by Lourey, Jess
“They wouldn’t tell you he was going to be okay if he wasn’t,” I said. I started to pat her back, but it felt odd, so I stopped. “It’s probably just a flesh wound. And I’m sure you have family. Don’t you?” I realized how very little I knew about the mayor of Battle Lake.
“Aunts and uncles sprinkled around the country, cousins … ” she trailed off.
“Parents?”
The pause made me expect the worst. “They live in Florida,” she finally said.
I exhaled. “Well, that’s family.”
“We don’t get along. And besides, I meant my own family. A husband and kids. A dog. A garden.”
The man three chairs over retched into his bag. It seemed like an appropriate reaction. Still, the smell was wafting toward us, so I pulled Kennie to her feet and steered us to the other side of the waiting room. “You don’t even like to garden, and you hate kids. And where did all this come from?”
She patted her platinum hair. “I don’t know. Gary going into the hospital has brought me closer to my mortality, I guess. What is my legacy on this earth, Mira? What am I leaving behind so people can remember me?”
I couldn’t assure her that she was going to live for a good long time, because I bet that’s what the man I’d skated over last night had woken up thinking, too, right before he got iced. I scoured my brain for an answer. “I know! Last night, you told me you’re a plant and pet psychologist. You’re helping two of the most important things in the world. That’s a wonderful legacy!”
“I suppose,” she said glumly.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re very good at it. I bet people will talk about it long after you’re gone.” Like a truly obnoxious party crasher, I thought, or a particularly rotten smell.
“Do you really mean it?”
The hope in her sad eyes squeezed at my heart. “Of course.”
She sat up straight, her expression immediately cleared. “Wonderful. When do you want me to come over for your plant and pet consultation?”
My mouth dropped. Had she just played me?
“Close that piehole, Mira. You don’t know what sort of germs are flying around this place.” She yanked a calendar out of her mammoth fringed purse. “Tuesday evening might work for me, but my schedule is filling up quickly, so let’s keep that appointment floating, shall we? In the meanwhile, what say I officially deputize you so you can go find out how Gary is. I truly am worried about him.”
Many questions battled in my head. What came out was, “You can deputize someone?”
She lifted her shoulders. “Why not? I’m mayor.”
“You’re mayor of Battle Lake. We’re in Fergus.”
“Then just be a good little detective and go ask that doctor. He was the one I spoke with before.”
She pushed me out of my seat and toward a white-haired man wearing scrubs. At the same moment, Johnny entered through the sliding front door, his face drawn. I motioned him toward Kennie and strode to the doctor. “Excuse me? I’m wondering how Gary Wohnt is doing.”
The doctor glanced up from a chart. “Are you family?”
“I’m his sister.” I firmly believed that you shouldn’t overplan a lie. Rather, it’s better to be ready to hop on the lie boat if it drifts your way. “Mira Wohnt.”
Shoot. I’d taken it too far by adding details.
It seemed to work, though. The doctor nodded and scratched behind an ear with his pen. “He’s in surgery now. The bullet went in his upper left leg and out the back. Missed the artery. Once he’s sewn up, he should be fine, though he might not agree. It’ll be a while until he’s able to move as he’d like.”
“Thank you.” I swiveled to walk away. The doctor made a small coughing sound in his throat. I turned back.
“Would you like to know what room he’ll be in after recovery?” He raised an eyebrow. “So you can tell the rest of your family?”
“Yes!”
He consulted his clipboard. “He’s scheduled to be moved into 227, barring any unforeseen circumstances.”
“Thanks again,” I said, smiling. Then, it occurred to me that a grin might be unnatural for a woman whose brother has recently been shot, so I frowned.
The doctor’s eyes narrowed, but he walked away without comment. I raced over to Kennie and Johnny to share the little I knew.
Kennie, for all her denial of her feelings for Gary and her scamming me in the waiting room, seemed incredibly relieved by the news. “Did he say what time Gary would be out of surgery?”
“No, but he’ll be in room 227.”
She patted my cheek. “Thank you, doll.”
