Cold snap a hannah linkl.., p.1
Cold Snap: A Hannah Linklater Mystery, page 1
Copyright © 2024 Jaclyn Rymal
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Cover Design Copyright © 2024 Youness El Hindami
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Cold Snap
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Dedication
For Mom.
You gifted me the joy of reading from my earliest memories. I still recall fondly sitting on your lap at the kitchen table as you read books to me and my siblings. You first took us through Little Golden Age Books like The Poky Little Puppy and The Little Red Caboose. Later, we laughed through the antics of Amelia Bedelia and Ramona Quimby. Week after week, you drove Sara and me to the library, giving us access to enchanting worlds and captivating adventures.
Your efforts ignited a flame within me that will forever burn with the joy of reading. All because you first placed books into my small hands. It has shaped me in ways I can never fully express. Although, I did write a book for you, so that’s a start, right?
So, I dedicate this book to you. You gave language its magic for me.
Acknowledgments
Thank you especially to my husband, Ryan. I doubt I would have ever finished this novel without your words of encouragement, support, and endless patience. You were my first beta reader. Your feedback on dialogue was very helpful. Thank you for being the wonderful person that you are. Know that you are loved and appreciated for who you are as a person. I know I am blessed to have known and loved you these past seventeen years.
Cold Snap
PLAYLIST
“Southern Nights” by Glen Campbell (Chapter 1)
“Lovely Day” by Bill Withers (Chapter 2)
“Holly Holy” by Neil Diamond (Chapter 4)
“Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees (Chapter 16)
“Runaround Sue” by Dion (Chapter 16)
“Just the Way You Are” by Billy Joel (Chapter 16)
“Baby Come Back” by Player (Chapter 19)
“Sir Duke” by Stevie Wonder(Epilogue)
One
Hannah Linklater’s world narrowed down to the stretch of road in front of her. Her hands gripped the wheel of her 1973 Ford Pinto tightly. The palms of her hands were slippery with accumulated sweat. Her grip whitened every frozen knuckle, but she didn’t dare let go of the steering wheel. It gave her the illusion of control while driving through the snowstorm.
The windshield wipers slashed at the snowstorm’s curtain, each swipe a fleeting respite offering a glimpse into the whirling tempest. Her eyes strained through the blurred glass, finding brief clarity with each stroke, only for the snow to quickly obscure her vision again.
In fairer weather, the drive to Lochland Hills typically took four and a half hours. She had already been traveling for over five hours. Each thick flake of snow dictated slower speeds and demanded unwavering attention.
The Pinto skidded on the ice, a heart-stopping wobble met by frantic reflexes, steering the diminutive vehicle out of a potential spin.
With the hatchback pointed in the right direction, her heart rate began to return to its normal rhythm.
Thick snow was not a new thing for her. She had grown up in southern Michigan, but the winter there seemed almost kind in comparison to this northern squalls fury. With each mile northward, the weather’s grip tightened, revealing its relentless ferocity.
She could feel the ache in her shoulders from hunching over the steering wheel for hours. The worn wiper blade on the driver’s side didn’t clear a large enough section of glass.
She felt excitement and relief after successfully exiting the I-75 northbound freeway at exit 270 for Waters. The triumph did not last long, though. After passing through the small town of Waters, the road became M-88. The serpentine roads were a harrowing test, each twist and turn a heart-stopping challenge.
A traitorous thought kept shoving itself to the forefront of her mind: are you sure you wrote the directions down right?
Each time the thought popped up, she shoved it back down. She needed to focus on the road.
Thankfully, through the downtown area, there were no curving roads, just a straight shot to a red light. Each brake application carried the weight of anxious anticipation.
Taking a deep breath, she gently pressed down on the brake pedal. She immediately began to slide. The car seemed to want to rotate. The Pinto groaned as she pressed down harder on the brake and tried to correct with the steering wheel.
She was getting too close to the red light intersection and the Ford wasn’t stopping. Her heart clenched as she slid closer and closer to the intersection. Each precarious slide and shudder of the car sent electric jolts of adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Hannah stomped as hard as she could on the brake pedal. The brakes made an even louder groaning sound. The vehicle slowed. It stopped right before the intersection.
She blew out a heavy breath of relief. A honk behind her startled her.
“What’s the hurry, pal?” she muttered to herself, glancing out the driver’s side window at the pebble gray sky and the heavy flakes falling.
She took another calming breath, then proceeded through the four-way stop. It was only a few minutes of driving before Mancelona fell away and the cruel, icy glint of M-88 was before her once more. She grit her teeth in determination…and to stop them from chattering like Yahtzee dice being shaken in a cup.
