by Jess Lourey
Even knowing that it was fifteen below this morning didn’t prepare me for the slap of winter. My tips immediately froze as I raced to the car, holding the door open for Mrs. Berns. I was worried my Toyota wouldn’t start, but I needn’t have been. She was as reliable as the moon. I scraped the windows while she warmed up, and Mrs. Berns did the seat dance to try to coax heat to her extremities.
Every house we drove past was dark, and none of the Paynesville businesses were open. It was even more lonely once we hit the highway. Except for the occasional semi truck, it was only us and the drifting snow, hardly a building in sight. The sky pinked the farther north we drove, but the traffic never picked up. The prairie of central Minnesota gave way to rolling hills and pine forests which gave way to the stark landscape of the Iron Range. The lack of other humans on the road made me edgy, and Mrs. Berns must have felt the same way, because we were arguing about everything from the radio station to the speed I was driving.
“That’s black ice ahead.”
I squinted. “You can’t see that.”
“Can too. You should slow down.”
“I can’t. We have too much to get done today.” We didn’t actually have a plan, more of a sense that we needed to be in Orelock. Still, not having a plan would take more time than actually knowing what we were doing, and I was itching to get to Orelock.
She flashed me her angry eyes. “You should learn patience.”
“I don’t have time for patience.”
Mrs. Berns glared silently the rest of the way, not speaking to me again until we pulled into a gas station on the outskirts of Orelock. It wasn’t a name-brand stop and sported only two pumps. The tiny building was a 1970s, space-station-looking construction, no larger than a bedroom, and glass on all four sides. I could see the nametag on the shirt of the older man working inside, though I couldn’t read it.
“Get me some M & Ms,” Mrs. Berns demanded as I pulled up to a pump.
I was too crabby by this time. “If I have to get out of this car, you do too.” I exited without waiting for her response. The biting wind whipped and stung me while I filled the tank. It was cold all over Minnesota, but something about the northern cold feels like a personal attack, a keening to separate you from your herd. Once I’d stood in that ice wind for all of three seconds, I knew I’d buy Mrs. Berns candy to save her having to step out into this arctic prairie. I didn’t tell her this, though, and she followed me inside to pay. I let her.
“$25.71,” the man said when I made my way to his counter. I couldn’t help noticing that his age spots were the same color as his eyes.
Mrs. Berns slapped a brown bag of M & Ms on the counter. “And these.” She reached into a hanging basket and palmed a pile of candy. “These, too. What are they?”
“Salted caramels,” the man said, ringing us up. “$28.91.”
“You mean butterscotch.”
His facial expression didn’t change. “I mean salted caramels.”
Mrs. Berns scowled. “What’s the difference?”
“Hey, wait a minute.” My moodiness melted away as I grabbed a clear-wrapped candy out of her hand. It read “Chi-Town Candies Famous Salted Caramels” in fancy white script. “These are the candies that Sharpie Trevino sells!”
The man behind the counter nodded. “Guy with a face like a rat? That’s him. He dropped them off a couple days ago.”
Mrs. Berns and I exchanged a glance, back on the same team. I knew we were both thinking that Sharpie sure did get around. I wondered just how certain the police were about the Orelock victim’s time of death. “Did you know Samantha Keller?” I asked.
He put his hands on the counter and regarded us shrewdly. It was the first interest he’d shown. “No, but I know one of the other women who received the wreath with the candy cane. She said it was like being kissed by the Grim Reaper himself.”
“What’s her name?” Mrs. Berns asked.
He studied his fingernails. “I’ll tell you for $10.”
“That’s extortion!” Mrs. Berns said.
He shrugged, palms in the air.
She slapped a $10 bill on the counter. It disappeared under his sliding hand. “Her name is Cindy Running. She’s the daughter of the guy who owns this station. Lives over on Galena Avenue, gray house with blue trim. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” Mrs. Berns put another $18.91 on the counter, parsing it to the penny. “Have a nice day.”
“Wait! Your gas and food was $28.91.”
