In a Midnight Wood

by Ellen Hart

  “You’re not. But—”

  “But?”

  “Can we still have that special dessert you promised?”

  “Before or after?”

  “After.”

  She squeezed Jane’s hand. “I think you just may turn out to be the woman of my dreams.”

  16

  The Avalon Motor Inn was full up on Monday evening. Even room 1 had a car parked in front of it. Monty normally didn’t book it because it was smaller than the other rooms. Since Dave couldn’t find a parking spot in front of the building, he drove around to the back and parked next to Monty’s Hyundai.

  Two newspaper racks outside the office door were both empty, waiting for tomorrow’s editions of the Minneapolis Star Tribune and the Fergus Falls Daily Journal. Dave pushed inside, only to find no one at the reception desk. Stepping around it, he pushed the door to the back room open, finding Monty’s tall, lanky frame slouched in a recliner, watching TV.

  As much as Monty hated the comparison, Dave felt the place really was the spitting image of the Bates Motel. It was about the same age, built in the fifties, with a long one-story row of guest rooms, all with knotty pine interiors. The only significant missing element was the creepy house on a hill looming over the motel grounds.

  Dave cleared his throat.

  “Oh, hey,” said Monty, lifting a green soda can in greeting. “Come on in.”

  “I thought you only drank Red Bull,” said Dave, making himself comfortable on the only other chair in the room.

  Monty turned the sound down. “This is Red Bull.”

  “The can’s green.”

  “It’s the kiwi-apple flavor. I can’t get enough of it.”

  “I’ve never seen it in a store anywhere around here.”

  “I buy it on Amazon, get it shipped for free.”

  Dave groaned. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff at this time of night and think you’re going to get to sleep.”

  “It’s mother’s milk, man. I can drink it anytime and sleep like a baby.”

  The painting that Norman Bates took down so he could peer through the hole he’d drilled in the wall was, in this incarnation, a large framed photo of Monty’s wife and two kids. They were a handsome family. Sarah was blond, though both kids had inherited Monty’s dark brown hair and eyes. Dave secretly envied his old buddy, though he wouldn’t say it out loud.

  “What’s up?” asked Monty, stretching his legs.

  “I’ve got news. None of it good.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, first, I was taken off the Romilly case. Larson gave it to Bobby Saltus.”

  “What?” He lowered the footrest and sat up straight. “Why?”

  “Some woman in town for the art festival mentioned to him that it might be a conflict for me to be in charge since I was a friend of Sam’s.”

  “Bullshit. You weren’t his friend. Who’s the woman? Why the hell would she weigh in on a police matter?”

  “Her name’s Jane Lawless.” He went on to explain about the podcast she worked for, that it covered unsolved crimes in Minnesota.

  “Just freakin’ great. Someone should stick a sock in that bitch’s mouth, or a whole hell of a lot worse.”

  “I’m keeping an on eye on it. Grady hasn’t been feeling well lately, so he’s gone more than he’s at work. Saltus is a lightweight. The only thing is—”

  “What?”

  “The chief got a note this morning. It wasn’t signed, but it included the names of four people who are supposed to know something about Sam’s death. Bobby intends to call them all in.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Jim Hughes. Darius Pollard. Scott Romilly. And Kurt Steiner.”

  Monty bounced his leg, thinking it over. “At least Ty Niska’s name wasn’t included. You have any idea if he’s coming to the reunion?”

  “I was curious, too. I bumped into the chair of the organizing committee this morning, so I asked about him. She said they’d sent him a snail-mail invitation when the email they had for him bounced back.”

  “Where’s he living?”

  “Milwaukee, according to her. She said he never wrote back or called for tickets, so she doubted he’d show.”

  Monty appeared to give it some thought. “Maybe I’ll try to find his phone number and give him a call, just in case.”

  It drove Dave crazy that he had no idea who’d written the note. Whoever he—or she—turned out to be, they were a wild card. Dave was allergic to wild cards. He was used to being in control. “Any ideas on who the author of that note might be?”

  “What about Emma Granholm? It always seemed to me that she must know more than she let on.”

  It was a reasonable guess, though Dave found it kind of far-fetched. He liked Emma well enough, was pretty sure she’d had a crush on him back in high school. “Other ideas?”

  “What if…” whispered Monty, his expression darkening.

  “What?”

  “What if it was Becca?”

  Dave’s heart skipped a beat. “No way. She left town right after graduation. Far as I know, nobody even knows where she went.”

  “Maybe,” said Monty. “But wouldn’t it be damn freaky if it was her.”

  Dave didn’t like the way this was spooling out. Too many loose ends.

  “What else?” asked Monty. He took a last gulp of Red Bull.

  “Grady assigned me the Gilbert fire to investigate.”

  “Man, I wouldn’t want your job if it paid twice as much as I make.” He got up and stepped over to a small refrigerator tucked in the corner of the room. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asked, opening the door to reveal nothing but green cans.

  “That stuff’s gonna kill you one day. Do you know Carli Gilbert?”

  “Not well. She’s a friend of my wife’s.”

  “So you heard about the breakup with her husband?”

