Point No Point

by Mary Logue

  “Shot in the belly.”

  “Gross, Mom. Can’t you wait until we’re done eating?” Meg

  said the words like they were pieces of bone she was biting down hard on.

  Claire was so hungry she wanted to fall into her waiting chair and stuff the bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich into her mouth, but even more she wanted to change clothes. The dead man’s smell was still clinging to her uniform.

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Want a beer?” Rich asked.

  “Desperately.”

  “Me, too. And Curt.” Meg added.

  As Claire walked up the stairs, she heard Rich say, “You can split a beer. Since it’s your birthday. Then cake.”

  Good, she hadn’t missed everything.

  Claire pulled off her clothes and let them fall in a puddle to the floor. Later, she promised herself. She grabbed a clean white blouse and a pair of cut-off jeans and slipped her feet into flipflops. Much better. She went into the bathroom and washed her face and hands, then washed them again, feeling like she would never get the man’s decay off her skin.

  Leaning into the mirror, she undid her ponytail. She was sick of her long hair. The dark hank lay on the back of her neck like an old ratty fur. Maybe it was time for a change. She was getting close to fifty, and her daughter was almost grown up.

  “Mom,” Meg yelled up the stairs. “We’re waiting to open presents.”

  “Hold your horses.”

  “Did you get me a horse, finally?” Meg asked, with a slightly lighter tone in her voice.

  Claire descended the stairs and sank into her chair—one hand grabbing the cold beer while the other clamped onto half a sandwich. The beer made it to her mouth first.

  “I can open my presents now, can’t I? I don’t have to wait until you’re done eating.”

  “Please, open away.”

  First came Rich’s present. Meg ripped the wrapping off the rectangular shape with one yank and held up a mushroom identification book, the latest edition. After showing it around, Meg paged through it enthusiastically—it was a hobby the two of them shared, much to Claire’s pleasure. The bounty they brought back from the woods was delicious: morels in the spring, chanterelles, boletes, and hen of the woods in the fall.

  “Cool,” Curt said as she handed him the book. “I’d like to learn more about mushrooms, too.”

  The next present was from Curt. Claire was nearly as anxious to see this as Meg. The present might give her some inside information on how serious their relationship was. As much as she liked Curt, she hated to see Meg so wrapped up in one boy. At her age she should be playing the field. However, down in Pepin County, there wasn’t much of a field to play.

  Curt’s present was in a small box, wrapped in newsprint with red wings stamped all over it. Claire wondered if his mother was one of those women who were into stamping.

  Meg tore the paper off, then waited a moment before taking the lid off. Claire hoped it wasn’t too similar to what she had gotten her daughter. Then Meg opened the box and lifted out a small silver pin. Claire couldn’t quite make it out. It looked like a bird.

  Meg’s face was filled with joy. “Curt, it’s perfect,” she said. “Where did you find this?”

  “Online. Thought you might like it.”

  “What is it?” asked Rich.

  Meg held it out for him to see. “It’s a peregrine falcon. Our bird. You know the ones that fly off of Maiden Rock. They’re special to us.”

  Claire held out her hand and Meg passed the pin to her. Silver bird with wings outflung. Lovely.

  Meg moved on to Claire’s present, also a small box. Its wrapping was also discarded quickly. Claire hoped what was inside wasn’t too sentimental for her growing daughter. Meg lifted out an oval locket on a thin gold chain. “Mom, is this grandma’s locket?”

  “Yes, I thought it was time for you to have it.”

  Then Meg opened it up and looked at the two pictures that Claire had cut into the right shape to fit inside the frames. One was a photo of Steven, her father, holding Meg when she was just born. The other was Rich and Claire, hugging. Her parents. All three of them.

  As Claire watched tears fill Meg’s eyes, she guessed she had done okay.

  “Mom, this is just what I wanted, even though I didn’t know it. Thank you.” She came to her mother and gave her a big hug. Even kissed her on the head. What more could a mother ask for?

