New, Second in the Detective Kendall Halsrud Series,
suspense book, ICED MALICE!
ICED MALICE is the second book of my
suspense series that stars Detective Kendall Halsrud. I enjoyed writing about
Kendall so much that I decided to continue her as a series. The story again takes place in Eau
Claire, Wisconsin where Kendall is a police detective and is backgrounded by the
winter of 2014, the coldest and longest-lasting winter in the area since the
early 1890s. Although the book is the second in the series, the story can
easily be read as a stand-alone. I hope you enjoy the first chapter!
1
Sunday, 2:30 a.m.
Amazing that the below-zero
temperature coupled with high winds and icy snowflakes hadn’t kept the drinkers
home tonight. Cabin Fever Night at the bar had exceeded Nick’s expectations,
and even the cost of the taco buffet and that of bringing in a DJ from Menomonie,
Wisconsin, wouldn’t take much of the profit. Almost twenty minutes from closing
and the crowd hadn’t even dwindled. Nick would have to give them a last call
soon.
Crap. He had a drunk to drive
home. Ever since opening night, he vowed to make anyone who overindulged give
up their keys. If they didn’t have a ride, Nick drove them home after closing.
So far, it was working. Chuck Wetzel, a regular and a known alkie, had tossed
Nick his keys tonight after ordering his third drink. Unfortunately for Nick,
Chuck lived with his parents in a subdivision south of town—about as far from
Nick’s place near Lake Hallie as possible.
Nick couldn’t wait to get home,
crawl into his warm bed with Sara and give her the good news; tonight’s take
was the best since opening night. Nick and Sara had owned the bar on the
northern edge of Eau Claire for seven months, and the finances were just
starting to edge into the black. This freaking cold winter hadn’t helped.
He saw that Chuck had managed
to get off his bar stool and take a trip to the john. At least he was walking;
Nick was weary of dragging Chuck’s sorry ass out of the bar and driving him to
his front door. When Chuck came out, he walked back to his barstool and pulled
on his coat.
“Hey, Chuck,” Nick called, “ease
up a minute. I can’t leave yet.”
“No prob, Nick,” he called
back. “Keep the keys for me. I’ve got a ride.”
Relieved, Nick flipped on the
Last Call sign and announced, “That’s it, folks!”
A few people ordered their one
for the road, as most of the crowd wandered out into the night, the open door
letting in a blast of frigid air. The icy draft hit Nick’s nostrils when he
inhaled, and for about the hundredth time during the long stretch of below-zero
days, he thought about adding an entryway to keep the cold air at bay.
Next year.
3:00 a.m.
Shortly after midnight the snow
made its first appearance, and the wind picked up, spreading mournful howls
into the frigid night.
Patti Olson edged over to the
window. Snow had drifted across the front of the house, accumulating nearly to
the windows. The weatherman on the TV said this was the worst winter in
twenty-five years.
Patti had begged to be able to
stay alone all night. After all, she was eighteen now, an adult. And Mommy kept
saying she wanted Patti to be able to do things that “normal” girls did. Patti
knew she wasn’t normal. One time she heard someone call her a “downs,” whatever
that was. She never got to do half the things other kids did.
Normal girls could stay home
alone when they were over sixteen. Patti knew that, because her cousin Emma,
who was fifteen, told her that at her last birthday party.
Patti hated that scary noise
the wind was making, and the rattling windows set her teeth on edge. She ground
them, nervously. Mommy always told her not to do that, but who would know?
Mommy wasn’t here. Patti’s palms were sweating and she couldn’t sit still; she
even wished Mommy hadn’t given in and let her stay home alone. Her little
brother Keithy—he hated when Patti called him that—went to bed a long time ago
and nothing ever woke him up.
She thought about calling
Mommy. The telephone number of Mommy’s friend was on a little pink note stuck
to the desk by the phone. But Patti had called her three times already, and
Mommy said not to call again unless it was an emergency. She said that after
the third call, when Patti called to ask her if she should wash the dishes she
used to make popcorn for her and Keithy. The list Mommy left for her said what
she could and couldn’t do tonight, and the list hadn’t included washing the
dishes. So Patti had to call and ask
her.
