November Hunt (12 page)

“How do they know?”

He held up his hands. “It's like a small town within a small town there. People know what you're doing before you do.”

“Well, that blows pretty hard.”

Monty put down his tool. “I wouldn't worry about it. By all accounts, no one's taking Hallie's concerns seriously. You should know, however, that although Clive isn't a choir boy, he's no Charles Manson, either. He was dealt some bad cards in high school, got shot up in Vietnam, and came back home to do the best he can with it. You should meet him before you judge him.”

“I have met him.”

“I mean make an overture. You said he's your neighbor. You ever stop by?”

“I'm not a ‘stop by' kinda gal.”

“You stopped by here.”

“You ever give up?” I asked.

He shot me a smile. “Probably before you do, but not by much.”

“Fine, I'll stop by and say hi to my neighbor. Anything else?”

That was all Monty had to offer, so I said my goodbyes and crossed the street to grab a dozen sugar cookies from the Fortune Café and took those and my cold chili back toward home. It was pushing 9:00 when I pulled into Clive's place. His yard light was on, and the barn leaked slivers of grow light, but his house was dark. Just to be sure, I climbed out and knocked on his door. Chuck started barking and came to the window to pretend like he was fierce, but as soon as he saw me, he melted into a wiggle. I tapped the glass and left. I'd tried.

Tiger Pop and Luna were happy to see me. I shoved the chili in the fridge, fed them, and then ate six sugar cookies while I checked my messages.

Hi, this is Catherine Kicker, returning your call. Call me when you get a chance.

How about that. She was alive. I was beginning to wonder. I saved
the message and played the next.

Mira, it's Johnny. Hope you're feeling better. I'm playing at Bonnie & Clyde's on Friday and am hoping you can stop by. Only if you're free. Take care.

I inhaled deeply. I should try to be free that night. I really should. But I couldn't commit yet. I also couldn't call Catherine to set up a meeting or Hallie to let her know I'd been ratted out, because it was too late in the evening. I deleted Johnny's message and played the last one on the machine. I was popular today, I was thinking, as the unfamiliar voice came on. Then, as I listened to the growled warning, all thoughts fled:

If you don't stop asking questions, you'll be next.

Twenty

My heart thudded in
my chest. Suddenly, I felt like someone else was in the house with me, hiding, watching me, waiting until I fell asleep to slip his hand over my mouth and neck.

I didn't want to, but I had to play the message again. There was no preamble, no background noise, just nine nasty words, uttered in a baritone. The voice sounded a little altered, as if someone had deliberately lowered his tone, but only slightly. On the third play, I thought I heard the sound of a dog bark once as the speaker said “next,” but I couldn't be sure. When I began to play it a fourth time, Luna whined at my feet.

“You're probably right,” I told her. The more I played it, the more
scared I was, but I didn't learn anything new. “Think we should tell the police?”

She whined again, but when it comes to strategy, it's better to consult a cat. I looked over at Tiger Pop, who was stretching on the kitchen floor. She gave me a bored glance and stalked away. “I don't think so, either. Wohnt will use it as proof that he was right about me looking into this case. Hell, it might have been him who left the message.”

I didn't believe it, but it gave me cold comfort as I tried to stay awake in front of the TV, too tired to concentrate and too scared to doze off.

­­­———

The next morning, Catherine answered her phone on the second ring. Her voice was cheerful and smoky, a marked contrast to my grumpy rumble. I'd stayed awake until 3:00 a.m., when I fell into a fitful sleep peppered with dreams of hunting dogs chasing me through a dense forest, their angry jaws snapping at my heels. Four hours later, I dragged myself off the couch and to the coffee maker. This day called for a strong black shot of caffeine. Fortunately, in the light of day with a mug of dark roast in my hand, the message didn't sound as frightening. The call was most likely made by a friend of Mitchell's. He struck me as the kind of guy who didn't know when to quit.

“Hi, this is Mira James. Is this Catherine?”

It was, and when I explained why I was calling, she said she'd be happy to stop by the library the next day to talk about Tom. She said she'd been meaning to pick up some new books anyway, since she'd just returned from visiting relatives in Florida and needed something new to read. That piece of business resolved, I voted for visiting Hallie at the hospital instead of calling her to deliver the bad news about our mole. Peggy was on my calendar to “seek inspiration” that morning, anyhow. I'd dump her in the pediatrics wing while I touched base with Hallie.

