Silent Night (3 page)

“Here you go.” She slid the paperwork across the table. “Think that’s everything. First week’s rent up front, right?”

He glanced over it and rose to dig a set of keys from his pocket and set them on the table. “Yeah. Plus a hundred-dollar deposit if you have pets.”

“I don’t.”

He pushed the keys toward her. “Then these are yours. Cottage C, the one you requested.” He picked up his fork and poked at his cobbler. “Why’d you want that one anyway? It’s usually the last rented out. Most people prefer the river view.”

She tucked the keys into her purse and retrieved the check she’d already made out. “I can see rivers anywhere. I’d rather have a view of the town.”

“Well, it was a pleasure, Miranda.” His deep voice sent another shiver down her spine. It had lowered an octave, as though he was purposely trying to make himself sound sexier. “My place is two over from yours. The main house. Can’t miss it. Don’t tell Peggy Jo, but I make a pretty mean stew myself if you want to share another mea—”

“Hey, Chief!”

In unison, they turned toward the shout. Peggy Jo leaned against the counter, her hand covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Lisa needs you to call her back. Says it’s important.”

“Thanks.” He mumbled an apology as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

Miranda swallowed, all the warmth he’d given her before now chilled solid again. “Ch-Chief?”

He stared at the phone as he pushed buttons. “Yeah. Small police department, but it’s mine.”

“I thought you were in realty.”

She struggled to wrap her brain around this new development. She didn’t like police. At all. Her Superman had just turned into Lex Luthor.

“When I bought the property, it came with the cottages. Might as well earn some extra on the side, right? Excuse me, I have to make this call. You know your way to the place?”

She nodded, unable to say more.

He lifted the phone to his ear. “It’s Tuck. What’s the emergency?”

Miranda toyed with her cobbler, trying to give him as much privacy as the booth allowed. Maybe she should try one more time to find an empty room somewhere else.

She sighed. She’d already done that search weeks ago before settling on the cottage. She’d have to sleep in her car or in another nearby town. If she hadn’t just filled out the agreement, either option would be more pleasant, but she had no choice. She couldn’t afford to lose that down payment.

She was stuck with the badge as her landlord.

“Send Andy . . .” he was saying. “How long ago? I’m on my way. No need. I remember where it is.” He disconnected. “Peggy Jo, can I get a to-go box for my cobbler? Duty calls.”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

“Is everything all right?” Miranda asked.

“Yeah it’s probably nothing, but I still need to check it out.” He pulled a card from his pocket and jotted a number on the back. “That’s my cell number. You can catch me at my office most days. If you need anything . . . like company for another meal, give me a call. I don’t usually have to eat and run like this.”

“It’s fine.” She took the card and slipped it into her purse. No way in hell was she calling that number unless her plumbing became an issue.

The
cottage’s
plumbing. Not hers.

Peggy Jo appeared with Tucker’s to-go box and two checks. Before Miranda could protest, he paid both bills and rushed into the snow flurries outside.

Both women turned to watch Tucker disappear inside a large white truck. “You’re one lucky lady.”

Miranda shifted her gaze to Peggy Jo. “What makes you say that?”

“The chief doesn’t smile like that at all the pretty tourists. Or buy them dinner. And he
never
shares his cornbread. Must mean he likes you.”

When she was alone again, Miranda pulled Tucker’s card from her purse. She couldn’t afford to let anything get in the way of why she was here. Not even two extremely charming dimples.

With a sigh, she left the card on the table and slid out of the booth, slipping her duffel bag over her shoulder as she went. She unlocked the Rover’s driver door and was about to climb inside. As she glanced over her shoulder, the table she’d shared with Tucker was in clear view.

“You are a damned fool,” she cursed herself, rushing back inside to snatch the card off the table before the busboy could toss it in the trash.

A damned fool indeed.

