Stiff Competition

by Annelise Ryan

  Hurley manages to swallow down the incense I know he feels and he steps aside to make his call. We listen in as he gets Lila Chester on the phone. He explains who he is and why he’s calling. Then after listening for a few seconds, he looks at me and shakes his head. He puts a hand over the phone and whispers, “She isn’t there, but Johnny is.” He listens some more, asks if Emily has attempted to reach Johnny, and after listening to what I assume is the answer, he thanks Lila and disconnects the call.

  As he summarizes the gist of the call for us, his expression grows more and more concerned. “Lila grounded Johnny and took his car keys, phone, and laptop away from him as part of his punishment, so he hasn’t been out of the house since his suspension. She said Emily has never been to their house, and she doesn’t even know what she looks like.”

  “Do you believe her?” I ask him.

  He shrugged. “She seemed sincere. I had her check Johnny’s phone to see if Emily tried to contact him, and she said there was nothing there since a phone call two days ago.”

  I turn to Knowles and say, “Are you absolutely sure Emily isn’t here at the school? Has anyone checked the bathrooms, or outside on the grounds?”

  If looks could kill I’d be lying dead at Knowles’s feet right now. I wonder how old she is. Will I have to send Matthew to a private school in fourteen years, or will Knowles be retired by then?

  “We didn’t initiate a manhunt, if that’s what you’re asking,” Knowles says with barely contained civility. “The students are responsible for their own attendance. If they choose to skip a class, our job is to notify the parents . . . or parent,” she adds, tossing in another jab. “It is not our job to hunt the students down and drag them to class.”

  “Mind if I have a look around the school while you get the teacher information together?” I ask.

  “Yes, I do,” Knowles says. “I’ll not have you traipsing about the school willy-nilly, interrupting classes and bothering students.”

  I give her a big smile and say, “No worries, I haven’t been able to do the willy-nilly for years. And I’m going to go look in your bathrooms and outside on the grounds, not in your classrooms. If you don’t like it, I suppose you can call the cops on me. Oh, wait . . .” I clasp a hand over my mouth and give her a look of mock surprise. “They’re here already. Oh well.” With that I turn to Hurley, who is barely suppressing his smile, and say, “I’ll meet you out front in a bit.” Then I leave the office, not giving that witch of a woman a chance to say or do one more thing.

  I know the school building well since it’s the same one I spent my four years of high school in. It’s had some minor upgrades here and there, but it’s essentially the same building it was when I attended. There are two girls’ and two boys’ bathrooms on each floor placed at the ends of the hallways, and I hit up the first floor girls’ bathrooms first. It’s mid-period, so the hallway and the bathrooms are quiet and empty. Next I climb the stairs to the second floor and do the same with the bathrooms there. It doesn’t take long and, when I reach the last one, I finally run into someone: a girl with long, shiny brown hair, big brown eyes, and a heart-shaped face. She is dressed in a cheerleading outfit, primping in front of the mirror as she applies a fresh coat of mascara.

  “Hi,” I say. “Any chance you know Emily Houston?”

  She shoots me a wary look but must not find me too threatening because she says, “I don’t know her well but I know who she is. Why?” She turns her attention back to the mirror, chewing on her lower lip as she brushes away a clump of mascara.

  Something about her is familiar and after a second it comes to me. “You’re Debbie Randall’s daughter, Carly, aren’t you?”

  She turns and gives me a surprised look as she holsters her mascara wand. Then she nods. “Are you a friend of my mom’s?”

  “I went to school with her. You look just like her and she always chewed on her lip the same way you do.”

  She stops chewing and swipes at her mouth self-consciously.

  “I’m Mattie Winston, used to be Mattie Fjell. Tell your mom I said hi. She and I used to sit next to one another in Mr. Pearson’s English class.”

  “Oh yeah,” she says, squinting in thought. “You’re the one who works with dead people now, right?”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Cool,” she says, nodding her approval. Then her expression turns horrified. “Wait, Emily isn’t dead, is she?”

