November Hunt (17 page)

Thirty-three

Any day that starts
with me driving to Alexandria, Minnesota, to buy sheer black nylons and a $14.99 pair of black pleather heels isn't going to end well. Or can only get better, if you prefer that your empty-headed clichés have rosy cheeks. On the drive to Alex, I'd contemplated what solving the FCM initials did for my case. If I was right, the three men had been on their way to pay off Lyle, but why now, so many decades after the crime? And why had they killed him instead? He'd already done the time. There was nothing new he could tell anyone. And how was Carla and Clive's relationship tied up with all of it?

I considered going to the police with what I knew, but they wouldn't believe my far-out accusations that an upstanding attorney who was now running for county commissioner, a wealthy hunt club owner with sterling connections to the law, and the owner of the most successful business in the county had raped a woman four decades earlier, framed another man for the crime, and intended to bribe him but then killed him instead. Oh, and that the fourth sometimes-member of the gang was now coincidentally dating the victim? Even if they believed all that, the circumstances still wouldn't connect to Tom's death, a connection which I couldn't even see clearly myself.

The problem was, the killers might not realize that I was still without answers, which placed me in the direct line of danger until I solved this crime. The men clearly weren't picky about offing anyone who stood in the way of their goal, whatever it was. Those pleasant thoughts carried me all the way through the shoe store, to the front counter to purchase my little iron maidens, and back to the hunt club, which was so busy that I had instructions to park in a plowed field across the road, from which point I would be shuttled to the main lodge.

When I'd first poked into the main lobby, I was worried that I was going to run into Mitchell and be kicked out on my bumper, but the place was humming like a hive and it was easy to blend in. That left me time for a new worry: the skanky “uniform” that I'd been handed as I entered the changing room, a large closet designated as our private area, my new shoes and nylons in a plastic bag dangling from my hand. When I unfolded the uniform, I realized that the skirt that was supposed to reach my knees would have, if I were five. The tight red sweater was a fake-fur-trimmed and low cut v-neck designed to display cleavage, but here the joke was on them: I didn't have any. Ha.

The Fates intervened before I got too cocky, though, revealing that I'd accidentally bought control top nylons. I'm not saying that I didn't have a top to control. I'm saying that the top of these nylons was better suited to choking a snake than supporting my lady parts. Once I'd slid the nylon vise grip over my belly, did the knees-out wedgie bend to align the pantyhose so they weren't cutting off all the blood to any one area, and yanked on the sweater and the skirt, I had only to slide into the two-inch heels and walk out to get my serving directions. Easy peasy.

“Whoa, have you been drinking?”

I stabbed a look at the woman who'd spoken. She was short, maybe 5'2", but she had enough boobage for the both of us. “No. Why?”

“Weak ankles, then?” She pointed at my feet, her expression sympathetic.

“I don't understand.”

“Honey, you're walking like a dog with shit on its feet.”

I took in the ridiculousness of my body from the neck down.
If 13-year-old boys ruled the universe, this is what we'd all be
re
quired to wear. Th
e women, anyhow. The guys would be in
t-shirts, blue jeans, and laser-gun belts. “It's been a while since I wore heels.”

“When you say ‘a while,' what do you mean?”

I thought. “Maybe since the fifth of Never.”

“That's what I figured. Here. Let me show you how.”

I spent the next ten minutes receiving a crash course in stilt walking. The woman, Connie was her name, started out with big, “heel-toe, heel-toe” aspirations for me, but it turned out she was a realist, too. She ended up showing me how to keep everything stiff from the knee down and shuffling forward. It wasn't pretty, but it was an improvement from my Frankenstein stomp.

“That looks fine, honey. No one is going to look at your feet anyhow, not with those legs and that face. And I have one more thing.”

Before I could object, she pressed a shot glass against my lips. I smelled peppermint and felt the hot liquid brushing my mouth like a lover, and damn if I didn't take it in one swallow. It burned on the way down and brought its heat all the way to the edge of my toes. I smiled.

“That's right. That's our health plan in the waitressing world. Every break you get, take a swig of that. It's ours to enjoy back here in the changing room.” She patted me reassuringly on the back. “It'll make all your customers smarter.”

