by Lourey, Jess
“ … and that was 1984. My 1985–90 albums are more walleye-oriented. Let me grab—”
I sat up so quickly that Jiffy erped, which is how dogs that size must bark: Erp. “I really appreciate your time, Mr. Hullson, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I just need a photo of Jiffy.” She wagged her stumpy little tail at the mention of her name. She was a darling miniature poodle, though she had that weird eye goop that breed of dog always seemed to sport. She’d been staring at me desperately since I’d arrived, almost begging for me to take her out of this paean to accumulation, fishing, and pop cans.
“Well,” Gilbert said, sensing, I imagine, that he was about to lose a 135-pound white girl, “you should at least see a picture of the hole she fell into before you go.”
“Really? You’re going to show me a picture of a hole?” Resignation, not surprise, colored my voice.
Jiffy erped again: You have to save me, lady from the outside! This isn’t my life!
“Sher thing,” Gilbert said, pulling out a thick photo album labeled Miracle Jiffy. He paged through it until he found what he wanted. He flipped the album so it was facing me and thrust a sausage finger at a blurry square. “See?”
I leaned forward to look at the photograph. The Naugahyde ottoman I was sitting on—the only accessible piece of furniture besides Gilbert’s easy chair—squeaked as I did so. Gilbert flashed me a look, but I didn’t bother making excuses. He owed me that much.
In the photo, Gilbert had placed a paperback next to the ice hole to lend perspective.
“She must have just fit in there,” I said.
“Yup. She’s fished with me a hundred times and never fell in. If it wasn’t for those gangsters shooting up the ice, I never would have let her out of my sight. I think she was going after a fish. I almost lost her.” He bundled Jiffy into his arms and hugged her. She closed her eyes and ducked her head into his arm.
My ears pricked up. “Gangsters?”
“Two of them. Couldn’t get a good look at ’em because they were far away, but I could tell by their clothes that they’re not from around here. Hoodies, baseball caps. No fisherman wears that. They were shooting into the air, hollering. I turned around to ask Jiffy if she thought I should call the police, but she wasn’t there. I panicked. By the time she popped back out of the ice a few houses over, the kids were gone.”
“What night was this?”
“Thursday night. Right before they started setting up for the festival on West Battle.”
“Is that where you were? On West Battle?”
“Yup. Not far off from the ice castle.”
So, two men who were “not from around here” were near where Maurice’s body was found two nights before he died, and wearing clothes very similar to those Ray and Hammer were wearing that same night they attacked Mrs. Berns and me.
The letter supposedly written by Orpheus Jackson was looking fishier and fishier.
Nineteen
Monday morning dawned before I did. I lay under my bed, eyes closed, wondering if I’d left the bathroom faucet on. Drip. Drip. Willing myself not to care, I snuggled deeper into my patchwork quilt in the dark safety. The alarm hadn’t yet gone off, which meant that I had more time to sleep, though I could tell by the light filtering underneath the edges of the bed that the sun was beginning to rise.
Drip.
I sighed. The water wasn’t going to let me sleep. I rolled to the edge of my bed and cracked one eye. A knurdled pair of socks and yesterday’s jeans lay on the floor, inches from my face. I crawled over the fallen clothes, then like a puppet master, hauled my upper body into a sitting position. I ran my fingers through the front half of my hair, stopping when I met resistance. I’d slept terribly last night, fitful murmurs of rest pockmarked by nightmares of skating over a frozen lake, hundreds of corpses suspended in the ice, and just below that, undulating, predatory sea creatures waiting for the ice to melt enough to drop their prey.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the same nightmare featured a symphony of tiny white dogs popping out of holes that erupted like geysers. I’d tried to skate to safety, but the more I sliced at the ice, the farther away the shore moved.
Ugh. I stumbled into the bathroom and tightened both of the sink faucets. Still, I heard the drip. Next I tightened both faucets in the shower, even though the shower head was dry. The same was true of the kitchen faucet. Luna followed me to the center of the house, wagging her tail but also whining.
