by Jess Lourey
“Get anything?”
She nodded tentatively. “There once was a pastor who was blunt, and he had a female parishioner who was a real—”
“Stop. Stop it.” I shoved my fingers in my ears. “That’s a little messed up, you know. You’ll want to make sure your readers don’t find out about this limerick affliction of yours.”
A fat tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m a terrible person.”
“Argh.” This was at least partially my fault, I was certain of it. I wasn’t sure exactly how, but I felt responsible for her feeling lousy. “You’re not a terrible person. We went to the old folks’ home and you made friends. You helped animals at the shelter and reminded me that I want to help there more. We went to the maternity wing at the hospital, and the kids loved you. At church, Pastor Harvey hung on every word you said. You do have a gift. You make people feel inspired.”
“But I can no longer inspire myself.”
“Here, I’ll try to help.” I scrambled for the most anti-limerick subject I could think of. “You finish this phrase: ‘Noah’s Ark—’”
“OK.” She slammed her eyelids shut tight and started to squirm.
I put a hand out to still her. “Eyes open, no moaning or wiggling.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s worth a try.”
She put both hands on the wall of the church foyer. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. Her nostrils flared. Sound burbled from her throat. “Noah’s Ark. A boatload of fun.”
My left side twitched involuntarily. Fortunately, she couldn’t see it. “It’s not a limerick. That’s progress. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”
She drooped. “I need a break. No more inspirational field trips for a little bit, okay?”
I felt awful for her. She’d come to town for inspiration, figuring she’d be able to leave again unscathed. No one leaves Battle Lake unscathed. “All right. But when you want more help, I’m here for you.”
I dropped her off at her temporary home with enough time to stop by the offices of the Battle Lake Recall before I opened the library. I figured the database service I’d subscribed to could give me the hard facts about Lyle’s criminal background, and I intended to check as soon as I got to the library. However, the Recall had been running the “County Crimes” column since its inception, right next to “The Tattler,” the column that covered who had eaten dinner with whom or brought what hotdish to which local event, and other riveting small town news. If Lyle had been arrested locally, I’d find a lot more from a newspaper article than a line in a database.
Mrs. Sims was working behind the desk. She was Ron’s trophy wife, gregarious and ten years his junior. The two of them were locally famous for their habit of making out in public, which is why I was glad only half of the couple was present.
“Ron covering a story?”
She shook her head. “Dentist appointment. He’s getting a crown on one of his wisdom teeth.”
“Mind if I check the archives?”
“Knock yourself out. And I was supposed to email you a reminder about your next ‘Bites’ column, but since you’re here, I’ll just tell you. Ron needs the article by this afternoon.”
“It’s almost done.” I’d completely forgotten. Thank god for the Internet.
In the back room, I sat down at the research-dedicated Mac. The Recall had been around since the early 1900s. Three years ago, Ron had paid big bucks to have a California-based, document-scanning business convert all the microfiche archives to searchable PDF files. I had my complaints about the balding, taciturn little man, but lack of organization wasn’t one of them.
In the end, Lyle’s criminal record was disappointingly easy to find. He hadn’t been assigned a passing mention on “County Crimes.” He was the headlining story of the July 9, 1962, edition.
Doped-Up Biker assaults Local Woman
Lyle Richard Christopherson, age 19, roared into town on his motorbike, bringing with him corrupting drugs and the community’s worse nightmare. Originally from the Duluth area, Mr. Christopherson claimed he was passing through Battle Lake on his way to a motorbike rally in South Dakota. He was initially stopped by local police, who could not find a reason to detain him.
It is believed that later that day, Mr. Christopherson returned to Battle Lake to sell marijuana, an illegal intoxicant, to local youth. What is certain is that on the night of July 4, Mr. Christopherson sexually assaulted a local girl, whose name is not being released because of her minor status. Mr. Christopherson is scheduled to appear in court on August 2 on charges of drug possession, intent to distribute, and statutory rape. If convicted, he faces up to 15 years in prison.
My blood ran as cold as the Minnesota wind.
