November Hunt (4 page)

Jed reached over to an ashtray and lit up a sweet-smelling hand-rolled cigarette. “You want any of this first?”

I shook my head. I'd never seen the appeal in smoking something that made me hungrier and more paranoid than I was by nature. “No thanks.” I looked around the remodeled work area. “This looks like a really good deal, Jed. I'm excited for you.”

He nodded like a Muppet, his mouth full of smoke, and walked over to the furnace. He reached inside to pass the joint to Monty, who seemed fully prepared to accept it. I believed I was witnessing how these two had met. Pot smokers in a small town always seem to find one another. “Yah, it's an awesome deal. I'll make you something as soon as we're up and running.” His voice was deep with the sound of trapped smoke. “What would you like?”

“Thanks, but I don't need anything.”

“No, I want to.”

I shrugged. “How about a small ornament? It is the holiday season.”

Jed agreed.

Looking back, I should have asked for a four-leaf clover. Or a life insurance policy.

Seven

Luna and Tiger Pop
were thrilled to see me when I arrived home. At least Luna was. Tiger Pop was lounging in front of the kitchen vent, preoccupied with putting the “fur” in “furnace” filter. I indulged both creatures in deep tissue ear and neck massages, then rinsed out and refilled their water bowls, piled kibble into their food dishes, and sieved Tiger Pop's litter box in search of treasure. Luna I let out just long enough to p and p, holding the door open so she could lope back in before her happy tongue froze.

After my roommates were tended to, I checked my blinking answering machine. Two messages, the first from Ron Sims.

Mira, your recipe column's overdue. Get me holiday food. By tomorrow.

Curse words! I'd never found anything weird enough to make it worth my time and had missed my deadline. Again. I couldn't believe I was still allowed to write that column. I made a mental note to uncover a recipe first thing tomorrow, even if I had to create it from scratch. I deleted the message, which cued the next one.

Mira, it's Johnny.

Nerve cells all over my body popped up to listen. His deep, throaty voice brought on spontaneous blushing. We'd gotten hot and heavy the week before, and since then, I couldn't hear his rumble without remembering the feel of his strong hands on the small of my back, pulling me in slow and deliberate for a kiss, his tongue parting my lips, his hips pushing hard into mine. After he'd melted my defenses, he moved from my bruised, open mouth and searched out my ear, gliding his tongue along its edge before kissing the curve of my neck, gently and then with more urgency, until he was pushing me against the wall with the force of his passion. Phew. I shook my head.

I'm calling to make sure we're still getting together this weekend, and to let you know I'm thinking of you. Nothing serious, I know the rules.
He chuckled ruefully.
I'm looking forward to Sunday. Let me know if anything has changed.

Not for the first time, I wondered how I was going to confine the both of us to third base for six months. It was just monthly luck that I'd kept my pants on last week. I tried to call on past experience. How had I hung onto my chasteness throughout high school? Ah, now I remembered: bad hair, cluelessness, and dry-humping. Since I'd sworn off claw bangs and discovered how fun sex could be nearly a decade ago, however, I'd need to improvise some other stopgap measure. I'd heard something about the virginity retention movement on
60 Minutes
. Maybe I could learn something about self-control from today's kids. I scratched “research purity pledges” on my kitchen notepad.

But man, it wasn't gonna be easy. For a flash, I allowed myself to envision a future with Johnny. We'd enjoy lazy Sunday mornings, him wearing nothing but cotton pajama pants hanging off of his slim, sculpted hips. He'd kick back at the kitchen table and sing silly love songs, an acoustic guitar in his lap. I'd be making us pancakes, flavoring them with love and happiness. We'd never get around to eating them, though, because he'd end up chasing me around the kitchen with the spatula, into the bedroom, and the pancakes would burn every time. He couldn't help himself, he'd say. He'd do anything to see me smile.

I caught Tiger Pop staring at me with disgust, so I wiped the moony expression off my face. It was a waste of time, anyhow. That future with Johnny was meant for some beautiful young blonde, free of neurotic baggage, who glowed like sunshine in the morning and always said the right thing, and whose breasts did not disappear when she laid on her back. That was who Johnny deserved, not messed-up me. The best I could do would be to string out this high school-ish honeymoon phase for a few months with my crazy rules. Then, with regret, I'd have to let Johnny go before he left me.

I finished my nighttime routine and climbed into bed with that cold thought for comfort.