“What’s dripping, sweetie?”
She wagged and padded to the door.
“You want to go outside?” I yanked the front door wide open, hoping the fresh air would clear my mental cobwebs. There it was—the dripping, louder than ever. It was coming from the side of the house, where all the icicles were in a mad race to see who could thaw first. The snow had the ice-sheen of water melting in on itself, and the air smelled like the color green.
“Luna! A real January thaw! I guess those farmers knew what they were talking about.”
To have a smell other than ion and snow was a gift. I knew it wouldn’t last—it couldn’t—but in this moment, I was filled with the hope of spring. It temporarily pushed away my stress like only hopeful weather can do. “Whoo-hoo!”
Luna dashed outside and ran crazy circles over the snow drifts in the yard, picking up on my energy. I glanced over my shoulder at the wall clock hung in the living room. It was 7:12 AM. I had time to shower, drive to the Fergus hospital to show Gary the letter, and still open the library on time.
“Knock knock.” I’d arrived empty handed. I couldn’t afford to bring any more treats to people. I barely fit in my jeans as it was. All I carried with me was a fervent wish that Gary’s morphine dosage had been lowered. “It’s me, Mira.”
I ducked my head in. Gary was in the same position as yesterday, except his leg was no longer in the air, and he was wearing a crisp navy blue Battle Lake Police t-shirt and matching sweatpants. He also wore reading glasses halfway down his nose and was holding a newspaper. He did not glance my direction.
“Gary?”
He still didn’t stir. I stepped into the room. “I have something to show—”
“Halt,” he commanded, still not looking at me.
I stopped. I counted to thirty. He didn’t say anything. “Did they switch your meds?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When I came yesterday—” This time I stopped myself with his help. Was that a blush creeping up his neck? “You remember I was here yesterday, right?”
“I was on heavy painkillers. They shouldn’t have allowed anyone in.” His voice was sharp.
“You were pretty fun,” I said, beginning to enjoy myself. “A real laugh riot.”
The blush made a full migration to his scalp. He must have just enough memory of yesterday to be embarrassed. I tamped down a smile and pitched my voice serious. “You made me deputy, Gary. You promised we could start a task force as soon as you were released from the hospital, and that we’d go on stakeouts together. You don’t remember any of that?”
He turned the page on the newspaper with such force that it sounded like slap.
“Gary,” I said, making my voice soft and falsely injured. “You told me you loved me.”
He glanced at me, stricken. Then he caught my expression, and pure fire began to burn in his eyes. I swear I could have roasted marshmallows over it, which I normally would find funny except for the flash of unguarded emotion I’d just witnessed. It had been only an instant, but it was enough to unsettle me. Did he have feelings for me? I immediately discarded the idea as impossible. He was drawn to me like a cat to water. I must have seen something else in his expression. Indigestion?
He returned his attention to his newspaper. “Get out.”
“My pleasure,” I said, adopting a bravado I certainly didn’t feel.
Whatever emotional roller coaster he was riding made me infinitely uncomfortable. I stepped out of the room, the letter tucked safely inside my jacket. No way was I going to show it to Gary now. I stomped out of the hospital, feeling more unsettled than angry.
Twenty
The book return bin was overflowing when I arrived at work. How it could fill up when the library was closed always amazed me. There must be some sort of traveling virus that compelled mobs of people to bring back all their books at once. Either that, or it was connected to the phases of the moon. It didn’t matter because reshelving books was one of my favorite parts of the library gig. It provided for me the same satisfaction as weeding my garden in the summer, letting me sink into the meditation of putting things where they belonged, removing stuff that didn’t, and generally restoring order to the universe.
My opening duties took all of twenty minutes. I unlocked the front door three minutes early and stopped by my computer to check email before the first patrons arrived. My inbox was littered with spam offering me big boobs, sexy love mustache partners, and access to Jessica Simpson’s beauty secrets. If I possessed any one of those, I was sure I wouldn’t need the others. I deleted the spam and was left with one legitimate message, from Carter Stone at the Prospect House:
Mira,
Sorry you missed your visit in all the commotion, but of course we understand. Stop by anytime for a private tour.
