by Lourey, Jess
“Might, or do?”
Deputy Victor walked in, bringing a gust of cold air and the smell of drugstore cologne with him. We nodded at each other, and then he disappeared into the back room of the station.
I ran my finger along the edge of his desk. “Depends.”
When I pulled my eyes back to his, he was staring at me with such intensity that it felt like an X-ray. I held his gaze, though it was one of the more difficult things I’d done that week. I could feel the flush creeping up from my neck.
“Do you know anything about OxyContin?” he asked.
“Prescription pain reliever, widely abused. Is that what the gang is dealing in?”
“How about fentanyl patches?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“Never heard of ’em.”
“It’s a pain reliever, a hundred times more potent than morphine.” Was that a blush at the mention of the drug that had made him over-reveal? “It’s highly addictive, dangerous, and popular. Doctors prescribe it in pill, sucker, or patch, but the patch is the most popular back alley form.”
“Sucker? Like, candy that kills pain?” And I thought frozen Nut Goodies were awesome. Neither of my reactions—admiration and envy—seemed appropriate, so I continued. “And you’re seeing OxyContin and fentanyl patches turning up around here?”
“Look it up. You’re the reporter.”
I noticed he didn’t call me a detective. “Why would you only tell me part of the story?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. He wore a fat silver ring on his right hand, and it caught the light. “The question is, why would I tell you any of it? The answer: because this is dangerous. It’s not kids snitching their parents’ liquor or selling pot. This is big-city drug running, and I want you out of my way.”
The words weren’t new—he’d warned me away from cases many times before—but the growl in his voice was.
“I have no interest in infiltrating gangs or uncovering drug operations,” I said truthfully.
He scowled. I could tell he didn’t believe me.
“Look, I just want to know what happened to Maurice. I found him, you know? I want to put that to rest. Also, Litchfield hired me to locate Eric Offerdahl. The sooner you help me with those two, the sooner I get out of your way.”
“You’ve told me everything?”
“Yes.” I really had. Except for the letter. I shoved my hand into my pocket, and my fingers curled around the edges of Orpheus’s missive. I hadn’t come in expecting to show it to him, but maybe he could help with that, too. Or maybe it would help him. This sharing was unlike me, but it felt good to not have to do this one alone.
His voice cut into my thoughts. “Good. Thank you. I don’t want to see you again. Ever, if you can swing it, but if not, certainly not before this case is over. If we cross paths, consider yourself arrested.”
“For what?” I sputtered, my hand shooting out of my pocket, empty.
“Don’t give me a reason to decide.” He held me in his stare, his eyes sharp.
“Screw you,” I said, suddenly so angry that I wished I could start fires with my brain.
He raised one eyebrow mildly, which is the last view I had of him before spinning on my heel and storming out.
Thirty-Two
The soft shuffle of the library faded into the background as I typed my article in hopes of distracting myself from the boiling anger at Gary’s harsh words.
“Battle Lake’s Prospect House
and Civil War Museum Opens to the Public”
The grand old Prospect House has opened her doors for the first time since it ceased being a hotel in 1924. The House is a Battle Lake original, an 18-room Georgian mansion built in 1860 by Barnaby Offerdahl, a railroad man and Battle Lake transplant. When Offerdahl didn’t return from the Civil War, the house was willed to his daughter and then his brother. It left Offerdahl hands in an 1882 sale when James Allison “Cap” Colehour purchased it, turning it into a seasonal resort in 1886. The Prospect Inn was the first and largest resort operating in the area for the 38 years it was open. With a prime location near the railroad, it became a popular travel destination for people from all over the Midwest, famous for its clean rooms and excellent meals.