———

“Central Minnesota continues to set records with its chilling temperatures. The high in Fergus Falls is not expected to top ten below zero today, making this the sixth day in a row of record lows. Combine that with 40 mph winds and it becomes hazardous to leave your home. If you live in these regions, the Minnesota Department of Transportation is advising you don't go out unless necessary.”

I flicked off the morning news. When you can only tune in three channels, you expect better. I immediately regretted the silence, which emphasized the icy wind's raw howl. The scream of winter sliced across the thin walls of the double-wide, rattling the windows and shrieking, hunting for warm flesh to consume. I wasn't going down without a fight, however. Underneath my jeans and t-shirt, I was wearing tights and a thermal shirt. I yanked on monkey socks over that, then snowpants, mittens and a hat, my jacket next, and a scarf last. The order was important to seal any potential leaks.

I coaxed Luna to dash outside with me to start the car and fire up the fish house heater, though her eyes were pleading for me to teach her how to use the litter box.

“Ready?” Before either of us could change our minds, I darted out into the still-dark morning. As prepared as I was, the arctic force of the wind hit me like a snow shovel to the face. For a moment, I considered not opening the library. If that had been my only responsibility, I could have justified it, but I didn't have an Internet connection at home. I'd need to go to work anyhow to research and write the overdue recipe article. Besides, I wanted to stop by the Fortune today to see if I'd cross paths with the Battle Sacks HR lady, like Jed had. Some of my best information had been born of being in the right place at the right time.

Powering on toward the carport, Luna at my side, I pretended I was Pa Ingalls, braving the rabid jaws of winter to procure food and water for his family. “Dang!” I said, as the wind slipped through the weave of my scarf and kissed my lips with violent force. I half-expected my car not to start, but I had plugged it in overnight, and it was a Toyota. It took on the second pull. I cracked all the windows, set the fish house heater to low, stepped out to unplug the radiator block, and dashed back into the house. After rewarming myself and situating Luna and Tiger Pop for the day, I took off.

My driveway had drifted over in spots, but I maintained enough
speed to break through the knee-high barriers. The portable propane heater kept the windshield clear and the inside comfortable, even with the windows rolled a quarter of the way down. I passed a few pickups on my way to town, but Battle Lake was otherwise desolate for a Friday morning. Once inside the library, I flicked on the lights, checked the returned books bin, and fired up the computers. It was going to be a slow day, so I got right down to finding the recipe I should have uncovered the previous day.

I am a fan of appetizers because you can eat a lot without looking like a pig, so I Googled “bizarre holiday finger food.” This pulled up hits of actual finger/paw recipes, from jellied chicken claws to fried skunk paws, along with a killer pigs-in-a-blanket recipe that made the dough look like actual digits and the hot dog peeking out like a fingernail. Unfortunately, it was all too Halloween-y. I shifted gears and combined “Christmas” with “freshwater fish” and “appetizers,” because nothing went over like a yuletide walleye recipe in the land of 10,000 lakes. The “freshwater” in the search didn't hold up, though, and I was inundated with salmon, shrimp, and oyster recipes.

Scanning the photos that appeared, I was drawn to a colorful shot of tiny slices of sushi decorated to resemble old-fashioned Christmas hard candy. A quick click on the recipe revealed it would be far too complicated to make and the ingredients impossible to obtain in the great Northwoods, but an idiot link on the bottom of the screen promised an easier version. I clicked on it and voila! My monitor was suddenly alight with a full-page shot of Twinkie sushi, like a gift from the trailer park adjacent to the North Pole.

I began furiously retyping the recipe, changing key points to adorn it with my own personal flair as well as to avoid copyright infringement.

Twinkly Twinkie Sushi

12 servings

• 12 Twinkies

• Two boxes green fruit roll-ups

• 1 5-lb. bag of Gummi Aquarium (assorted Swedish fish will do in a pinch)

Wrap each Twinkie in a fruit roll-up. Refrigerate in an airtight container for at least one hour. Remove fruit-rolled Twinkies from refrigerator and cut into 1-inch sections. Lay sections on their sides, not touching, on a serving platter. Insert one Gummi Aquarium creature into the white center of each flat Twinkie section. Make sure that the top of creature is flush with the top of the Twinkie so it resembles a roll of sushi cut into sections. Refrigerate at least one more hour. Serve with Zima martinis.*

*Recipe to come.

Talk about food representative of the Midwest. I zipped the recipe off to Ron and returned to my library duties, reshelving the returned books, organizing library bills to send to the city office, and completing various other tasks until lunch time.

