by Jess Lourey
I wish I’d brought my sunglasses. The morning is bright. “I was getting a checkup.”
Catherine is suddenly standing beside me, her arm caping my shoulders, her head too close. “The whole town is so excited about your baby,” she whispers. “Certainly those of us who live on Mill Street. It’s been so long since we had an infant in the neighborhood. Now, you must tell me all the details.”
I push her arm off and step away. I know it’s rude. “There’s not much to share. The baby is healthy. I’m healthy.”
Her jaw hardens. “Forgive me.”
A horn honks up the street. I run my hand across my face. Breathe. Realize I must appear even-tempered or people will talk. More than they already are. “No, it’s me who should be apologizing. I’ve felt a little off recently, is all. The baby is truly fine. Dr. Krause seems very nice.”
Catherine immediately returns her arm to my shoulders. She’s herding me down the street. Is she leading me toward Schmidt Insurance? “Dr. Krause is a gem,” she agrees. “We’re so lucky to have him. He’s not originally from around here. Did you know that? He came to us from North Dakota back in the ’40s. We’ve since made him one of our own.”
“His offices are very modern.”
Catherine laughs. It’s a high, tinny sound that draws some glances. “I know you think this is the boondocks, but Lilydale is not some backwater town.”
How can Catherine possibly know what I think? We’ve spoken only the one time she dropped off a casserole. I am no open book.
Catherine leans in again, even though she’s already too close. We’re almost at the Ben Franklin. Her tone is conspiratorial, naughty. “I was with your husband on Friday.”
I jerk back.
That thin laugh again, almost a shriek. “Got you! I’m referring to the Fathers meeting, of course. I was one of the Mothers who served them that night. Left to their own, those poor old sods would starve in a kitchen with a stocked refrigerator and a working stove.” She changes tack so quickly it’s difficult to keep up. “Please say you’ll come to our Mothers’ dinner party tonight. There will only be a few of us there, and it’s at my house. Right next door! You must join us.”
My skin feels as fragile as spun sugar. I realize we’ve stopped.
In front of Ben Franklin.
How did she know this was my destination?
“All right,” I say. Don’t seem uncooperative.
Catherine pecks my cheek. Her lips are dry, and she smells of pressed face powder. I think she must be in her late fifties or early sixties, like everyone else on Mill Street, and I don’t like her at all.
“Lovely. I’ll let you bring a dessert,” Catherine is saying. “It is so nice to have Deck back in town. Thank you for bringing him home.”
I shade my eyes so I can watch her walk two blocks before disappearing down Lake Avenue. Then, rather than enter Ben Franklin, I hurry to the phone booth on the corner. I slide open the door.
My hand is steady as I shift my handbag so I can access my coin purse. I locate a dime and drop it in the slot. I dial the number from memory.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
I know someone is watching me. I feel it like dead fingers up my spine. I pivot quickly in the booth, staring toward Lake Avenue.
No one is there.
I hang up and walk to Ben Franklin.
The cloisonné pineapple brooch is in my pocket.
I could return it.
But I don’t.
CHAPTER 22
Deck is pleased to see me when I drop by Schmidt Insurance after filling my prescription. He’s leaning over a map rolled out on a large table, his father on one side, Clan Brody—Catherine’s husband, Clan the Brody Bear—on the other. Deck’s jacket is off, his shirt rolled up to his elbows.
I still feel an electric jolt when I see him like this, engrossed, capable. When he spots me, his face lights up. It makes the whole shaky, crazy world seem solid.
For a moment.
I go to Deck. The map they’re poring over is of a town—Lilydale?—with lurid red Xs carved over sections. Ronald is smiling at me, Clan is smiling at me, and Deck is leading me to the break room. I note the filing cabinets lining the walls, a mob of them, and no secretary behind the desk. Mrs. Swanson must be at a late lunch.
“How did it go?” Deck asks once he has me in the break room.
I close the door and lean against it. “Fine, I suppose.”
He wraps me in his arms. “You don’t seem fine.”