  “What I thought I wanted was a new Prius,” Meg said as she went to sit back down. “Silly me.”

  Rich pushed back from the table and said, “How ‘bout some cake? Claire, are you sticking around or do you have a date with a dead man?”

  “Nope, I asked Amy to sit in with the medical examiner. I’m done for the night.”

  All three pair of eyes turned to look at her. “Mom, for real? You’re letting someone else do something?” Meg asked, incredulous.

  Rich gave Claire a good-for-you look.

  * * *

  Medical examiner Janet Davis’ green rubber gloved finger tapped the rib cage of the opened torso as she explained, “Water gets into the lungs one of two speeds: slow or fast.”

  This was Deputy Sheriff Amy Schroeder’s first time attending an autopsy on her own. She had watched a couple with Claire Watkins and had always found them a challenge. For one thing, the morgue was a long narrow room with no windows in the basement of the hospital, which kept in the dank and a disturbing vinegary smell that she never wanted to pull too deeply into her lungs. The shallow breathing she was forced to do didn’t help her feel very comfortable.

  Amy didn’t know whether she should laugh or not at Janet’s comment. But she decided what the heck. After all, the guy was dead. She let out a small chuckle. “Wow. These technical terms. What do you mean—slow or fast?”

  “Well, if you must have technical terms,” Janet said, snapping the green rubber glove, “How about the difference between gooshing or seeping?”

  “What we want to know for starters is, was he dead when he hit the water?” Amy knew this was the first thing that Claire would ask her.

  Janet peered into the gaping chest cavity. A small woman,

  she needed to stand on her tiptoes for some of the work she did. “I would have to say, yes, from what I can gather, he was already dead. Although there is water in his lungs, I think that it seeped in during his long immersion in the lake. The technical term we use to describe this process is infiltration.”

  “It’s going to be tough to identify this guy. Any birthmarks?” Amy asked.

  “He’s got an odd mole here on his rib cage. But I’m not sure that anyone would notice it. Even his mother or wife. But then there’s the tattoo,” Janet pointed at the dark mark on his shoulder.

  “Great. A tattoo is perfect. What is it?”

  “Well, I think I know, but come here and look yourself. Tell me what you think it is.”

  Amy walked around the steel table and bent over to get a better look at the tattoo. Janet turned the light on it. The tattoo was dark. It seemed to be done in only one color, but hard to tell what color it was, blue or brown or black. Then she decided it was green. But the shape looked like an hour glass: large, then small, then large again. Suddenly the image came into focus and she saw what it was: branches, trunk, roots. “I think it’s a tree.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was guessing too. Unusual for a big burly guy to have a tree tattooed on his shoulder. I’ve never seen one before, but this new crop of guys getting tattooed aren’t going for the usual mermaids and eagles. I’m seeing more dragons and, believe it or not, swallows. So a tree might be perfectly usual.”

  “While the tree won’t help us find him, like a navy insignia would, it certainly will help us make a positive identification

  when it comes to that.” Amy’s eyes strayed down his body. “Any chance you can tell me what happened to his ankle? I told you what Bill said about it.”

  Again Janet looked at the mentioned body part even
though all that was left of it was bone. “Not a snapping turtle, as your compatriot suggested. I’d say something was tied around it, probably attached to some kind of weight. Look here.” Her green rubberized finger pointed at the edge of skin over the ankle bone.

  Amy leaned in, trying not to breathe. She could see the skin looked stretched at the edges, worn through to the bone in places.

  The medical examiner continued. “I’m guessing somebody didn’t want this body to be found.”

  * * *

  Rich smelled Claire’s wet, sweet hair as she lay drowsing next to him. She must have been beat, because she asked him to keep a watch out for Meg and then fell right to sleep. It was nearly midnight—Meg’s birthday curfew. The book he was reading wasn’t bad, but he kept losing his place and staring off into space. He felt restless and not particularly sleepy.

