January Thaw (The Murder-By-Month Mysteries) by Jess Lourey Page B

indication that Gilbert was a hoarder. The sheer mountainous concentration of stuff crowding the house’s interior was overwhelming. He’d carved a path inside the house mirroring the one outside, and it weaved through shoulder-high piles of food wrappers, fishing magazines, tackle, old life jackets, decoys, and more. It was as if someone had emptied a gigantic fishing boat into his house at the end of a trip, and it smelled like that trip had ended a decade or two ago.
    “ … and that was 1984. My 1985–90 albums are more walleye-oriented. Let me grab—”
    I sat up so quickly that Jiffy erped, which is how dogs that size must bark: Erp . “I really appreciate your time, Mr. Hullson, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I just need a photo of Jiffy.” She wagged her stumpy little tail at the mention of her name. She was a darling miniature poodle, though she had that weird eye goop that breed of dog always seemed to sport. She’d been staring at me desperately since I’d arrived, almost begging for me to take her out of this paean to accumulation, fishing, and pop cans.
    “Well,” Gilbert said, sensing, I imagine, that he was about to lose a 135-pound white girl, “you should at least see a picture of the hole she fell into before you go.”
    “Really? You’re going to show me a picture of a hole?” Resignation, not surprise, colored my voice.
    Jiffy erped again: You have to save me, lady from the outside! This isn’t my life!
    “Sher thing,” Gilbert said, pulling out a thick photo album labeled Miracle Jiffy. He paged through it until he found what he wanted. He flipped the album so it was facing me and thrust a sausage finger at a blurry square. “See?”
    I leaned forward to look at the photograph. The Naugahyde ottoman I was sitting on—the only accessible piece of furniture besides Gilbert’s easy chair—squeaked as I did so. Gilbert flashed me a look, but I didn’t bother making excuses. He owed me that much.
    In the photo, Gilbert had placed a paperback next to the ice hole to lend perspective.
    “She must have just fit in there,” I said.
    “Yup. She’s fished with me a hundred times and never fell in. If it wasn’t for those gangsters shooting up the ice, I never would have let her out of my sight. I think she was going after a fish. I almost lost her.” He bundled Jiffy into his arms and hugged her. She closed her eyes and ducked her head into his arm.
    My ears pricked up. “Gangsters?”
    “Two of them. Couldn’t get a good look at ’em because they were far away, but I could tell by their clothes that they’re not from around here. Hoodies, baseball caps. No fisherman wears that. They were shooting into the air, hollering. I turned around to ask Jiffy if she thought I should call the police, but she wasn’t there. I panicked. By the time she popped back out of the ice a few houses over, the kids were gone.”
    “What night was this?”
    “Thursday night. Right before they started setting up for the festival on West Battle.”
    “Is that where you were? On West Battle?”
    “Yup. Not far off from the ice castle.”
    So, two men who were “not from around here” were near where Maurice’s body was found two nights before he died, and wearing clothes very similar to those Ray and Hammer were wearing that same night they attacked Mrs. Berns and me.
    The letter supposedly written by Orpheus Jackson was looking fishier and fishier.

Nineteen
    Monday morning dawned before I did. I lay under my bed, eyes closed, wondering if I’d left the bathroom faucet on. Drip. Drip. Willing myself not to care, I snuggled deeper into my patchwork quilt in the dark safety. The alarm hadn’t yet gone off, which meant that I had more time to sleep, though I could tell by the light filtering underneath the edges of the bed that the sun was beginning to rise.
    Drip .
    I sighed. The water wasn’t going to let me sleep. I rolled to the edge of my bed and cracked one eye. A knurdled pair of socks and