by Lourey, Jess
“You did come!” I was relieved to see Mrs. Berns. “Is Mom here too?”
“Over there.” She nodded at a group of women holding each other. “The one leaning on your mom? That’s Natalie’s mother.” Mrs. Garcia appeared ready to collapse, deep, quiet sobs racking her. People stood on the periphery, at a loss, but my mom was on the front lines, embracing her and whispering into her ear as she caressed Mrs. Garcia’s hair.
I felt tears in the corner of my eyes. “This is so sad.”
“Sad?” The venom in Mrs. Berns’ voice surprised me, yanking my eyes from Mrs. Garcia. Mrs. Berns’ glance swept all the broken-looking people shuffling around the funeral home’s giant foyer, stunned. Some of them paused at the photos of Natalie, a retrospective that started with Kodachromes of her dangling in a park swing as a toddler up to the most recent shots of her playing with a black lab, her gorgeous hair in her eyes as she smiled widely at the camera. The last image was so vivid that I could almost remember the sound of her laughter. Those who weren’t staring at the photos read the cards poked into cloying flower arrangements or made stilted small talk. You could tell who those closest to Natalie were because they appeared erased around their edges. “This makes me so mad I could eat fire. Some bastard is killing innocent women. I’d like to give him a little taste of his own medicine.”
I knew what she meant, but the words came out automatically. “The police don’t have any leads.”
“That’s what they always say. They have to say that if they don’t want the killer to go into hiding. No, I’m sure they know more than they’re telling us. In the meantime, we should see what we can do to help them.”
“What? No way.” I shook my head vigorously. “We’re not getting in the way of the FBI. That’s crazy talk. We can help by staying out of the way.”
“Mmm,” she said noncommittally. I couldn’t get another word out of her. She followed without comment when I signed the guestbook and slipped half of my remaining cash into an offerings envelope.
We entered the main chapel. I was horrified to spot the open casket across the room, a kneeling bench in front of it. I caught a glimpse of Natalie’s cold, waxen profile over the edge of the coffin. I suddenly couldn’t breathe or hear. It was as if someone had clapped their hands over my ears and filled my mouth and nose with glue.
“Mira?”
Mrs. Berns gripped my arm, but the sensation was distant. I walked toward the coffin, slipping through the crowd that was waiting in a curving line to pay their respects. When I got close to the casket, I pushed my way to the front. There she was. Horribly beautiful, her hair arranged around her like a doll’s. Her sweet, unlined face and her closed eyes. That tiny nose that we’d agreed in sixth grade made her look exactly like Morgan Fairchild. If I contained my glance to her eyes, I could believe she was sleeping. It was her mouth that gave away the dreadfulness of the moment. The red lipstick against the slackness of her jaw seemed almost obscene. That mouth would never smile again. She wouldn’t laugh, or tease, or kiss. She’d been murdered.
I went from not breathing to short, huffing gasps. Pinpricks of light danced around my eyes. I reached forward for something to hold onto, but it was as if I was falling through the floor.
Patsy came up from behind and squeezed my elbow. “Mira, how are you?” Her eyes were puffy and red.
I accepted her embrace like a life jacket, my eyes growing warm again. I stayed put until I trusted my voice. “I don’t think any of us is so good. How’s her family holding up?”
“About like you’d expect.”
I pulled back and reoriented myself to the room, deliberately turning away from the casket. Patsy stood patiently next to me. Looking around, I was surprised that I recognized a lot of people from high school. I guess I was even more astonished at how much they looked the same. Trish Haselkamp, captain of the Knowledge Bowl team that went to state my junior year. Darren Fischer, perennial stoner and the guy voted class clown. In a corner was Julia Dahlberg, who had been insanely popular and made everyone call her “Jules” starting in 10th grade. I’d detested her back then, my emotion a gummy high school putty of jealousy and admiration. Jules was still pretty and preppy, hair cut in a stylish, chunky pixie, and I was surprised at the brief pang of insecurity I felt looking at her. She was talking to Karl Miller, who had been homecoming king the year Natalie had been queen.
