November Hunt

by Jess Lourey

  “That’s it? You just mentioned it in passing?”

  “Well, I had these little bags that I made from canvas, but they weren’t very good. Tom made them better and asked me to try one out. I did, and I told him what else I’d like to see in the perfect hunting satchel, and he sewed that in, too. In the end, it was all his hard work, and he still paid me a good lump of cash for my help once he got the business off the ground.”

  “Wow.” I sat back in my chair.

  “That’s right, miss. He was a good person.” Julius reached a trembling hand toward his glass of water and brought it to his mouth, spilling some in the process. “And I was happy to see him get his feet back on the ground after the scandal. That bad business threatened to take down more than one decent boy before it was over, but Tom walked away clean, and I was glad of it, almost as glad as his parents. That’s how much I loved that boy.”

  Sixteen

  My pulse picked up a beat. “Scandal?”

  He waved dismissively. “That’s in the past. No use talking about what we can’t change.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I won’t say another word on the subject.”

  He looked like he was getting agitated again, so I changed rather than let go of the topic. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  That was the right question because Julius smiled. “Well of course he always sent me a birthday card. My birthday is the week before Christmas, so I get used to being forgotten. Not Tom, though. He never forgot to drop me a birthday note. As for seeing him, the boy came to visit me once a year every year at the beginning of muskie season. That was one wily fish we were both fond of catching, so he’d stop by to hatch a plan. Well, he knew with me stuck in here I didn’t have much to offer, but he’d come by anyways. Looked forward to it every year.” He brushed one hand over the back of the other and gazed out the window again, a lost look taking hold on his face. I wanted to smuggle him home with me and feed him donuts every day.

  “When does muskie season usually start?”

  “Early June, every year.”

  “So the last time you saw him was this past May?”

  “I’d guess so.”

  “Did you two come up with a fishing plan?”

  “Oh yes. We have the whole county mapped out, you know. Best time of day, best water temperature, honey spots only we know about. I bet he was here four or five hours.” I let Julius reminisce for nearly forty-five minutes. Peggy was probably doing shots of Purell in the lobby, but the more Julius talked about fishing, the more his eyes sparkled. He could have gone all day, I’d wager, if his body hadn’t betrayed him. His words started coming fewer and far between, and his eyes grew heavy, until he drifted off in the middle of a sentence.

  I patted his hand, and his skin felt like warm parchment. “Julius?” I whispered. No answer. I checked his pulse, just to be sure. It was light but steady. I grabbed a quilt off his bed and tucked him into the recliner. I considered leaving the donut within easy reach but I didn’t want a nurse to walk in, spot it, and confiscate it. I settled for placing the box in the top drawer of his nightstand and slipping a note in his robe pocket so he’d know where to find it. I patted his hand once more, thanked him in a whisper, and let myself out.

  A nurse built like a bulldozer walked past me in the hall and then turned to scowl. “What were you doing in there?”

  “I went into the wrong room.” I felt it a moral obligation to lie to petty tyrants. We must be within the official visiting hours by now, so she had no right to question me.

  “What patient were you trying to visit?”

  “I was actually trying to leave.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here without signing in, and I just checked the visitor sheet at the front desk. It’s blank.”

  “That’s why I was leaving.” Before she could argue that logic, I took off down the hall and through the doors into the lobby. I was surprised to find Peggy involved in a heated card game with six animated residents. The receptionist was at the counter but didn’t seem to mind Peggy’s presence.

  “Time to go,” I whispered in her ear.

  “Time to go fish!” yelled a sweet little wrinkle of a woman in an inappropriately loud voice. “Who has a six?”

  “You’re playing Go Fish?” I asked Peggy.

  “It’s the only game we all could agree on.” She indicated the other six card players, all of them with hair as white and thin as dandelion fluff and beautiful wrinkles lining their faces. “Sure I can’t stay a little longer?”

  “If you want to walk home. I have to open the library in thirty minutes and it takes twenty-five to reach Battle Lake from here.” It wasn’t the time crunch that was making me tense, though. I kept wondering about the scandal Julius had referred to. Tom had been young when it’d happened, that much I’d gathered, and he’d said that it had affected more than one decent boy. Was it old news, or relevant to his death? Probably the former, but I didn’t know who I could ask. Hallie was the last person I’d pose that particular question to.

  Peggy’s face fell, but she stood and slid on her jacket. “I’m so sorry I have to go. This is more fun than I’ve had in weeks. Mind if I come back?” After assurances that she’d be welcome but they’d be playing for money next time, Peggy followed me out the door.

  “Get any inspiration?” I asked as we got into the car.

  “I’m not sure, but they had such amazing stories. Did you know that Wallis’ grandparents were one of the original Minnesota homesteaders? And Magdelene’s family lived right next to an Ojibwe tribe growing up?”

  “You don’t hang out with the elderly much, do you?”

  “Not nearly enough.” She blew her nose and looked out her window. “Not since my mom passed, that is.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” I stopped firing up the portable heater to give her my full attention. “Was it recent?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “Crap. That’s awful. How’re you holding up?”

  “Some days are better than others.”