  “All I know is Sarah said it was super nasty. Aaron started attending our church after they split. The pastor asked me to show him around, introduce him to other members. He seems like an okay guy to me.”

  Dave would need to interview him, and while he was at it, he should probably interview Monty’s wife.

  “Is that it?” asked Monty. “No more news?”

  “For the moment. Anyway, I should probably head home.”

  “Time for me to shove off, too.” He moved over to the desk and began to set up the phone system for the night.

  Monty always left his home number on the answering machine, in case a guest had an emergency. As he walked out to the front office to switch off lights and turn the OPEN sign on the door to CLOSED, Dave did something he’d wanted to do for years. He took a quick peek behind the photograph of Monty’s family. Pulling the frame away from the wall, he squinted to see if there really was a voyeuristic peephole drilled into the knotty pine. Instead of a hole, he found a yellow Post-it note that read, “This is NOT the Bates Motel.”

  “Come on, Davey boy,” called Monty. “I wanna get out of here before I’m an old man.”

  Smiling to himself, Dave released the frame and flipped off the overhead light.

  KURT

  September 2, 1999

  Kurt sat with his back against one of the gravestones and waited for Sam to do the same. Instead, Sam straddled Kurt’s legs, cupped his hands around Kurt’s face, and kissed him.

  “I’ve wanted to do that all week,” he said. He seemed to want to go further, but stopped and rolled over, sitting down cross-legged in the grass.

  Kurt was afraid of the feelings roiling around inside him. It was clear what his body wanted, and he almost didn’t care what it meant. The operative word was almost. He was embarrassed by his sweaty palms and the shaking inside him. He’d never felt this way with Vicki or anyone else. But … no, one thing he knew for sure: He wasn’t gay.

  Kurt hadn’t been thrilled by the idea of meeting Sam in the cemetery behind Holy Trinity but agreed that it was unlikely anyone would b
e out wandering through the graves at this time of night. They did need privacy so they could talk. A nearly full moon cast its weak light across the grass, giving the cemetery a kind of silvery, unearthly quality. He could easily imagine ghosts rising and drifting past them.

  “Are you scared of the undead?” asked Sam, firing up a joint.

  “No, of course not.”

  Sam laughed. “Sure you are. No worries. I’ll protect you.” He sucked in a lungful of smoke and held it. “Good stuff,” he said, giving his head a shake. He handed the joint to Kurt. Settling himself against the gravestone, he pointed at the sky. “Look at that moon.”

  “Moon is good,” muttered Kurt, trying to sound like the priest character in the movie Young Frankenstein.

  “Moon is good. The moon is our friend.”

  They were on the same page.

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, passing the joint between them.

  “So,” said Sam finally, tipping his head back. “We should talk. You start.”

  “How about this: Should we be sitting on some dead guy’s grave?”

  Sam snuffed out the joint’s burning tip. “You know what I mean.”

  “Look, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m not gay.” It was true, and Kurt needed Sam to hear it.

  “You seem pretty gay to me.”

  “I’m not. Come on, man, I have a girlfriend.”

  “So do I.”

  “Does that mean you think you’re gay?”

  “No,” said Sam. “I don’t think it, I know it. So do you.”

  Kurt gave his head a firm shake.

  “You don’t feel a thing when I kiss you?”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m … that way.”

  “Let me ask you this: Have you ever found yourself watching some guy, you know, just kind of enjoying it, the way he looks, the way he moves? You study him, his hair, his mouth. You wonder what it would be like to touch his skin. What I’m saying is, the guy you think of as good old heterosexual Kurt may not want to admit it, but I’ll bet your body understands what your brain refuses to admit. You can’t hide that, man. That moment I’m talking about is probably when you pulled your eyes away.”

  “No. Never happened.”

  “You’ve never stared at a guy’s crown jewels just a little too long? You’ve never felt a jolt of guilt and looked away, only to find yourself looking at him again?”

  “You’re describing yourself, not me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What do you want from me?” asked Kurt. He was beginning to squirm. He had experienced those things, every one of them, but he’d never given them a name, a significance.

  “Listen,” said Sam, his voice more gentle this time. “It’s not an easy subject, although once you admit the truth of who you are—it’s hard to explain, but you feel better. You feel more honest, at least with yourself. I mean, it’s not 1899, Kurt. It’s 1999. Stonewall happened. Things have changed.”

  “I don’t know what Stonewall is, and as for things changing, they haven’t around here. You know I’m right.”

  Sam turned to face him. “I took a huge chance with you on that beach a few weeks ago. Why come with me tonight if you didn’t want more?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kurt, trying to deal with his nervous embarrassment by bouncing his knee.

  “I’d be willing to bet that coming here tonight wasn’t just about sex. You have feelings for me, don’t you? Just like I do for you. Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll never bother you again.”

  There was a swarm of angry bees inside Kurt’s chest. If he admitted to liking Sam as more than just a friend, what did that mean, not just for now, but for the future? He hated the word “gay,” hated the very idea, and yet as hard as he’d tried to ignore his body’s own clear signals and come to a different conclusion, Sam was right. “Okay, I give.”

  “You give?”

