November Hunt (13 page)

He disappeared back into the shop. Fifteen minutes later and my car was ready to go. The total bill was $43.95.

“You're not going to get rich charging people those prices.”

His lips moved, but I wouldn't call it a smile. “I'm not one who was meant to be rich.”

I pulled out my checkbook. “I make it out to Lyle's?”

He pushed a stamp and a pad over to me. “Use this.”

“A person would drive a long way for prices like that. Is that why Tom Kicker always brought his car here to get fixed?” I risked a glance at Lyle. A nerve in his jaw jumped but his eyes stayed easy.

“Who's asking?”

“I'm a friend of the family.” I finished the check and ripped it out so he could see my name. “I knew Tom always brought his cars here and figured I'd find out why. Now that I see the prices and service, I think I know.”

Lyle didn't even look at the check. His eyes were fixed on a faraway point over my right shoulder. “He won't be coming here any longer, will he?”

“His funeral was last week.”

“I read about it.”

“Did you consider going?”

He ran his hands through his hair. A chunk stayed pointed in the air, giving him a strangely vulnerable look. “We weren't friends, no offense to you or his family. It was a business relationship. He had a debt to pay off, and it could only be paid with time.”

“What do you mean?”

Lyle focused his eyes and locked them on mine. “I did time for him, and then I made him do time for me.”

Twenty-two

The mood in the
office grew distinctly chilly after that. When it became clear Lyle wasn't sharing any more details, I thanked him for his work, took my keys, and left. I reached for the fish house heater's “on” dial out of habit. Realizing what I was doing, I yanked my arm back and kept my eyes on the road. Dare I try my heater? It'd been a couple weeks since I'd considered it. My breath was starting to fog the windows, so I needed to make up my mind soon. If it didn't work, I was no worse off than before. No biggie, right? Before I could talk myself out of it, I shot my hand to the heater fan dial and turned it up full bore. Blessed heat poured forth from all the vents, clearing the fog from my windows with bionic force. And unicorns everywhere kicked their heels and fairies wept with joy.

“I love you, Lyle Christopherson!” At least for his automotive skills. His comment about doing time for Tom raised other concerns. He'd suggested jail time was involved, and that he believed he'd taken a fall for Tom. I wondered if that jail time was tied in any way to the scandal Julius had mentioned, and what kind of time Lyle made Tom do for him, other than bring his car out there. The new information made it all the more urgent that I uncover some facts from Tom's ex tomorrow. I was tempted to stop by the library on my way home to research Lyle Christopherson's criminal past in my schnazzy new database, but it was already late, and I had promised Jed and Monty that I'd stop by the grand opening of the Glass Menagerie tonight.

On a whim, I picked up Peggy on my way. I found glass figurines captivating; maybe she would, too. If nothing else, she'd appreciate the significance of me having normal heat in my car again. I found her home and wearing the largest pair of footie pajamas I'd ever laid eyes on. It took some coaxing, but a half an hour later, we found ourselves in the Glass Menagerie.

The place was packed to the rafters with what seemed like every citizen of Battle Lake, the sound of their combined conversation a constant roar. It was crazy to have this many people gathering this time of year—the weather lent itself to hibernation for all but the hardiest—and the air had a celebratory, slightly manic feel. Peggy backed toward the door, but I pulled her off to a less noisy corner so I could steal a better look at the figurines.

The center of the main room held two large tables. People set their drinks and finger food on these, but respectfully, for the most part, because Jed's beads and abstract shapes filled both tables. They'd also built shelves to display their wares and lined the walls with them. Monty's delicate dancing creatures and multicolored vases owned the shelves. I walked to the nearest one and touched a pea-sized fish, its body clear, its fins blue-tipped, and its face dominated by sweet pink lips. Next to it was a larger version, and then a larger version, until at the end, there was a kissing fish as big as a cantaloupe. I wished I could buy everything in this place.

“Partial to the aquatic life?”

I spun around. “Hi, Monty. These are gorgeous. Did you make all of them here?”

