White as Ice Read online

  White as Ice

  Biscuit McKee Mysteries, Volume 11

  Fran Stewart

  Published by My Own Ship Press, 2022.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  WHITE AS ICE

  First edition. June 19, 2022.

  Copyright © 2022 Fran Stewart.

  ISBN: 978-1951368418

  Written by Fran Stewart.

  Also by Fran Stewart

  BeesKnees Memoirs

  BeesKnees #1: A Beekeeping Memoir

  BeesKnees #2: A Beekeeping Memoir

  BeesKnees #3: A Beekeeping Memoir

  BeesKnees #4: A Beekeeping Memoir

  BeesKnees #5: A Beekeeping Memoir

  BeesKnees #6: A Beekeeping Memoir

  Biscuit McKee Mysteries

  White as Ice

  Standalone

  A Slaying Song Tonight

  From the Tip of My Pen: a Workbook for Writers

  Watch for more at Fran Stewart’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Fran Stewart

  Dedication

  An Explanation

  CHAPTER 98

  CHAPTER 99

  CHAPTER 100

  CHAPTER 101

  CHAPTER 102

  CHAPTER 103

  CHAPTER 104

  CHAPTER 105

  CHAPTER 106

  CHAPTER 107

  CHAPTER 108

  CHAPTER 109

  CHAPTER 110

  CHAPTER 111

  CHAPTER 112

  CHAPTER 113

  CHAPTER 114

  CHAPTER 115

  CHAPTER 116

  CHAPTER 117

  CHAPTER 118

  CHAPTER 119

  CHAPTER 120

  CHAPTER 121

  CHAPTER 122

  CHAPTER 123

  CHAPTER 124

  CHAPTER 125

  CHAPTER 126

  CHAPTER 127

  CHAPTER 128

  CHAPTER 129

  CHAPTER 130

  CHAPTER 131

  CHAPTER 132

  CHAPTER 133

  CHAPTER 134

  CHAPTER 135

  CHAPTER 136

  CHAPTER 137

  CHAPTER 138

  CHAPTER 139

  CHAPTER 140

  CHAPTER 141

  CHAPTER 142

  CHAPTER 143

  THE ORIGINAL FAMILIES

  MARTINSVILLE TOWN CHAIRMEN

  OWNERS OF BEECHNUT HOUSE

  CHILDREN OF BEECHNUT HOUSE

  WHO’S IN BISCUIT & BOB’S HOUSE

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  Also By Fran Stewart

  About the Author

  Dedicated to my devoted readers

  for as long as this book is readable

  I truly appreciate you

  An Explanation

  The reason this book begins with chapter 98 is that the final four books of the Biscuit McKee Mystery Series began with RED AS A ROOSTER, followed by BLACK AS SOOT and PINK AS A PEONY. WHITE AS ICE is the last book in the Biscuit McKee Mystery Series. For your own enjoyment, please read all four of these last books in the correct order, as the author makes no attempt to "bring the reader up to speed" with the story so far, and the stories interweave from one book to the next.

  As a reminder to you, the usual "Author’s Note" at the beginning of a book is an all-inclusive one at the end of RED AS A ROOSTER. As you will have noticed, at the end of each book are lists of the original Martin Clan members, the town council chairs, the inhabitants of Beechnut House, a condensed Hastings genealogy, and who’s in Biscuit and Bob’s house during the ice storm.

  Finally, various contests resulted in the use of the names of Hannah Heath, Veronica, Janice Adams Beene, Peggy Ann Dixon, and Mozelle Funderburk as characters in this final book. I hope you folks like the people you got to be!

  CHAPTER 98

  Day #4 - Saturday, December 12, 2000

  BREAKFAST WAS A hit or miss affair. Bob and Reebok—and probably Doc as well—had slept in, so those few of us who managed to get up tiptoed around. With Reebok sleeping on the couch next to the wood stove, we couldn’t heat anything up, boil water for tea, or make coffee. Cold cuts and bare bread are a poor breakfast, as far as I’m concerned. I could have managed if we’d had some leftover pizza, but I hadn’t seen a pizza in three weeks. Dee found a collection of jams in the pantry and seemed perfectly content with putting marmalade on her bread.

