by Jess Lourey
“That’s right. That’s our health plan in the waitressing world. Every break you get, take a swig of that. It’s ours to enjoy back here in the changing room.” She patted me reassuringly on the back. “It’ll make all your customers smarter.”
She shoved me out the door, where I was assigned my role. Some of us Santa babies were put on hors d’oeuvre duty, some were “conversationalists,” and others were cocktail waitresses. The woman I took to be Mitchell’s wife, Maggie, assigned us our positions. She was thin-lipped, short-haired, and down to business. Based on my past waitressing experience and the scowl on my face, she assigned me cocktail duty, shoving an empty tray, a pen, a pad, and a swirl of cocktail napkins into my hands.
The main dining hall had been converted into a winter wonderland, all fake puffs of snow, twinkle lights, and glass ornaments. There were easily a hundred and fifty guests, and I had counted 15 Santa babies. The majority of guests were male, though many of them had brought their wives or girlfriends, and a sprinkling of women seemed to be there on their own, or at least comfortable with their own company. I recognized faces from the Love-Your-Library event, but had yet to spot Mitchell, Clive, or Frederick. Three doors down from the main dining room was the Men’s Smoke Room, the one with the secret chamber. Whenever I started to waver in my heels, I remembered that room, and the fact that I was only waiting for an opportunity to scope it out. Tying Mitchell to Lyle had only upped the ante.
Someone grabbed my arm. “Vodka tonic, two limes.”
“Sure.” I nodded over the strains of Dean Martin crooning “The Little Drummer Boy.” “Be right back.” And if I’m not, feel free to complain about the woman dressed like Playboy Santa, I thought, as I wove my way into the crowd. I thought I caught a glimpse of Mitchell in a blue dress shirt and tie, but the crowd closed in before I could make my way to him.
“Can we get two whiskey sours, and a glass of red wine?”
“Sure.” I kept moving. I’d be forced to fetch drinks for some people, or my night would be over too soon. At the bar, I put in my orders. The bartender, a lantern-jawed, buzz-sawed blonde at least five years younger than me, slipped me a clear shot of liquid as he whipped up the drinks. I swallowed it, and I’m pretty sure it made my boobs a little bigger. I chose not to consider the implications of falling off the wagon. It was just a single night, not a habit.
“Thanks.” I brought the drinks to their respective owners and was surprised when I was handed a $10 tip. Out of habit, I folded the bill in half the long way and then folded it in half again over the pointer finger of the hand bracing the tray. I’d forgotten how nice it was to have people hand you money. After that, I began to take drink orders with a vengeance. I caught snatches of conversation as I threaded through the crowd, most of it authoritative rants about what was wrong with the tax system, the health system, the education system. The only areas off limits seemed to be the military, Wall Street, and religion, as long as we were talking Christian. I swear I felt the invisible hand of capitalism pinch me on the butt at one point. I was in the belly of the beast, surrounded by a cadre of gun-loving, money-making white guys who could turn on me at the drop of an olive. But man, they tipped great when I brought them the right drinks.
One hour and three hundred and seventy dollars in tips later, Mitchell was the only one of my three targets that I’d spotted. He was bellicose, flushed with good cheer, and greeting people like a Mafia don. I did spot Mike, the retired sheriff, and stopped to say hi. Other than him, and the rich folks I recognized from Love-Your-Library, tonight’s attendees seemed almost entirely to be out-of-towners. Clive hadn’t shown, and my feet felt like bloody stumps. I hunted down Connie, told her I needed a break, and asked her to cover for me. I stopped at the changing room to down a shot, stuff my wad of tips into the tourniquet of my nylons, and then slip into the hallway.
Directly across from me were the restrooms. I used the ladies’ room, slipped my heels off on the way out, and made my way to the Men’s Smoke Room. I walked like I had a purpose, and damn, it felt good to get those shoes off. If someone stopped me, I’d say I was lost. The only people currently in the hall were here to use the restroom, though, and they had no reason to question an employee. I vanished into the unlit smoke room.