He adjusted his rainbow cap. He'd thrown on dress slacks and a button-down shirt, but the hat, apparently, was non-negotiable. “Most of the ones on the shelves, though Jed is getting good at puffer fish, so he made those on the bottom shelf.”

“They're lovely,” Peggy said in a hushed voice. She looked enchanted by the glass magic, and her childlike focus made me smile.

“Thank you. Jed has a present for you, by the way. He's back in the work room.”

I left Peggy to ogle the art and threaded my way through the crowd. I found Jed waving his hands animatedly in a conversation with the Nordmans. When he saw me, he rushed over.

“Mira! How totally sick is this? Do you see how many people are here?”

“Yeah, it's pretty cool. I saw your puffer fish, too. I like them!”

“Oh.” His eyes fell. “Then you probably don't want this.” He reached into his low-slung jeans and pulled a plum-sized ball of wrinkled paper wrapped with cellophane tape out of his deep pockets. When he handed it to me, I realized it had a solid center. I peeled back the paper gently, revealing a lopsided orb shot through with waves of burgundy and deep blues. It looked like a precious gem and fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.

“I love it.”

“Naw, it's all googly. It was my first ornament, you know. It's not any good.”

He reached to pluck it out of my hand, but I closed my fingers firmly around it. “I'm honored that you gave me your first ornament. If I could pick one thing in this whole store, I'd pick this.”

He blushed and pushed a straggly hair back from his face. “You mean it?”

“Yup.”

His smile was dazzling. “Whoop!”

I let him return to his conversation with the Nordmans and held my treasure close. I was happy for his and Monty's success, but I'd had enough human company for the day. I tracked down Peggy with the intention of bringing her home. She was in a conversation with Monty about his travels to Turkey.

“Hey, Peggy. Sorry to interrupt, but it's been a long day. Mind if we head out?”

She pushed her glasses up her nose and took a messy bite off the tray of cheese and crackers Monty had brought over. “I suppose.”

“Monty, thanks for having us. You've really got amazing work here.” I offered my hand, but before he could take it, another guy butted into the conversation.

“Did I hear her call you Monty? Monty Dunham?”

“That's me.”

“We went to high school together.” The interrupter tapped his chest. “Phil Kramer. We graduated the same year. How long have you been back?”

“Not quite half a year.”

“I remember reading that your mother passed. Damn shame. She was a good woman. Have you hooked up with the old gang since you got back?”

I inserted myself back into the conversation. They could reminisce all they wanted once I was out the door. “Like I was saying, Monty, thanks. See you later.” I shook his hand and led Peggy out.

———

The sky was gray and overcast the next morning, which made for even warmer temperatures. I slept in and skipped breakfast to play snow Frisbee with Luna before cruising to town to grab Peggy for her morning's inspirational retreat. Nancy and Sid had mentioned in passing last week that their church was having Friday morning services in the weeks leading up to Christmas. When I remembered, I slapped my forehead. Why hadn't I taken Peggy to church already? What a perfect place to find her brand of inspiration.

“Actually,” she said, blushing, “church never has done much for me. In terms of inspiration, that is. At the end of a service, all I can write are limericks.”

“You're serious.”

“Don't tell the pastor. And while your car's heat is lovely, I hope it doesn't dry out my sinus cavities and make them more vulnerable to infection.”

I rolled my eyes, but quietly. We both sat through the service, and afterward, I introduced her to Pastor Harvey Winter. He was a generous man with white hair and smile crinkles all over his face. He was Sid and Nancy's spiritual leader and had helped me uncover a murderer in August. Peggy was immediately enamored of him, I could tell, and he also informed her that he was a great fan of her work. After they got their mutual praise fest out of the way, I pulled Peggy away so I could open the library.

“Get anything?”

She nodded tentatively. “There once was a pastor who was blunt,
and he had a female parishioner who was a real—”

“Stop. Stop it.” I shoved my fingers in my ears. “That's a little messed up, you know. You'll want to make sure your readers don't find out about this limerick affliction of yours.”

A fat tear rolled down her cheek. “I'm a terrible person.”

