A dripping wet Deputy Brill tapped lightly on the door and poked her head in. “The dog’s drying off out front. Don’t worry, he’s on a leash.” She had the grace to look chagrined.
“Thanks, Brillo.”
The deputy nodded without a smile. “By the way,” she said, turning to Robin, “does your reading club have a name?”
“We, uh, we call ourselves the No Ordinary Women.”
Brill snorted. “Figures.” She turned, leaving wet footprints as she walked from the room.
The Lexington, with its dark paneling and heavily gilded frames, had the clubby smell of old wood and old money. Martini lunches and cigars had left an indelible aura in Saint Paul’s historic restaurant on the corner of Lexington and Grand.
“We’re meeting friends,” Robin informed the hostess before spotting them under the chandelier.
“You must be the detectives,” the hostess said in a low voice. She grabbed a pair of menus.
Cate and Robin exchanged quizzical looks. As she led them to the table, the hostess, now in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “Don’t worry. I won’t blow your cover.”
“Okay, who told her we were detectives?” Cate demanded.
Foxy faked innocence. Louise laughed.
It didn’t take a detective to figure out that Foxy had already told the others about their gruesome discovery at Spirit Falls. Though their words conveyed a sense of horror, the women showed open curiosity when they asked about the dead body. As they leaned forward, pressing her for details, Robin wanted to recoil. The word that came to her mind was Schadenfreude, one of those uniquely German compounds to describe the secret pleasure some people derive from another’s misfortune, but she soon realized this was the way they’d chosen to deal with it, like whistling in graveyards. By allowing themselves to be caught up in the plot, treating it as just another murder novel to discuss, they were distancing themselves from the ugly reality of a decomposing corpse and a family caught in a nightmare from which they would never wake.
Like a tag team, Robin and Cate picked up where Foxy’s account left off, describing their own reactions and their interactions with a kindly, if somewhat condescending, sheriff and his well-named deputy, the abrasive Brillo.
“Did you get a good look at the body?” Louise asked indelicately.
Foxy set her fork down and covered her mouth with her napkin.
Robin shot Louise a warning look.
“I’m sorry,” Louise said. “I didn’t want to hear the gory details or anything. I just wondered if the hair color and age of the woman matched that missing woman from the college.”
Cate glanced quickly at Robin and nodded. “It’s impossible to tell. The body was so … yes, we think it could be her.”
Robin finished her sentence. “But the sheriff is stuck on the idea that she’s from Wisconsin, so he’s just focusing on the counties around there.”
“And basically told us not to worry our pretty little heads about it.” Cate tossed her hair over her shoulder. “It just pisses me off.”
Equally incensed, Grace said, “Well, somebody’s got to be worrying their heads off over her.”
Robin threw her hands up. “Oh, no. Apparently missing people are a dime a dozen in the Twin Cities. At least that’s how the sheriff talked.”
“I guess we just have to expect that kind of thing in the Big City,” Cate added bitterly.
Louise drummed her nails on the table. “So he won’t even send out a description to Minnesota? What’s a dead girl got to do to get attention?”
There was some nervous laughter.
She stopped talking when she noticed the waitress was lingering at the next table, getting an earful as she poured coffee from what looked like an Acme bomb straight out of a Roadrunner cartoon.
“Didn’t you say he was going to wait for the autopsy report?” Foxy asked when the eavesdropper left.
“How long can that take? Surely they can tell the sex, age, height and weight without cutting her open and—”
“Louise!” Cate and Foxy said together. Several diners turned their heads.
“Okay, topic change,” Grace suggested.
“That was insensitive of me,” Louise admitted.
Twenty minutes before 8:00, the five women were seated in the auditorium at Macalester College, waiting for the author to read from his latest bestseller. They passed the time talking about books, and Grace brought up a mystery, written by another Macalester alum, that had prompted one of their best discussions.
“That story still gives me the creeps,” Foxy said. “Did we ever decide if the woman died by the end of the book?”
