Snow Creek(3)

A hundred yards in, she turned around and started for home. Everything would be fine.

And indeed, it was.

That night Amy returned to their bed.

“I was so worried.”

“Me too.”

“Are we going to be all right, Regina?”

“Yes, love.”

“No one will take me away.”

“Never.”

“Are you sure they won’t come back?”

“No. I have a plan though. At least I think I do. I have to do something. I’ll go back for the body and get rid of it once and for all.”

“Too risky.”

“Not now, Amy. Later. I’ll wait awhile. When I’m sure that no one is coming back. When no one is looking for him.”

Amy snuggled against Regina’s breasts, and Regina stroked her long, shiny braid. She pulled the faded blue eiderdown to cover their shoulders. In that moment, all seemed perfect. Like nothing bad had ever happened. Or ever could. Safe and sound. Secure. Regina’s hands traveled downward, pressing so lightly, so tenderly against her wife’s body.

Regina breathed in Amy’s sweet scent.

“I love you, Amy. Stay right here.”

She kissed her tenderly.

“You are everything to me and you will always be my love.”

“I love you, Regina.”

“Always and forever.”





One





I know it is only tomato soup left at the bottom of the cup from yesterday’s rushed attempt at lunch. I know that. I know blood. And yet it’s like a little trick to me, maybe tic is a better word. Something, among many, that I can’t shake. I have seen so much blood. In my life. At my job, of course. As I sit at my desk at Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, with posters of the magnificent Olympic Range looming over me, I think of the things that spark a memory of blood. A child’s finger painting pasted proudly in the window of her classroom. The smear of brick red lipstick on the collar of Sheriff’s starched, white shirt. The explosion of juice left by falling cherries on the sidewalk in front of my home in Port Townsend, Washington.

Sometimes I wish I had been born colorblind.

Or I came from a place where the color red was meaningless. Innocuous. Just another color. Like the blue of the Pacific or the green of the firs and spruce trees that stumble down the snowy Olympic Mountains to the foothills, and finally, the meadows below.

Blood oxidizes and dries to a nice coppery brown. That’s good. Dry blood doesn’t cause me to catch my breath. Just fresh blood. Only cherry. Only scarlet.

The light on my desk phone flashes.

Red again.

I pick up.

“Detective Carpenter,” I answer.

“My sister is missing,” a woman says, pausing as if that should be enough information to catch my interest. In fact, it is. My cases of late have been property crimes, burglary mostly, and a missing dog.

That’s right. A dog.

The woman’s voice is hesitant, and I can immediately tell that it took courage to call. Not because she’s afraid of dialing the number, but because in doing so she’s fearful of what she’ll find.

What I might find.

“I’ll need to know more,” I say. “Ms.?”

Her words begin to tumble through the phone. “Turner. Ruth Turner. My sister Ida—Ida Wheaton—hasn’t responded to anyone in the family for weeks, maybe a month. It isn’t like her. Not at all.”

I wonder how close Ruth could be to her sister if she’s not sure when anyone has heard from her.

“I’ll need more details,” I tell her.

Hesitancy fills the line. “Of course,” she finally answers. “I’m outside in your parking lot. Can I come in and talk to you?”

“I’ll meet you at the front desk.”

I hang up and catch my reflection on the surface of my now very cold coffee. My hair is dark and clipped back at the nape of my neck. I wear no makeup other than a single application of mascara and a touch of blush. My lip color is courtesy of Chapstick, owing more to the breezy weather off the water than a need for lip coloring. I know I could do more with myself, but doing more only attracts more attention from men. I don’t want that right now. I doubt I ever will. I get up, bumping my desk, and the reflection disappears into a succession of ripples. My mother used to say I was beautiful. And even though that was a long time ago, and her word means very little, I know I’m many things. That might even be one of them.

I’m a little flummoxed as I make my way to reception. Outside in the parking lot? Who does that? And why didn’t she just come inside?



Ruth Turner stands awkwardly next to the desk. She’s lean, tall, gangly and hunches over to sign her name on the register. Not more than mid-fifties, her hair is gray and white and long, swirling into a bun that resembles the wasp nest that hangs over my garage. She’s wearing a long dark dress over a white cotton blouse. Her shoes are black Oxfords, shiny on top yet scuffed in the places where her foot rested as she drove from wherever she came from. She wears no makeup, save for a light touch of mascara on her lashes. Despite her austere appearance, when she turns to greet me her eyes are warm and full of emotion. They radiate a combination of hope and worry.

I reach to take her hand. I feel a slight tremble in my gentle grasp.