Although I didn't comment, Peggy's face looked clean-shaven when I picked her up. Thankfully, my hair growth had confined itself to my head, though I'd gotten in the habit of feeling for a beard. Peggy spent the ride to Alexandria worrying about how she was sure she had recently contracted strep throat and a foot fungus, but she'd packed two Nut Goodies for each of us, so I let her talk. The hospital now seemed easier to visit. Immersion therapy. Inside the main doors, I directed Peggy to the second floor maternity wing and marched toward Hallie's room. I passed by the gift shop and bought a happy, silly bunch of brightly colored gerbera daisies to cheer her room.

My mind was on my visit with the mechanic after work. What answers would he provide? Would he treat my Toyota well? I almost walked right past her room. I backed up, and peeked in.

“Knock knock.”

A curtain hid the bed. Over it, another
Golden Girls
rerun was playing. I tiptoed toward her, in case she was sleeping, and peeked around the corner of the curtain. “Hello?”

An elderly woman looked up from the bed, a pleasant but confused expression on her face. “Are you the nurse?”

“I'm so sorry! I thought I was in my friend Hallie's room.”

The woman's face drooped. “Oh, that poor dear from Battle Lake. She's not with us any more.”

Twenty-one

I put my hand
against the wall for support. “What happened to her?”

“Discharged, I believe. They moved me into here just as she was leaving. I was sharing a room with another woman, but she was too noisy. Jabber, jabber, jabber. Always talking. It gets on a person's nerves. Do you know what I mean?”

I was pretty sure I did. “You know, the way you phrased that comment about Hallie made it seem like she was dead.”

The woman put her hand over her mouth. “I suppose it did. She's not.”

“I'm just saying, ‘not with us anymore' is a pretty common euphemism for ‘dead.' You might want to update that portion of your vocabulary. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I'm sorry, dear. Were those flowers for Hallie?”

I looked at the bright vase of daisies in my hand and around at the impersonal, gray space. “Nope, they're for the room. Should I just leave them here?”

She smiled from cheek to cheek, exposing brilliantly white artificial teeth. “You're a sweetheart. I really am sorry about giving you a scare.”

“It's all right.” I set the flowers on the table nearest her bed so she could admire their spring-like colors. “Will you be in here for long?”

“Not too. Just getting over a bad case of flu with a dash of pneumonia.”

“I hope you feel better soon.” I left the room and confirmed with the nurses that Hallie had been discharged before I tracked down Peggy.

I'd often thought a visit to the maternity wing of a hospital should be a mandatory part of sex ed, starting in sixth grade. Sure, the newborn babies in the big incubator room were cute in a red and vulnerable sort of way, but the primal screams of a woman giving birth were guaranteed to haunt your dreams. I
always
thought it was weird, too, how women had babies at all hours
of the day. It seemed like it should be a nighttime thing, but at this very moment
I could hear at least one poor soul cursing her partner's existence, and another begging for an epidural, whatever that was.

“It's a war zone in here,” I whispered to Peggy. She had her nose to the glass of the baby display case. As far as I could tell, it was a zoo room for humans, with two rows of six infants each, every one of them swaddled in pink or blue like bawling cocoons.

“I'm in love.”

“You met someone?”

“The babies. Aren't they beautiful?”

I cocked my head and considered the evaluation. “They look like a lot of work.”

“Shush,” she said gently. “I can't have a child, you know. I had so many cysts, the doctors decided it would be best to take out my uterus rather than put me through surgery after surgery to remove them. I'm too old now, anyway, but I love kids. They're life itself. And they only get better. I just got to play with two brothers, four and six, over there in the waiting room while their dad visited with their mom and their new baby sister. The stories they told me.”

“Did they inspire you?”

Her eyes lit up. “I do feel close to God here.”

“Then let her rip.”

She clenched her fists, shut her eyes, and began vibrating and moaning. I glanced at the nurses in the baby zoo, but they were too intent on their gurgling bundles.

“I feel it,” Peggy sang. “I feel the power!”

“Should I have pen and paper handy?”

Her voice came out in an ethereal wave. “My savior has a first name, it's J-E-S-U-S, my savior has a second name, it's C-H-R-I-S-T, I love to praise him every day and if you ask me why I'll say … Jesus Christ has a way with a C-R-A-Y-O-L-A.” She opened one eye and peeked at me hopefully.