The smell of rich cigars overlaid the mildewed scent of old books. My eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness, the only illumination spears of moonlight filtering in through the half-closed curtains. I grabbed a lighter off the nearest table and strode to the bookcase that hid the secret room. I knew Scooby Doo would lean against the bookshelf in frustration and accidentally trip the switch to open the door, so I tried that. No luck. Maybe I shouldn’t have downed that last shot. Next I tried pulling out combinations of books, but it wasn’t until I slid my hand under the bottom of each shelf in desperation that I happened upon the recessed button.
I shoved my finger into it, and the catch on the secret door released. Instead of swinging open, the door sighed and fell slightly ajar. I slipped into the room and pulled the door almost shut but not so tight that it would latch. The utter darkness was disorienting and made me hyper-aware of the smells of cheap perfume and tobacco. I flicked the lighter. My first glimpse showed a smaller version of the library I’d just left, maybe fifteen by fifteen with shelves lining the wall and a couch and chairs in the center, and in the circle of the furniture, a coffee table strewn with what looked like reports of some kind. On the other side of the room I spotted a mounted, flat-screen TV large enough to make a football fan weep, and then the flame died. I flicked it again and this time held it.
“Phoo-ey,” I whistled, making the sound because I couldn’t whistle. Glancing around, I realized I’d stumbled on the Library of Physical Congress. Surrounding me were the spines of possibly the grossest films ever conceived. I peered at the shelf nearest me: Days of our Vibes, The Young and the Breastless, and Thighnasty. Out of curiosity, I tugged one out to look at the cover. Out of disgust, I pushed it back in.
My thumb was growing hot from the lighter, so I released the tab and navigated by memory to the table I’d spotted in the center of the room. Was this secret room a complete waste, just a porno fort? I bumped into the main couch and fell into it. The furniture felt like leather, which I believed was a questionable choice given the viewing material in here. Around me, the darkness closed in like fingers.
I felt along the sofa until I stumbled on the table, and I knelt down beside it. I tapped the wheel of the lighter with my thumb. Still hot. I’d decided to sit there until it cooled when I heard the soft thump of laughter being absorbed by thick walls. My stomach clenched. That was the first sound I’d heard since I’d been in here. Could it be coming from the main dining hall? Then it came again, only this time I could make out words.
“Party … ever … scrooged …
There were people in the smoking room! I was trapped like a raccoon in a garbage pail. If they decided to come in here, there was nowhere to hide, at least for any length of time. My best bet would be to sneak closer to the wall by the door, which would poise me to dart out should they make their way into here. If I kept my head down and ran fast, they might be so surprised that they wouldn’t remember any details other than the Santa Baby costume. I crawled toward the door, then, on a whim, returned to the center table to grab a couple sheets of the reports I’d seen there. I folded them into my nylons, barely, and made my way back to the door. I slowly eased into a standing position and tuned my ear into the conversation in the Men’s room, which was trickling in clearly through the crack I’d left in the door.
“… ever change, do you?” asked a whiny voice.
“Why would I?” I recognized Mitchell’s deep baritone immediately. “Life’s worked out pretty well for me so far!”
“We all knew it would,” said a third voice. “So you gonna let us in that hidden room of yours for some adult viewing, or is that only for the rich guys from the Cities rather than your ol’ classmates from Brandon High?”
&n
bsp; “Help yourself. I’ll join you after the party dies down.”
My heart placed a call to my stomach, and they agreed it was a good time to drop. I pressed my back hard enough into the wall to leave marks.
“The button is here.” The closeness of Mitchell’s voice smacked me like ice water. He couldn’t have been more than three feet away, on the other side of the wall. “Dammit, it’s already open. Maggie said she’d get that fixed.”
Dim light poured into the room. I could make out the lighter I’d left on the table when I’d grabbed the papers. My own mortality brushed against me like a puff of wind.
“You know how to work a DVD player?”
The man with the whiny voice backed in. “Sure, if I can find the lights.”
