Watkins - 01 - Blood Country

by Mary Logue

When he pushed back his plate, Bruce said, “I’m outta here. But, Claire, I’d like to see you again.”

  “Sure. Give me a call. This has been nice.”

  This time he reached across the table and took her hand. “No, I mean really see you. Not just for a burger and old times’ sake. I want to go out with you, take you to a nice place for dinner. Go to a movie. Hear some jazz. I think about you all the time.”

  She thought about him a lot, too. He was a great guy, her best friend, smart, nice-looking. As her mom would have said, he was a real peach of a guy. For so long, she’d been telling him she wasn’t ready yet. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she felt guilty every time she looked at him. She saw her husband’s death as her own fault, and somehow Bruce was all mixed up in that. She had been avoiding him because she was afraid that if she saw him, even as a friend, she would want more.

  “Maybe.” She patted his hand.

  He pulled his hand away. “Maybe? What’s with this maybe stuff? That doesn’t sound like the Claire I know and love.”

  Bruce tried to make it a joke, but Claire could tell that he was speaking from the heart. “No. That’s the problem. I’m not myself. There’s hardly anybody I like better than you in the world.” Claire took a deep breath. “Give me a little more time.”

  “I feel like I’ve been waiting a long time.”

  “It’s not even been a year since Steve died. I’m still in mourning.”

  He stood up fast. People turned to look at him. He started to leave and then walked back to her. He leaned in so close she could see light reflected in his eyes. “I’m sorry Steve died. He was a good guy. I know what his death did to you. Probably better than anyone else. But I’m alive, and I’m tired of waiting.”

  BRUCE JACOBS DROVE away in his car, going eighty on Highway 61 out of Red Wing. Didn’t matter. He was a cop. On the way to a job. If he wanted, he could slap on his siren and then really wail. He felt like wailing. He was so angry at Claire, he could have slugged her. She looked better than ever. He could tell she was coming back to life again. It showed in her face. It showed on her body. She was curving out again, putting on the pounds she had lost a year ago. She looked great.

  Bruce had worked with Claire for three years. The first year, he was nuts because he was getting divorced, running around with as many women as he could find. And women loved him. Claire thought it was funny. The second year, he settled down. Only dated a couple women, put most of his energy into work. Spent a lot of time with Claire.

  By the beginning of their third year together, he was hooked. He knew he was in love with Claire the day that she went into an apartment after someone and he felt his heart leap out of his throat. What would he do if she got shot? He couldn’t stand it.

  The big problem was, she was happily married. Her husband, Steven, was a nice guy. They had a lovely daughter. They had Bruce over for dinner from time to time. Steven and he had even gone fishing a couple of times. They both liked cigars and didn’t care if they caught anything. But that was before he had fallen in love with Claire. That last year, he couldn’t go over anymore. It killed him to see them so happy together. He begged off a couple of times.

  He had studied Claire hard. He knew her. He knew what she liked. He started dressing more to her taste. He read books she mentioned. If she liked a TV show, he watched it, even if it was Seinfeld and he didn’t get half the jokes. He was going out with a woman at the time, but Susy meant nothing to him. He made it very clear to Susy that he was only interested in an affair, nothing serious. When he started to think he didn’t have a chance with Claire was when he first looked into getting transferred to the Bureau. But her husband’s death changed everything—or so he had thought.

  Claire had lost it completely. She was unbelievable. She left her daughter with a relative and came into the office the next morning like nothing had happened. No one expected to see her. She scared them. She was working on the case, she told everyone. She started making calls and bringing in street people. Then, for a few hours, she disappeared. And that really scared him. He thought she had gone after someone. When he finally walked into the women’s lounge and found her there, he was so relieved, he picked her up. She tried to slug him. He held her in his arms and carried her to his car.

  Somehow, he got her home. He made her take a couple Valium with a glass of wine, and she fell asleep in mid-rant. He carried her into his bedroom and put her to bed. He took her clothes off down to her underwear and then covered her up in his blankets. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted her so bad, his bones ached.

  Two weeks later, she slept with him. Maybe he had taken advantage of her. He hated to think that’s why it had happened. She’d had a lot to drink and was crying. He had consoled her. They ended up in his bed, together.

  The next day, she left before he woke up. A note said, “Sorry about last night. I was pretty out of it It won’t happen again.” And it hadn’t. He had tried everything, but she shied away from him. She let him help her, especially if he offered to work on finding the killer, but she wouldn’t be alone with him. She said it had been a mistake.

  Bruce watched the lights of the cars buzz by him. He almost wished some highway patrol guy would pull him over, so he could scream at him. What was he going to do about Claire?

  8

  Only one hundred and eighty-four people now lived in Fort St. Antoine. Claire wondered how many of them would be at the meeting tonight The word had gone out that a controversial housing development backed by the Landowners of America was coming up for discussion, and the meeting was a public hearing to help the board gauge public feeling on this issue. She had been to only a couple of meetings before. They had been quiet; simple things had been decided, like what company to use to clean the latrines in the park, and where No Parking signs should be posted to keep tourists’ cars off lawns.