The trip continued on as before, complete with precarious slips and shudders. As she crested the ridge of yet another hill, which seemed more like a mini mountain, her stomach flip-flopped. She had discovered that braking and navigating snow-covered winding roads were not the most nerve-wracking part of the drive. Instead, it was the car sliding down the apex of a hill, causing her car to travel faster than intended.
Once she was in Antrim County, the static from the car radio began to sound like music. After a few minutes, she could make out “Southern Nights” by Glen Campbell. She grit her teeth again. Someone out there in radioland had a sadistic sense of humor, apparently.
Finally, the road led her into the “main drag” of Lochland Hills. She released a heavy breath as she slowly proceeded through town. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t see many people. Many of the businesses seemed to have closed for the day. Hannah didn’t blame them. It was awful weather to be caught out in, and it only seemed to be getting worse by the minute.
The speed limit sign that read “55 MPH” heralded her departure from the town proper. The road remained icy but flat for another mile. After that, the giant hills returned. As she approached the apex of the current hill, the auto struggled and made an unhealthy groaning noise.
“Come on. Come on,” she urged the vehicle. “You can make it. I’ll get you an oil change and some new spark plugs. You can do it.”
Her coaxing must have had some impact, as the car decided to rally and gain traction and reach the top. Hannah moved her foot immediately to the brake pedal, knowing the car would once again want to slide at a rapid speed down the hill. She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure she only had a mile or two to go until she arrived at her aunt and uncle’s house.
Halfway down the hill, she saw a brown form tentatively stepping out into the road. She applied more pressure to the brake pedal. The Pinto slipped to the left. Then it slipped to the right. Her heart was jolting hard. The deer took a few more tentative steps into the road.
“Move!” she cried.
Unlike the car, the deer didn’t listen. It was now centered in the lane, gazing at her placidly.
She turned the steering wheel gently to the left. The car built up speed as it traveled down the descent. The wheels began shifting under her. She turned the wheel back to the right.
The car began wildly rotating. The steering wheel and the brake seemed to have no ability to counter the spin. The landscape of green, white, and gray colors blurred in her vision, and dizziness set in, until an ominous thud announced a c
Two
As knuckles rapped on her window, Hannah jolted back to her senses. Her hand instinctively moved to her head, where she felt a tender bump form. She winced as the pain registered in her mind. Dazed and disoriented, the car accident had left her struggling to regain her bearings.
“Get it together, Hannah,” she muttered under her breath.
She rolled down the window, allowing the frigid air to fill the cabin of her vehicle. Standing before her was an old man who appeared to be in his eighties. He was surprisingly hale for his age, with a weathered face that spoke of years spent outside. His eyes, though, were kind and inviting. He stood at least six feet tall and wore a heavy winter coat, a scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, and a brown trapper hat with ear flaps covering his ears. Waterproof duck boots adorned his feet, perfect for traversing the snowy terrain.
“Good morning to you, miss,” he said.
“Good morning,” Hannah replied in turn.
Beside the old man who had greeted her stood another elderly gentleman, similarly dressed but with a blue trapper hat instead. His face resembled that of a basset hound—droopy and solemn. Behind them both stood a younger man in his late twenties, sporting a dark blue knit hat and a plaid heavy winter coat.
“You all right?” the younger man asked.
“I think so.”
“Are you sure?” asked the taller old man.
She nodded, then regretted the movement.
“Do you know what I hit?”
“We were on the porch having a smoke when we saw your car spinning down the hill,” the taller man explained. “You crashed into the large build-up of snow on the side of the road. Roads can be treacherous this time of year.”
“Especially when kamikaze deer step into the road,” Hannah added, rubbing her temples as if to force away the throbbing headache.
“Yeah. Hunter’s love ‘em, motorists—not so much,” the man with the drooping face and hooded eyes remarked with a chuckle.
“What happened to the deer?” she asked.
“Ran back into the woods,” the tall, elderly man said. “Seemed to be fine.”
“Allow me to introduce myself, miss. I’m Edgar,” the first old man said, extending his gloved hand toward Hannah. “This here is Walter,” he said, gesturing to the man beside him. “The young fella is Frank.”
“Nice to meet you all,” she replied. “I’m Hannah.”
“New to town?” Edgar asked.
“Sort of,” she said. “I’m actually on my way to my aunt and uncle’s house. They live just a mile or so further down M-88.”
“Ah, well, you’re not too far off then,” Edgar said, adjusting his brown trapper hat against the cold wind. “I’m afraid you won’t be getting no further north without snow chains on your tires, though. Unless your car has James Bond-type gadgets.”
Hannah’s heart sank. Not only did she not have them, but she lacked the know-how to attach them.
“Don’t worry, miss,” Edgar said.
