by Mary Logue
What was nice about sewing these small even stitches was that at the end of an hour there were more of them, they added up, and eventually the quilt was done.
In her job, sometimes cases were never finished. Cold cases hung around her neck like so much weight. She did not want Buck’s or Stephanie’s to be one of them.
Letting her hands fall still, Claire stared out the window. Deep winter. Christmas would be upon them shortly. She saw her own white face reflected in the glass glare over layers of frost.
She remembered a girlfriend of hers from high school looking in the mirror at her house. Tanya. Liquid brown hair down her back. A bruise on her arm. When Claire asked how it had happened, Tanya had rubbed at the mark, then said with a laugh that her boyfriend didn’t know his own strength, that he got jealous. She had worn the mark like a badge of their attachment. “He’s so good to me afterward. He tells me he loves me all the time.”
At that time, Claire hadn’t dated anyone seriously and was surprised at the level of sacrifice a woman might have to endure to be loved. In the way that tragedy can seem romantic when one is young, the bruise seemed like an emblem of love.
She knew better now.
Claire hoped that she could save Stephanie.
19
CLAIRE sat and stared at the top of her desk. Most of it was covered with forms, files, and junk, but there was a clear space between her coffee mug and her Rolodex, and she stared at the bare Formica surface. She was good and stuck.
It was just then that Chief Deputy Sheriff Swanson stopped by. He perched on the edge of her desk, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him. She worried that it might tip, but he seemed to be able to maneuver his bulk around quite well.
“Owens?” he asked. He could be a man of few words. He followed the work of his deputies quite closely, keeping the sheriff filled in on anything important.
“I hate to tell you we’re reaching a dead end. Just got the report from WDI that the fingerprint on Buck Owen’s glasses matched the bartender’s. And we know how that happened. So that lead is gone.”
“I can’t believe no one in the bar saw anything.”
Claire shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Trent and I tracked down everyone, and they don’t remember anyone being with him.”
“The car?”
“It was pretty well washed out by the lake water.”
Stewy didn’t say anything for a moment, seeming to chew over what had been said. “So what’s next?”
“I still think it’s tied into Stephanie Klaus’s beating. It’s just too much of a coincidence that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, and he gets killed and she nearly does.” “So?”
“She hasn’t given me anything. I’m trying to wait her out. I think she is coming to trust me.”
“Bring her down to the station?”
“I don’t think so. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Aiding and abetting.”
“I don’t think that covers conveniently not remembering. She’s going to be in the hospital for another day, and I’ve got one more idea.”
What had her uncle, a former cop, told her to do when you hit this dry spot? Look through the cracks, he had always said. Whatever the hell that meant. Probably like reading between the lines in a letter. “What?”
“The brother’s wife. Somehow I just think that Stephanie might be apt to talk to another woman. She doesn’t have any friends to speak of. I don’t think she and her mom get along that great, but she and her brother have always been close. I thought I would go and try to talk to his new wife. Maybe Stephanie has confided in her.”
“Any hunches?”
“Not really. The brother might know something he’s not telling. It’s hard to say. Stephanie came from one weird family. Then there is Tom Jackson, the cop from Eau Claire. I hate to say it of one of our own, but a lot of cops are abusive.”
Swanson grunted and rubbed his chin. “You got work to do. We haven’t had many murders in this county, but we’ve solved every one of them. Thanks to you.” He pushed off the desk and walked away.
Claire knew the record. Before she moved down here, there hadn’t been a murder in Pepin County for over twenty years.
She was sliding her chair back when Scott walked up to her. He stood in front of her and grinned. She couldn’t help but smile back. Nice to have a happy soul around the office.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey to you too,” she answered.
“Talked to Billy. He checked out Jackson. Actually called the guy up.”
“I’m not sure that’s what I wanted him to do.”
“Well, whatever. He did it. Jackson claims he hasn’t seen Stephanie in many a year. Billy said he didn’t sound particularly interested even. Just said the marriage didn’t work out.”
“Did you find out anything?”
“He’s well thought of in the department. Kind of a loner. Does his job. Dependable.”
“What about his temper?”
Scott paused, then said, “One guy I talked to said that he’d been known to take off on a perp.”
Claire nodded.
“That happens,” Scott pointed out.
“Yeah, too often.” Claire grabbed her jacket.
“Where you off to?” Scott asked. “A little early for home.”
“I wish. I’m going to take care of an evil caretaker.”
“Fun.”
This was going to be the hard part. The deputy had explained on the phone that possession was indeed nine-tenths of the law. That it would be easier if Mrs. Tabor could try to get the pin back from Lily—steal it back if necessary—before they talked to her. Then they wouldn’t have to fight over that.
Lily had the brooch on again today, and it was displayed on her sweater, which she was still wearing. Mrs. Tabor had snuck down the hallway and turned up the heat a couple degrees. Lily was always fussing about how cold Mrs. Tabor kept the house, but she didn’t need to pay the heating bills. However, it would be worth a few extra kilowatts to get her pin back.
