January Thaw (The Murder-By-Month Mysteries) (13 page)

Thirty

Chuck Litchfield’s office assistant
rang me through immediately. Chuck picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Litchfield.” For some reason, his first name felt too uncomfortable. “It’s Mira James. I’m calling about the Eric Offerdahl investigation.” It wasn’t really an investigation. In fact, that’s exactly why I was calling. The hangover was riding me like a troll, and sure, that was my fault, but I found myself unwilling to give up Eric Offerdahl until I knew why Chuck Litchfield wanted to find him. Or, maybe I just wanted to pick a fight.

“Mira! Did you find my boy?”

I paused. Had this descended to the realm of soap operas? “Eric Offerdahl is your son?”

He laughed. “No. It was a figure of speech.”

Hmm. An odd one for anyone but Thurston Howell III. “I haven’t turned up anything yet,” I lied, “but I’m following some leads. I’d like more information before I proceed. Specifically, why do you want to locate Eric Offerdahl?”

“I’m sorry. My client has asked me not to reveal that, as I mentioned. You can locate him without that information, am I correct?”

This guy had a knack for rubbing me the wrong way. I ignored his question. “If you can’t tell me that, can you tell me why you believe he’s back in Battle Lake?”

“Rumors.”

I wasn’t in the mood. “You’ve got nothing?”

He laughed again, but it sounded tight. “Not anything that you couldn’t find out on your own. That’s why I hired you.”

I decided right then and there that I’d investigate Chuck Litchfield—and specifically why he was after Eric Offerdahl—before I told him that I’d likely located Eric. I didn’t have a solid reason for my evasiveness, just a sense that I didn’t want to show my hand yet, even if Litchfield was paying for the cards. I thanked him for his time and promised him a full report within seventy-two hours. I hung up the phone and sketched a couple angry faces in my notebook. Nobody likes being in the dark, but I had a special intolerance to secrets, always had. Maybe it was due to growing up in a house that held a lot of them. In any case, I craved answers like a fish desired water.

I glanced at the clock. Noon. If Mrs. Berns showed up over my lunch hour as promised, I could jog to the police station and find out if there was any new information on the local gang activity, Gary’s shooting, or Maurice’s murder. Noon became twelve thirty, though, which quickly turned into one o’clock. When my stomach’s growl drew annoyed glances from patrons, I headed to the break room and rummaged through the miniature refrigerator. I found a tub of roasted red pepper hummus that was good for another two days, and in the cupboard, a bag of only slightly stale spelt pretzels. I carried them to the counter and snacked while emailing overdue book notices. An automated system would be nice, but so would a lot of things that cost money.

It was two o’clock before Mrs. Berns finally sashayed in, looking relaxed and smelling like sweet smoke and delicious food.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

She held up her white bag. “I got takeout from the Turtle Stew so I could eat while I watched the place for you, just like I said.”

“It’s two oh five!”

She dropped the bag on the counter so her hands were free to slip out of her winter jacket. “Take it or leave it.”

“You smell like pot again,” I said suspiciously.

“Vienna showed up early to take me to a meditation class. Very relaxing. We listened to a Deepak Oprah tape and quieted our minds.”

“Chopra?”

She glanced at my tub of hummus and shrugged. “Sure, I’ll try anything once.”

“No, his name is … forget it.” I lifted the lid and slid it over to her along with what was left of the pretzels.

“Is there any meat in this?” she said, sniffing the hummus.

“Why do you care?”

“I’m a vegetarian now. Vienna said avoiding animal flesh is an important component of being healthy and whole.”

I raised my eyebrows but didn’t comment, even though it was killing me. Mrs. Berns was the most carnivorous person I’d ever met. She swore it’s what fed her sex drive. “The hummus is vegetarian.”

“Great.” She grabbed a pretzel, scooped a mound of hummus, and popped the whole works into her mouth. I watched her chew, a faint smile on her face. The smile turned into a grimace and she snatched the pretzel bag, spitting out the mouthful into it with all the subtlety of a hand grenade.

“
What the hell was in that?” She scraped her tongue with her nails. “Who eats pumice anyways?”

“It’s
hummus
. Garbanzo beans and tahini.”

“Speak English,” she said, dipping into her own white bag and coming out with a wax paper–wrapped sandwich. “Good thing I brought my own food.”

I watched her unwrap it. “Is that a BLT?”

She took a big bite. “Mmm hmmm,” she said, wiping at the mayonnaise on the corners of her mouth.

“Isn’t there meat in that?”

She swallowed. “Nope, just lettuce, tomato, and bacon. Did I tell you that the meditation class was held at a cool new workout center near Vienna’s house? They have a pool, workout rooms, dorms. There’s even a grope room.”