Taking care of her little
brother was a big responsibility. Patti thought she shouldn’t go to bed when
everything was so scary, so she stayed in the living room and watched TV. After
turning up the volume to drown out the noisy wind, Patti leaned back on the
sofa and covered herself with the afghan grandma had made for her. It was
crocheted in her favorite colors, red and blue. Keithy said it was ugly. But he
was only eight, and he was a boy. Everyone knew that boys didn’t know about
what was pretty or not, and Patti loved the afghan—took it to bed with her at
night, too.
When the first knock sounded at
the front door, Patti thought it had to be coming from the program she was
watching. It wasn’t, though, because she was watching her favorite show, Friends, and right now the friends were
all sitting on the couch in the coffee shop and no one had to knock to come in
there.
The second knock was louder.
Patti’s heart pounded. She thought she heard a voice, a man’s voice, but that
was impossible. No one ever came to visit in the middle of the night.
She looked at the clock and saw
that it was after three in the morning. Maybe she should call Mommy. Was this
an emergency? No, she didn’t think so. Emergencies were when someone was hurt,
or got shot, like they did on the TV programs Keithy watched. If the house was
on fire, that would be an emergency, but the house wasn’t on fire.
Another knock.
The voice again, louder this
time, but Patti couldn’t hear what the man was saying, not over the wind’s
dreadful screaming and the loud commercials. She covered her ears. Mommy said
to never, ever, open the door to a stranger, no matter what. She counted to ten
to keep from crying like a little baby. Then to twenty-five.
Patti knew how to count all the
way to a hundred, so she kept going. After reaching thirty, her fear caused her
to stumble on some of the numbers, taking her nearly five minutes to get to a
hundred. When she did, she uncovered her ears and turned off the TV. She
listened.
Nothing.
The only thing she heard was
the sound of the wind. Patti listened for another five minutes. No more noises.
Good. She wouldn’t have to call
Mommy again.
8:10 a.m.
After sunrise, bitterly cold
air embraced the Chippewa Valley with icy arms. The snow had drifted as high as
six feet in some spots, and then stopped after spreading a thick layer across
the yard of a small bungalow in a blue-collar neighborhood west of downtown Eau
Claire.
The house, a modest two-story
like many others on the block, had a police car out front and an ambulance in
the driveway, and behind it an old black Town Car belonging to the medical
examiner, Franklyn Teed. The frigid weather had discouraged onlookers, and the
only people stirring about the neighborhood peered out at the scene through
hoods, scarves, and multiple layers of protective clothing as they struggled
with snow throwers.
Detective Kendall Halsrud, and
her partner, Detective Ross Alverson, pulled up in front and put the dark sedan
into park, hesitant to leave the warm air from the car’s heater and step into
the cold.
“I still don’t see why they
called us in on this,” her partner griped. “The guy was drunk. He froze in
front of the wrong house, end of story.”
“Have a little respect for the
dead,” Kendall said. “The poor guy has a mother and maybe a wife and kids. You
know it’s routine for us to be in on any death that’s by anything but natural
causes. And someone will have to talk to the man’s family, tell them what
happened to their son.”
“Yeah, you do that,” he said as
he stepped out of the car.
Kendall hated breaking tragic
news, too, but better the parents hear it from her, a person at least
sympathetic to their loss. Alverson must have had a bad night. Though never
someone you would call a warm and fuzzy kind of guy, he usually wasn’t this
callous. The two had been partners for only a few weeks, a pairing appointed by
their boss when Kendall’s previous partner retired after having a heart attack.
Despite a raunchy attitude toward women, Alverson happened to be a good
detective—a fact Kendall discovered a couple of months ago when they worked a
case together.
Kendall donned a scarf and
gloves before she left the car and joined Teed on the small, cement porch. Teed
knelt over the body, grunting a hello through a Marquette University scarf that
was wrapped around his neck and pulled up in front to protect his face from
frostbite.
“What do you think?” Kendall
asked. “Can we get him out of here?”
“Yes, right away. I was waiting
for you before giving him the send-off. There’s nothing here to indicate
anything other than what it looks like—an accident. I can’t check his blood
alcohol yet, but there are no signs of a struggle or any kind of violence. His
fingers and hands have some scrapes, probably from pounding on the door. It
looks like an alcohol-related death right now, but I’ll know more after I do
the autopsy. He’ll have to thaw out, so don’t expect quick results.”
Kendall trusted Teed’s opinion;
they’d always had a good working relationship. “Then go ahead and take him
away. We need to talk to the first responder.”
“He’s inside with the family.”
After Kendall rang the
doorbell, a short, burly cop opened the door.