“The doctor said I couldn’t drink.”
Deck steps back so he can see my face. He squeezes my shoulders. “I told you, baby. I’ll quit drinking in public, too. We’ll tipple at home until we’re soused, if you want. When I think how much champagne we swallowed the night we made this one, I figure he must be immune to it.” He addresses the next part at my belly. “Isn’t that right, little buddy?”
I relax for the first time all day. “I read the doctor’s notes. He put down that I’m uncooperative.” I can’t bring myself to say the last part. A risk.
Deck barks with laughter. “What’d you do? Refuse some tests?”
“Nothing. That’s the truth. I cracked a joke. It didn’t land well.”
He kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll vouch for you if it comes to that.”
“Hold me again, Deck.”
“Sure, darling.” He pulls me back into his arms.
“I ran into Catherine on the way here,” I say into his chest. “She invited me to a Mothers’ dinner party tonight.”
He hugs me tighter. “And?”
“I said I’d go.”
“Well, look at that. Nobody would call that uncooperative, would they?”
“Will you be all right for supper on your own?”
“Dad and I talked about grilling tonight. We’ll be fine. You go. Make friends. Show this town how wonderful you are.”
I want to stay in his arms forever, but there’s work to do. “I wanted to interview Mrs. Swanson. About the Paulie Aandeg case?” I filled Deck in about it last night. He listened with half an ear.
His chin is resting on my head. “She’s taken a few days off.”
I yank myself back. “What?”
He rubs the back of his neck, holding eye contact. “Yeah, but Dad might know more about the Paulie Aandeg situation.”
“Can I ask him now?”
“Here?” Deck asks, a smile warming his eyes. “You want to interview my dad at his own business?”
“Why not?”
“All right,” Deck says, chuckling. “I’ll see if he’s free.”
I nod as if it’s the most natural thing, biting my lip. I’m fishing my notepad out of my purse when Ronald strides in. He doesn’t look nearly as pleased about this as Deck did.
“Joan, Deck says you have a few questions.” The gravel of his voice is thick with friction. He leaves the door open behind him.
“Shouldn’t take long,” I say. “Thanks for talking to me. Have a seat?”
He scowls at the chair, walking over to lean against it, placing both hands on the chairback. “I’m afraid it’s a busy day. What can I do for you?”
I sit. One of us might as well be comfortable. “You know Paulie Aandeg has come back to town?”
“That’s the rumor.”
I ignore his evasiveness. “Do you remember when he disappeared?”
Ronald’s shoulders sag, as if he can’t remain outside the memory any longer. He pulls out the chair and sits, crossing his hands on the table as if in prayer. Not only does he look like Deck, he smells just like him up close.
“A real tragedy,” he says. “My heart went out to Virginia. Miss Aandeg. We tried to help her, the whole town did, but it was too much for her when her boy went missing. Then her house burned down. I believe she disappeared that night, before the fire.”
“Do you know why she left?” I’m thinking of Miss Colivan’s theory that Virginia had killed he
r son.
“I don’t truck in rumor,” he says, his expression sad, “but if I had to guess, I’d say she’d had enough and needed a fresh start.”
“So you don’t think she killed Paulie?”
“Virginia? No. What mother could possibly do that?”
His gaze is so piercing that I pretend to scribble on my pad to break eye contact. “Do you think I could interview Mrs. Swanson?” I say to my lap. “Dennis said she was Paulie’s teacher the day he went missing.”
Ronald leans forward and lifts my chin with the crook of his finger. It’s an unsettlingly intimate gesture. “That would be up to Mrs. Swanson, but I don’t see why not. She’s visiting family but should return soon.”
I’m leaning forward—he looks so much like Deck—to ask him another question, and is Ronald doing the same?
“Hey, Dad!” Deck pokes his head into the break room, and Ronald releases my chin. “We need your advice out here.”
I’m still looking at my pad of paper, cheeks blazing, when Ronald leaves the room.
It occurs to me that the town might have me on a snipe hunt, leading me on, keeping the key players just out of my reach.