“He left it up in the air,” Cate answered. “You kind of make up your own ending.”
Grace said, “That’s what drove me crazy about that book.”
“That’s what I loved about it,” Louise countered.
Robin jumped in. “Can you imagine just settling for a ‘presumed dead’ pronouncement?”
Foxy looked at her intently. “We’re not talking about fiction now, are we?”
Robin looked away, her eyes brimming with tears. “I saw the sheriff’s report, referring to her as ‘Jane Doe.’”
Foxy blew air out of her cheeks and shook her head.
“They’ll find out who it is.” Cate took Robin’s hand and squeezed it. “And if they don’t, maybe the No Ordinary Women will have to.”
“We won’t let it go unsolved,” Grace said for them all before adding, “In fact, I found a great trench coat at T.J. Maxx this morning. I’m all ready to go undercover.”
13
It took Robin a long time to fall into a fitful sleep. Soon she woke to Brad shaking her shoulder. “What’s wrong, hon?” he asked in a froggy voice.
“I finally fall asleep and you wake me up to ask me what’s wrong?” she snapped. Whatever she’d been dreaming was lost in her irritation.
“You were chasing cars in your sleep again.”
What did he expect from someone who’d just discovered a dead body? “Very funny,” she said, grabbing up her pillow to take to the spare bedroom so at least one of them could sleep.
“Stay here. I’ll move.” He looked all rumpled and bleary, and she knew he needed his sleep.
“No, but thanks. I’m not sleeping so well, anyway.” She tousled his hair and left the room.
The sun was well above the horizon when she woke to the sound of her doorbell. Snatching her terrycloth robe from the bedroom, she rushed down the stairs, all the while pawing inside the robe for the sleeve opening. Samson and Delilah, having been awakened from their mid-morning nap, thundered past her down the steps, a favorite game of theirs. Delilah had already reached the bottom of the stairs when the doorbell rang again, but Samson abruptly stopped on the third step up to look back up at his mistress.
Trying to sidestep him, Robin stumbled and grabbed the railing, wrenching her shoulder.
Samson blinked, apparently astounded by her clumsiness.
Through the sidelight, Robin saw Cate preparing to push the bell again.
“I’m coming,” she yelled, wondering, as she often did lately, about short-term memory loss. She flung the door open. “Cate, did we—?”
“Yeah, I know we were supposed to meet Grace at her office later.” She slid a large purple shawl from her shoulders and slipped through the open door and into the kitchen. Setting her batiked tote on the table, she extracted a folded newspaper. “Here, read this.”
Robin stopped mid-yawn to take the St. Paul Pioneer Press from her outstretched hand. Sitting at the kitchen table, she scanned the front page, her eyes widening.
Cate, hovering over her shoulder, instructed, “The full story’s in the local section. Here.”
Robin turned to a photo of Melissa Dunn flanked by two smiling parents.
“There are more photos on the next page.” Pausing for breath, Cate added, “Her folks live in Highland Park. They still have no idea where she is.”
Robin direc
ted Cate to make coffee, hoping the diversion would end her friend’s chatter so she could absorb every word of the article.
Without hesitation, Cate opened the proper cupboard, pulled out a filter and the coffee canister and soon had a fresh pot brewing. “The reason I came here is that Grace called,” she explained. “She isn’t going to join us for lunch. She says she made other plans and when I asked a question she acted all mysterious.” She filled two china cups and set one in front of Robin.
“Hmm.” Robin skewed her mouth to one side, thinking about Grace.
“Well, keep reading.” Cate flapped a wrist toward the newspaper. “It says the police have talked to some of Melissa’s friends, including her boyfriend who’s a grad student.” She raised one eyebrow.
Robin read from the article. “Authorities are looking into the possible connection with a body found in Wisconsin. Pending the coroner’s report …” She turned to Cate. “It’s our body, isn’t it? It’s got to be.”
