by Jess Lourey
I flipped past these specs as well as the Best Smile, Best Attitude, Most Likely to Marry a Lawyer, Most Likely to Go to Jail, et cetera, results and went straight to the W section, which didn’t take long given the meager number of graduates in this small town. Sure enough, Jeff Wilson’s picture stared back at me, his hair shaggier and his eyes tighter but his smile still wide and generous. I felt a lurch on my heart and had to sit on my heels. He had been really cute.
I ran my eyes over the picture to Jeff’s immediate right and was satisfied to find a replica of Chief Wohnt, then listed as Gary Wohnt, his hair greased back with some sort of shiny, dirt-attracting substance, his acne fierce, and his neck muscles intimidating even in the head shot. I wondered what having a name that is a negative sentence does to a person. Turns one into a cop, apparently.
Kennie Jensen, now Kennie Rogers, was on the preceding page, actually looking beautiful in an early eighties sort of way. She could really pull off that drugstore doll appearance back then, her hair tight and curled, skin firm, blue eyes bright. I could see why Jeff had fallen for her. I glanced at the rest of the senior class, but no one else stuck out.
I closed the book with a muted thump and slid it back in its home, then went out to my car to get the invitation. It must at least be related to Jeff’s arrival, if not his death. It was too much of a coincidence that he graduated in the class of 1982 and there was an invitation to a class of ’82 party by his dead body. I suppose “class of ’82” didn’t have to refer to Battle Lake’s graduating class of 1982, but there really is a pattern and order to the universe if you look for it. Besides, the invitation was in the class colors, green writing on a silver background.
I traced my fingers over the date: Friday, 15 May. The military format of the date struck me, as did the lack of a year. Of course, since there was a day, it had to be either the day after tomorrow or a Friday, May 15, six years in the past or six years in the future.
I didn’t know whether this invitation to a masquerade had fallen out of Jeff’s clothes or been intentionally left by his killer, but there was a really good way to narrow the possibilities. I added mask shopping to my notebook list of lunchtime activities.
I returned to the front desk to check my e-mail. The only thing in my inbox was a forwarded e-mail from Gina. Apparently, she had entered her e-mail address when she created my online dating ad, and the cute Moorhead State professor had written to say he enjoyed my ad and would like to meet for coffee, considering he was only a hop, skip, and jump—eighty miles—from Battle Lake. I considered replying to her and telling her to knock it off. Then I considered replying to him and telling him it was a mistake and I wasn’t looking to date. In the end, I just deleted it. I had too much on my plate right now.
I spent the next chunk of the morning searching the Internet for “Minnesota Indian carvings.” There were 1,470 hits, but through a combination of luck and doggedness I came across one with pictures that matched what I had seen: the Jeffers Petroglyphs. The page was a link off of the Minnesota Historical Society site and informed me that the Jeffers Petroglyphs were over five thousand years old and found among the prairie grasses of southern Minnesota. According to the site, the carvings illustrated holy ceremonies and hunting rituals. The picture on the web page, like the carvings I had seen, was breathtaking in its simplicity and importance. And certainly petroglyphs in west-central Minnesota, hundreds of miles from the Jeffers Petroglyphs, would be something to write about.
It would also be something to immediately call your supervisor about if you were a surveyor for a company interested in building. Jeff had told me that Trillings wouldn’t build over Indian artifacts. When he found the petroglyphs, he must have called the company and told them that this spot was a no-go. But then why had Karl told me a rep had called him and said they wanted the land? I wondered how much Jeff really knew about the company he worked for. Apparently they had no compunctions about building on sacred ground or lying to their employees. Maybe they didn’t mind murder, either.
I picked up the phone book and dialed First National. “Hello, this is Mira James. Is Karl available?”
“I’ll check,” came the reply. I waited and was patched through.
“Karl here.”
“Karl!” I said, my voice excited at the thought of potentially solving Jeff’s murder. I caught myself before I showed my whole hand. “What happens if the Jorgensen land isn’t saleable?”
“Why wouldn’t it be saleable?” he asked in his typical banker manner.
