Gone to Dust

by Matt Goldman

  “Why not?” said Ellegaard. “Maybe he has known Fine was cooperating with the FBI for a while.”

  “Maybe. The surveillance operation going on at Fine’s call center is probably more than FBI. It’s got to be the whole Joint Terrorism Task Force. That includes NSA, CIA, DEA, ATF, State Patrol, and Minneapolis police. But because Fine is an Edina resident, and, in theory, sticking his neck out, McGinnis may be involved, too.”

  “The thing I don’t get,” said Ellegaard, “is why McGinnis withheld that from me.”

  “Because if the call-center operation nets any recruiters or, even better, terrorists, McGinnis would have Edina’s share of the spotlight to himself.” I stood and walked over to the windows overlooking Perkins and, farther to the left, the Edina Country Club. There was a skating rink on the tennis courts and cross-country ski tracks crisscrossing the golf course. “I thought the FBI was going to tell me I was interfering with their surveillance of Ansley Bell. Or maybe something about Robert Somerville’s threatening letter to Bush. Backing off of Andrew Fine was the last thing I expected.”

  “You going to Fine’s party Thursday night?”

  “He invited me. It’d be kind of rude not to, don’t you think?”

  “I think I’ll follow you. Make sure your new friends in Brooklyn Center aren’t trying to tag along.”

  “I’ve never seen you like this, Ellie.”

  “Like what?”

  “Coloring outside the lines.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know, Shap. Maybe I’m outgrowing my little suburban police department.”

  16

  At 9:00 P.M., I texted Ansley Bell from in front of her place. A minute later, she met me at the downstairs door. She had just stepped out of the shower and into a pair of ripped jeans and a pale yellow corduroy blouse. She’d left the top three buttons unfastened—her brown skin lay molten in the vee of her neckline. I followed her up the stairs. She smelled like orange blossoms.

  Ansley said she was exhausted from her long day at the hospital and had neither the energy nor the desire to brave the cold. We ordered Thai off a well-worn take-out menu. Then she asked if I’d get a fire going. I felt grateful for a simple and achievable task.

  I wadded up a few sheets of old newspaper, placed them on the grate, and wondered why a woman would smell like orange blossoms at nine P.M. when she intended to stay in for the night. Did Ansley Bell consider this some sort of date? I built a fort of kindling over the newspaper and considered alternative explanations. Maybe she was just a person who liked to wear a scent at home because she wasn’t allowed to at the hospital. Maybe it wasn’t a scent at all—maybe it was her fabric softener. Maybe it wasn’t even orange blossoms. She dabbed on a bit of citronella because she’s afraid of mosquitos. In January. When it’s twenty below zero. Or maybe my first instinct was right. As far as I knew, I was the first and only person Ansley Bell had confided in, the only person to know that Maggie Somerville was her mother. It would make sense if that made me more attractive than I would have been otherwise. Who else could she share herself with? Her whole self? No one.

  For the first time since I’d been divorced, I felt nervous about being alone with a woman. Compartmentalizing business and personal had never been a problem, but it had never been tested, either. Assertive twentysomethings had been tested, and so far, I had declined them all. Not because I think I’m too mature for them, but because I can’t stomach someone wanting to build a life. After living thirty-eight years, I’ve concluded life is something to be salvaged, not built.

  “I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine,” she said. “Can I get you anything? A beer?”

  “Yes, please. Whatever you have.”

  She smiled and pivoted on one stocking-toed foot. Who purposely smells like orange blossoms if they’re not even going to wear shoes?

  I built an airy grid of small birch logs over the burning kindling. When Ansley returned, a small blaze flickered light throughout the room. She handed me a Stella Artois.

  “Do you want a glass?”

  “How little you must think of me to even ask that question.”