Carter
I hit Reply and wrote that I’d like to stop by after work today between five and six o’clock. Might as well get to it lickety-split. Email responded to, and since I didn’t yet have clientele or any pressing work, I figured I might as well open up the Cold Case file and call the rest of the Maurice Jacksons in Chicago so I could cross another item off my to-do list. Finding someone who could tell me more about him might shed light on what he had been doing in Battle Lake, and specifically what had gotten him killed.
I made thirteen successful calls in that I reached either a Maurice Jackson or the wife or child of a Maurice Jackson, but all thirteen were dead ends, either not owning a library card or never having been to Minnesota. I left a message with the two others, one that had a male voice on the answering machine and the other with a female voice. I left my name, my home number, and said I was calling from Minnesota and looking for Maurice, and then I made a note next to both numbers so I’d know who I had left to talk to. The library was starting to pick up, so I organized my notes before going to work helping people find books, shelving returns, and generally picking up the library.
Mrs. Berns showed up around lunchtime, still seeming a bit off. She didn’t want to talk about it, though, so we both kept about our business. I was trying to clean a dusty, musty corner of the textured ceiling, all the little boinkies dropping on my upturned face and shoulders, when I heard a familiar throat clearing.
“Hi, Brad,” I said, not glancing down. Brad—Bad Brad, as I referred to him in my head—had been my boyfriend in Minneapolis when Sunny first asked me to house-sit. We broke up right before I moved, and ending our dating life was one of my smartest moves ever. It was a comical irony that he was now living in Battle Lake. Good one, Fate. Maybe you could reintroduce into my life every bad choice I’d ever made on some sort of rotating schedule, starting with my seventh-grade Ogilvie home perm.
“Hey, Mira.”
I recognized the particular voice he saved for rare moments of sadness. I chose to concentrate instead on delicately wiping the ceiling boinkies, imagining them to be ancient stalagmites and my dust cloth a huge bat weaving in and out.
He sighed, a long, tortured, drawn-out sound.
I did the same. “What is it?” I finally asked, dropping my arms. My hands instantly began to tingle as the blood returned to them.
“What do you mean?”
I rolled my eyes. Bad Brad was a handsome guy, it was true, with sort of a blonde Jim Morrison thing going on. Plus, he was in a band and I’m sorry, but that counts for something. Unfortunately, he was as smart as mud and as deep as a wading pool. And right now, his mascara was smudged, make-up being his new hallmark since he’d formed his latest group, Iron Steel, tagline “twice the metal.”
“You look like you’ve been crying.”
His shoulders slumped even farther, and he made a pitiful swipe at his eye. “I think my girlfriend is cheating on me.”
I snorted, but at his wounded expression turned it into a cough, which ultimately came together as some sort of donkey honk. Cuz here’s the deal. Did I mention that I had actually caught Bad Brad cheating on me? I still wasn’t sure if “caught” was the right word. I witnessed him giving skin flute lessons after a hunch had me staring down a skylight into a borrowed bedroom, but I never confronted him because I sincerely doubted he could juggle an erection and a confrontation without burning through his wiring. So I’d simply moved without telling him why.
“The vomit returns to the dog,” Mrs. Berns said, walking by with a stack of books in her arms. I didn’t know if she was referring to me or Bad Brad. I glared at her in case it was me.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told Brad, mostly truthfully. It’s easy to forgive an ex after you finally realize you never should have dated him in the first place.
“I was going to marry that woman,” he said, his face hanging so low that he resembled a bloodhound. Opening for KISS. He was wearing a leather jacket, a scarf, and a full face of make-up, after all.
