by Mary Logue
“Do you have a baby?” Bridget asked.
“No,” the woman lifted off part of the blanket, and the head of a small dog peeked out. “I have Snooper.”
Just then Rachel let out a shriek.
“Do you have a baby?”
“I do. I better go. She won’t stop screaming until I pick her up. Happy Thanksgiving.”
The woman waved as she drove away. Bridget wanted to try to remember to mention the woman’s predicament to Claire, but when she got to the house, there was so much going on with unloading the baby that she forgot all about it.
Claire came running out and took the wailing Rachel. “She’s getting big.”
“I know, and mouthy.”
“Just like her mom.”
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Not to worry.”
“Is everyone here?”
“Yes,” Claire whispered. “The queen has arrived.”
“How’s it going?”
“This woman has watched too much PBS. She thinks that there is such a thing as Upstairs, Downstairs in America, and she’s upstairs and all the rest of us are downstairs.”
“Oh, great. That will make me the scullery maid.”
Claire leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Bridget felt her love for her sister. “We haven’t been together on Thanksgiving since Dad died.”
“Too long.”
Bridget thrust her grocery bag into the air. “Lead on to battle.”
When she met Mrs. Haggard, or Beatrice as she wanted to be called, Bridget warmed to her. She was a tight, tall woman, handsome and nervous. Bridget thought she had a lot of backbone but wasn’t always sure of herself. It made her caustic. Bridget put Rachel in Meg’s lap, curled up next to the two girls on the couch, and watched Claire and Beatrice converse in the kitchen.
Beatrice stood as if overseeing everything and questioned Claire. “How are you enjoying working for a sheriff’s department in this small county? Is it quite different than working in the city?”
“Oh, my, yes,” Claire answered as she mashed the potatoes. “The biggest difference is the slower pace of work. I am very happy about that. I get to spend more time with my daughter. But the other thing that is different is that I know so many of the people I’m working for. I will know most everyone in the county soon. It gives it a very different feel. I’m defending and protecting my neighbors.”
“What a nice way to put it,” Beatrice said. “Are you making gravy?”
“Rich’s got it going.”
Bridget watched Claire try to do it all and was glad that Meg was holding Rachel and that she got to sit quietly on the couch and drink a glass of wine. It was only her third glass of wine since the baby was born, a special occasion.
“Any big cases?” Beatrice asked.
“Not on a holiday,” Claire answered, then said, “Everybody to the table.”
Rich lifted up the silver platter with an enormous turkey on it and carried it to the wonderfully set table. Claire had used their parents’ good china, rimmed in gold. Bridget stuffed pillows around Rachel on the couch and hoped she would sleep for a while so she could be adult and eat at the table.
Jack watched the snow move across the road like a hail of white bullets. He had braved the storm because he decided he needed to check on Stephanie. He hadn’t heard from her for a few days. He figured they had things to talk about. And, after all, it was a holiday. Family was family.
Bring her a little Thanksgiving cheer. See that she was doing all right. He had bought a bottle of champagne and hoped that she might be cooking a turkey. She would be surprised to see him. They had their problems once in a while, but she understood him in a way that no one else did. He needed her.
When he slowed to turn into her driveway, he saw that her old beater car was stuck at the end of her driveway, packed to the gills. Then she stepped out of her house, holding something in her arms. What the hell was she up to now?
He parked his car as far off the road as he could manage. The snow was letting up a bit. Visibility wasn’t too bad. He’d leave his parking lights on.
“What’s going on?” he asked her.
She came running down from the house when she saw the car and then slowed when she saw it was him. As he walked toward her, he saw that she was carrying a small dog in her arms. Didn’t she know he hated dogs? Whiney, yippy curs. Who had she been waiting for? Another boyfriend?
“Jack, get out of here!” she screamed at him.
He ignored her anger. Maybe they could move past it today. “I see you need some help.”
“Someone is coming any minute.”