She shoved me out the door, where I was assigned my role. Some of us Santa babies were put on hors d'oeuvre duty, some were “conversationalists,” and others were cocktail waitresses. The woman I took to be Mitchell's wife, Maggie, assigned us our positions. She was thin-lipped, short-haired, and down to business. Based on my past waitressing experience and the scowl on my face, she assigned me cocktail duty, shoving an empty tray, a pen, a pad, and a swirl of cocktail napkins into my hands.

The main dining hall had been converted into a winter wonderland, all fake puffs of snow, twinkle lights, and glass ornaments. There were easily a hundred and fifty guests, and I had counted 15 Santa babies. The majority of guests were male, though many of them had brought their wives or girlfriends, and a sprinkling of women seemed to be there on their own, or at least comfortable with their own company. I recognized faces from the Love-Your-Library event, but had yet to spot Mitchell, Clive, or Frederick. Three doors down from the main dining room was the Men's Smoke Room, the one with the secret chamber. Whenever I started to waver in my heels, I remembered that room, and the fact that I was only waiting for an opportunity to scope it out. Tying Mitchell to Lyle had only upped the ante.

Someone grabbed my arm. “Vodka tonic, two limes.”

“Sure.” I nodded over the strains of Dean Martin crooning “The Little Drummer Boy.” “Be right back.”
And if I'm not, feel free to complain about the woman dressed like Playboy Santa
, I thought, as I wove my way into the crowd. I thought I caught a glimpse of Mitchell in a blue dress shirt and tie, but the crowd closed in before I could make my way to him.

“Can we get two whiskey sours, and a glass of red wine?”

“Sure.” I kept moving. I'd be forced to fetch drinks for some people, or my night would be over too soon. At the bar, I put in my orders. The bartender, a lantern-jawed, buzz-sawed blonde at least five years younger than me, slipped me a clear shot of liquid as he whipped up the drinks. I swallowed it, and I'm pretty sure it made my boobs a little bigger. I chose not to consider the implications of falling off the wagon. It was just a single night, not a habit.

“Thanks.” I brought the drinks to their respective owners and was surprised when I was handed a $10 tip. Out of habit, I folded the bill in half the long way and then folded it in half again over the pointer finger of the hand bracing the tray. I'd forgotten how nice it was to have people hand you money. After that, I began to take drink orders with a vengeance. I caught snatches of conversation as I threaded through the crowd, most of it authoritative rants about what was wrong with the tax system, the health system, the education system. The only areas off limits seemed to be the military, Wall Street, and religion, as long as we were talking Christian. I swear I felt the invisible hand of capitalism pinch me on the butt at one point. I was in the belly of the beast, surrounded by a cadre of gun-loving, money-making white guys who could turn on me at the drop of an olive. But man, they tipped great when I brought them the right drinks.

One hour and three hundred and seventy dollars in tips later, Mitchell was the only one of my three targets that I'd spotted. He was bellicose, flushed with good cheer, and greeting people like a Mafia don. I did spot Mike, the retired sheriff, and stopped to say hi. Other than him, and the rich folks I recognized from Love-Your-Library, tonight's attendees seemed almost entirely to be out-of-towners. Clive hadn't shown, and my feet felt like bloody stumps. I hunted down Connie, told her I needed a break, and asked her to cover for me. I stopped at the changing room to down a shot, stuff my wad of tips into the tourniquet of my nylons, and then slip into the hallway.

Directly across from me were the restrooms. I used the ladies' room, slipped my heels off on the way out, and made my way to the Men's Smoke Room. I walked like I had a purpose, and damn, it felt good to get those shoes off. If someone stopped me, I'd say I was lost. The only people currently in the hall were here to use the restroom, though, and they had no reason to question an employee. I vanished into the unlit smoke room.

The smell of rich cigars overlaid the mildewed scent of old books.
My eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness, the only illumination spears of moonlight filtering in through the half-closed curtains. I grabbed a lighter off the nearest table and strode to the bookcase that hid the secret room. I knew Scooby Doo would lean against the bookshelf in frustration and accidentally trip the switch to open the door, so I tried that. No luck. Maybe I shouldn't have downed that last shot. Next I tried pulling out combinations of books, but it wasn't until I slid my hand under the bottom of each shelf in desperation that I happened upon the recessed button.

