The dead of winter, p.1
The Dead of Winter, page 1
THE DEAD OF WINTER
Welcome to Lake Pines.
A fictional small town in Northwestern Ontario that is home to both year-round residents and summer cottagers. Hidden secrets, private lives, and tension lay the groundwork for treacherous crimes. But there are more than secrets buried in this small town.
Order of Books in this series:
LAKE PINES MURDER MYSTERY SERIES
Murder At First Light
Death At Deception Bay
Murder Of Crows
The Dead Of Winter
The Night Is Darkest
Conspiracy of Blood
Deadly Past
Echoes of Guilt
THE DEAD OF WINTER
A gripping Lake Pines Mystery
The Dead Of Winter @2020 by L.L. Abbott.
All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Warren Design
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
L.L. ABBOTT
Visit my website at www.LLAbbott.com
Paperback ISBN-978-1-989325-21-6
eBook ISBN-978-1-989325-22-3
Large Print Version ISBN: 978-1-989325-26-1
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-989325-27-8
For Drew,
who shows me there is good in the world,
everyday.
And for Carole,
a lover of Canadian Art & the Lake
thank you for your friendship and support
the dead of winter
“Art is the beginning of vision
into the realm of eternal life.”
—Lawren stewart Harris
A pioneer Canadian Painter and member of the Group of Seven
Chapter 1
Winter draped the trees thick with frost holding the forest still in time, which is how he preferred to enjoy his days. No intrusions and no threat of change. There had been enough change in his life and much of it he kept hidden, if only for the protection of his three adoring children. The morning was often thought to hold the best light on the east side of his island but, in fact, it was around two in the afternoon that he preferred the way it filtered the colors and tinted his canvas. It also allowed him the morning to prepare his canvas and paints for the day.
He knew it was odd that he painted mostly in the winter, especially since it was the one season that held the most pain for him. Lately, more than ever he found himself returning to those years that he fought so hard to bury, much like the victims he laid to rest years before their time was due to come. He could feel his mind slipping with the completion of each painting, and now more than ever he had to work quickly if he was going to finish what he wanted to get done before his memory was gone forever.
It was what he needed to get done.
It was the one way he could ensure some justice and restitution was made, he only wished he could spare his children the hurt and the pain that he knew would inevitably come with the truth.
He was a coward. He had accepted that fact many years ago. It was the only way he could move forward and survive. He wasn’t the only one who had made a similar choice. Men and, to a lesser extent, women made the same decisions through the many generations before he did. How else could he have managed to continue living?
He lived a long life.
He had turned sixty-four in July, but his family was unaware of the date. Like every other year they learned to celebrate his birthday on the twelfth of February, and this past year they celebrated what they thought was his seventieth year. The ordeals and offenses of his past life aged him, so it was an age that he was able to easily pass off as his own.
Recently his memory caused him to begin to slip with his name, once almost revealing the surname he was christened with at birth while he was signing the bottom of a painting at the gallery. Caught up in the excitement of her purchase, the buyer hadn’t noticed, and he was able to scribble over the first two letters in his signature making the mistake disappear.
Just as he was able to erase his own life.
He knew it wasn’t right, but what was in this world?
As he prepared to leave, he wiped the frost from the single pane glass on the main living room window and looked outside. The wind howled just beyond his door, and the ends of small frail branches, blackened with the cold, snapped under the northerly pressure and rolled over the frozen yard. The bright blue sky and blinding sunlight gave the illusion of warmth, that his many winters living in Lake Pines taught him was not possible.
An unevenly cleared path was carved out of the knee-deep early winter snowfall and edged the walkway which required daily shoveling. Removing the buildup of either a fresh snowfall or the windrows that would block the path from the house to the edge of the island and his cabin, was becoming more and more difficult as age impaired him.
His children tried to convince him to move back onto the mainland during the winter months. It was clear his health was deteriorating and since their mother died, he had become more and more reclusive choosing to spend his time alone painting on the island instead of spending time with them in the safety of his house in town, on Sedesky Road.
But it was his penance.
He knew it would be a choice any of the victims would have made over the fate he drew on their lives because of his actions.
He reached for the full-length sheepskin coat his youngest son bought for him many years ago and slipped it over his thin body already layered in fleece and wool to stave off the cold. The scarf that Maria knit for him years before she died was hanging below the coat and was the only scarf he would consent to wear. He gently tugged one end of the moth-eaten woolen wrap, and it slipped from the peg on the wall.
It was long enough to be coiled around his neck twice and then each end looped under his arms beneath his coat. Even with the frayed edges and holes, it managed to keep him warm. He lifted his right foot and his leg shook with age. He steadied himself against the wall and lowered his foot into his boot. He then repeated the same motion with his other leg.