“I brought you something.” He held out the bottle. “I thought we could have a good time.”
She clutched the dog. “No, not today.”
He walked right up to her, close enough to see the wind whip tears into her eyes. What was the matter with her? She had always been such a scaredy-cat. “Let me see the dog.” He reached out to take it, and she pulled back from him. He hated when she did that, pulled back as if he was going to hit her.
“No. You get away from us. I know what you did with Buck. And I will tell the cops if you touch me.”
“What’re you talking about? Me and Buckie needed to get to know each other. That’s all.”
“I hate you.”
“What’re you up to, babe?”
She tried to turn away, but he grabbed her arm. He had the bottle of champagne in the other hand. She wouldn’t say anything.
“Do I have to beat it out of you?” he asked.
She bent over and set the little dog down and yelled, “Run, Snooper, run!” The dog tore up the path to the house.
Jack just wanted to talk to her, but she was striking out at him, trying to get away. He kept a good grip on her arm so she couldn’t pull away from him. He had wanted to have dinner with her. Now it didn’t seem possible. If she would only hold still. The burn ignited. He hated her doing this to him. She had to stop. He didn’t bother unwrapping the bottle of champagne. The blows were muffled by the brown paper bag.
The first half of the dinner had gone fine. Rich had had trouble carving the turkey, but everyone had teased him, and it had given them something to laugh and talk about.
Then Meg dumped a cranberry mold that hadn’t molded on her new velvet top. Claire could tell by the way she tightened her lips that she was about to cry. She looked up at her mom, and her lips quivered. “It will wash out, Meggy.”
“But, Mom, it’s sticky.”
Then Rachel started to scream from the next room.
Bridget lifted herself up from the table with the movements of a much older woman. She looked as if she was about ready to fall over from sleep deprivation. She picked up Rachel from her bed of pillows and brought her back to the table. The baby writhed in her mother’s arms and wept.
Beatrice’s face spelled deep disapproval. But she said nothing, just scraped the tines of her fork across her plate to get the last of her stuffing.
Rich tried to smooth things over by asking his mother about her weekly bridge game.
“Oh, no one wants to hear about that,” Beatrice snapped. “The game will die out when my generation passes on. Nobody plays it anymore. And it’s a fine, intelligent game. No one wants to take the time to learn it. They would rather watch TV or play those stupid Nintendo games.”
It wasn’t that Claire didn’t like Rich’s mother; it was that she found her exhausting. She wasn’t sure what role she was supposed to play with her, and she felt as if she was struggling to make conversation.
Everyone finished eating in relative silence. Even Rachel calmed down long enough so Bridget could finish her food.
Meg jumped up as soon as she was finished and asked if she could get the pie.
“Wait until everyone is finished, sweetie.”
Rich stood up. “I’m done too. Let’s go into the kitchen and get that whipped cream ready.”
A few minutes later, her darling daughter proudly brought out the pumpkin pie so everyone could see it before it was cut. Rich came behind her with a big bowl of whipped cream.
“My, that looks nice,” Beatrice said.
Meg beamed. “Mom, can you cut it? I don’t want to ruin it.”
Claire stood and cut the first piece and graciously gave it to Beatrice after Rich had smacked a large dollop of whipped cream on it. Then they served everyone else. Claire sat down and took a bite of her pie. Something was very wrong with the pie. It was not sweet at all.
Meg held her mouth open and screamed, “Mom.”
“Spit it out on your plate.”
Meg did as she was told.
“Did you put sugar in the pie filling?”
“Yes.”
“What sugar?”
“The stuff in the bowl by the stove.”
“Oh, dear, that’s salt.”
Meg started to cry. Claire felt like joining her. Rachel did. Beatrice pushed her pie plate away.
Bridget, who had not said much the whole meal, stood up and plopped Rachel in Beatrice’s lap. Claire wasn’t sure who looked more surprised—the old woman or the baby. Beatrice looked as if someone had dumped the rest of the pumpkin pie on her lap. Her hands flew up as if she didn’t want to get them dirty.