I shoved my finger into it, and the catch on the secret door released. Instead of swinging open, the door sighed and fell slightly ajar. I slipped into the room and pulled the door almost shut but not so tight that it would latch. The utter darkness was disorienting and made me hyper-aware of the smells of cheap perfume and tobacco. I flicked the lighter. My first glimpse showed a smaller version of the library I'd just left, maybe fifteen by fifteen with shelves lining the wall and a couch and chairs in the center, and in the circle of the furniture, a coffee table strewn with what looked like reports of some kind. On the other side of the room I spotted a mounted, flat-screen TV large enough to make a football fan weep, and then the flame died. I flicked it again and this time held it.

“Phoo-ey,” I whistled, making the sound because I couldn't whistle. Glancing around, I realized I'd stumbled on the Library of Physical Congress. Surrounding me were the spines of possibly the grossest films ever conceived. I peered at the shelf nearest me:
Days of our Vibes, The Young and the Breastless,
and
Thighnasty
. Out of curiosity, I tugged one out to look at the cover. Out of disgust, I pushed it back in.

My thumb was growing hot from the lighter, so I released the tab and navigated by memory to the table I'd spotted in the center of the room. Was this secret room a complete waste, just a porno fort? I bumped into the main couch and fell into it. The furniture felt like leather, which I believed was a questionable choice given the viewing material in here. Around me, the darkness closed in like fingers.

I felt along the sofa until I stumbled on the table, and I knelt down beside it. I tapped the wheel of the lighter with my thumb. Still hot. I'd decided to sit there until it cooled when I heard the soft thump of laughter being absorbed by thick walls. My stomach clenched. That was the first sound I'd heard since I'd been in here. Could it be coming from the main dining hall? Then it came again, only this time I could make out words.

“Party … ever … scrooged …

There were people in the smoking room! I was trapped like a raccoon in a garbage pail. If they decided to come in here, there was nowhere to hide, at least for any length of time. My best bet would be to sneak closer to the wall by the door, which would poise me to dart out should they make their way into here. If I kept my head down and ran fast, they might be so surprised that they wouldn't remember any details other than the Santa Baby costume. I crawled toward the door, then, on a whim, returned to the center table to grab a couple sheets of the reports I'd seen there. I folded them into my nylons, barely, and made my way back to the door. I slowly eased into a standing position and tuned my ear into the conversation in the Men's room, which was trickling in clearly through the crack I'd left in the door.

“… ever change, do you?” asked a whiny voice.

“Why would I?” I recognized Mitchell's deep baritone immediately. “Life's worked out pretty well for me so far!”

“We all knew it would,” said a third voice. “So you gonna let us in that hidden room of yours for some adult viewing, or is that only for the rich guys from the Cities rather than your ol' classmates from Brandon High?”

“Help yourself. I'll join you after the party dies down.”

My heart placed a call to my stomach, and they agreed it was a good time to drop. I pressed my back hard enough into the wall to leave marks.

“The button is here.” The closeness of Mitchell's voice smacked me like ice water. He couldn't have been more than three feet away, on the other side of the wall. “Dammit, it's already open. Maggie said she'd get that fixed.”

Dim light poured into the room. I could make out the lighter I'd left on the table when I'd grabbed the papers. My own mortality brushed against me like a puff of wind.

“You know how to work a DVD player?”

The man with the whiny voice backed in. “Sure, if I can find the lights.”

“They're out here.” I heard a click, and then I was lit up like a firefly.

“Mitchell.” Maggie's voice. “Someone wants to talk with you. Big bucks.”

“Coming.”

I heard his heavy footsteps, or it may have been the drumming of the blood in my ears. And then the whiner turned and caught sight of me. His expression was astonishment followed by pleasure spreading across his mousy features. He was about my height and soft-looking, the perfect vehicle for his petulant voice. “Hello, Santa,” he said, smiling.