  The phone rang. The real phone, not Claire’s work cellphone. Rich grabbed it before it could ring again and wake up Claire. He assumed it was Meg with some explanation as to why she couldn’t make it home in the next five minutes. Even though it was her birthday, he was going to have to be strict with her. Claire thought that he was way too lenient with Meg. He just found it hard to say no to her, and she didn’t ask for much.

  “Hello,” he said quietly as he slid out of bed and headed toward the bedroom door so he wouldn’t wake up Claire.

  At first there was no sound, then heavy breathing rasped on the other end of the phone line.

  “I think you’ve got the wrong number,” Rich said once he stepped out into the hallway and closed the bedroom door. He was ready to read whoever was on the other end the riot act. How stupid do you have to be to call a deputy sheriff’s number and make an obscene phone call?

  “Rich,” a deep male voice gasped.

  He recognized the voice immediately. His old friend, Chet Baldwin. Hadn’t heard from him in a while. What was he doing calling so late? “Chet?”

  “Rich, I need some help.” Chet’s voice sounded awful, like someone had shot it full of holes. He was wheezing and breathing hard.

  “What’s going on, Chet? Are you okay?”

  “No, I just don’t know.” Then he started to cry, a sound like wood being torn into shreds. Awful.

  Rich had never heard Chet cry before, in all their many years of being friends, really since grade school. They had played softball together. Chet had been a hell of a pitcher. Even the time that Chet got slammed in the face by a solid hit by Sammy Schultz and it broke his cheek bone, even then he hadn’t cried.

  “Chet, what’s the matter? Tell me what’s going on.”

  Chet managed to say, “I don’t know what to do. It’s just a big mess over here. Could you come over?”

  “Isn’t Anne there?” Rich asked.

  Chet had married about ten years ago to a younger

  woman—about fifteen years younger than Chet’s fifty-five years. Chet had met Anne at a square dance in Red Wing, Minnesota. She had danced him off his feet and vice versa.

  Chet started to cry. “She’s part of the problem.”

  “Anne?” Rich asked. But who else could the “she” be? They had no children. At least none that Rich knew of. Chet’s mother had died years ago. As far as Rich knew there was no other woman in Chet’s life but Anne.

  “Yes. I don’t know how it happened.”

  Rich hadn’t heard anything about Anne being sick. In fact, he had seen her a few weeks ago when the woodcarvers had met over at Chet’s house. She had looked lovely and seemed in good spirits. “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. I was gone. Went for a walk.”

  “Chet, has there been an accident?”

  “I can’t say it.” Chet’s voice was growing fainter as if he were holding the phone farther away from his mouth.

  “What happened, Chet?”

  Muffled sounds. Rich couldn’t tell if Chet was crying or if he was trying to say something.

  “Talk to me,” Rich gripped the receiver hard.

  “This is too hard. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Chet finally replied. “I need you, buddy.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I have to go,” Meg said, gently extricating herself from Curt’s arms, legs, and mouth.

  “You don’t want a little more of your birthday present?” he asked her, touching the side of her face.

  She felt her innards start to quiver, but didn’t give in.

  Meg kissed him and let that be her answer, however he would take it, but she didn’t fall back into his arms. “Hey, they’re just starting to trust us again. I don’t want to ruin that.”

  Curt nodded his head. Meg knew he understood. For the first few months of their relationship, Meg had been under house arrest after a friend of theirs had died under dubious circumstances. It had taken Claire and Rich many trial at-home dates to feel okay about the two of them going any place together. Meg wasn’t about to go backwards.

  “It’s almost time,” she said, while adjusting her clothes. They weren’t far from her house. She’d be home pretty close to her curfew.

  Curt leaned in close to her, held her eyes, and announced in a clear voice, “I love you.”

  Meg dropped her eyes and stammered, “You do?”

  “Sure. It’s easy.”

  Meg knew she couldn’t leave his declaration unanswered. “Curt, I think I love you too.”

  Curt laughed and rubbed her head. “That’s your problem. You think too much, my Meglet.”

  “Well, I wasn’t prepared.”

  “What’s there to be prepared about?” he asked, sounding put out, his voice deeper than usual.