Mrs. Berns pinched me.
“Oh, sorry. Patsy, this is Mrs. Berns, a friend of mine from Battle Lake. Mrs. Berns, this is Patsy. I graduated high school with her.”
“What happened to you?” Mrs. Berns asked me. “One minute you’re standing next to me, and the next, you’re running toward the casket like it’s full of treasure.”
“Sorry. I guess part of me hadn’t believed she was dead until I saw the body. I had a little panic attack.”
Mrs. Berns turned to Patsy. “Maybe you can tell me something.”
“Anything,” Patsy said, smiling politely.
“Has Mira always been so timid, or is this a new development?”
“Timid?” Patsy shook her head. “Her nickname was ‘Maniac’ in high school.”
Mrs. Berns nodded smugly, turning to me. “Thought so. You let the fudge get scared out of you. You would have gotten angry and not scared looking at your friend in that coffin, and you would have been the first one to rush out and find her killer. Heck, the Mira I met last spring drank, screwed, and fought for what was right with the best of them. What happened to you?”
“I grew up.” My eyes had wandered back to the coffin, against my will.
“You grew scared. So, Patsy, have you heard anything more about the killer?”
She wiped the look of surprise at our conversation from her face. “Nothing new. Natalie’s mom said her house hadn’t been broken into, so police are wondering if she knew the killer. It might be their first break in the case, but it doesn’t seem like a lot to go on.”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t help them much,” came a gravelly voice.
We all turned to look at the woman who’d spoken. She was a presence, tall and heavyset, with short dark hair and thickly lashed, heavily made up brown eyes. She was also wearing a smooth coat of taupe concealer and a blush that matched her coral lipstick. She was about my age, and all that make-up caused me to be immediately suspicious of her. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“Sorry.” She wiped her hand on her skirt before offering it to me. She was wearing Crocs with white tights, which seemed incongruous against her flower print blouse and calf-length denim skirt. She was either a nurse, a daycare provider, or a cult recruiter. “I’m Lynne Bankowski. I worked with Natalie.”
I shook it. “I’m sorry. What did you two do?”
“We were travelling nurses for the same company, based out of Minnesota. We worked all over the Midwest, though River Grove is home base for both of us. Or was, for Natalie.”
“That explains your shoes,” Mrs. Berns said. I jammed my elbow in her side, and she looked at me, surprised. “What? They look ugly and comfortable. Nurse’s shoes.”
“You look familiar,” Lynne said, focusing her attention on me. Her gaze was an unnerving mix of calculating and intense. “Have we met before? What’s your name?”
“Mira James, and I don’t think so. I went to high school with Natalie, but I’ve lived in the Cities or Battle Lake since then.”
“No, that’s not it.” She tapped her chin. “I know. You were talking to the reporter and the FBI agent yesterday. I talked to them, too. A few times.” She fluffed the back of her hair.
I gave her a look. “I didn’t get out of my car.”
“I’m pretty observant.”
“Do you live on the same block?”
“No, I was out walking. I live on the other side of the city park.”
She seemed immune to social cues and unaware that her behavior was odd. I wondered if she had social anxiety or some sort of mild disorder. “Did you and Natalie hang out a lot?”
&
nbsp; “Never. Not outside of work. But I can tell you that all of Natalie’s friends were decent, and she wasn’t dating anyone.”
She didn’t offer any more information, and I could see Mrs. Berns and Patsy starting to inch away. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You too.” She rushed over to the wall of photos of Natalie, as if someone had called for her. She stood there alone, hands behind her back, studying the largest picture.
“There’s a crunchy nut in every box,” Mrs. Berns muttered. “Back
to what we were talking about. Patsy, if we wanted to find out more about Natalie’s recent activities, who here would we talk to?”
Patsy pointed toward three women about our age huddled near the coffin. “I met those ladies at two of Natalie’s Coddled Cook parties. They’re from River Grove, and I think were good friends with her. Will you excuse me? I see someone I want to talk to.”
Mrs. Berns tugged me over to the trio.