“They’re out here.” I heard a click, and then I was lit up like a firefly.
“Mitchell.” Maggie’s voice. “Someone wants to talk with you. Big bucks.”
“Coming.”
I heard his heavy footsteps, or it may have been the drumming of the blood in my ears. And then the whiner turned and caught sight of me. His expression was astonishment followed by pleasure spreading across his mousy features. He was about my height and soft-looking, the perfect vehicle for his petulant voice. “Hello, Santa,” he said, smiling.
I prayed three long strides had already taken Mitchell out of the smoke room. I held up my hands like I was jumping out of a cake, my slingback heels still laced through the fingers of one hand. “Surprise!”
“I’ll say. Jerry, come here. This room has a secret center!”
The other guy poked his head in. They were both variations on a theme—the sandy-haired, beer-bellied, small-town guy with bland features and a big heart, if you asked his wife and kids and if they didn’t know he was visiting a porno room.
“What can I get you two to drink?”
Whiner smiled. “Coors light. One for Jerry, too. You’ll come right back?”
“You betcha,” I said. I felt a little sorry for them, despite the proclivities that had brought them to this room. I bet they felt as out of their element at the party as I had. From what I’d caught of their conversation, they were hometown guys calling in a favor, not hunt club regulars.
I couldn’t hide the surge of relief I felt when I exited the secret room. I wasn’t safe yet, but I let my breath trickle more naturally. The Men’s Smoke Room reeked of freshly lit cigarettes, and a partially extinguished ember glowed orange in the darkness. I tried to walk naturally, heels in my hand, but all the paper crowding my nylons was chafing against my skin. I didn’t dare to move fast until I was at the door, when I dashed out. Free at last.
“What the hell were you doing in there?”
My eyes shot to the right. Maggie was barreling down the hall toward me, looking mightily displeased.
“Ah, getting drinks for a couple guests.”
Her eyebrow raised. “They’re in there now?”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t entirely buying it, but her options were limited. If I was telling the truth and she went in there to check, she ran the risk of embarrassing a client. If I was lying and I’d been in there snooping or stealing, I was out now, and there weren’t many places for me to hide stuff. “Get back to work. I’ll wait for them to come out.”
“Thanks,” I said. And I walked directly to the changing room, swapped out heels for Sorels, grabbed my clothes, and jogged to my car.
Thirty-four
“Those are bookie sheets.”
Curtis sat across from me, the steel-gray sky of the storm finally on us. His window blinds were open, but there was little light to allow in, even though it was only 4:00 in the afternoon. I’d had Peggy watch the library for me so I could run to the Battle Lake Senior Sunset during visiting hours. If anyone would know what the number-scribbled sheets I’d pinched from the hunt club meant, Curtis would. He was the town’s memory. Many people wrote him off because he was pushing 100 and fished off the roof of the nursing home whenever he could sneak out, but one look into his ice-blue eyes and you knew he was fully in possession of his faculties.
“Gambling? What kind?”
“Can’t be sure. Looks like football based on the numbers, but it’s all in code. It’d be impossible to say.”
“Is it legal?”
“How many of these sheets did you see?”
“At least fifty, I’d say.”
“Gambling on that level would get a person in a lot of trouble in Minnesota. If any money is changing hands, that is. You see the initials in this first column?”
I nodded.
“Those are likely the gamblers. These here numbers are the teams—VKS could be the Vikings and SKS might be the Sea-hawks—and these are the points. This last column covers the amounts. This appears to be a profitable business. These sheets alone are worth tens of thousands of dollars.”
I ran my finger down the first column of the three pages I’d stolen. It wasn’t until the third that I saw it: FCM, Frederick Craig Milton. “What would you do with these sheets if you were me?”
“You friends with the people they belong to?”
“Nope. I’m actually feeling a little poorly toward them.”
“Then I’d bring them to the police. That is, if I wanted to answer a lot of questions about how I acquired them.” Curtis winked at me and then cocked his head toward the window. “You best run home and pick up some candles and nonperishable food on your way. I’ve seen a lot of storms, but none with teeth like this one. Once she bites down, she’s not going to let up for days.”