“Argh.” This was at least partially my fault, I was certain of it. I wasn't sure exactly how, but I felt responsible for her feeling lousy. “You're not a terrible person. We went to the old folks' home and you made friends. You helped animals at the shelter and reminded me that I want to help there more. We went to the maternity wing at the hospital, and the kids loved you. At church, Pastor Harvey hung on every word you said. You do have a gift. You make people feel inspired.”

“But I can no longer inspire myself.”

“Here, I'll try to help.” I scrambled for the most anti-limerick subject I could think of. “You finish this phrase: ‘Noah's Ark—'”

“OK.” She slammed her eyelids shut tight and started to squirm.

I put a hand out to still her. “Eyes open, no moaning or wiggling.”

“I don't know.”

“It's worth a try.”

She put both hands on the wall of the church foyer. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. Her nostrils flared. Sound burbled from her throat. “Noah's Ark. A boatload of fun.”

My left side twitched involuntarily. Fortunately, she couldn't see it. “It's not a limerick. That's progress. Let's quit while we're ahead.”

She drooped. “I need a break. No more inspirational field trips for a little bit, okay?”

I felt awful for her. She'd come to town for inspiration, figuring she'd be able to leave again unscathed. No one leaves Battle Lake unscathed. “All right. But when you want more help, I'm here for you.”

I dropped her off at her temporary home with enough time to stop by the offices of the
Battle Lake
Recall
before I opened the library. I figured the database service I'd subscribed to could give me the hard facts about Lyle's criminal background, and I intended to check as soon as I got to the library. However, the
Recall
had been running the “County Crimes” column since its inception, right next to “The Tattler,” the column that covered who had eaten dinner with whom or brought what hotdish to which local event, and other riveting small town news. If Lyle had been arrested locally, I'd find a lot more from a newspaper article than a line in a database.

Mrs. Sims was working behind the desk. She was Ron's trophy wife, gregarious and ten years his junior. The two of them were locally famous for their habit of making out in public, which is why I was glad only half of the couple was present.

“Ron covering a story?”

She shook her head. “Dentist appointment. He's getting a crown on one of his wisdom teeth.”

“Mind if I check the archives?”

“Knock yourself out. And I was supposed to email you a reminder about your next ‘Bites' column, but since you're here, I'll just tell you. Ron needs the article by this afternoon.”

“It's almost done.” I'd completely forgotten. Thank god for the Internet.

In the back room, I sat down at the research-dedicated Mac.
The
Recall
had been around since the early 1900s. Three years ago, Ron had paid big bucks to have a California-based, document-scanning business convert all the microfiche archives to
searchable PDF files. I had my complaints about the balding, taciturn little man, but lack of organization wasn't one of them.

In the end, Lyle's criminal record was disappointingly easy to find. He hadn't been assigned a passing mention on “County Crimes.” He was the headlining story of the July 9, 1962, edition.

Doped-Up Biker assaults Local Woman

Lyle Richard Christopherson, age 19, roared into town on his motorbike, bringing with him corrupting drugs and the community's worse nightmare. Originally from the Duluth area, Mr. Christopherson claimed he was passing through Battle Lake on his way to a motorbike rally in South Dakota. He was initially stopped by local police, who could not find a reason to detain him.

It is believed that later that day, Mr. Christopherson
returned to Battle Lake to sell marijuana, an illegal
intoxicant, to local youth. What is certain is that on the night of July 4, Mr. Christopherson sexually assaulted a
local girl, whose name is not being released because of her
minor status. Mr. Christopherson is scheduled to appear in court on August 2 on charges of drug possession, intent to distribute, and statutory rape. If convicted, he faces up to 15 years in prison.

My blood ran as cold as the Minnesota wind.

Twenty-three

I couldn't immediately sort
out what was more confusing. Was it how drastically I'd misread Lyle, or was it how drastically everyone else had misread Tom? Because according to Lyle, he'd been sent up the river for a crime that Tom had committed. I couldn't imagine either him or Tom as a rapist, however. I checked various spellings of Lyle's name in the newspaper's files to see if there was any other mention of him. The only other appearance he made in print was the coverage of his sentencing. He received the full 15 years.