  “No,” I say, but a tiny trill of fear stirs in my chest. “But she’s missing and we’re trying to figure out where she might be.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she says, dropping the mascara in her purse and rummaging around in there until she comes up with a stick of gum. She makes quick work of the wrapper and pops the gum in her mouth. Then she spares an anxious glance toward the bathroom door and heads that way. “I need to get back to class before I get a detention for being gone too long. Nice to meet you.” In a flash, she is out the door.

  I walk over to the window at the far end of the bathroom and take a look outside. This particular window looks out over part of the football field, including the home side bleachers, and I flash back on how I and some other girls used to hang here and watch the football players during their practices, mooning and dreaming over how cute and sexy they were. It’s a fun, silly memory that makes me smile, but then reality kicks back in. I leave the bathroom and head downstairs and outside, making my way toward the bleachers because I also remember how kids used to hang out on the bleachers—and sometimes beneath and behind them. A lot of tears were shed behind those bleachers, a lot of cigarettes and joints were illicitly smoked back there, and a number of couples solidified their relationships by running the bases back there, too. On the off chance that Emily might be hiding there, I feel compelled to check it out.

  She isn’t, and after meandering through the parking lot—on foot this time—to the other end of the property where the baseball field and tennis courts are, I feel certain she isn’t on the property. I return to the front of the building where Hurley is waiting for me by the car.

  “No sign of her on the grounds anywhere,” I tell him. “Where do you think she is?”

  Hurley runs a hand through his hair, looking perplexed. “I have no idea. Maybe she’s finally making good on her threat to run away and join the circus.”

  “Join the circus? She actually said that?”

  “She did, once. It was her response when I asked her what she was going to do for food and shelter after she threatened to run away.”

  “Fortunately for us, the traveling carnies don’t come to town until summertime, so I think we can safely rule that one out. What now?”

  Hurley pulls at his chin, looking thoughtful. “I’m going to have some guys at the station try to track her cell. In the meantime, let’s get back to our investigation and go talk to this Olsen guy Lars was supposed to meet. You drive.”

  He tosses me the keys and I slip behind the wheel as he gets on his phone. Despite his attempts to seem unruffled by the whole Emily situation, I can tell he’s worried. He’s distracted, and that makes it hard to focus on our investigation. So as I pull out, I send a mental message to Emily, knowing it’s silly and pointless, but feeling like I need to do something.

  Emily, please come home.

  Chapter 11

  The Sorenson Historical Society and Museum is housed, fittingly, in an old 1800s Victorian home a block off Main Street. Aside from the small, tasteful sign in the front yard, no one would guess that the place was anything other than one of the many ornate Victorian homes in the city. There is an OPEN sign hanging in the window of the front door, and before Hurley and I head inside, we briefly discuss our strategy.

  “Let’s keep this as a fact-finding mission for now,” Hurley says. “Let’s see what this guy knows and see if he had any motive or opportunity to do the deed. Bring the camera in case we hit on something and need to conduct a more intense interrogation or search, but for now we can leave it off.”r />
  “Got it,” I say, hanging the camera around my neck.

  We climb onto the porch and enter through the front door. There is no bell to announce our arrival, but sneaking in is out of the question. The old hardwood floors creak, squeak, and groan with every step we take.

  In the corner to our right is a desk, but there is no one there at the moment so Hurley and I walk around the room and scan the displays. There are pictures and memorabilia from the founding father of Sorenson, including house and family photos, and some antique toys, dolls, and furnishings. There’s also a display of dishes, boxes, and wall hangings featuring the Norwegian art form known as rosemaling, and beside this is a collection of vintage Norwegian clothing, both adult and children’s.