  I was debating whether or not she’d appreciate a hand on her shoulder when she began to twitch in the passenger’s seat, as if she were suddenly crawling with ants. “What is it?”

  She began wailing softly, and I leaned slightly to the right to offer a hug neither of us likely wanted when she grabbed my arm in a vise grip. “It’s here.”

  “What?”

  “My mojo. I can feel it.”

  I looked around. “You’ve got it back?”

  “No, but it’s close.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not an artist.” She opened her eyes and sniffed.

  I was too curious to be offended. “Try it.”

  “What?”

  “Try your mojo. Produce an inspirational soundbite.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Since we were short on time, I started my car and pointed it toward Battle Lake. “We’ll consider it the first gunk that comes out of a water pump you haven’t used in awhile, in case it’s not your best work.”

  “OK, here goes: ‘If at first you don’t succeed’.”

  I waited. And waited some more. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. “Yes?”

  “That’s all I’ve got.”

  I widened my eyes. Wow. This was going to be difficult. In fact, it gave every indication of blowing. “Try harder.”

  She rubbed her nose, squinched her eyes, and made noises like a slot machine about to produce big winnings. “‘God’s last name is not dammit.’”

  A dud. There was no way I could put a nice face on that. “I’m sorry.”

  She slumped in her seat. “See? That’s why I need you. I still don’t have my mojo back inside me.”

  She looked almost ready to cry, and I’d already met my emotion quota for the day. I tried to soothe her. “But it visited you at least. It’s circling. We’ll get it back
.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, wondering if she knew how well I could fake confidence. She began humming and looking peacefully out the window, so my guess would be no. I dropped her off at her home and made it to the library one minute before opening time. The two patrons waiting outside weren’t nearly as impressed as I was.

  The morning flew by as I caught up on the book returns and ordering duties I should have completed before the library opened. My stomach was the only reminder I had that it was lunch time. I herded the patrons out so I could take my lunch hour and was about to lock up and seek out sustenance when a police car pulled into the library parking lot, as sleek and affable as a shark.

  Seventeen

  If I’d just moved a little faster, I could have killed the lights and disappeared before the bad news exiting the cruiser spotted me. And if my aunt had been born a man, she’d be my uncle. As it was, Chief Gary Wohnt leapt out of his car and marched toward the door before I could figure out if I was scared or confused. I decided to play it safe and selected both. I tugged the front door open. “Library’s closed.”

  He yanked the door free of my hand and stalked past me, spraying testosterone on the way. “I know. That’s why I’m here.” He wore his mirrored sunglasses and a winter police cap that made him look both warm and capable, something I’d have a hard time pulling off even in the high heat of summer.

  Scared and confused consulted one another. Both agreed this situation would be better handled by confused. “What are you talking about?”

  He had his back to me, surveying the empty library. He set down the bag he was carrying, removed his glasses and his cap, and placed them on the counter. His police-issue jacket came next. Underneath, he was wearing a fitted black sweater and blue jeans. I couldn’t help but notice that he filled out both nicely. My type was long and lean, but I couldn’t argue that his thick and muscled form had an appeal. What was happening to me? “It’s weird that you’re here and have your back to me while you’re silently taking off your outerwear,” I blurted. When in doubt, state the facts.

  He turned. “We have a grant to write for the city. I’ve got a half an hour break today, and this is the last place I want to spend it, so let’s get to work.”

  His icy mood set me back a pace. We weren’t friends, but I’d always imagined he deep-down respected my sass and my creativity. At the least, he could remember that I hadn’t invited him. “What’d you have for lunch, crabby cakes?”

  “I didn’t have lunch yet. I brought sandwiches for both of us so we could work.” He indicated the bag.

  I squirmed. I was hungry, but his offer was uncomfortably generous, like when a clown gives you a balloon. “What kind of sandwich? I don’t eat red meat, you know.”

  He cocked his head, and his eyes traveled up and down my frame. I forced myself to be still and keep my eyes on his face. When his inky black stare returned to mine, I couldn’t help but blush. I wasn’t sure exactly why.

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  “White bread or wheat?”

  “Wheat.”

  “Fine.” I stomped over to a table, more to break the tension than with a purpose. He brought over the sandwiches and unwrapped them. I noticed with no small satisfaction that he hadn’t spread the peanut butter all the way to the edges. He wasn’t nearly as perfect as he pretended to be. When he pulled out a water bottle for each of us, and then a bag of dill pickle potato chips, though, I went a little weak at the knees. Good thing I was sitting down. I got down to business to distract from the awkwardly personal feeling of sharing food. “We have fifteen grand to spend, right? The library computers will cost $2,900 with all the necessary software and a new color printer.” It would take weeks for the city to process the donations from the Love-Your-Library event, and they’d disappear into a secret kitty before I could ever use them.

  “You didn’t ask for a color printer.”

  “I didn’t before. I am now.” I silently dared him to challenge me. He didn’t.

  “Get a pen and paper.”

  “Why?”

  “To outline our requests.”

  I wrinkled my nose stubbornly. “Why can’t you?”

  “I don’t know where they are.” His eyes glittered. “And I brought lunch.”