I nodded. Johnny slipped his hand into mine. I looked down at it, surprised. I’d had to deal with a lot since I’d moved to Battle Lake, and while I had wonderful friends, I’d been forced to handle most of it alone. I looked over at Johnny and recognized strength in his eyes. I squeezed his hand.
Kennie honked her nose again. “Say, did you hear? They ID’d the man in the ice. They think he’s a transient. The only identification they found on him was a Chicago Public Library card. His name was Maurice Jackson.”
Twelve
I spent a chaste, troubled night curled in Johnny’s arms, both of us too tired to clean up the kitchen before we tumbled into bed. It sounded like Gary was going to be okay, but Maurice most certainly was not. Mrs. Berns and I were likely two of the last people to see him alive, besides his killer. Something Kennie had said was niggling at me, too. She’d said Maurice was a transient, but I knew better. He’d been clean and focused every time he’d entered the library, not to mention a regular for a whole week. I made a mental note to call the Chicago Public Library system to see if they could tell me anything about Maurice, up to and including whether or not he’d recently checked out any books.
I must have fallen asleep near sunrise because next thing I knew, I was alone in my bed and the clock was telling me it was 7:14 AM. I sat up, trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I was disoriented, and at first I thought it was because Johnny was gone. Then I realized that the problem was I was sleeping on the mattress for the first time in weeks. I fought the anxiety, leaning over to sniff Johnny’s empty pillow. The faint scent of his spicy shampoo was comforting. I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. At least I meant to, but it felt like the booglies had set up camp in it for the night. Dragging myself out of bed, I made my way to the kitchen, patting Luna’s happy head on the trek. Tiger Pop stretched when she saw me.
“What time did Johnny leave?”
Luna tried to beat the answer in Morse code using her tail, but alas, I was too dumb to understand. Thankfully, Johnny had left a note on the kitchen counter, which he must have very quietly cleaned while I slept:
Sorry I had to leave before you woke up. Early day at work. You looked beautiful sleeping.
I smiled and pushed a lock of my brown hair out of my eyes. The whole tangled mass moved as one. I ignored it and kept reading:
I baked these cookies last night for dessert, but we didn’t have time to try them. I hope they’re good. I have evening commitments all week. Can you make it to our show on Friday? Call me.
—J
I was sorely tempted to scribble little hearts on that note and hide it under my pillow. That feeling doubled when I lifted the cover next to his note and uncovered a plate mounded with peanut butter cookies, my favorite. I was trying to lose a couple pounds in my belly, so I ate three of them fast following the time-honored maxim that a cookie eaten quickly has no calories.
My next duty was to scrub out Luna and Tiger Pop’s water bowls, fill them with fresh water, and pour their daily ration of food. Somehow, Luna turned her portion into a lean German Shepherd machine. Tiger Pop managed to put on weight, even though the ratio of her food to her body size was the same as Luna’s. I suspected she’d figured out how to break into the cat food cupboard while I
slept, or better yet open the fridge for snacks, then kick back on the couch and click on the TV to watch Animal Planet’s blooper reels when I wasn’t around. She was a cat, though. If she didn’t want me to know, I wasn’t going to know.
I scratched them both behind the ears as they ate. We weren’t terribly active in the winter, which I occasionally felt bad about. Luna had her run of the acreage whenever she wanted, but I knew they both missed me when I was gone for long days.
“Maybe we could hit the sledding hill sometime this week,” I suggested. Tiger Pop arched her spine when I scratched the sweet spot where her back met her tail.
Once I was satisfied both animals knew they were loved, I hopped in the shower, applying extra conditioner so I stood a chance of forcing a comb through my shoulder-blade-length brown hair afterward. I also shaved, though I had to change razors halfway through. I lotioned up afterward, rolled on some honey-flavored lip balm, tossed myself into a clean pair of blue jeans, my comfy white bra (which I had to dig out from behind the nightstand), and a rainbow t-shirt that read “Freedom to Love.”
