by Jess Lourey
This earned me a look over the top of his bifocals. “Someone like you?”
“I’m the only other reporter here, aren’t I?”
He returned his focus to his computer screen, sliding a sheet of paper across the countertop.
“What’s this?”
“Read it.”
I did, out loud. “Private Investigator Training. This 15-hour course covers all the necessary topics set out by Rule 7506.2300 and Minnesota Statute Chapter 326.23 regarding certified training of Private Detectives.” There was a lot of small print, which I pretended to skim. I’d already worked one case, in November and under the supervision of an attorney, as required by Minnesota Law, but I had yet to take the required certification class. “Thanks, but this doesn’t do me any good. This class is in Willmar, and it starts next week. That’s a two-hour drive from here, one way.”
“But only a 30-minute drive from Paynesville.”
I squinted. “Have you and Kennie been talking?”
He tugged his glasses to the tip of his nose and leaned back in his chair, studying me from under his bushy eyebrows. “I’m on the city council. I know the library is closing for two weeks.” He reached for a pencil and twirled it in his fingertips, visibly weighing whether or not he should tell me more. In the end, he decided to lay it all on the table. “It was going to be longer, except Kennie fought for you.”
“What?” My brain was trying to make sense of those words. I must have misheard him, and he’d actually said, “Kennie caught the flu,” or “Kennie bought four ewes.”
“Believe it. There were council members who thought it’d be more fiscally responsible to close the library entirely during the winter months. Kennie held strong that if it had to be closed at all, it should only be for two weeks.”
I didn’t know where in my head to fit the revelation that Kennie might have done something nice for me of her own volition, so I opted for an offensive move instead. “Why didn’t you fight for me?”
“Who says I didn’t? It ultimately came down to closing the library for two weeks or turning off the Christmas lights early. Some people choose popular over smart.”
I groaned. “So you knew I’d be coming here looking for extra work?”
He nodded. “And I knew I wouldn’t have it. Go home. Visit your mom. It’ll do you both good. While you’re there, find out why their local paper is doing so well and get this class out of the way so you can start earning more PI money.”
I hated being told what to do, especially when it was for my own good. “Most people can’t afford time off, you know. Most of us have to work. I couldn’t pay for the class if I wanted to.”
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pre-written check. “Thought you’d say that. Good thing you’ve got your Christmas bonus coming.”
I took the check. $425. Exactly the cost of the class, made out to Willmar Community Education. I wasn’t used to people doing nice stuff for me and didn’t know if I was angry or happy. I kept my head down so he couldn’t see my flushed cheeks.
“James?”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“It’s a favor to me.” I’d never heard this note of concern in his voice before, and he’d had me cover some dangerous stories. “Now’s not a good time to be a woman living alone, especially one who looks like you. Merry Christmas.”
I tossed him a furtive glance, but he had returned his attention to his computer. I think I’d just experienced our longest interaction ever. “Thank you,” I murmured, and backed out of the office with the check and class information in hand, feeling both cornered and cared for.
Outside, a gust of wind blew the edges of my scratchy purple scarf into my face. To my left and to my right, the streets of my adopted hometown were bustling with people rushing to lunch at the Turtle Stew, or into the post office, or out of the dentist or attorney offices. I could hear snatches of their conversations over the thin notes of Christmas music rolling out every time someone opened the door of the Apothecary across the street. I thought I caught a trace of the metallic scent of an approaching snowstorm.
Somewhere in those moments, I made up my mind.
There it was, then. Settled. The day had finally arrived.
It was time to return to the small town that had formed me, scars and all.
Six
Sunday, December 16
The snow settles softly onto the killer’s hat, plump, glistening flakes so large and whimsical that they make a tiny sound when they land. The town is asleep, or close to it. Ten o’clock on a Sunday night is considered late in farm country, where the animals rise before the sun and need tending to. Even in town, where the farm work gave way to waitressing, office, and health care jobs decades ago, people still live by the rhythm of the agricultural clock.
It is odd for the killer to be undertaking this mission in such familiar territory.