I thought of the distinct marijuana smell that accompanied her after her visits with Vienna. “You mean ‘grow’ room?” I’d had a recent experience with those last November, when I’d uncovered a healthy pot industry in the area.

“If you say so.”

That would seem incongruent with a fitness center. “Did you actually see the room?”

“No, Vienna only mentioned it in passing while she was toking on a spliff. Said it’s hidden, and I better not tell anyone.”

Interesting, yes. Related to Eric Offerdahl? No idea. “How long can you stay?”

“I got an hour, then Vienna is coming back.”

“You don’t let her drive when she’s smoking, do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I do the driving.”

That would be less ridiculous if Mrs. Berns possessed a valid driver’s license, but that was a point I’d never been able to make with her. “All right. I’ll be back in an hour.”

I retrieved my coat from the rack and left the library, trying not to jostle my tender head and hoping that Gary Wohnt wouldn’t be at the police station when I arrived.

Thirty-One

And if luck were
pennies, I couldn’t afford a gumball. Gary glanced up from his desk as I walked in before immediately returning his attention to an open file on his desk.

“You’re out of the hospital,” I said, surprisappointed.

It didn’t even garner me an eyebrow raise.

“Those crutches yours?” They were leaning against the edge of his metal desk. I reached out to touch one, but he snatched them away, stacking them against the wall behind him.

I took the seat across from him and watched him work, or at least pretend to work. It must be hard to concentrate with me staring at him. His face pointed down at his papers, I had front row seats to the top of his head. He wasn’t going to go bald anytime soon. I kept up the staring silence for all of four minutes before cracking. “I know about cabins in the area being robbed, and I think I know who’s doing it.”

He sighed but did not speak.

“I also know about Eric Offerdahl.”

This earned a glance. He lifted his head slowly and appraised me with his black eyes. “
What
do you know about Eric Offerdahl?”

Good question, one I didn’t yet have an answer to. “Stuff,” I said cleverly. “I also know Maurice was not a transient. He has family in Chicago. A girlfriend and two kids.”

“Interesting.” He leaned back. I could tell he did it too fast given his recent injury, because his face paled before he regained his composure. His leg must be killing him. I was sure he wasn’t supposed to be back at work this soon after the shooting.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Interesting. Now why don’t you tell me what you know?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not how this works.”

I thought of the letter Ray had given me. “I might have more to tell you, if you trade information of your own.”

“Might, or do?”

Deputy Victor walked in, bringing a gust of cold air and the smell of drugstore cologne with him. We nodded at each other, and then he disappeared into the back room of the station.

I ran my finger along the edge of his desk. “Depends.”

When I pulled my eyes back to his, he was staring at me with such intensity that it felt like an X-ray. I held his gaze, though it was one of the more difficult things I’d done that week. I could feel the flush creeping up from my neck.

“Do you know anything about OxyContin?” he asked.

“Prescription pain reliever, widely abused. Is that what the gang is dealing in?”

“How about fentanyl patches?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Never heard of ’em.”

“It’s a pain reliever, a hundred times more potent than morphine.” Was that a blush at the mention of the drug that had made him over-reveal? “It’s highly addictive, dangerous, and popular. Doctors prescribe it in pill, sucker, or patch, but the patch is the most popular back alley form.”

“Sucker? Like, candy that kills pain?” And I thought frozen Nut Goodies were awesome. Neither of my reactions—admiration and envy—seemed appropriate, so I continued. “And you’re seeing OxyContin and fentanyl patches turning up around here?”

“Look it up. You’re the reporter.”

I noticed he didn’t call me a detective. “Why would you only tell me part of the story?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. He wore a fat silver ring on his right hand, and it caught the light. “The question is, why would I tell you any of it? The answer: because this is dangerous. It’s not kids snitching their parents’ liquor or selling pot. This is big-city drug running, and I want you out of my way.”

The words weren’t new—he’d warned me away from cases many times before—but the growl in his voice was.

“I have no interest in infiltrating gangs or uncovering drug operations,” I said truthfully.

He scowled. I could tell he didn’t believe me.

“Look, I just want to know what happened to Maurice. I found him, you know? I want to put that to rest. Also, Litchfield hired me to locate Eric Offerdahl. The sooner you help me with those two, the sooner I get out of your way.”

“You’ve told me everything?”

“Yes.” I really had. Except for the letter. I shoved my hand into my pocket, and my fingers curled around the edges of Orpheus’s missive. I hadn’t come in expecting to show it to him, but maybe he could help with that, too. Or maybe it would help him. This sharing was unlike me, but it felt good to not have to do this one alone.

