May Day (17 page)

“Not much, honey chile. I heard Lartel may be comin’ back early is all, and I wanted to welcome him home.”

My blood turned cold like leech water, and I swallowed some of my own bile. Liquid burp, we used to call them in my partying days. “When did you hear that?”

Kennie smiled and shrugged her shoulders innocently, looking for all the world like Little Orphan Annie would if she had grown up in a luxury trailer park and dyed her hair platinum. I could tell she was playing with me, but I didn’t know the game. “Coulda been today, coulda been yesterday.”

I was feeling cornered, and the metamorphosis into bitchy Incredible Hulk began. “Well, you know what I heard, Kennie? I heard that you and Lartel used to date. I heard that after Jeff dumped you back in high school, you went straight into the arms of the coach and stayed there. Then he left town, too, just like all your boyfriends, and next anybody sees of him, he’s a crazy librarian. So maybe if we’re going to talk about what we heard, we should talk about that.”

Kennie’s color drained from her skin, making her peach-toned foundation and deep red blusher stand out like clown’s makeup. “Or maybe,” she purred, “we could talk about how you screwed Jeff his first night in town, you little slut.”

Shit. I was way out of my league here. I consciously relaxed my body language and changed my voice to what I hoped was a soothing tone. “I can’t help what you heard, Kennie.”

“Hmm. Does that mean you also can’t help what I heard about a Mr. Mark James, suicidal murderer and your dear, departed father?”

There is a space, after the click of the camera and before the flash dissipates, when every sight, sound, and smell is suspended. I now found myself in that space, but there was no relief coming. Mark James. Manslaughter Mark. My father. The spring of my sixteenth year, he fell asleep at the wheel driving home from grocery shopping and veered into another car. He killed himself and the driver of the other car, along with her infant son, in the head-on collision. His body had been mangled beyond identification; the autopsy revealed that he had been driving very, very drunk.

The accident happened on Highway 23, the main road through Paynesville, and it was weeks before the black tire marks and sparkling windshield glass completely disappeared from the shoulder. Shortly after, the driving instructor at the high school landed the now-mangled car my dad had been driving, our ’73 Chevy Cordova, and installed it in the shop as a warning of what happens when people drive drunk.

My mom and I really didn’t talk about it much. We didn’t talk much, period. The overriding emotion I remember from that time is relief that school was almost out for the summer so I wouldn’t have to face my classmates. The irony was that after the accident, I no longer had a face in Paynesville. I became the countenance of a series of unfortunate events instead of a person. And now, I was at risk of that happening to me in Battle Lake. I didn’t want to be erased again.

“Is it true? Are you the daughter of a killer? Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Fuck you, Kennie.” There was no strength in my words. I was suddenly bone tired. “It’s none of your business. And it really doesn’t matter anymore. My dad is dead. Jeff is dead.”

“Maybe your dad is dead, little Mira the Murderer’s Daughter. Or maybe he’s like Elvis, and he faked his death. Could be he killed Jeff to protect his virginal daughter?”

Kennie was way out there, talking crazy, but like a child in a tantrum, she was oblivious to the pain she was inflicting. She tried to stare me down, alpha female to alpha female. “Did you sleep with him? Did you and Jeff sleep together?”

I shook my head and turned my face to the front door, using the time away from her stare to put my dad back in his cage. His life and death were not going to follow me to Battle Lake. It was bad enough they had chased me out of Paynesville. My voice came out neutral, that icy quiet of bridled fury. “All I care about now is finding out who killed Jeff. If you have any information on that, then we can talk.” I forced myself to pick up the returned books and walk past her. I swear she had to stop herself from sniffing my butt and growling. I started to put the books away, making surreptitious glances down each aisle as I passed it, on the alert for a sinister doll-leaver.

Kennie stood up at the front with her back to me for the whole time I put books away. I took advantage of her presence to make a quick run through the back room. All clear. Kennie and I were the only two people in the library. I returned to the front counter, bracing myself for more venom, and picked up on the bad smell Kennie had caught earlier. I turned to her, ready to defend myself. To my surprise, Kennie looked like she had been crying, her face even puffier than normal, her eyes rimmed in crimson. Maybe she was just trying not to sneeze.

