by Lourey, Jess
It was eight o’clock, well before regular tour hours. I decided to walk right into the kitchen rather than knock. I surprised Carter pouring a mug of coffee, his Civil War–style cap askew on his head.
“Good morning!” His voice was surprised, and he glanced over my shoulder. I followed his gaze and spotted someone disappearing down the stairs that led to the section of the House devoted to the Civil War.
“My wife,” he said, by way of explanation. “Going to do some more cataloging. Were we expecting you?”
“Sorry, no. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me before I go to work. About Orpheus Jackson?”
He leaned into the fridge, grabbed a jug of whole milk, and poured a healthy dose into his coffee. “Who?”
“Orpheus Jackson. He was in the Battle of Honey Hill with—”
“Barnaby Offerdahl,” he finished for me. “Barnaby served in the 1st Artillery. I believe the Union lost nearly a hundred men in that battle. Barnaby was one of ’em. I do recall the name Orpheus, but it’s more an old legend than anything. A story really.”
“Do you mind telling it?”
He shrugged, taking a deep pull from his coffee cup. “From what I recall, Barnaby didn’t mention Orpheus in any of the letters to his brother that I came across, but that’s no surprise. Barnaby didn’t trust any of his own family beyond his daughter. What I heard, I heard through the hundred-and-twenty-year-old grapevine, so I wouldn’t call any of it reliable. But there was a story that Barnaby became close friends with a free black man during the war. It was a bit of a scandal around here, in those times, because Barnaby spread the word that he was bringing the man back with him to live in Battle Lake.”
“But he never did bring an army buddy home with him?”
“Not that I know of. Barnaby only came back to Battle Lake once after he started serving, shortly after the first time he was shot, but he was back in the field again soon after.”
“But the free black man did come here.”
He set his coffee cup on the counter and topped it off. “How do you mean?”
“The hanged man.”
“Ah.” Carter rubbed his mustache. “That is true.”
My heartbeat started humming. I smelled a mystery here, a 120-year-old one. “I don’t suppose that hanged man could have been Orpheus, returning with a message for the Offerdahls?”
“Never occurred to me, but unlikely. Why would he have traveled all this way with a message, just to hang himself?”
Excellent question, if he actually hung himself. And if what Taunita had said about the return address on the letters Maurice had found was true, I knew for a fact that Orpheus had spent time in Battle Lake. “I wish we knew if the hanged man had any clues on him.”
Carter took a big slurp of his coffee. “That I can help with. I found a wooden box of his effects near the attic.”
“What? How do you know they belonged to the hanged man?”
He tapped his head. “I’m a bit of a historian. Well, more than a bit. Plus, the box was labeled ‘hanged man,’ with the date of March 1865 on the box, same month as the body was found.” He winked at me. “We’re cross-checking all boxes with the newspaper articles we have so we can find out what was what. We have quite a database going.”
“What was in the box?” I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Anything that would identify him?”
“All I remember is the musket. I keep that on display downstairs.”
“Can I see it?” The words of Orpheus’s letter were spiraling in my head: Should anything happen to me, look to the tunnel of justice. The tunnel of justice! What else could that refer to but the barrel of his musket? For the first time in my life, a mystery was falling into place immediately. I imagined discovering a note from Orpheus tucked in the barrel of the gun, yellowed with age but bearing a map to Civil War treasure he’d buried. Taunita and the babies would be rich. I followed Carter into the basement, fighting every instinct in me to nudge him in the back, forcing him to move faster.
“Libby?”
His wife glanced up from the far side of the room, where she was holding an ornate old handgun in one hand and typing on a laptop with the other. “Yes, love?”
“You remember the hanged man box?”
She turned to face us full on, setting down the handgun. Her face was pleasantly lined, her fading blonde hair curling at shoulder level. “Of course. It’s a gruesome story.”
“What else was in the box?”
She returned to her laptop, typing in a quick flurry of letters. “Musket 25A, a Bible, a wooden fife, and two quarters, two nickels, and a penny.”
“He had money in his pockets?” My heart dropped. So he hadn’t been robbed, which suggested that he also hadn’t been murdered, his treasure map taken, and then his body moved to make it look like a suicide.
“Sixty-one cents.”
“Here’s the musket,” Carter said, drawing my attention to a nearby table.
He placed the gun into my hands. It was heavy, maybe seven pounds, the dark brown wood worn so smooth that it felt satiny. The trigger was plated silver, as was the hammer. A metal strip rested on the top and the bottom of the long barrel, three equal-spaced silver bands circling the length of it.
“That’s a Springfield rifle musket, a single-shot muzzle-loader. You see the hammer?”
I nodded, touching the cool silver with my thumb.
“A percussion cap. It fired a .58-caliber Minie ball. One of the most accurate rifles of its time.”
“And it was found next to the hanged man’s body?” I couldn’t shake the disappointment. If Orpheus had been murdered as I believed, surely his gun would have been taken.
“As far as we know. We just have the wooden box. This gun definitely would’ve been used in the Civil War, so the date on the box is accurate.”
I turned the gun around. “No chance this could still fire?”
“None. I cleaned all the guns myself, made them safe for handling.”
