No Title, No Clout by Marcel Dubet from the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine January, February, 2025 edition.

In her 10 years in the Yukon, Estelle had come to think of February as the hell of Nordic myth, cold, dark, and deadly.

Every year, someone, usually drunk, froze to death trying to walk home. Someone got

frostbite and had to have a part amputated, and someone went a little nuts after a long

winter cooped up in the house or cabin. For Estelle, it was the freezing of the tiny hairs

in her nostrils, the squeaking of the snow underfoot, and the numbing of her feet and

hands that always brought out the snark in her. She trudged down Second Avenue, almost deserted

on a Thursday night at 11 o'clock, her chin tucked into her collar, her fur-lined hood tightened

to leave barely a hole for her eyes, and her hands stuffed in her capacious parka pockets.

Every once in a while, she did a 360 to make sure she wasn't being followed or that no one was lurking in the dark shadows,

especially as she walked by the bar district with its run-down wooden buildings.

They probably dated back to World War II,

when the army used White Horse as a staging point while building the Alaska Highway.

Why in hell did she choose to live here? Sure, summer was glorious, but winter, well, she could

understand why people went nuts in winter. Didn't really matter where she lived. People would still

kill and maim each other. Location wouldn't change that. But she could spend

winters somewhere warmer. Her RCMP pension would allow that if she were careful.

She was coming up to Shipyards Park, where they would be holding the rendezvous festival,

designed to bring everyone out at the coldest time of the year and help prevent cabin fever.

From there, she would turn up Ogilvie Street and walk

the six blocks to her house on 8th. She could have taken the car, but she hated starting it at minus 40.

And besides, she knew there would be drinking tonight. She could have canceled dinner, but she hadn't

...