Today’s plans were informal. The library was technically closed on Sundays, though I had agreed to open the space to host a birthday party for Matthew, one of my favorite story hour regulars. He turned five this week. Before the birthday party, I had a meeting scheduled with an attorney at the Litchfield Law Firm. He said he had a small investigative job that he’d like to talk about over a cup of coffee. I also needed to interview Gilbert Hullson about Jiffy, the ice-diving dog, and I wanted to stop by the nursing home to visit my friend and amateur historian Curtis Poling to ask him some questions. Dangit, I wanted to stop by the hospital in Fergus and check on Gary, as well.
Phew. I was tired just thinking about my supposed day off. I gave the animals some more love, tugged a cap over my wet hair and my down jacket over my t-shirt, and headed into the cold world.
Thirteen
Chuck Litchfield was in his seventies, white-haired but sharp. His son had hired me back in November to investigate an apparent hunting accident. Two corpses later, I solved the crime, but not before uncovering an ancillary drug operation very close to home on top of nearly losing my own life. The fact that Chuck was willing to hire me told me that his law office had very low standards. Fine by me.
“Ms. James! So glad you could make it.”
He motioned me to sit across the booth from him at the Shoreline Café. The Shoreline was the Winchester House of Battle Lake, perpetually being added onto. It had started with a cute dining room and kitchen. Then, a cavernous dining room had been added in the back beyond the restrooms. Next, a bar and ice cream parlor were attached, and a bowling alley was added on to that. The layout felt a little jigsaw puzzled, but this was easy to forget once you dug into their fluffy omelets, or better yet, their heavenly eggs Benedict.
Chuck had chosen a booth at the bay window facing West Battle Lake, the perfect location to see who was coming and going. In the distance and to the right, I spotted the top spires of the ice castle peeking over the trees.
“Have you been waiting long?” I asked.
He pointed at a small white plate dusted with crumbs. “Long enough to polish off a piece of homemade cherry pie. My wife would kill me if she knew I was having that for breakfast.”
The three cookies in my stomach nodded in sympathy. “It’s Sunday,” I said. “A day of rest and desserts.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don’t suppose I could talk you into your own piece of pie? I’d feel better if I wasn’t the only one who slipped.”
I took the seat across from him. My jeans were already feeling a little tourniquety around the waist. I’d figured they’d loosen as the day wore on and the fabric had a chance to stretch. It felt good to have a plan. “Sure. Caramel apple for me.”
He ordered that and another piece of cherry for himself, because “a gentleman never lets a lady eat alone.” I added on a cup of coffee with real cream. While we waited, he slipped into the reason he’d brought me here, Lutheran-style—which is to say, inefficiently and roundabout.
“Heard about the hoo-ha at the lake yesterday. Damn shame. Do they know who the young man you found in the ice was?”
The waitress set my coffee mug down and poured me a steaming cup. The rich smell comforted me instantly. I studied Chuck covertly as I mixed in the cream and two sugars. Previously, I’d only met him in passing when dealing with his son at the law firm. I knew he came from a farm background and was the first in his family to attend college. By all accounts, he’d worked hard for everything he had, and he was well-liked around town. Even so, there was something crafty in his eyes that put me on guard. “They think he was a transient.”
Chuck rubbed his chin. “Been a lot of fly-by-nighters around Battle Lake lately, it seems. It used to be that I recognized everyone in town in the winter. Now, I can’t go to Larry’s without running into at least five strangers, some of whom look like they’re from the rough side of the tracks. Do they think that drugs were involved?”
I sipped the coffee. The creamy, sweet liquid poured down my throat, sending shivers of satisfaction to my fingertips. “No idea.” I took another sip and watched him. Would he be disappointed that I couldn’t tell him more? If so, tough noogies. I wasn’t on the clock. Yet.
He shrugged, glancing back toward the pie cooler. The waitress was pulling out two pies that had been baked fresh that morning, no doubt. The apple pie was unbroken, the lattice work crust on the top drizzled with thick ropes of homemade caramel. A little bit of drool ran out of my mouth, and I wiped at it, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“Well,” he said, pulling his attention back to me. “It’s a sad business, but not why I asked you here. What can you tell me about Eric Offerdahl?”