This one has taken longer than the rest to plan because the killer has to decide whether to build the snowmen in advance or create them from scratch in the women’s yards. In the end, the most sensible route is a compromise. The trunk of the sedan, this time a blue four-door Dodge, is packed with three huge white globes of snow, each as large as a prized pumpkin. Six more are balanced in the back seat of the car, three basketball-sized, three cantaloupe-sized. It takes only moments to roll each ball across the virgin snow to pick up more girth, then construct the three-foot-tall snowmen in the center of each yard, wind a scarf around their necks, pop in two button eyes and stick arms, and balance a candy cane on the edge of each stick claw. Even if people had been out and about, there are few things less threatening than stumbling upon a person building a snowman.
Targeting multiple women is a recent addition to the master plan. Seven women in White Plains had received a candy cane. One had drawn the short straw, along with her mutt. Previously, in the other states, there had only been one calling card and one death in each city. The addition had been accidental. There had been so surprisingly many viable candidates in White Plains, so many beautiful, trashy brunettes selling themselves so cheaply online, that in the end, it had been necessary to educate more than one. Killing seven would have been ridiculous, but contacting seven, forcing the misguided ladies to reflect on the error of their ways, was a good idea. Plus, it was smart not to put all your eggs in one basket.
It was a happy accident the way the seven calling cards had affected the whole town. It’d be awhile before any White Plains woman exposed herself freely to the world. That is a greater good.
Building seven snowmen, however, simply is not practical. Fortunately, only three women in this town truly need the wake-up call. The killer pats the last bit of snow into place on the third and final snowman of the night. It is a little small, but extra buttons provide a smile for this one. The other two snowmen only had eyes.
The killer reaches for a tissue. The night wind is bitter, the snowman-building tedious, especially when she is so loud and demanding inside the killer’s winter jacket. The pocket she is housed in doesn’t muffle her complaints, and they are constant, even though she is well-bundled in her Jackie O winter gear. Don’t jostle so much. I’m cold. Hurry. Don’t be so stupid.
The nagging becomes grating.
Nose blown, the killer steps forward to knock on the front door, then melts into the shadows around the corner. The snowflakes fall more softly here.
Inside, footsteps sound. She’d been watching the 10 o’clock news. She should have known better than to answer the door in her pajamas. She looks through the window first, maybe, surveying the landscape of her front yard before deciding to let down her guard. In any case, she opens the door and spots the snowman. She laughs and claps her hands. Does she think a secret admirer has left a surprise? If so, she’s right, in a way. She slides her feet into slippers and skips through the snow.
Is it her childhood she’s thinking of? Fresh fat snow, hot chocolate, sleigh bells? She’s standing immediately in front of the snowman when she notices
the candy cane hanging from its stick finger. Her hand goes to her throat. She backs away, trips, falls into the jagged crust of snow just beneath the soft freshfall, half crawls half runs into the house. She leaves a slipper behind in her terror-rimmed haste.
It’s too late. The killer has already slipped inside.
Seven
Sunday, December 16
If there’s a phrase scarier to a 30-year-old woman than, “Your room is just as you left it,” I have yet to hear it. I’d phoned my mom as soon as I’d made up my mind to come home. Of course she’d been thrilled, and here I was, arriving under cover of a soft, fat-flaked snowfall.
After much hugging and clucking, she had walked me, Tiger Pop, and Luna up to the second floor of the old farmhouse. She’d lived in this house my whole life, situated in the rural area southwest of Paynesville, a desolate spot ten miles from any town, the nearest neighbor a country mile across winter-buried fields. She and my dad had bought the farmhouse plus fifteen acres back in the ’70s to “get away” from the big-city life of St. Cloud. The isolation had always made me feel claustrophobic rather than free, and yet I’d just last spring chosen to flee Minneapolis for the countryside outside Battle Lake. These thoughts raced through my head at jackrabbit speed as I pushed open the door of my childhood bedroom. There was no turning back. I watched with dread and anticipation as the contents of the time capsule were revealed.
Yup. Exactly as I’d left it.