T
HE CABIN WAS
just what Miranda had expected. It was set up much like a motel room with the living area taking the majority of the space, a small kitchenette and dining area, and a decent-sized bathroom attached to the bedroom. A little Christmas tree set up in front of the window fit the red and green holiday decor. The best part was that the cabin was perched on a slight hill, allowing her an unobstructed view of the town in the distance.

Mascara wand in hand, Miranda paused her post-shower ministrations to peer out the small bedroom window at St. Catherine’s. From here, she could barely see the big brick walls punctuated with stained glass windows, the ornate door and grand steps leading to it. Under the evening sky, it looked just like most of the other Catholic churches she’d seen in her lifetime, just a tad smaller and with fewer people entering and exiting.

Of course, she was in the Bible Belt now. Likely the Baptist churches were a lot busier than the quiet St. Catherine’s, but other than a lone groundskeeper shoveling snow off the walkway, there was very little activity around the building itself.

No one really seemed to pay it much mind, either, as they strode past with their families toward the evening’s festivities at the Town Square. After her dinner at Peggy Jo’s, she’d driven the streets to get the layout and noticed the gridlike patterns of the roads here. Everything led back to the Town Square, where City Hall sat center stage, bordered by a busy park complete with snow hills for sledding, and edged all the way around by wrought-iron gates sparkling with green garlands.

It was all very quaint indeed, but given her reason for being here, that quaintness had become downright chilling.

She returned to applying her makeup. As she carefully traced her eyes with liner, she sneered at the black hair spilling around her face. It didn’t look natural at all. But she’d dyed her red hair on the slight chance she’d be recognized.

She touched up her lips with a combination of ChapStick and lip gloss to protect against the cold. The beef stew and cornbread she’d enjoyed only a short time ago now sat in her belly like bricks. She popped a couple antacids in an attempt to settle her stomach.

Flipping open her suitcase, she pulled out a clean ivory sweater and slid it over her jeans. The matching knit hat was a little too large for her small head, but it would help keep her ears warm. She slid her soggy Converse on over two pairs of socks, grabbed her parka and purse, and headed out into the cold. If she procrastinated any longer, she’d lose the courage to go at all.

Because almost everything she needed was within walking distance, she’d parked the Range Rover in a garage a couple of blocks over and covered it to conceal her Ohio plates. Better to save her funds for lodging and food and maybe a pair of shoes that didn’t soak in water like a sponge, rather than waste it on gas.

She frowned at her feet, carefully choosing her path down the gravel trail entwined around the cottages and leading to a paved drive near the main house. Tucker’s house.
Chief
Tucker.

Frowning, she wrapped her coat tighter around her body. His house was small for a man who owned a Rolex. It was a single-story ranch style that somewhat resembled a log cabin—painted a shade darker than the tan cottages surrounding it. There were no lights on inside that she could see, and she assumed he was still dealing with whoever had called him away from their dinner.

Not that it mattered. She couldn’t afford to spend any more thought on him and his badge.

With a sigh, she opened the gates at the front of the property and stepped onto the sidewalk that would take her to Main Street. She walked, head down to protect against the cold, until she was at the street corner directly across from St. Catherine’s.

The groundskeeper she’d seen earlier had disappeared, and all the proof of the work he’d done on clearing the walkway and sidewalks with him. Already a fine layer of white dusted the concrete. Checking for traffic, or, rather, for horse-drawn carriages as that seemed to be the travel method of choice around here, Miranda jogged across the street and up the wide steps into St. Catherine’s.

She stopped in the vestibule and made a mental map of her surroundings. Discreet gold plaques marked the way toward the reconciliation chapel and church offices down the right wing. To the left, a children’s chapel and a nursery. The emptiness was eerie, but she wasn’t sure this place ever filled enough to make her not feel like she stood out.

She stepped into the nave, stopping by the baptismal pool. She didn’t dip her fingers into the holy water or cross herself. This had not been her faith in a very long time. The muted light accentuated the red sanctuary lamp and the tier of remembrance candles. The way the firelight danced across the stained glass windows did nothing to calm her tingling nerves.

