And We Shall Have Snow Read online

  RAYE ANDERSON

  Doug Whiteway, Editor

  © 2020, Raye Anderson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Doowah Design.

  Photo of author by Michael Long.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: And we shall have snow / Raye Anderson.

  Names: Anderson, Raye, 1943- author.

  Description: Series statement: A Roxanne Calloway mystery

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200184474 |

  Canadiana (ebook) 20200184482 |

  ISBN 9781773240664 (softcover) | ISBN 9781773240671 (epub)

  Classification: LCC PS8601.N44725 A64 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Signature Editions

  P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

  www.signature-editions.com

  For Rachel, Kirsty and Fiona

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  Panda and Annie were headed for the dump. It was January, deep in the throes of a Manitoba winter. The temperature hovered around minus thirty-five Celsius, but the sky was an unblemished blue, the air crisp and cold, the snow sparkled, clean and white. It might be freezing outside, but there wasn’t a breath of wind. They turned off the highway onto the dump road. It ran straight as a die all the way to the lake, five kilometres beyond, a smudge on the horizon visible through stands of trees, ashy brown and bare, casting cobalt shadows on the snow. Apart from the two of them, not a thing moved in any direction. Animals and people knew better than to venture out on a day like this unless they had to. It looked pretty outside their truck windows, but this cold could be deadly.

  Panda and Annie knew how to dress for the weather on days like these. They wore down-filled parkas with hoods edged with fur, scarves to wrap around their faces and knit toques to pull down over their heads so that only their eyes were visible, leather mitts over thinner wool ones, and felt-lined boots with thick socks inside. They wouldn’t stay out for long. They wouldn’t risk freezing. From the window of his shack beside the entrance gate Archie Huminski, who managed Cullen Dump, waved their big, red Sierra truck through. There was no need for them to show their resident’s pass. They were regular visitors.

  Panda and Annie lived in the Interlake, named for the land between two large expanses of water, remnants of an enormous prehistoric lake that had dried to form the prairies. One lake lay to the west and the other, just to the east, was so big that it resembled an inland sea smack dab in the middle of Canada. Their house, the one they had built several years before, was out in the country, near Cullen Village, which lay on the shore of that big, frozen lake. There was no garbage pickup service out where they lived, so once every couple of weeks Panda and Annie would load plastic bags containing all their household waste into the back of the truck and do a dump run.

  Cullen Village prided itself on being environmentally conscious and was rightly proud of its landfill, which was situated about four kilometres outside of town. Archie kept the place well organized and recycling was encouraged. There was no sewer system in the village. Waste fluids were picked up from holding tanks and carted in “honey trucks” to the sewage lagoon beside the dump, even in the depths of winter. It was far enough away for the residents not to be reminded of its existence whenever the wind blew in their direction, but near enough to allow residents like Panda and Annie to have convenient access.

  Now, Panda drove the truck slowly along the snow-packed track that served as a road, past piles of concrete rubble, broken toilets and sinks and heaps of discarded metal waiting to be picked up for scrap. She watched out for debris on the track. It was easy to pick up a nail or a shard of metal, and a flat tire when it was this cold was no fun. Trees, clumped along the perimeter of the site, were festooned with white plastic grocery bags that had snagged on branches on windier days. They passed the turnoff that led to the area where grass cuttings and leaves were deposited in the summer, to decompose into compost. No one went there in winter. That track was buried in undisturbed snow. Beside it was a grey shed with an adjoining cage, where hazardous wastes were left for disposal.

  They usually liked to stop at the lumber section. Old, discarded furniture often showed up, even in wintertime. Panda had an eye for antiques and liked to restore old wood. She would search for a well-made chair, a dresser, a table made of solid wood, half buried in the snow. She took such items home, sanded them down, polished them or gave them a fresh coat of paint, then sold them online. Winter was a good time to hunker down and get the work done. On this day, however, she headed straight up the hill. Panda had previously lived in the city. Winnipeg, Manitoba’s capital city, lay an hour’s drive to the south. Panda had been surprised to discover what “over the hill” really meant, that you drove up a sloping incline, a solid hill built of dirt and garbage, to the top, where you parked and chucked your bags over the cliff-like edge, literally, “over the hill.”

  “Imagine that,” said Panda. “Never occurred to me.”

  The Cullen Village garbage trucks (there were two) headed dutifully out every Monday morning to retrieve the village’s garbage from curbsides and driveways. They brought it to the dump and piled all the trash they collected along the top of the hill, where it remained until Archie got into his big yellow Bobcat and used the front end to shove the whole lot over the edge. He then trundled the machine down a ramp at the side of the hill to the bottom, where he pushed and compressed the garbage into the side of the mound. So the hill grew, even in wintertime. It was fifteen feet high, the only incline as far as the eye could see. By Monday’s end the heap of rubbish was usually gone, but this was Tuesday and this week, all of it remained.