“Never heard of him, though I know the Offerdahl name is tied to the Prospect House.”
Chuck nodded. He’d expected that. I was starting to think nothing I could say would surprise him. He’d known exactly how this interview would go before he walked in the door, and truly, it felt like a job interview. “Eric is about your age, maybe a little younger. He was a troubled kid, might still be. Troubled, that is, obviously not a kid anymore. I was hoping you could track him down.”
Some stubborn streak in me refused to ask him why. “Do you have an address?”
“We think he’s living within fifteen miles of Battle Lake.”
“Any idea of who his friends might be?”
“He graduated high school here, but all his friends, if he had any, have moved on.”
“How long do you think he’s been back?”
“A month, maybe two.”
A lovely wedge of warm caramel apple pie with a scoop of melting vanilla ice cream was slid in front of me. I smiled. Yesterday might have been a crap sandwich, but today was going pretty well so far. I ate my pie and pretended to contemplate everything Chuck had told me. I hoped my face was somehow radiating thoughtful intelligence because my brain was cycling over two words, again and again: pie … amazing. I finished the whole slice barely coming up for air, wondering if the speed-calorie conversion applied to pies as well as cookies.
“You must have been hungry,” Chuck said.
I looked up to see he was only on his second bite. Second bite of his second piece, though, which did not exactly give him carte blanche to the judgment chair.
“Thank you,” I said. “For the pie. It was delicious. If I take the case, how much time do I have to find Eric Offerdahl?”
“Two weeks from today.”
I did the math in my head. “I could give you twenty billable hours in the next two weeks, at forty dollars an hour. I’ll log all the sites I visit and leads I follow. If I don’t find him, you still pay.”
I’d made all this up on the spot, but he nodded as if what I was saying was reasonable.
“Deal.” He held out his ha
nd.
I shook it, trying not to notice the thick cherry ooze smeared across his teeth like blood.
My meeting with Gilbert Hullson had far fewer layers. In fact, I’m not even sure it had one layer. I tracked him down at the hardware store where he worked part-time. He was in the screw aisle sorting through a bin.
“Mr. Hullson?”
“None other.”
He kept sorting, not bothering to glance my way. He wore flannel and, except for a spectacularly bulbous nose, looked like your average middle-aged Midwesterner.
“I’m Mira James. From the Battle Lake Recall? I’m here to interview you about Jiffy.”
That got his attention. He immediately stood, his eyes alight. “You shoulda seen it! One minute I’m planning her funeral, and the next, she’s shooting out of a fishhole like popcorn. Poor thing was wet and shivering to beat the band, but she was alive. Ooh, if she could talk, she’d have a story to tell, wouldn’t she?”
“So she really went into one hole and came out the other?”
“As real as these two hands.” He held his gnarled palms toward me. He was missing the ring finger on his left hand, which confused the analogy somewhat.
“Do you have witnesses?”
He flashed a sly smile. “I’m a fisherman. I can always come up with witnesses.”
I felt a mirror smile tugging at my lips. The guy was an absolute weirdo, and he was beginning to grow on me. “Good enough. Don’t suppose I could come by your house later tonight and snap a photo of Jiffy? To run with the article?”
He returned his attention to the screws. “She’d be pleased to meet you.”
Fourteen
In eighth grade, our health class took a half-day trip to Paynesville Manor, the local nursing home. We were each assigned an honorary grandparent, and our job was to listen to their history and write a mini-biography from it. That’s one of those exercises that must look great on paper, a bunch of teacher’s chuffing each other around a table, talking about active and experiential learning. In reality, we were already struggling with acne and the unshakeable belief that human interaction was merely a set-up for humiliation à la face plants, sneeze-farts, spontaneously inappropriate confessions, and/or getting the answer wrong. To expect us to navigate an unfamiliar elderly population was pure cruelty.
