Read Online Snow Blind by P.J. Tracy - Free Book Online Page A

me.”
    She scowled, turned on her heel, then spun at the last moment and looked straight at McLaren. “Crinolines,” she said, then disappeared out the door.
    â€œWhat’re crinolines?” McLaren whispered.
    Gino gave him a look. “You are such a fashion fetus. They’re really stiff slips. They got plastic hoops in them so they stick way out. Fifties stuff. Must have been a retro wedding. Can’t believe she even went to one of those things, let alone dressed up in a getup like that.”
    McLaren was still staring at the place he had seen Gloria last.

    I T HAD BEEN full dark for an hour, and Grace could still hear the irritating scrape of shovels against concrete from inside her house. In a working-class neighborhood like this, there weren’t a lot of snow-blowers, and the shovels had been busy all day, clearing yesterday’s storm from walks and driveways. A few of them were manned by intrepid youngsters who trolled from house to house, picking up a little extra cash for a lot of hard labor. There weren’t many such baby entrepreneurs these days; most kids were parked in front of the TV or a PlayStation, hands out for allowances earned by their mere existence. The few who worked the small, older houses on Ashland Avenue in St. Paul never bothered to knock on Grace MacBride’s door.
    She’d had high-tech heating grates built into her sidewalks and driveway before she bought the place six years earlier, and you could Rollerblade on those sidewalks in a blizzard. Not that Grace minded physical labor, but she’d been hiding from a lot of people in those days, and there was no way she would expose herself long enough to shovel a path through a Minnesota winter. Supposedly no one was trying to kill her anymore, but it was just plain silly to take chances.
    This evening, inside the snug little house she’d converted into a fortress, she was practicing the MacBride version of slovenliness.
    No one ever saw Grace dressed like this, except Charlie, of course, and since human speech was the only trick the dog hadn’t mastered yet, he wasn’t talking. The flannel pajamas had been a gift from Roadrunner; soft and warm and, bless the stick man, black. Clearly a lot of thought had gone into the purchase, because the pants were wide enough to provide easy access to the derringer she kept strapped to her ankle when she was working at home. But the very softness of the lightweight flannel felt dangerous. Grace liked weighty fabrics between her and the rest of the world.
    If it had been anyone but Magozzi, she wouldn’t have opened the front door. He got a silly little grin on his face when he saw her outfit. “You’re in pj’s. I find that enormously encouraging.”
    â€œYou’re early, Magozzi.”
    â€œI thought I could help you cook.”
    â€œSupper’s already on the stove. I was just about to get dressed.”
    â€œOr I could help with that.”
    Grace rolled her eyes and stepped aside while Magozzi hung up his coat and greeted Charlie. These days he was here so often that the dog no longer went completely ballistic when he walked in. The joy was still there, but it was a little more subdued, almost respectful, as if in Charlie’s wee brain Magozzi had made the transition from playmate to master. Grace wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “You’re in a pretty good mood for a cop with two new homicides on his plate.”
    Magozzi didn’t even look up from patting the dog. “You heard?”
    â€œHarley and Roadrunner called, made me turn on the television.”
    He straightened and looked at her, and there was nothing good-humored in his expression. “They were cops, Grace. Both of them.”
    In the year and a half he’d known her, Magozzi had rarely seen Grace visibly express any emotion. She was closing in on the midthirties, and yet there wasn’t a line on that face; not a smile crinkle