by Mary Logue
As Claire approached Mr. Bagley’s house, he was riding his lawn mower into the garage. She yelled to him to let him know she was there so she wouldn’t startle him. He was wearing a John Deere baseball cap with wisps of white hair sticking out behind his ears, and clean jean overalls over a plaid shirt.
When he saw Claire, he got off his mower and walked over. “Hopefully the last time I’ll have to mow this year. Put it to bed, I say. Not often that I mow in November. Still pretty warm for this time of year.”
“That’ll change.”
“You can count on it.” He wiped his hands on his overalls. “What’s going on over there?”
“I’m Claire Watkins, a deputy with the sheriff’s department.”
“I know who you are. It’s about time.”
“What’s about time?”
“For someone to check on that house.”
“Did you call the sheriff?”
“I was getting ready too. I try to mind my own business, but there’s no good going on there.” “Like what?”
“Too many cars. Lights on all night long. People coming and going at every which hour. I’ve had my suspicions.”
Claire understood Mr. Bagley’s hesitance to report on a neighbor, but she didn’t want to argue about that. “Well, you were very observant, Mr. Bagley. Have you been watching that house today?”
“Can’t help but see it. It’s right out my kitchen window. Where I eat dinner and watch my little TV I got set up on the counter.”
“Can you tell me what went on there today?”
“Sure, come on in the house and I’ll show you my view.” Mr. Bagley turned and walked up the back steps into the house.
Inside his small house was as neat and tidy as outside. The living room was immaculate with a couch and two chairs. A print of Jesus praying with his hands coupled together hung over the couch. Claire followed him through into the kitchen.
This appeared to be the room where he spent most of his time. A small television set was sitting right under the cupboards. Mr. Bagley could sit at his formica table and watch TV and look out the window at the same time. He had a clear view of the gingerbread house.
“You know, they’re renters. That’s part of the problem. Renters never care about anything. They don’t mow the lawn, they don’t water. They figure it’s not their problem. I’ve tried to stay out of their way. To tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid of that bunch, motorcycles and all.”
“So who actually lives there?”
“That’s a good question. A woman from California bought the house. She stayed there this summer and fixed it up. Nice lady. Then she left and rented it out to some woman. That’s when all the problems started. I don’t know if that woman is even there anymore. People come and go. I try to stay out of their way. But I’ve had a suspicion that they’re selling those drugs over there.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
“You don’t say.”
“So tell me who all was there today, please.”
“Well, this real skinny guy’s been staying there the last week or so. He rides that motorcycle. Geez, I hate those things. Don’t they need to have mufflers on them? They’re so loud.”
“Okay, I know who you mean. That would probably be James Hitchcock.”
“What is he some kinda outlaw or something? Anyway, today it’s been kinda quiet over there until late afternoon, this old Ford pickup truck pulled up. A young girl was driving. Didn’t even look old enough to drive.”
“Dark hair?”
“Yeah, you know her?”
“I think so. Go on.”
“And some skinny kid got out of the truck too. They went in to the house, then the girl came out, followed by the boy. They argued. After that the girl left. Alone.”
“They argued?”
“Yeah, the girl talked to the kid, grabbed something away from him, then she started running and jumped into the truck and tore away. The kid came after her, but she didn’t even slow down.”
“Can you describe the boy?” Claire wondered who had been with Meg. It could have been Curt, or Jared. Rich said that Meg had called Jared before she left the house in the truck.
“Dark hair. I’d say about six feet tall. Real thin. Oh, and the funny thing, he wasn’t wearing any shoes.”
“No shoes? A little too cold to be going barefoot.”
“He wasn’t barefoot either. He had on socks.”
“But she left him there?”
“Yeah, then almost immediately another car showed up. A woman about your age got out, grabbed the boy, pushed him in the backseat of her car and drove off.”
“What did this woman look like?”
“Dark hair, stocky, about your age.”
Claire supposed the woman could have been Jared’s mother, Arlene. “Was that it?”
“Nope. About fifteen minutes later a fairly new Buick drove up—a farmer’s car if there ever was one. A couple got out of the car. A man and a woman. I don’t know what they were doing there. Seemed like nice normal people. They went into the house. Weren’t in there very long and they came out again. It looked to me like the woman was hunched over, crying. Couldn’t be sure. They turned around and drove back toward Nelson, heading south.”
Claire didn’t have a clue who that could have been. Then she remembed the car that the Jorgesons had driven to the funeral. A burgundy Buick. “Do you remember what color it was?’
“Dark. Could have been maroon, could have been navy.”
“That’s it?”
“No, then you.” Mr. Bagley rested both his arms on the table. “Now, I want to ask you a question. What the hell’s going on over there?”
“You were right. Looks like they were small-time dealers. They were only making enough meth for themselves and to sell on the side. Not that that makes it any less illegal and toxic.”
“I hope you throw them all in jail.”
“Well, James Hitchcock, the dealer, is dead. He was alone in the house when we got there. It looks like someone killed him.” “Someone killed him today?” “Yeah, I’m afraid so.” “One of the people I saw.” “Most likely.”