“I loved that boy, you know,” she said softly, her southern accent rubbed out. “I was going to marry him, have his kids, settle down to a nice life in Battle Lake after college. That one night with Lartel was a mistake. I was just a girl, really, trying to get back at my boyfriend for letting me down in the big game, but Jeff caught us and turned Lartel in. It’s bad form for coaches to sleep with cheerleaders. Jeff left for college shortly after. He never returned one phone call, not one letter. When I heard he was back in town, it was my happiest day since high school.”

She wiped at her eyes and looked at me. “You don’t care. You didn’t even know him. I’ll give you a little bit of advice, though.” She leaned toward me, her eyes bright but her mouth slack. “I’d steer clear of Lartel if I were you. Just ask your friend Karl at the bank about him. Lartel has a ‘special’ relationship with Karl.” She turned abruptly and walked out of the library, her shoulders and head so straight I could have balanced a book on her.

I watched her walk out, surprised to feel sorry for her. That woman was one emotional roller coaster. “That’s what you get for living in the past,” I said to no one in particular.

I sighed and checked out the garbage. There was a whole but unidentifiable fish in the bottom of the canister, happily decomposing. The doll-leaver was apparently into creating a multisensory fear experience. I pulled the bag out and looked up pensively as the door chimed again.

In walked Mrs. Berns. “Whew, girl, that smells worser than week-old garbage! What do you have in that bag?”

“Somebody left a dead fish as a prank, Mrs. Berns.” I tied a knot in the top of the bag and held it at arm’s length.

“You know what’ll get rid of that smell? A bag of shit. Works every time.” Mrs. Berns cackled and walked to the magazine rack.

I smiled shakily at the back of her head. These old people were beginning to seem like the only sane ones in this whole town.

I slid across the
booth from Karl, grateful he had agreed to meet me for lunch. I was surprised at how hungry I was. Fear and confusion must burn a lot of calories. There was some consolation in that. If I was going to be a stupid chicken, I was at least going to look good in a swimsuit this summer.

“You don’t look so good, Mira,” Karl said.

“Thanks, Karl.”

“Really, Mira. Have you been sleeping lately?”

“I guess so, as well as a person can sleep with one eye open. Jeff’s murder just has me walking on eggshells.”

“You two got to be pretty close over that interview.” It was a statement, not a question, and I was grateful that I wasn’t going to have to explain my unflagging interest in solving his murder.

“That, and Ron’s asked me to write a story on it. So far all I have is some high school gossip on Kennie, Jeff, and Gary Wohnt. Oh, and let’s not forget Lartel.”

Karl snapped his menu closed and leaned close to my face. “Mira, if I can give you any advice, it’s to steer clear of Lartel. He’s not a good person.”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to avoid your boss,” I said. “Anyways, he’s still in Mexico.” I thought about what Kennie had said about Karl’s “special relationship” with Lartel. “How well do you know Lartel,
exactly?”

“Back in high school, I was the football team gofer. I got to know him as well as anybody. Now, I’m his banker.”

“Why haven’t you ever brought him up before? You know I work with him.”

“Nothing to be done about that, Mira. I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. He seems to be fine in the public eye. It’s when he’s alone that the problems start.”

“What have you heard?”

“Things that I wouldn’t repeat, ever. But enough to tell me he’s not a person you want to associate with. I do business with him because I have to, but if it were up to me, he never would have come back to town. And I’m not the only one who feels that way.”

“Why did he come back to town?”

Karl rubbed his thumb on an imaginary spot on the table. “People say he didn’t really have anyplace else to go. I suppose he figured the scandal he caused back in the old days had blown over. He hadn’t done anything illegal, so why not come back to the town he had grown up in, the town where he had once been a hero?”

I didn’t buy it. There was more to the Lartel story. “Have you heard if he’s coming back from vacation early?”

“No, nothing like that. And it’d be around pretty quick if he was.”

I studied Karl. He looked the same as always—bland and kind. Kennie must have exaggerated his relationship with Lartel. It wouldn’t be the first freaky thing she’d ever done, that’s for sure. “He’s not the only wacko in this town, you know. Kennie stopped by the library today and gave me the third degree about Jeff. I’m starting to wonder what everyone thinks I know.”

“Kennie’s harmless, Mira. Like I told you before, she’s just harboring some jealousy.”