His voice cut into my thoughts. “Good. Thank you. I don’t want to see you again. Ever, if you can swing it, but if not, certainly not before this case is over. If we cross paths, consider yourself arrested.”

“For what?” I sputtered, my hand shooting out of my pocket, empty.

“Don’t give me a reason to decide.” He held me in his stare, his eyes sharp.

“Screw you,” I said, suddenly so angry that I wished I could start fires with my brain.

He raised one eyebrow mildly, which is the last view I had of him before spinning on my heel and storming out.

Thirty-Two

The soft shuffle of
the library faded into the background as I typed my article in hopes of distracting myself from the boiling anger at Gary’s harsh words.

“Battle Lake’s Prospect House
and Civil War Museum Opens to the Public”

The grand old Prospect House has opened her doors for the first time since it ceased being a hotel in 1924. The House is a Battle Lake original, an 18-room Georgian mansion built in 1860 by Barnaby Offerdahl, a railroad man and Battle Lake transplant. When Offerdahl didn’t return from the Civil War, the house was willed to his daughter and then his brother. It left Offerdahl hands in an 1882 sale when James Allison “Cap” Colehour purchased it, turning it into a seasonal resort in 1886. The Prospect Inn was the first and largest resort operating in the area for the 38 years it was open. With a prime location near the railroad, it became a popular travel destination for people from all over the Midwest, famous for its clean rooms and excellent meals.

The Inn reverted to a private home in the early 1920s and was completely remodeled in 1929. In a rare stroke of luck, the house’s furnishings have not been changed since. Carter Stone, a local historian, bought the mansion minus most of the land at auction last March. With the help of a dedicated group of volunteers, Stone has spent hundreds of hours searching through piles of treasure inside the house. They’ve uncovered most of the original furnishings, intact clothing and jewelry collections dating as far back as Barnaby Offerdahl’s time, and an extensive collection of Civil War artifacts. According to Stone, “I found a chest filled with nearly 200 Civil War letters. I found the sleeves to Barnaby Offerdahl’s original uniform with a bullet hole in each one from the first and second time he’d been shot during the Civil War. I found a fife, buttons from a uniform, a cartridge box, a tent, a cap box, a powder flask, a bullet mold, two diaries, typhoid serum, Lincoln-Johnson campaign poster, belts and buckles, a flag and battlefield souvenirs. There are many pieces of this large historical puzzle still yet to be found.”

Eager to share their historically exciting finds with the world, Stone and his helpers have opened the House and Museum to the public even though only approximately half of its treasure has been cataloged. The Prospect House and Civil War Museum is truly a jewel in Battle Lake’s crown. You can tour the House and Museum during their open hours and find out more by visiting their website at www.prospecthousemuseum.org.

I hit Send. Ron would proofread the article and make any necessary changes. I glanced at the wall clock. Twenty minutes to close. I spent that time searching for any online records pertaining to Charles or Chuck Litchfield. I discovered where he’d been born, how much money he made in an average year (significantly more than a part-time librarian/reporter/detective), his home and cabin addresses, two speeding tickets, both paid, and that’s it. I shooed out the last two library visitors and headed home.

My answering machine was doing its job when I walked into my living room, shaking off the cold.

“Hey, it’s Johnny.”

My heart soared, then plummeted. He didn’t know I’d witnessed him embracing the blonde last night. He also didn’t know I’d spent the evening at Brad’s.

“I have a surprise for you. Call me back. Miss you.”

I felt like I was gargling my heart. It was a vile cocktail of sadness and guilt. I could address part of that by putting distance between Brad and me. Maybe I really should find out what was up with his girlfriend so I could file him away as “in a committed relationship.” The sadness I didn’t know what to do with.

Luna nuzzled my hand, and I dropped so our eyes were level. She licked my nose. Jed had installed the pet door while I was away over Christmas—his holiday gift to me, he’d said—and so I knew the animals had been able to come and go as they pleased, but I felt bad that I hadn’t gotten them any fresh water this morning. One more chit to add to the guilt pile.

“How’ve you been, girl? Me, I’ve been pretty crappy, and that’s at least half my own fault.” She licked my ear this time. I strolled over to check her and Tiger Pop’s food and water. I was rinsing out their stainless steel bowls when a knock came at the door. Luna didn’t growl, which meant it was either someone she recognized or someone who was safe. For a moment, I hoped it was Johnny. It was not possible, given that he’d just called, but in that weak moment I yearned to make up with him.

I went to the door and pulled it open. It for sure wasn’t Johnny.