  In the rooms beyond we can see a vignette of an old-fashioned general store in one and a log cabin in the other. We are about to head into the store vignette when we hear a toilet flush and the creak of a door opening from that direction. A slightly stooped, gray-haired gentleman who looks to be in his seventies comes shuffling through the general store, still working at his fly. He’s wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a red and blue plaid vest, all of which make him look rather dapper. Sorenson has a strong Norwegian heritage and I wonder if his red, white, and blue combo is an attempt at patriotism for America or Norway, since both countries’ flags boast the same colors. When the gentleman realizes he isn’t alone, he stops short, gapes at us for a few seconds, and then breaks into a smile. He extends his hand to Hurley. Given that we heard a toilet flush seconds ago, but no sound of any other water running, Hurley doesn’t offer his hand in exchange. The man seems to realize his gaffe and withdraws his arm.

  “Sorry,” he says. “A rude oversight. Please forgive me.” He wanders over to the desk in the front room and gives himself a couple of squirts of hand sanitizer. As he’s rubbing it in, he turns back to us with a big smile and says, “I’m Harry Olsen, the curator here and president of the Sorenson Historical Society. Welcome to our museum. Is there anything in particular you’re interested in?”

  Olsen looks vaguely familiar to me, though I can’t place why yet. The name doesn’t ring any bells—not surprising, given that the name Olsen in these parts is more common than Smith or Jones.

  Hurley takes out his badge and flashes it. “I’m Detective Steve Hurley with the Sorenson Police Department and this is Mattie Winston with the medical examiner’s office. We’re interested in the meeting you had scheduled this afternoon with Lars Sanderson.”

  Olsen spares me a glance during the introduction, but if he knows me, it doesn’t show. His smile falters a smidge and he cocks his head to the side. “I wondered why he didn’t show. What sort of trouble has Lars stirred up now?”

  “What were you supposed to be meeting with him about?” Hurley asks.

  Olsen doesn’t answer right away. He looks over at me again for a second, before turning back to Hurley. “Why would the police and the medical examiner’s office be interested in a meeting I’m having with Lars?”

  Hurley loves to answer questions with questions, but at the moment it appears he may have met his match with Olsen.

  “Please just answer my question,” Hurley says. “What was the topic of your meeting?”

  “We were going to discuss some development projects for the city,” Olsen says vaguely. I can tell from the look on his face that he’s trying to suss out why we’re asking him these questions. He gets warmer when he says, “Is someone dead?”

  “Yes,” Hurley says. “Lars Sanderson.”

  Olsen doesn’t look surprised or particularly upset by this announcement. “What happened?” he asks. “Did that blowhard finally have a stroke, or a heart attack? I told him a million times that he needed to slow down and learn to take life a little less seriously, but he’s one of those guys that only knows how to go full steam ahead.”

  “Mr. Sanderson was murdered,” Hurley says.

  All the color drains from Olsen’s face. For a moment I fear I’m going to have to resurrect my nursing skills because he has the slightly gray, pasty look of someone who’s about to crump. He’s breathing fast, and he splays a hand over his chest. With his other hand he reaches behind him and finds the edge of the desk. Then he half staggers, half falls onto it.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Olsen?” I ask, hoping he is. A small part of my brain is already running through the steps of CPR, making sure I remember them. While regular CPR training was required by my hospital job and something I used with some regularity when I worked in the ER, I never had to use it during the years I worked in the OR and it’s hardly a requirement for my current job.

  Olsen doesn’t answer right away but I’m reassured by the fact that he’s still breathing and moving. Still, I take my phone out, ready to dial 9-1-1 just in case. Movement off to my left distracts me momentarily, and when I glance in that direction I see a black and white cat stroll into the room. Olsen sees the cat, too, and it seems to ground him. He clears his throat—twice—and his color starts to return. “I’m okay,” he says, holding the hand that was on his chest out in front of him like a traffic cop trying to stop us. “You just caught me by surprise.”

  I slip my phone back into my pocket and breathe a little sigh of relief as the cat meanders its way over to Olsen’s feet and weaves a path around them.