“That’s how much I paid you.”
“You only gave me $18.91. The $10 was for me.”
Mrs. Berns gave him a sly smile. “I don’t care where you spend it, sonny.” She grabbed my elbow and led me out, leaving the weasel clerk sputtering behind the counter.
When the door closed behind us, I yelled the obvious over the shriek of the winter wind. “Sharpie’s been here.” I held Mrs. Berns’ car door open, my previous crankiness forgotten. “Where Sharpie goes, death follows. Or is it the other way around?”
“It could be coincidence,” Mrs. Berns said. “He’s in the state to sell candy and find a place to set up shop. You can probably find his caramels all over Minnesota.” She slid into the passenger seat and waited for me to get in to continue. “Plus, we know he was in his hotel last night when the Orelock woman was murdered.”
“Do we? We never actually saw him.”
“Did you get the license plate of the car outside his motel room?”
“Yup. We might need to set up another meeting with him to find out if that red SUV was really his car.”
“What if he has a partner in crime? That would explain how he could appear to be two places at once.”
I shook my head. “Possible, but unlikely. Serial killers almost always work alone.”
Mrs. Berns cranked the heat vent wide open and held her hands in front of it. “We should have asked that guy for directions to Galena Avenue. Think I should go back in and ask?”
I leaned forward in the driver’s seat to see around her. The clerk was at the window, hands crossed, glaring at us. “Naw. It’s a small town. We’ll find it.”
Orelock, like every other municipality in Minnesota, was festooned with Christmas decorations. Green garland studded with twinkle lights circled the telephone poles and light posts, with three foot-high, bell-shaped ornaments sticking out from the top of each. Downtown Orelock was too small for a stoplight, but it did have a four-way stop. I counted two diners, a hardware store, an accountant’s office, a beauty parlor, and a Laundromat at the main intersection. “Reminds me a little of Battle Lake.”
Mrs. Berns snorted. “Not nearly as charming.” She rolled down a window and yelled at a tall guy wrapped in down from head to toe. The wind had a loose end of his scarf and appeared to be using it to pull him forward. I pulled my coat tighter. “Excuse me, where’s Galena Avenue?”
He yelled through his muffler and over the wind. “First right, first right again.”
“Thank you!” She rolled the window back up quickly. “Brrr. It’s cold enough to turn balls into ovaries.”
I nodded and tapped my blinker. The intense cold made the roads a special kind of icy, so I braked well before the turn. I spotted a coffee shop on this street, and Agent Briggs stepping into it. He wore a face like he was chewing on bad air. I instantly tensed up. “There he is, the FBI agent. Briggs. We should stay out of his way.”
Mrs. Berns adjusted the heater vent nearest her iced-over window, aiming it at the frost. “Really? You think we should avoid the man who treated you like shoe scum just yesterday for bringing him useful information? What’s your position on driving in cars when we need to travel versus just leaning back in a chair and making revving noises? Think we should do that, too?”
I stuck my tongue out at her, hung a right on Galena and was nearly to the end of the block before I spotted the gray house with blue trim. “There it is!” I parked in front and leaned forward to get a feel for the place. “Are we just going to
go in and talk to her?”
Mrs. Berns was halfway out of the car, a tiny force bundled in her blue winter jacket, scarf, and mittens. She was ringing the doorbell by the time I reached her. “You don’t think we should have a plan?” I asked, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm.
“We absolutely should. You’re in charge of that.”
I had my mouth open to object when the door cracked. The woman on the other side was about my age and height with caramel-colored skin and beautiful dark eyes. Her ebony hair was tied in a thick braid slung over her right shoulder. A TV blared a morning talk show in a distant room. “Hello?”
“Cindy Running?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes and glanced behind her. The TV in the other room grew quieter. “Who wants to know?”
I looked to Mrs. Berns. She was smiling at Cindy and not about to offer anything. “My name is Mira James. This is Mrs. Berns. We’re from Battle Lake originally, temporarily staying in Paynesville.”