But to what end?
CHAPTER 23
Get called a risk by my new doctor.
Check.
Keep brooch I stole.
Check.
Have uncomfortably charged moment with my soon-to-be father-in-law.
Check.
Well, this day couldn’t get better. Might as well continue the path I’m on. I blow across the street to the Gazette offices. I want to Xerox the two Paulie Aandeg articles, plus dig deeper in case there’s any pieces I’ve missed.
Dennis Roth’s wife is at the front desk. I do not know her first name.
“Hello, Mrs. Roth!” I say chirpily. “I’m here to look at the archives. I know the way.”
She doesn’t glance up from the copy she’s proofing with a red pen. “They’re down.”
My baby hairs stand on end. Snipe hunt. “What? I used them just the other day.”
“Everything works until it breaks,” she says, glancing up. She reminds me of a torpid animal, a turtle or a sloth, with the hair of Pat Nixon.
Languid Lady Roth.
I glance toward the back of the newspaper offices. “When are they getting fixed?”
Her smile is mild. “Soon, I hope.”
I match her expression. “I’ll stop back.”
“You do that,” she says absentmindedly, returning to her work.
Languid Lady Roth, Keeper of the Letters.
Dammit. I have to make some progress today, with or without help. I step into the sunshine and consider visiting the elementary school Paulie disappeared from, stopping by the button of a town library to dig through their stacks, dropping by the police station, or returning to the Purple Saucer for the second time today. I decide instead to go outside Lilydale’s circle. That will show them. I’ll try Benjamin, a photographer friend at the Star. He was easygoing, my favorite photographer to work with. He scored as many big-ticket gigs as pink ones, but he treated them both the same. At least I assumed he did.
Fingers crossed our relationship survives outside city limits.
The phone rings twice before it’s answered.
“Minneapolis Star.”
I’m startled. That’s the number I called, but the two words are so normal, so part of a different world from the one I’m currently inhabiting. Not even three hours up the road is a city where archives don’t crash for the foreseeable future, where children who’ve disappeared receive more than two mentions in the paper, where pregnant women aren’t always being watched.
“Benjamin Ember, please. Photography.”
“I’ll try him.”
Whirs and clicks and rings and me praying he’s in.
“Benjamin speaking.”
“Benny!” My relief is out of line with the circumstances, I recognize that. “It’s Joan. Joan Harken.”
“Joan! I heard you ended up in Podiddle, Minnesota, having babies. That true?”
“Mostly.” I look around. No one’s staring at me, and why would they be? I’m simply making a phone call. Except I swear I can feel eyes on me. “I’m working for a small-town paper. The Lilydale Gazette.”
“Like I said. Podiddle. To what do I owe the pleasure? Don’t tell me they need a photographer out there. Bet it pays in hay bales and farm girls. Am I right?”
“Benjamin, please.” But I smile. I miss his humor. He made many a Women’s News photo shoot bearable. “I need your help, but not as a photographer. I’m hoping you can visit the Star archives and look for anything that mentions Paulie Aandeg of Lilydale.”
“Your car stop working?” he asks, but I can hear his pen scratching as he writes down the name that I spell out for him.
Benjamin the Best Man.
“Ha ha, very funny. I have a life here, is all. Five hours of driving for a one-hour search is a little drastic, not to mention I no longer have reporter access.” But that’s not all of it. I realize I feel panicky at the thought of leaving Lilydale, like agoraphobia but this town is my room. It’s the pregnancy, I tell myself. Nesting.
“Hmmm,” he says. “A favor for a favor?”
I can’t imagine what I have that he’d want. “Like what?”
“You still friends with that blonde bird you brought to the Christmas party? Ursula?”
“I think I know where this is going. She has a boyfriend.”
“Slow down,” he says. “I got a freelance gig, a photo shoot for a downtown boutique. The model dropped out, and the owner wants me to find a Sharon Tate type. Your friend would be perfect.”
“Sure.” I rattle off Ursula’s number. She’ll be over the moon to model, though she’d never admit it. “You’ll get me what I need?”
