by Joanne Fluke
“Okay, I’ll do whatever you say. You’re not going to tell anybody about this, are you, Michele?”
“Not if you hold up your end of the bargain.”
Dale looked sick as he watched Michele dial a number and push the phone across the desk to him. He took the phone gingerly, almost as if he were afraid to touch her fingers. Michele almost smiled as he cleared his throat and made the arrangements. It was about time somebody laid down the law to Dale Kline.
A moment later it was done. Cindy would leave by plane in the morning and arrive at the school in time for dinner.
“Uh . . . thanks, Michele.” Dale replaced the phone with shaking fingers. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .”
“Sure, Dale.”
Luckily Dale’s secretary was away from her desk. Michele hurried through the deserted reception area and down the stairs. Her legs were shaking, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed open the door and stepped out into the freezing air. Thank goodness that was over!
The clinic was only two blocks away, and Michele didn’t bother to zip up her jacket. Something about being so close to Dale had made her feel contaminated. The cold air helped. She almost ran the last half block to the clinic door.
“That bad, huh?” Louise raised her eyebrows as Michele closed the door to her office and leaned against it, breathing hard.
“Worse. I threatened to turn him over to the police if he didn’t cooperate. And I didn’t have a shred of evidence. Cindy told me she’d never sign a complaint against her own father.”
“So you bluffed him.” Louise grinned. “Maybe you ought to take up playing poker, Michele. I think you’re a natural.”
“I don’t know what I would have done if he’d denied everything. But it’s all set, Louise. Twenty-four hours from now Cindy’ll be starting a new life in Connecticut.”
Louise looked concerned as she noticed Michele’s shaking hands.
“Maybe I’d better take your last appointment. You don’t look like you’re in any shape to handle the lady from Foley.”
“I forgot I had another appointment.” Michele poured herself a hot cup of coffee. “What’s her problem, Louise?”
“She’s twenty-nine years old, and she’s got eleven kids. She wants to know if we can make her husband board up the bedroom window. He told her that inhaling night air causes pregnancy.”
“Oh, no.” Michele sighed deeply. “Give me a minute and then send her in. I’m fine now, Louise. Really.”
“No, you’re not.” Louise opened the door and turned to look back. “You just added cream and sugar to your coffee and you drink it black.”
“There’s no chicken leg on this wall, Brian.”
Judith Dahlquist stood on top of a chair holding a Kentucky Fried Chicken ad in her hand. A collage of vegetables, desserts, breads, beverages, and entrées covered three walls of Brian Nordstrom’s big kitchen on First Avenue. Even though the fourth wall was far from completion, at least half of the bright pink enamel was covered. Judith could understand Brian’s rush to redecorate his kitchen. It was impossible to cook in a room that looked like the inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle.
“It’s there somewhere.” Brian was firm. “Greg glued it up last night. Did you look behind the refrigerator?”
“If it’s behind the refrigerator, no one’s going to see it anyway.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll know it’s there. If you put up another chicken leg, it’ll destroy the artistic integrity of my kitchen.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Brian! Art is nothing but appearance. You don’t get what you can’t see.”
Judith climbed down and faced Brian angrily. He glared back at her.
“Maybe you can’t see the other chicken leg, but it exists, and we both know it.”
“It doesn’t exist for me, Brian. It’s like the tree that falls in the forest. It makes no sound if no one’s there to hear it.”
“Oh, Judith!” Brian sounded exasperated. “That’s an entirely different case. You never did understand Berkeley.”
Greg Hendricks looked up from the picture he was trimming. It sounded as if Judith and Brian were gearing up for one of their classic arguments.
“Hey!” Greg held up his hands in a time-out sign. “Don’t start shouting at each other. We’ve got neighbors next door.”
“It’s all right, Greg.” Brian grinned at him. “We’ve got the windows closed, and nobody can hear us. It’s not like the apartment.”