“You’ll find out who did it?” “Yes, I’m sure we will.”
Mr. Bagley stood. “I’m sorry it’s come to that. A death and all. I should have said something sooner. That’s a bad place. You need to shut that place down and burn it. Good for nothing.”
***
7:35 p.m.
Roger counted the cherry stems. Six of them. They had each had three Brandy Manhattans. More alcohol than they usually drank in a month.
“We’ve had a good marriage,” he said to Emily.
“Better than most,” Emily agreed.
“Whatever happens, I’ll take care of everything.”
“You’re a good husband.”
Emily was cute when she got drunk. She smiled a lot and stuck her finger in her drink and poked at the ice cubes. She had insisted on eating all the Maraschino cherries.
They hadn’t talked about what they saw at the meth house. They hadn’t talked about Krista. They really hadn’t talked much at all. Just enjoyed their Brandy Manhattans.
Roger felt the urge to reach out and hold Emily’s hand, but he didn’t. He was afraid she would break down if he touched her.
They had loved each other for a long time. Since she had been a junior in high school and he was a senior. They had married as soon as Emily had graduated. But it took them almost ten years to get her pregnant the first time. Krista had been born two days after their tenth anniversary.
Roger had felt as if his heart would burst when he saw Krista in his wife’s arms for the first time. A patch of red blond hair sprouted from the top of the baby’s head. He had promised
himself then and there that he would protect them with his life and somehow he had failed.
Then seven years later, along came Tammy. And his heart grew big enough to love all three of his girls.
Now, he had t
o protect Emily and Tammy from what had happened to them.
Emily drank the last swallow of her brandy. “Roger, I suppose we should get on with it.”
“Yeah.”
She looked over at him. “You know we might get lucky and get arrested for drunk driving. Then they could drive us to jail.”
“There’s one more place I want to go before we go to the sheriff’s,” Roger said.
***
7:50 p.m.
When she got back to the gingerbread house, Claire saw that a white Toyota Corolla was pulled up behind her squad car. She wondered if it belonged to a reporter, or maybe someone in forensics.
Claire wiggled her way back into her suit and pulled her mask on. When she went back into the house, she saw someone bent over Hitch’s body. It was hard to tell who everyone was with all the orange they were wearing and the face masks. Even people she knew she didn’t recognize.
She introduced herself and heard a thin, sharp voice say,
“I’m Dr. Whitaker.”
Resisting the urge to say it’s about time, Claire asked how it was going. Dr. Whitaker didn’t look up, just replied. “Why don’t you let
me finish up in here and we can talk outside. This is a hell of a place to be working in. I want to remove the body as quickly as possible.”
Claire couldn’t agree more. She went through the house and checked on all her deputies. She’d let them gather stuff for another hour or so, then shut the house down for the night.
The crime scene photos were done. Speedo had already left to print them. The kitchen and the living room had been dusted and fingerprinted. Charlie said they got so many prints, the whole county of Pepin had probably come through this place. Claire called for another ambulance to remove the body and take it to the morgue. Be ready to roll when this Whitaker was done. Must be a new guy. She hadn’t heard of him before. Claire hoped he was good.
Looking over at the doctor, Claire saw him motion to go outside. She followed him out the door and they both walked a few yards away before lifting their masks. Dr. Whitaker revealed lovely blue eyes when she took off her face mask and then long, blond hair when she pushed back her hood.
“You’re a woman.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Claire wished she could pull them back.
“Yup, I bet you get that all the time too.”
“Not as much as when I first started. It’s been over eight years now.” Claire looked at the short, stocky woman. “What can you tell me?”
“Not much that you don’t know. I’d say he died in the last few hours. No rigor at all yet. Body temp still close to normal. Has a nasty hematoma on the back of his head, but I don’t think that killed him. I’d have to guess it’s the knife. Must have gone right into the liver. Someone knew what they were doing.”
Claire thought, it wasn’t Meg. She would have probably slashed at his hands or face, just to defend herself. “Have you taken the knife out yet?”
“No, I want to get him into the morgue and then I’ll do the full autopsy.”
“Can you get to that tonight?”
“I don’t have a big date or anything if that’s what you’re asking. Might as well take care of it as long as I’m here.”
CHAPTER 22
8:00 p.m.
Jared sat in a green chair. The woman behind the desk looked like a librarian. She had on glasses and had her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a bun. She told him her name was Libby Lowell.
She looked over her notes and then asked, “Jared, can you tell me when was the last time you used?” “What do you mean?” “What’s your drug of choice?”
“Meth.”
“When was the last time you used meth?” “Almost a week ago, I guess.” “Good for you.”
“My mom locked me up. I didn’t have a choice.”
The woman didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked, “What other drugs have you been using?”
“I have a drink once in a while. I’ve taken some downers to get some sleep. But it’s pretty much just meth.”
She looked over her notes a while longer, then stood up and took the chair next to him. Jared wondered what the psychology of that was, getting closer to him, on more equal terms.