Scanning the chapel, she saw no movement near the altar. All the pews were vacant. And if the confessional near the far wall was in use, there was no light to guide the lost. She stepped back into the aisle. This time, however, she did bow her head to the crucifix mounted behind the altar and offered a quick prayer for safety and guidance.

Returning to the vestibule, she collected several pamphlets and scanned them. Times of Mass and confession, prayer requests and upcoming events. She stuffed them in her pockets and made her way down the right hallway, stopping to glance into the confessional chapel. Finding it empty as well, she moved to the end of the hall.

This was the day she’d been dreading. The first possible face-to-face contact with him. But she had to know. Had to see for herself that he was really here. Chasing a ghost on the Internet was one thing. Standing in his vicinity was quite another.

But she had to do it.

Miranda gripped the doorknob firmly with one hand, her other hand feeling around the contents of her purse to make sure the camera was still there. The hard, circular metal of the lens brushed her fingers and she exhaled with relief. The tremble in her fingers rattled the knob and created an echo loud enough to drown out her racing heart. Tightening her grip, she twisted to the left. Just as she was sure it was locked, the knob turned to the right and the door was yanked open.

She would have bolted if her feet and brain had been capable of communicating with each other.

“Can I help you?” Cloaked in shadows, the figure towered over her, making her feel small and vulnerable. She took a defensive step backward and placed her hand on her throat.

“Can I help you?” The voice asked again.

“Father?”

The shadow shifted, stepped into the hallway. The recessed lights shone down upon him, haloing his blond head. “I’m sorry, Father Anatole has left for the evening. Is there something I can help you with?”

She exhaled and realized her knees were trembling. She braced herself against the wall and smiled up at the groundskeeper.

“I—I just wanted to introduce myself.” Thinking on her feet wasn’t her forte, but this excuse came easily. “I’m new and considering coming to Mass, but I’d like to meet the priest first.”

Two men dressed in black clerical suits exited another office down the hall and headed the opposite way. Their footsteps slapped against the stone floor as the groundskeeper motioned for her to follow him back toward the vestibule.

It was really hard to concentrate with all the fear screaming in her head. She’d thought she’d just run smack into Anatole. Now that she knew she was safe, she still couldn’t quell the wave of nausea quivering in her gut.

“He should be in by sunrise.” He jutted his chin toward the disappearing men. “You could meet with one of our deacons if you’d like.”

“No thanks.” She followed him outside, the cold air giving her some sense of clarity as it blasted her in the face. Anatole wasn’t here. Which meant his office was empty.

Did she dare go through with it now that she’d run into this man? God, she was still trembling.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. . . .”

“Simon Capistrano. Groundskeeper.” He smiled. “I’m around three or four days a week if you need anything. I’m new here myself, but I’m getting the hang of things.”

Miranda forced herself to return his smile and started down the steps. “Maybe I’ll see you at Mass sometime.”

She hastily made her way across the street, not looking back until the weight of his stare dropped from her back. When she finally did, he was gone.

Well, that didn’t go as planned.

She was itching to get into that office, but Groundskeeper Simon might put two and two together and rat her out if Anatole reported a break-in. She’d been trying to open his office door when Simon had caught her, after all.

Shit.

Was it worth the risk?

She chewed her lip, pondering.

Definitely worth the risk. But not tonight. She’d give it a few days and hope that Simon forgot about meeting her.

A
N HOUR OR
so after his pleasant dinner meeting with his new tenant, Tucker was worn out. Lisa’s call hadn’t been for a stolen bicycle or anything so easily dismissed. Fifteen-year-old Ricky Schneider had been missing for two days. Tucker had been called out to the Schneider house several times for domestic abuse—had locked up the father no fewer than three times in the seven years since he’d taken this job, and wasn’t the least bit surprised that Stan and Tanya Schneider had been too involved with their booze to notice their son Ricky’s disappearance any sooner.