  I am not on her bread. I am on your lap.

  “I heard somebody leave last night.” Dave nibbled on a rolled up slice of hard salami.

  “Yeah.” I kept my voice low, much softer than Marmalade’s yowl. “Bob and Reebok took off on a call, but I have no idea what it was about.” I decided not to tell anybody about the call for Doc. I glanced at the battery-powered clock on the wall. “A couple more hours at most and we’ll find out for sure.” Poor Bob had looked so peaceful when Marmalade and I tiptoed out of the room ...

  I did not have to tiptoe. I always walk very quietly.

  ... I wanted him to be able to sleep as long as he could, but I could hear somebody tromping down the stairs—probably Ralph and Ida from the sound of their voices, and I thought I heard a “good morning” from Sadie, echoed by Rebecca Jo. It was like an army descending. I doubted the men would be able to sleep through the racket. As soon as the crowd spotted Reebok sleeping, they’d lower their voices, but by then it would probably be too late. Unless Reebok slept like the dead. I wondered where Henry was. Sleeping in, I guessed. He’d probably gotten up to pray last night.

  Dee walked over to the bay window, parted the curtains, and looked out. “How did they ever get around on the ice? It looks awful out there.”

  I joined her and we watched raccoons and birds mobbing the feeders. The seed on the ground was soaking wet from the rain, but I doubted the raccoons cared.

  Wet seed is better than no seed.

  “Can somebody help me put out some more bird seed?”

  Amanda nodded and peeled off toward the pantry. At this point everybody knew the bird-feeding routine. Of course, the back door squeaked as we opened it, and I hoped Reebok was a heavy sleeper. Between the Peterson’s racket and the back door burglar alarm, I didn’t hold out much hope.

  By the time Amanda and I made it back inside, Reebok had joined the group. He must have stoked the wood stove as well because it was churning out the heat. I peeled off my outerwear, deposited it in the front hall, and noticed that somebody had already set up the percolator and a big pan of milk for hot chocolate.

  Our town deputy must have been waiting for more of an audience. Once the two of us were seated, Reebok cleared his throat. He looked exceptionally severe. He was so young there weren’t any lines engraved on his face yet, but even so, his brow had a furrow across it that I’d never seen before.

  “Hubbard Martin died last night,” he said.

  Maddy clattered her orange juice glass against a plate. Ida and Ralph exchanged looks. Dee dropped the bread she’d just slathered with raspberry jam. It landed upside down, of course. Fortunately, it was on her plate and not on my floor.

  Dave rose halfway to his feet. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  Reebok leveled one of those looks at Dave. I could see why. What a stupid question. “We called out the ambulance to take the body up to Axelrod’s.”

  Carol hadn’t said anything, but I thought she might need to be brought up to date. “Marvin Axelrod is the undertaker.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.” I thought about telling her about the green funerals, but decided th
is wasn’t the time for it. “How’s Clara doing?” I thought for a moment. As much as I disliked Clara, I felt bad about her husband’s death. “Do you think we should go over there?”

  "And what?" Pat said. "Take a casserole?"

  This storm was beginning to wear on everybody. Or maybe she just wasn’t her best early in the morning.

  “No,” Reebok said. “I imagine they’re all still asleep over there. Henry said he’d go back later today ... ” He let the sentence dwindle off.

  "What do you mean, go back?"

  "He went over there with us."

  Like Grand Central Station, I thought. I left the table while the others peppered him with questions, most of which I could hear him trying to evade. I walked into the living room to look out the window that faced Matthew’s house. As soon as I pulled the curtain back, the window fogged, and I could see the streaks where someone had tried to wipe the glass clear.

  If it had been a normal death, a natural one, Reebok would have said so, and that would have been the end of it. But the fact that Bob had told me to send Doc next door—Doc was the county coroner. If a death was suspicious, he had to be the one to report it to the state medical examiner.

  Had Clara killed Hubbard? Did she finally reach the end of her rope?

