Feb 062024
 

Welcome to February, which I have declared as my new beginning. It’s a logical decision, given that the amaryllis has finally bloomed and I’ve finally begun to walk.

The flowers were a gift from very dear but distant friends during the challenging period following ankle replacement. Throughout December, the bulbs stayed stubbornly stubby as I railed against a thoroughly predictable but no less difficult post-operative month.

December was both the best and the worst possible time for me to get this surgery. Best because assuming all went well, I would be walking in the spring. Worst because it’s a depressing month, made more so by twin anniversaries that remind me of loss, the shorter days, the forced cheerfulness that marks the season. I do like holiday lights, but I couldn’t go out to see them. In fact, I was restricted by a leg in a bulky cast that had to stay above my heart 90% of the time. My plans involved getting to and from the powder room. The highlight of my day was the arrival of the dog walkers.

The initial recovery was complicated by a house with too many stairs and a bumpy start with my home healthcare. Despite two months of advanced planning, I couldn’t manage to get an aide who could both tolerate dogs and help her patient when it was most needed. After just one frustrating week, the aide was replaced by an acquaintance who welcomed the opportunity to earn some money and help me out. With a couple of kids and a full-time job, she couldn’t be 24/7, but her presence at night was most welcome. She kept me from worrying about the possibility of tumbling down the stairs or dealing with a dog emergency (there were none, thank goodness).

My puppy Pepper Ann, not quite a year old, proved essential to my well-being. Even her antics, which included a tendency to snatch towels, gloves, sweaters, hats, shoes, served to entertain or at least occupy me. But she slept through the night and considering the chaos of assorted strangers and clunky equipment, she adjusted remarkably well.

December gave way to January, which included a mix of good news and frustration. The surgeon replaced the three-pound cast with a one-pound walking boot and declared I was “healing nicely.” Great. I was still crawling up the stairs to get to my bed (Believe me when I say relocating to the first floor was never an option). I couldn’t yet walk or drive. The caregiver departed and I was on my own. It’s not easy to make dinner and get the plate on the table while on a knee scooter or a walker.

On the other hand, I had people who showed up to make the all-important Trader Joe’s run or to walk the dog during our torrential rain and the two snowstorms.

During my lowest points, I used Jeremy Renner as inspiration. You may remember (or not know) that last January, the 52-year-old actor got caught under the wheels of a snowplow that weighed more than 14,300 pounds. I’ve avidly followed his recovery as he has fought his way back over the year to health and employment as an action hero. Since my aims were more modest than becoming an Avenger, I told myself I could get through the worst of it.

And I have.

Now it’s February. I received permission to wean myself off the boot and did that in one day (okay, maybe I discarded the boot instead of weaning off it. No going back now). This week, I’ve  substituted a sturdy cane for the walker. I’ve been cleared to drive short distances and that’s a big deal. The rest is between me and my body–and my physical therapist.

I may be ahead of the curve, but I can’t rush this process. Ankle replacement surgery is serious. Recovery is slow.

I will get there. After all, the amaryllis are out in full force to cheer me on. Happy new year.

Nov 082023
 
Just in time for gift-giving! Special limited offer on all four books, signed, and bound into a set.

Cost is $48.00 plus shipping. This offer is only available by emailing nikki@nikkistern.com.

Oct 042023
 

 

His name was John, aka Jack Frost. He would become the first victim in a multi-state killing spree that put law enforcement on high alert, involved multiple agencies, and placed Sam Tate in the center of the most dangerous case of her career.

Frost never had a clue.

On his last day on earth, the Sacramento homicide detective reported to his precinct as usual. It was a beautiful April morning. He had little on his plate, just one open case. Six months from retirement, he wasn’t choosing to rest on his laurels, but if work slowed from time to time, he wasn’t about to argue.

Spring fever had taken hold of most of the officers on duty and no wonder. People were finally rid of their pandemic masks and only the surliest naysayers grumbled, “until the next one.” Sacramento had a lot going for it—the mountains on one side, the ocean on the other, plenty of entertainment, strong sports teams, and a growing economy. The weeks between late March and mid-June, though, were in a class by themselves, with mild temperatures, plenty of sunshine, and wildflowers in abundance.

Frost stood outside the precinct at midday, indulging in a cigarette and considering his good fortune. He felt content, a state of grace he never expected to reach. Yes, he missed his Ellen. They’d been married twenty years and she’d been gone ten. Memories consoled him, as did the presence in his life of his daughter and her husband, a good man, and their two well-adjusted children.
His professional life had been likewise satisfactory. He loved his work. Fairly routine, except for one case twenty-two years earlier that had briefly made him a statewide celebrity. A perp (Frost still thought of assailants that way) who the media dubbed the Back-To-School Killer had murdered five teachers, two in September, two in January after the winter break, and another following spring break. The women were stabbed in the eye and left in front of three different middle schools, along with black and white notebooks. Some of the bodies were discovered by students arriving early. The community was afraid and outraged.

After the first death, Frost and his partner, Lonnie DeMarco, looked for a connection between the victim and the killer. Maybe he was an ex-boyfriend or husband. Maybe he’d been her student, someone who felt unfairly singled out or ignored in class. Maybe she’d expelled his son.

When the second body dropped ten days later, Frost began to consider the bigger picture. The murderer had a problem with teachers in general. Was he a serial killer? Bodies three and four confirmed it. The California Bureau of Investigation came on to help. Still, no break in the case.

By that time, most of the state knew about the Back-To-School Killer. Officials considered canceling the annual state educators conference, scheduled for downtown. When CBI and local police promised both visible and undercover protection, they relented.
Frost posed as an elementary-school history teacher. He made friends, attended a few lectures, and kept an eye out for anyone out of place.

The second day, he noticed a small man with a large briefcase skulking through the crowded hallways. When the man reached inside to retrieve a piece of paper, Frost contrived to bump into him.

As he’d expected, the contents of the briefcase spilled onto the carpet: a dozen notebooks, a small bottle of chloroform, and a lethal-looking stiletto. The piece of paper contained the names of twelve attendees, all women.

The suspect turned out to be a long-ago student traumatized by a grade-school teacher. He kept his phobia repressed until his daughter became engaged to a professor. The killer confessed on the spot and pleaded guilty in a packed courthouse some months later.

Frost and DeMarco were feted and offered promotions. Each declined, but they agreed to represent the department (along with the chief, naturally) to the media. There was a trip to the Governor’s Mansion, a couple of national interviews, and a ceremony where the mayor gave them keys to the city as Frost’s proud family looked on.

Nothing remotely as exciting ever happened again. Cancer took both his partner and his wife. His daughter married and moved to Los Angeles. He spent the holidays with his grandkids and tried to imagine a life of retirement. The daughter had it on good authority that security jobs in LA were plentiful, especially for a one-time cop with a headline-making case on his resume.

Frost clocked out at five, picked up Chinese, and headed to his one-story, three-bedroom house. It had always felt a little cramped. Now he rattled around in it. If he sold while the market was hot, he might be able to afford a tiny condo in Los Angeles.

At the edge of nightfall, he heard a knock. He opened the door to a smiling face. “Hi,” the visitor said, handing him a black and white notebook.

Frost looked down. Rookie mistake. He jerked his head up in time to see the sharp object pierce his cornea and make its way into his brain.