  Full black plastic bags, interspersed with boxes, bags and smaller white grocery bags that were stuffed to capacity, lay piled along the edge of the hill. Some bags had burst open. There were broken toys, sheets of cardboard, empty bottles, pots, crockery, books and pieces of torn fabric scattered among them. Seagulls swooped overhead, scavenging for anything edible. They were eerily quiet, silenced by the cold. Another truck and a car were parked at the top of the hill. “Look who’s here,” said Panda, backing her own truck up alongside the others. She understood dump protocol.

  “Hi there, Angus. Hi, Jack,” she called, hauling her large bulk out of the cab. Annie clambered out on the passenger side. She barely reached Panda’s shoulder. Their breath turned into ice crystals as they spoke. “Cold day, eh?”

  “How come the Cullen garbage is still here?” asked Annie.

  “Archie’s Bobcat’s broke. We’ve been trying to help him fix it but it needs a part from Winnipeg.”

  Angus Smith lived in an old farmhouse at the south end of Cullen Village. He had a large workshop, well e
quipped with table saws, sanders, an extractor fan and a worktable. Angus played host to a men’s group that gathered there each week, to build and fix things and gossip. Currently they were collecting aluminum that they could smelt down and mould into other things. Angus had an inventive mind and had built a small foundry. He also had a fascination with fire.

  “That’s what comes of living in this damned Frigidaire,” said Panda, who often said she wanted to move to British Columbia, to the milder climate of the West Coast. Annie loved the intense stillness of the winter cold. She had no wish to live anywhere else and so far her will prevailed.

  “Ha!” said Angus. “See what I’ve found already.” He waved a pair of old brass candlesticks. “Look at these, I’ll be able to melt them down just fine.” He threw the candlesticks into the back of his grey truck. Jack Sawatsky was one of his best cronies. He was hauling a box of old magazines away from the edge of the hill.

  “You want to have a look at these, Panda?” He knew from experience that Panda liked to scan the illustrations, to find ideas as to how she could update old furniture.

  “Sure, I’ll have a look.” She squatted down beside him. “Is Archie going to be able to move all this stuff today?” She watched Annie walking along the edge of the hill, surveying the assorted rubbish.

  “He’s gone to get his old tractor.”

  At the entrance to the dump was a sign that said, “No Scavenging.” Archie knew what they were up to but he turned a blind eye. He collected items himself, ones with resell value, bikes in decent shape, radios that worked. He got first pick as a perk of the job. He passed them on to a niece who held garage sales in the summer, on the other side of the lake. The pieces he found were stored in a shed. He also stashed logs, enough to feed the wood stove that kept his shack warm and snug on days like this. Angus and Jack were among the handful of men who were sometimes invited to join him on a quiet afternoon for a game of cards. Archie liked company and he liked to talk. “You can tell a lot about folks from what they throw out,” he said.

  Annie and Panda had never been invited into the all-male world of the dump shack but their presence on the hill itself was tolerated and guys like Angus often passed on an interesting bit of news as they clambered over the plastic bags that littered the area. In a place as isolated as this, in the wintertime, it helped to know what was going on.

  The roar of an engine shattered the quiet. Archie drove a red tractor up the hill and used its front end loader to start sending bags crashing over the edge. Panda watched him drive to and fro, then she walked further along the hill. A box of old china caught her eye. She picked up a pink-flowered cup and shook her head. People used to treasure that stuff. Now it was thrown away, useless and unwanted. Last summer she had seen a piano in the lumber area, lying on its back, broken, its keys gaping silently up at the sky. She went back to the Sierra, opened the back gate and hauled out three full garbage bags and a box of rubbish. She tossed them over the hill herself.

  It didn’t take Archie long to shove all the trash off the top. He was doing a rough job, working fast, just pushing most of the bags over. Annie watched as each load crashed over the edge. Usually he cleared everything, including stray bottles and cans. Archie took pride in doing a good job, leaving the top of the hill clean and flat. That would obviously have to wait until his big loader was fixed. Today, he was only doing what needed to be done. It wasn’t long until he swung over to the ramp and was chugging down to the bottom of the hill, his machine belching exhaust fog behind him. Annie was glad to see him, his noise and his fumes, gone. She walked back to where Panda was loading the magazines into the back of the truck. “You taking those home?” Angus and Jack looked like they had finished for the day too. They were walking towards their vehicles.

  Archie’s voice, coming from the foot of the hill, stopped them.

  “Oh, geez!” they heard him yell. “Hey, guys!” Angus, Jack, Panda and Annie went to the edge of the hill and looked over.

  “What’s up, Archie?” Angus shouted down. Archie had stopped the tractor and was clambering out.

  “There’s something here!” Archie was approaching a heap of black garbage bags at the foot of the vertical fall, ten or so feet below. “This is bad, real bad.”

  Angus and Jack skidded down the slippery ramp on foot towards Archie, who was staring at the plastic bags. Panda and Annie followed. They could see that one bag had ruptured on impact. As they drew closer they could see the cause of Archie’s alarm.