“Did you color with those boys?”

“Maybe. Not so good?”

I shook my head. “You've got me thinking of bologna and God.”

“How's this? ‘Incredible Hulk questioned. Heathen lent Christ hymn faith.'”

“Wow.”

“Good?”

“Yes. If it's opposite day,” I said sarcastically. “I'm sorry. I think it's back to the drawing board.”

Her shoulders sagged. “You're right. I'm never going to get my mojo back, am I?”

Against my better judgment, I put my arm around her and led her out of the maternity wing. “Maybe we're focusing on the wrong approach. Maybe we shouldn't try for a product and instead you should just keep appreciating the experiences.”

“How will that help me to meet my deadline?”

“I don't know. Sometimes things come easier if you don't force them.” That had never been my experience, but it seemed like an appropriate comment to make.

“Maybe.” Her voice came out small and sad. “But you'll keep taking me to inspirational places, right? Just in case?”

“Right. But for now, I need to get back to Battle Lake and make a phone call.”

———

Hallie didn't pick up right away. Her answering machine clicked on, and I was about to leave a message when her voice cut in. “Hello?”

“How're you feeling?”

“Mira, good to hear from you. I'm fine. I got out of the hospital yesterday. There's still tests to run, but there always are.” Her breath sounded labored on the other end. “Do you have any news?”

“Yes, but I'm afraid it isn't good. It seems that your employees know I'm investigating Tom's death.”

A long pause on the other end of the line. “I might have something to do with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mentioned it to Jean in HR. I've just felt so isolated. I needed to reach out to someone, and she and I have been friends for years.” She continued, her voice contrite. “She might have told a few other people since I've been in the hospital.”

I bit my tongue. “You know this'll make it harder for me to find out anything.”

“I'm sorry.”

I sighed. “There's nothing to do about it now. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Not that I can think of. Let me know the minute you discover anything, okay?”

“You're the boss.”

I hung up and got to work. The first half of my library shift was a maelstrom of activity. I attributed it to the nice weather that was still holding. The blue skies felt so plump and close that they reminded me of a dam wall about to break and unleash a frozen flood on us. I wasn't the only one muttering about an impending
snowstorm, either. I overheard patrons second-guessing the weather
man, who'd claimed we were in for a week of above-average temperatures and no precipitation. A storm was coming, no question. We just didn't know when.

I nuked last night's untouched chili for lunch and ate it while I dialed the hunt club.

“Deer Valley.”

I was glad it was a woman who answered instead of Mitchell. She was probably the person who had saved me from the worst of Mitchell's wrath in the smoking room. I'd guessed from the intimacy in their interaction that she was either his longtime employee or his wife. It didn't matter. “Hi. I'm calling about the temp job. For the Christmas banquet?”

“Do you have banquet experience?”

“No, but I do have five year's waitressing experience.”

“That'll do. You'll need to bring black nylons and heels. We'll supply the uniform.”

“Gack.”

“Excuse me?”

“Heels? To waitress in?”

She harrumphed. “It's tradition. Our wait staff wears Santa baby outfits. It's not as bad as it sounds. Your top is covered and the skirt comes to just above your knees. Plus, you get to keep the hat.”

I glanced at my “to do” list that I'd slid next to the phone. “Break into secret room at hunt club” was the next item. Damn, curiosity is a tough mistress. And I didn't own a pair of heels. As a matter of fact, wearing cobbling, uncomfortable shoes went against everything I respected about myself. Still. We were talking about sneaking into a secret room. “What do the male wait staff wear?”

“We don't hire any.”

“Perfect,” I said dryly. “Where do I sign up?” As she filled me in on the details, I scratched off “break into secret room” and replaced it with “buy heels.” I hung up the phone. While I was on the topic, I decided to write my hunt club article, since the deadline Ron had set was approaching.

Deer Valley Hunt Club Celebrates
Tenth Annual Christmas Hunt

Deer Valley Hunt Club, located just south of Millerville, is celebrating its tenth annual Christmas Hunt on Friday, December 15. “There won't be any reindeer,” joked Mitchell Courier, third-generation owner of the hunt club, “but we'll do our best to provide a good time. The event is open to the public, and food, drinks, and entertainment are included in the price of the ticket.” The humiliation of female wait staff comes at no extra charge.