  She laughed. I took the beer and rose from the hearth, my eyes passing her ripped jeans with their little windows to the softness beneath. When I stood upright, she hugged me. I held her and said nothing. She had at least two inches on me—probably three—I felt her stoop to bury her head into my shoulder. It was a junior high slow dance with neither chaperones nor corners of comrades awaiting our return. After a long minute, she said, “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “It was not an easy day.”

  “I bet.”

  “Come on, let’s sit.”

  I found my same spot from the night before. Ansley took the corner of the sectional rather than the far end.

  “The funeral is on Thursday,” I said. “I think you should be there.”

  She nodded.

  “Has anyone from an insurance company contacted you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Maggie named you as one of the beneficiaries of her life insurance policy. You have some money coming your way.”

  “She shouldn’t have done that. She has young kids.”

  “Maggie took care of them, too. Each of you is getting a million dollars.”

  Ansley looked almost mad. “What?”

  “I found out about it this morning.”

  “I don’t want the money. I want my mother back.”

  “I wish you had that choice.” Ansley Bell smiled the saddest smile. “Also, the private detective who’s been wanting to talk to you isn’t from the insurance company. Your parents hired him to find you.”

  “Dammit,” she said.

  “I can get rid of the PI if you want, but your parents know you’re here. The only way to avoid them is to take off.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Ansley. “I have my second round of boards soon. I guess I’ll just have to deal with them. I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear Maggie’s dead.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “They were always paranoid that I’d leave and not come back.”

  Apparently, they should have been. “Maybe ‘fearful’ is a better word.”

  “It probably is, yeah.”

  We talked some more and then the food came. I opened my wallet but Ansley said, “No. I’m a millionaire now. Remember?”

  “At least take a twenty.”

  “Hold on to it. You can get the next one.” So there’d be a next one? She set the food on the coffee table then went into the kitchen. I got up and put another log on the fire then poked at it with the poker to feel a sense of accomplishment. Ansley returned with a tray of plates, napkins, silverware, a bottle of chardonnay, two wine glasses, and a bottle of Sierra Nevada.

  I returned from the fire and sat next to her. She said, “The fire’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “Good wood.”

  She smiled and refilled her wine glass. “Wine or beer with your red curry?”

  “What year is the wine?”

  “A very good year, Mr. Shapiro. So good that grapes grew. What else do you want to know?”

  “Is that the original bottle or did you refill it with a box of wine from the back of the fridge?”

  She almost laughed as she handed me a glass of chardonnay so full I had to handle it like nitroglycerin to avoid spilling. She raised her glass, “To meeting new people and telling old secrets.”

  “Hear, hear,” I said. We touched glasses. Wine sloshed over the edges then we drank and assaulted the paper boxes of spring rolls, curry, pad thai, and brown rice.

  “Tell me a secret, Mr. Shapiro.”

  “The only secrets I keep are work related. And nothing big, just white lies and half-truths. As far as my personal life goes, I’m an open book.”

  “No one’s an open book.”

  “Try me. Ask me anything you want.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Jesus, this is spicy. I hate to go
all Minnesotan on you, but wow.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I asked for two out of four on the spice meter and it’s different every time. Guess the spicy chef is working tonight.”

  “I like it. I just wasn’t ready for it.”

  She said. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I bet you don’t have a girlfriend, either.”

  “So there’s a spicy chef and a not-spicy chef?”

  “No, no, no, Nils. Answer the question. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I do not.”

  “You want to know what I thought when we talked last night?”

  “I don’t want to burden you with carrying another secret, so you’d better tell me.” I lifted my wine glass—it was nearly empty. That’s the problem with drinking whiskey—it makes wine go down like water. The conversation, the spicy chef, Ansley Bell’s caramel eyes dancing in the firelight, and my wine was gone. She refilled my glass before I could set it back down.

  “I thought that Nils Shapiro is an inside-out human being. How rare a thing that is. It must cause him so much pain.”

  “That’s a lot to think the first time you meet someone. Especially after they just told you your mother passed away.”

