Tips for Living(84)

I changed into jeans, a sweater and warm socks—a skirt wouldn’t do for this venture—and then foraged in my closet and found the second hatbox. Inside was another Ushanka, identical to the one I’d left at Grace’s. The second hat was a gift from Aunt Lada last year on my birthday—she’d forgotten about the first. I’d stowed the hat away, not wanting to acknowledge it as a sign of her emerging dementia.

Now I replaced Grace’s unwieldy hat with the spare Ushanka and pulled my boots back on, but instead of a parka, I slipped back into Grace’s long, black coat—it was far warmer than any I owned. I’d need it for what lay ahead. Then I lifted the corner of the mattress, bent and reached further underneath until my fingers found Hugh’s sketchbook.





Chapter Nineteen

Wearing the Russian army hat and long, black wool coat, I might have been a character in Doctor Zhivago trekking to my dacha in the snowy woods to hide from the Bolsheviks. Such quiet. Silence except for my own breathing, and the faint crinkling of the plastic bag tucked in the waistband of my jeans. I’d stowed Hugh’s sketchbook there to keep it dry. Instead of driving into the front entrance of Pequod Point, I’d decided to go by way of the blind in case the county police were still posted on Hugh’s road. Tricking them might not be as easy as it was with Crawley.

I was aware that this venture was risky. It wouldn’t help my case if I were caught returning to the scene of the crime again. As icy crystals slashed my face, I tugged the Ushanka farther down on my brow. Golova nyet, shopka nye nooshno. She who has no head needs no hat. Golova nyet, shopka nye nooshno. Was I a fool? Was this an act of pure recklessness?

Thank God the Dune Club lot had been empty. Snow could bring out hunters. It gave them an advantage by concealing their sounds and smells from prey. Grace and I often saw men in camouflage outfits on our winter walks before the gruesome hunting accident. We’d watch men heading off the trail in pairs, or alone, toting medieval-looking crossbows on their shoulders. But this freak snowstorm must’ve sent the huntsmen out to shovel their driveways or buy rock salt, like Mac. The parking lot was deserted. The only trespasser in these woods was yours truly.

I tramped on, wiping the snow from my cheeks and remembering Mac’s advice to “think positive.” Was it so different from Helene’s edict to “manifest?” If Helene could manifest, why couldn’t I? I’d manifest the sale of the sketchbook and the arrest of Tobias. I’d manifest a big celebration with a triple feature of Russian movies for Aunt Lada and her friends. Fiddler on the Roof, Anna Karenina, Reds. Why not throw in a buffet of blinis, borscht and stuffed cabbage—Lada’s favorites? In fact, I’d manifest it every year with The Lada Levervitch Annual Russian Film Festival.

In spite of my grim circumstances, I was trying to be optimistic. I really was. But as I threaded my way deeper into the silent woods, my gut began twisting with anxiety again. It was a certainty: I’d be spending that night in jail, and not a cushy Martha Stewart jail, either. What if I had one of my sleepwalking incidents in prison? I could almost hear my cellmate jeer: “Yo, Guard! There’s a fuckin’ zombie freak in here!” If she didn’t misinterpret my moves and beat me senseless first.

I tried to shift my focus to the immaculate snowy landscape—white earth, white trees and white air. Pristine and beautiful on the surface. But all I could think about was what the white concealed. Mold and rot and insects. A dark and twisted world. A sense of menace increased with every step I took.

As I rounded a curve on the trail, the blind came into view at the bottom of the incline—a gingerbread house trimmed with white frosting. I approached slowly to avoid slipping on the icy trail and finally reached the door. It resisted when I pushed. I shouldered it. Pushed again. Nothing worked until I finally stepped back and kicked, La Femme Nikita–style. The smack of my boot cracked like a gunshot in the quiet woods.

Inside, snow blew through the open wall. Drifts covered the floor. The army blanket was still folded neatly on the bench, and I used its scratchy fabric to wipe my face. I assumed I’d be able to assess the situation from the blind, but a thick curtain of falling snow obscured Pequod Point. Only the glow of house lights came through, nothing more. It had been impossible to retrieve Lada’s opera glasses from my car with Crawley watching, and I wasn’t sure they would have helped. I’d just have to head in the direction of the lights and hope Abbas was alone.

“Protect me, Champ. Bring me luck,” I murmured, touching Ben’s knife in my pocket before I turned and walked out the blind’s door. I had brought it with me to deliver to Ben tonight in case I didn’t have time to stop at the Coop after returning Grace’s car.

The seagrasses along the edge of the inlet had transformed into giant marshmallow mounds, and they kept me hidden as I followed the shoreline. My skin stung from the cold, but I soldiered on. In a few minutes, I stopped and peered over the snowy humps. The edge of the lawn was right there. Pequod Point was no more than fifteen yards further on, all lit up and sparkling with ice crystals—a Snow Queen’s palace in a fairy tale.

Through the glass wall I saw the bright, open-plan living room and kitchen. No one was visible inside. Abbas’s dark green BMW, coated in white, was parked in the driveway near the path that led to Hugh’s studio. But another snow-covered car sat in front of the garage—a red Ford sedan with a Dollar Rental sticker still detectable on its license plate. Shit. Someone else besides Abbas was there. Who?