November Hunt (11 page)

Eighteen

Luna and I trudged
a quarter mile through the woods to the sledding hill and started our frigid morning with some downhill action on a green plastic toboggan. The first few runs were sketchy as we forged a trail and she debated between riding with me and running alongside and barking excitedly at me. She finally decided both had their selling points and alternated between them. The daybreak was gorgeous, a frosty three degrees above zero with the rising sun sparkling tangerine and violet off millions of snow crystals. The air smelled pure, cleaning out my lungs in great visible puffs. Only my eyes were naked to the glacial licks of air, and my winter gear kept the rest of me warm. Luna and I traveled up and down the hill a dozen times before she plopped down at the top and began chewing at the ice clumps dangling off her paws.

“You ready to go back?”

She wagged her tail in the affirmative. Back at the house, Tiger Pop allowed me to feed her catnip and scratch her ears and the bony spot right in front of her tail. I toasted and buttered two slices of multigrain bread, swallowed three of Kennie's vitamins, watered my plants, and drove to work. The bog burps started on the drive, but I now had them scheduled. The first one erupted 20 minutes after taking the vitamins and lasted one to two hours, during which time I was toxic, but I swear I could actually feel my hair growing. Then, magically the burps would disappear. Right on schedule, by the time I closed up early to drive to the hunt club, I smelled like a rose. The plan was to interview Mitchell and return before 1:00.

I'd passed the Deer Valley Hunt sign a hundred times on my way to Alexandria but never had a reason to pull in. Now that I did, I was impressed by the enormous log structure that served as
the main lodge. It looked straight out of a photograph, constructed
of gorgeous buttery logs and as big as a hotel. Several outbuildings looked well used, judging by the tracks in and out of them. A wide-open garage featured an army of four-wheelers and snowmobiles. I pulled into the nonhandicapped spot closest to the entrance, the one marked, “Whitetail,” and made my way indoors.

The main lobby featured a crackling, three-story fieldstone fireplace that gave the whole space the warm scent of pine and community. The far wall was made up almost entirely of glass and overlooked sweeping hills and into a hardwood forest. I sauntered to the front desk and helped myself to a perfect red apple tempting me from a beautifully arranged bowl of fruit. I stuffed it in my shoulder bag and dinged the bell. I was rewarded almost immediately when Mitchell popped out. “Right on time. That's what I like.”

“This place is beautiful,” I said. I wasn't a fan of all the stuffed animal carcasses decorating the walls, but the cathedral ceiling, glossy maple floors, lush Persian rugs in deep jewel tones scattered around, and handcrafted furniture made for a decidedly masculine but impressive interior. The glittering Christmas tree must have been three times taller than me, and it was decorated top to bottom with twinkle lights, tinsel, and tastefully muted red, green, and blue ornaments.

“Thank you. Mind if I show you around while we talk?”

“Not at all.” I took out my pad and pen so I could take notes while we walked.

Mitchell rolled out his rehearsed pitch for me, explaining how the hunt club had been handed down to him by his father who had inherited it from his father before that, and how it had always focused on animal conservation. I considered suggesting that no longer shooting the creatures dead might be instrumental in conserving them but didn't want to interrupt his flow. His grandfather had built the lodge from the ground up with hand-hewn logs, he revealed, and his father had created much of the furniture.

“You've got a talented family. Do you work with wood yourself ?”

It was the first question I'd asked since the tour began, and he seemed irritated by it. “Too busy running the place to get creative. These are different times.”

I wanted to ask him to elaborate, but he stayed on-message, lecturing about the various animals that could be hunted in this area and the famous people who'd visited the lodge, like two former Minnesota governors and a very famous shipping family from the West Coast. As he talked, we strolled the premises, and I was shown the fully furnished guest bedrooms, the kitchen, the full-
service bar, the elegant, cavernous dining room lined with win
dows and dark-paneled wood, and ended the tour at what he called the Men's Smoke Room, a library almost as big as the main lobby.

“No women allowed?” I asked, semi-jokingly. OK, defensively.

He laughed off my concerns. “The name's a carryover from my grandpa's time. The men would come to the room to smoke while the women stayed behind in what is now the lobby. They'd have tea, but the men would prefer something a little stiffer.”

“I bet the women would have, too.”

“Different times.”

“But you let women in here now, right?”

“Absolutely.” He winked at me. “You're in here, aren't you?”

I paid him back with a reluctant courtesy smile and made my way to the nearest shelf of books, sagging under the weight of Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Dickens. “The classics. Very nice. Who chose the books?”

“My father, I believe.”

I pointed toward a floor-to-ceiling panel in the far bookcase that looked off-kilter. “And he built the shelves?”

Mitchell glanced at me sharply and hurried across the room to push on the angled case. It slid easily back into place. “Him or my grandpa. Either way, this place is nearly a century old. I've been meaning to shore that one up but haven't had the time.”