“I can’t take any more crying. I need to sleep.” Bridget left the room.
Beatrice didn’t seem to know where to put her hands. The baby curled up against her and looked as if it was about to slide onto the floor. Beatrice gingerly put a hand behind its head and then began to jiggle her knees.
Miraculously, the baby stopped crying. Meg sniffled. Beatrice gently jostled the baby and then picked up her spoon. She looked at Meg with a smile. “You know what one of my favorite desserts is?” she asked.
“What?”
“Whipped cream.” She proceeded to pile mounds on her plate and Meg’s.
Then the phone rang. Claire looked at Rich, who shrugged and shook his head. She answered it.
Claire recognized Sven Slocum’s voice, even though he didn’t identify himself as he tried to get out his words. She could tell he was frightened. “She might be dead. You have to come. It’s bad.”
12
CLAIRE had never seen anything like it: a brilliant splash of red blood cut across the new fallen snow like bright carnelian paint splashed across a freshly gessoed canvas. The battered woman looked as if she had been caught making angels in the snow—her feet splayed apart, her arms flung wide—but her broken face told another story. It was smashed, the nose twisted, the lips bruised, the eyes battered. Claire could hardly recognize the woman as Stephanie, but the pale blond hair tucked under a cap gave her away.
And then on top of the woman sat the small brown-and-white dog, shivering and watchful. As they approached, it started to growl.
Sven stood near, wringing his hands. “He won’t let me get near her. I’ve tried, and he barks.”
“He’s only a little dog,” Claire said, slowly inching toward the woman.
“But he bites,” Sven said.
Rich told her to stop. “I’ll get him to come to me. It’ll be better.” He sat down on the snow. “Come here, guy.” He patted the snow in front of him. “You’ve done your job. Now, come.” The last word he said very forcefully, and the little dog jumped down off Stephanie’s motionless body and begrudgingly walked up to Rich. Rich scooped him up and told him he was a good dog.
Claire allowed herself a moment to think of Rich’s reaction to this scene—she was sure he had never seen anything this gruesome before—and then moved right in on Stephanie. She hoped the EMTs would be here soon. She had called the ambulance from her house before she left.
Please let her be alive, she prayed. The eyes looked the worst, swollen shut with dark blue mottling all around the hollow.
Claire remembered the abused woman in Minneapolis who had been blinded by her husband. He had taken a knife to her eyes, tried to carve them out, and left two gaping holes in her head. So she knew it could be worse.
The bone of Stephanie’s nose looked crushed and crooked. Claire figured that’s where most of the blood had come from. Bending close, she thought she detected a breath. A finger to the carotid gave her a weak but steady response.
“Stephanie,” she said and nudged the woman. A faint groan whistled out into the cold, quiet air.
“Rich, she’s still alive. Go to the house and get blankets. We don’t want to lose her to shock.”
Claire looked around at the crime scene. Give it up, she told herself, for soon it will be polluted with more footprints than you can paw through. Snow was covering the tracks of whoever had been here. She would do the best she could, once they got Stephanie safely in an ambulance, but at the moment she had to concentrate on the life of this woman and forget about her assailant.
She couldn’t help but ask Sven, “Did you see anyone, Sven? How did you happen to come here?”
He stood right behind her. “Is she going to be okay? Such a nice woman, Stephanie is.”
“I don’t know. Can you answer my questions?”
“She called me a couple hours ago. Left a message on my machine. Her car wouldn’t start. I wasn’t home. I had gone to some friends to eat turkey and all. When I got home about twenty minutes ago I got her message and came right away. This is how I found her. No one was here. I think whoever did it parked just off the road. Past where my car is.”
“I’ll check there later. Thanks.”