  “You’re unprotected because you’re not bonded with someone else. That’s the way it is for inside-out people. They need someone else for stability, just like an oxygen atom needs another oxygen atom. They’re more stable when they’re in a pair.”

  “Where’d you learn about this inside-out personality type? I didn’t see that quiz on my Facebook feed.”

  She placed her left hand on my right knee. “Maggie was an inside-out person. It was hard for her to be on her own.”

  “I think maybe you’ve misread me.”

  “Oh, sweetie. Your pain is front and center.”

  I put my fork down and took another sip of wine. If I were the open book I said I was, I would have told Ansley Bell she was substituting me for Maggie or falling for me because she could be honest with me, or both, or maybe those two were the same thing. Either way, Maggie Somerville’s death had emotionally field gutted Ansley, and I was there to fill the cavity. Just there. Nothing more. Nothing special.

  But I did not tell her that.

  I kissed her. Slow and soft and silent, like a scout parachuting down behind enemy lines. I pulled back. Ansley Bell’s eyes were shut and her head didn’t move. She said, “Solve any mysteries?”

  “No, but you paid for dinner so I figured I owed you that much.”

  “That a boy.” She laughed something soft and sad.

  I wanted to apologize but had made that mistake enough times to know it was a bad idea. And I wasn’t all that sorry. Neither was she. The kiss was unprofessional, but these things happen. If they didn’t, if I never bent the rules, I’d work for one of the big security companies or legal firms or insurance companies. Someplace with a steady paycheck and benefits and a Secret Santa party come December.

  She said, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  I shoved a forkful of curry and rice into my mouth so I didn’t have to respond. Maggie Somerville died peacefully thanks to wine and Rohypnol. That led Ellegaard to think maybe a woman killed her. Ansley Bell was educated in pharmacology and was about to receive a life insurance benefit of a million dollars.

  I said, “I didn’t bring a toothbrush.”

  Ansley Bell put a hand on my shoulder and looked me directly in the eye. “Any other logistical problems?”

  After dinner, we went into the bedroom and lay on her bed fully clothed, propped onto our sides to face each other. She said, “Where do you come from, Mr. Shapiro?”

  “How far back would you like me to go?”

  “Far. As far as you know. Blood lineage fascinates me.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you the highlights, or lowlights, depending on how you look at it.” She took my hand—I kept talking. “My great grandfather, Chaim Shapiro, emigrated from Germany to the United States and settled in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he ran a liquor store until the Volstead Act took it away. He accepted a low-level office job with his older brother, who ran a print shop. The job and Chaim ended a few years later when he stepped into an open elevator shaft and fell five stories to his death. No one knows if he stepped into the elevator shaft deliberately, or if it was an accident.”

  “So far, kind of sad.”

  “Chaim’s son, my grandfather, Victor Shapiro, was fourteen years old when Chaim died. He moved to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and joined a cousin running Canadian whiskey across Lake Superior, where it was then trucked in hollowed-out logs to the Twin Cities, Detroit, and Chicago. Victor dabbled in Chicago’s gangland, served time in jail, then returned to the small town of Marenisco on the western side of the U.P., where he, at age forty, married for the first time.”

  Ansley said, “You have a jailbird in your blood. I like that.”

  “My grandparents owned a little cabin and pond out of town. My grandfather let a lumberjack live in the cabin, a Swedish immigrant named Nils Bjornson. When he wasn’t clearing forest, Nils hunted deer and trapped beaver and fished. My grandfather spent a lot of time with Nils and they formed a close friendship based on their mutual love of guns, whiskey, and the burlesque houses in nearby Hurley, Wisconsin.

  “Those interests made my grandfather a natural for politics. He was elected first as mayor of Marenisco, then to the Gogebic County Board of Supervisors, and then to the Michigan State Senate. His criminal past never seemed to be an issue. My grandfather was so busy politicking that by the time my father turned ten—”

  “What was his name?”