Judith laughed out loud. Brian had almost lost the lease on his apartment after one of their marathon debates on artificial intelligence. The manager didn’t seem to understand that art professors like Brian were born to argue.
“Here, Judith.” Brian handed her a picture of a giant walnut. “Ditch the chicken leg and put this up.”
Judith bit back her retort about the appropriateness of nuts. There was no use starting anything with Brian now. They didn’t have time before the WinterGame meeting.
“Less than half a wall to go, and we’re through.” Judith brushed lacquer on the back of the picture and slapped it into place. “Actually it’s looking good, Brian. Maybe your idea wasn’t so crazy after all.”
Brian had made an offer on the four-bedroom house across from the campus Newman Center more than four months ago. Even though the price was right, Brian hadn’t expected to get the house. He and Judith had co-founded GALA, and the community wasn’t very accepting when it came to homosexuals and lesbians.
Luckily the owners of the house had been more interested in Brian’s credit rating than his personal life. The papers had been signed last month, and since then Brian and Greg had put all their free time into making the place livable.
The first thing they’d done was cut an archway between two small upstairs bedrooms to make a large office for Greg. Bookcases lined the walls, from floor to ceiling. They held all of Greg’s history books with plenty of room for new acquisitions.
The attic, stretching the full length of the house, was perfect for Brian’s studio. They had found a type of spray insulation that could be mixed with paint, and now the rafters and walls were covered with a coat of fuzzy white that reminded Judith of freshly fallen snow.
Greg glanced at his watch. “You two had better get cleaned up if you want to make that meeting on time. I’ll keep at it until it’s time for my night class.”
“I’ll come over tomorrow and help you with the final coat of lacquer,” Judith said. “Toni’s not coming back from Chicago until next weekend, and that big old loft of mine is lonesome.”
Brian wiped his hands on a rag and ran water in the sink. “We’ll throw a homecoming party for Toni on Saturday. She’s going to plotz when she sees this kitchen.”
“That’ll be fun, Brian.” Judith began to smile. “We can spend all night arguing the ontology of the chicken leg.”
CHAPTER 5
Perkins Pancake House was crowded, but Judith had reserved a big round booth by the windows in the back section. Michele sat next to Steve, watching the snow fall in big wet flakes to cover Sixth Avenue. The brake lights of the cars on Division Street flashed on and off as drivers slowed for the stoplight on the corner.
Michele remembered her first impression of Minnesota: It was so dark at night. In Houston the neon signs had reflected off the inversion layer that covered the city, creating a ceiling of perpetual twilight. Here the air was clear, no smog, and the streetlights glowed dimly, swallowed by the dark black sky above.
“Michele, you’ve got snack bar duty for the hockey play-offs.” Judith referred to the list spread out on the table. “You’ll be selling hot dogs, coffee, beer, and cocoa. Everything’s priced at a dollar, so it should be easy. Can you find someone to help you?”
“I’ll help.” Steve held out his coffee cup for a refill. “At least it’ll be warm in the snack bar.”
Michele turned to smile at Steve. He was wearing a Pendleton wool shirt, and he looked every bit as handsome as a movie star.
Her mother would definitely approve. Steve was a solid citizen and he had what her mother called “potential.”
“Let’s just hope this snow doesn’t keep up.” Judith frowned. “Over sixty kids have entered the snowman building contest on Monday.”
Louise Gladke laughed. “A little snow won’t stop them. My kids used to build snowmen in the middle of a blizzard.”
“I almost forgot.” Judith grinned at them all. “The problem with the hockey play-offs is solved. We’ve got another entry, so it turns out even. The guards at the reformatory sent in their fee. They’re calling themselves the St. Cloud Slammers.”
Brian finished the last bite of his hamburger and snagged a French fry from Judith’s plate.
“How about the schedule for the paper? Did you send a copy to Mrs. Whitworth?”
Judith nodded. “I took care of it when I taped my spot today. Mrs. Whitworth wants you and Louise to come in tomorrow morning, Michele. She promised to run four public service announcements for WinterGame every day.”