  What rope?

  Beside me, Marmalade meowed. I picked her up and hugged her close to me. I felt comforted by the scrape of her raspy tongue across my chin.

  The yard was pocked with holes from where the men had played yesterday—or was it the day before? The days were all running together, and I couldn’t be sure when anything had happened. And now, with all the rain, walking would be even more treacherous than before.

  I leaned my forehead against the glass pane. It was better this way, I thought. Hubbard’s brain had been so badly injured when he fell. From everything I’d heard, he might have been able to shuffle along, but he was basically a vegetable in every other way. I hated that term, but didn’t know how else to express it. Non-responsive. That’s the term I should have used. I couldn’t imagine living without my brain working, unable to think, to communicate, to reason.

  But maybe he’d been alive in there, inside his brain. Maybe he’d known what people were saying to him. Did he have that—what did they call it?—that locked-in syndrome that somebody had mentioned? I had no idea what the symptoms were or whether he qualified.

  As I returned to the kitchen, Ida asked the obvious question. “How could the ambulance get anywhere on this ice?”

  “They’re equipped with built-in chains that engage automatically,” Reebok explained. “All they have to do is twist a lever.”

  “Even with chains,” I said, “it can’t have been easy going. Not on these hills.”

  Reebok shrugged. “Had to be done.”

  Bob walked in at that moment, took a look at the group, and said, “I guess you’ve heard.”

  “I told them, Sir.” He had a question in his voice, and Bob was quick to assure him that it wasn’t a secret.

  “Everybody’s going to know eventually.”

  Charlie was yawning as she walked into the kitchen. “Know what?”

  “Hubbard died last night,” I said.

  She blanched—not a surprise since Hubbard was technically her boss, I supposed. With her as chair of the library board, who would she report to now? And then I felt an inward smile. She’d report to Ida, of course, since Ida was going to be the new chair of the town council. If anybody objected, I was certain everybody seated at this table, with the possible exception of Carol, of course, would be at the next council meeting, and we’d have Mary Frances with us. Or her diary at least, to provide the proof.

  I could just imagine Ida drafting a long list of all her direct ancestors with the dates of birth, marriage, and death noted for every single one of them.

  “The funeral’s going to have to wait,” Ralph said with great practicality. “I doubt they can dig a grave under these conditions.”

  “That’s what coolers are for,” Ida said. She spread her hands when I gasped. “What? It’s logical. I’d imagine the funeral home has a generator.”

  Seemed a little hard-hearted to me to express it quite that way. Of course, if Marvin didn’t have a generator, he could just leave the body in one of the freezing-cold rooms. What a gruesome thought.

  “I think we need to get back up to the attic,” I said. “Eat up, everybody, and let’s get this show on the road.”

  What show?

  "Oh my gosh, I’ve forgotten to feed Marmalade. Thanks for reminding me, Sweetie.”

  Goat poop.

  Carol grinned and shook her head.

  WE WAITED, THOUGH, until everybody was downstairs and well fed. It didn’t seem right to start attic exploring without the entire contingent. Glaze and Tom were the last to appear. Not so surprisingly, they once again had to endure a fair amount of teasing, but they took it in stride, even adding a few well-phrased rejoinders themselves.

  Naturally, we let them know what had happened. I hadn’t expected any great show of emotion from them. After all, none of us liked Hubbard all that much, but I have to admit I was somewhat disgruntled to see how little impact Hubbard’s death seemed to have made on any of us.

  I looked around the table. Surely these friends of mine wouldn’t take it so casually if I were to die ...

  Do not die!

  Marmalade let out a loud squawk and vaulted into my lap. Once again, I’d thought without considering how my thoughts might be interpreted by Marmalade. I reassured her as best I could that I was healthy. She kneaded my tummy before she stretched out across my lap. I had to move my chair a bit back from the table to give her ample room. As long as I sat there, I made a point not to think about dying.

  Good.

  IDA PLACED AN ELBOW on her knee and rested her forehead in her hand as the rest of us settled into our accustomed places in the attic circle.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Don’t worry, Sadie. I’m okay. I just feel like poor Mary Frances had it really hard. I know this’ll sound silly, but I wish I could do something for her.”

