Page 29 of Cold, Cold Bones
“What?” I asked, stunned by her vehemence.
“I’m not sure. Open a soup kitchen? A pantry? Fund a private shelter? Start a charitable foundation?”
While impressed with my daughter’s passion, I was wary of her apparent naïveté.
“Do you know how to go about doing any of those things?”
“I’ve talked to a lawyer.”
That surprised me.
“Everything’s just so fucking complicated,” she said, groaning.
Katy reached for the last mug. Its base hit the shelf with a loud crack.
“Sometimes I just can’t stand it.”
7
MONDAY, FEBRUARY7
Nothing much happened for the next four days.
Ryan called on Saturday. The Saint Martin case was more complicated than anticipated. Turned out the spinnaker bag held, not a sail, but the motherlode of blow. The boat owner was now “whereabouts unknown.” Ryan wasn’t sure how long he’d be in the islands. Had yet to feel the sand between his toes.
Slidell and Henry went radio silent. I assumed neither had news.
Katy and I emptied boxes, positioned and re-positioned furniture, hung pictures. The hours spent with my daughter weren’t always pleasant. One day she’d be warm and appreciative of my company, the next she’d take issue with everything I said. The mood swings were worrying, the constant need to weigh my comments exhausting. But Katy researched shelters, made a choice, and offered to volunteer. The director was delighted to have her.
The groundhog must have issued a memo. Temperatures plummeted and Wednesday’s non-weather became a fond memory. On every station, the talking heads began drawing diagrams and breathlessly uttering the “S” word. Snow!
Charlotte is a Sunbelt city. We have winters, sure, but they’reshort and reasonable. Some years we don’t even break out the woollies. But every now and then the climate gods collude to produce the white stuff.
As with hurricane warnings, mention of snow sends the town into hyperdrive. Schools and courts close, supermarkets empty of staples, and generators disappear from hardware stores. Liquor sales skyrocket, but shovels remain readily available. Usually, we toss salt on our driveways and walks, then build snowmen or go tobogganing on the golf course. After the frenzy, we just wait for the melt.
Monday morning, I drove to the MCME under clouds so dark and bloated they appeared to belly-scrape the earth. A snow sky. I planned to wrap up a few loose ends and head back home early.
My assumption concerning Slidell proved incorrect. Skinny had been busy over the weekend.
I’d barely removed my parka when Nguyen appeared at my door.
“I fear we’re in for a blizzard,” she said.
“Looks that way.”
“I don’t like snow. Snow and ice are the reasons I left Boston.”
Knowing my boss hadn’t come to discuss the weather, I waited.
“Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.” I gestured at the chair facing my desk.
Nguyen came in and sat. She held a paper in her right hand.
“Detective Slidell phoned me early this morning.” Raising the page. “Though retired, he is a very diligent man.”
“He still works with the cold case unit.”
