by Ellen Hart
When Dave entered Mickler’s rambler, he offered Sarah his condolences. She immediately teared up, and then sniffed into a tissue as she led him back to the kitchen. She was understandably sad, but, as it turned out, she was also suffering from a cold. Dave sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee while Sarah sneezed her way over to the counter to burn him a piece of toast. The only information he came away with that might prove useful was the name of Carli’s closest girlfriend, Mandy Bowden, who lived in Clarksville.
Stopping at a convenience store to buy himself a couple of Klondike bars to entertain himself on the ride up there, he made the trip in record time, calling ahead to make sure she was home. Through her tears, Mandy explained that Carli was a saintly woman, patient, kind, loving, deeply patriotic, and the best friend any woman could ever have. Dave figured she was laying it on a bit thick, but understood the impulse to speak well of the dead.
“What about the rumors I hear?” asked Dave, sitting on a plaid couch, balancing a coffee cup on his knee. “That she was having an affair.”
“Oh, my,” said Mandy, adjusting her glasses. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”
“I need the truth,” he said. “You want to find out what happened to her, don’t you?”
“Well, yes,” she offered.
“So?”
“I don’t want you to think ill of her.”
“I promise,” said Dave. “I won’t.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I guess … yes, she did stray.”
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“She never told me.”
“Oh, come on, Mandy. You can do better than that.”
“I do not lie.”
“Uh-huh. So this mystery man, what did she tell you about him?”
“Very little,” said Mandy, clearly annoyed. She tugged on her cardigan and sat up a bit straighter.
Dave had made a tactical mistake, but he didn’t care. “Look, ma’am, if you know something and you don’t tell me, that’s a crime.”
“I don’t know his name,” she insisted. Then, relenting a little, she added, “All she ever said was that he was good in … that he was, unlike her husband, a generous and gentle soul.”
Dave’s eyes rose to the ceiling. “What else?”
“He liked to give her little gifts. Mostly jewelry.”
“So he was rich?”
“I suppose.”
“How long had the affair been going on?”
“A while.”
“What’s that mean? A week? A month?”
“Years, I believe.” Mandy cast her eyes down.
“Were they in love?”
“I think Carli loved him, yes.”
“Did he love her back?”
“Look, Sgt. Tamborsky, may I be blunt?”
Finally. “Please.”
“It was a sex thing. Carli liked sex, okay? That dolt of a husband—she called him Mr. Hockey Puck—wasn’t interested. Maybe he was getting it somewhere else, too, who knows, but it seemed like he preferred drinking beer with his buddies and watching sports to her. She had tender feelings, Sergeant, and Mr. Hockey Puck stomped all over them.”
“Did he know about the affair?”
“I doubt it.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
She gave her head a tiny shake. “I don’t want you to think ill of Carli. She was a lovely woman. She deserved much better.”
They talked for a few more minutes. Dave ended the interview when he realized she’d given him all she could. Before he left, he asked if Carli had any relatives in the area.
“Just her cousin. Suzy Engel. That’s her married name.”
“Know where she lives?”
“In Castle Lake, over by the marina.”
“Were they close?”
“Sort of. But … you know, they had their issues.”
Just what Dave was looking for. Someone who knew Carli and wouldn’t need to muck up the waters with a lot of glowing trivia.
An hour later, he was seated on the back porch of Suzy’s house, another cup of coffee in hand. What he really wanted was a plate of chicken enchiladas smothered in green sauce with guacamole and sour cream on the side.
“I’m sorry about your cousin,” he began.
“Boy,” said Suzy. “I was totally blindsided. You’re never prepared for stuff like that.”
“I understand you two were pretty tight.”
“Well, I mean, we didn’t, like, talk every day or nothing. But she and Aaron would come by for dinner every now and then. And we’d sometimes get a drink together over at the Lazy Dog.”
“I was told she’d been seeing someone on the side.”