I was greeted by Led Zeppelin and a Footloose-era Kevin Bacon on the wall, loaded bookshelves, a multi-colored dresser with Garbage Patch stickers down the front, worn quilt on wrought-iron bed with my childhood sock monkey perched in the center, and the lingering smell of AquaNet and Love’s Baby Soft. It set me back on my heels. Imagine gathering the most embarrassing person you’ve ever dated, a supposedly secret videotape of you acting out every 1980s MTV music video, and your junior high diary. Got those three things? Okay, mash them into one big pile of shame, stir them, pour them into a paint can, and let’s call the color “Time Machine Teal.” That’s what my bedroom walls were painted with. The trim was “Mortification Mauve.”
“Jeez, mom, you could have redecorated.”
“It’s not mine to redecorate.” She’d always been solid about personal boundaries, my mom. That also hadn’t changed. “Would you like some supper?”
Eight
Monday, December 17
She’d left me to reacquaint myself with my blast-from-the-past bedroom and had given me space until this morning, when she couldn’t stand it any longer. She woke me up at 7:00 AM and began stuffing food into me anew, peppering me with questions, stroking my arm as if to make certain that I was actually sitting at her dining room table. It became annoying, but I had to admit her scrambled eggs were even better than I remembered.
“Thanks, mom.” I accepted the pancakes and orange juice she passed my way. “Fattening me up for the oven?”
She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, the same beaming smile that had been lighting up her face since we’d arrived.
“You could use some thickening,” she said. “You’re skin and bones.”
“Check this out.” I pulled up my shirt and pooched out my belly. I could pull off lean with the right clothes, but I had an Uncle Fester stomach. “Pretty impressive, hunh? No bones there.”
She shook her head like she didn’t know what to do with me. It was a gesture I’d grown up with. Seeing my mom had also reminded me that my genetic future would mean an Ants in the Pants body—skinny legs, round belly and butt, mysteriously absent chest—just like the blue pants that came with the game of the same name. Somehow, her perfectly curled and dyed brown hair, sweet bland face, and eternal smile complemented her body. You can’t fight your fate. In the meanwhile, I was going to enjoy this breakfast extravaganza.
“Are you sure you have to go to that detective class today?” she asked. “We’ve hardly had a chance to visit. You haven’t even been into town yet.” Town meant Paynesville, and she was right. Because her farmhouse was so far into the country, I’d easily and purposely skirted Paynesville to get here. I wasn’t ready for it yet.
“I’m going to be here for at least a week.” I’d told her this several times already. I think she just liked to hear me say it. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.”
“You sure Johnny can’t join us?”
I sighed involuntarily. Hot, sexy Johnny Leeson and I had been seriously dating for a few weeks. He was a blonde Adonis with lean hips and large hands, and he got my blood humming like nobody’s business. He was also smart, sweet, and supportive, which is exactly why I was sure I was going to mess up the relationship. To stall the inevitable crash and burn, I’d put up boundaries. No telling each other we loved each other or full-on sex for six months. It was tough work, a first for me, really, and I couldn’t say that I liked it. I did like Johnny, though, and I wanted to keep him around as long as I could, even if it meant pretending I was someone I wasn’t. “He and his mom flew to Texas to stay with his aunt. He won’t be around this Christmas.”
“Maybe he can join us for Easter, then?”
“Mom, I’m here now. Let’s just focus on that, ’kay?” I could feel my blood pressure rising. She hadn’t changed at all, which was both good and bad. Good because she’d always been a great mom. Bad because I had changed, and it left me feeling older than her somehow. It was uncomfortable.
“I was just asking. It’d be nice to see him, you know. And his mother. We had such a nice visit in Battle Lake in August.” Mom cupped her elbows while she spoke. “What about Mrs. Berns? What is she doing for Christmas?”
Mrs. Berns was the first actual, close, do-anything-for-you friend I’d ever had. She was under five feet tall, over 80 years old, and lampshaded everything. I missed her something terrible, which just added to my annoyance at my mom’s line of questioning. “Visiting family in Fargo.”
