Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  “Sailor’s stew!” she cried, coming in the kitchen door. “Fantastic!”

  Keith, in a BEARS sweatshirt and jeans and socks, smiled as he stirred. “Faucets just needed new washers.”

  “Nice to have a man around the house,” she said, just behind him now, putting an arm around his waist and squeezing.

  He almost said, “You mean nice to have a real man around the house,” but thought better of it.

  “I’ll change,” she said, climbing out of her windbreaker, heading into the formal dining room they little used.

  Don’t ever change, he thought, and stirred stew.

  She came back wearing a light blue terry-cloth bathrobe and he gave her a quizzical look.

  “I have the reunion tonight,” she said. She went to the cupboard for dishes. “I’m not dressing till after my bath.”

  “Thought that was tomorrow,” he said, then tasted the stew. Delicious. “The reunion, I mean. Not your bath.”

  She smiled at that, setting the table now. “Casual night. At the Brewing Company.”

  They said very little as they ate. The food had their full attention, although several times Krista also said, “Delicious.”

  “A pity,” he said, “so few know of my culinary genius.”

  “Few realize you know a word like ‘culinary.’”

  “Also true.”

  She shrugged without disturbing her latest spoonful of stew. “I don’t mind having you to myself.”

  They shared a slice of cheesecake from Hy-Vee, just slivers. He’d made tea for them both.

  Though she’d been pleasant before and throughout the meal, he could tell something was troubling her. Nothing overt. But he was her father.

  “What is it, honey?”

  She sighed. “Just some sad news.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “Remember Sue Logan?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “She was in my class. Redhead, blue eyes, very cute. Busty.”

  “Cheerleader?”

  She laughed. “I knew if I gave you the right clues you’d solve it.”

  “Something wrong where she’s concerned? Not coming to the reunion?”

  Krista shook her head. “She was killed.”

  He frowned. “Accident?”

  A swallow. “Murder.”

  “Ah, that’s terrible. Horrible. She didn’t live around here, did she? Or we’d have heard about it.”

  “She was in Florida. Clearwater. This was months ago. August, I think. Jessy told me. Pop, it sounds like some. . . some maniac did it. I know that’s silly. . .”

  “No. Maniacs are a lot of things. Silly isn’t one of them. What happened to her?”

  “Somebody came up to her door and just stabbed her. Multiple times.” She shivered. “Pop, I love being a cop. I really like the job, and I can handle the sad, even tragic stuff. Comes with the territory. Mostly you’re helping people, and around here, people are nice to police. Most of the tourists, too.”

  “I know.”

  Her sigh came deep. “But something like what happened to Sue? I don’t know if I could handle that.”

  “Sure you could.”

  “There hasn’t been a murder on my watch. We have everything else—burglaries, domestic violence, fights, you name it—but not murder. And before that case I helped you on—and that was mostly on your turf—there hadn’t been any murders in Galena in twenty years.”

  She was talking about a homicide case they’d wound up working together two years ago. That had been high profile and undoubtedly had led to her making chief at so young an age.

  He reached over and touched her hand. “Don’t you let it put a damper on the festivities this weekend. Every class has its tragedies. That’s what makes reunions so bittersweet.”

  She was nodding. “I know. I know. Just one of those freak things. We already had a death with that car accident last year, and two boys in my class died in Iraq.”

  “Don’t let any of that keep you from enjoying yourself. Class reunions are special. Your mother and I never missed one. Hers or mine.”

  Their arrangement, already set in stone, was that he cooked supper and she did the cleanup, including the pots, pans, and dishes, washing them off and rinsing them out and piling them into the dishwasher, although that ancient chugging machine needed replacing. He was surprised it hadn’t been on the “To Do” list.

  She was heading over to the sink with their dishes when he said, “Hey, I’ll handle those. You go ahead and get ready.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek and scurried out.