“What questions do you have for them?” I asked as we navigated the crowd.
“What are you going to ask them, you mean. You’re the private dick. I’m telling you, you need to get over your fear and start digging into this serial killer’s business.”
I stopped. “Remember you said you wouldn’t call me that?”
“Not officially.” She pushed me until we were directly behind the women, and I let her because I didn’t want to cause a scene. I pretended to admire the nearest flower arrangement while Mrs. Berns peer pressured me with her eyes. I knew I’d have to ask the women something to get her off my case, but I didn’t want to intrude on their grief and had no idea what they could tell me that the police wouldn’t already have asked them.
“… the orange begonia killer!”
“Oh my, that would have been our luck.”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Berns inserted herself into their conversation. “Orange begonia killer?”
The three women exchanged embarrassed funeral laughs and glanced from Mrs. Berns to me. The shortest, a woman about ten years older than me, spoke. “We were just remembering how all three of us and Natalie received orange begonia plants from a secret admirer five summers ago. We were saying we’re grateful there was no orange begonia killer back then.” She looked at her shoes in embarrassment and then darted a glance toward the coffin. “Probably in poor taste to mention it. Events like this bring out my black humor.”
“Remember how embarrassed we were to even tell one another about the flowers?” The woman speaking pushed her jeweled glasses up her nose. “We didn’t want anyone to know we were into online dating, and then it turned out all four of us were!”
The short woman nodded. “What was that online service called? E something. E-love?”
The third woman, who had been silent until now, smiled. “E-adore. It’s how I met my husband.”
“Not me,” the woman with glasses said. “The most I got out of it were some lousy dates and that orange begonia.”
“Tina, it wasn’t that bad!”
The woman called Tina shrugged. She seemed to think it had been exactly that bad.
“Did you ever find out who sent the flowers?” I asked, insinuating myself next to Mrs. Berns. I’d kept quiet until now, though I’d wanted to comment on the name of the dating service. E-adore sounded like a Winnie the Pooh character, not an online human grocery store.
“No, though after we got to talking, we realized we’d all been matched with pretty much the same guys. There’s not a lot of choices in this part of the world. We figured we got the flowers from some guy who’d come across a begonia sale and was hedging his bets, but we never found out for sure.”
Mrs. Berns nudged me. I followed her glance. Lynne Bankowski, Natalie’s fruity co-worker, was two feet away, staring down at the top of the coffin and seemed to be inching sideways toward us. “I’m really sorry about your loss,” I told the three women. “Could you do me a favor? Could you call me if you think of anything else out of place, something that might shed light on why Natalie was targeted?”
They nodded and each accepted a piece of paper with my name and my mom’s phone number scribbled on it. Mrs. Berns and I turned to leave before Lynne reached us and pinned us in another odd conversation. We hadn’t gone three feet before I found myself face to face with Adam De Luca.
“Hello,” I said.
He screwed up his mouth in a distant, puzzled way, and then he placed my face with a name. “Mira! The one who told Briggs he was unformative. I told my editor the story when I called her later that night. Gave her a good laugh.”
Chagrined, I introduced him and Mrs. Berns and then axed the small talk. That orange begonia story had gotten my blood humming. You can find out a lot by being in the right place at the right time, or by knowing who to talk to and simply asking. My encounter with Kent today was proof of that. So maybe Mrs. Berns was right, to a degree. Maybe we could uncover some helpful information without putting ourselves in danger or getting in the FBI’s way. We would be conduits of facts rather than investigators. “We heard today that the police believe Natalie knew the killer. Have you heard anything about that?”
He scratched his chest absently. “I’ve heard that theory. I think it’s unlikely, unless it was a copycat killer and not the actual Candy Cane Killer who targeted her. The odds of one man knowing all of these women, across three states … ah shit.” He suddenly ducked his head like he didn’t want to be recognized.
We turned around. Lynne Bankowski was staring at us, a short ten feet away.
“Watch out for that one,” Mrs. Berns whispered to Adam. “She’s as sharp as a marble.”