Rich brought the blankets, having left the dog in the house. They covered her as best they could without moving her. Claire looked up at Rich. She had started to count on him. “Is there anything else we can do to get her warm without moving her?”
“Rub her hands. Get her to feel your contact. It might bring her out.”
Claire took off the black woollen glove Stephanie was wearing, took her small white hand in hers, and rubbed it. Claire didn’t know if she believed Rich that it would make the woman warmer, but it did give her something to do, and she did believe that human touch could bring people back from the brink of death.
“Stephanie, we’re here. You’re going to be all right.” Claire heard the words come out of her mouth automatically. She hoped they were true.
Another truck pulled up at the end of the driveway, and a big man burst out of it. As he came closer, Claire saw that it was Clay Burnes, the emergency medical technician who had also shown up at Buck’s drowning. She hoped the ambulance would be close behind. They needed to get her out of here.
“We meet again,” he said as he came up to her.
“Unfortunately.” She stood up and allowed Clay to get in close to Stephanie. As he checked her over, Claire filled him in on what she knew. He was nodding his head and indicating that he was getting good response from Stephanie. She groaned again and turned her head to the side.
“Do you know who did this?” he asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“We can assume a guy,” he stated.
Claire nodded.
“What did he use on her?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Haven’t had a chance to look. He might have taken it with him.” Then she added, “Clay, this woman was Buck’s girlfriend.”
Clay looked up at her, his eyes wide and unblinking. “What the hell is going on here?”
The ambulance roared in, pushing its way through the plow drift across the end of the driveway. Two men jumped out of the vehicle, and one burst out of the back. Claire stepped back and watched as they circled Stephanie, working on her as Clay orchestrated their moves.
Rich had hated leaving Claire at Stephanie’s, with blood all over the snow, and the woman carefully packed off to the hospital. Claire was left to tramp through the snow and see if anything had been left behind that would identify the bastard that had beaten up Stephanie. But someone had to get back to their guests.
Snooper whined on the seat next to him. Claire had
told him the name of the dog before he left with it. Rich reached over and petted the little guy. He must be pretty upset—losing two owners in less than a week. Rich hoped Stephanie would be back on her feet soon, but he didn’t count on it—she had looked so horrible.
When he saw that the dog was still shaking, he unzipped his jacket, put the dog inside, and zipped it back up. The dog hunkered down into the jacket, not even his head showing.
The snow had all but stopped when Rich drove back up to Claire’s house to rescue Bridget and his mother. He pulled into the driveway and sat for a moment, trying to calm down. He felt like he wanted to slam his fist into a wall, into any man who would do that to a woman. How could Claire go on seeing that kind of stuff day after day?
Maybe she didn’t see it that frequently down in Pepin County, but she must have seen it far too often in the Cities. Even down here, it happened. People ignored such abuse, thought it wasn’t their business when their neighbors were beating up their wives and battering their kids.
It sickened him. He wanted to walk up the bluff and down and get it out of his system, but he had to go in and reassure his mother and Bridget that everything was all right. After all, it was Thanksgiving. Since the dog seemed comfortable, he left him inside his jacket and got out of the car.
When he walked into the house, the first thing that surprised him was the quiet. The second was that the kitchen was clean. Then he found his mother sitting on the couch, reading a book to Meg, who was already in her pajamas. The baby Rachel was sleeping, tucked in next to his mother, a bottle resting on her chest. Maybe she would make a good grandmother someday—if she ever got the chance.
When he asked where Bridget was, he was told she was still sleeping in the guest bedroom.
Meg looked up at him, pleased with herself. “Beatrice and I did the dishes. I wiped.”
Rich walked up to his mother and kissed her forehead. “Good job, Mom.”
“Someone had to make order out of all this. Tell Claire we improvised a little when we put the dishes away.”
“We even changed the baby’s diaper, and it was a poopy one.
“I remembered how,” his mother said. “It’s so easy now with those disposables. They have the tape built into them. What a breeze.”