The Inn reverted to a private home in the early 1920s and was completely remodeled in 1929. In a rare stroke of luck, the house’s furnishings have not been changed since. Carter Stone, a local historian, bought the mansion minus most of the land at auction last March. With the help of a dedicated group of volunteers, Stone has spent hundreds of hours searching through piles of treasure inside the house. They’ve uncovered most of the original furnishings, intact clothing and jewelry collections dating as far back as Barnaby Offerdahl’s time, and an extensive collection of Civil War artifacts. According to Stone, “I found a chest filled with nearly 200 Civil War letters. I found the sleeves to Barnaby Offerdahl’s original uniform with a bullet hole in each one from the first and second time he’d been shot during the Civil War. I found a fife, buttons from a uniform, a cartridge box, a tent, a cap box, a powder flask, a bullet mold, two diaries, typhoid serum, Lincoln-Johnson campaign poster, belts and buckles, a flag and battlefield souvenirs. There are many pieces of this large historical puzzle still yet to be found.”
Eager to share their historically exciting finds with the world, Stone and his helpers have opened the House and Museum to the public even though only approximately half of its treasure has been cataloged. The Prospect House and Civil War Museum is truly a jewel in Battle Lake’s crown. You can tour the House and Museum during their open hours and find out more by visiting their website at www.prospecthousemuseum.org.
I hit Send. Ron would proofread the article and make any necessary changes. I glanced at the wall clock. Twenty minutes to close. I spent that time searching for any online records pertaining to Charles or Chuck Litchfield. I discovered where he’d been born, how much money he made in an average year (significantly more than a part-time librarian/reporter/detective), his home and cabin addresses, two speeding tickets, both paid, and that’s it. I shooed out the last two library visitors and headed home.
My answering machine was doing its job when I walked into my living room, shaking off the cold.
“Hey, it’s Johnny.”
My heart soared, then plummeted. He didn’t know I’d witnessed him embracing the blonde last night. He also didn’t know I’d spent the evening at Brad’s.
“I have a surprise for you. Call me back. Miss you.”
I felt like I was gargling my heart. It was a vile cocktail of sadness and guilt. I could address part of that by putting distance between Brad and me. Maybe I really should find out what was up with his girlfriend so I could file him away as “in a committed relationship.” The sadness I didn’t know what to do with.
Luna nuzzled my hand, and I dropped so our eyes were level. She licked my nose. Jed had installed the pet door while I was away over Christmas—his holiday gift to me, he’d said—and so I knew the animals had been able to come and go as they pleased, but I felt bad that I hadn’t gotten them any fresh water this morning. One more chit to add to the guilt pile.
“How’ve you been, girl? Me, I’ve been pretty crappy, and that’s at least half my own fault.” She licked my ear this time. I strolled over to check her and Tiger Pop’s food and water. I was rinsing out their stainless steel bowls when a knock came at the door. Luna didn’t growl, which meant it was either someone she recognized or someone who was safe. For a moment, I hoped it was Johnny. It was not possible, given that he’d just called, but in that weak moment I yearned to make up with him.
I went to the door and pulled it open. It for sure wasn’t Johnny.
Thirty-Three
“Can we come in? It’s cold out here.”
“Taunita?” I guessed. The woman was African American, early twenties, balancing a baby on
one hip and holding the hand of another child, both kids so thoroughly wrapped in snowsuits, scarves, hats, and mittens that they had to tip back the top half of their body to see me in the yellow glare of the yardlight. Their names were Timothy and Alessa, if I remembered correctly from our single phone call.
“Yeah. Your dog friendly?”
I glanced down at Luna. She was trying to play it cool, sitting next to me on her haunches, but her tail was wagging against my ankle. She loved kids.
“Yep,” I said, stepping aside to let them in.
“Puppy!” the little boy said when his mom led him into the house. I loved the way kids said that word. It was all wrapped in love and intense surprise, like they hadn’t known until that moment how awesome the world could be. “Puppy!” he repeated.
His mom set the baby on the couch. The little child’s snowsuit was so thick that she could only lay immobile like an insulated taco. Taunita talked while she unzipped and unraveled both children. “I know about Maurice,” she said, “so you can stop looking so worried. I don’t expect you to tell me anything new.”