After he’d responded to the call, Tucker had left them to give their statement to Lieutenant Bowen downstairs among their empty bottles and full ashtrays, while he ventured upstairs, where yellow nicotine covered each wall he’d passed like a coat of paint. The thick shag carpet looked like something left over from the seventies, coated in cat hair and the stench of dried urine.

When he reached Ricky’s room he sneezed and shut the door behind him, noticing that in the boy’s room, the air was easier to breathe than in any other area of the small townhouse.

He pulled the camera from his bag and began snapping pictures. Given the kid’s home life, this was probably a runaway situation. With parents like those two buffoons downstairs, Tucker couldn’t blame Ricky for wanting to get away.

He slid the photo Tanya had given him from beneath his arm and studied it. Good-looking kid if he ignored the horrendous piercings jutting out of Ricky’s nose and eyebrows—but they were better than the bruises and blood that had decorated the kid’s face the last time Tuck had seen him. In the photo, he was wearing a black, grungy T-shirt and torn jeans. Denim jacket that looked about two sizes too small.

He searched the nightstand and dresser for any phone numbers or friends’ names, but couldn’t find a single one. There was no computer to search, no phone left behind. Not even a yearbook. If this kid had friends, he hadn’t brought any evidence of them into this house.

Tucker looked at the photo again and remembered his last run-in with Ricky. He’d been jumped three months or so ago by a group of preppy teens with too much time on their hands. The grandfather had reported it. Tucker had met with him. Nice enough man who’d died just after Halloween. Maybe his death had sparked Ricky’s decision to leave.

Or maybe . . . His mind flashed to the bloody scene behind the library and his gut twisted.

He made another note to look into the report on the beating. He’d pay a visit to the kids who’d done it. See if they knew anything or if there was any chance it had happened again and Ricky was out there somewhere, hurt and unable to get help.

Teens. The biggest pain in this town’s ass.

He closed the nightstand drawer and dropped to his knees to look beneath the bed. There was nothing there except a box full of metal band posters and a journal. While nothing was written in the journal, there were sketches. The kid had talent. It looked as though he’d drawn at least two dozen sketches of various gods of mythology. Dragons. Ancient symbols.

Judging by the content of the artwork, Tucker was ready to guess that Ricky Schneider had no use for the religious aspects of this town. Tucker didn’t know much about witchcraft or the Wiccan religion, but he knew pentagrams when he saw them. He also wasn’t closed-minded enough to believe that pentagrams themselves meant anything bad or evil-intended. They were just stars, used in many religious and scientific drawings. But they were hidden in a box under the bed for a reason.

If Ricky had run away and there was a chance he’d return, Tucker didn’t want to cause him any more life suckage by calling his parents’ attention to the box. He took snapshots of each page, put the journal back in the box, and slid the box as far back beneath the bed as possible. Retrieving an evidence bag from his pocket, he slid a hairbrush inside before venturing down the hall to the bathroom. There, he bagged the lone toothbrush laying on the counter and another comb, then closed the door behind him and headed back downstairs where Lieutenant Bowen was finishing taking the parents’ statements.

Tanya Schneider sat sloppily at the small kitchen table, puffing on a cigarette, her eyes glazed from the half-empty bottle of tequila in front of her. Her partially opened housedress gave him an unwanted eyeful of sagging, leathery cleavage freckled with age spots. Her husband stood by the fridge, looking way more pissed than worried about his son’s fate.

Tucker held up one of his bags for verification. “This Ricky’s toothbrush?”

Tanya nodded.

“I think we have everything we need here,” Bowen said, closing his notebook. “You’re sure he doesn’t have any social media accounts?”

Stan sneered. “What’s he going to use them on? Kid doesn’t have a phone, and the last computer we had in the house broke about five years ago.”

Tanya sighed. “He could have made one at that damned library, Stan.”

“The library?” Tucker asked. “He go there a lot?”