Oversized mitts and a real fur trapper’s hat guaranteed he would stay warm for the duration of the walk to the other end of the island.
He had insisted that his studio be built separately from the main cabin where he and Maria lived, ensuring him the privacy he needed and Maria the space she desired.
One last log was placed in the wood stove oven before he dressed and would burn slow enough that it would still be warm when he returned later that day. He pulled open the door and was hit with a cold gust of wind, pushing him a couple of steps back inside. His small body fought against the weight of the squall and he grabbed the door with both hands, heaved himself outside, and then turned to pull it shut.
Cold shocked his skin and he felt the tip of his nose begin to stiffen in the minus thirty-five-degree temperature. He leaned into the wind, bending as he walked towards his studio, to avoid falling back. His right hand pushed down on the top of the trapper’s hat holding it in place as the ear covers flapped in the wind.
Sharp stabs of pain poked at the center of his ears and he felt the crushing pain of the cold on his forehead. He closed his eyes against the sting of the bitter cold and walked by memory along the path that wove its way through the birch grove and out to the clearing on the west side of the island. The trees surrounded him, standing poised like soldiers feebly guarding his secret. The deciduous forest, planted by his children, held no cover or protection from the north wind that rolled over the rocky mound of his island. Snow and ice trapped in the crevices on the ground. Even under the thick protective layers he wore, his body began to shake from the cold that froze the lake in early November that year.
He reached his studio and leaned against the entrance, resting to catch his breath before he pushed the heavy door to the small building open. There was no need for locks on any of the buildings on his island and even if he had installed them, he wasn’t sure they would work with the ice and cold that frequently coated the doors and windows during the winter months.
Another drawback to living on an island during a Canadian winter.
Once inside, he slammed the door shut, leaned against the wall, and dropped his chin to his chest. He pulled the thick trapper’s hat from his head and placed it on the table next to the door along with the mitts he tugged from his frozen and numb hands. It was getting harder with age to stay warm; he was realizing.
He turned on the lights and rubbed his hands together, blowing the little warm air he could muster from his lungs into his palms.
Split pine and birch logs that dried over the summer, were neatly stacked next to the small woodstove fireplace that was built into the corner of the cabin. He arranged three logs atop a crumpled pile of newsprint and some kindling he collected in the fall, and soon the room began to warm as the crackling flames took hold of the dried wood. The scent of pine was his favorite and he filled his lungs with the aroma as it burned.
He slipped his coat from his body and draped it over the back of his chair. It would rest by the fire throughout the d ay and be warmed for him when it was time to leave.
The partially completed canvas rested on the easel next to the window and with a good focused three hours, he should have the last of the paintings completed in time for the gallery showing in six weeks.
The sunlight that blinded him in the open field next to his cabin was filtered through the slightly frosted windows and the wide overhanging eaves, offering him the perfect light for his paints.
Hours absorbed into his days and he passed the time with each stroke on his canvas unaware of the stretch that elapsed.
Art critics compared his signature strokes and choices of colors to those equal to the talent of the Group of Seven artists. He shuddered with each compliment preferring to be seen in less than the glowing limelight that his obvious talent warranted.
He had agreed to the upcoming gallery showing on the condition that it would be the final collection he would display.
Many were horrified at his decision, mostly he knew because they would be losing a healthy commission on the sale of his work. But money was of little concern to him now and he was ready to stop.
His family was grown, and his wife gone for several years now. He needed very little to survive and he was growing tired of the lie.
A draft blew against his back and he shivered with the cold. The fire had burned low, and he was so deeply absorbed in his painting that he neglected to add another log hours earlier when it was due.
The sun was beginning to set, but he decided to spend one more hour in the orange haze of the light to complete the painting.
He grabbed two dried logs from the pile and pulled open the thick metal door of the woodstove oven and gently placed them inside. He pushed them into place with an iron poker and once the flames rose and wrapped around the dried bark, a bright glow filled the room. He closed the door and twisted the handle down, locking the flames inside.
He straightened his body, aching with age and cold, and looked out the window and across the frozen bay. A chill ran across his shoulders and he curved his back against the wintry feel of the drafty cabin.
The light was not going to last much longer, and he knew he had to return to his canvas if he was going to complete the painting by the end of the day.
He turned away from the window and back towards his canvas.
The sight caught him off guard and completely by surprise. He had spent many years expecting this feeling and he even dreamed about how he would react.
But as he stood a few feet from the oven and even further from his painting he moved with hesitancy. His legs indecisive as to what steps he should take, and his voice unable to make a sound.