  He was watching the news on the TV in the den when she appeared between the French doors looking impossibly young and every bit as pretty as her late mother, which took some doing. Her short hair was different, fuller, with some waves in it. At work she didn’t wear much if any makeup, but tonight she’d applied some, delicately. She was in a red sweater and dark jeans, with black-and-red cowboy boots.

  “Uh, Papa. . .”

  He muted CNN. “Yes, sweetie?”

  “I’m going to this with, uh, Jerry tonight. You remember Jerry?”

  He sat up in his recliner, the only piece of furniture he’d brought with him. “Jerry who until last week was living here? That Jerry?”

  Quietly, leaning against a door, she said, “That Jerry. Yes.”

  He raised a palm. “None of my business. Have a good time.”

  She could only get half a smile working. “I just. . . he and I were already going to this thing together, so I didn’t break the date.”

  “Nothing to explain.”

  “We kind of made a truce. Just for tonight.”

  He got up and went over to her. Put his hands on her shoulders. “Honey, he can move back in as far as I’m concerned.”

  “But you would move out.”

  “Right.”

  She laughed a little and the doorbell rang.

  He followed her into the living room, but kept his distance as she answered it. Jerry, in a black jacket over a gray shirt and blue jeans and sneakers, stepped in and smiled at her, then noticed Keith standing half a room away.

  “Mr. Larson,” he said, the smile curdling some.

  “Jerome. How’s the writing coming?”

  “The novel? Getting there.”

  Keith crossed the room, nearer now but not much. Not wanting to crowd his daughter. Or her date.

  Keith asked, “What’s it about this time?”

  That reflected Keith’s awareness of many abandoned Great American Novels of Jerry’s that had preceded this one.

  “Uh,” Jerry said, “a coming of age thing.”

  “Can’t wait to read it. Have fun, you two.”

  And Keith went back in the TV room.

  He heard the front door close and got up and headed into the kitchen, helped himself to a Carlsberg, opened it, swigged twice, taking it with him as he walked through the dining room and around to his study, where he had a desk and a computer. He put “Susan Logan,” “homicide,” and “Clearwater, Florida” into Google.

  He got a Tampa Bay Times account of the murder. A detective named Hastings had the case. Two follow-up articles indicated no resolution.

  He called his friend Lou Ramos, a detective across the river who’d been his partner for a while, and asked, “You have pals in Florida, Lou? Police variety?”

  “A couple.”

  Lou was active in the National Association of Police Organizations. He was always going to some NAPO convention, seminar, or conference. He and his wife didn’t get along.

  Keith asked, “How about the Tampa area?”

  “I know a Tampa guy. Hell of a cop. You should see him drink.”

  “What about Clearwater?”

  “That’s almost the same as Tampa. But, no, nobody in Clearwater.”

  “Could you give me your Tampa friend’s number?”

  Lou did that, and Keith called the guy, who did sound like he’d been dr
inking. But friendly, and he knew Detective Hastings, who he didn’t think would mind hearing from a fellow officer, even a retired one.

  So within half an hour of Krista leaving, Keith was talking to the officer in charge of the Sue Logan homicide. Keith explained the victim was an old friend of his daughter, who by the way was the police chief locally. Did they have any kind of line on the perp?

  “Some random nut, we think,” Hastings said.

  “Can you fill me in a little?”

  “Well, we think the Logan woman may have known her killer. She lived alone, and she had a conceal and carry, which she got because she was carjacked one time. Made her paranoid, I guess, the guy who worked it told me.”

  “But not so paranoid she didn’t open her door to her killer.”

  “Right. So she knew the killer, trusted him or her but probably him—it was dark, but the door had a glass panel—and she answered it.”

  “From what I read online, her killer attacked her right there in the doorway.”

  “Right. Eight deep thrusts of what we think was a knife blade, all in the chest. That’s partly why we think it’s a man—wounds went deep.”

  “But a woman in a frenzy could do that.”

  “Which is why we don’t rule that out. So what’s your interest in this, buddy? Or is it your daughter’s, ’cause she’s chief there?”

