Thin Ice

by Marsha Qualey

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s no body.”

  “Your parents’ bodies were never returned to this country, isn’t that right?”

  A good punch. My breath returned in a minute. “This isn’t about my parents.”

  “It might be.”

  “It’s not. And yes, their bodies were never recovered from the crash site because the terrain was too wild. My mother and my father were left to rot in the jungle, if that’s what you want me to say. I don’t suppose it took too long in that climate and with all those jungle critters.”

  “Was there a memorial service?”

  “No”

  “Why not?”

  “What exactly do you want, Dr. Peabody?”

  “To help you.”

  I just shook my head slightly,

  “No relatives?”

  “They were both only children.”

  “Family friends?”

  “Some, I guess. I was pretty young. Scott would have known them, but they’ve faded away.”

  She burped softly into her wrist, then pressed fingertips to her breastbone, or the spot where a breastbone was undoubtedly hidden under her large breasts. “Sorry. I had a rather spicy breakfast at a cafe in town.”

  Lena strikes again.

  “Were your parents from this area?”

  “East Coast.”

  “Why did they choose to live here?”

  What had Scott told me? “They liked the northwoods. Dad practiced in Rice Lake, Mom in Ashland. This is sort of halfway.”

  “When did they move here?”

  “When I was five.”

  “And Scott was…?”

  “Older.”

  “He didn’t grow up here?”

  “Dr. Peabody, I understand that I have to cooperate with you because I am legally a minor and I have all these people mucking about in my life who will screw me over if I don’t. But I don’t want to talk to you about my childhood, or my brother’s childhood, or my parents, or what their corpses look like by now.”

  “Your parents—”

  “Are you having fun, Doctor? Do you enjoy this?”

  “Your anger tells me a lot, Arden.”

  My anger. That’s what she wanted, of course. To poke and prod at me until I cracked, blew up, cried, punched, howled. Then they could say, Poor girl, she’s not doing well. And the things she’s imagining!

  I wouldn’t give them the chance. I smiled. “What does it say?”

  “It’s a form of grieving.”

  “Could you explain?”

  She did, of course, delighted to show her stuff. She talked on and on. I smiled and nodded, chewed on my lip, feigned contemplation, laughed a bit when she did.

  All in all, a great performance. When she finished, she motioned to me to speak.

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I feel a little wiped out.”

  “That’s to be expected.” I twisted my hands, then folded them tightly. She noticed and leaned toward me expectantly. God, wouldn’t she love it if I cried?

  “Do you suppose…” I let my voice break and took a deep breath. “Do you suppose it would be okay if I went home? I mean…I feel…” I stopped and let my head drop.

  It was all she could do not to lunge and hug. “Oh, of course. I’ll clear it with Mrs. Rutledge.”

  “Thank you.” I picked up my bag and gave her a tight-lipped smile as a farewell. I let my shoulders slump as I walked out.

  As I said, a great performance.

  CHAPTER 10

  The first thing I did was pick up lunch at Lena’s, a Coke and a burrito, easy on the peppers. Then I gassed up the car and headed out of town.

  Scott could have taken a car from the lot at Lorenzo’s, but he wasn’t that stupid. He had to have gotten one from somewhere else. The best bet to my mind was that he rented one and used it to get away, possibly ditching it later. The nearest rental agencies were in Duluth and Superior. The Twin Ports were almost an hour away, but the sky was blue, the roads were clear, and I was out of school early.

  If Jace was right about Scott shaving, he hadn’t done it until after he’d set up the details of the accident and escape. Which meant he had to rent the getaway car when he still had the beard. My flyers weren’t worthless after all.

  The major car rental companies had booths at the Duluth airport. I went there first and within a few minutes knew there’d be no hot trail.

  “Do you remember renting a car to this guy about a month ago?” I asked several rental agents. A month ago! they’d gasp. You kidding? Then there’d be a head shake and the agent would say, I don’t remember what I had for lunch, or what color socks I’m wearing, or my wife’s birthday.

  The guy at the Avis booth was a real clown. “Hey,” he said, smirking, “I don’t remember who I slept with last night.”

  Ha, ha.

  Most of the other rental agencies listed in the phone book were all in car dealerships. I didn’t bother. Scott knew quite a few mechanics and service reps in the area. No way he could walk into a dealership and not be noticed.

  The one remaining business had a downtown address. U-Save Auto Rental was in an old brick building on a street that ran parallel to Lake Superior. It was tucked between a church drop-in center and an apartment building that boasted a choice of daily, weekly, or monthly rates. An old man sat on the stoop of the apartment building, humming and tapping a cane against a handrail. I hurried past him and opened the U-Save door.

  I expected a dark room to match the exterior, but the office was clean and nicely decorated. There was no one working, so I tapped the silver bell on the counter. A woman poked her head out of a rear office. “Minute?” she called out. I nodded. While I waited, I browsed. There were two chairs, a table, magazines. No bad office art, nothing at all on the walls. In better days, I might have approached them about a custom job, maybe a large mirror with birch molding decorated with an assortment of toy cars.

