Ice Cold Killer

Winter has blanketed Frostfall Island and while most of the tourists are long gone, there is still plenty of activity. A hockey tournament brings a large group of ice enthusiasts to Frostfall. Anna and the gang are looking forward to the diversion. Aside from adding a bit of chaos to an otherwise sleepy, snow-covered island, the event stirs up controversy and brings to light old family grievances. When Simon Snowstone, the richest man on the island, is found dead in his home, Anna soon finds herself snow deep in a murder case. Now she must untangle a family history to find out who killed the family patriarch.

Huck pounced after some imaginary critter (in winter he pretended to see squirrels and skittering mice like a lonely child making up a fictional friend). He'd misjudged the pile of snow and disappeared almost entirely for a few seconds, only his tail showing, spinning like the blades of a chopper, as he searched for his hypothetical prey. His head popped up first. He glanced around like the periscope on a submarine. His fur was dotted with clumps of snow, particularly on his brows and chin.

I laughed. "Well, Santa, it seems you're a month too late."

Snow flew everywhere as he did a reverse pounce out of the snowbank. I stepped clear of him knowing the obligatory snow shake would follow. The dog did not disappoint. A flurry of snow spun around him, creating his own dog blizzard.

I paused on the last curve of Chicory Trail to take in the monochrome splendor that was Frostfall Island in winter. The last snowstorm had started with a parade of sparkly snowflakes, each one dancing through the brisk air to its chosen destination. It seemed it was going to provide only a light dusting (powdered sugar as my sister, Cora, liked to call it) then the hazy skies deepened to gunmetal gray and the ocean turned a charcoal black. Ten hours later, the island sat deep under a weighted blanket of snow. Opal, an esteemed member of our misfit Moon River family, always swore that the island sank a little lower into the Atlantic whenever it was wearing the heavy mantle of winter. Her theory seemed a little farfetched, (Opal excelled at being farfetched) but one thing was certain, the difference between summer and winter on Frostfall Island was profound. The rainbow colors of nature, the buttery yellows of the honeysuckle that grew between the rocks near the beach, the plum purple of the bittersweet nightshade that popped up around Finnegan's Pond and the crimson orange of the milkweed that dotted the trails providing food for the island's butterflies were long gone, and the island was white from frosty bow to icy stern. The sights and sounds of a long summer, kids laughing in the waves at the swimming beach, the aroma of strawberries and lemon ice cream, the stampede of tourists on the boardwalk, had vanished entirely leaving behind a sort of energy vacuum. It was a quiet that could almost be disquieting if you let the solitude of winter on the island suck you in, but I had my Moon River family to take care of and that kept away the doldrums brought on by short, blustery days.

Frigid temperatures and all, I still kept to my routine of a predawn walk, but my painter's tools saw far less action these days. Occasionally, the snow would melt from an unseasonably warm day, leaving behind just enough streaks of nature, nature wearing its winter gear, that I would be inspired to pull out my paints. But, for the most part, my trays and brushes stayed tucked away waiting for the first signs of spring.

As usual, Huck trotted ahead to the small wooden bridge that crossed Moon River. Snow and ice never slowed him down. I, on the other hand, had long ago concluded that a painful fall on the ice was far too steep a price to pay to get someplace a few minutes faster. Huck stopped halfway over the bridge. Something down river, in the direction of the boarding house, had caught his attention. His ears perked and his tail wagged tentatively as if he wasn't exactly sure whether he was excited or concerned. The second I caught up to him, he took off like the member of a tag team.

I looked in the direction he'd been staring and my pulse quickened. Puffs of white air billowed from my mouth, and my breathing sounded loud as if it was coming through a megaphone. The dark yellow rain slicker caught the daylight above, giving it a glow. The broad figure was crouched and leaning down to clear his fishing line.

I swallowed to relieve the dryness in my throat. "Michael," the name stuttered out on a hoarse whisper. The deep yellow raincoat had been stored away for years, but I knew it like I knew the back of my hand, the black stain from tar when Michael was patching the boat, the tear that he mended himself with thick blue thread, the ivory flannel lining inside the deep hood and sleeves. The garment became so tattered, I took it upon myself to buy him a new one. I was new to the world of fisherman's wife. I had no idea how traditions, routines and even clothing were considered luck charms. I was beaming the day I handed the new, shiny rain slicker over. I'd tied it up with a bright blue ribbon. I was devastated when Michael's reaction was less than thrilled. He never explained why, and it took me a thick-headed two months to figure out that he considered the old coat a part of his routine, the routine that would guarantee him a safe fishing trip. Still, without another word, Michael retired his old slicker to the back of the closet and marched proudly out in his shiny new raincoat. More than once I allowed myself the horrid guilt of thinking that darn new coat had been the reason for his disappearance. It took me a long time to get over the dreadful feeling that I'd caused his death.

The figure pushed to standing, and sensing someone was watching him from the bridge, he turned my direction. A new rush of air, for an entirely different reason, flowed through my lungs. Nate's white smile was the only feature I could see clearly from the bridge. He proudly held up a line of small silver fish, the kind used more for bait than for frying in a pan. But these were going to be used for a different purpose altogether.

A few seconds later, I recovered from the state of shock the old rain slicker had caused. I found it astounding that after eight years I could have thought it was my long lost husband, Michael, standing over the fishing rod.

"Charlie is never going to go back to the wild," I commented as I reached the riverbank. It was just rocky and icy enough for me to plot out and plan every step down to the beaming fisherman.