“Oh, yeah. Had been for years.” Suzy ran a hand through her curly hair. “Don’t know who he was, but she’d talk about him on occasion. Aaron was a dolt. Hardworking, but dull. I never understood why she married him. Maybe she was looking for stability after all the crap she pulled when she was younger.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, she was into drugs for a while. A lot of sex with a lot of different guys. She tried really hard when she decided to straighten up and fly right.”
“And she succeeded?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Of course, to cut Aaron a little slack, I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to live with her. She had a wicked tongue. She could come across as sweetness and light, but underneath, she was, like, always calculating her advantage. Ever know anybody like that? Someone you think you can trust but you really can’t?”
“Who do you think had it in for her?”
“Oh hell, no idea.”
“Aaron?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But he always seemed kind of, like, passive to me.”
“He have a temper? Did he ever knock Carli around?”
“Not that I ever knew about.”
It was as if Mandy and Suzy had known two different women. “Was she seeing more than one guy on the side?
“It’s possible, but I never heard about anyone except Mr. Smooth. That’s what she called him.”
“I was told she called her husband Mr. Hockey Puck.”
Suzy laughed. “Yeah, she liked to give people nicknames.”
“She have one for her friend, Mandy?”
“Yeah. Miss Bible Belt.”
“What was yours?”
Her smile evaporated. “The Bitch.”
“You have one for her?”
“Not something I can say out loud.”
Dave’s cell phone rang. “Give me a second, will you?” he said, getting up and walking out into the yard. “Tamborsky.”
“It’s Mason. You need to get back to the station ASAP.”
Mason was a patrol cop, one of Dave’s buddies on the force. “Why?”
“It’s new info on the Romilly case. Just get back here.”
Dave clicked off the phone. Ducking his head into the porch, he thanked Suzy for her time. He didn’t wait for a response.
20
Jane stopped by city hall after receiving a text from Leslie. A receptionist directed her to an office at the end of a carpeted hallway, where the mayor sat behind an L-shaped desk talking on the phone, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Motioning Jane to a chair, she continued the conversation.
Jane welcomed the chance to just sit and observe. She’d already come to certain conclusions about their budding relationship, if that’s what it was. While Jane was attracted to the mayor, she truly wasn’t in the market for another romantic attachment, especially one that would need to be conducted long distance. Cordelia might have the stamina for it with Berengaria, but Jane saw no reason to tie herself to something with so many potential problems. Beyond that, with the exception of books on politics and government, Leslie wasn’t a reader. She had no interest in poetry or novels—both things Jane felt were as necessary to life as food and water. Leslie didn’t much care for dogs, either, and she was, she admitted, a wor
kaholic. Jane had spent most of her life with her nose to the grindstone, too, and understood that two workaholics in the same relationship was a recipe for disaster. The final nail in the proverbial coffin was that, for all practical purposes, Leslie Harrow lived in the closet, a place Jane wanted no part of. She’d spent too much of her young life hiding and avoiding leading questions to want to go back to it.
She was scrolling through messages on her phone when Leslie finally ended the call.
“I’ve got a potential mutiny on my hands,” she said, folding her arms. “We’re considering a new strategic plan for the city and tonight we’re supposed to talk about land use, always a contentious issue. But you didn’t come here to listen to me kvetch.” She rearranged her face into a smile. “I’m hoping we can get together again for another dinner. I promise this time I’ll do something more creative.”
“Or we could go out.”
“Only if you promise to come back for … a nightcap.”
Jane returned her smile. “I think I could manage that.”
“Thursday night? Wish I could do it tomorrow night, but I have a speaking gig over in Fergus.”
“Thursday’s good.”
Removing her reading glasses, Leslie continued, “So what are you up to today?”
“Doing some preliminary interviews for the Romilly investigation.”
Leslie wore a black blazer over a red turtleneck and looked not only professional, but beautiful—at least to Jane’s eyes. “You think your podcast will do an episode on it?”
