A Cold Christmas by Charlene Weir Read Free Book Online

permanently damaged from all the television he’d been allowed lately.
    â€œBonnie’s in her room playing with her stuffed animals.”
    It seemed a long time but was probably only a few minutes before she heard a siren. She went to let in the cavalry.
    *   *   *
    Susan, at her desk, was trying to work a miracle, something along the order of loaves and fishes. Less than half her personnel were able-bodied. She was trying to cover too many hours with too few people. They were working double shifts, some sick on their feet and covering jobs they didn’t know. George was out, Parkhurst was out, Detective Brown was out. Both Sergeant Wily and Sergeant Ross were out. Thank God for Osey. Otherwise only patrol personnel remained. Double shifts or twelve-hour shifts made them all exhausted and more vulnerable to this damn virus. One more officer had called in this morning with a temperature of 103. Would this ever end, oh Lord?
    Her plans were put on hold. The first trip back since she’d moved to Hampstead three years ago, and her chances of going didn’t look good. Her mother would be upset and her father furious. He’d probably been sharpening his knives since she informed him she was coming, working on his arguments. Damn and blast. She hadn’t told either parent of the offer from Chase Reardon. Her father would pressure her to take it, thinking if she were around for that two-year stint, it would be easier to coerce her to stay permanently. Her mother would step in as buffer, to keep them from ripping shreds from each other.
    The phone at her elbow rang and she grabbed it. “What!”
    â€œJust got a 911 call from Zach James,” Hazel said. “On Hollis Street. Accident, possibly fatal. I thought you’d want to know.”
    â€œSorry I snapped. I was afraid you were going to tell me there’d been another burglary.” They’d had a rash of them lately.
    â€œNot yet, but the day is young.”
    James? James the church organist who was so sick? Something happened to her? “I’m going,” she told Hazel.
    â€œI thought you might.”
    Please, God, don’t let Hazel get sick. She was working eighteen-hour or double shifts, holding the place together. She’d worked late last night and was back early this morning. The budget needed looking at. Some money somewhere had to be squeezed out to get her an assistant. Maybe if they gave up toilet paper. Memo: Bring your own, if you expect to use any.
    Grabbing her uniform parka, she shrugged it on. When she stepped out into the parking lot, the cold bit into her lungs and made her gasp. The wind caught her full-force, swept back her hair as though she’d been caught in a hurricane, and flapped the bottom of her parka. Damn wind was always blowing at you, no matter which direction you were headed. She turned her face from its icy edge, trotted to the pickup, and slid in.
    Get gas, she reminded herself for the second time. The pickup turned over slowly in protest and finally fired up. She eased out of the lot, so the vehicle wouldn’t die before it warmed up. The sun was shining in a pale winter sky, and Hampstead was cheery with seasonal decorations. The downtown area was five blocks long and two blocks wide. Store windows displayed ski scenes with elves sliding down mountains, Bob Cratchit working at his desk, Joseph Mohr quickly scribbling off the words to “Silent Night” before the Christmas Eve service. If she remembered correctly, the organ hadn’t worked and the carol was written for guitar.
    She turned right on Hollis and went out to the James house. An ambulance, rear doors open, sat in the driveway. Oh, shit.
    Patrolman White opened the door for her and dipped his head slightly. “Chief.” Mid-twenties, short blond crew cut, and round apple cheeks. He looked more like a Boy Scout than a cop. “In the basement. Osey’s done the steps and the