Sheriff Harley grabbed the phone on the first ring and barked his title, then leaned back in his chair, swiveling to face the windows. “Whatcha got?” Looking out into the trees, he listened in silence. “When do you expect you’ll have the final report?” He nodded at the reply, turned to replace the phone, and saw his deputy standing in the doorway, arms akimbo.
“Was that the coroner?” she asked.
Harley sighed. “Yes, Brillo. What do you need?”
“What did he say?”
He slapped his thigh. “Inconclusive. He won’t commit to anything before the results come back from the main lab, but he’s got nothing yet that proves she drowned. The tox screens should be back by the end of the week, and her prints have been sent off to Madison.”
“So basically, we know nothing.”
Sheriff Harley grimaced as he shuffled through some papers. “Blast it, where did it go? I think we need to talk to that Wellman fella again.” He pounced on an official document and flipped through it. “I know there’s something here …” His voice trailed off, and Deputy Brill backed out of the room, leaving him to his musings.
Maneuvering his way down the gravel driveway, Harley’s chapped fists gripped the steering wheel. Just before his car pulled to a stop beside George’s old pick-up, a pair of pheasants whirred past the open passenger window, causing Brill to gasp. Embarrassed, she turned it into an elaborate throat clearing.
“Looks like he’s home.” Harley heaved himself out of the prowler, pausing to adjust his holster.
An overturned bag of aluminum cans covered the path.
“What a dump! What does he do with all this junk?” the deputy asked.
“He’s what you call a ‘committed recycler.’”
“Yeah, well maybe he should be committed,” muttered Brill.
As soon as Harley knocked, the inner door opened and a disheveled and unshaven George came into view. “H’lo, sheriff.” Bobbing his head toward the deputy, he addressed her as, “Ma’am.”
“Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Wellman, but I need you to take a look at something. Can we come in?” Sheriff Harley reached for the screen door.
“I guess.” George smoothed the front of his shirt as he backed up to allow them entrance. “Wasn’t expecting anyone.” He snatched a dishtowel and tossed it over the magazines on his coffee table.
Deputy Brill stopped just inside the door, pulling notebook and pen out of her pocket while she scoped out the kitchen, with its small gas stove and Formica table.
Harley paused to scan titles of books filling three shelves of the narrow bookcase in the living room. “I see you’re quite the history buff,” he said to George.
“Yeah, you might say that.”
“Second World War, Civil War, Vietnam,” Harley said, touching some of the book spines. “Were you in the service?” he asked casually.
“Yeah, I went into the army after high school. Did a tour in ’Nam.”
“Army?”
“Marines.”
Harley nodded. “Well, let’s get this over with.” He motioned to the well-worn couch. “Just a couple questions.”
“I already told you,” George said, clearly nervous. “I didn’t see any canoes on the creek. The water’s been too dang high.”
“Yeah.” Sliding a photo from his shirt pocket, Sheriff Harley flipped it for George to see. “Ever seen her before?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Oh, Lord, that’s her, isn’t it—the dead girl they found?”
“You know her?”
George shook his head.
“Seen her around town?”
No response.
“Maybe you ran into her at a bar. You like the Bear’s Den, don’t you?”
George was trying to remain calm but he could feel the color rising along his neck. Suddenly he stood and jerked open the refrigerator door. “Can I get you two something to drink?” George asked.
“No thanks,” they both answered.
“Well, I’ll have one.” George cracked open a can of beer and shoved things around on the counter, his back to his uninvited guests. He took a long swallow before turning to them.
The sheriff scratched the top of his head and said, almost to himself, “Attractive girl. Hard to forget if you saw her.”
George leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. His lips were pressed together.
“I hear rumors, you know.” Harley frowned as if it pained him to say it. “People say there’s not much around here you don’t know about, that you keep a real good eye on your neighbors.”
After another gulp of beer, George said, “I pretty much mind my own business.”
“Hunh!”
George readjusted his glasses.