Lily was in the kitchen cooking, which was warm work anyway. She was making meatloaf, one of Mrs. Tabor’s favorite dishes. Lily didn’t make it the way Mrs. Tabor used to, but it was good enough. Mrs. Tabor always liked to put a little horseradish in the ketchup she smeared over the top of the loaf. It gave it a little spark and a bit of color too. But Lily’s meatloaf held together better than Mrs. Tabor’s ever had. She guessed it was the egg for binding that did it.
“That smells good,” Mrs. Tabor commented as Lily put it in the oven.
“Doesn’t even smell yet. You must be smelling the oven heating up. Maybe something dripped in there. You better clean the oven one of these days. That’s not my job.”
“I know. My daughter promised she’d do it next time she came.”
Her daughter always promised everything, but she was just too busy to do half the things that needed doing around the house. Sometimes it hurt Mrs. Tabor terribly to see the house fall down around her; other days she didn’t mind. They were just getting old together, she figured.
Then Lily did what Mrs. Tabor had been waiting for—she took off her sweater with the pin on it.
Mrs. Tabor didn’t look at it. She turned her back in fact and shuffled over to the sink and started fussing around with the dishes. Lily hated when she tried to help. Said she made more of a mess than anything. It was time for Mrs. Tabor to take her nap and Lily to watch her talk shows on TV. Mrs. Tabor had tried to watch them once or twice, but she found it much more stimulating to take a nap.
“You go on now.” Lily shooed her away.
Mrs. Tabor walked away from the sink, and Lily took her place. This was her chance. She walked over to the sweater and undid the clasp. It took her a few moments, because her hands were shaking, but the water kept running in the sink. Then the clasp came loose and the pin was in her hand. She set the sweater on the back of the kitchen chair and walked down the hall without looking back.
>
She knew just where she was going to hide it. Where Lily would never think of looking—in her Bible. Lily was a confirmed atheist. This fact alone should have warned Mrs. Tabor that the woman was not to be trusted. Bad enough not to believe in God, but worse to go around talking about it. She figured that’s what confirmed meant. Maybe like confirmation classes she attended in her Lutheran church. Committed to talking about it.
Mrs. Tabor opened her drawer and took out the Bible. The pin made a bump in the pages, but it just looked like she was reading it. Mrs. Tabor put it back in the drawer and lay down on top of the covers on her bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she would rest and pretend. The deputy said she would come right at the end of her shift, close to five o’clock. Lily left by six.
But Mrs. Tabor did sleep, and she dreamed the devil was wearing her pin. Then he grabbed her arm and yelled her name, and she woke up and found Lily next to her bed.
“What did you do with it, you old hag?”
Mrs. Tabor thought she might have preferred her dream to be real. Lily looked like a witch incarnate, her hair hanging over her shoulder, her eyes dark circles of anger.
“Take what?” she asked, trying to pretend she didn’t know anything.
Then Lily shook her. “I know what you’re up to. You give me things to keep me here, and then you take them away. I won’t let you get away with that.”
Mrs. Tabor felt sick. The shaking had to stop. She struck out at Lily.
The doorbell rang.
Lily let go of her, and Mrs. Tabor reached out for her glasses, but Lily grabbed them away. “You stay here. Ill take care of whoever it is.”
Then Mrs. Tabor prayed. She had been a good Lutheran all her life. She hardly ever asked for anything. She had prayed for Herbert when he was sick, but knew it wouldn’t do much good. The cancer had him in its jaws. He was a goner before she had thought to pray. But this time she thought God might hear her.
Lily talked loud, and Mrs. Tabor heard her say that she was lying down, didn’t feel good, couldn’t see anyone. Then she heard someone walk in and Lily protesting.
“Mrs. Tabor, I’m sorry to hear you’re not feeling well.” Deputy Watkins was there in the doorway of her room.
“Well, I’d feel a mite better if Lily wouldn’t have shaken me so hard.” Mrs. Tabor smoothed back her hair. “I need my glasses, Lily.”
Lily handed them over. “I didn’t know she was coming over again. You didn’t say anything. I didn’t want her to bother you.”
Mrs. Tabor took her time. She had wanted to do this for a long while. She sat up straight on the edge of her bed and put her glasses on. Then she stood up and looked Lily in the face.
“No bother, Lily. I just wanted her here when I told you that you are fired.”
Claire was standing right behind Lily and couldn’t see her face. First Lily swore. She called Mrs. Tabor a bitch. Then she moved toward Mrs. Tabor. Claire was glad she had positioned herself where she had. Claire stepped in and wrapped an arm around Lily’s shoulders from behind, pinning her arms down.
Mrs. Tabor’s hands went up to her face. Claire thought how instinctive that move was to protect our eyes, the one part of our body that did not repair itself as well as the rest. Mrs. Tabor cowered.
Lily struggled in Claire’s grasp, and then she collapsed against her. “You stupid old woman,” she yelled. “Now no one will take care of you.”
Mrs. Tabor sat on the edge of her bed and wept.
Claire kept a hand on Lily’s shoulder and led her out of the room.
Mr. Turner seemed to be avoiding her this morning. Meg didn’t mind too much. It was better than when he was nagging at her, but it did put her teeth on edge. She had done her homework and had done her best on it. But he hadn’t looked at their work yet.