Twenty-three
I couldn’t immediately sort out what was more confusing. Was it how drastically I’d misread Lyle, or was it how drastically everyone else had misread Tom? Because according to Lyle, he’d been sent up the river for a crime that Tom had committed. I couldn’t imagine either him or Tom as a rapist, however. I checked various spellings of Lyle’s name in the newspaper’s files to see if there was any other mention of him. The only other appearance he made in print was the coverage of his sentencing. He received the full 15 years.
I searched for Tom Kicker’s name, and found more articles than I could possibly read in a day. Skimming the titles revealed them all to be positive, detailing his involvement with local and state charities. I logged off and reached the library just in time for opening, my mind reeling. No one was waiting to get in, so I accessed my criminal database service. I was correct that it provided a brief version of what I’d read on Lyle, but the essential facts were the same. I hoped none of this was somehow related to Tom’s death. It would break Hallie’s heart to find out her dad wasn’t the white knight she believed.
My mind was still fuzzy with too much information when Catherine Kicker, Tom’s ex, arrived. I recognized her as an older version of the woman in Hallie’s family photos. She was dressed sensibly in snow boots and a red down jacket, with a matching red cap and gloves.
I left my post at the front desk to greet her. “You must be Catherine. Thanks so much for coming.”
“Not at all. I needed some fresh reading. I intended to stop by when I got back from Florida anyways. Now tell me why you want to know about Tom.”
I led her to a quiet corner of the library, where we both took a seat. Since Hallie’d already let the cat out of the bag, I saw no harm in explaining my mission.
“Ah, well you’ll have a hard time uncovering any dirt on him. He was a good man, top to bottom.”
Of all the questions that comment raised, this one rose to the top: “So why’d you divorce him?”
She made a sad, dismissive gesture. “Different interests, mostly. It turned out later in life that we switched roles. I became the one who loved to travel and he became weighted to his business. Sun up to sun down, there was nothing for him but Battle Sacks. I imagine we could have stayed married. He didn’t mind me gallivanting around on my own. But I was looking for passion and partnership in the last third of my life. Selfish, I suppose.”
“Have you found it?”
She chuckled her smoky laugh. “Not yet. But I haven’t started looking too hard. Right now, I’m just visiting friends and family I’ve fallen out of touch with.”
“I have a rude question. Did you do okay by the divorce?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Money-wise? Yes, I did just fine. You’re probably referring to my house. My car’s not much nicer. I prefer to spend my money on non-material goods. Plane tickets, for example.”
I nodded. “I have another difficult question. You know that mechanic, the one in Parkers Prairie that Tom always brought his car to?”
“I think so. Lyle’s? I tried to bring my car there once. Figured it must be the best service this side of the moon for Tom to drive that far. Tom wouldn’t let me. What of it?”
I explained the crime Lyle had been conv
icted of and his belief that Tom was somehow involved.
She looked confused, and then angry. “Everyone in town knew about that rape. A biker came into town, crashed a party, and took advantage of that poor girl. She was just 16, if I remember correctly. That was the same man who fixed Tom’s cars?”
I nodded.
She pursed her lips. “There’s no way Tom was involved in a rape. I can swear to that 100 percent. He was the kindest man on this earth. He’d sooner get out of his chair to release a spider outside than to squash it. No, I can’t believe it. That Lyle person must be wrong. If he’s a criminal, he wouldn’t have any trouble lying.”
“It would explain why Tom drove out there regularly.”
“So would good prices. And if Tom was guilty, why wasn’t he accused? You said he wasn’t even mentioned in the newspaper article.”
“I don’t know.” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Can you remember anything else about the attack?”
“It was so long ago.” She’d taken her gloves off when she entered. She now pulled her hat off. Her gray-streaked blonde hair crackled with static electricity. She smoothed it with her hand. “I know the girl was local, though I was from Fergus at the time so didn’t know her personally. She was too ashamed to stay around afterward, I think I remember hearing. Rumor had it she was pregnant from the incident. Probably smart that she left. The whispers and judgment would have been brutal. Not right, certainly, but brutal. I can’t remember her name.” She tapped her chin. “Kay? Clair? Hmm. Carla, maybe? Yes, that sounds right. My mom had a cat named Carla, that’s why I remember. A hairy old thing. Had to put her down when my mom passed.”