“What’s her name?” I asked, unsurprised at his confession. Bad Brad’s marriage proposal was a cheap dress worn by too many women. He’d proposed to me twice while we were dating, once because he felt bad for showing up late and another time because he really liked my dress.
“Samantha. She’s an insurance salesman in Alexandria.”
“I think you mean ‘agent.’”
“No,” he said. “She sells insurance. For sure. I’ve been to her office.”
My head hurt. A home perm would actually be preferable to this conversation. Heck, I’d even wear jelly shoes and acid-washed jeans while Fate put the curlers in. “That sounds really crappy, Brad. I’m sorry for you. But I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“That’s what I’m here about,” he said, his face brightening marginally. “I want to hire you to find out what Samantha is up to.”
Mrs. Berns cackled from the other side of a bookshelf. I stepped off the ladder I’d been using and stood in front of Bad Brad. I had to crane my neck to look him in the eyes. Up close, he smelled like the Calvin Klein Obsession cologne I used to buy him.
“I can’t help you,” I said. “It’d be a conflict of interest since we used to date.” And you’re always broke, and I’d rather roller skate naked through town than dig around your personal life.
All hope drained out of his face. My heart tugged for a moment, but I held firm. It really was the best thing for him. Plus, Mrs. Berns was now laughing so hard that I couldn’t hear myself think.
Bad Brad nodded dejectedly and shambled out without another word. Mrs. Berns walked over to me and together, we watched him go.
“I’m not saying the boy’s dumb,” she said, “but I’d be real surprised if he could fart and chew gum at the same time.”
I nodded. Truer words. “Do you think his girlfriend is cheating on him?”
“I sure would,” she said. “He’s got the cute, but that doesn’t fill up a woman for long. Anyways, why would you care? He’s getting what’s coming to him.”
“I suppose.” I turned my full attention on her. “Hey, why do you have your coat on?”
“I’m punching out early today. I got errands.”
“Like what?”
“Like none of your business.”
And she left.
Twenty-One
The driveway leading to the Prospect House had been recently salted, which was good, as the unusual warm-up had slic
kened the roads. I’d also noticed it was making people crazy jumpy like hibernators that’ve been awoken prematurely. I caught two separate patrons—regulars, both of them—walking out without checking out their books first, and one couple making out behind the encyclopedias. When I dropped a heavy book to get their attention, they both jumped up and scurried away, their expressions dazed. The weather was doing something to us. I could feel it in my own blood, which seemed to be moving a little faster and hotter than usual. Too bad Johnny was out of town tonight, performing in the Cities with The Thumbs.
As I parked my car, I realized it was the only one in the Prospect House lot, which gave me the opportunity to pretend like everything I laid eyes on was mine. I climbed out of my Toyota and glanced at the rear of the stately, shabby chic mansion with its ornate woodwork and matching servants’ building next door. Maybe I was just returning from a quick jaunt to Italy to check on my vineyard, or a short flight to New York to visit with my stockbroker? Maybe my housekeeper was waiting inside with dinner. Or, maybe I had slipped on yesterday’s jeans this morning, the only pair that hadn’t shrunk overnight, and was about to get a tour of a cool old mansion so I could write a story about it. Yeah, that version fit best.
The front of the mansion, the side facing West Battle, had an ornate oak door trimmed with hand-carved designs and a huge metal knocker hung in the center. That door, Carter had informed me, was unused because it needed too much work, which is why the path wasn’t shoveled. He’d instead requested I enter through the rear, a very plain wooden door that opened just as I reached for its knob.
“Mira James, I presume? Welcome!”
Carter Stone and I had never crossed paths, which in a town the size of Battle Lake was a small miracle. I’d seen photos of him on the After the Battle contributors’ page, but those had been black-and-white and fuzzy. In real life, he was a handsome man in his sixties with an aging Peter Fonda à la Easy Rider air about him. His face was defined by a bushy gray-brown mustache and smile crinkles at the edges of his brown eyes. He was wearing a Civil War–style cap, a flannel shirt tucked in dark blue jeans, and work boots.