She nodded, inhaled, blew a ring of smoke so thick she had to squint through it to see him. “Every damned day. I don’t care though. Kept him out of trouble for the most part.”

Tucker pulled his phone from his pocket and did a quick search on both Facebook and Twitter. There was a ton of Ricky Schneiders on there. He’d have to go through them one by one to see if any belonged to their kid.

To Bowen, he said, “Have someone go check out the library computers. See if we can find a social media account, something that might give us an idea of who his friends are or where he might have gone.”

“The kid don’t have any friends.” Stan jerked open the refrigerator, rummaged around for a minute, opening the crispers before taking a beer from the shelf and slamming the door.

There was no food on the shelves.

Tucker turned back to Andy, who looked at the parents and shook his head. Tucker could read the disgust in the lieutenant’s eyes. Having come from a broken home, Andy took situations like this a little personally.

“And you’re sure he hasn’t called home or any of his friends?”

“Why would he call us? Kid hasn’t had much use for us since he was in diapers.” Tanya Schneider gripped her cigarette between her teeth and poured a double shot of tequila into her glass. The woman was well beyond being shitfaced. “And we told you, he don’t have friends. Little punk ran off. Stan says he’ll come home when he gets hungry enough.”

As she brushed her hair behind her ear, he noticed a knot circled with a black ring on her cheek. “How’d you get that bruise?”

She gingerly touched her face, glancing at her husband. “I tripped on thin ice.”

I’m sure you did.
Eggshells and thin ice. This house felt made of the things. Once again, his mind flashed back to the blood in the alley. If it did belong to Ricky, there was a possibility it had everything to do with Stan Schneider.

The last time he’d had Stan before the judge, the judge had warned Stan that if he saw him in his courtroom again, Stan would do substantial jail time, along with losing his parental rights. Maybe Stan Schneider had taken care of Ricky to make sure that didn’t happen.

And maybe you shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

Tuck took several deep breaths to calm the anger churning his gut. Until he knew otherwise, he’d stick to the assumption that Ricky had simply had enough and ran away.

“Do you have any family? Someone Ricky might have gone to?”

Someone
you
can go to if I haul your prick-ass husband to jail?

“Of course we have people, but they would’ve called Stan the minute Ricky showed up on their doorsteps.”

He handed her one of his cards. “If you hear anything, or need anything, please call.”

Tucker closed the notebook and stuffed it in his pocket as he tossed his equipment bag over his shoulder. “We’ll notify you if we find anything. If Ricky calls or comes home, please let us know right away.

He said the words more out of habit than anything else. He was rooting for the kid to have found a safe place with a distant relative—somewhere far away from the hell that had been his home.

M
IRANDA ENTERED THE
police department and took a minute to let the warmth from the overhead vent thaw her. She still couldn’t believe she’d convinced herself to come here. Tucker seemed like a nice enough guy, but he was law enforcement. She couldn’t forget that.

But then, she wasn’t here for a date or anything. He was her landlord. There would be times, like now, when she couldn’t avoid him. If she hadn’t woken up this morning certain that she had icicles hanging off her toes, she wouldn’t be here now.

As long as she was careful not to fall for his dimples and kind eyes—and kept her reasons for being here to herself—everything would be just fine.

“Can I help you?”

Miranda smiled at the woman sitting behind the oval counter that separated the reception area from the offices behind her. She had to be five or six years younger than Miranda, but lines of fatigue and frustration marred her forehead, making it impossible to guess her true age.

“Lisa, did you get the reports back from the hospitals yet?”

The receptionist held up her hand for Miranda to wait a moment and spun in her chair, facing the voice that bellowed from the back of the office. “Called every hospital from here to Knoxville, and spoke to most of the GPs and pediatricians as well. If any of them saw Ricky lately, then he never used his real name. Nothing at child protection, either.”

Tucker entered the waiting area, and Miranda’s entire body came alive. She’d begun to wonder if she’d imagined how attractive he was. She hadn’t.