I ignored his lame attempt to cover up. “That's a secret room back there, isn't it? An honest-to-goodness, behind-the-bookshelf, hidden space!” I couldn't hide the joy in my voice. I'd uncovered a similar room at a local mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast this past summer, and it had stored some pretty cool secrets. Apparently, the hidden “rum rooms” were common in the nicer houses in this area that were built right before or during Prohibition. I started walking toward the panel when he physically stepped into my path.

“That's private.”

I peeked around his shoulder. Up close, he was even brawnier, a little thick around the middle but carrying at least six feet worth of ass-kicking, if he had a mind to. “It
is
a secret room!”

“We're done in here.” He stopped short of putting his hands on me, but he inched in close, his eyes narrow and snapping sparks. I backed away, and he came at me again, holding his angry face within inches of mine. My arms were crossed, and his were fisted at his side.

“Who built the secret room?”

He pulled in a deep breath and unclenched his hands in a visible attempt to get a grip on his temper. “My grandpa did. It's just a storage room now, but I imagine he had some liquor stills in there back in the day. Don't put that in the article.”

“If I can look in the room.”

“I'm afraid I can't let you do that. It's not safe. A section of the floor has already given way.”

He was still standing uncomfortably close, and so I did the only thing I could: I made him uncomfortable back. “It's very sad that Tom Kicker was shot here. Has that hurt business?”

His face turned an angry red and he seemed to grow several inches taller. I was weighing whether I'd have better luck running or yelling for help when a woman appeared at the entrance to the Men's Smoke Room. She was in her late fifties, by the looks of her, and she spoke familiarly to Mitchell. “Phone call, honey. It's Frederick.”

“That was an unfortunate accident,” he said to me, his voice low and lethal. “Tom was on the edge of the property on his own time, however. It had nothing to do with the hunt club, and I don't like your question.” He pointed at the door. “After you.”

I had no choice but to walk in front of him, my danger spikes on full alert. I followed the woman who had delivered the message.
When we arrived at the lobby, he shook my hand, squeezing it pain
fully in his meat hooks, his message clear.
I'm stronger than you and I can hurt you
. “Too bad there wasn't time to bring you to the shooting range. I'm a pretty good shot. Next time, maybe.” He laughed, and it contained the echo of an animal baring its teeth.

I had the willies, but I didn't show it. I even held on to his grip for another second after he released mine, though my hand bones felt crushed. Then I thanked him for his time and walked out. And you better believe that before I reached my car, I had formulated a plan for how I was going to sneak into that hidden room.

Nineteen

I knew that Clive
and Tom had argued before Clive shot Tom to death. I knew the police had ruled it a hunting accident. I also knew that Tom had been involved in some sort of major scandal in his younger days, that Clive sold pot and the law looked the other way, and that Clive had played his cards close to his chest until recently, when he made it publicly known that he had cash to spare. Finally, I knew that the creeper who ran the hunting lodge where Tom had been shot was unpleasant, to say the least, and had a secret room. Not a whole lot to go on. If information was coolness, in fact, I would not register on the Fonz end of the spectrum. I was barely a Potsie.

The lead on my pencil cracked as I tried to draw some connections between my isolated bits of information. I was pushing too hard. I dropped my head in my hands and moaned. Hallie was right about there being more to her dad's death than we knew, I was convinced of it, but I'd be danged if I could figure out what was really going on.

The pleasant ping of the library's front door opening made me drag up my head. My jaw dropped when I saw what was walking in. “What the helicopter?”

“It's bad, isn't it?” Kennie stood just on this side of the door in her pink winter getup. Her skin was the color of Fanta, and she seemed to have a smear of chocolate above her lip.

“Not if you're trying to infiltrate a citrus fruit Mafia ring,” I said. Then, in case my initial comment had been too cryptic, I added, “Because you're orange and you have a mustache.”

“I can't keep the dang thing off my face! I shaved right before I came here.” She scuttled to the front desk, peering around the library for any unwanted witnesses to her transformation.

“Have you always had that?” I asked, pointing at the Gene Shalit homage gracing her lip.

“God, no. Have you ever seen it on my face before?”

I had to admit that I hadn't. And then an icy bath washed down my spine. “Sweet Jesus, it's the vitamins, isn't it? Which ones have you been taking?”

Her eyes stopped darting around the empty library and tractor-beamed on mine. She spoke slowly and succinctly. “There
is
only one kind. There's ever only
been
one kind. They have different labels, but it's always been the same goddamned pill, do you understand me? Every one of them will turn your skin orange and grow monkey fur on places the sun don't shine, if you take them for long enough!”

Her voice was reaching a high pitch, and I put a hand out to soothe her but was stopped short by the Frodo patches on her knuckles. “OK, we'll figure this out. Did you call the vitamin company?”