The slate of the sky reflected off his eyes, turning them as gray as mercury. I shivered. “That’s good advice. Thanks.” I stood and kissed him on his forehead.
I was almost out the door when he stopped me with a question. “When is Mrs. Berns coming back?”
“Soon. Next Wednesday.”
“Good. It gets too quiet around here without her.”
I smiled and left him by the window, shaving wood off a stick with his pen knife. I knew he’d hide both if a caregiver poked her head in.
Outside, the weather was a sterling haze, thick with unshed snow. I sniffed the air. The clean pre-scent of a blizzard was strong. Curtis was right. All smart people would go home and wait this one out. I couldn’t do it, though. I sensed I was close to something big, but I didn’t know how to string all the clues together. Was the gambling operation tied to the two murders? If so, how? It didn’t help matters that I was hungover from three shots of schnapps. Like a bad one-night stand, I was trying to put it behind me, but I was ashamed. I needed someone to make me feel better about my bad choices. I cruised to Sid and Nancy’s, but they’d closed up early. The sign on their door said, “Snow Coming. Stay Safe.”
I could go around the back and ring the bell wired to their living quarters on the second floor, but I didn’t want to bother them. They got so little time off together. With Mrs. Berns gone, that left only one option. The Glass Menagerie. A light was on in the front window across the street. The first snowflake fell as I crossed. It was huge, as puffy as a pillow and trembling with the news: a storm was coming.
Mrs. Berns had once said of Jed that he’d have a hard time stacking boxes to reach a banana. He wasn’t the most linear thinker, that was true, but maybe that was exactly what I needed right now, someone to help me tackle this puzzle from an unconventional angle. The sign in the storefront window said “Closed,” but the front door was unlocked. I let myself in, accompanied by the fairy song of door chimes. I made a beeline toward the shelf of glass sea creatures.
“Can I help you?”
I turned, startled. “Hi, Monty. I stopped by to see Jed. Is he here?
“Naw.” He wiped his hands on a towel streaked with bright colors and dingy black ash. “He’s working. Battle Sacks.” The acrid smell of the furnace dominated the air.
“Shoot! That’s right.”
“Something I can help you with?”
I took in his ever-present rai
nbow pompom hat, worn flannel shirt, and frayed jeans. His hands were scarred and dirty with hard work. “How good are you with puzzles?”
He smiled. “Not very. I’m better with sandwiches. You eat yet?”
I considered lying, but my stomach mutinied and let out a growl. “Not yet. I don’t eat red meat, though.”
“You’re in luck. Neither do I. How does a hummus on pita bread with lettuce, tomato, and black olives sound?”
“Like the best proposal I’ll get in this lifetime.”
He chuckled. “Good enough. I just have to shut down my work in back.”
I followed him to the rear door, fascinated and yet repelled by the hellish glow of the furnace. When Monty leaned in to adjust the knobs, it cast his face in red. “Storm coming,” I commented, to get my mind off the vision.
“This’ll just take a minute.” He turned, closed the nearest canisters, and returned tools to drawers before leading me upstairs.
“Do you live here, too?”
“Yup. One half is a one-bedroom apartment. The other half is an efficiency. I get the efficiency.” He led me into his one-room living space, a neat arrangement with a bed, a bookshelf, a tiny kitchen with a table and four chairs, and a door to what I presumed was a bathroom. “Have a seat.”
I obliged and watched him whip up the best sandwich I’d ever eaten in my life. It was the perfect mixture of creamy and crunchy, sweet and salty, with a solid umami flavor in the hummus. “Did you make this yourself ?”
“From scratch. I even boil the beans. Care for a beer?”
Outside, huge snowflakes were scratching softly at the window, pausing to take in every view they could before they fell to the ground forever. Although it had left me feeling guilty, the schnapps last night had tasted good. A beer with this sandwich would be even better. I could schedule time next week to think about the implications of both. “Do you have potato chips?”