He tossed a file on the desk in front of Lisa while Miranda pulled herself together. “Since you have a rapport with Mrs. Perry, why don’t you head over there and interview her for me. If he used the computers, see if she kept a log so we can determine exactly what he did while he was there. Did he meet up with anyone? Express interest in going anyplace in particular? That sort of thing.”

“Shannon’s due shortly. Want me to go now or wait on her?”

“I’ll hold down the fort until she gets in. Just get back as soon as you can. And if you bring me something useful, dinner for you and the kids is on me.”

Lisa stuffed her notepad in her purse, grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, and rushed past Miranda as if worried Tucker might change his mind. The stress lines had completely disappeared from the short blonde, erased by the excitement of her new assignment.

“Well hello there.” Tucker said, noticing Miranda for the first time. His smile was warm and inviting. The twinkle in his eyes suggested he was glad to see her.

She offered a tiny wave. “If this is a bad time, I can come back later.”

“No need.” He came around the desk. “First night in the cottage okay?”

“The heat doesn’t seem to be working and your instructions didn’t say where to find extra firewood.”

Was it the man or the badge pinned to his chest that made her hands sweat and her heart race? “I should have called or left a note on your door—”

“Not at all.” He glanced at his watch. “I was about to grab some lunch. Have a meal with me, then we can head over there so I can give the furnace a quick look.”

“Thanks, but there’s no hurry. I just wanted to let you kn—”

“You wouldn’t make a guy eat alone, would you?” He flashed those dimples and her resolve melted. “There’s a hot dog stand across the street. Not a big deal.”

“I—”

“Just sit tight, all right? I won’t be but a minute.”

Even though the intelligent half of her brain screamed at her to slink away when he disappeared back down the hall, she sat and kept her ass firmly planted in the hard plastic chair.

Why? What the hell was wrong with her?

He was so different than Detective Langley had been. She could see that right off. Tucker was friendly and had a ready smile. But did that make him different enough that he might believe her if she spilled her guts?

Another receptionist swept in, this one about nineteen or twenty with long dark hair and no-nonsense black-framed glasses. She gave Miranda a curious look as she took her seat behind the desk and threw a graffitied backpack on the floor.

“You waitin’ on someone?” she asked Miranda, popping open the lid to a steaming cup of coffee and taking a tentative sip.

“Chief Ambrose. It’s okay. He knows.”

The girl grunted and turned her attention to the computer screen, and Miranda slid her phone from her pocket. She pulled up Safari and typed in “Father Peter Anatole.” She’d run this search a million times already, but every day, she typed it in anyway, hoping for something new. Still, the most recent search page led her here, to Christmas, with an article from the
Christmas Chronicle
proclaiming him the new priest at St. Catherine’s.

“Ready?”

He was wearing his Stetson again. She kind of liked it. She gathered her belongings and followed him outside, zipping up her parka as she went.

“Mind if we stop by the
Chronicle
on our way back to the cottage so I can drop off a photo for them to run?”

“No problem.”

As they walked, she was well aware of her inability to make small talk, and she felt bad that he had to fill in the awkward gaps alone.

“Sure a hot dog is okay? Can’t guarantee I have time to sit down for a meal and check out your cottage, too, but—”

“A hot dog sounds great.” For once, she actually
wasn’t
hungry. They grabbed a couple hot dogs and cider from the nearest vendor and ate in silence as they walked back toward the cottages.

Her footsteps faltered when she noticed they were across the street from St. Catherine’s. Tucker walked a few steps ahead before realizing she was no longer with him. When he gave her a curious glance, she thought as quickly as she could and dug her camera from her duffel.

“Sorry. I have a thing for historic buildings. Mind if I take a look?”

He checked his watch. “Your heat might have to wait another couple hours.”

She contemplated telling him to go on without her, but the thought of having the chief of police at her side should she run into Anatole was too irresistible. “I don’t mind.”