by it, she forgot about the mysterious SUV she’d noticed earlier and instead took in the sleek black snowmobile dashed with neon-green embellishments. The body was like a blade, streamlined for speed.

The owner was handsome, eh? And single?

She wasn’t looking for romance, that was for sure. But a woman could not survive on staticky rerun episodes of Sex and the City and her vibrator alone. Might as well give the man a gander, as she’d heard people say in these parts.

But for the official record, she was just here for the food.