  The bag lay against a pile of metal cans partially covered with snow. Protruding from it was a naked human foot. The pink flesh was glossy and cold, like plastic, startling against the white snow and the black, shiny plastic bag. Clumps of black and white newsprint bulged around it. The toenails were painted turquoise.

  Angus reached over into the tractor and turned off the engine. There was a moment of stunned silence, then Panda pulled off her leather mitts and reached into her pocket for her cellphone. “I’m calling 911,” she said. Annie stood stock still, watching.

  “Wonder where the rest of her is?” said Angus, looking closer. He started poking around among the other bags.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that, Angus!” Panda said, but then someone answered her call. “We need the police,” they heard her say.

  “What else is here?” Angus said, still rooting among the bags. Archie joined him. Jack looked on, helpless. Annie still surveyed the scene, grim-faced. Panda was on the phone, giving directions.

  “Got something!” cried Angus, throwing down his mitts and seizing another bag.

  “You need to leave that alone!” Panda put her phone back in her pocket. “The police are on their way.”

  It was too late. They all watched as Angus ripped the bag open. He held it up by the bottom corners and what rolled out was a head, severed at the neck. The hair was blonde, almost white. The eyes stared, blue and vacant. The mouth gaped in a silent scream. They could see teeth, a protruding tongue.

  Annie’s voice cut through the cold. “That,” she said, “is Stella Magnusson.”

  2

  “I thought Stella was going to Nashville, like she usually does.” Roberta Axelsson was stirring a pot of soup, Hubbard squash that she’d grown in her garden when the days were warmer.

  Margo Wishart watched from the kitchen table. Everything about Roberta was round and colourful. Her face was rosy, weathered from time spent outdoors, her body was round, even when it was cinched, as now, by an apron. Her jeans were worn and her sweater was an old red hand-knit, worn at the elbows and baggy, the sleeves rolled up. Her head was wreathed in golden curls. Margo doubted that the colour was real, but it didn’t matter. Their glow suited Roberta’s sunny disposition.

  “No. Dublin first, then London and Italy. She was going to fly home from Paris.” Sasha Rosenberg stood at the kitchen counter. She was angular and bony in comparison, dressed in dark greys and purples. “Would have been a great trip if she had made it.”

  Margo had driven Sasha the twelve kilometres north from Cullen Village to Roberta’s farmhouse. Sasha pulled a covered dish out of a bag.

  “Meatballs. They should probably go in the oven.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Roberta reached for the dish. “Annie will probably be late. Panda can’t make it. She had to go into Winnipeg to see a client.”

  Panda worked as an accountant. She had cut back on her business when she moved out to the Interlake, but still balanced the books and did the occasional audit for customers she liked and others that paid well.

  Roberta sniffed at the contents of the dish. “Did you cook these yourself, Sasha?”

  “Who? Me? You kidding? I dropped by IKEA last time I was in Winnipeg. Picked up a bag.”

  Roberta looked reproachfully at Sasha over the top of the dish. Roberta believed in natural food and avoided all things processed or preserved. Sasha didn’t care. Cooking wa
sn’t her thing.

  “I made cheese scones,” Margo said. “From scratch. They didn’t rise the way they should but they taste okay.” She had grown up in Scotland and retained some of her accent. She peered out the window. The weather pundits had labelled this cold spell a “polar vortex.” The jet stream, which normally swooshed its way across the northern hemisphere, had stalled, creating a pocket of Arctic air that hovered above the prairies. The temperature hadn’t risen above minus twenty since Christmas. Three nights ago the thermometer had gone down to minus fifty. That was unusual even in this part of the world. Margo shivered, thinking of anything or anyone being out there in that freezing cold.

  “If Stella was frozen outside in this weather she could have been there for days,” she said. She picked up a bundle of cutlery. Soon she was moving around the table laying out forks, knives and spoons.

  “Do you think someone left her outside to freeze, deliberately?” Roberta’s eyebrows knotted in concern.

  “No. The coyotes would have got her,” said Sasha.

  “She might have been left in a shed,” Roberta suggested.

  “Or maybe inside somebody’s freezer.” Margo sank into a chair and wrapped the scarf that was draped around her shoulders a little closer. The kitchen was snug but the thought was chilling. “But can you imagine living with a dead body lying there, right inside your house?”

  “Whoever did it chopped her up and sent her to the dump.” Sasha parked herself opposite. “Freaky.”

  “Bodies sometimes do end up in landfills, though.” Roberta put the lid back on the soup pot.

  “Yes, but not our landfill. Not Cullen Dump.” Margo was relatively new to Cullen Village. She still viewed it through honeymoon eyes and hated the idea of her newfound paradise being tainted. “How long was she planning to be away?”

  “Until April,” Sasha replied. “She would have been home by the beginning of the month, to get ready for StarFest. Guess that’s all over now.”