“I tried, but no one is answering the phones.”

“All right.” I wheeled over to my front desk computer. I had visions of Kennie turning into a werewolf while my back was to her. “What's the name of the company?”

“Triggaz Vitaminz 4 U.”

My heart dropped to my toes. “Tell me I didn't just hear the number 4 being inserted for the spelled-out word just now.”

“And a ‘z' at the end of ‘Triggaz' and ‘Vitaminz,'” she added helpfully.

“You ordered medical products from a company that can't be bothered to spell words properly?” Now my voice was reaching the high keen. “Off the Internet?”

She nodded.

My voice continued its ascent. “Perfect. You sold me vitamins that some basement-dwelling, who-knows-what-ingredients-
using freak created in his free time?”

“He's no freak. His name is Triggaz.” She pointed over my shoulder at the screen that had popped up while I'd been typing and screeching. Triggaz was a white male wearing a lab coat, thick glasses, and no pants.

I cried. “I'm going to look like a Mediterranean fishwife by tomorrow, aren't I?”

“How many vitamins did you take?”

I reached toward my purse and yanked out the brown bottle. Three vitamins rattled around the bottom. I looked at her hopefully.

“It wasn't until my second bottle that my skin changed,” she offered. “The hair was a problem earlier, but I've been able to keep on top of it until today. It seems like the more I shave, the faster it comes back.”

“You stopped taking the vitamins, didn't you?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“What aren't you telling me?”

“I've stopped taking the vitamins. You're going to stop taking the vitamins. We'll be fine.”

I gasped. “Who else did you sell them to?”

“Not very many people,” she said defensively. “This weather's
kept most folks at home. Just a handful bought vitamins from me,
really.”

“Their names?”

“Unh unh.” She crossed her arms. “There's a little thing called patient confidentiality.”

“There's a little thing called the FDA, too, and I bet that didn't slow Triggaz down.”

“Ethically, I can't tell you who else has purchased the vitamins. They're a medicinal product, and I promised the buyers absolute secrecy.”

I was poring over my arms. They looked normal, but I knew that the hair on my head had been multiplying. Could the rest of it be far behind? “Then you better inform them on your own. And give them a full refund. You can't make people pay to be turned into circus freaks.”

“Ok.” She began to back away toward the door.

“Kennie?”

“I said okay! I'll do it. I just have to run home and shave first.” She darted out the door.

I cursed her retreating back. Then I hurried to the bathroom to check for extra hair. The hair on my head looked darker and thicker than usual. My eyebrows, too. Very Brooke Shields in that department. No mustache, though, and from the neck down, I couldn't tell much difference except that my legs were due for a shave. I returned to the main room of the library, tossed out the remaining vitamins, and made a deal with the gods: if I got through this experience without turning into a neon furball, I'd never give in to vanity again. Part of me realized that if you ever find yourself in a position to make a deal like that, you probably deserve whatever comes your way. I ignored that part.

I immersed myself in library duties, not slowing down until it was time to lock up and head home. I had my glove on the door handle of my car when I heard Peggy's crystalline voice.

“Where are we going today?”

A wave of bummer washed over me. I'd promised I'd help her look for her mojo again today. I turned to look at her. Her face was half-covered by a scarf, but I could still see her nose was red and running from the cold. Her green winter jacket appeared to have a chocolate smear down the front and she hadn't taken her mittens off yet, but her eyes were hopeful. “The animal shelter,” I said, using a vision of furry Kennie as inspiration. “If that doesn't stir your soul, I don't know what will.”

She nodded, her face covered by a scarf, and hopped in the passenger seat. I figured I could get her in and out of the Tri-County Shelter in under twenty minutes and be home in time for supper. I was wrong. She treated every single animal she saw as if it were her own child. She petted each kitten, from the wheezy tortoiseshell with runny eyes to the super-fat tabby that had been found in the worst of the snowstorm two weeks earlier. She played with the dogs, offered to clean the hamster and rabbit cages, and even let the one boa constrictor sit on her shoulder. I was a great admirer of animals, but she made me look like puppy Hitler. I had no choice but to dig in and help her to attend to every living creature. We were finally kicked out at 7:00 p.m. so they could close up.

Peggy's expression was beatific as she walked to the car. “That was amazing.”

I smiled back at her. “That was pretty cool. I keep forgetting how much help they need. I should volunteer more.”

“I'm starting tomorrow,” she said.

We got in the car. “That's great! You got inspiration?”

“I meant I'm volunteering there, starting tomorrow. I don't think it helped my mojo, but it sure helped my soul.”

I flicked on the fish house heater and cranked the engine. We shivered while the heat dispersed. “That's a good thing, no doubt about it. But you're sure you didn't find any inspiration?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried a practice wail. Then silence. She squirmed in her seat and tried another warble. Nothing followed it. I was about to pull away when she held up her hand. “It's here.”