“She’s a death hound,” Adam said in agreement. “You encounter that animal in this line of work, unfortunately, people who are close to tragic death and want to profit off of it. Not in terms of money, of course, but fame. I’ve already interviewed her three times, at her request, and she’s been hanging around the crime scene offering to help Briggs at every turn. He’s ready to pull his hair out.”
“Well, she’s coming for you, which means it’s time to skedaddle.” Mrs. Berns grabbed my hand and we fled not a moment too soon. A glance back revealed an uncomfortable Adam in Lynne’s unblinking gaze. I couldn’t imagine why he didn’t just tell her to buzz off.
Mrs. Berns kept leading me all the way to the door of the main chapel and pulled me into a quiet spot off the foyer. The smell of lilies was intense. “Where’s the nearest pay phone?”
“At the Amoco on the edge of town. Why?”
“You’re going to call the FBI and tell them about the orange begonias.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not serious.” I was starting to get on board with the idea of gathering information the police might have overlooked, but a five-year-old flower story seemed like a dead end.
“Any little bit helps.”
“Random facts from five years ago do not help, they hurt. The FBI doesn’t need us to waste their time. If we’re going to assist, the first thing we need to do is stay out of their way.”
“If there’s a connection, we’d be negligent not to let them know. If there isn’t a connection, they can disregard our information.” She planted her hands on her hips and settled in for a stare down.
She and I had been here before. I knew it’d be easier to do what she asked than to fight her, and in the big picture, I had to admit that she was probably right. A legitimate tip wouldn’t hurt. Let the FBI decide if there was anything to it. I returned to the main room to say my goodbyes and offer my condolences to Mrs. Garcia and the rest of Natalie’s family. The line to reach them was extensive, and the haunted look in their eyes when I finally spoke to them was almost too painful to bear.
When I shook Mrs. Garcia’s hand, she pulled me into an embrace, whispered something sad and vague about making popcorn for Natalie and me during a slumber party, and thanked me for being a friend to her daughter. I wondered how she could remember me, but maybe she hadn’t after all. Her brain must be a blurr
y soup of pain and ghosts shot with bright, unmoored memories. No way could she hug all these women Natalie’s age and wonder, just for a second, why it was her daughter and not one of us lying in that coffin. My tears were flowing as freely as hers when I finally stepped away.
On my way out, I got an extra tight hug from my mom, who told me that after she was sure she couldn’t do anything more for Mrs. Garcia, she’d be spending the rest of the day playing bridge with friends. After that, I drove with Mrs. Berns to the gas station and pulled out the business card Adam had given me yesterday. I flipped the card to the back and dialed.
Agent Briggs was exactly as thrilled to hear from me as I’d expected.
“What’d you say your name is again?”
“Mira Berns.” The real Mrs. Berns, unhappy that I’d stolen half her name, somehow managed to twist my underarm skin through my jacket. I ignored the pain and told him the brief orange begonia story. “We heard the story just now, at Natalie Garcia’s wake. We thought there might be a connection between all four of them getting the same gift back then, and the killer and his candy canes and the three snowmen now.” It sounded weak, even to my ears.
“Did De Luca tell you to call? Tell him we don’t have time to chase any more ghost leads.” Click.
I hung up the phone and smacked my own forehead. “I don’t think he was too impressed.”
She shrugged. “It was a long shot. Better safe than sorry.”
We were standing next to one of those hot dog treadmills, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten yet today. Man, that meat smelled good. If it was, actually, meat. “It is a stretch between flowers and candy canes, except …” My brain started cranking. Suddenly, the entire world dropped away, and it was just me and this one huge possibility.
Mrs. Berns tipped her nose at me. “Except what?”
“Except it’s not such a leap between online dating then and online dating now. Think about it. If you wanted to find all the single, brunette women in an area, where would be the first place you’d look?”
“An online dating site!”
“Exactly.” My heart was racing, but it eased up a little as I followed the possibility to all its natural conclusions. “But the police must have thought of that by now. Why wouldn’t they tell all Minnesota women to pull their dating profiles?”
