The Snow White Christmas Cookie by David Handler

of this place,” she replied. “He owned it. Lucas left it to him. Ask the family lawyer if you don’t believe me. Ask Glynis. She’ll tell you. Preston held the purse strings to Bryce’s trust fund, but Bryce has owned this house since the day he turned twenty-one. Preston wasn’t ‘allowing’ Bryce to stay here. It was Bryce who was ‘allowing’ Preston and his family to spend their summers here. Bryce knew how much it meant to Preston’s kids to return to Big Sister every summer. They have happy memories of this place. Bryce had happy childhood memories himself. This had been his home until Preston kicked him the hell out. But it’s not Preston’s house. It was Bryce’s and he-he…” Josie broke off, breathing deeply in and out. “I hardly ever drink coffee. It’s making me all buzzy and I’m rattling on.”
    “You’re not,” Des assured her.
    “Bryce really loved this island,” she said, her eyes growing shiny. “He’d gotten so tired of being rootless. Wanted to settle down here and stay put. Maybe even start a family of his own. Everyone in town thought he was the caretaker. He went ahead and let them think it. That was Bryce’s way. He liked for people to think he was a cheese head, but he wasn’t. Did you know he had a Master’s degree in literature from the University of Montana? He was incredibly well-read and insightful.”
    “He told me he worked construction in Bozeman,” Mitch said.
    “To put himself through school,” Josie said, nodding. “Des, what happens now?”
    “There’s a process. Another officer will come and ask you more questions. So will someone from the Medical Examiner’s office.”
    “What’s the point? It’s obvious what happened.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Sorry, there’s a ‘process.’ I get it. Will I need to be here all day? Because I have clients to see.”
    “I’m sure they’ll understand if you have to reschedule.”
    “No, they won’t understand,” Josie said emphatically. “They rely on me.”
    “Then do what you got to do,” Des responded. People coped with grief in their own ways. If Josie needed to be there for her clients then so be it.
    She was gazing out the window again at the snow. “He really did want to be cremated. But I guess I won’t have any say in that, will I?”
    “That’s a family matter,” Des said. “All I can tell you is that those arrangements will be on hold until the Medical Examiner completes the autopsy.”
    Josie’s eyes widened. “They have to do an autopsy?”
    “I’m afraid so. This type of situation is what we call an untimely death. Autopsy’s pretty much automatic. Bryce’s blood will have to be tested. It may be several days before they have the preliminary toxicology findings, though it usually goes faster if they have a specific idea of what to look for.”
    Josie cocked her head at Des curiously. “Why do I get the feeling that you’ve been through this ‘process’ before?”
    “Only because I have.”
    Too damned many times.
    *   *   *
    Des made a slow circuit through the Dorset Street Historic District. By now the fresh snow had to be six inches deep. The schools were closed for the day. So was Town Hall. When she reached Big Branch Road, Des made a left turn—her hands loose on the steering wheel, foot gentle on the gas pedal—and eased on through the business district, which was adorned up the wazoo with Christmas decorations and lights. The A&P was open, though there were very few cars in the lot. The antique shops, clothing stores and art galleries were open as well. ’Twas the week before Christmas and the economy sucked. No way the shopkeepers were staying home. Lem Champlain’s plow monkeys were out keeping the parking lots clear. Or trying.
    McGee’s Diner on the Shore Road was a shabby, much-beloved local landmark. During the summer it teemed with sunburned, boisterous beachgoers who stopped there to munch on lobster rolls and gaze out the windows at Dick