Ice Run An Alex Mcknight Mystery

Chapter One In a land of hard winters, the hardest of all is the winter that fills you with false hope. It's the kind of winter that starts out easy. You get the white Christmas, but it's a light snow, six inches tops, the stuff that makes everything look like a postcard. The sun comes out during the day. You can take your coat off if you're working hard enough. The nights are quiet. The stars shine between the silver clouds. You celebrate New Year's. You make resolutions. It snows again and you run the plow. You shovel. You chop wood. You sit inside at night by the fire. You say to yourself, this ain't so bad. A little cold weather is good for a man. It makes you feel alive. That's what I was thinking. I admit it. Although maybe I had other reasons to believe this winter would be easy. Maybe this winter I could be forgiven for letting my guard down. One good look at the calendar would have put my head back on straight. Spring doesn't come until May, Alex. Which meant-what, winter had ten rounds left in a fifteen-round fight? That was plenty of time. That was all the time in the world. When the storm finally hit, I was down the road at the Glasgow Inn. Jackie had the fire going and had just made a big pot of his famous beef stew. He had the cold Molsons, bought at the Beer Store across the bridge and stored just for me in his cooler, for the simple reason that American beer cannot compare to beer bottled and sold in Canada. That and a Red Wings game on the television over the bar were all I needed. On that night, anyway. I had plans for the next day. I had big plans. But for now I was happy just to be with Jackie, and to do everything I could to slowly drive him insane. "Alex, you're gonna tell me what's going on," he said for the third time. He was an old Scot, God love him, with the slightest hint of a burr in his speech. Born in Glasgow sixty-odd years ago, the son of a tugboat captain, he came to Michigan when he was a teenager. He had been here ever since, eventually opening up the Glasgow Inn. It looked a lot more like a Scottish pub than an American bar, which meant you could spend the whole evening there without getting depressed or drunk or both. "Don't know what you're talking about," I said. "Like hell you don't. You've been bouncing in here, saying hello and how are you. Smiling and laughing." "I'm happy to see you," I said. "Is that so bad?" "Since when are you happy about anything?" he said. He gave me that Popeye squint of his. "It's January, for God's sake." "Almost February," I said. "How many inches have we had?" "Don't even say that, Alex. You'll jinx it. You know a storm's coming." "I had another cancellation today. There's not enough snow to ride on." This time of year, snowmobiling was the biggest business in Paradise, Michigan. Hell, it was the only business. Every rental cabin in town, and every motel room, was booked months in advance. On most January nights, Jackie's place would be crawling with men from downstate, most of them with their big puffy snowsuits zipped down to the waist. And that sound. The whine of the engines, coming from every direction. It always drove me crazy. But this night was silent. "Tonight," he said. "We'll get buried. You watch." I shrugged and looked up at the hockey game. "Bring it on." "And what's with the salad, anyway?" "What salad?" "Lettuce and vegetables, Alex. That salad." "What are you talking about?" "For dinner. You had a salad." "I had the stew, Jackie. Since when can I pass that up?" "You had a little bowl of stew and a big salad." "Okay, so?" "You don't eat salads for dinner. I've never seen you eat a salad in fifteen years." "So I felt like a salad, Jackie. What are you getting at?" "You're not drinking as much beer, either. Try to deny it." I held up my hands. "GuiHamilton, Steve is the author of 'Ice Run An Alex Mcknight Mystery', published 2004 under ISBN 9780312301217 and ISBN 0312301219.