“I’ve always wanted to look down the barrel of a musket.” It was a weird thing to say, but less odd than just doing it, I figured.
“Knock yourself out.”
I could feel Libby staring at me from across the room. I kept my attention on the hole, angling it toward the light, still nervous about looking down the barrel of a gun despite Carter’s assurance. I didn’t see anything and so angled it farther, and there it was—a shadow within a shadow. There was something curled inside the barrel. I sucked in my breath.
“Well, that’s one dream realized,” I said, handing the gun back to Carter. I couldn’t very well dig out whatever was in there right in front him. I liked him, but the residue of sleepless nights had me paranoid, and I didn’t know whose team he was on.
“All right,” he said, chuckling.
I appreciated that he didn’t question weirdness. Too bad I had already made up my mind to break into the Prospect House that night and steal the gun. “Thanks for your time. I better be running,” I said, making for the stairs. I walked past a gorgeous corn plant. “Beautiful plant!” I called over my shoulder.
“Thanks,” Libby said.
I thought I also heard her say, “Kennie takes care of them,” but I chose to block that out.
The rich, dark smell of fresh-roasted coffee washed over me, trailed closely by the homey scent of fresh-baked rolls. I would need to cut back on my eating, or at least start eating healthy, but I would think about that next week. Today, I wanted nothing more than a soy latte sweetened with fresh honey and sprinkled with cinnamon powder and a side of Sid’s homemade chocolate chip–pecan banana bread. I swallowed the excess saliva pooling in my mouth and made my way to the front.
The door opened behind me, letting in a gust of icy air, but I was staring at the glass display case like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I could have a fresh-
fried glazed donut instead. Or—ohmygod, a new tray had just been slid into the display case—I could eat one of Sid’s famous skollebollers, a Norwegian cardamom-scented, vanilla custard-filled, coconut-dusted bun. They were so fresh that their warmth steamed the glass. I moaned.
“We have to stop meeting like this.”
I swiveled. Mrs. Berns was stepping from foot to foot.
“Do you have to pee?”
“Nope.” She tugged off her hat. “Just cold. Whatcha gonna have?”
I glanced back at the case. Could I declare an emergency and budge everyone? “Skolleboller.”
“Good choice.”
“Why aren’t you with your new friend?”
She pulled off her mittens, breathing into her fingers. “I missed you.”
I felt my eyes light up. “Really?”
“No!” She punched my arm. “Ha. You’re so gullible. No, I decided there’s only room for one gutsy old dame in a gang, and so I dumped her. She was too bossy, anyhow. Speaking of, what’s on our agenda for tonight?”
I was ashamed at how happy I was that she and Vienna had broken up. I’d get the details later. For now, I just wanted to enjoy the moment. “Quiet night.”
“Hairy liar.”
“What?”
“I thought we were stating an adjective and then a pertinent noun. Along those lines, I am calling you a hairy liar. Not only did I see you pull out of the Prospect House on my way back from the Shoreline, but I also see your eyes are a lighter brown than usual. That means you’re excited about something.”
Hmm. Maybe she was better at this detective thing than I thought. “I have to run an errand tonight for a friend.”
She raised her eyebrows.
I glanced around. Ah, what the heck. There’s nothing as fun as a secret shared. I leaned in and whispered into her ear. “Break into the Prospect House.”
She gave a rebel yell. “I’m in!”
“I don’t need a sidekick.”
She snorted. “And I don’t need oxygen. Besides, too late. We’re already this generation’s Bogey and Bacall. Or at least, Bonnie and Clyde.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll save you the time. I’m going with.”
“Mira, Mrs. Berns! How’re you two doing?”
We were finally at the front of the line, distracting me from my conversation with Mrs. Berns. “Hi, Nancy! I need two skollebollers, stat. And a soy café miel.”
“Not until you give me some news.” She lodged her hands into her hips.
I realized I’d been neglecting her and Sid. Usually, I stopped in at least once a week during slow times so I could visit them. Sid didn’t talk much, but she let you know she appreciated you being around in small ways, like baking skollebollers. Lately, I’d been doing little more than grabbing a meal here or there and leaving. “Sorry I haven’t stayed around to chat much lately. A lot going on.”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to tell her more. I didn’t mention Taunita and the kids because that would bring up too many questions, and there was a noisy line forming behind me. Instead, I gave her a thirty-second synopsis on Curtis’s condition, told her I was researching more deeply into the Prospect House, and updated her on the library business.
“You forgot to mention your Nut Goodie recipe in the paper,” Sid said, coming out to put her arm around Nancy. “That was a winner.”
“Did you actually make it?”
Sid winked. “Come over later when we’re not busy, and I’ll let you taste.” She disappeared into the back. Nancy began making my order, talking over her shoulder as she did so, filling me in on small-town news. It was comforting.
She had my food and drink ready in a blink. She nodded across the busy main room of the coffee shop while she leafed my change out of the till. “And that’s Bad Brad’s new girlfriend over there. She’s met him here for coffee twice this week.”
I followed her gaze. All twelve tables were packed, and three women and two men lined the counter facing the main window. “Which one is dating Brad?”
“The one eating a banana.”
