Today the print and eBook versions of Under the Ice (LeGarde Mystery #9) are available on Amazon.com.
AMAZON LINK
LeGarde Mysteries can be read in any order, as standalones or part of the series. ;o)
What do you do when your past comes back to kill you?
Chapter 1
Camille threw back the comforter and peered at the alarm
clock. “Isn’t she home yet?” My wife had been dozing off and on for the past
few hours, and her words were slurred from sleep.
Lying beside her, wide-awake, I answered in a tight, angry
voice. “No, she’s not.”
She flopped back on her pillow with a loud sigh. “Geez, Gus.
It’s almost twelve-thirty.”
I’d been worrying about my teenage daughter for two hours
now, imagining the worst possible scenarios. An accident. Rape. Kidnapping. Dead
in a ditch.
Curfew was ten-thirty, and Shelby was way past late. This
wasn’t the first time she’d been in trouble over the past few months. She’d
been pushing her limits since she got her license.
The full moon shone on the floorboards and rays of light bounced
off the walls. Max—our half Dachshund/half Husky mutt—snuffled in his sleep,
stretched his legs, and thumped his tail against the bedspread. Boris, our longhaired
mini-dachshund, snored contentedly; his hot-water-bottle-body warmed my feet.
“Should we call her?” Camille mumbled.
“I’ve left four messages already. But I can’t sleep until I
know she’s safe.” I reached over to the nightstand to grab my phone. I scrolled
down to Shelby’s name and tapped it. It rang. And rang. And rang.
“Hi! This is Shelby. I’m busy now, but I’ll call ya back.
You know the drill.”
I grumbled into the phone. “Shelby. It’s Dad. You’re over
two hours late and we’re worried. Call me.” Scowling, I thumbed it off. “She’s
killing me, Camille. I don’t think I can take much more.”
“Huh?” Camille mumbled. She’d almost fallen asleep again.
She flopped an arm over my chest and said, “Didden she pick up?”
I wiggled my legs in a futile attempt to get comfortable.
“No. She’s not answering.”
Camille finally sat up, yawning. “Wait. Are you sure she’s
not already home? Maybe she sneaked in while you were sleeping.”
I hadn’t been sleeping, but I heaved another sigh, threw
back the covers, and stomped to the window. My bare feet froze on the wooden
floorboards. I peered out into the dark night through elegant, frosty designs
on the cold glass. The familiar shape of Camille’s VW Beetle was conspicuously
absent from the snow-covered parking area stretching between the house and the
barn.
“The bug’s still gone.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “Where
the hell is she?”
“Try Alicia’s cell. They went to the movies together.”
“Okay. But if she doesn’t pick up, I’m going out to look for
her.”
I got back in bed, reached for my cell again, and found
Shelby’s best friend’s number. We’d entered dozens of her friends’ numbers
since Shelby got her license several months ago.
“Hello?” Alicia sounded groggy.
“Hi, Alicia. It’s Mr. LeGarde. I’m looking for Shelby.”
She hesitated one second too long. “Uh... she’s not here,
Mr. L.”
“When did she drop you off?”
The bedsprings
squeaked in the background, and I imagined the girl rubbing sleep from her eyes
and sitting up in bed. There was another pause.
“Er…I’m sorry, but our plans changed at the last minute.
Work needed me to stay late, so I didn’t get out ‘til after the movie started.
I’m not sure where she went.”
Anger and fear vibrated in my chest. I wasn’t sure which was
the stronger emotion. “Alicia,” I said with forced calm. “Do you have any idea
where she might be? We’re really worried.”
“I guess she might have gone to the Meyers’ party.”
“Stan and Lucy Meyers?” I said.
“Yeah. Steve threw a big party tonight. His parents are—”
I interrupted. “Out of town?”
She was silent.
“Alicia?”
“Yeah. I think they’re in Florida or someplace like that.
I’m sorry, Mr. L. But I’m sure she’s fine. She probably just lost track of
time.”
I thanked her and hung up. I’d already pulled on my jeans
and a shirt when tires crunched against snow in the driveway.
Chapter 2
I stomped downstairs and waited in the doorway between the
kitchen and the great room, arms crossed and brow furrowed.
Shelby breezed into the kitchen, pulled open the
refrigerator, and grabbed a carton of orange juice. “Hi, Dad.”
“‘Hi, Dad?” I mimicked, frowning. “Are you kidding me?” I stormed
into the kitchen after her. “Where were you? You’re two hours late.”
She avoided my eyes and poured a glass of juice. “Uh. At the
movies. Remember? With Alicia.”
“Seriously? You’re going to lie about this?”
She turned an innocent face to me. “What? Why—”
I took a step toward her. “I just talked to Alicia.”
Her expression tightened. “What’d she say?”
“She spilled the beans, Shelby. You’re in big trouble.”
“Why?” she said, too casually.