“If we’re finished with business, I think I’ll head on home.” Brian slid out of the booth and stood up. “I’ve got some work to do.”
Judith looked worried. “Wait until I finish my pie, and I’ll give you a ride. It’s dark out there.”
“Ray Perini’s death’s got you paranoid, Judith. You don’t have to worry about me. Steve already told us he thought it was a Mafia hit, and my whole family’s Swedish. If Swedes want to get rid of someone, they lock them in the sauna.”
“Hey!” Norm Ostrander jostled Herb Swanson’s elbow to get his attention. “Isn’t that the little queer we saw on the news?”
Herb leaned out the side of the booth and squinted. “Sure looks like it. I didn’t know Perkins had fruit salad on the menu.”
“Jesus, that’s good.” Norm laughed so hard one of the snaps on his cowboy shirt popped open.
“Did you want dessert?” A young waitress hurried over to their booth with menus.
“Not unless it’s you, baby.” Herb leered at her suggestively. There was a gap where his front tooth should have been. Someone had hit him in the mouth with a beer bottle last year.
“That’s not available.” The waitress stepped neatly out of reach as Herb made a grab for her. “We have three kinds of pie tonight. Apple, blueberry, and coconut cream.”
Norm studied the menu for a moment and looked up innocently. “I’ll have dessert. Why don’t you give me a piece?”
“Sure.” The waitress took their bill out of her apron pocket and smiled professionally, pencil poised. “Apple, blueberry, or coconut cream?”
“Not that kind of piece. What time do you get off work?”
It took a moment for the waitress to understand. Then she blushed beet-red and plunked their bill on the table.
“Maybe I should have asked for an order of buns.” Norm eyed the waitress appreciatively as she stalked away.
Herb laughed and tossed his napkin into the pile of ketchup on his plate.
“We got an hour before the band starts playing at the bar, and this place is a drag. What d’ya say we go find that little faggot and stomp the hell out of him?”
It was a nice night for a walk in the snow. Brian didn’t notice the truck that followed him as he cut across the parking lot and dropped his deposit in the night slot at NorWest Bank. It had to be at least ten above, and his lightweight parka and leather mittens kept him insulated from the cold air.
Snow swirled across the street in gusts as he stepped off the curb at Fifth Avenue. A pickup truck was coming up fast behind him, and Brian jumped back as it roared past. Some people in St. Cloud didn’t slow down for the winter. They just skidded around on the ice and snow and bashed up their cars on the weekends.
The Sunwood lot was nearly full. Brian read the sign as he crossed Fourth Avenue, WELCOME TRI-STATE OPTICAL WORKERS! The Sunwood booked a lot of conventions in the off-season.
A big Ford pickup was idling with its lights out at the entrance to the Sunwood. Brian was sure it was the same truck that had almost run him down on Fifth. A small knot of fear began to grow in his belly. Ray Perini had been murdered only eight blocks from here, and the two guys in the truck looked mean enough to be killers.
Brian told himself to stop imagining things. Ray had been killed in a deserted park after midnight. The truck was parked right under the lighted Sunwood sign. Nothing bad was going to happen here.
The radio inside the truck was playing country and western music. The men were probably listening to the end of a song before they went inside. Brian was about to walk past when he heard loud voices.
“I thought queers were supposed to wear pink parkas, didn’t you, Herb?”
“Yeah. With lace around the hood.”
Automatically Brian stiffened, but he resisted the urge to turn and look. He was almost relieved. These men knew he was gay, and that made them locals. He’d been hassled a lot since his television appearance for GALA. Usually the rednecks in town left him alone if he didn’t react to their taunts.
A car door slammed, and Brian whirled around. Two men got out of the pickup and swaggered toward him.
“Hey, fruit loop! Come on over here. We wanna get to know you better!”
Brian knew he was in trouble. The door to the Sunwood was all the way across the parking lot. He’d never make it inside in time. And Tomaczek’s Standard station next door was closed. There was nowhere to go.