Mr. Courier's grandfather, Tobias Courier, built the hunt club's main lodge in 1923 out of hand-hewn white pine. The structure was initially intended as a summer home for the mining family from Duluth. However, when their mines went dry, Tobias relocated his family to the summer “cabin” and turned it into an operable hunting lodge. Tobias used his connections in the mining industry to quickly establish Deer Valley Hunt Club as the go-to getaway for the post-World War II upper-crust.

Tobias' son Michael picked up where his father left off. He purchased an additional 100 acres on the west side of the existing property and added hand-carved wood furniture to the décor. When Mitchell took over the family business in 1988, it was the largest wild game hunt club in the Midwest, and it remains so to this day.

“We offer our guests a unique experience,” explained Mitchell. “They can escape their hectic lives and return to an easier time, when men hunted what they ate to provide for their family. We have deer, grouse, turkeys, and pheasants, and even ducks on the private natural lake on our property. It's a true haven here.”

Unless you're a deer, grouse, turkey, pheasant, or duck. More information on the Christmas event is available on the Deer Valley Hunt Club website (www.dvhc.com) or look for their ad in this edition of the
Recall
.

I figured Ron might edit out a sentence or two, it was hard to
say. That's why he earned the big bucks. I saved the file and emailed
it to him as an attachment just in time to lock up the library and head to my appointment with the mechanic.

The roads to Lyle's paralleled the roads to the Deer Valley Hunt Club, only instead of turning right on County Road 87, I kept the Toyota pointed east on County Road 38 toward Parkers Prairie. Man, that town needed an apostrophe.

The bitter cold followed by a relative warm-up gave the roads a black ice frosting. I took the curves slowly. I'd already kissed enough ditches in my life. The trick, if you ever find yourself careening into one, is not to stop, by the way. The same undirected power that pulls you in can boomerang you out, if you keep your wits about you.

Lyle's shop was on the north side of town. It consisted of a green and white-striped metal pole barn with a little wooden hut marked “Lyle's—Office” attached to it. The parking lot was home to cars in various stages of de- or reconstruction. I couldn't tell for sure which, but the healthy dose of snow covering all of them suggested it was the former. I parked my girl in front of the garage door, turned off the fish house heater, and entered the office. The unmanned room was a mess of dot matrix-printer paper under which was hidden a metal desk, the world's oldest computer, a front counter, two musty candy dispensers—one half-full of peanuts and the other topped off with Mike and Ike's cheerful sugar suppositories—a pop machine that dispensed glass bottles of soda, and a row of plastic chairs. I dinged the bell and glanced at the pile of papers nearest me. They were bills for work done two years ago.

“Just a sec!” The door to the shop was half-open, and by craning my neck, I could see legs sticking out from under a Dodge Neon.

“No hurry.” I slipped around to the desk behind the counter and rifled through some more papers. Just bills, a lot of unpaid, outgoing bills. At the bottom of the stack was a desk calendar surprisingly open to December. Of this year. Today's date featured a scribbled shorthand of times followed by letters. My initials served as my Rosetta stone: 5:30/MJ-OC. Oil change for Mira James at 5:30. A whir of dolly wheels alerted me that the mechanic was on his way. I scurried back to my proper location in front of the counter.

Lyle, according to the namepatch sewed on his jumper, appeared,
wiping his oily hands on a rag. He was in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a pleasantly creased face. “Can I help you?”

“I called the other day. I've got the Toyota needs an oil change.” I bent my head in the direction of my car.

“Keys in her?”

I liked that I felt comfortable in a small space with him. “Yup.”

“Shouldn't take more'n a half an hour. There's magazines.” He indicated the stack of
Outdoor Life
on one of the plastic chairs.

“Thanks.” I sat and pulled out my copy of
Private Investigation for Morons
while he left to drive my car into the open stall of the garage. I was on the chapter covering online research. I skimmed it, happily realizing that I already knew all of it. I closed the book and reached for an
Outdoor Life
. The pictures were nice.

Lyle poked his head in the office. “Your thermostat is bad. I have one'll work. Want me to change it?”

I drew in a sharp breath. “I thought you didn't work on foreign cars.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “A car that old is easy to fix. No computer to worry about.”

“How much is a new thermostat?”

“The part is three bucks. Labor'll run you another $10.”

My eyes were watering. I'm sure it was just the accumulated fumes of years of automotive work and not gratitude-coated relief. “Yes, please.”