Chapter Two At the Station
Ephram
The police station was busy when I arrived, or as busy as a small town police station could be.
The air carried that familiar mix of coffee, paper, and winter coats drying slowly on hooks.
Gail was behind the front desk, sipping her herbal tea like always.
She should have retired twenty years ago, but she was still a feature of the support staff.
“Good morning,” I greeted her as I went past.
Gail saluted me with her mug.
In the small kitchen someone had left a mug on the counter without rinsing it. A faint ring of dried coffee marked the laminate surface. I rinsed the mug, wiped the counter, and set it upside down in the drying rack before getting my own cup of coffee.
Order mattered in places like this. Not for appearances, not because I enjoyed correcting people, but because small lapses multiplied if you let them.
A desk cluttered with yesterday’s paperwork turned into a missed follow-up.
A missed follow-up turned into a complaint.
A complaint turned into questions, and questions turned into doubt about the ability to do the job.
In a small town, doubt traveled faster than facts.
I checked the board near my desk and straightened a flyer that had been pinned crooked.
The corner of it read CHRISTMAS PARADE in block letters cheerful enough to feel slightly out of place among notices about parking restrictions and lost keys.
Someone had drawn a tiny candy cane in the margin. I left it there. I was not a monster.
I sat, logged in, and scanned the morning reports with a practiced eye.
A noise complaint on the edge of town. A minor fender bender that had already been handled without argument.
A call about a dog that had gotten loose, which had been resolved when the dog decided to return home on its own schedule.
December in Maple Ridge was busy but predictable.There were holiday events, visitor overflow from the skiing, and those who came for the winter events. The town wanted to feel cozy, and it usually succeeded, but coziness did not cancel out the basics of safety and responsibility.
My promotion still felt new. Sergeant North looked unfamiliar on paperwork, like a typo no one had caught yet. I had earned it, and I knew that. My evaluations had been strong, my record was clean, and my judgement had been steady.
Going to my desk, I started up my computer and opened the list of open cases that I had. One file stood out because it was older than the rest. Gavin Wickham had committed financial fraud and it was still unresolved.
It wasn’t a major case since there was no violence, no immediate threat to anyone’s safety. The suspect had fled town so it was unlikely to ever be solved. Yet it had affected people within my town.
I clicked it open and scanned the notes.
Gavin Wickham had made promises, collected cash, and left without trace, leaving others to clean up the mess.
It was a carefully phrased story that had sounded plausible at the time.
People didn’t like admitting they had been fooled, so they tended to leave details vague.
The file reflected that. Incomplete statements with a timeline that had gaps where embarrassment lived.
One note from the previous investigator read, the subject left town before the full interview completed.
I did not care about drama. I cared about closure.
A name surfaced quickly, highlighted in the margins.
Bennet, Lydia. A young woman, recently back in town, too trusting of someone who knew how to sound sincere. She brought the fraudster into her family circle and family business
I didn’t judge her for what happened. I had seen worse mistakes made by people twice her age, and I had seen smart people make foolish decisions when someone spoke to their hopes in the right tone.
What concerned me was how unfinished the file was.
It wasn’t fully documented, some conversations were summarized with no transcript or recording.
A few dates were penciled in with question marks.
If this was going to be closed, it needed to be closed properly.
I opened a blank document and started a clean list of what was missing.
Exact amount lost by the Bennets. The date Lydia first met Wickham.
Any written communication. Any witnesses to the promises he made.
Whether the money had been handed over in person or transferred.
Whether Lydia had been alone. Whether she had told anyone at the time.
I paused over that last one.
The Bennets were a close family, but closeness did not guarantee openness. People hid their mistakes, sometimes even from the people who loved them.
A soft knock landed near my desk.
Officer Harris stood there holding a file folder and wearing the expression of a man who had already decided his day would be long. “Morning, Sergeant.”
“Morning,” I said. “Anything urgent?”
“Nothing urgent. Just a stack of minor reports and a call from the parade committee. They want to meet this afternoon about route barriers.”
I nodded. “Put it on the schedule.”
He sat without being invited, which was one of the things I appreciated about Harris. He was capable without being overly careful around me. He still treated me like the same person, just with a different title. That was rare.
“You are already in the Wickham file,” he said, glancing at my screen.
“Yes.”
“Unlikely you’ll catch the guy,” Harris commented.
“That doesn’t mean it's irrelevant.”
He smiled faintly. “You sound like training videos.”
“I don’t sound like training videos." I frowned.
He shrugged. “A little.”
I let that go. “The file is incomplete. I want it closed cleanly.”
Harris leaned forward. “That one involved the Bennets, right?”
“It does.”
He made a thoughtful sound. “They have enough going on with the inn.”
“That is part of why I want it finished.”
Harris lifted an eyebrow that suggested he did not fully agree, but he did not argue. He slid the folder onto my desk and stood. “I will see you at the committee meeting.”
When he left, the station noise filled in around me again. A phone rang. Someone laughed softly near the front. A door opened and closed. Normal life, contained inside routine.
I shut the file and opened the parade materials.