  After retrieving a notebook and pencil—because he had asked for a pen, and I wasn’t going to completely follow his orders—from my desk, I sat back down across from him. “How much does the police station need?”

  “Our communications system is a decade old. We need four new Vertex/Yaesu VX3000 systems, waterproof, four double FT23R battery units, and eight Kevlar-reinforced professional grade QDs.”

  “I don’t understand so I disagree.”

  He ignored me. “The department also needs a new surveillance camera and two full surveillance kits.”

  I perked up. “Now you’re talking. How do the kits work, and who’re you going to surveil?”

  He finished his sandwich, folded the wrapper neatly into a small square, and returned it to the bag. “The total cost will be $3,700.”

  “And if I okay that, you okay the library computers and printer?”

  “Yes.”

  I licked the dill pickle powder off a chip and then popped the remaining crunch in my mouth. Tangy goodness. “Deal. That’s $6,600 total between the library and the police department. Who else needs the money?”

  Fortunately for me, Gary had all the town’s requests in hand. We ended up allocating $3,200 of the state grant to the municipal liquor store—the town’s biggest source of revenue— for three new end caps and an industrial wine cooler, $4,000 to the city for solar-powered Christmas lights to decorate the Main Street trees and streetlights, and the remaining $1,200 went to the fireworks fund. All in all, it seemed like a fair and worthwhile distribution. I agreed to write up the report and email it to Kennie before the end of the day. I thought that would conclude our meeting, but Gary took one last opportunity to lock me in his steel-trap stare as he donned his coat.

  “You’re doing detective work for Litchfield Law Firm.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t feel it required a response.

  He zipped his jacket without looking away from me. “You’re familiar with Minnesota licensing guidelines for private investigators?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and pulled gloves out of his pocket. “PI work can be dangerous sometimes.”

  “So can life.”

  He tugged on his cap and began walking toward the door. “Let the Tom Kicker issue drop.”

  My heart picked up speed and weight. “What?”

  He didn’t answer. “There’s nothing to find there. Nothing you want to find, anyhow. Nothing that will help Hallie. The best thing for her is to let it drop.”

  My face felt hot and flushed. How did he know I’d been looking into this at all? I puffed myself up. “Are you threatening me?”

  He stopped at the door and shook his head. “Just offering friendly advice.” Unexpectedly, he spun on his heel and returned to our worktable, where he grabbed the sack of garbage and half-empty bag of chips. On his way back out, he stopped uncomfortably close to me. “Your hair looks nice, by the way. Thick.” And he forged out as macho-ly as he’d entered.

  My brain fluttered against the inside of my skull like a trapped bird. As of right now, only Julius, Mrs. Berns, Hallie, and her attorney knew what I was up to. Which one had ratted me out? Did that mean others knew, and how would that affect my investigation? Why hadn’t he left the chips for me to finish? And what in the hell did that comment about my hair mean?

  I dealt with the one point I could immediately address by scurrying back to the restroom to check my hair. Did it look unusually voluminous? I couldn’t tell. All I could be sure of was that the new little hairs were long enough that they were no longer sticking up. To be on the safe side, I popped a handful of vitamins from the bo
ttle in my purse and prepared for the post-lunch rush. I had intended to stop taking the evil pills after my swamp monster incident with Johnny but hadn’t gotten around to it. I had no plans to see him for a few days and didn’t care how I smelled to anyone else, so what could it hurt to finish off the bottle? If I only took a few a day instead of slamming them like I had earlier, I might even avoid the whole toxic burping problem.

  As soon as I got a break in the day, I tried Tom Kicker’s ex-wife on the phone again. Again, I reached the answering machine. A little worm of worry wriggled in my brain. I had her address. She lived in Underwood, a town of about 350 people nine miles up State Highway 210. It wouldn’t take much effort to drive past on my way home. Besides worrying about her, I’d already decided she’d be my best bet for uncovering the scandal Julius had referred to, on top of possibly shedding some light on his relationship with Clive.

  I settled in to write the grant report and dispatched it to Kennie. I also helped a middle-aged library patron research start-up costs for opening an already-ran movie theater in Battle Lake, ordered home wine-making instruction books for a woman from Henning who requested them over the phone, reviewed my December budget, and watered all the plants. I put the finishing touches on a flier for next Monday’s children’s hour (“Bring your used socks and buttons! We’re making hand puppets!”), reshelved books, and got caught up on my “Ask the Librarian” emails. When 5:00 rolled around, I felt I’d more than earned my pay. I ushered out the senior high kids researching GMO food production for a persuasive essay, locked up, and pointed my Toyota toward Underwood after the fish house heater had generated enough warmth to keep the windows clear.

  Catherine’s address put her on the north side of town, directly on the shores of Bass Lake. The lake had enough ice to support a sprinkling of portable fish houses, and by January, this side would be cleared for a skating rink. The far side, with the prefab houses and seasonal cabins, would be set up for ice-racing old beater cars. Catherine’s house was unassuming, a 1950s one-level box bungalow that looked like a retro servants’ quarters next to the McMansions around it. This surprised me. Tom had been a wealthy man. Had she gotten screwed in the divorce?