  Hurley takes a step back—he doesn’t like cats—and hits Olsen with his next question: “Why were you surprised?” It strikes me as an odd question, but apparently Olsen doesn’t think so.

  “Well, the murdered part, of course,” he says. “When you get to be my age, the news that someone has died is something you get used to. But murder . . . now that’s a horse of a different color, isn’t it?” He swallows hard and bends down to pet the cat.

  “What’s the cat’s name?” I ask.

  “Thor,” Olsen says. Then with a wink he adds, “He’s the museum caretaker and guard cat.”

  The idea of a guard cat is absurd enough to make me smile until I look over at Hurley, who is watching Thor with a slightly fearful and wary eye.

  Olsen straightens up and looks back at Hurley. “How did it happen, if I may ask?”

  Thor heads my way, making Hurley sidestep a few feet. With one eye on Thor, Hurley ignores Olsen’s question and fires back with one of his own. “You were supposed to meet with Lars Sanderson at three today, correct?”

  “Yes, I was,” Olsen says with a sigh.

  “Can you be more specific about what you planned to discuss?”

  Olsen shakes his head, his lips tight. “Same thing we always talk about: Sanderson’s utter lack of respect for the history of this place. Heaven forbid that man would actually try to preserve some of our glorious past. Instead he tromps all over our fine city the way Godzilla did on Tokyo. It’s a downright shame some of the things that man has done.”

  Thor is rubbing against my legs, so I lean down and pick him up. Hurley looks at me like I’m crazy, but I’m not just giving the cat some attention. I want to snag some of his hair. A comparison to the one we found on the arrow may or may not be helpful, but it seems foolish not to get a sample.

  “So you were planning on meeting with Lars to discuss these issues in general, or were you going to talk about a particular project?” Hurley asks.

  Olsen’s eyes dart away from Hurley and he pushes off the desk, momentarily turning his back to us as he heads behind the desk and points to a section of the city map he has hanging on the wall. “There is a piece of land here on the north edge of town that a farmer has offered to sell to the city.” He turns back to us, his expression enthused and excited. “I want to develop it into an arts mall that would include shops for making, teaching, and selling artwork . . . anything from painting, wood carving, pottery, stained glass, and metal work to the performing arts like acting and singing. At the core of it all I want to build both an indoor theater for year-round performances and an amphitheater for outdoor concerts and shows. I have an architectural design in mind that would b
lend in with what the city already has, and I think the level of culture it would bring to Sorenson would be beneficial to our residents, enhance our reputation, and appeal to outsiders. It would bring in more tourist dollars.”

  “That sounds interesting,” I say.

  “Of course it is,” Olsen says in a tone just shy of condescending. Then his expression turns dour. “But Lars has . . . had a different idea about how to use that land.”

  Having managed to secure a number of hairs from Thor, I set him back on the floor and he wanders off into one of the rooms. Not knowing what to do with the hairs until I can get to an evidence bag, I keep them in my hand.

  “And what was Lars’s plan?” Hurley asks.

  Olsen shakes his head and looks disgusted. “To create a gated community development with large, cheaply built houses. He thinks that if he can provide big but affordable housing in a setting that appears exclusive, secure, and expensive, that folks will snap them up lickety-split. He says it will attract people who work in Madison but can’t afford to live there, and that it will establish Sorenson as a place where people can be part of some ritzy-appearing enclave while still enjoying the perks of small-town living.” He pauses and shakes his head woefully. “It’s a ridiculous idea, of course, like all of his other projects. It would completely undermine the historic nature of our town and offer nothing to improve our culture. Not to mention that his building practices are often downright shoddy.”

  Olsen’s face has grown redder by the minute, and he’s incensed enough that by the end of his little speech he is spraying spittle, though the fact that he has loose dentures might be contributing to this. He seems to realize he’s being a bit overzealous and has the good sense to look abashed.