I searched for Tom Kicker's name, and found more articles than I could possibly read in a day. Skimming the titles revealed them all to be positive, detailing his involvement with local and state charities. I logged off and reached the library just in time for opening, my mind reeling. No one was waiting to get in, so I accessed my criminal database service. I was correct that it provided a brief version of what I'd read on Lyle, but the essential facts were the same. I hoped none of this was somehow related to Tom's death. It would break Hallie's heart to find out her dad wasn't the white knight she believed.

My mind was still fuzzy with too much information when Catherine Kicker, Tom's ex, arrived. I recognized her as an older version of the woman in Hallie's family photos. She was dressed sensibly in snow boots and a red down jacket, with a matching red cap and gloves.

I left my post at the front desk to greet her. “You must be Catherine. Thanks so much for coming.”

“Not at all. I needed some fresh reading. I intended to stop by when I got back from Florida anyways. Now tell me why you want to know about Tom.”

I led her to a quiet corner of the library, where we both took a seat. Since Hallie'd already let the cat out of the bag, I saw no harm in explaining my mission.

“Ah, well you'll have a hard time uncovering any dirt on him. He was a good man, top to bottom.”

Of all the questions that comment raised, this one rose to the top: “So why'd you divorce him?”

She made a sad, dismissive gesture. “Different interests, mostly. It turned out later in life that we switched roles. I became the one who loved to travel and he became weighted to his business. Sun up to sun down, there was nothing for him but Battle Sacks. I imagine we could have stayed married. He didn't mind me gallivanting around on my own. But I was looking for passion and partnership in the last third of my life. Selfish, I suppose.”

“Have you found it?”

She chuckled her smoky laugh. “Not yet. But I haven't started looking too hard. Right now, I'm just visiting friends and family I've fallen out of touch with.”

“I have a rude question. Did you do okay by the divorce?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Money-wise? Yes, I did just fine. You're probably referring to my house. My car's not much nicer. I prefer to spend my money on non-material goods. Plane tickets, for example.”

I nodded. “I have another difficult question. You know that mechanic, the one in Parkers Prairie that Tom always brought his car to?”

“I think so. Lyle's? I tried to bring my car there once. Figured it must be the best service this side of the moon for Tom to drive that far. Tom wouldn't let me. What of it?”

I explained the crime Lyle had been convicted of and his belief that Tom was somehow involved.

She looked confused, and then angry. “Everyone in town knew about that rape. A biker came into town, crashed a party, and took advantage of that poor girl. She was just 16, if I remember correctly. That was the same man who fixed Tom's cars?”

I nodded.

She pursed her lips. “There's no way Tom was involved in a rape. I can swear to that 100 percent. He was the kindest man on this earth. He'd sooner get out of his chair to release a spider outside than to squash it. No, I can't believe it. That Lyle person must be wrong. If he's a criminal, he wouldn't have any trouble lying.”

“It would explain why Tom drove out there regularly.”

“So would good prices. And if Tom was guilty, why wasn't he accused? You said he wasn't even mentioned in the newspaper article.”

“I don't know.” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Can you remember anything else about the attack?”

“It was so long ago.” She'd taken her gloves off when she entered. She now pulled her hat off. Her gray-streaked blonde hair crackled with static electricity. She smoothed it with her hand. “I know the girl was local, though I was from Fergus at the time so didn't know her personally. She was too ashamed to stay around afterward, I think I remember hearing. Rumor had it she was pregnant from the incident. Probably smart that she left. The whispers and judgment would have been brutal. Not right, certainly, but brutal. I can't remember her name.” She tapped her chin. “Kay? Clair? Hmm. Carla, maybe? Yes, that sounds right. My mom had a cat named Carla, that's why I remember. A hairy old thing. Had to put her down when my mom passed.”

She kept chattering in the background, but I could focus on only one point: Carla. That was the name of Clive's girlfriend.