She kept chattering in the background, but I could focus on only one point: Carla. That was the name of Clive’s girlfriend.
Twenty-four
Catherine had nothing more to reveal, other than more details on what an amazing man Tom had been. I gathered that she missed him, first as a result of the divorce and now since she’d never see him again. I thanked her for her time and helped her find a nice blend of nonfiction and novels to keep her company the next few weeks.
It was hard to concentrate while I helped her. I was trying to recall how long Carla had been around, and how long Clive had been dating her. She’d been working at Bonnie & Clyde’s since I’d moved to town last spring. Was she the Carla who had been raped forty years earlier, and had Clive killed Tom when he found out about his friend’s involvement? There were far too many ifs. It made me crazy. I planned to return to Lyle’s tonight to get more information, and stop at Bonnie & Clyde’s on my way back to talk to Carla. Of course, that meant I also might run into Johnny, whose band was playing at the bar tonight.
The ticks on the clock ached by. I had book orders to look through and shelves to organize, but I couldn’t focus. There was too much I needed to know, and I was trapped at work so I couldn’t find it out. I decided to churn out a recipe column instead of getting real work done.
While I Googled “Minnesota Christmas recipes,” I considered what my home economics teacher would think about where I’d ended up in life. Her name was Mrs. Davidson, and she was the spitting image of Julia Child, but shorter and more motherly. When I was in seventh grade, a budget crisis forced the administration to lay off the health teacher and formulate the brilliant idea of combining Mrs. Davidson’s cooking class with sex ed. The kitchen was close to the bedroom, right? The new class was called “Family Sciences,” and from this fertile pairing sprang a generation of kids who would forever associate spinach quiche with the reproductive system. Mrs. Davidson would understand “Battle Lake Bites,” I decided.
Unsurprisingly, all my Minnesota recipe hits were for white food—lefse, lutefisk, potato klub. You’d think a snowbound people would make their food easier to locate were they to drop it while walking outdoors. Finding no tasty hits in the web, I went old school and browsed the Battle Lake section of the library. As far as I know, the Battle Lake library was the only one in the state to house a whole area dedicated to the history of the town, including yearbooks and original plats. I’d skimmed the yearbook section back in May when I’d needed to find some info on Kennie and Gary, both BLHS graduates, and I’d remembered seeing church cookbooks nearby, but for the most part, library patrons didn’t check out these books so I didn’t handle them much.
Sure enough, there were nearly two dozen spiral bound recipe books donated by various area churches over the years. I reached for the thickest, titled Corn of Plenty. It was published in the eighties, back before corn wasn’t oversubsidized, transformed, and injected into everything from orange juice to shoes. The book contained only corn-centric recipes and was divided into appetizers, salads, main dishes, and desserts. On the bottom of every page was a “Corn Fact.” Did you ever wonder how they make that yummy jewel-like gravy in restaurants? The secret is cornstarch!
I flipped first to desserts, thinking they would be a challenge to work corn into. I was disappointed to discover that they all simply used high fructose corn syrup, before that was a dirty word. I flipped next to appetizers and felt immediately transported to the 1950s, where men wore hats and drank highballs and women curled their hair and donned full-skirted dresses to vacuum the house. And from that vision, my first Minnesota Multicourse column was born.
Still Tasty after all These Years
Turn up the Sinatra, fix yourself a scotch on the rocks, and slip into your party clothes, ladies and gentlemen. “Battle Lake Bites” is taking you back to a simpler time, when your meat was canned and your vegetables creamed. Welcome to the first installment in the Themed Menu series. This one is titled “Dragnet Dinner,” and it’s perfect for a romantic night with your lover or a dinner party with your closest friends.
Appetizer
Company Ham Spread with Ritz Crackers
1 can deviled ham
½ can corn
2 tablespoons Thousand Island dressing (Wishbone brand is the best!)