“But you do like to know what other people are up to.”
No answer.
“Thing is, George, I need your help. An innocent girl is dead and I think you can help us find out who she is and how she came to be dead.”
“I don’t know!”
“What the sheriff is pussy-footing around about is that we know you’re a window peeper,” Brill burst out. When she saw the anger in her boss’s eyes, she added, defensively, “Well, it’s true. He’s just lucky no one’s filed a complaint yet.” She slipped the towel off the table, revealing a Hustler magazine beneath. “Well, well, well.”
George snatched at it. “That’s mine!”
“Sit down, George,” the sheriff said tiredly.
Reluctantly, he sat.
Brill fanned herself with the magazine. “Are you saying you don’t like to look at naked women?” she taunted.
“Oh, hell, who doesn’t?” Harley snarled. Turning to George, he assumed an avuncular expression. “I know how it is, George. It’s hard to meet pretty girls around here, right?”
“Yeah,” George conceded.
“So this girl—” He held up the photo again. “Any normal guy’s gonna look at her.”
George nodded slowly.
“So what happened? Did she catch you looking at her? Things get out of hand?”
A dark look settled on George’s face and he leaped to his feet. “If you don’t have a warrant, you can just get out of my place.”
As the screen door slammed behind him, Sheriff Harley turned and said, “If you suddenly remember something, you be sure to call us.”
After a leisurely walk around Lake Harriet, Robin and Cate decided to forage in the large Bentley refrigerator for lunch. They put out last night’s asparagus, al dente, with a sauce of stone ground mustard mixed with lemon and mayonnaise, a chunk of whole grain bread with olive oil, and some smoked whitefish. When the coffee pot was empty, they switched to ginger iced tea.
“Great necklace, by the way,” Robin said, reaching across the table to touch the polished pink stone hanging slightly above Cate’s turquoise pendant.
Cate stroked both pieces. “Thanks, it’s rhodocrosite. As soon as I finish the matching earrings and bracelet, they’re going to a shop in Door County.”
Robin shook her head and laughed. “So you can write off your Wisconsin trip this fall, right?”
Cate wiggled her eyebrows. “Growing up poor, I guess you never stop looking for bargains. But speaking of jewelry, I have to drop off my booth fee with the art fair people this afternoon. They’re scaling back the number of artists this year and inviting only those who made two-thousand dollars in sales last year. The cut off is—Yikes!” she said, looking at her watch. “In one hour. Got to go.”
Robin slid her bifocals to the end of her nose in her best rendition of their old English professor, and said in Professor Godfrey’s quavering voice, “I accept no late work. In my class, it’s Bettah Nevah than Late.”
Cate shut her eyes, covered her ears and squealed in protest. “Don’t!” Then, facing Robin in all earnestness, she said, “You know, I still have nightmares about him. Do you realize he’s still head of the English Department?”
“Oh, my Lord, he’s got to be ancient!”
“Let’s not do the math. I don’t want to think how long ago college was.”
Once Cate had gone, Robin tried to occupy her mind, but it kept returning to the photo of the missing woman’s parents, so much like snapshots of her own mother all those years ago—the same brave hope, the same hollow-eyed sadness that had never quite gone away. There was only one thing to do.
In the Saint Paul directory, she found the name, the only Dunn in Highland Park, and jotted their address on an index card. Then, opening her overfull desk, she dug through the second drawer where she kept an assortment of greeting cards and stationery. Inside a note card with an English garden scene, she penned a note to Melissa’s parents, dropped it in the mailbox and watched as their mailman—actually a ponytailed woman in shorts—picked it up a few minutes later.
14
Ravenous from an extended workout with Brenda, Grace nevertheless agreed to split a salad with her at the Malt Shop. With each mouthful of healthy greens, she felt her deprivation more acutely, her eyes following each sumptuous-looking order of sandwiches and french fries and thick malts, none of which was destined for their table.
Murder at Spirit Falls Page 10