“Hmm. It would be wonderful to see her. And Mrs. Leeson and Johnny. Just wonderful.”
“All right,” I said, my tone unexpectedly harsh. “I’ll see what I can do. Is that good enough?” I wished I hadn’t snapped, but it felt like the little farmhouse was closing in on me all of a sudden, and my world was shrinking with it. I hadn’t even been here 24 hours. It didn’t help that I’d slept so poorly last night. I kept tossing and turning and waking up to find Kevin Bacon staring at me. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go, all right? The class starts in an hour, and all the roads might not be plowed yet.”
She handed me a brown paper sack. “I packed you a lunch.”
“Of course you did.” I drew in a deep breath and gave her a peck on the forehead. “You’re going to be fine with Tiger Pop and Luna?”
“I’ll relish the company. When are you going to be home?”
“Mom.”
She held out her hands. “I want to know if I should cook supper for one or two.”
“I’ll be home for supper, okay?”
Her smile was bright enough to read by. “I’m making your favorite.”
She was my mom. Everything she cooked was my favorite. Still, I couldn’t escape that house fast enough. It wasn’t just my room or my mom. None of it had changed. The kitchen had the same blue-flowered wallpaper, chipped cupboards, and Goodwill plates. The dining room table was the same one I’d fallen into when roller skating in the house at 12. I’d earned 13 stitches on my head and still bore a faint scar. My dad had threatened to spank me, something he hadn’t done since I was little, but my mom had stopped him. Even their bedroom was the same, a dusty little space with photos of them together the day my dad returned from the Vietnam War with his honorable discharge papers and a Purple Heart. The pictures were color, but a weird 1969 version that was both brighter and less distinct than current color photography. The handful of photos showed him short and compact, maybe 5'7" to my mom’s 5'4". His jaw was set, his eyes tired, a little scared, hopeful. He held my mom around the waist, close. She was grinning. Thos
e were the only photos of him she displayed.
The bottom floor of the farmhouse also contained a sad little bathroom and a combination scrapbooking and sewing room. The top floor housed only a bathroom added on late, my bedroom with the 1980s posters and sloping, low-ceilinged walls, and storage space. My mom lived here on a military widow’s pension and had neither the money nor the interest in updating. It was enough to make any reasonable person climb the walls.
Forty minutes of driving southwest, and I located the Willmar Community Education Center with little trouble, right off the main drag. The building was squat and gray, the classroom the first room on the right inside the doors. I was surprised at the amount of apprehension I felt walking inside. Returning to school, even if it’s PI school, at the ripe age of 30 is a little like taking your first step out of the bathroom at a nudist colony. Is everyone else going to be naked, too?
The room had the outgassing smell of new carpet. It was a modern classroom, with a whiteboard consuming one wall, a podium and table in front of it, and a couple dozen chair-desks arranged in rows. An LCD projector hung from the ceiling like a mechanical uvula.
A man in light-brown corduroy pants, an open-collared, button-down shirt, and a navy-blue corduroy jacket was writing on the board in black marker: Welcome to PI Class. I’m Mr. Denny. He appeared to be in his 50s but took good care of himself.
I chose the farthest seat in the rear, closest to the door without putting my back to it. You know—where all the smart kids sit. Six other students were already seated. I was gratified to see that I was the only one under 40, but disappointed that I was the only female. Two of the men seemed to know each other. The other four guys sat on the periphery, like me. I opened my notebook and began doodling, now wishing I had never left the farmhouse.
Out of the edge of my eye, I spotted another female enter. I watched her through the partial shield of my hair. She was about my height and weight, but blonde and at least a decade younger. Judging by the parade of trendy bracelets ringing her arm and the expensive, orange blossom-tinged perfume that emanated off her, she either wasn’t from around here or had gone to college out of state and had recently returned home. Her purse cinched it. I’d seen the soft black Coach satchel on the arm of Jennifer Aniston in the latest issue of People magazine when I’d accidentally dropped it at the library, open to that page. And then the next page. And the next.