  “Nothing except Sue Logan was a local girl. Sue and my daughter were in high school together, and this weekend’s the class reunion. Thought if there was any news, any leads you might be able to share, her friends might like to know.”

  “Well, there isn’t. Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Nice talking to you,” Hastings said, and hung up.

  SIX

  The outer area of the Galena Brewing Company on North Main was a big modern room with rustic touches, brick behind the bar, barnwood-trimmed doors, wooden tables and chairs, and—hanging from the open rafters—nostalgic posters. These hawked their house brews—General Grant for Uly’s Dark, Carrie Nation for Anna Belle’s IPA, and a weary Depression-era farmer for Farmer’s Blonde.

  This time of year the microbrewery was rarely hopping (or barleying either, for that matter). But this was a Friday, and fairly busy, so Krista was not surprised when she and Jerry were directed to the party room. Maybe thirty people were packed into the modest space with its own bar and rustic touches (here a barrel, there a pioneer picture), and half a dozen four-chair tables. On the edge of the bar, a phone in a speaker dock was giving forth with Lady Gaga’s possibly prophetic “Bad Romance.”

  The word “casual” to Krista’s female classmates hadn’t stopped them from making an effort—around the room were colorful sweaters, ruffled blouses, and funky sweatshirts. Less thought had gone into the rest of their ensembles, which invariably ran to leggings or jeans. UGG boots and maybe her own cowboy boots were as fancy as the footgear got, with running shoes in the lead.

  The guys had taken “casual” more literally, the room filled with flannel shirts and sweatshirts, nondesigner jeans, and even sweatpants, with running shoes winning the footwear event, male division.

  But for the occasional selfie, the usual phones were tucked away, texting taking a back seat to actual human contact with these old classmates. It was better than Facebook.

  Krista and Jerry, who on the brief car ride here had spoken very little, if politely, joined Jessy and her husband, Josh, at the table where seats had been saved for the less-than-happy couple.

  “You look adorable!” Jessy said, standing and giving her a hug. “I love the cowboy boots!”

  Josh, also on his feet now, grinned and said, “I thought you were the police chief, not the sheriff!”

  He was a good-looking, friendly guy with dark blond hair and dark blue eyes, slightly overweight, in camouflage sweatshirt and khakis.

  She laughed politely at Josh’s greeting, not terribly interested in having her profession pointed out. Jerry said hello to everybody as they both sat down.

  “Well, you look very nice yourself,” Krista told Jessy, who—ever the professional—had on a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, with a tailored navy blazer, her makeup flawless, though her dark-washed jeans and flats showed less effort.

  Krista added, “Love the purse!”

  Jessy—the black Coach crossbody purse before her like a meal she was protecting from some hungry interloper—said, “Nabbed it at T.J. Maxx across the river. Where did you find those boots?”

  “Online, I’m afraid,” Krista admitted.

  She and Jessy talked clothes for a while, and commented in hushed tones about the attire of other female classmates (mostly admiring, but a modest amount of cattiness creeping in). Josh and Jerry just smiled awkwardly at each other. They had nothing in common, Josh having typical male sports enthusiasms, Jerry a would-be hipster interested only in the arts.

  Krista caught snippets of their occasional, strained conversation.

  Jerry gestured to Josh’s camouflage sweatshirt and said, “Didn’t know you were into hunting.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh.”

  Josh shrugged. “Just thought it had a nice macho vibe.”

  Jerry nodded. “That it does.”

  “Don’t want people to think because I’m in the food industry I’m some kind of. . . you know.”

  Jerry, who clearly didn’t know, said, “Right.”

  And that, of the several things that got through her radar as she girl-talked with Jessy, was the longest and most interesting exchange between the two former classmates.

  Krista asked Jessy, “Any sign of Astrid?”

  “Not yet. I fully expect her to make an entrance. If she shows at all.”

  “Thought you said she was coming. . . ?”