  Claire reached the bottom of the hill and started down Main Street. Main Street was two blocks long and hosted four antique shops, one bookstore, an ice cream parlor, a craft shop, a bar, a hardware store, and a bakery. The merchants lived off the tourists who came down from the Twin Cities.

  Most nights, the town died. A few cars would be parked in front of the Fort, the only bar in town, but all the shops closed at five. Tonight, however, there were cars parked on both sides of the street in front of the old bank, now used as the town hall.

  Claire recognized some vehicles: Lester’s blue Ford pickup, Norma’s Volkswagen bug, and Rich’s truck. Then she remembered that he was a board member.

  As a deputy in a small town, she had to pay attention to cars and trucks to determine if whoever was parked in a driveway should be there. A strange car could mean trouble, although there wasn’t much trouble along the river. Mailbox bashing might be the highlight of a month.

  The streedights buzzed, and she hugged her leather jacket around her. The radio said it would only drop down to forty degrees tonight. The land was slowly pulling out of winter. At this rate, they might be able to plant tender annuals by mid-May. It could be such a gamble in Wisconsin. Landers had told her how last year he had put in his basil on May 15, and on the twentieth they had a frost. “Tipped the ends black on all my plants. I swear those basil plants freeze at about thirty-four degrees. I had to pull them all up and replant at the end of May.”

  Claire nodded at people as she walked in the town hall door. She slid into a folding chair that was up against the wall. Twenty people crowded the room, many of them staring at her as she sat. She heard a few whispers, knew people were explaining who she was. A woman deputy was still an anomaly down here, but people were getting used to her. The small room was nearly full. The five board members sat around a long Formica table.

  The mayor, Lester Krenz, cleared his throat, then plucked at his neck, but no one took much notice. His hair stood up on his head like a rooster’s comb, and his glasses gave his eyes a wide look. Not an imposing man, Lester had been elected mayor last term, she had
heard, because no one else had run. Lester had lived there all his life, and many people figured that qualified him to be mayor.

  The board members were all men. She had a feeling the real mover in the group was Stuart Lewis. He ran the bakery in town and made the best éclairs she had ever tasted. He was looking around the room now, his papers all in a neat pile in front of him. When he saw Claire, he smiled, and she winked at him.

  Lou Johnson, at twenty-five, was the youngest board member, and Sven Hulmer was the oldest at near eighty. They sat next to each other on the far side of the table with their chairs pulled back far enough so their bellies had enough room to breathe. Round, light-haired men, they were kind and gentle, just didn’t want things to change much.

  Then there was Rich Haggard. Claire took the time to look him over. Mid-forties, bone-thin. Claire loved seeing the pheasants when she drove by his place—sleek, exotic birds that didn’t seem like they belonged in this part of the country. She knew they had been brought over from China, and to her they still retained an Asian allure. She and Meg had roasted one of his pheasants for Christmas. She had never noticed before, but looking at him now in the glare of the fluorescent light, his dark hair slicked back, his red flannel shirt tucked into jeans, Rich reminded her of a pheasant—handsome and easily spooked.

  Stuart tapped the table with his hand and said to Lester, “Let’s open up this meeting.” At the sound of his voice, people paid attention. Lester leaned forward and said, “I hereby start this meeting. Glad so many people could make it down tonight. We got a building permit we’d like to discuss here. Stuart, you ready to present this thing?”

  Claire remembered that Stuart had taken on the post of building inspector, so it was his job to issue building permits. Stuart stood up and smoothed the front of his plaid shirt. He looked freshly shaven, his crisp brown hair combed down. Some mornings, after hours of baking, he could look like a wild man, his hair spiking out in all directions. Tonight, Claire thought he looked like anyone’s innocent younger brother. She also thought he had done it on purpose. Stuart liked to win at whatever game he played.

  “Let me begin by saying that the town of Fort St. Antoine established its comprehensive zoning ordinance about ten years ago, setting up four zoning areas: residential, business, light industrial, and agricultural. In the residential, it was decided that a maximum of two dwelling units on a lot would be allowed. Mr. Brown, representing the Lake View townhouse development, is suggesting that we grant his organization a variance to put four townhouses on each lot.”

  Two chairs down, a man stood up. His brown hair was greased back into a ducktail, and his large body bulged out at the hips under a sweatshirt that read “Vikings.” He was off to a poor start, Claire decided, if he didn’t know the allegiance of most of the residents to the Packers. Everyone turned to look at him as he stood swaying back and forth. “I object.”

  Stuart, who had been watching him, didn’t say anything for a moment, but let Brown’s words hang in the air. Then he said quietly, still sitting, “There’s nothing to object to.”

  “We have come to the board in good faith.”

  “We’ve no doubt of that, sir.”