“I talked to the senior producer. Depends on what I can dig up.”
“Does that mean you’ll stay beyond next Sunday?”
“More likely I’ll return later in the month.”
“Well, you’ve pretty much made my day. Oh, goodness, look at the time. I’m so sorry, but I have a meeting—”
“I’ll get out of your hair. Is there a restroom I could use before I go?”
“Here,” said Leslie, getting up. She stepped into an empty conference room connected to her office and flipped on the light. “In the back.” She pointed to a door. “If I’m in that meeting when you’re done, you can get out to the hall through there.” She pointed to another door. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, giving Jane’s hand a squeeze.
Jane had forgotten to take her medication this morning before leaving the lake house. High blood pressure ran in her family, so last spring, her doctor had put her on something to help with it. Glad to see that there was a paper-cup dispenser next to the sink, she downed the pill along with two ibuprofen. After so little sleep, she was starting to drag. She took a moment to check her look in the mirror. In the past year, she’d let her chestnut hair grow out. It was long enough now to put up in a bun, so that’s what she did, mainly to get it out of her face. When she returned to the conference room, she could hear voices in Leslie’s office. Peeking inside, she saw a police officer standing in front of the desk, reading from a notebook. Hearing the name Romilly, she inched closer to the door.
“This report, Sgt. Saltus,” said Leslie—she was out of Jane’s view, but not out of earshot—“you say it just came in from the BCA?”
“That’s correct, ma’am. It’s preliminary. The DNA has been sent for testing, but that will take a while. The chief said I should keep you informed.”
“Continue.”
He cleared his throat. “In the remains that we sent to St. Paul, the lab techs found a skull. It was broken, pierced by a single gunshot. That’s most likely how Romilly died.”
“Assuming that it was Sam who was buried there.”
“There’s no reason to believe otherwise, ma’am. We found his watch, his billfold, his backpack. Through photos, his father was able to identify a piece of sweatshirt as well as a pair of hiking boots.”
“Yes, I see your point. Go on.”
“Two handguns, both thirty-eight caliber revolvers, both made by Taurus, were also found, along with the remains of six black plastic garbage bags, all heavy duty. The bags were wrapped around the remains. We’ve concluded that after the murder, the body was likely placed in them and transported to the gravesite.” He paused.
“Is that it?”
“Actually—we don’t understand this yet—the techs found two cartridges in each handgun. All blanks. In each gun, one of the blanks was spent, the other wasn’t.”
“So … let me get this straight,” said Leslie. “A blank can’t kill a man, right?”
“Well, not usually. I mean, it’s not like you’re firing a cap gun. If you hold the pistol too close to your body and fire, sure, you could get hurt. You could even die, but it’s rare.”
“So neither gun was used in Sam Romilly’s murder.”
“We can’t be sure, but we don’t think so.”
“If they weren’t used in the murder, what purpose did they serve?”
“As I said, we haven’t determined that yet. Also, a ring was found behind the flap in Romilly’s billfold.”
“Can you describe it?”
“I haven’t seen it, but I’d be happy to get back to you on that.”
“Good work, Sergeant. Now, if you can just explain what it all means, we’ll actually be making some progress.”
“I think this is progress, ma’am.”
“Of course. You’re right.”
“Do you have any other questions I could answer?”
“Not at the moment. Please thank Chief Larson for keeping me informed.”
“Yes ma’am, I’ll do that.”
There was a knock on the mayor’s door.
“Come in, Mr. Bradly,” called the mayor.
The police officer turned to look. “Well, I need to get going.” He nodded to Bradly and the mayor and made a quick exit.
Not wanting to run into Saltus, Jane waited a few seconds before she crossed to the door leading to the hallway. When she looked out, he was nowhere in sight. She might have been able to get the information some other way, but this kind of serendipity was what she always prayed for. Waiting another few seconds, she stepped out into the corridor and made her way back outside.