  “Maybe you feel so deeply about this,” Rebecca Jo said, “because you’re connected to her in a way the rest of us aren’t.”

  Ida looked a question at her.

  “You’re the one holding her journal. You’re the one reading her words.”

  “I’m really impressed,” Maddy said, “at how much easier it’s become for you to read this”—she pointed to the book on Ida’s lap—“this backwards writing of hers. It’s like Biscuit said yesterday. Those first few entries? You had to struggle through just to make them out, but now you’re reading them as easily as I read my own writing.” She paused, and a funny look came over her face. “Except for the times I write notes to myself in the middle of the night and then can’t decipher them the next morning.”

  “Maybe you should try writing them backwards,” Pat said, “and then hire Ida to interpret them for you.”

  Ida smiled, but I felt like her heart wasn’t behind it.

  “Thank goodness she had her son John,” I said. “And Miss Julia, too. I wonder if they became good friends, or would Miss Julia make her feel worse, just as a constant reminder that she couldn’t talk to Hubbard.”

  “Maybe she did talk to him,” Easton said. “Did you ever think of that?”

  Pat made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a squeal. “Are you kidding? In a tiny town like that? Like this, I mean. Everybody would have seen them.”

  Easton frowned, but before she could say anything, Melissa spoke up. “Maybe Mother Julia helped.”

  Maddy gave her a high five. “What a great idea. Like an intermediary.”

  “I wish I knew when this storm was going to be over,” Charlie said.

  “Oh, it’s over," Sadie said. "Now we just have to wait for the melting.”

  “The rain will certainly help speed that process,” Dee said.

  Pat turned a thumb
downward. “As long as the temps don’t drop.”

  “Speaking of which,” Ida said, “you won’t believe what this next entry is about.”

  “Rain, I would suppose,” Dee guessed.

  “You got it.”

  Tuesday 24 September 1745

  Rain, rain, rain, rain. This is the fourth day of unceasing misty rain. Thankfully the drizzle is not hard enough to swell the Mee-too-chee River beyond its banks, for which I am indeed grateful, for there is a large rock that reaches out into the stream, from which it is easy to scoop buckets of water. If the river level rises much more, that rock will be covered and the women will all get their skirts soaked gathering water.

  I need not worry about that, though. Mister Cyrus Fiske, our cooper, has been busy indeed trying to make enough rain barrels for every family to have one, but it is a time-consuming process. Naturally, Mister Homer Martin, as leader of the community, received the first one that was available.

  Mister Fiske offered the second barrel to Silas and Louetta Martin, who refused it for now and insisted it go to Reverend Russell. Silas is ever the better man, and I find myself wishing that he could have led our company all these years. Yet, when I look at my young John lying so peacefully beside me on his trundle, I know that he will one day lead this community, and I intend that he shall do it well. I can only pray that Silas Martin will be willing to advise him.

  "I think Mary Frances ought to be the one to advise him," Pat said. "She’s got her head on right."

  "Except for all that eternal damnation stuff." Sadie brushed at something on her pink sweatshirt.

  It is my cat hair.

  "But I agree," Sadie said. "She’d be a darn good advisor."

  "They wouldn’t have listened to her, though," Carol pointed out. "Women’s opinions weren’t valued back then, remember?"

  "You mean like they are now?" Charlie sounded bitter, and I wondered what sort of experience she’d had to make her so cynical.

  I digress, though. Back to the rain. The ground must indeed rejoice after so dry a spell, but I do not rejoice. My cap is sodden and droops about my ears after even a short trip to the privy. My hems are splattered with mud up to my knees and consequently drag heavily as I walk. Once again I find myself envying Miss Julia and her divided skirts, for she—much to the horror of Mistress Russell—tucks her hems into the tops of her boots and thus keeps them from quite so much muddiness. Unfortunately, that means that her lower limbs are somewhat defined. Men and women alike eye her as she strides along the lanes. That woman is remarkable.