She’d just met me, and she already knew my worried look? Mrs. Berns must be right about my poker face. “I’m sorry. How’d you find out?”
“Hammer.” She laid the snowsuits on top of each other then stacked the mittens, hats, and scarves next to them. Free of his bindings, Timothy ran over to Luna and hugged her like a champion. He was wearing one of those little matching button-down flannel shirt and elastic-waisted corduroy sets that squeezes my heart. With his curly chocolate-brown hair and wide eyes, he was a perfect, three-year-old doll. Alessa sat on the couch where Taunita had propped her, watching me with serious owl eyes. Her nose was exactly as big as a button, and her curls stood up around her head, recovering from the static shock of her hat being pulled off. I remember Taunita mentioning on the phone that Alessa had just turned a year old.
“He’s not good for a lot, but Hammer at least had the decency to tell me about Maurice being gone,” she continued. “He also said you’re a detective. That right?”
Timothy was trying to crawl on Luna’s back and ride her like a pony. She kept wriggling away and then finally rolled on her back. He trailed his fingers through her tummy hair and giggled. Tiger Pop still hadn’t shown her face. Historically, she liked kids only a little more than she liked baths.
“No,” I said truthfully. “I’m in training, but I’ve got another five thousand or so hours until I’m official in Minnesota. Is that why you came here? To see if I could find out who—” I glanced at Timothy. I didn’t know if he was old enough to understand that his dad was dead. “Who’s responsible for what happened?”
“Oh, I know who’s responsible. Somebody who was buying, or somebody who was selling. That’s how that works. Maurice tried to get out of that life and was almost there. That’s why he came to Minnesota, you know? He was gonna look into an inheritance. He must’ve been offered some side work while he was here, big enough to call Hammer and Ray out with him, and he was stupid enough to take it. Last mistake he’ll ever make.” Her words were fierce, but tears sparkled in her eyes. Her face was swollen, as if she’d been spending a lot of time crying.
“How long were you two together?” I asked.
“Five years. We met in community college. I was going for computer programming and he was gonna be a mechanic, and then I got pregnant.”
I nodded. I was frankly at a loss. Timothy had moved on from Luna and was pulling my CDs off the rack and stacking them like blocks. Alessa hadn’t pulled her solemn eyes off me. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“You can heat this bottle up,” Taunita said, digging through a diaper bag. “And you can find Orpheus Jackson for me.”
Thirty-Four
The letter. It was hidden in the pocket of my winter coat. “If it’s the same Orpheus I’m thinking of, he’s pretty dead.”
The hint of a smile touched her cheeks. “He is. He was Maurice’s great-great-great-grandpa. When Mo’s mom passed two months ago, he discovered the letters from Orpheus. He read them all at least three times, like they were a real page-turner. Maurice thought he had some land due him around here, land that was stolen from Orpheus. I don’t have much else right now, and I’m asking you to help me find out if my kids at least got this.”
I made my way to the microwave, unscrewed the nipple, and popped in the bottle, my brain working furiously, adding up what I knew. The letter Ray had tossed at me was real, or at least a copy of an authentic letter, written by Maurice’s great-great-great-grandfather to his wife. In the letter in my possession, Orpheus had written, they do not believe the messages I bring. I didn’t know where the letter had been mailed to or from, but I did know that Orpheus had served in the Civil War with Barnaby Offerdahl.
“Twenty seconds should be good,” she said.
I nodded and jabbed the buttons. Timothy had followed me and was eyeing the bag of dill pickle potato chips on the counter. I’d eaten half the bag a few nights ago, and if I finished the rest, I might need to ask Timothy if his elastic-waisted cords came in larger sizes. “Can he have potato chips?”
“Sure,” Taunita said, not looking up from her diaper changing.
I handed Timothy the bag.
“Thank you,” he said, only it sounded like tank-oo because he was tiny and precious.