  “Need a rental?” the woman said, approaching the counter. She leaned on it and smacked her lips. She ran a hand over her head. Her black hair was so short and spiky I expected to see blood drip from her palm.

  “No, I’m trying to find someone.” Out with the flyer. “Do you remember renting to this guy about a month ago?”

  She looked at the circular long and hard. She shrugged. “I’m new. The other girl quit. Can’t blame her. It’s so boring.”

  Dead end.

  “This your boyfriend?”

  “Brother.”

  “I could check the computer for you. What’s his name?’ She read it off the flyer and typed it in. “Nothing on Munro.”

  “I don’t think he’d have used his real name.”

  “Ooh, that makes it fun. I love mysteries, they’re the only books I read. I used to read Westerns, if you can believe it, but they’re all so alike I got bored. I mean, I could write something as good as some of the dumb ones I was reading. Maybe what I should write is a Western mystery, that would be perfect.” She stroked her hair again. “I’m Jill, by the way. Okay, what dates are we talking? I’ll bring up all the rentals for around then. Maybe one of the names will sound good, like he mixed your mom’s maiden name with his best friend’s name or something.”

  What would he choose? I wondered as I scanned the list. What would I choose, if I could name myself?

  Nothing looked right, though I had her run the record on Will Ford and Zeke Dodge. “Car names,” I explained. “He’s a mechanic.”

  “Good enough reason,” she said, fingers flying over the keyboard. She shook her head as the transaction records scrolled onto the screen. “I don’t think so. They’ve both had accounts with us for years.”

  “He probably would have used cash, would that be a different list? Do you even take cash?”

  “We’ll take anything the bank will take, but we do need an ID.”

  “Then it would have to be under Munro.”<
br />
  “Not necessarily. Did he have time to plan his disappearance?”

  “About a month.”

  “You can buy IDs, you know.” The phone rang and she made a face as she picked it up. While she talked and arranged a rental, typing speedily with one hand, she reached under the counter and pulled out a gaudy tabloid newspaper that was folded open to a story about combusting corpses. She swiveled the phone receiver away from her mouth. “Don’t tell the boss I read on the job,” she whispered. Then she resumed making muttered responses into the phone as she riffled through the paper to the last page. “There!” she mouthed, and tapped the paper with a finger.

  Birth Certificates, Diplomas, Green Cards, Driver’s Licenses. Call for catalog.

  Jill hung up the phone, shaking her head. “What bozo would want a convertible in winter?”

  “Mail-order IDs? These must be illegal.”

  Jill leaned on the counter. “If you’re desperate, what does it matter?” She looked around, as if someone might have sneaked into the office and was listening in a corner. “I had this girlfriend,” she said in a soft voice, “who needed to get away from an old boyfriend, right? God, he was a number. I mean, she had to get out or she’d get dead. Anyway, she calls one of these places and gets the catalog. ‘Your name on any state’s driver’s license,’ it says. ‘For collectors,’ it says. Yeah, right. Collectors—that’s how they cover their asses.”

  “I don’t think he’d have dared to order any catalogs. I might have picked up the mail.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Any dope with a few bucks can rent a private box at one of those packing-and-mailing stores. Have you checked them?”

  “No. Good idea.”

  “Let’s make a list. You can check them out after you leave here. They might not want to tell you anything, but you’ve gotta try. God, this is fun.”

  Glad someone thought so. I paged through the tabloid as she leafed through the phone book. I started reading personal ads and her hand slapped down,

  “Don’t you dare!” she said. “Most of these guys are inmates, don’t you know that? You’re way too young for that. I had this other girlfriend, oh, let me tell you…”

  I wished I could have taken Jill with me. Maybe her enthusiasm would have helped. There were quite a few rent-a-mailbox stores in the Twin Ports. I hit five and struck out at each; Jill might have charmed someone into talking. On my own, all I heard were variations of the same thing: Get lost, kid.

  After the fifth miss, I gave up. Outside the last store, a pay phone half hidden by a pile of dirty snow caught my eye. A tattered phone book hung from a wire. I flipped through the pages looking for Jace’s number down in Moose Lake. Might as well take advantage of the in-state rates.

  I hummed impatiently through his mother’s chirping message on the machine, then left my own message. “This is Arden, I had another idea,” I said immediately after the beep.

  I only had a few quarters, so I talked fast. Would he take the old flyer around to country car lots in the area? And how about sports stores that sold snowshoes? Were there any places around Moose Lake where someone could rent a mailbox? Hit those, too, wouldja, Jace? Oh, and how did the photo-morphing go? It’s starting to snow, thanks and good-bye.

  I bought supper in Superior, but it was the worst. The burger was rubbery, the fries were limp, and the soda in the plastic cup tasted like a petroleum product. I ate it all regardless of appearance and taste, and within minutes of consumption it was all roiling in my stomach, threatening to explode. Home, someone please get me home.

  It began to look as if I’d never get there. Twenty miles from Penokee it started snowing, nothing too serious, but the oncoming traffic was heavy, so it took ages before I could pass the little old man in the big old car creeping along at forty-five. And after I did, I forgot to slow down out of passing speed. Which is why I now have my first-ever speeding ticket.