“I don’t know. Say it had historical value and just couldn’t be sold.”
I could hear him trying to hold back one of his chuckles on the other end. “Mira, all land has historical value, if you look closely enough. You can sell any land you hold the deed to. It’s just that whoever buys it may be restricted on what they can do there.”
I didn’t really feel like being laughed at. I was onto something. “Well, let’s say the Jorgensen property doesn’t sell for some reason. What happens to it then?”
“First of all, I think it will sell. Like I said, Trillings called the other day and said they want to go ahead with the deal. Second, all land sells, eventually. Since there is no one alive with a claim to it, it’s not particularly pressing. However, the bank would like to get the mortgage paid, and soon.”
I sighed. “Karl, if there were special Indian things on the land, could Trillings still buy it?”
“Well,” he said, and I could hear a squeak as he wheeled his way over to his filing cabinet and a zoom as he opened one of his immaculate drawers and pulled out one of his perpetual files, “. . . yes. But what they could do with it would depend on what those ‘things’ were. According to . . .” I heard paper flish on the other end. “. . . Minnesota Statute 307.08, if there are human burials, the land can be built on, but the burials cannot be disturbed. Anything short of a burial grounds isn’t protected by law and can be treated as the owner or buyer wishes.”
The other side of the phone was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “What did you find, Mira?”
“I’ll tell you when it all makes sense to me, Karl.” I still wasn’t ready to give up the details. “Just tell, please, if you think Trillings would still buy the land if there was a sacred Indian site on it.”
The moment of silence told me he was respectfully considering my question, probably while lining up all his desktop space fillers in perfect soldier rows like he always did when he was thinking hard. “If they’re like most big businesses, they’d be delighted to buy it. Wouldn’t that be a perfect addition to their Indian theme park? Built on genuine, sacred Indian land.”
“I suppose you’re right.” I was disappointed that I was probably correct about Jeff working for an unethical company, but that didn’t mean I was wrong about Jeff being principled. Maybe when he contacted Trillings about the petroglyphs and told them they couldn’t build on them, they decided to take him out of the picture. People did crazier things for money, and Jeff had said the Jorgenson land was ideal for what Trillings was after.
I started to put the phone down but pulled it back to my ear quickly. “What was the name of the person you talked to at Trillings?” I asked. “Was it a woman?” If the caller was female, she might be the one Jeff met at the Jorgenson land Saturday night.
“Nope, not a woman. A Tim something or the other. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Just keep being my friend, Karl.”
“That I can do.”
This detecting wasn’t going as I had planned. At first, I was certain that Jeff died because someone else wanted credit for the petroglyphs. Next thing I know, Kennie and her gambling ring, which were somehow tied to the class of ’82 party, pop up. Then, there seemed to be a good chance Jeff had died because Trillings didn’t want the word out about the sacred Indian relics that would keep them from building, but what Karl had said made sense. Why wouldn’t they want to buy the land and preserve the parts that were sacred? It
fit in perfectly with their theme park idea. And my saner brain convinced me that if Jeff was going to get in the way of the development, it would be easier for Trillings to fire him than kill him. My detecting was currently treading water.
I got out a piece of paper and a pen to map what I knew. My head was just circling things, so I had to pull out those squirming thoughts and nail ’em to the paper. I started three columns. There had to be at least three reasons Jeff had come to Battle Lake, because all things happened in threes. Two I knew. One was the Jorgensen land, and one was probably this class reunion thing. I started flashing lights in dark corners of my head, looking for a third reason. My right hand doodled unsupervised as random thoughts and images flitted through my brain—archaeological tools, peanut butter sandwiches, ice cream, petroglyphs, and buxom, boyfriend-stealing hussies.
I squirreled my eyebrows and looked down at my white sheet of paper with three columns, only two with headings. In the margins I had drawn the soft m shapes of birds flying through puffy clouds over a wavy lake with a broccoli tree on its bank. Same thing I always drew, childlike and soothing. I started to draw wavy bark lines in the tree when I heard a popping flare, the sound of a moist synapse finally firing. Of course. A tree—a family tree. Jeff must have family here if he went to high school here. There was the heading for my third column: “Family Ties.”