When the clock struck noon, I covered myself in a thick coating of temperature denial, stuck the “Out to Lunch” sign on the door, and hoofed it to the Fortune. Once inside, I grabbed my favorite meal—toasted garlic bagel with Greek olive cream cheese, side of green tea accented with steamed soy milk—complimented Sid on her “Closets Are for Clothes” apron, and learned that the Battle Sacks' head of Human Resources was currently eating lunch on the far side of the restaurant. Apparently, the HR woman was a regular who always came at the same time, sat at the same table, and ordered the same food.

So sad
, I thought, studying her as I bit into my third toasted garlic bagel with Greek olive cream cheese of the week. She sat with her back to the door, which was a pure survival move in this climate. She was wearing a red, green, and white sweater that had on its front the crocheted outline of two kittens batting around a Christmas ornament. Her stretchy pants were white, with the kitten pattern repeated on her top left thigh. She either sewed her own clothes or bought them at the same underground market that dealt in white purses, bolo ties, and stirrup pants.

I swallowed the rest of my bagel, grabbed my tea, and approached her. My plan was still a little baggy around the waist. I sensed that uncovering what was behind Jed's here-today-gone-tomorrow job offer might provide insight into what Clive and Tom had been fighting about the night Hallie had overheard them. The idea that the argument was over the line mechanic position was a long shot, but if it proved true, it could provide Hallie with at least a measure of relief to know the fight had not been personal.

I was hoping the HR woman could enlighten me as to why Jed hadn't been hired, but I hadn't exactly ironed out how I'd convince her to cough up the information. HR people are notoriously tight with their information. Something to do with spending their days memorizing and enforcing rules, I guessed. Hallie could have ordered her to talk with me, but I'd promised to keep my employer as far outside of this investigation as possible.

“Hi.” I stood over her, my tea in hand. She was reading the
Battle Lake
Recall
, even though it was several days old. What luck! Here was my in. I nodded toward the article. “You check out the recipe column?”

She grunted and closed the paper. “I use recipes in that column as a warning of what not to cook.”

Dammit, she was smart. This wasn't going to be easy. “Yeah, it's pretty gross stuff. Mind if I have a seat?”

She looked over her shoulder at the empty tables in our vicinity. “Do I know you?”

“No.” I tried to think quick, but my brain had punched out to ponder the pros and cons of ordering another bagel. “I'm a friend of Jed Heitke's. He was wondering why he didn't get to keep the line mechanic job at Battle Sacks.” Sweet Baby Jesus, I'd told the truth. That's what a lack of planning will get you.

She shrugged. “It's no secret. The job I hired him for was reclaimed. Union rules.”

I leaned forward, my interest piqued. “Why was it reclaimed?”

Her eyes drew together and she set her lips in a firm line. “You'll have to ask Mr. None of Your Business.”

Ah, I'd crossed paths with him on a number of occasions. He liked to play it coy, but I knew he enjoyed dancing. “That's got to be public knowledge, right? All I'm asking is why a person would quit their job if they actually wanted it. It makes it hard on the regular people who think they have a shot at the position.”

“We're a private company. There is no public knowledge.”

I forced myself to unclench. “I could find it out easily enough.”

“Best of luck with that.”

I wanted nothing more than to tug a loose thread on her kitty sweater, unraveling the whole works into a pile of sad, trembling yarn. She had the upper hand, however. I quickly shuffled the information I had in my head and played my wild card, the Ace of Hunches. “Look, I know you fired the chief line mechanic, and I don't care why he was rehired. I'm just trying to figure out why Jed couldn't be given some other job.”

She shrugged, my flabby reasoning confusing her as to which information to protect. “I don't know who you heard that from,
but we never fired Clive. He quit. Mr. Heitke is welcome to re-
apply for another position. We have a number of seasonal jobs opening up to accommodate our Christmas surge in business. You can't always rely on temp workers, though. I tell you, it gets to be so time-intensive to keep on top of them that I might as well join the factory floor myself.”

She kept chattering, apparently more than eager to talk now that she could work herself into the story. I wasn't listening any more, not since she'd dropped her bomb.
Clive
had
been the chief line mechanic, and more importantly, he'd quit his lifelong job right before he'd killed his best friend and boss in a hunting accident, and then he'd reclaimed it immediately after. I shivered involuntarily. Maybe Hallie was on to something after all.