  “I hope your parents make you pay this fine out of your own pocket,” the trooper said. “Be a lesson for you.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure they will,” I replied. “They’re very strict.” And very dead.

  The orphan committee would not be pleased, of course. But I could always cite classmates who’d been tagged for worse—shoplifting, possession, underage drinking, driving while intoxicated. What would concern them the most, I imagine, would be that I was driving-while-detecting. Lock her up, Officer.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Drummonds’ house was lit from top to bottom. I debated pulling into their drive instead of my own, but I felt too surly. Besides, they were just back from a trip to her ailing mother, so Mrs. Drummond wouldn’t have had time to get to work in the kitchen.

  The phone messages logged on the machine only made me surlier. They were all crank calls, or at least useless ones. Two callers asked about a reward. Another guy offered obscenely to take the place of the missing man. A drunk, probably dialing the only number in sight, called from a bar and asked for a ride home. A psychic left the message that she was getting “vibrations” and would be happy to tell me more for a small fee.

  I erased them all and then made my own call, to Jace again. “Did you get my message? Did you get the flyer done?” I said as soon as he got on the line.

  “Hi to you, too,” he said. “And no, I didn’t get it done. I don’t have art until Wednesday.”

  “Can’t you get in there before then? Time is important, Jace!”

  “It’s not there for my personal use, Arden; I have to do it as part of class.”

  “Make sure you do it on Wednesday, okay? And what about my idea of going around to the car lots?”

  “That’s a lot of driving. I’m not sure I can get the car for that”

  “Tell your mom it’s for something else, then. Please, Jace!”

  “I’ll try. How you doing today?”

  “Less than great. I was ambushed by a therapist, I got my first speeding ticket, and my stomach feels like it was introduced to E. coli. Call me when you get it done, okay?”

  He promised, we said good night, I hung up, and only then remembered about his play audition. Never mind, I’d ask next time.

  I was in my bathrobe on my way to the shower when the doorbell rang. “How do people know?” I groaned. Another ring, long and shrill. Could I ignore it? I knelt at the window and peeked. No car, probably Jean or Kady.

  As soon as I opened the door Mrs. Drummond marched in. Where had I seen that expression before? Ah, yes, the state trooper.

  “Welcome home. How’s your mother?”

  “Stable and comfortable. I’m supposed to be your guardian, Arden.”

  “That’s good about your mom. And I’m supposed to be emancipated.”

  “Not entirely. I leave for a weekend and within an hour of getting home I hear that you had a party here—” Yeeps.

  “—and that you have spent time and money plastering the town with missing-person posters. Then I hear that today you left school early to come home, but instead disappeared for hours. No one knew where you were. You are pushing the limits, Arden. My limits.”

  This was new, and I took a moment to savor it. Never in my memory had I received a motherly scolding. Perversely, I found it pleasant.

  “The party wasn’t much. Some people came by uninvited and I got rid of them as soon as I could.” I restrained myself wonderfully and didn’t look toward the vomit stain.

  She unbuttoned her coat. “That’s what Kady guessed. I heard about it when we ran into Paula Rock at the store. She said her son reported you threw—and I quote—a ‘good one.’ I should never have left you alone, Arden. Next time I won’t.”

  “Next time I’ll be ready and won’t let anyone in. Things were okay, Mrs. D.”

  “And where were you today?”

  “Duluth. Superior. There were a few things I needed to do.”

  She pulled a folded flyer out of her coat pocket. “Related to this?”

  The motherly scolding was losing its appeal. “Yes.” />
  “Kay Rutledge said you talked with the therapist today. I’m glad. I think it’s overdue. I should have insisted long ago.”

  “Wasn’t my idea.”

  “I don’t imagine it was. This is your idea…” She smoothed the wrinkled paper between her hands. “…this wild-goose chase.”

  I’d have argued, but the day’s trip had been exactly that.

  “If emancipation is going to work, Arden, we need a few more rules. I need them.”

  That was honest. I smiled to signal possible cooperation. “Such as?”

  “I want you over with us more, at least two nights a week. Monday and Thursday would be best.”

  “Sleep over?”

  “That’s not necessary, though you’re always welcome. Let’s say dinner and homework. It will be a time to check in with you and see what you’re up to, I want to hear about your activities from you, not from someone I meet at the grocery store.” The flyer disappeared into her pocket again. I heard it getting crumpled in her fist. “I thought I could go along with this trial independence, but now I’m not so sure. Years ago I promised Scott we’d take care of you if anything happened.”

  “You are taking care of me.”

  She smiled sourly, rubbed her eyes, and yawned. She’d had a bad day too. “Are you getting any calls in response to the poster?”

  “A few, nothing helpful.” I didn’t dare tell her about the string of messages I’d found when I got home.

  “If you insist on posting your phone number all over the place, I’m going to insist you get Caller ID.”

  “That might be a good idea. I should have thought of it.”

  She cheered considerably. A lesson, I guess: Give them an inch and they think they’ve won a mile. “We’re agreed, then,” she said. “You get Caller ID, you join us for dinner two nights each week, and I always want to know when you leave town and why. I think it’s a reasonable compromise.”