  “I don’t know. I’ve always thought of it as a special kind of moment. I could have used more time, you know, to think about how to do it right. I figured we’d discuss it or something, like we do everything.”

  “Hey, it’s your birthday. I’d call that a special moment.” Curt pulled away from her and sounded mad. “Plus, we’ve been seeing each other for almost a year. I don’t think I’m saying anything rash.”

  “No, you’re right.”

  “I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said, sounding even a little more put out.

  “I hope not.” Marriage, she hoped with anyone, was a good ten years off.

  “Why? Wouldn’t you?” Curt pulled back from her.

  “Curt, you know what I mean. Not now.” Meg knew she had to make it up to him. “But that was really nice to hear and especially on my birthday.” She touched the peregrine falcon pin that she was wearing on the collar of her shirt. “You’re the best boyfriend a girl could ever have.”

  Curt seemed somewhat appeased as he started the car. “I’ll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

  “I’m not the pumpkin. But your clunky vehicle might turn into a vegetable at any moment.”

  “First I can’t say I love you and now you’re picking on my car.” Curt drove out of the wayside rest.

  “No, I just meant, wrong allusion. It isn’t Cinderella who turns into the pumpkin, it’s her carriage.”

  “Well, I guess it’s wrong all the way around. I know you can’t be Cinderella, cuz I’m obviously not Prince Charming.”

  Meg giggled. “No, you’re more like the Prince Symbolina.”

  Curt started singing “Purple Rain” at the top of his lungs, a not entirely unpleasant sound, although his falsetto sounded mainly like screeching. If he hadn’t been driving, Meg would have kissed him to make him stop.

  When they pulled into the farm’s driveway, Meg was surprised to see the outside lights were on. Then her mom came out the door with Rich right behind her. She had hoped they’d be in bed.

  Geez, Meg thought, they really don’t trust me yet. They’ve been waiting up and now they’re the welcoming party.

  But as she got out of the car, she could hear them talking and it wasn’t about her curfew.

  “He called me. I don’t know what’s happened over there. He sounded terrible. That’s all I know. I’m going
over there.” Rich sounded upset.

  Rich was rarely upset. Usually at machines that didn’t work. Meg wondered what they were talking about.

  “Rich, do you want me to come with you?” Claire said back in a low and steady voice. “If something bad’s happened, maybe I should come along.”

  “I got the feeling that Anne has left him. He didn’t come right out and say it, but that’s my feeling. In which case, it’d be better if you weren’t there.”

  Meg could tell that comment got to Claire as her voice lifted and intensified. “Okay, just thought I’d offer.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  Meg looked at Curt, who was standing next to the car. He shrugged. Meg thought it might be wise to just slip into the house. She quickly gave Curt a light good night kiss and motioned him back into the car. He followed her cue and backed out of the driveway.

  “Hi, I’m home,” Meg said as she walked to the deck where her mom and Rich were standing.

  “Hey, honey. You have a nice time?” her mother said, squeezing her shoulders.

  “Yeah, we just hung out. Nothing much to do around here. What’s going on, Mom?” Meg asked, curious how much they’d tell her. Who would need Rich in the middle of the night?

  “Just something Rich needs to check on.”

  Rich spoke up. “It’s just Chet, Meg. He’s having a hard time and asked me to come over. Not sure what it’s about.”

  With her arm still around Meg’s shoulders, Claire started to walk into the house, then turned back to Rich. “Call me and let me know what’s going on if you have a chance.”

  * * *

  Rich felt like he had known Chet Baldwin all his life. In fact, they had met when they were five years old.

  One of Rich’s earliest memories of Chet was sitting next to him in the lunch room. Rich had been so impressed because for lunch Chet had two hard-boiled eggs and a store-bought set of miniature salt and pepper shakers. He thought that little set was one of the coolest things he had ever seen. He asked Chet if he could use them and Chet had been rather hesitant to hand them over, but finally he did, carefully supervising the amount of salt that Rich had sprinkled on his sandwich.