  Jessy nodded, her permed dark hair bouncing. “Yes, but we only took RSVPs for the formal night. We just informed everybody on our emailing that on Friday we’d meet casually here at the Brewing Company.”

  “Nice place for it. Did they charge us for the party room?”

  “No. Not even for the bartender.”

  Of course, the microbrewery was obviously making out just fine. And that was cool with Krista, who liked their craft beers. Her particular favorite was the Farmer’s Blonde. Noting that neither Jessy nor Josh had drinks yet, she interrupted the conversation with Jessy to take their orders, which she and Jerry rose to go over to the bar and get. They would buy the first round.

  As they stood in line, Jerry said, “What the hell kind of aftershave is that doofus wearing?”

  “Josh is very nice,” she said firmly. “Anyway, I don’t think that’s aftershave.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Maybe the new garlic caramel corn.”

  As they carried four beers over to the table, Miley Cyrus was singing “Party in the USA.” Krista and Jerry distributed the beverages, giving an Uly’s to Josh, an Anna Belle’s to Jessy, with Krista keeping the Farmer’s for herself and Jerry the can of Coors Light he’d disgraced himself asking for.

  “You’re kidding,” Josh said, to no one in particular.

  He was looking across the room where two guys had just come in. Both were noticeably older than Krista’s classmates, which was as it should be, since Christopher Hope had been one of their teachers, and his significant other, Tyler Dale, was the longtime owner and operator of Galena’s Own Artworks, where you could find paintings, prints, ceramics, and jewelry by local artists.

  Jessy frowned at her husband and said, “Don’t.”

  “I just think he has his nerve,” Josh said.

  Krista knew Josh meant Chris.

  Jerry, not following, said, “What?”

  “I’m no homophobe,” Josh said, which was something that only homophobes tended to say, “but I don’t think somebody like that should be teaching children. Much less. . .”

  Jerry, getting it now, frowning, asked, “Much less what?”

  Josh was looking somewhe
re else now. “Nothing.”

  But Krista knew. Chris and Tyler had adopted two children. Some people didn’t like that. Most didn’t care. She certainly didn’t. And in her time on the PD, she’d seen four instances of barroom literal gay bashing that had made her sick.

  “Excuse me,” she said, somehow managing a smile, and rose and went over to Chris and Tyler, who were looking around for a place to sit, apparently.

  Krista smiled big and took the hand Chris offered and she held it and squeezed. “I’m so happy to see you! I wish more of our teachers were here.”

  Chris, who was all in black—turtleneck, its long sleeves rolled up, dark-washed skinny jeans, and black dress shoes—had a slimly athletic build a quarterback might envy. He was in his late thirties and looked great, blond and chiseled, the kind of handsome gay guy that made a woman sigh in disappointment.

  “You must be the best-looking police chief anywhere,” Chris said, smiling and looking her up and down in a way most of the other men here couldn’t get away with.

  She laughed and thanked him, letting him have his hand back, not minding when Chris was the one invoking her job. She said to Tyler, “I was in the shop last week. I love the new things!”

  Tyler—in a Tom Waits chapeau, black satin jacket, vintage Pat Benatar T-shirt, ripped jeans, high-top Converses, and fashionably scruffy beard—said, “I’m afraid the best things aren’t selling like they should. And we’re pulling in arts and crafts from all over the tristate area.”

  Chris gave his partner a sideways smile. “He means his paintings aren’t moving as fast as he’d like. I told him he should do some more of those David Bowie images.”

  Tyler laughed quietly. “He wants me to pander.”

  “No,” Chris said to him, “I want you to sell out!”

  All three of them laughed, and Krista said, “You know, you really gave me a boost of confidence, back at GHS.”

  That half smile of Chris’s was worth more than most people’s full grin. “You mean that lead in Into the Woods? We were one of the first in the nation to do the high school version, you know.”

  That was the so-called “junior” edition that was mostly the first act. Krista had played Little Red Riding Hood.