Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

“Sounds like a good idea to me.” Rinda was peering through her computer glasses, frowning at the screen. “Why not?”

Jenna said, “I think I should probably have a security company install it, one with guards and connections to the police department if, God forbid, there ever was an intruder and the alarm went off.”

“Isn’t that what you have now?” Rinda asked.

“Well, kind of. But the system doesn’t work, and the company that installed it years ago is now defunct.”

“So it’s pretty much useless as is. If I were you, I’d have Scott get the old one up and running as best as he can until you get the new one installed. With this weather, that could be weeks. Maybe months.” Rinda pressed a key, then swore under her breath as the screen flickered and then died. “Oh, crap,” she growled, slapping her desk and jostling her coffee cup.

Startled, Oliver scrambled off the desk, scattering mail and disappearing down a stairway to the dressing rooms.

“Perfect,” Rinda said as she and Jenna scooped up the letters and envelopes. Rinda said to her son, “While you’re so gung ho to fix electronic things, maybe you should look at this stupid computer.”

“It needs a new motherboard and a bigger hard drive and about a dozen other things. It would be cheaper to replace it.”

“Wonderful.” Rinda stacked the mail on the corner of her desk again. “I’m a complete moron when it comes to anything technical.”

“Okay, okay,” Scott said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Let me take a look at it. Move over.” He knelt beside his mother’s desk, his fingers typing frantically on the keyboard. All the while, his frown increased and his mouth became razor-thin as he studied the screen. “The program’s too big,” he finally muttered.

“That much I do know,” Rinda admitted.

“Maybe I could try something different…” His fingers flew over the keys again, and he stared as if transfixed at the odd assortment of symbols that scrolled across the screen.

The front doors banged open, then shut with a loud click. The piano music stopped abruptly. A few seconds later, Wes, in jeans and a thick jacket, sauntered into the small room.

“Problems?” he asked, eyeing Scott kneeling before the computer. “Don’t tell me—the hard drive.”

“That would be it, yes.” Rinda folded her arms under her chest. “It’s making me crazy.”

“Just a second.” Scott was still staring at the monitor that was blinking to life. “Okay…it’s fixed now. But probably just temporarily. You really need some new equipment.”

Wes yanked off his gloves. “Let’s see.”

Scott’s jaw tightened a fraction. “I said, it’s running now.”

“Yeah, but I’d like a look.” Moving in on the younger man, Wes rubbed his hands together, then motioned for Rinda to vacate her chair, which she did, albeit begrudgingly. He sat down, started to type, then swore and started again. “Damned fingers are nearly frozen solid.” He slid a glance up at Jenna. “I spent the last two hours with the search party looking for Sonja Hatchell.”

“Any luck?” Rinda asked as she leaned against a post, but from the expression on Wes’s face it was obvious the missing woman hadn’t turned up.

“Nah. It’s nearly impossible in this weather, but the police are still trying.”

Rinda rubbed her arms. “I wonder what happened to her?”

Nothing good, Jenna thought, but didn’t state the obvious.

“I heard that she and her old man weren’t getting along.” Scott lifted an indifferent shoulder. “I bet she just took off.”

“Why would you say anything like that?” Rinda demanded.

“Because I saw her at the diner sometimes. She was always complaining about the cold weather. Came from somewhere in Southern California and wanted to go back. I bet she had a fight with Lester and thought ‘what the hell’ and just started driving south.”

“Leaving her children behind?”

“Some parents do,” Scott said, his tone sarcastic just as Blanche Johnson, wearing a hand-knit beret, poked her head into the office. “I’m taking off now. If you need anything, just call,” she said, then seemed to take note of the somber faces. “Is something wrong?”

Rinda said, “We were just talking about Sonja Hatchell.”

Blanche frowned. Deeper lines etched across her forehead. “I keep thinking she’ll show up. You know, call from somewhere. Or…something.”