  “Harry. Short for Harold. Anyway, by the time Harry turned ten, Nils Bjornson was the person who had taught him to fish and hunt and navigate the forests along the south shore of Lake Superior.”

  “So your father became the first Jewish lumberjack?”

  “He might have, but one winter day, when he was eleven, he stood on an ice shelf while fishing the Black River.”

  Ansley said, “What’s an ice shelf?”

  “When a river freezes along the edge but not in the middle, the frozen part is called an ice shelf.”

  “Got it. Okay. Keep going.”

  “Ice shelves are fickle bastards, and the one my father stood on collapsed and he fell into the icy river.”

  “I know he lived,” said Ansley, “because he was only eleven. He couldn’t have conceived you yet.”

  “You doctors are hard to tell stories to.”

  She smiled and said, “So what happened?”

  “Well, my father’s ice shelf collapsed in Nils Bjornson’s favorite section of the Black River. Nils probably showed him the spot, which explains the extraordinary good fortune that Nils Bjornson himself was sitting high in a deer stand a hundred feet away with a Browning bolt-action rifle and a flask of rye, one eye out for deer and the other admiring how well my father had learned to fish. The worm has to drift naturally with the current. If the line drags, the fish won’t bite. Nils was full of pride watching my father’s draggles drift when Harry tumbled into the water.

  “Nils climbed out of the deer stand and caught up with my father, but not until the river had carried Harry downstream and he had gone over a small falls and banged off the granite rock below and then rolled unconscious, facedown, into a shallow pool. He would have died within minutes if Nils Bjornson hadn’t lifted him from that pool, carried him ashore, and started a fire with twigs and branches and the box of wax-covered matches that any good steward of the North Woods carries.

  “As the fire grew, Nils stripped off my father’s wet clothes and wrapped him in a wool army blanket he kept in the stand. My father thawed and regained consciousness and never stepped onto an ice shelf again.

  “Twelve years later, on the very day my parents got married, Nils Bjornson died of a massive stroke. I was born within a year and named after the man who saved my father’s life. The end.”


  “I like that story,” said Ansley. “I like that story a lot.”

  Then Ansley told me more about Maggie. Just last week they’d been talking about when Ansley should meet her younger siblings. They decided it would be when Ansley returned from her residency. No sense meeting them then disappearing out of their lives right away. Now, she didn’t know when she would meet them.

  Ansley cried. I held her as she fell asleep with her head on my chest. I lay awake and listened to the sounds you hear the first night in a new place—the refrigerator’s hum, the radiators’ moans and clangs, footsteps in the unit below, and the hardwood floor’s pops and creaks in the dry heat. I stared at Ansley’s ceiling knowing sleep wouldn’t come. Nothing physical happened between us. Not because of my quality of character or sense of propriety or even common decency, but more likely because of my cowardice. I was afraid of the aftermath, afraid I’d distance myself from her for no other reason than she wasn’t Micaela. I couldn’t bear to do that to Ansley Bell. Maybe with a little time I’d fall in love with Ansley, then Micaela couldn’t touch her.

  17

  When I looked out Ansley’s living room window at 5:00 A.M., Brian Kelly was already parked out front, his rented Camry pumping a cloud of exhaust into the subzero air. I exited the back way, through the alley and down to the cross street. I had parked the Volvo a block away in case he or anyone else showed up. The steel hunk of Swedish engineering started right up. I drove right past Brian Kelly. He either didn’t see me or didn’t recognize me or didn’t care. I rounded the corner, pulled over and texted Ansley a warning—if she wanted to avoid him she should leave the back way, as well.

  The shitbox felt cold and dead and lonely. I crawled under my down comforter and slept a couple of hours until the sun rose. I got up and drank two cups of whatever the dark blue Nespresso capsule makes and could think of nothing but Ansley Bell. I started the shower but stopped it. I wasn’t ready to wash off the orange blossoms.

  Ellegaard called at 8:00 on the nose.