Authors: Connie Brockway
“That,” the mayor said, “was one of our thieves. The little shit had the balls to tell me they wanted a thousand bucks to give the butter head back.”
“But you said no!” Dunk said, appalled. These idiots were going to lose him that butter head yet.
“Of course he said no,” the sheriff said, looking disappointed with Dunk. “I don’t know about you, sir, but I was in the military. Desert Storm. A man never gives in to terrorist demands.”
Dunk regarded him blankly. “This isn’t a terrorist. It’s some guy who kidnapped a hundred pounds of butter.”
“Same thing.”
From the pugnacious set to the sheriff’s jaw, Dunk realized he meant it. “Is Mr. Jaax here?” he asked suddenly. God, he hoped not. “Has he arrived yet?”
The sheriff and the mayor traded quick unreadable glances. “You bet, Mr. Dunkovich,” the mayor said. “And he seems like a real nice guy. I’m
pretty sure he’d be happy to stop by and thank you for your efforts on behalf of … of his head.”
Shit. They thought he was some sort of celebrity stalker. The last thing in the world he wanted was Steve Jaax laying eyes on him. Steve Jaax struck him as someone quick on the uptake. If Jaax recognized him, he’d realize in a minute what his old cellmate was doing in town, particularly as that old cellmate just happened to show up the same time as the butter head where Steve had hidden a key to a literal fortune, and about which he’d blabbed to said cellmate, resurfaced.
“No!” he said and then, seeing their curious looks, added, “I don’t want Mr. Jaax to see me like this. I … I’d rather wait until I could stand up to shake his hand.” He was going to make himself vomit.
“Sure thing,” the mayor said.
Damn it. With Jaax in town and looking for his sculpture—which of course he would be—Dunk would have to think fast and work faster. The only thing Dunk had going for him was that Jaax didn’t realize that he had competition for finding it. He’d probably be doing just what the sheriff suggested to Dunk that he do, relaxing and waiting for it to show up all on its own. Which meant Dunk couldn’t relax and wait. He had to act and act quickly.
“Damn!” he muttered under his breath.
“Are you upsetting our patient, Einer?” Nurse Ekkelstahl, ever vigilant for any ripple in her patients’ smooth course of recovery, charged through the door, arms akimbo. She’d changed from the no-frills blue scrubs of yesterday to scrubs with little yellow baby ducks waddling all over the mint green expanse of her bosom. It was perversely sexy.
“No. The jerks what stole the butter head are upsetting me,” the mayor announced. The sheriff had flipped open his spiral notebook and was scratching things down in it. Dunk suspected he was doodling.
It was time to let a cooler head prevail. It was perhaps a little surprising it was going to have to be his. Scrapping together every bit of gravitas he could muster, Dunk said, “You know, if you were to tell these guys that you would pay their thousand dollars, you could get your team to set a trap for them.”
“That’d be great if we had a team. We have Einer here”—the mayor nodded at the deer hunter—”and a deputy, who’s on vacation until tomorrow when we’ll start to see some of those seven thousand people showing up for the start of the sesquicentennial. So he’ll be busy with traffic duty. So there’s not going to be any trap setting.”
Einer nodded his concurrence with the mayor. “No way, buddy.”
“You have to do
something
.”
“You yourself pointed out, Mr. Dunkovich, it isn’t like anyone’s in danger here,” the mayor said. “We’ll find it eventually. Probably some deer hunter’ll stumble over it on his way to his stand. Or whoever has it will decide it isn’t worth the trouble it already cost him and just dump it back at the Hallesbys’. Guy on the phone didn’t sound like a bad sort, just not too bright.”
“But—”
“Look.” The sheriff had obviously decided they were due for a man-to-man. “Mr. Dankwitch.”
“Dunkovich.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Dunkovich. I understand you got a stake in this butter sculpture being recovered. Shit, I’d feel the same way if I found out I’d gotten busted up chasing something, even if it was nothing but a whittled-up block of butter. But the fact is, we don’t have the time or the manpower to devote to the recovery of a butter head. Now, then”—he made a show of snapping the spiral notebook closed but not before Dunk caught a glimpse of the inside pages; he had been doodling—”there’s a ten-point buck out there somewhere with my name on it, and I got two days to find him before seven thousand tourists turn this town into a traffic nightmare. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to look for it. I’ll ask around. Leave word at the gas stations, over to Smelka’s, and such. This is a small town, Mr. Dunkovich. Someone’s gonna say something somewhere and I’ll hear it. In the meantime, you just get well, okay?”