“Hey, Kenny, Ross, good to see
you,” he said. “This is really a mess.”
“Why? I thought it was pretty
cut and dried.”
“Or fast-frozen,” Alverson
quipped, walking in behind her. Kendall shot him a look.
“A divorced mom, a Merilee
Olson, lives here with her two kids. The daughter is eighteen, but she’s a
Downs—oh, sorry, I mean she has Down Syndrome—I can never keep all this PC
stuff straight. The son is eight.
“Mom left the daughter here
alone last night babysitting the boy. They’re out in the kitchen now. The
daughter—her name is Patti—was afraid to open the door when she heard the guy
knocking. Thought that was what she was supposed to do in order to keep the kid
brother safe. The mom blames herself for the guy dying. She says she knew she
shouldn’t have left the kids alone, but Patti begged her for a chance to take
care of her brother all night. This is the first time she didn’t have someone
stay with the kids when she was gone overnight.”
“Wow, that’s tragic, all
right,” Kendall said. “We’ll talk to them. You can leave if you want, we’ll
take over from here. Teed’s removing the body now. We need the name and address
of the deceased, then we’ll notify his family.”
The cop handed her a sheet of
paper torn from his notebook and left.
As Kendall and Alverson entered
the kitchen, the mother, a short, brown-haired woman with a curvy figure poured
into a pair of black leggings and a long turquoise sweater, stood at the stove
stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. When she looked up at their entrance, her
face blotchy and tear-stained, Kendall introduced herself and Ross.
“I’m Merilee Olson.” She dumped
the eggs onto a plate that held two pieces of buttered toast, and brought the
food to a table where a heavy-set girl with typical Down Syndrome features sat
staring at the empty place setting in front of her. “This is my daughter Patti.
My son Keith is in his room.” She set the plate in front of Patti and led them
to the living room.
“I knew better than to leave
Patti alone all night, but she kept pleading for a chance to prove to me she
could do it.” Merilee pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes.
Kendall didn’t blame her for
feeling responsible. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. What happened isn’t your
fault.”
“I don’t know why that man was
here. Why would he come to our door at that time of night?”
“We don’t know yet,” Kendall
replied, “but he might have been intoxicated. It’s possible someone dropped him
off at the wrong house, or if he was under the influence, he could have directed
his driver to the wrong place. Many of the homes in this neighborhood are
similar, and at night, with so much snow blowing around, it would be hard to
tell them apart.”
Kendall glanced at Alverson,
relieved he was letting her do the talking. The woman didn’t need any sarcastic
commentary. But Ross appeared lost in his own thoughts; he wasn’t even
eyeballing Olson’s attractive body.
“Patti thought she was doing
the right thing,” Olson continued. “I’ve told her not to open the door to a
stranger under any circumstances. I knew she was nervous about being alone last
night; she kept calling me at my boyfriend’s house. I would have come home, but
the weather was so awful and neither of us have a vehicle that could handle the
drifting.
“After the first three calls, I
told Patti not to call me again unless it was an emergency.” Her admission
brought on another round of tears.
“What time did you come home?”
Kendall asked.
“I came home this morning as
soon as the roads were cleared. It was about nine o’clock. A service had plowed
the driveway—I do the sidewalks myself—so I pulled in and parked in the garage.
I came in through the back door like I usually do.
“Patti hadn’t slept all night.
When she saw me, she nearly became hysterical trying to tell me what happened.
I opened the front door and saw him—well, only part of his shoe, really—and I
knew she hadn’t imagined the knocking. The snowdrift on the porch made it
impossible to see him except for that one foot. Anyone passing by wouldn’t have
noticed him. I called the police right away.”
Dear
Readers,
Thank you
for letting me share the beginning of my fourth novel with you. As you know, I
have two series going now, and am now working on the third in the TJ Peacock
& Lisa Rayburn series. I hoped to have that one ready by the beginning of
summer, but have been learning to format my own books, and that has taken up a
lot of my time. Undone, the one I’m working on now, will probably not be done
now until the end of the summer.
Hope you
are all having a wonderful spring season,
Marla
There
are two ways of paying a narrator. The first is by a percent of the royalties
received, which is 20%, (the author also receives 20%) or pay them an hourly
wage rather than a royalty. Narrators who only work for an hourly fee specify
that in their information. If you pay the narrator an hourly rate, then you
will receive the entire 40% royalty.