The parade folder included the route, the list of floats, and a set of guidelines that had been copied and pasted from last year with only minor edits.
I read them anyway, every word. People skimmed instructions and then acted surprised when consequences arrived.
The float applications were a mix of practical and absurd.
A local hardware store had written, We will have a truck with lights.
A dance studio had written, We will be dancing the whole route.
A church group had written, We will be singing and handing out cookies.
I made a note to find out if they were handing out items from a moving vehicle which was prohibited or simply walking and sharing.
Then I reached the Snowdrop Inn application.
It was submitted by Lydia Bennet.
The description was enthusiastic. Festive. It used words like sparkle and magical and unforgettable. It also lacked anything resembling a plan for weight distribution or secure fastenings.
The overlap was not ideal. Speaking to Lydia about Wickham then later reviewing her parade application could feel like scrutiny, even if it wasn’t. People didn’t separate contexts as neatly as I did.
I made two notes. One: schedule Wickham conversation first, separate from parade. Two: when discussing parade safety, keep it strictly about specifics of the float and safety.
I closed the folder and looked at the flyer on the board again. Someone had added glitter to the candy cane. I stared at it for a moment, then returned my attention to my work.
By afternoon, the parade committee had assembled in the small meeting room at town hall.
The room smelled faintly of dry erase marker and the citrus cleaner someone used too generously.
The committee was made up of people who cared deeply about Christmas and believed strongly that caring deeply counted as an organizational system.
Marjorie Pike, who ran the town events calendar like it was a personal responsibility, sat at the head of the table. Two volunteers sat with her. Both were holding thick binders.
“Sergeant North,” Marjorie said brightly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” I said, taking a seat and opening my notebook. “Let’s review barriers, traffic control, and the float inspection schedule.”
The meeting lasted longer than it should have.
Every decision was tangled in someone’s feelings.
Marjorie wanted the school band at the front because of tradition.
Someone else wanted the church group earlier because of older members who shouldn’t be out in the cold so long.
Another volunteer insisted the dance studio needed a position where the crowd would be thickest for visibility.
I listened. I took notes. I redirected where necessary.
When it came time to discuss float inspections, I outlined a simple process.
Visual check. Secure fastenings. No loose items. No open flames.
No handing out objects from a moving vehicle or float.
Driver sobriety, which should have been obvious but was not always treated as such when people were in holiday moods.
Marjorie waved a hand. “Of course. We want everything safe.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I will be the person standing in the cold next to your staging area making people unhappy if it isn’t.”
That earned a small laugh.
As the meeting wrapped, Marjorie flipped through her binder. “We have a new entry from the Snowdrop Inn. The Bennets, you know. They are reopening.”
“I saw their application,” I said.
“Oh, wonderful,” she replied. “Isn’t it exciting? Lydia is doing it.”
I kept my expression neutral. “I will need some additional details from her.”
Marjorie nodded enthusiastically. “She’s such a lovely young woman and so enthusiastic. We all adore her.”
When I left the station at the end of the day, the sky was already dimming. Maple Ridge lights glowed softly along storefronts. The cold was sharper, the kind that made your lungs feel like they had been scrubbed clean with winter air.
I drove past the Snowdrop Inn on my route home. Warm light spilled through the windows. Shadows moved inside. The inn was full of life and noise, even from the street.
It looked like the opposite of my house.
I didn’t dislike my house. It was practical. It was quiet and it was mine. Yet as I pulled into my driveway, the silence felt heavier than usual, and the cold hit harder.
The furnace had been temperamental all month. It had made noises that suggested protest. It had clicked at odd hours. I had told myself I would replace it after the holidays, when schedules were easier and expenses less concentrated. I had hoped it would make it one more winter.
Hope was not a strategy.
Inside, the air was cold enough to see my breath. I turned on the lights and headed for the thermostat. The display was blank.
I stared at it for a moment, then pressed the button again. Nothing.
I exhaled slowly and walked to the utility closet, kneeling to check the unit itself. The pilot light was out. I tried restarting it the way I had done before. The flame caught briefly, then died as if it resented the effort.
I straightened, already calculating. It was after business hours. Emergency service would be expensive. I could use a space heater for the night. The pipes were insulated, mostly. The forecast was cold, but not impossible.
I turned the taps on to drip in the kitchen and bathroom. I left the cabinets under the sink cracked open to let warmer air circulate, then set the space heater near the most vulnerable section of plumbing.
This was temporary.
I called the repair service and left a message asking for an appointment as soon as they could fit me in. I gave my address, my phone number, and a brief summary. Then I hung up and stood in the kitchen, listening to the space heater whir.
My phone buzzed with a reminder about parade inspections. I dismissed it and set the phone face-down on the counter.
I made a simple dinner, ate standing up, and washed the plate immediately. Living alone, it was easier. Small tasks done correctly to keep bigger ones from expanding.
As I got ready for bed, I thought briefly of the Snowdrop Inn again. Tomorrow I would call Lydia Bennet and schedule a conversation that would be professional and brief.
I turned off the light and lay in the cold-dark quiet, listening for the sound of the furnace that did not come.