I looked at the list. One of the three must have killed him, which left me with three leads to follow: a fishing expedition with an old-timer, the velvety invitation crinkling in my back pocket, and a friendly call to some long-lost relatives. I didn’t know what I would say to Jeff’s family and I couldn’t rush to Friday, but I could meet my lunch hour more than halfway. At about ten-thirty, I hung the Out to Lunch sign on the door and headed up the street to the Senior Sunset.
Although my original intent in interviewing Mr. Curtis Poling was to get the scoop on the carvings, I figured I still might learn something by finding out what he knew about the Jorgensen land in general. It felt good to get outside, too. There is so much promise in spring, but you need to be outdoors to taste it.
It was a four-minute walk to the Sunset, but I was in no hurry. I liked my old people free, and I wasn’t too psyched to walk into a raisin ranch. I hadn’t been in one since eighth grade, when we were required to go as part of our home economics class. We were each assigned a “grandma” or a “grandpa.” I lucked out and got a sane one who kept her dentures really clean and could remember my name. Peter Maston was paired with a wrinkled vegetable whose hairs he had to comb, and Carrie Anderson got a genderless person who just whispered “Help” over and over again. For a group of fourteen-year-olds simply trying to figure out our bodies, pass civics class, and not stand out in a crowd, it was scarring.
The Sunset looked OK from the outside, like a one-story apartment building. It had a 1970s feel, low and uninspired, but the grounds were well manicured and there was a small pond to the left of the front
door.
As I opened the vacuum-locked door to the Sunset, the thick smell of hospitals, oldness, and cheap pine deodorizer nearly brought me to my knees. The front lobby was the size of large classroom, with a main desk in the center. Various doors and one hallway led off from this central room, all of them painted institutional green and each guarded by a plastic corn plant. I staggered through the odorous sanitation to the front desk and asked if I could see Curtis Poling.
“And your name?” the overweight attendant asked. She opened an appointment book.
“Mira James. I’m here on behalf of the Battle Lake Recall,” I said, thinking quickly. I’d forgotten that these old people had guards. Who’d want to steal one? “I’m doing an article on the history of the Jorgensen land.”
Her penciled eyebrows went up at the mention of the Jorgensen farm (I was still hanging onto the serial-killer/burial-ground theory about the land), but she didn’t ask me any more questions. “Sign in here. Curtis’s room is 11A, down the main hall on your right.”
I shifted the plastic grocery bag I had brought in from my right hand to my left and signed my name and time of arrival. As I walked down the hall, I tried to ignore the moans and yells. This place would make a great haunted house, I thought. My boot heels echoed, and when I peeked in open rooms, they all looked the same: TV set bolted to the ceiling and a hospital bed covered with a thin blanket with a table on one side and the dresser on the other. It was lonely. When I got to 11A, I wasn’t surprised to find Curtis’s bed empty. If what Apron Lady told me was correct, he would be casting for a big one right about now.
I headed toward the rear and through doors that led to a garden area, grateful to be back in the land of natural warmth and light. Three old ladies were out smoking, one of them Mrs. Berns. They tried to hide their smokes when they heard the door, but nothing happens quickly when you’re nearing ninety. I had already passed them by the time they pulled their cigarettes out of their mouths. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” I said, floating the words behind me. I actually wished I had some liquor to give them to make it a complete experience. It was too depressing to think of leading a full life only to have all the good stuff taken away when you finally have time to enjoy it.
Once outside, I saw the roof had railings around it and realized there must be a patio area up there. It was a good use of space. I followed the line of the roof and spotted two bare feet dangling over the side, the ankles the only part of the legs visible under blue hospital-issue pants. Between the feet hung a fishing line, bobberless, its hook about twelve inches off the ground. This is what I had come for.