“Your mojo?”

“Yes! It's here!”

“That's awesome,” I said. “What's it got?”

She kept her hand in the air. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Been done before.”

“A catechism has nine lives.”

“That doesn't even make sense.”

She cleared her throat and began swaying. “You can teach an old dogma new tricks.”

I considered that one. “You know, that's not half bad. Which means it's only half good. But you're on your way! I think.”

“Really?” She turned like she was going to hug me, and I pulled away.

“No need for physicality. It's not my thing.” I put my hand over the back of her seat so I could see behind me as I pulled out. I made a little brushing motion over my mouth as I did so. “You have some dog fur on your lip, too.”

She immediately pulled her scarf over her nose. “Thanks.”

A suspicious thought knocked on my skull. I slammed on the brakes. “Peggy?”

“Yes?”

“Did you buy vitamins from Kennie?”

“The mayor? Yes, why?”

“How many did you buy?”

“Just one bottle. The one that's supposed to bring you serenity, naturally. It worked so well that I bought two more. Why do you ask?”

“Those vitamins turn your skin orange and make you as hairy as a spider monkey. She didn't tell you that, did she?”

Peggy gasped and covered her mouth. “Good heavens, no! Is that why I have this on my lip? I would have stopped taking them if I'd known.”

“Now's a good time to stop.” I drove her back to her car, feeling more than a little self-righteous for all the good I'd done the world today. It was too late to go home and make supper, so I grabbed some turkey chili to go from the Turtle Stew and stopped by Jed's to eat it. Fortunately, he was home, working in the back room with Monty. Monty was dipping a molten blob into gray crystals, and Jed was watching.

I was amazed by the glittering menagerie on the rear room's worktable. The early works were apparent—poised horses with misshapen legs, apples the color of eggplant, globes with cracks in the side—but the evolution was also laid out, and at the end of the table was a series of glorious glass ballerinas, each perfectly delicate and balanced in various positions on a single, fragile toe.

“Monty, did you make these?” I set down my Styrofoam package of comfort food and reached for one of the dancers. “They're amazing.”

Jed turned down the music and loped over to where I was standing
. “The dude's incredible, isn't he? Go ahead and touch 'em. They won't break. At least, not if you don't drop them.”

I was already there. I held a dancer up to the light, amazed at the way her slippers appeared to be tied around her ankles, and the delicate depth of her frilled pink tutu. “Monty, you're a real artist.”

Monty only grunted. He grasped a second set of tongs and was pulling the blob apart like taffy. What I'd thought was a sprinkling of gray powder was warping and melting and transforming into a jeweled green as deep as a pine forest. I watched, and he pulled and yanked and prodded until the blob became a beautiful little swan, its long neck as graceful as a curtsy. He set it down on a sheet of metal on the table.

The process took my breath away. “Are you learning how to do that, Jed?”

He scratched his head ruefully. “Trying. Most of the leroys on the end are my handiwork,” he said, pointing to a pile of warped and misshapen figures. “But I'm getting really good at beads! Check it out.”

He led me to the table nearest the back door. It was half the size of the front table and covered in beads of all colors and shapes. Some were long, some were short, some had patterns, and others were navy, plum, lemon, and garnet red. “These rock! It looks like a pirate's treasure. You two are doing great work.”

Jed wagged his head happily. “I love it. Tomorrow's our grand opening. Can you come?”

“I can sure try. Will you have enough to sell?”

Monty pulled off his gloves and used a dental-pick type tool to texture the swan's wings. “We've got this much and more downstairs. The trick'll be to get it all out front before tomorrow night.”

“I can help.”

Jed smiled. “Thanks, Mir, but we got it. Johnny's coming over tonight, along with some other friends. You're welcome to stay, though, if you want.”

The mention of Johnny's name sent a jolt through me, half shame as I remembered my odor production and half pure hot tension. I hadn't been vitamin-free long enough to risk an encounter. “I can't, not tonight. I'll definitely be back for the grand opening, though.”

“OK, Mir. Hey, before you go, Monty mentioned you might want to buy some pot.”

I glanced over at Monty. He was intent on his work. “Not exactly. I was just asking about Clive. He's my neighbor, you know.”

Jed smiled his puppy smile. “He's a good guy. Just ask Monty. They go way back, don't you guys, Monty?”

“Sure, I suppose.”

I tilted my head. “You didn't mention that.”

Monty shrugged without interrupting the motion of his work. “Clive grew up here and so did I. Besides, you didn't mention anything about investigating him for Hallie Kicker.”

I made an involuntary noise. “Who told you that?”

Jed looked abashed. “I might have. Everybody's talking about it at Battle Sacks.”