“You’re welcome.” I retrieved the bottle from the microwave, wound the top back on, shook it holding my finger over the hole in the nipple, tested it on my wrist, then handed it to Taunita.
“You have kids?” she asked.
“God no. Did a lot of babysitting growing up, though. Did Maurice mention where he thought this land was?”
“Battle Lake.” She pointed out the window and made an encompassing gesture. “Here. He thought it might be around where his grandma used to own a cabin, but he found out she just rented it. Guess her grandparents took her there when she was little, too.”
“Anything more specific than that?”
She shrugged, cradling Alessa as she fed her. “He said the letters didn’t say much, almost like Orpheus was afraid someone else was going to read them.”
“Don’t suppose you brought the letters with?”
“Don’t suppose I did. It wouldn’t make any difference, anyways. I read ’em all myself. They don’t say anything.”
“Except that Orpheus was owed land in Battle Lake.”
“Didn’t even mention that. That’s just the return address that was on the letters, and then there was some family legend that they was all supposed to be rich once they got their hands on this land.”
“That’s not a lot to go on,”
“I know.” Alessa’s eyes were growing droopy as she drank, and Timothy was sitting cross-legged near my feet, trying to feed Luna potato chips. “His funeral is gonna be here,” she said softly. A tear coasted down her cheek and dropped onto Alessa’s forehead. The girl’s eyes popped open, then grew heavy-lidded again.
“In Battle Lake?”
“He doesn’t have any family left, except us. Might as well be here.”
I had a thought. After the Battle lay open on the coffee table in front of her. “Grab me that?”
She reached over, expertly balancing Alessa, and handed me the book. I walked to my coat and pulled out Orpheus’s letter, smoothing it on the counter. Then I paged through the book until I located the article on the man found hung in the woods. Orpheus had written his letter January 18, 1865. The unidentified body had been discovered March 7 of the same year with the note that it had been hanging for at least two months. Was the hanged man Orpheus, and if so, why had he hung himself? I had some more questions to ask Carter Stone, it appeared.
“I’ll see what information I can uncover,” I said, “but this is a long shot.”
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“Where will y
ou be staying so I can tell you if I find anything?”
She kept her eyes on Alessa. Timothy took that moment to wipe his greasy fingers on my pants leg. An awareness began to dawn on me. “You don’t have anywhere to stay.”
“We’re quiet,” she said. “And clean. I can help you out around here. Your plants look good, but you’ve got some cobwebs in the corners that might need a jackhammer to get them down.”
I looked where she was pointing. How long had those been there? More importantly, how could I possibly live with a stranger and her two little kids? Luna whined, drawing my attention. She waited until our eyes were locked and then licked salty, giggly, boogery Timothy. I want to keep him, the gesture said.
I sighed so deeply that I swear the cobwebs that had just been pointed out to me moved. “Fine. You can have the guest room. But I’m not used to living with people. Especially little people.”
Taunita smiled at me, the first unguarded expression I’d seen on her since she arrived. It was gorgeous, happy, grateful. Luna and I lugged in her suitcases and a box of toys out of the back of her Honda Civic and set them up in the spare bedroom. I inflated an air mattress for her and Timothy to share and together, she and I put together the travel playpen for Alessa. By the time we had the room comfortable, both kids were asleep, their faces vulnerable and perfect.
For the second time in four days, I was awoken by the sharp trill of the phone in the kitchen, this time in the middle of the night. My immediate reaction was chilly fear. It was appropriate.
“Mira?”
“Gary?” Even in my dream-fuzzed state, I recognized the deep, measured tone of the police chief. My next words came out like a plea. “It’s one in the morning.” Please don’t tell me anyone I love is hurt.
“I’m sorry.” He hesitated before continuing. Gary never hesitates.
“Who is it?”
“Curtis Poling has been attacked. He’s in the Fergus Falls hospital. He’s in rough shape.”