Libby took off her glasses and her eyes bore into him like nails. “Are you ready to do this?” “Do what?” “Go into treatment.” “I don’t know.”
“You need to decide. Just being here is already a decision.” “My mom made me come.” “What do you want to do?”
Jared thought about it. If he walked out of this room now, his mom would be waiting and she would freak out. She might give up on him. He’d be on his own. He would start taking meth again, which made his whole body tense just to think of it, but he’d have no home, no money. He’d die. Like Krista. The meth would kill him this time. He knew it.
“I guess I’ll stay. What do you do here?”
Her lips turned up. A tight, serious smile. “Do you know anything about the twelve steps?”
“That’s for alcoholics, isn’t it?”
“Not just for them.”
“How long will I be here?”
“That all depends on how your recovery proceeds. We will evaluate you the next couple days and make out a plan for you, which will be reevaluated several times while you are here.”
“What if I did something really bad while I was using?” “What do you mean?”
“What if I, like, did something really bad, stole something?” He thought about Krista. “Or even worse?”
***
8:00 p.m.
The cows strolled in from the pasture as Curt looked out of the barn—Greta, Hilda, Laura, Polly, Ellie. Large beautiful Guernseys. He had always thought they had such soulful eyes, outlined in dark, splots of brown mottled over their cream coats. They came in a line and headed to the barn. They knew the way.
When Curt turned, he saw his father was getting ready to hook the cows up to the milking machines. He inhaled deeply, loving the scent of a dairy barn, sweet milk, hay and manure.
As he walked over to help, he saw a dark-haired man standing in the doorway of the barn.
His dad noticed him, too, and walked over. “What can I do for you?”
Curt stopped and listened.
“I’m Rich Haggard. I think we’ve met at the Co-op.”
“Sure, Rich, what can I help you with?”
“Actually it’s your son I’d like to talk to. He’s a friend of Meg’s—Meg Watkins—my kindof stepdaughter.” Curt knew and liked Rich. He hadn’t recognized him at first. He always remembered how Meg had described him before Curt had met him, “part Clint Eastwood, part Al Gore, all pheasant farmer.”
“Meg went for a drive a few hours ago and hasn’t come back. I wondered if Curt might know where she could have gone.” “Curt,” his father hollered.
Curt stepped forward and shook Rich Haggard’s hand. He felt Rich’s hand tighten and then release, as if he was testing Curt’s strength.
“Mr. Haggard, nice to see you again. I heard you say Meg’s missing.”
“Yeah, as you know she’s been grounded.” Curt’s father went back to work.
Curt looked down at the barn floor and kicked at it with his boots. He had been luckier than Meg in that regard. His mother knew, but his dad never found out. He had slipped in to his bedroom safely. Even later, when they had all talked about Krista’s death, he had never let on that he had been gone the whole night. They had felt so sorry for him, that his girlfriend had died, that his parents had let him be.
“Sorry about that, sir. I didn’t mean to get her in any trouble. We didn’t do anything. We were just talking.” He hoped his father wasn’t listening. Not that it would matter much, but he just didn’t want to have to explain.
“Well, she’s gone missing. She took our old truck and has been gone for a couple hours. Not a note, no nothing. I wondered if you might know where she went, if she had said anything to you.”
“I’m the last
person on earth who would know where she is. She won’t even talk to me.”
“Why?”
“I guess because of what happened to Krista. Somehow she’s decided it was all our fault.”
“I knew she’d been blaming herself. I didn’t know she was blaming you, too.” Rich rubbed the toe of his boot in the barn dirt. “I haven’t tried to talk her out of that idea yet. I’ve figured she’d come around. She’s a pretty level-headed kid.”
“Yes, she is. She’s very level-headed.”
“If you hear from her or think of any place she might be, give us a call. I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
Curt watched the man leave the barn, then got back to work. He leaned his head against Donna, his favorite cow, and hooked her up to the milking machine. Her warmth reminded him of leaning into Meg’s hair. She would hate him to tell her that. Meg. He missed her all the time. How was he ever going to get her back?
Curt looked out the barn door, saw the half moon sailing in the sky. Where would she go?
Suddenly it struck him clear through his body. The moon. The best view of it in the county. He was pretty sure he knew where to find Meg.
***
8:00 p.m.
Amy felt as if she was floating on an inner tube going down the Rush River. She was cold and groggy. She forced herself to open her eyes and found she was in a dimly lit room with someone sitting near her. “Who’re you?” she asked. The man leaned forward and touched her hand. She flinched. “Amy, it’s me, Bill.”
“Bill, like deputy Bill.” That struck her so funny that she started to laugh, which hurt, and then she started to cough, which really hurt.
“You want some water?” he asked. “Please.”
He poured her a glass from a plastic pitcher that was sitting on a rolling table next to her bed. “Where am I?”
He handed her the glass of water, positioning the straw, not letting go of it when she had it, treating her like she was an invalid. “Hospital. Do you remember what happened?”