The class was quiet, doing a whole page of math problems. Meg did them in her usual fast way, not dawdling the way she had been doing the last few weeks. They got too boring if you did them slow. She had been coming up with an idea in her head, and she wanted to work on it. If she got all her math done, she could stare at the finished problems and think.
Sometimes the numbers even gave her ideas. Last year she had come up with a whole world in her head. Seven was the boy, five was the girl, nine was god, and two and three were the children. Eight was the evil man.
Eight also stood for infinity, a concept that scared her deeply. A number that just went on and on in itself. Sometimes when she was doodling she would draw an eight and then draw an eight in one of the loops and then another eight in one of the smaller loops and see how many eights she could draw. When she realized that if she could draw small enough, she would be drawing eights forever, she felt like she was looking down the mouth of infinity. What went on with no end.
During this difficult time in Mr. Turner’s class, she had realized that she didn’t have to always read the stories, that she had a lot of them in her head and that she could follow them there. The stories unrolled in front of her if she let them.
“Meg, could I see you for a few minutes during recess?” Mr. Turner surprised her, coming up behind her.
He would have to tell her that fifteen minutes before they left for recess. Now she would worry for the whole time. She had been working on a story in her head, but it left her when she worried. Then she remembered what she and her mom had talked about, and she was determined to deal with Mr. Turner.
The fifteen minutes went by very slowly. Meg turned in her math paper with everyone else and then watched them all walk out the door. She and Mr. Turner were alone in the room. She walked up to his desk.
“Meg, I had a nice talk with your mother.”
Standing this close to him, Meg saw that his eyebrows looked bigger than ever. Meg nodded.
“She and I discussed how you were not working up to your potential.”
What a horrible word—potential. Sounded like you were a math equation, and you were supposed to equal something, but you didn’t quite make it. She knew people weren’t math, even if you could make numbers into characters.
“Meg, do you understand?”
She hadn’t realized he wanted her to say anything. “Yes, Mr. Turner.”
“Do you agree?”
“I think I’ve been goofing off a little.”
“That has to stop.”
She thought his eyebrows looked like two hairy caterpillars, and sometimes she pretended they were about to kiss when he scrunched his forehead, but because the image made her laugh, she tried to avoid it now.
“Your mother and I have agreed that if you do all your homework and all the class assignments and get your grades up, we will allow you to read in class. But everything has to be done and done well. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Meg was thrilled that she could start reading again. But she wanted to make sure she would not have any more trouble from Mr. Turner for the rest of the year. “I had an idea too.”
“What is that, Meg?”
“Well, I was wondering if I could write a story for extra credit.”
Mr. Turner smiled. It was not a wonderful sight. He did it so infrequently that it looked like he was in pain. “What a good idea. Do you know what you want to write about?”
What a stupid question. She had a million ideas. Ideas were not the problem, writing them down was. “Yes, I want to write a new fairy tale about a little girl all alone in the woods and how she survives.”
20
STEPHANIE was walking through a path in the woods with flowers in bloom all around her. The sky was clear blue like the ocean. She had the feeling that she could fall into it and swim. And Snooper was with her. He was running ahead of her, his tail waving happily like a little flag in a parade.
Then Stephanie woke up into the nightmare that was her life. She lay perfectly still under the crisp sheets of her hospital bed. She was leaving today. The fear that had nestled in her heart like a small animal was uncurling. It was growing into a beast that would be rampaging
through her body if she didn’t watch it. It would control her and paralyze her. She put her hands over her heart and tried to calm herself. Think of water, she told herself, the calm, lazy water of summer. She tried and tried, but it turned to ice in the eyes of her mind.
She took deep breaths and forced herself into the world that surrounded her. She had to get up and get going. She could feel the fear pound gently in her blood, getting her to move.
Stephanie checked the clock on the wall. She could see it pretty well. Her eyes were a lot better. Eight-thirty. Breakfast was sitting next to the bed. She must have slept through them bringing it in.
She had asked Sven to come around ten o’clock. That would give her time to take a bath and get everything ready. She had told the nurse that she wanted to put on regular clothes today. She had cleaned her clothes and had them sitting in the bottom of the closet. It was no secret she was leaving the hospital. She just didn’t want everyone to know. Like her brother.
That was a laugh—what a brother he had turned out to be.
He had even asked her to come and stay with him. She wouldn’t stay with him in a million years, especially not since he had married that woman he called his wife. She was a moron and deserved exactly what she had walked into. But she didn’t know a thing.
Stephanie gently lifted her feet over the side of the bed. She heard a man moaning down the hall. He had been singing hymns last night. She almost liked the moaning better; it was more rhythmical. Standing up felt okay. Her head didn’t keep going after her body stopped. Today it felt attached to her neck.
She walked cautiously to the bathroom, but everything stayed level around her. She had slept well last night, and her dream had been a wonderful present this morning.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw that the bruising was running down her face like old mascara. A dark blue smudge sat high on her cheekbones like the smear football players wear to keep the sun from reflecting into their eyes. Jack had explained its use to her one day when they were watching TV.