Paul nodded gravely in concurrence and reached down to give Dunk’s exposed big toe a friendly tweak.
“Listen,” he said. “For all you knew, those thieves coulda been making off with a priceless artifact. Just because it was butter doesn’t make you any less heroic in anyone’s eyes.”
“It’s an original Jaax sculpture,” Dunk said. “Doesn’t that mean something to you guys?”
The mayor shook his head. “You said it best. It’s butter. If it had been worth something, the Hallesbys woulda sold it long ago. Those folks could sure use the cash.” His handsome face crumpled with compassion. “Now you take it easy, okay?”
With that, the mayor headed out, followed closely by the sheriff.
Dunk watched him go, thinking hard. “Karin,” he finally said, “does this town have a Kinkos or something like it?”
“Well, the
Fawn Creek Crier
does some of that sort of stuff. Copies and xeroxes and rents out computer time. Why?”
If those two clowns weren’t going to do anything to help him get that key, he’d have to do it himself.
“Could you get me the local phone book? I have a couple calls I need to make.”
12:00 p.m.
The Lodge
“Can’t you redial?” Steve asked for the third time.
“No,” Jenn replied patiently. “I cannot. The call was blocked. You cannot redial a blocked number.”
“There’s got to be a way around it,” he insisted. “I really wanted to see her again.”
What was it with him and that sculpture? Jenn wondered, eyeing him. His attachment to a thing he had spent four hours carving twenty years ago bordered on peculiar. She gave a mental shrug. Maybe he’d forgotten to bring along his meds.
“Don’t worry, Steve.” Her father and Steve had quickly progressed to first-name basis. “It’ll turn up. Without anyone having to pay a penny.”
For whatever reason, Cash seemed to have taken to Steve. As had Bruno. Of course, Bruno’s adulation was a little easier to explain, seeing how Steve kept tearing off chunks of the oatmeal-raisin cookies her mother had put on the table and was surreptitiously feeding them to the dog under the table. Jenn hadn’t seen Steve slip her dad any cookies; ergo the attraction was something of a mystery.
“If they call back, tell them you’ll give them whatever they’re asking for,” Steve said. “I’ll pay.”
“Now, then, no good has ever come of giving in to a blackmailer’s demands,” her father advised in the tones of one who has a vast expertise dealing with blackmailers.
“It’s wrong,” her mom said, pushing the plate of cookies toward Steve.
He picked one up and took a bite. He lowered his hand—with cookie—to his lap. “I’m not particularly interested in the moral aspects of the situation,” he admitted sadly. “I just want my butter head back.”
Jenn couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “You know, you keep saying ‘my butter head’ like it was, well, yours.”
He regarded her earnestly. “Yes?”
“Well, it’s not yours.”
“Jennifer Lynne Hallesby!” her mother breathed.
“Really, Jenny,” her father protested. “Steve’s our guest—”
From “dump him at the Valu-Inn” to “Steve’s our guest!” in less than two hours. The man must exude some sort of charisma pheromone.
“No, please,” Steve said, raising his hand—sans cookie—and lowering his eyes modestly. Beneath the table, Bruno smacked his lips. “Jenny’s right, Nina, Cash.”
Jenny?
“I have been acting possessive about something that doesn’t belong to me. Except … well … an artist always feels he owns his creation to some degree.”
“Bull,” Jenn said. “I read an article in the
Wall Street Journal
where you were quoted as saying that once the art was out of your studio, it was dead to you.”
Steve didn’t look the least bit disconcerted. “Yes, I know. But that was just press. It sounded lofty. Artists always say things that sound lofty. Don’t you, occasionally, in the course of polishing your public persona, say things just for an effect?”
Her mother turned an assessing eye on her. Busted.
That wasn’t fair. Jenn expected her mother to be sympathetic at least. It wasn’t as if her parents didn’t pad their own lives with a few pleasant untruths like “we’re biding our time while we sort out our options” and “we’ll be moving out of here as soon as our plans come together.” They’d been “biding” and “planning” for twenty-four years and were no closer now to leaving Fawn Creek than they’d ever been.