“I’ll see what I can stir up,” he says.
“Thanks, Benny. You’re a dream.”
He grumbles a goodbye, but I know he’ll check for me. And if I end up with a scoop and do need a photographer, I’ll return the favor.
I hang up, finally feeling good about something, something I’ve done on my own. I take that pleasure with me as I walk to the Purple Saucer, not really thinking of what I hope to find. There’s only two cars in the parking lot this afternoon, but one of them—the blue Chevy Impala parked in front of unit 6—has Florida plates. I knock on the door, but no one answers. I scribble my name, phone number, and “Lilydale Gazette reporter” on a piece of paper I dig out of my purse, slide it under the door, and march back to the center of town.
CHAPTER 24
It’s a small act of rebellion—laughable, really—but I stop by Wally’s Grocery on the way home to purchase a premade Bundt cake rather than bake a dessert from scratch. I also pop into Little John’s to pay a visit to Regina (not to drink, lord help me), but I’m told she’s not working, and I don’t want to bother her in her apartment.
When I reach home, I have time before I need to walk over to the party.
I decide to make my own work and call the Minnesota Department of Health. It sounded all kinds of boring when Dr. Krause first mentioned it, but I’m growing desperate to write. I call the operator and request the number. I scribble it down and then ask to be connected. When a woman picks up on the other end of the line, I tell her my name and that I’m with the Lilydale Gazette.
“Can I speak to whoever oversees the statewide blood data collection? I heard about it from my doctor and may write an article on it, if my editor agrees.”
A pause on the other end of the line. Then: “You said you’re calling from Lilydale?”
Her tone, a mix of incredulous and curious, unsettles me. “Why?”
“You grew up there?”
“No, I—” I stop myself. She doesn’t need to know my history. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve heard things. About the town.”
“Like what?”
She coughs. It’s a nervous sound. “Just that i
t’s . . . tight-knit.”
“I suppose it is.” I wait for her to say more. When she doesn’t, I prod her. “That’s it?”
I can almost hear her shrug down the line. “You called about the Minnesota Blood Project?”
She’s put us firmly back on topic, leaving me scrambling to figure out what I just missed. “I did.”
“Well, I’m not sure if the researchers are talking to the press.”
“Really?” I sit up straighter. “Why not?”
A sigh. “No reason, I don’t think. It’s just that no one’s reached out to them, before you. We didn’t think it was newsworthy. I can pass on your contact information. Will that do?”
“Yes, thank you.” I give her my number. “Please call if you think of anything else you want to tell me about Lilydale, too.”
The click of her phone hitting the cradle is her response.
I glance at my wristwatch.
Time for the party.
CHAPTER 25
Clan and Catherine Brody’s house sits behind an alert row of shrubbery. It’s stucco, a vague two-story that is more utility than style. I’ve waved at them leaving and entering it many times, but I’ve never been invited in. I find the interior as weathered as the exterior, a kitschy mix of plastic flowers, ceramic collectibles, and plastic-covered furniture. It smells faintly—and I suspect permanently—of sauerkraut and sausage.
I’m the last to arrive. When Catherine walks me to the living room, I discover Barbara, Dorothy, Rue, and Mildred seated on the couch. All four look like versions of the same person: smiling, middle-aged, bouffant hair, lips colored coral or pink tea rose, all wearing glasses.
Is this my future?
“You made it!” Dorothy stands and pecks each of my cheeks, stroking my hair for so long that I have to pull away to greet the other women.
“Thank you for having me,” I say, glancing down at my feet. “I’m glad to be here.” I suddenly feel shy. I’m not sure why. Their faces, with the exception of perennially sour-faced Catherine’s, are welcoming.
“Our pleasure,” Catherine says. She hasn’t sat down. I find myself not wanting to turn my back on her. “And you brought a Bundt cake. That is too kind. Why don’t you drop it in the kitchen, and you can join us back here. We were just discussing our charitable projects. Mildred, will you show Joan to the kitchen?”