  “Don’t make me say it out loud.”

  “No,” said Sam. “But one day, you’ll have to. Come on.” He scrambled to his feet, reaching down for Kurt’s hand.

  “What’s happening now?”

  “Just stay low and follow me.”

  They ran across a grassy area between the graves and the woods beyond. Once they were hidden in the trees, Sam took a flashlight out of his back pocket and switched it on. “It isn’t far,” he said, taking the lead.

  They eventually came to a small clearing within earshot of the river. Kurt couldn’t see it, but he could hear the water flowing. The moon was high above them. Off to one side, Kurt saw a fallen tree, its gnarled trunk resting on the ground. Sam had already run over to it and was crouched down, removing an electric lantern and something else—something bulky. “What’s that?” whispered Kurt.

  Sam unfolded the blanket and spread it out on the ground, and then sat he down on it, fiddling with the lantern until it gave off a soft, yellow glow. “I want to see you,” he said, motioning for Kurt to join him.

  “Have you done this before?” asked Kurt, not sure what he wanted to hear.

  “Had sex? Sure. Made love? No.” He pulled Kurt down on top of him. “We’ll take it slow.”

  “What if I don’t want it slow?”

  Sam smiled. “You read my mind.”

  All Kurt could think of as they took off their shirts was that he wanted this more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He felt like a man newly born. Newly born in a midnight wood.

  17

  When Jane returned to the lake house the following morning, she found Cordelia sitting at the kitchen table, dragging a spoon lethargically through a bowl of cereal.

  “The prodigal returns,” said Cordelia, lifting the spoon to her lips.

  Jane had sent Cordelia a text last night, telling her she wouldn’t be back until morning. “Stick a sock in it, okay? I don’t want to hear any of your jokes. And I’m hardly the prodigal.”

  “If you haven’t been a tiny bit prodigal, I’d be supremely disappointed.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “You’re up early.”

  “I’m having my midnight snack.”

  “It’s just after nine.”

  “So? I didn’t get to bed until four. And then the blasted pea inside my mattress kept me awake until well past five.”

  “Why were you up so late?” Jane removed her jacket before stepping over to the coffee pot to pour herself a cup. The Granholms’ kitchen hadn’t been updated all that much over the years, but with lots of counter space, it was a comfortable spot in which to work. The only problem this morning was that the screaming yellow walls were almost too bright for Jane’s tired eyes.

  “Major dinner party, remember? Everyone who met at the resort came back here afterward. I suggested we play charades, and before I knew it, it was after two and everyone was leaving. I dazzle at charades, Janey.”

  “I know. We play them every Christmas.”

  “We decided to do movie titles, so I went upstairs, found a couple feather boas, a few period hats, and various and sundry other props to help with my performance.”

  “You brought all that with you?” No wonder Cordelia’s suitcases were so heavy.

  “You never know when you’re going to need something to help establish a character. I may never have been a Boy Scout, but I do believe in being prepared.”

  “Okay, but then why were you up until four?”

  She gave a weary sigh. “After everyone took off, Emma got out the peppermint schnapps. You know me and peppermint schnapps. About four shots in, she started to open up about her marriage—and about the local guy she’s been dating all summer. I, of course, in my often-called-upon role as earth mother and romantic-advice columnist, felt I should stay and listen, just in case she needed my sage advice.”

  Jane pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. “Who’s she been seeing?”

  “Scott Romilly.”

  “Sam’s brother?”

  “The very same.”

  “Boy, that must
feel weird, after dating Sam in high school and then finding out he was murdered. Is she serious about him?”

  “Oh, it’s the usual tangle,” said Cordelia, pushing her bowl away. “If I’m to believe what she says, she’s still got a few stray feelings for her husband. Philip is apparently a cad, but lovable. I see them as Rock Hudson and Doris Day, but it’s probably more like Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner in The War of the Roses. Emma was talking to her daughter yesterday afternoon and found out that Philip’s trophy girlfriend hasn’t been around in weeks. Trouble, it would seem, in paradise.”

  “So Scott was just a summer thing.”

  “That’s what she thought. He apparently saw it differently. When it came up that she would be leaving soon, he was aghast. He thought they were serious and that she planned to stay so they could make a life together. She said he’d been drinking and that he got pretty insistent about them staying together. So insistent, it turns out, that he frightened her.”

  “Not good.”

  “There’s more. While we were at the restaurant last night, Scott appeared and floated somewhere near the bar until Emma saw him. He motioned her over so he could tell her how sorry he was about the way he’d behaved. He said he’d been drinking too much because he was distraught over his brother’s death.”

  “How did he know she’d be at the resort?”

  “Leave it to you to zero in on the problem. He followed her, Janey. That’s stalking behavior.”

  “Has he done it before?”

  “Emma didn’t think he had, but as we were talking, it occurred to her that she’d seen him a couple of times when she’d been out with a friend. He didn’t try to talk to her, but still, he was there.”

  “Creepy.”

  “I suggested that she stay away from him.”

  “And?”

  “She said she’d already promised to have dinner with him tonight at his place.”

  “Call it off.”

  “She thinks she’s overreacting.”