“Tell you what,” Walter interjected, “Frank here can tow your car to The Wildwood for now. Best if we get your car out of this snowbank and off the road. I’m sure Margaret—she runs the place—has room for you.”
“Is that okay?” Hannah asked, turning to the younger man with the plaid winter coat.
“Sure,” Frank said, his eyes cast down at the ground.
“Thank you,” Hannah said, directing her words to all three of them. She didn’t want to think about how bad the situation could have been if they hadn’t been there.
“‘Course,” Edgar replied with a smile that crinkled his weathered face. Walter gave her an acknowledging nod.
Frank worked quickly to secure the Pinto to his 1960s Rambler. The shade of the Rambler reminded her of a Creamsicle.
“Alright,” Frank called out as he finished attaching the tow chain, “we’re good to go. Don’t try to steer.” He made his way over to the driver’s side door of the Rambler and climbed inside.
Starting up the vehicle, he proceeded to tow her car behind his own. She felt an unsettling sensation as the car moved seemingly on its own, similar to a wayward tumbleweed in a windstorm, charting its own course. It was similar to the first time she rode a horse. Exhilarating and at the same time, a bit scary.
Roughly ten minutes later, she and the powder blue Pinto were safely in the parking lot of the inn. Frank disconnected the tow lines from her vehicle and was up the steps of the porch and inside before she could thank him.
There was a sign out front that displayed: The Wildwood Inn & Boardinghouse. Her eyes scanned the collection of vehicles strewn across the snow-draped parking lot.
The largest vehicle in the lot appeared to be some sort of Winnebago. A cheerful yellow Volkswagen Beetle, with its round front end and smoothly curved roofline.
Hannah’s eyes wandered over the snowy landscape, catching glimpses of shapes beneath the thick layer of snow. A form, elongated and sleek, hinted at a vehicle that might have been a luxury car, while another silhouette, defined by a distinctive chrome grille, suggested a larger presence nearby.
Near the obscured shapes, she made out a boxy outline, possibly a Bronco. Further along, a vehicle stood with a faint streak of green and faux wood paneling peeking out through the white cover.
The snow veiled the finer details of the assortment of cars and pickup trucks. They appeared as mere outlines and suggestions, leaving her to speculate on their make and model rather than perceive them with certainty.
Edgar and Walter approached the car, having walked the distance from the road.
“You need any help with your stuff?” Edgar asked.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I can do it myself,” she replied.
“If you say so,” Walter shrugged, turning to Edgar. “This whole women’s lib thing has been great for my back.”
Edgar shook his head with a chuckle, and the pair headed toward the inn.
Hannah looked up at her temporary lodgings. She had seen it in passing many times when visiting relatives on holidays and such but had never actually been inside it. Until age six, her home had been with her parents in Lochland Hills. They had lived in a modest bungalow home closer to the town proper with its little shops. Following that thought, she made a mental note to go see the old family house when the chance arose.
Her parents had moved the family “down south”, as the locals called anything that was to the south of Traverse City. Jobs had been more plentiful in the metro Detroit area and the winters, while still rough, were much less severe. You typically did not have to shovel snow off of your roof when you lived closer to the Ohio border.
She quickly grabbed her purse and Samsonite suitcase out of the back seat, ignoring the rest of the luggage for the time being.
The Wildwood Inn & Boardinghouse, affectionately known among the locals as The Wildwood, was a hidden gem nestled amidst the rolling hills of the countryside. Tucked away from the bustle of the main road, it seemed to be a place of serenity.
As she approached, Hannah was struck by the sheer size and beauty of the place. The Wildwood exuded a distinctive charm as a sprawling country farmhouse. Its roof was clad in red shingles, which contrasted strikingly with the cream-colored siding that covered the walls. A wrap-around porch, complete with rocking chairs and a porch swing, encircled the entire building, inviting guests to sit and relax while enjoying the scenery in the warmer months.
She could tell that the structure had once been a smaller building. Subtle shifts in paint hues hinted at its evolution, a tale of growth told in shades. The owners had expanded the size of the house into a large, three-story inn, maintaining the same style as the original building.
Multiple chimney stacks, each bearing its own unique mosaic of bricks, rose from the roofline. A white picket fence, intricately woven and carefully maintained, enclosed the dooryard and added to the overall folksy appeal of the place.
With a deep sigh of relief, Hannah ascended the porch steps and pushed open the heavy oak door of The Wildwood Inn & Boardinghouse. Stepping into the lobby, she felt the warm and inviting atmosphere that surrounded her. Clearly, the owners of the inn had gone to great lengths to establish a quaint and cozy country lodge vibe, and every detail had been carefully curated to transport guests back in time. The decor offered a delightful mix of different decades, with nods to the 1940s and 1950s blending seamlessly with antiques and relics from other eras.