Mrs. Berns scrunched her eyes in the direction of the window. “Who eats a banana in public?”
I homed in on the banana-eater. I was thirty and knew Brad was at least two years older than me. Samantha the insurance agent, however, appeared to be twenty-four, maybe twenty-five, with curly blonde hair, wide hips, and sensible shoes. She kept glancing at the front door between her bites of fruit. The seat next to her was empty.
“Brad’s worried she’s cheating on him. Asked me to look into it,” I said to nobody in particular.
“Now’s your chance,” Mrs. Berns said, wiggling her eyebrows at me. She pushed me out of the way so the people behind us could order. “You’re sharing one of those skollebollers with me, right?”
She kept pushing me toward the woman. I had no choices but to speak or look like a stalker.
“Samantha?”
She glanced at me, confusion in her eyes. They were slightly wide-set and a gorgeous deep green. “Yes?”
I held out my hand. “You don’t know me. I’m a friend of Ba—er, Brad’s.”
“Did he tell you to tell me he was going to be late?”
“I haven’t seen him,” I answered honestly. “He’s mentioned you quite a bit lately, though.”
She reached for her coffee cup. “All good, I hope.”
Something about her face made me want to tell the truth. “He thinks you’re cheating on him.”
She did a spit take with her coffee. “Me? Cheating? Why?”
I felt a nudge from behind. “No good reason, really. He said you didn’t post your relationship status on Facebook, and that you don’t seem eager to commit.” I felt stupid saying this out loud, so I stopped.
“You said you’re friends with Brad.”
I nodded.
“Then you know what he’s like. Look, I love him, though I haven’t told him and I won’t. He’s a big child. We’re having fun now, but he’s not husband material, you know?”
It occurred to me that Samantha was around 90 percent smarter than I’d been at her age, or even than I was a year ago, when I’d been dating Brad myself.
Mrs. Berns peeked around my side. “Mrs. Berns,” she said, extending her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Pleased to meet anyone with a head on their shoulders, really. Now, let’s be honest. You’re only with him because he’s good in bed, right?”
“I wish,” Samantha said.
I could vouch for that, as well. Brad subscribed to the McDonald’s model of sex: quick and unvaried. “So no cheating?” I asked.
“I don’t cheat,” she said simply. “If I want someone else, then it’s time to stop dating the person I’m dating.”
I was beginning to think I needed this woman as a friend. Or a life coach. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll tell Brad to stop worrying.”
“How about I tell him myself?”
I smiled. “An even better plan.”
I let Mrs. Berns guide me out the door, where she pinched one of my skollebollers. We parted ways, her promising to meet me at the end of my library shift. I told her I’d believe it when I saw it. I drove the mile to the library, sipping my creamy, cinnamony coffee as I steered through the quaint streets of downtown Battle Lake. Except for the crazy spate of crimes that seemed all connected to me, it was a wonderful place to live, I mused. I held that thought as I unlocked the library, fired up the computers, and nibbled my cardamom-scented skolleboller, promising myself that I’d learn how to bake them at home so I could eat them in herds.
The library crowd was steady, and the day passed in a pleasant drift of helping people find books, cleaning up the library’s computer files, and walking the shelves. I skipped lunch out of deference to my shrinking pants and instead used t
he time to type a report on Eric Offerdahl. I no longer cared why Litchfield wanted to find him, or for that matter, about Eric Offerdahl at all. I was washing my hands of the whole deal. Tonight, I would treasure hunt for Taunita. The police could worry about the baddies.
By the time Mrs. Berns showed up at the end of my shift, I was actually happy to see her. Frankly, breaking into huge, haunted mansions at night is a lonely business. Plus, she offered to spring for dinner at the Turtle Stew beforehand. I drove, and we were seated in a booth near the front windows. We both knew what we wanted, and the food arrived quickly.
“What exactly is the plan?” She grabbed the pepper from my hand to douse her plate of gravy-covered mashed potatoes and meat loaf.
I snatched it back to finish peppering my French fries. “We find an unlocked window, sneak in, grab the gun, fish out whatever is in the barrel, and sneak out. No harm, no foul.”
“Your plan rests on an unlocked window? In January?”
“You have a better idea?”
“Since you ask … ”
“What?”
“You promise you’re not going to ditch me after I share my secret?”
I stole a forkful of mashed potatoes off her plate. Yum. Homemade. “We’re already committed.”
“My friend Ida is a volunteer at the Prospect House. She said they keep a spare key above the inner doorjamb of the garden shed.”
“You are worth your weight in gold.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Forty-One
The gravid moon lent a soft glow to the night. All the lights were off in the Prospect House, but there was still traffic passing by on 78. Even worse, we could hear people playing a pick-up game of hockey near the ice castle on the lake. We had left the Toyota parked in the alley behind the Turtle Stew and walked the mile to the House, ducking into the sparse woods circling it when we were certain no one was looking. We’d crunched through the calf-high snow, and slipped into the shed. The key was not exactly where Mrs. Berns had said it would be, but with her on my shoulders, fumbling around in the dark interior of the shed, we finally located it. Actually, it found us, first plunking onto my head and then hitting the ground.