The stranger stood next to the door and was watching him with cold indifference. The look on the young stranger’s face was familiar even though the man was not. He closed his eyes and hung his head as tears filled his eyes. He knew what was coming, he was just glad that Maria was gone and would never know the true extent of his horrors.
The stranger stepped forward, without a word and without hesitation.
As the stranger’s knife plunged into his chest he fell to the floor, forcing down the scream of pain that was forcing an escape. He knew it was time and with his age, there was no point in fighting. His fists clung to his chest, grabbing hopelessly at the fleece that covered his body.
He crumpled to the floor, his aging joints collapsing under the attack. The warmth drained from his body and the cool of the winter slowly took over.
Methodically.
Painfully.
With each blink of his eyes, a moment of his life flashed in front of him as the stranger turned and walked towards the canvas. He lifted the fresh painting from the easel and wrapped it in the cloth laying on the floor. He looked down at the dying man and seemed as if he was about to say something to him, but instead, he tucked the painting under his arm and walked towards the door. He pulled it open and stepped outside.
The cold wind blew into the cabin and icy snow pellets rolled along the floor and pushed against his face, but this time he did not shiver. His eyes closed and he drifted. Maria was waiting and he was ready to go.
He hoped that everything he put into place would be enough. And as the life drifted from his body, he realized that it would be the second time that Josip Zoran Kovic would be laid to rest.
Chapter 2
Trisha climbed to the top step of the ladder and stretched to reach the corner of the window. She secured the last string of lights in the store and was finally ready for the holiday shopping rush. The early winter freeze was bad for anyone wanting to enjoy outdoor activity, but Trisha realized was good for her business. Christmas and Hanukkah fell in the same week this year which was good for bringing in shoppers looking to get out of their homes but avoid the cold outdoors. She knew it was crass to admit it, but anyone in the retail industry treated holidays differently than everybody else. And with a little over a month left until the holidays, every shopping day counted.
Trisha was stepping off the last rung of the ladder when the door to her shop swung open. A blast of cold air rolled in behind the shopper, shrouded in layers, and sent a shiver through Trisha’s body.
Trisha tugged at her open cardigan and wrapped it around her body, “Good morning!” She welcomed the shopper with her recognizable cheery manner.
“Ugh!” Kerry quickly pushed the large door shut behind her and shook the flakes of snow that covered the top of her toque and her jacket. “I don’t think I can take another day of snow!”
“I thought you’d be used to this weather by now,” Trisha laughed.
“The cold I can take, it’s the daily snowfall that is getting to me,” Kerry pulled her hat off her head and shook her hair loose, and let out a deep breath. “And that dog is driving me nuts!”
“What did he eat now?” Trisha asked, all too familiar with her friend’s dog and his penchant for chewing shoes.
“My slippers,” Kerry announced. “Not Simon’s, mine. I need a new pair.”
Trisha walked over to an oversized basket near the front of the store and pulled out a pair of sheepskin slippers, “Want the same ones as before?”
Kerry shook her head, “No, I think Raven likes the taste of those. Let’s go with the red and black plaid pair next to them. Maybe I’ll have better luck with those.”
Trisha grabbed the slippers out of the basket and walked behind her counter and slipped them into a bag, “Here, on the house.” Trisha said as she handed the paper bag to Kerry.
“Are you sure Trisha?” Kerry asked.
“Are you kidding?” Trisha laughed. “This is your sixth pair! I think you’re covered.”
“Thanks,” Kerry looked around the store. “How are sales?”
“Good actually. It’s the one benefit of an extended cold snap,” Trisha explained. “Long shopping stints.”
Kerry sighed, “I need to get my list together, especially if I’m going to get my gifts to Montreal in time for Christmas this year.” Kerry lifted a package of coasters off the counter and held them up. “These are new?”
“Yeah, I just got those in this week,” Trisha said. “Along with the matching mugs.”
“This is one of Kovic’s paintings, isn’t it?” Kerry asked.
Trisha nodded her head, “He resisted for so long in commercializing his paintings. After he died, his kids decided to do it for him. I think it makes them happy to see their dad’s artwork being enjoyed.”
“He was very talented,” Kerry said as she replaced the package of coasters, thinking they’d be perfect for her dad.
“Any progress on finding his killer?” Trisha asked.
The residents of Lake Pines were shocked and horrified when the senior resident artist was found murdered in his studio on his island. Josip Kovic had just turned seventy and was preparing for a showing of his paintings at the Lake Pines Gallery over the Christmas holiday. He was considered by most a local celebrity.