A child appeared at Cindy’s hip and wound his hand around her waist. His T-shirt had a yellow Pokémon on it and his soft-looking brown hair stuck up in every direction. “Mom, I’m hungry.”
“Go back inside, you hear? You just had breakfast.” The air still smelled like bacon. She returned her attention to us. “Look, it’s been a long couple days. If you’re trying to convert me, it’s too late. If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m broke.” She started to close the door.
“Wait!” The wind whistled through the skeleton of an oak tree in her front yard and sent eddies of loose snow across the front steps. “Look,” I said. I wasn’t sure what I wanted her to look at. She held herself like she was annoyed but I spied fear around her eyes. She didn’t need to know that I was a PI-in-training, or a reporter for a small-town paper. She wanted to know why we were here and why she should care. “The Candy Cane Killer murdered a woman I went to high school with, and I think he’s threatened me. We drove all the way up here from Paynesville in the hopes of finding out something to make us feel safe. We heard at the gas station that you’d received one of the wreaths with a candy cane on it, and we wanted to ask you some questions.”
She stared, unblinking, for several slow seconds. Then she stuck her head outside and looked around, the wind snarling the loose hairs framing her face. “Fine.” She turned and walked indoors but didn’t close the door behind her. Mrs. Berns and I followed before she changed her mind.
The smell of bacon was stronger in here, along with the odor of coffee and cigarettes. The front space was a living room paneled with the sort of faux-wood that was popular in the ’70s. Cindy tossed herself into a worn recliner and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. “I don’t know anything. I woke up yesterday morning to bring Zach to school, and there was a wreath outside my door. I tossed it inside the house. That afternoon, police come door to door and ask about it. I gave it to them. I didn’t want it.”
Her son wandered back into the room. I put him at about five years old. “Not when I’m smoking, Zach Attack. You go watch TV.”
“You were going to take me sledding,” he said. If I were his mom, I couldn’t have withstood the disappointment in those long-lashed brown eyes. Not only would I have taken him sledding; I’d have bought him something on the way.
“Only when it gets above zero, I told you. Now go on, or we won’t sled at all.” He tossed us a furtive glance before scurrying into a back room.
“Was there anything weird about the wreath, anything written on it?” I asked.
“Nope, just a wreath with some berries, a bow, and a candy cane. It was nice. Nicer than I could afford.”
“How about footprints around it?” Mrs. Berns asked.
Cindy regarded her through the smoke curling out of her mouth. “You sound like the cops. I’ll tell you what I told them. I keep my walk shoveled.”
I could feel her retreating, but I had something personal I needed to ask her. “I know this sounds weird, but we think the killer is targeting women through online dating sites. The woman I went to high school with was on E-adore. Can I ask if you were doing any online dating?”
The sudden tightening of her face, followed by a quick glance to the room her son was in, gave me all the answer I needed. She leaned forward in her chair, her eyes sparking. “That bastard is coming after women because they’re dating? Christ.” She took another pull off her cigarette, shaking her head in disbelief. “What am I supposed to do, stay inside my house all day? I didn’t do nothing wrong. I was just looking for a friend, maybe someone to throw the ball around with Zach a little. I deserve to get my life threatened for that?”
Mrs. Berns put her hand up. “Just calm the heck down, missy. No one’s saying you did anything wrong. He’s the problem, not you.”
“Was it E-adore?” I asked.
She nodded and stubbed out her cigarette. “They give you a free one-month trial in December.” Her hand shook slightly.
“Do you know who got the other wreaths?”
“Sure.” Her outburst had passed, and she suddenly appeared very tired. “It’s a small town. Everyone knew Samantha, everyone knows me. Johnna and Rita are the other two.”
We were getting full names and addresses from her when a knock came at the front door. It was one single rap, and it was loud and ominous.
“Get down!” Mrs. Berns hissed.
Both Cindy and I looked at her in surprise as she hit the floor. “How about I just peek through the spy hole instead?” I whispered.