Jenn had tried a dozen times in as many ways to provide them a way out. She’d attempted to give them money and tried to convince them to let her make them a loan. She’d even offered to make investments for them via her broker, hoping that the return would be enough to set them free even if she had to provide it herself. They wouldn’t accept any help, in any manner.
Every time Jenn walked into the Lodge, she felt like she was walking into the home of political exiles bravely putting up a front that had become nearly farcical. But the worst part was that over the years, with every offer she made and every refusal given, a wall had grown between them. Any real conversations about what they could do to leave and how she could help had ended long ago. Nowadays, they played stock parts: her pretending that any day they were going to call the movers, them pretending they had the company on speed dial in anticipation of their emancipation.
There was no question they’d been plucky in the face of their exile, but part of Jenn could not help asking at what point plucky simply became pathetic.
No one wanted to think of her parents as pathetic. Just allowing the word to slip into her thoughts made Jenn feel awful.
“Of course, she has,” her father said, dragging Jenn back from unpleasant musings. “But that’s just part of being a celebrity, saying what you think people want to hear. No one’s happier than when they’ve had confirmed what they already think. Even if it’s not true.”
“Exactly,” Steve agreed. “Which is why I am sure you understand when I tell you that, to some degree and at some level, I will always feel that the butter sculpture is mine. Please, don’t think anything of it when I call it ‘my butter head.’ I mean … in my heart.”
He touched his hand to chest, dividing his most charming smile between her mother and father. They smiled back. It was a moment.
“That’s really touching,” Jenn said. She had no intention of letting him get away with such outrageous pap. “But if you paid for the sculpture’s ransom, wouldn’t you feel like you were entitled to a little more than ownership in here?” She folded her hands over her heart and batted her eyelashes.
“Well,” Steve said, “sure.”
“Ha! Just as I thought!”
“I wasn’t trying to put anything over on anyone.”
“I’ll believe that when—”
“Have another cookie, Steve,” her mother interjected. “They’re my own recipe. I’m quite a different brand of cook from my daughter, I’m afraid,” she said with an apologetic glance at Jenn that somehow managed to be more superior than apologetic. “I’m a health- and heart-conscious cook. Those cookies are made from sprouted grains, bran flours, and natural vegetable sugars.”
Steve accepted the cookie a little slowly but without flinching. Served him right.
“Now,” Nina continued in the voice that had ruled the boards of at least half a dozen Raleigh nonprofits back in the day, “should it prove necessary, we will discuss the ownership of the butter head upon its return. For the moment, the butter head, wherever it is, is ours.”
“Yeah,” Jenn said slowly, taking the opportunity to address a subject that had been bothering her since she’d first heard the thing still … lived, for want of a better word. “And why is that?”
“Why is what?” her mother asked.
“As I recall, I told the guy from the Lutheran Brotherhood to melt that thing right along with the other butter princess heads. By the way”—she glanced at Steve—“the person they got to carve the other princesses was terrible.”
Steve received this info with a gratified nod. She turned back to her mother. “So how’d it end up in your barn?”
“I went over to see it before they took it off. I didn’t intend to do anything but look at it and”—she lifted a hand from the table; it was thinner than Jenn remembered—“well, once I saw it, saw
you
, Jenny, how could I let them melt it?”
“You knew it was a Jaax. Even back then,” Steve said understandingly.
“What? Oh. Certainly.” What was it about Steve Jaax that made people willing to protect his enormous ego? Because obviously her mom hadn’t had a clue who Steve Jaax was twenty some years ago.
“Here.” Her mom unceremoniously handed him another cookie, her attention on Jenn. “I knew you didn’t like it. I mean, I knew it had bad associations for you—”
“My butter head had bad associations for you?” Steve broke in, the cookie frozen halfway to Bruno’s open maw. He sounded hurt.
“Anyway, dear,” her mother said, “I never told you. I suppose I should have.”
“That’s okay,” Jenn said. “I was just curious.”
At least the butter head hadn’t arisen from the depths of some murky cornfield drainage ditch in the middle of the night on the anniversary of its melting.
“How did Paul LeDuc find out about it?” Jenn asked.
“It was Eric Erickson.” Cash took over the story. “The handyman. Mows the grass, plows, that sort of thing.”