Just as he was about to crawl back down the snowbank, Oliver was brought up short by the widening of the winter man’s eyes. Frost stared in what seemed equal parts alarm and amazement at something on that access road, and Oliver dragged himself upward several inches to have another look. At first nothing looked different to him.
Then he saw the fox.
Kitsune darted along the access road at the base of the snowbank, doing her best to remain out of sight of Virgil and Gav and the Before-and-After brothers. At the back of the Cherokee, using the vehicle to hide herself, her fur rippled and flowed and she stood up. The transformation from fox to woman was as simple as that and Oliver had to blink several times as he tried to figure out what he had just seen and how it could be such a natural change. One moment the fur belonged to an animal and the next it was a cloak draped upon a beautiful woman.
With a peek at Virgil, who zipped his fly and started over to join the others, she ducked and reached into the back of the Jeep. In a single swift motion she slung the strap of the shotgun case over her shoulder and then she was darting for the snowbank, directly beneath the spot where Oliver and Frost lay in hidden observation.
Gav had a sausage wrapped in a roll, dripping mustard onto the ground as he went to take a bite. It was inches from his mouth when he glanced up and saw her scaling the snowbank with such delicate agility that she seemed to skate up its face.
“Holy . . . Virgil, she just . . . your gun! She’s got your gun!”
He had only gotten out the first few words as he stood, pointing at the snowbank, when the others caught sight of Kitsune as well. Mr. Before spotted Oliver and their eyes met. Oliver could not help it. He grinned.
Then he was scrambling down the snowbank with Frost beside him and Kitsune leaped over the top, running so swiftly that she dashed past them. She cast a mischievous glance at Oliver, eyes alight with pleasure. The hunters were shouting threats and curses after them. He heard the sounds of them huffing up the snowbank. A beer bottle sailed through the branches of the tree to Oliver’s right and then struck another, showering broken glass down into the snow.
“Do you . . . think . . . maybe it’s . . .” he began, hardly able to catch his breath as he maneuvered through the trees, keeping abreast of Frost but unable to catch up with the fox-woman.
“Yes,” the winter man replied, the icicles of his hair clinking together as they ran. “It’s time we were gone.”
The wind whipped up around them, driving the snow into a maelstrom once more. In moments the sky was gray and the sun blotted out and the shouts of the hunters were muffled. Kitsune paused just ahead as she realized what was happening. They caught up to her and she smiled, revealing those too-sharp teeth, just before the driven snow whited out all of their surroundings. The forest was entirely gone.
And Oliver felt the world shift.
CHAPTER 8
The Whitney family lived in a Federal Colonial that had been built in the last decade of the eighteenth century for a sea captain by the name of George Jensen. The seaman had been forty-one at the time of his marriage to Ruth Anne Landry, twenty-year-old daughter of the town’s only baker. Her father had no dowry to speak of, but with a wife as fair as Ruth Anne, Captain Jensen felt he had all that he could ever have asked for.
The house had been built for her over the course of an entire year, painstakingly constructed to meet the standards of the captain, who felt that his home ought to be put together with at least as much care as his ship. Local legend held that he had never slept a single night in his own bed, that his last voyage ended in a storm at sea on the very same day that the builders declared the house complete and announced to Mrs. Jensen, now heavy with child, that she could begin to decorate and move the couple’s belongings into the sprawling home at her pleasure.
This was not precisely true. In fact, the captain had overseen the furnishing of his home and had spent several weeks there in his marital bed with his pregnant wife before sailing on that fateful voyage. The truth was less colorful but no less tragic than the legend.
On Monday afternoon, a small headache working through his brain like a burning fuse, Ted Halliwell sat in the parlor of the Captain Jensen House— as the plaque beside the front door proclaimed it— and listened to Marjorie Whitney tell the history of her home as she served him tea, smiled awkwardly, and did everything possible to postpone the moment when he would get what he had come here for: a meeting with her daughter, Julianna. The young woman Oliver Bascombe had left at the altar.
“That’s a wonderful story, Mrs. Whitney. You must love being surrounded by so much history here.” Halliwell sipped his tea, which tasted slightly of almonds, and then gingerly set the cup down. “But I really do need to speak with Julianna. Do you think she’ll be much longer?”
From the moment he had arrived, Marjorie Whitney had evinced a sort of brittle pleasantry. Now there was a crack in it, no different, he imagined, than a crack in the china cup.
“She went to the health club a while ago, as I told you, Deputy—”
“Detective, actually.”
The woman stiffened at the word. “I’m sure Julianna will be right down.” Her nostrils flared as she took a breath and seemed to steady herself. “Oh, I’ve been remiss. I think I may have some butter cookies in the pantry. Let me get some to go with your tea.”
“That’s all right. This is perfect,” Halliwell told her.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Mrs. Whitney replied, and then she was up and fleeing the room as though she meant never to return. And perhaps that was true.
Halliwell took a second sip of his bitter tea, mainly out of politeness, and then let it sit. He clasped his hands on top of his knees and tried not to get too comfortable on the floral-patterned love seat where Mrs. Whitney had steered him upon his arrival. He wanted to get up, to wander around the room, but he did not want the woman to think he had been snooping if she ever did come back with those butter cookies. Despite his demurral, the thought of cookies made his stomach rumble and he had to try to remember the last time he had eaten.
Several minutes went by and he began to feel trapped on the love seat. He stared at his teacup and the tray that Mrs. Whitney had set out with a pot, cups and saucers, milk and lemon, and a ceramic strawberry that was actually a sugar bowl. When he found himself reaching for the teacup again, he knew it was time to get up.
He had just risen to his feet when Julianna entered the room.
“Detective Halliwell? Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I understand. I was a bit earlier than we’d agreed. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
Halliwell had been a cop for a long time. He knew better than to mention her aborted wedding, or even to offer his condolences, before they’d had a chance to build up to it.