* * *
The town of Castle Lake was bordered by the Bullhead River on the northwest, Ice Lake on the east, and Castle Lake on the southwest. Castle Lake was the largest, with the best swimming beaches and a marina that offered both slips and moorings, along with a charter service and a sightseeing boat for tourists. The area around the lake was where the town had begun its life, though it had grown rundown by the late sixties.
With a vacation destination push by the town council, organized in the early 2000s, the area had revived, and so had the marina. Jane spent a few minutes strolling along Fisherman’s Lakewalk, looking at the menus posted outside a couple of restaurants. She wasn’t sure where Cordelia wanted to have dinner tonight, but at least now she had several good ideas to offer. Since it was a beautiful day, she sat by the water for a few minutes, enjoying a strawberry ice cream cone and trying not to overthink the situation with Leslie.
Pollard Automotive Repair was located about three blocks east of the marina. Leaving her car in the parking lot, Jane decided to walk. She was sad to see that Brick Town Road still reflected some of the town’s blighted past. As she approached the building, she saw that it was a one-story stucco structure, mainly two garage bays with an attached office. If she stood on the street in front of it and looked east, she could see the VFW hall a block away, where the reunion would take place on Saturday night. Next to the auto repair shop was a storefront, Crawford Clock Works, where dozens of old clocks were displayed behind the picture window. She made a mental note to come back and check it out.
Entering the office, Jane found a young man sitting behind the counter, a crumpled brown paper sack open in front of him. He was eating what looked like a cheese and pickle sandwich. “I’m looking for Darius Pollard.”
“Hey, D,” shouted the young man. “You got a visitor.” Nodding to the door across from the counter, he sa
id, “He’s in there.”
Rolling out from under a car, Darius climbed to his feet, wiping his dirty hands on an equally dirty rag. “Can I help you?” he asked, stuffing the rag into the pocket of his gray coverall.
Jane explained who she was and asked him if he had a minute to talk
“A podcast, huh?” he said, looking her over. His head was shaved, and he had a goatee that included a few gray hairs. “My wife listens to one of those. Something about gardening. But yours is—”
“Minnesota cold cases,” said Jane. “Criminal cases.”
“Sam’s isn’t so cold anymore, now that they found his body.”
“Have you been contacted by the police? I assume they’re interviewing all Sam’s friends.”
“Nope, haven’t heard a word.”
He stepped away from the car and walked outside to where several empty wooden spools rested near a patch of scrubby grass. He invited her to sit on one as he pulled a package of butter rum Life Savers out of his upper pocket. He offered her the pack.
“No, thanks,” she said. “Would you be willing to let me record this?”
“I don’t know,” he said, popping a Life Saver into his mouth.
“If we end up wanting to air any of it for a podcast about Sam’s death, I would need your written permission to use anything you say today.”
“Yeah?” he said, studying her a moment more. “Hell, why not,” he said finally. She got everything set up and then switched on the recorder.
After an awkward start, Darius seemed to settle in. “Sam was a good guy. We were in the same high school class. Most of the white kids didn’t mix with the black kids. There were only three of us, so we stuck together. I got to know Sam because he’d heard I repaired motorcycles. He had this sweet Kawasaki Kz1000. He’d tried to repair it himself, but it still ran rough, so he came up to me in the hall one afternoon and asked if I’d look at it. He brought it over to the shop later that day. He said he’d had it for a couple of months. I could see right away that there was a lot of garage rot, which was why he got it so cheap.”
“Garage rot?”
“Worst thing you can do to a cycle is not ride it. Anyway, we sat down together on the pavement and I took a look. It was a fairly intense repair, but that’s what I like. So while I worked, we talked. I knew right away I liked him. Once we got the bike up and purring like a kitten, we started riding together on weekends. We’d find a straight patch of highway and go WFO until we hit a curve. He took crazy-ass risks, and I did, too. He was a super cool guy.”