  “I’ve talked to my lawyer—”

  “Let me finish my presentation of the conditional use of your property,” Stuart continued. When Mr. Brown sank into his folding chair, Stuart explained the conditional use procedure and why it was important to understand that in granting his request, they might well be setting precedent.

  The mayor plucked again at his throat. Claire expected a low note to emit from his half-opened mouth. Instead he said, “Explain.”

  “What we do here tonight could establish what can be done in the future. You might think it’s all right for this one development to take four lots and put four townhouses on each one, but would you want all of the lots in town to be like that? Once we allow this kind of development to come in, it will be very hard to keep anyone else out.”

  Fred Anderson stood up. Fred pointed a finger the size of a sausage at Stuart. “What about your bakery? You put that in an old house—shouldn’t that be residential?”

  “We’re not here to discuss my bakery. Besides, the house is located in the business district, so I am in compliance.”

  Brown pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and Claire sensed he would pull no punches. “I won’t let you people keep me from doing what I want with my property. I’m ready to sue to get the variance for this development, and I have the backing of the Landowners of America. I paid top dollar for that land, all with lake views, and if I don’t develop it, there is no way I’ll get my money back. We have a constitutional right to do what we want with our own land. No rules, like this so-called ordinance, can stop me.” He took a deep breath and ended with, “I will sue each and every one of you board members.”

  At the second mention of the word “sue,” Lou and Sven hunched down in their chairs. Lester rubbed his knuckles.

  Rich put both hands on the table and leaned forward, saying, “I must point out to you that the constitution is a set of rules, designed so that people can live together, as is the town ordinance. It’s important to know your neighbor can’t build a high-rise right in front of your house and vice versa.”

  This time, Brown exploded from his chair. “What about foul-smelling pheasants? Anything in the ordinances against them?”

  Rich rolled his eyes back in his head and looked at Stuart.

  Just as Stuart was about to speak, an older, heavily made-up woman with brittle blond hair sitting next to Brown yelled out, “What about us farmers? Don’t we have a right to make some money off our land? It’s our investment. How can I sell my property when I retire, if you won’t let anybody develop it?”

  Stuart spoke up. “Mrs. Langston, please, this has nothing to do with—”

  Brown bent over and, in a thin voice, imitated Stuart. “Mr. Mayor, please, this has nothing to do with this fairy here. Why aren’t you running the meeting?”

  A shock wave of silence hit the room. Claire couldn’t believe what she had heard. Had this fat man really called the building inspector a fairy? Stuart looked as if he’d been slapped, flames of red on his cheeks. Had the mayor even heard? Everyone was waiting for Lester to do something, but he was staring straight ahead. Then Claire did hear something. The mayor was humming “Waltzing Matilda” under his breath.

  Rich slapped his hand flat down on the table. “There is a proper way to go about this, and you are out of order.”

  Brown rocked up on his toes and roared, “There is no fucking order in this crazy town. I want a decision made tonight on my building permit. You have my plans. I’ve checked with the Wisconsin housing code. They’re in complete compliance. You have no right to deny me a permit. Every day you put me off is costing me money. I’d like to get going on the first set of townhouses this spring.”

  Tapping a set of plans, Stuart said, “I just received these plans yesterday. By law, whether you are granted the conditional use or not, we have thirty days to go over them. I, too, will need to run them past our lawyer. I would appreciate it, Mr. Brown, if you would refrain from using the word sue until you have cause to.” Stuart stared him down. “Now, I think we need to hear from the other people in this town about how they feel on this issue.”

  Claire didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t know how she felt. She hadn’t studied the issue of rural development enough to know what kind of threat or opportunity this townhouse development would pose. She listened as her neighbors talked about why they lived in Fort St. Antoine, how they saw it as a place to raise families and crops of beets and flowers and even, yes, even pheasants. They weren’t comfortable with allowing this increase in the density of housing.

  Brown glared from his seat. Fred Anderson spoke up again and said something nonsensical about “progress being like a steamroller that will flatten all the one-family houses.” Everyone looked puzzled, but Mrs. Langston gave him a “Hear, hear.”

&nb
sp; After several other people had had their say, Stuart announced that the board would make a decision on it at the next meeting. He then excused everyone and told them the board would now get on to the regular business of the meeting.

  CLAIRE STEPPED OUT of the town hall door behind a husky blond man. She guessed he was about thirty years old. His hair bristled out from his head in a crew cut. He looked back at the meeting and spit out the word “Fascists.”

  His use of the word shook Claire. She stopped on the bottom step, which brought her to his eye level, and asked, “Who are you talking about? The Landowners of America?”

  “No, it’s town boards like this that are ruining the country.”

  “This isn’t the Wild West,” Claire told him, trying to keep her voice calm. “We ran out of frontier land in 1890. We need laws to live together. If you don’t like what the board decides, why don’t you run for office?”

  “Can’t. I don’t live down here. Just own property. It’s been in the family for many years, and now they’re telling us we have to rip the new deck off our house. Fucking pigs.”