Snowspell

Chapter 2: Judge Maxx-2

The sidewalks cornering Avery’s Corner Thrift hadn’t been shoveled. Nor had Evan turned on the pot of coffee in Avery’s small office. Amy (or Evan, Avery really wasn’t sure) did place forty dollars on the glass counter, next to the store’s register, in payment for one of the nesting dolls for Amy’s friend.

The ten-piece nesting doll missing from Avery’s sellable collection was numbered fifty-seven by the Russian artist Vladimir Shemkovski. Vlad had painted the beautiful matryoshka doll in rich green, detailed in gold. Of course, Avery was glad to sell the piece. After turning on his pot of coffee for the day, he snagged the forty bucks off the counter, placed it into an envelope marked Rent Money, and stashed the envelope inside the register.

Avery shoveled the sidewalks, tossing the snow on the streets. One of the city’s plows would come by later and dispose of the white stuff. Then he decided to finally have his breakfast, headed back inside his shop, and continued with his day.

Not seven minutes into Avery’s banana and coffee breakfast, a tall man with blond hair and blue eyes entered the shop. Avery somewhat recognized the patron, but couldn’t exactly place him as a Templeton resident or someone who worked in the area. Being polite, he nodded a hello at the man and scrutinized every move as the shopper veered away from the vintage books and Wade figurines. The man had no interest whatsoever in dolls, greeting cards from the forties, or toys of the sixties. Instead, Mr. Handsome ended his travels at a paperweight display, staring into display cases.

Avery thought it appropriate to finally ask the gentleman if he needed help and walked up to the man. “May I help you?”

The tall shopper made eye contact with Avery, smiled his pearly whites, and said in a deep tone, “I think you can.”

The man looked dapper up close, somewhat smoldering. Avery thought the man resembled a model on one of those raunchy paperback romance covers that a gray-haired spinster might enjoy. Avery placed the man at six-three with a body similar to the actor, Chris Hemsworth: muscular, firm, affecting in all the right areas. Plus, the man smelled rather fine: a hint of sandalwood soap mixed with ash.

When the stranger reached out his paw, Avery shook it. Avery thought the palm and fingers large, smooth, and nothing demeaning. Then the man introduced himself.

“Judge Maxx. But people call me Judd.”

Finally, it clicked for Avery where he had seen the man before. “You help operate The Maxx Inn in Colsen, right?” Colsen was a sister town to Templeton, next to Lake Erie: same population, same type of people, same everything you might find in a northwestern Pennsylvania town.

“My sister and I run the place. Our parents died four years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Avery said, showing respect.

Avery remembered the tragedy in the Templeton Caller. The headline read: Wealthy Maxx Inn Owners Drown in Market Parking Lot Flood. The story horrified those who remembered it. Mitchell and Malinda Maxx were grocery shopping in downtown Colsen at Paulson’s Market. A microburst of rain struck the community and flooded the parking lot and part of the market. Judd and Tilly Maxx’s parents drowned in their Mercedes, unable to receive emergency help in time.

At the time of Judd’s parents’ deaths, Judd had just turned thirty-three, which made him thirty-seven now. And Tilly, Judd’s younger sister, was thirty-one, parentless and a resident of Blossom Hill, a halfway house for drug addicts. Like other families along Lake Erie, the Maxx’s were no different. Tragedy reined in all families.