Zach hurried into the room and tucked himself back into his mom’s waist, a well-loved stuffed black bear in his hand. I tiptoed to the door and peered out. Supervisory Agent Walter Briggs stared back at me.
Twenty-seven
I instinctively dropped to the ground and crawled back toward Mrs. Berns. I knew Briggs couldn’t see in the peephole, but something about his laser gaze directed right into it was unsettling. “It’s the FBI. Cindy, do you have a back door?”
“Yeah. Through the kitchen.” She pointed the direction the boy had entered from. “You two in trouble?”
“Not if we can sneak out of here before he sees us,” I said. “He’s not our biggest fan.”
She shrugged. “I won’t lie for you.”
“I wouldn’t either,” I said.
Mrs. Berns fished in her purse for her M & Ms and handed them to Zach. He looked at his mom, and when she nodded, he grabbed them and ran off again, a wide, sweet smile on his face. “It’s not lying if they don’t ask you about it,” she said.
Cindy arched an eyebrow. She was done with us. Mrs. Berns and I speed-crawled down the hallway, standing when we reached the cracked linoleum of the small but clean kitchen. We were halfway out the back door when we heard Cindy open the front. We closed the door gently behind ourselves, walked into the alley, out into the street, and around to Galena. Agent Briggs’ sedan was pulled up immediately behind my car. I had no illusions. He either recognized or had run the plates on my car, so he knew I was in town and had visited Cindy. I was okay with that. I just didn’t want to run into him.
I started up my car, Mrs. Berns and I slunk low in our seats, and drove away. We didn’t speak until we were on the other side of town, searching for Johnna’s and Rita’s houses. We kept the conversation focused on navigating the back streets, both of us rattled.
Neither Johnna nor Rita was home, so we left a note with Mrs. Berns’ cell phone number tucked in each mailbox and a request that they call us as soon as they could. Not sure what to do next, we made our way back to the coffee shop that Briggs had entered less than an hour earlier. We were gratified to find creamy honey and cinnamon lattes and rent-by-the-hour computers waiting inside for us. We took our coffees, freshly baked maple-nut scones, and bad attitudes to a computer, where we pulled up the E-adore site and began creating a profile for an Orelock brunette.
Twenty-eight
The killer had passed them as they pulled into the gas station, two women in a brown Toyota Corolla, older model, c
arrying road muck all the way from Paynesville. Or, as it turned out, all the way from Battle Lake. It hadn’t been hard to track down her current address, job, and a list of family and friends, once she dropped her name. The killer had always been very gifted at research. It came with the job.
It had been much more difficult to locate her online ad. The profile was created last June on a cheap, no-name site. Her whole page was oddly worded, as if she wasn’t taking it seriously, and her photo was unflattering. It only captured her from the neck up, and a shadow across her face made it appear as if she had a large nose. She was much prettier in real life. Still, she was advertising herself, and she had to expect buyers. If you sell yourself short, be prepared to accept bargain basement prices.
The killer’s gloved hand is in the air, poised to strike the smug little doll strapped in the passenger seat. Had she just giggled? Her clothes are perfect, as always, but she is beginning to show the strain. A lock of curling brown hair has escaped her tight bun. It’s no wonder, with the police swarming closer and closer, and now that nosy bitch from Battle Lake poking around.
“It was still a stupid move,” the killer says, stealing a glance. The doll only smiles. “A damn mistake to send that orange begonia. What did we gain? Scaring her a little? We could have done that with a candy cane. The orange begonia was too risky. Only a handful of people have heard that story. Now we’re going to have to get rid of her, all because of you.”
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
Tears are running down the killer’s face. “That’s not fair.”
But when had it ever been fair? Killing Auntie Ginger ten years ago should have stopped the taunts, and it had, for a while. That memory of her shocked face as she regained consciousness to find that she was wearing a noose and perched on a chair, hands tied behind her back, still satisfied the killer. One kick of the chair, four minutes of thrashing like a hooked fish, and it was done. The monster was dead.