“Aw, look at that! I don’t think he trusts us.” The man with the cowboy hat laughed loudly. “All we wanna do is take you for a friendly little ride.”
This was it. Brian balanced himself on the balls of his feet. It was a good thing Greg had talked him into taking that self-defense class last summer. He only hoped he could remember what to do. The big man outweighed him by at least eighty pounds, and the one with the cowboy boots looked mean.
They both rushed him at once. Brian stepped back and let them bang into each other. The cowboy threw a punch at his face, but Brian managed to grab his arm and throw him off-balance. He was doing all right so far.
Before Brian had time to move, the big man grabbed him from behind. This was something his karate instructor had covered in the first week.
Brian reacted automatically. He grabbed the big man’s left arm and snapped it down sharply as he twisted to face him. Before the man could do much more than grunt, Brian’s knee slammed into his crotch.
The big man went down, clutching his groin. Brian grinned. That trick had worked damn well.
“You rotten little freak! I’ll get you for that!”
The cowboy rushed him from the other side. Brian saw a knife blade flash in his hand. They’d practiced with rubber knives in class, but this was real. He could get killed!
Brian stepped to the side and kicked at the knife as the cowboy attacked. There was a solid crunch as he connected, and the knife went skittering off under a parked car.
The cowboy swore as he lunged at him, and Brian put his whole body behind the blow. The cowboy twisted at the last moment, and Brian’s blow glanced off, just catching a corner of his windpipe. A chop to the back of the neck, and the cowboy collapsed in the snow, wheezing and coughing up blood.
“Brian! Jesus Christ! What happened?”
Brian looked up to see Steve running across the parking lot. Michele was right behind him.
“Wait until Greg hears about this.” A slow grin spread over Brian’s face. “He thought I was just goofing off in karate practice.”
Sister Kate turned down her covers and arranged the pillows to form a backrest. She tore open the sample package of antihistamine Dr. Sullivan had left and swallowed one capsule with a sip of hot chocolate. She had increased her dosage of vitamin C when winter set in, but it wasn’t the preventive it was cracked up to be.
Sister Kate’s cold had come on late this afternoon. She had sneezed her way through dinner, and Dr. Sullivan had noticed her condition when he’d dropped by this evening.
&nb
sp; “You’d better take some of this.” He’d handed her the sample package. “It’s twice as strong as those over-the-counter things, and my detail man says it’ll clear up rhinitis overnight. It might make you sleepy, though. Better wait until tonight to take it.”
Mother Superior had cornered her later. She’d asked to see Sister Kate’s new pet. Sister Kate was completely mystified until she recalled the doctor’s comment. They’d had a good laugh when Sister Kate explained that rhinitis was only the medical term for a runny nose.
Now it was after eleven, and all of Sister Kate’s patients were asleep. Sister Kate opened the window a crack to let in the fresh air and put on her warmest flannel nightgown.
The plate on the nightstand next to the bed contained two thin slices of low-fat cheese and two seasoned Ry Krisp crackers. Sister Kate had always enjoyed snacking in bed while reading a good book. Perhaps that lifelong habit was responsible for her vocational choice. At least there was no one to complain about cracker crumbs on the sheets.
Sister Kate turned the electric blanket up a notch and climbed into bed. She was almost finished with the paperback psychological thriller. She had checked the index of prohibited books, but it wasn’t listed. Sister Kate thought it was a lot racier than Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and that had appeared on the index within a month of publication.
Where was her bookmark? Sister Kate put on her reading glasses and flipped through the pages.
For the next half hour there was only the sound of pages rustling and Ry Krisp crunching. Sister Kate yawned as she marked the page and turned off the light. She had planned to finish the book tonight, but she was just too tired.
Sister Kate thought she heard footsteps upstairs as she dropped off to sleep. It sounded as if Cissy were crossing the hallway to Bishop Donahue’s room. That was unlikely, so she dismissed it as only a dream, and in a matter of moments, it became one.