“You might be right.” I shook my head. “So how’s the sale of the Jorgensen land coming without Jeff in the picture?”

“It’s coming. They’re going to send someone out next week to sign the papers, and it should be a done deal. This time next year, we’ll have a new attraction at Battle Lake.” Karl didn’t sound any more excited about it than me. “You know,” he said, “people are saying that Jeff was killed by a homeless man. They’re holding him in Otter Tail County Jail.”

“What? Why haven’t I heard this?”

“He hasn’t been charged yet. But he had the right kind of gun on him, and he has no alibi.”

I shook my head. No. No, it wasn’t a homeless man who had killed Jeff. It made no sense. Why would a homeless man kill him and put his body in the library? This couldn’t all be over so quickly, could it?

Before I could speak, our waitress sidled up to the table. “What can I get you, Karl?”

Karl smiled up at her. “Hi, Chrissy. I’ll take a patty melt and a salad, and twenty dollars worth of pull-tabs. What’re you hungry for, Mira?”

I found my voice, and with it, my appetite. “I’ll take a grilled chicken sandwich with fries, and what’s your soup?”

“We have chili, navy bean and ham, or Wisconsin cheese.”

“A cup of navy bean and ham, please, right away.”

Karl laughed quietly. “You’re not eating for two, are you?”

I gagged on my own spit. Talk about being dragged from one emotion to another. “I better not be. That’s all I need right now. Nope, I’m a good eater, always have been. I’m going to the bathroom—be right back.” I scurried to the restroom. Once in there, I felt my boobs and my stomach. They felt normal, both sticking out about equally far from my body. I splashed water on my face and walked out.

I took my time getting back to the table. On the way, I overhead snatches of conversation: “. . . the blackest beaver I ever seen. I never skun a beaver before, but it was easy as pie until I got to the feet . . .”
“. . . you betcha, that’s the last time I ever let a Watermeller girl babysit my kids . . .” “. . . really hot last night . . .”

I was starting to feel faint. When I got back, my soup was waiting, and I dug into it as a distraction. Karl and I visited about this and that and managed to stay away from the equally toxic topics of murder, pregnancy, and high school. He bought for us, I left the tip, and we both headed back toward work.

When he was out of sight, I ducked into the Apothecary. I was hot, dizzy, and ill, and I recognized the symptoms—I-might-be-pregnantitis. Thanks for putting it in my head, Karl. That would explain why people were being so weird to me, though. They could smell a breeder in the herd. I shuddered. It would take more than both hands to count the number of pregnancy tests I’d bought in my life. I was mostly really good about using protection, but I heard on some morning news show that an alarming number of condoms have pinholes in them. All it takes is one tenacious sperm.

Since that show, I usually ended up taking the pregnancy test right in the Kmart, Wal-Mart, Target—you name it—bathroom the next day. This obsessiveness was certainly a sign of a mental illness. How many women peed on a pregnancy stick in a store bathroom? Multiple times? It’s always a humbling experience, but so far I was batting a hundred, and I figured a little self-respect was a small price to pay for immediate peace of mind.

I wasn’t too excited about buying an EPT at the Apothecary since certainly I would see someone I knew in there, and the whole town would be buzzing with the news by the end of the day. “Jeff Wilson lives on!” But once I had it in my head that I was pregnant, it was best just to take the test and turn off the voices before they really got to me.

I walked straight to the front counter and was not pleased to find the teenage girl who had sold me the mask the day before, her dishwater hair in a ponytail. Why couldn’t they have the decency to sell pregnancy tests in bathroom vending machines, like tampons and condoms? My culture had always taught me that anything related to the vagina was not supposed to be talked about or acknowledged in public, and here it was letting me down. “Hello!” I said. I wished I had come in disguise.

“Hello,” she said, flipping the page on
US Weekly
.

“I need one of those EPTs.”

“Those what?”

“The pregnancy tests. Behind you.”

She turned around. “Which one you want?”

“The EPT one. It has the letters ‘EPT’ on it. On the front. That one.”

She put her hand on the generic one. “These are cheaper.”

“Right. The EPT, please.” Like I was going to trust my urine and my entire future to a generic brand.

She smacked it onto the counter and rang it up. “$16.99.”