“A party, Shelby? For crying out loud. When the parents
aren’t home?”
“Nothing happened.” Shelby casually leaned against the
refrigerator. She took another slug of juice and rolled her eyes. “Curfews are
dumb. It’s Friday night. I don’t have school tomorrow.”
I wanted to give her my standard lecture about privileges
and rules and loss of freedom if the rules were broken. But this was the second
time in a month she’d flagrantly ignored her curfew, and worse, she seemed
unconcerned about the consequences.
“The rules don’t change for the weekend, you know that. Your
mother and I were worried sick.”
“I don’t know why.” She flounced to the cupboard and reached
for a pack of Oreos.
“You’re grounded.”
Her eyes flashed in anger, and her lips compressed. She tore
open the package of cookies and ate one.
“This time it’s not just for one day, it’s for a whole week.
No car, no phone, no computer, no television, no anything,” I said, just
getting warmed up.
“You can’t do that!”
“I’m not done,” I said. “The grounding is for breaking
curfew. I haven’t punished you for lying to me yet. That translates to a
weekend of chores.”
“What?” She spat the word at me.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to get through to you.
You’re using your mother’s car every night. Your attitude is disrespectful.
You’re hanging out with kids we don’t even know, who are probably drinking
alcohol. God knows what went on at that party tonight. You promised to
stick to a schedule, to be home by ten-thirty every night.”
She rolled her eyes again and took two steps toward me. “You
can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my real father.”
She’d stuck me with a proverbial knife and twisted it in my
heart. I felt it, as authentic as steel, and staggered from the blow.
Camille padded down the stairs. “Shelby! What’s wrong with
you? Gus is the only father you have now. He adopted you, for God’s sake. He’s
my husband, and I won’t have you talk to him like that.”
“But, Mom! He said I can’t—”
“Whatever Gus said, goes.” She paused for a moment and her
voice hardened. “Unless you’d rather go live with your ‘real’ father, in prison?”
Another low blow.
Shelby fumed. I walked past her to pick up the glass and put
it in the sink. The scent of smoke wafted from her hair. It wasn’t cigarettes.
Suddenly, I was transported back to Woodstock. The sickeningly sweet stench of
marijuana rose from my sixteen-year-old daughter.
“You smoked pot?” I yelled.
Camille leaned over and sniffed Shelby’s hair. Her eyes
widened. “My God, is this how you answer our trust? Is this how it’s going to
be?”
Shelby looked wounded. “I can’t believe you’d think I would—
Arggghhh! You never trust me.
Neither one of you.” She screamed and ran up the stairs. Seconds later, a baby
began to wail.
The sounds of my twin granddaughters’ cries were
distinctively different, and I recognized Celeste immediately. I bounded toward
the stairs.
Camille turned off the kitchen light, followed me upstairs,
and continued down the hall to our room. Shelby’s door slammed at the far end
of the house. I snorted in frustration and then peeked into Freddie’s bedroom.
My daughter lay sound asleep on her queen-sized bed. Her wispy gold hair
covered her face. The poor thing had worked extra long hours this week at her veterinary
clinic and was exhausted. I pulled her door closed and hurried to the twins’
bedroom.
Celeste sat up in her crib, her copper-colored hair curled
in tight ringlets and her peaches and cream cheeks damp with tears. “Opa.
Binky.” She pointed to the blue pacifier she’d thrown on the floor.
It landed nub up, so I grabbed it and handed it back to her.
She tossed it aside and lifted both arms to me. “Uppy.”
I picked her up. She snuggled into my neck, collapsing
against me. I grabbed the pacifier, one more time. This time, she accepted it.
I settled in the rocking chair with her, rubbing her back. The wooden slats
creaked as we rocked on the hardwood floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. I
hummed “Rock-a-bye Baby,” feeling her warm breath on my neck.
Marion, Celeste’s dark-haired twin, slept quietly in her
crib, sucking on her pacifier as it moved in and out of her rosebud mouth. Her
cherubic face was lit by the glow of the tiny night-light.
Ten minutes later, Celeste’s breathing slowed and she relaxed
in my arms. I kissed her soft cheeks and lowered her into the crib. She
squirmed, lifted her head for a moment, and flopped back on the mattress. I
held my breath and said a little prayer, then crept backwards out of the room.
If only they didn’t
have to grow up.
I wearily shuffled down the hall and leaned into my grandson
Johnny’s room. I watched his chest rise and fall several times. He lay on his
back, with both arms and legs spread-eagled. A soft snore escaped him. The
purple balloons from his birthday party last Thursday bobbed on the bedpost.
They’d lost air and were wrinkled. I couldn’t believe he was already five.
When I finally crawled into bed beside Camille,
I collapsed onto my pillow. After a few minutes of tossing and turning, I
finally drifted off to sleep, fretting about the teenage condition and worrying
about what lay in store for us tomorrow.