2 tablespoons chopped pimento-stuffed green olives
¼ teaspoon Lipton’s Onion Soup mix
1 sleeve Ritz crackers
Combine everything but the crackers. Chill for two hours (can be made a day ahead of time). Spoon topping onto crackers. Garnish each with an olive.
Salad
Chilled Ambrosia Salad
1 can Del Monte peach slices in heavy syrup,
undrained
1 can Del Monte sliced pears in heavy syrup,
undrained
1 can mandarin oranges, drained
¼ cup maraschino cherries
1 container Cool Whip
4 tablespoons sweetened shredded coconut
Mix all but coconut and Cool Whip in a bowl. Spoon into individual serving ramekins. Top each with two tablespoons of Cool Whip, sprinkle with coconut, and chill one hour before serving.
Main dish
Card Club Chicken Hotdish
1 package Rice-A-Roni Chicken Flavor
2 tablespoons corn oil margarine
2 cups cubed, cooked chicken
1 can Campbell’s cream of chicken soup
1 package frozen chopped broccoli, cooked and drained
1 can corn
¼ cup slivered almonds
Cook Rice-A-Roni according to package instructions. Combine in large bowl with remaining ingredients except for almonds. Pour into a greased, microwave-safe casserole container. Microwave on high for seven minutes or until bubbling. Sprinkle with almonds and serve.
Side dish
Creamed Corn
2 cans Green Giant Creamed Corn
Open cans, pour into microwave-safe bowl, and microwave on high for two minutes before serving.
Dessert
Annette Funijello’s Christmas Treat
1 cup water
1 teaspoon corn syrup
¼ cup Brach’s cinnamon imperials
1 package strawberry-flavored gelatin
1 jar Musselman’s applesauce
1 teaspoon lemo
n juice
Combine water, corn syrup, and candies in saucepan and heat until boiling. Stir as needed to dissolve candies. Place gelatin in a mixing bowl. Pour boiling water and candy mixture over gelatin. Stir until gelatin is dissolved. Cool slightly. Stir in applesauce and lemon juice. Pour into Christmas-themed mold. Chill until set.
Phew. I’d given it my best. If Battle Lake didn’t have the most smashing Christmas ever, it wasn’t my fault. I sent the column off to Ron just in time to close. My car felt a bit lonely without the fish house heater, which I’d removed before I left for work today, but I had a feeling I’d get used to it. I let the Toyota warm for a couple minutes while I scraped my windshield, and then hopped in to head to Parkers Prairie.
———
The traffic was heavy, for a small town, and it took me nearly 45 minutes to arrive at Lyle’s. My heart was knocking some in my chest. I was jazzed at the possibility of finding answers, but I didn’t imagine the social etiquette for asking a man about his criminal background was completely outlined, even in my PI for Village Idiots book. How would Miss Manners handle it? Never wear a hat when indoors, turn off your cell phone when entering a restaurant, and make sure not to speak with your mouth full when inquiring about a person’s past rape conviction. It didn’t make it any easier that the guy was single-handedly responsible for the fact that I could see out of every window in my car without the aid of a fish-house heater.
No point in worrying when I could be doing. I screwed up my courage, parked my car in the spot directly in front of the office door, and marched in. I was greeted by a wall of Jimi Hendrix wondering if I might be experienced.
“Hello?” No way was he going to hear me in the shop over the blaring music. I looked in vain for a button that might be connected to a light in the back. “Hello?”
I waited nearly two minutes before letting myself into the shop. The music was louder back here, and the oil-heavy air was laced with the distinctly sweet smell of marijuana. All the lights were on. An old Ford pickup was hoisted in the air, and some poor sedan had its engine cherry-picked right out of it and dangling over the open hood, ready for surgery. The third stall housed an SUV. I figured Lyle must be under there because I couldn’t see him anywhere else. I marched over, the loud music making me tense. I walked around the vehicle and didn’t see him. Getting down on all fours, I peeked underneath. Still no Lyle.