Earlier that morning, acting on Ruby the bartender’s tip, I had stopped at the grocery store to check out their fish section. They had a small frozen selection of whole fish, so I picked a meaty-looking one, defrosted it in the microwave in the library’s break room, wrapped it in paper towels, and stuck it back in the grocery bag. It smelled ripe when I pulled it out, but it was a welcome offset to the nursing home odor nipping at my ankles.
I wasn’t sure about the protocol, if I was supposed to pretend that Curtis had caught the fish himself or let him know I was putting it on. Actually, I wasn’t even sure if the crew at Bonnie & Clyde’s had been serious about bringing Curtis a fish. I could be unintentionally provoking a mentally unwell man. I opted for subterfuge; it would be easier to run if I hadn’t already started a conversation with him. I grabbed Curtis’s hook, surprised to find some squirming bait on it. I swallowed hard and wrapped the mouth of the fish around the hook. I pulled down so the barbed end erupted through the lip, making a gristly noise. I gagged, gave the line a couple tugs, and stood back.
“Yoo hoo! Today’s a good day for Curtis Poling! I knew if I switched bait that I’d get a bite. C’mon, baby, c’mon!” The voice above me was ecstatic, and the pole waved back and forth, the line going up and down, in and out. If I wasn’t standing on land below him, I’d swear Curtis was really catching a big one. In water.
“That does look like a nice catch, Mr. Poling,” I called up to the legs.
“Unless you got a net, I got no need for you right now!” the voice called happily. There was a big jerk, which I imagine was Curtis setting the hook. The rest of the reeling was fairly uneventful. When the fish and legs disappeared, I waited.
It was about four minutes before I saw a face appear over the railing above, its teeth gone and its hair not far behind. “Well, I’ll be dipped in hot honey,” Curtis said, peering down at me. “Who woulda thought? What’re you catching?”
I pursed my lips. “Panfish, mostly,” I said, wondering exactly what they were. I had heard the word used around the social table at the Turtle Stew.
“Well, how deep you fishin’?”
“Pretty shallow.”
“Me, I was fishing deep, about a foot off the bottom. Leech for bait. And you know what I caught?” He let out a whoop before he hung my store-bought fish over the side. “A salmon. In Clitrull Lake! Wait’ll the guys hear about this!” Curtis danced a
little jig.
“Hey, Mr. Poling, could I talk to you?”
He stopped dancing and looked over the ledge, patient exasperation in his eyes. “Well, of course, missy. I’ve caught my limit. You don’t expect me to sit out here and keep fishin’, waitin’ for the DNR to haul me away, do ya?” He shook his head at me like a father explaining a simple concept to a child. “Meet you by the garden.”
I shrugged and walked back to the garden. I was pleased to notice that it was not nearly as far along as mine. In fact, it hadn’t even been tilled since last year, and the brownish tendrils of old squash pulled themselves up the skeletons of tomato plants. “Not much to look at, is it?” a voice asked. I turned to see Apron Lady, the one who had come to the library for Mrs. Berns’s tour. “We never get it tilled up in time for an early planting. Drives me crazy every year.”
I nodded my head, understanding completely her need for order, even in a ten-by-twelve-foot area. Behind Apron Lady stood a shrunken woman, her bearing the human equivalent of a dog perpetually putting its butt out to be sniffed. “I’m Ida,” Apron Lady said, and then moved to the side. “And this is Freda. They call us the ‘Da’ sisters.”
I wished I had brought some old-people suet or some such to give them, but I was empty handed. “Nice to meet you both,” I said. “My name is Mira, and I’m meeting Curtis out here in a couple minutes. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to him alone.”
They both got a knowing look, obviously thinking they understood more than I knew there was to understand. They backed away, returning to the door to sneak smokes with Mrs. Berns. I took the opportunity to pull out the field book and write “till the garden at the Sunset” on my to-do list.
Curtis came out minutes later, naked except for his blue crinkly pants and white tank top. I assumed by the yelp he got at the door that he had either flexed his sagging muscles or goosed one of the ladies. When Curtis reached my side, he smelled clean and strong, like my grandpa in his Old Spice. I had expected him to smell fishy and sour. He held out a hand. “Curtis Poling. What can I do for you?”