It never failed to amaze me how expensive these were. I suppose silencing crazy voices in your head doesn’t come cheap. And of course, if I was sane I would just rely on the fact that Jeff and I had used a condom every time and that my period wasn’t even late. If I was sane. I handed her a twenty and waited for change.

On my way out, she called after me. “I like your coat, hey.”

“Thanks.” Unplanned pregnancy—the great unifier of females across all ethnic, age, and attitudinal boundaries.

I scuttled back to the library, peed on the stick, and was relieved to find no pink line. I knew perfectly well that it was probably too early to tell if I was pregnant, but I didn’t humor my psychosis that much. I got back to work, and my first job was to snoop in Lartel’s desk.

It was one of those cool roll-top numbers, all the wood glossy and deep red. It was locked, but I had come to see locks as a negotiable inconvenience in the last couple days. About twenty minutes with a metal nail file slid the top off, and once the top was open, all the side drawers opened, too. I wasn’t surprised to find a doll catalog amidst all the library-related papers. After all, a grown man in swishy pants can only buy so many dolls in person before his motivation is rightfully questioned. Actually, the only surprising thing I found was a letter to Karl. It was so smooth it looked like it had been ironed. It featured the letterhead of the Shooting Star Casino, a gambling club on an Indian reservation about a hundred miles north of Battle Lake. The letter was short and politely worded:

Dear Mr. Syverson:

I’m afraid your credit has been extended as far as we can allow. Your $59,000 debt to our company is payable immediately. Please contact our financial counselor at extension 4536 for
assistance in making payment arrangements.

I felt witch fingers on my lower back. A debt that large in a town this small could really start people talking. If one was a banker, it could end one’s career. Lartel must be blackmailing Karl, which would explain Karl’s deep dislike and distrust of him and why Kennie fingered Karl during our encounter in the library. Whatever was going on, my friend wasn’t looking so good anymore. In fact, I was wondering if there was anyone left in town I could trust.

I put the papers back where I had found them and carefully closed and locked the desk. I went to the computer to write the article on Jeff. As soon as I started typing, I could smell the faint cedar of his soap and feel the warmth of that soft spot under his earlobe that he loved to have kissed.

On our second date, he had come over to the doublewide and showed me how to bake vegetable lasagna. We laughed and drank Chianti, and as he baked, he sang “That’s Amore” and talked in a corny Italian accent. The food was delicious, and afterward, as he washed and I dried the dishes, he told me funny stories about his travels in Europe.

I remembered thinking that I could listen to him forever. Instead, I was writing a combination murder investigation and eulogy. My eyes got cloudy, and I decided it was time to switch to some low-impact recipe hunting. Too bad no one had put recipe ideas into the envelope I had put out. As I went to Google, I speculated about what reporters and researchers had done before the advent of the Internet. I couldn’t get my head around it. After a brief search of online Minnesota cookbooks, I had my two candidates for the tasty Battle Lake recipe of this week.

The first contender was “Fluffy Fish Tacos,” Minnesota style. The “taco” was actually white bread, toasted and buttered. On top of that, one spread the fish of choice, sautéed in butter with parsley. The two ingredients that actually would make this dish Mexican—chili pepper and salsa—were blessedly optional. It was simple and weird. It was Battle Lake.

The second contender was the disturbing “Deer Pie.” The crust of this pie was meaty ground venison sprinkled with rice and salt and scalloped at the edges like real piecrust. Into this bloody shell, one placed a layer of thin potato slices, a layer of Velveeta cheese, another layer of thin potato slices, another layer of Velveeta, and finally, as decoration, coins of venison sausage. Cook the whole pile for forty-five minutes at 375 degrees, take it out and garnish it with parsley for those health nuts who like some green with their woodland meat, and you have a feast worthy of a caveman. The whole concept and the name were clearly some hunter’s wife’s plea for help. I couldn’t save her, but I could introduce her gory invention to the masses. Deer pie it was.

As I was finishing up my shift, I decided I needed to do a little more sleuthing before I went to the class of ’82 party. I was feeling exposed, and I needed to find out who my friends were, or at least clarify my list of enemies. I was going to the cop shop to feel out Gary Wohnt, and then to the high school to verify that it was Jeff’s number I had seen bloodstained in Lartel’s creephouse of a bedroom.