November Hunt (5 page)

Eight

The fifth chapter in
Private Investigating for Morons
covered surveillance. In reading the book, I'd been disappointed to discover that the author hadn't taken into account how truly clueless some of us are—
The Marginally Ignorant's Guide to Private Investigation
would have been a more accurate title for the tome—but I was grateful that she was clear as to the basic rules of effective snooping:

1. Verify and crosscheck your subject's identity through various means, including photographic evidence, Internet searches, and
firsthand witnesses. Consider subscribing to a public records
directory to assist in this first step; any premium service will efficiently and accurately complete background checks, perform property searches, access criminal record databases, and search for tax liens, bankruptcies, judgments, and court records.

2. Once your subject's identity is established, familiarize yourself with his/her normal routine. Stay at least 400 yards distant at all times.

3. Create a cover story in case you're made, and always plan your exit. If your role is discovered, your investigation is compromised.

The records directory sounded like a great idea until I discovered it cost $49.95 a month. I'd deposited my $500 retainer the same day I'd received it. Then, I'd immediately written a check in the same amount and posted it to the student loan bank to keep my account from being sent to a collections agency. I'd have no more disposable income until I received my thin paycheck in a week or completed enough work for Hallie to justify a second installment on my services. I needed to up the ante and produce something on Clive.

Since I had number 1 covered—I knew Clive by sight already—I moved immediately to number 2. I called Jed to find out the schedule he had been hired to work. My call had woken him. Groggily, he'd verified that he was informed he'd be on call at all hours but that the regular shift was Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, midnight until noon. Once he explained that the line mechanic's main job was maintenance and that it made more sense to work on the equipment when no one was around, those inhumane hours made sense.

Today was Saturday, which meant Clive was currently at Battle Sacks, oiling the machines. I'd have plenty of time for light snooping before starting my busy workday at the library. On to number 3: I was a neighbor out walking her dog. What better cover story did I need? All that was left to do was bundle up and hoof it across the prairie to Clive's property to peek in the windows. I wasn't sure what I would find but figured it was a good place to start looking. Plus, since the temperature promised to crack zero today, I'd planned to take Luna for her first long walk since this steel-cold trap had seized the county.

Luna was a sweetheart of a dog, an orphaned German Shepherd-collie mix. Sunny, whose house I was sitting, had almost flattened the poor pup on a country road coming home from work one night. She'd scooped up the shaking puppy and brought her home. That was four years ago. Luna had come with the house-sitting gig, and I was happy for her company. She was loyal, smart, and put up with my cat. I grabbed the little-used leash before we left. She always stayed close by my side when we walked, but I figured leashing her would add credibility to our story. Plus, I knew Clive was an avid hunter, and I didn't want Luna accidentally stepping on any below-the-radar fox traps he might have set on his property.

The morning was beautiful, the promise of above-zero temperatures causing the snow crystals to reflect sharp rainbows of color back toward the bright yellow sun. The easing of the deep freeze released a range of smells, and I caught the keen scent of frozen trees and cold dust.

“Not too bad, eh Luna?” She wagged happily at me.

Clive's land was a two-mile trek through the woods on the southwest side of Sunny's property. He'd built his house on seven landbound acres near Whiskey Lake. I'd never had any reason to visit, but I passed his mailbox every time I drove Whiskey Road to work. His house and three outbuildings were far back but visible from the road, though you could only see the roof of the old barn when driving past. I'd never paid much attention, but I had noticed that he kept his house well-painted and didn't have any junk in his yard. I also didn't remember ever seeing a dog.

Luna and I crunched through the oak forest. Although she was initially annoyed by the leash, she got over it and we made decent time. Clive's red barn appeared through the leafless trees first. To the right stood two white sheds blending into the snowy landscape, and on the other side of the barn was his house. I ordered Luna to sit, and we both listened intently. The only sounds were the soft shuffle scrape of the rare dried leaf scratching against branches and the far-off hum of traffic.

I looked down at Luna, and she smiled back up at me. I knew our story depended on us walking together, but no one would believe we'd accidentally walked up to Clive's house, so I might as well let her loose in case we needed to make a dash for it. She wagged and licked my face when I bent down to unclip the leash.

“Just two gals out for a leisurely stroll,” I told her. I wound the rope up and tossed it over my shoulder. Next, because though I may be dumb I certainly wasn't stupid, I yelled out. “Helloo! Anyone here? It's Mira, your neighbor.” I was 99 percent sure Clive was at work, but 100 percent sure that if he wasn't, I didn't want to get accidentally shot.

When there was no answer, we took off toward the settlement. A well-worn path led the way. Given Clive's reputation as a devoted hunter, it was unsurprising that he'd spend a lot of time traversing his woods. I took care to keep my boot prints inside of his, though given the crusty consistency of the snow and the constant wind rearranging everything, I probably didn't need to bother. Still, I wanted to get in and out of here without a trace.

We were nearing the barn when Luna stopped, her hackles raised. A growl, scratchy and black, rumbled out of her mouth. The noise slipped like a wolverine's claw up my back. I'd never heard her make that sound before. I shot my eyes around the open yard but couldn't see anything out of order. That's when I caught the soft clicking sound, a repetitive snap that reminded me of sharp teeth on bone. It was coming from the barn. I sniffed the air and couldn't pick up a trace of farm animal musk or waste, but I couldn't help thinking of the town legend that Clive'd fed his family to the pigs. Had it been true? Had I stumbled onto an R-rated horror movie?

Luna's growl grew fiercer, more constant, and I reached for her collar to soothe her, my heart racing. She snarled at my touch but did not move her eyes off a spot just around the curve of the barn.

“Luna, come.” I whispered, my mouth dry. Screw the investigation. This suddenly felt so very wrong. “It's time to go.” I backed toward the woods, darting my eyes to the right and left but still not picking up anything. The tooth-on-bone click continued from the barn. Luna refused to budge. I was afraid to touch her again. I didn't recognize this feral side of her, but I couldn't leave her, so I tiptoed back, unwound the leash from my shoulder, and bent down to slip it through her collar. That's when a brown shape materialized around the corner, rushing toward us like a two-headed beast.

Nine

Luna leapt, and the
creature held its shape long enough for me to realize it was an old boxer, so simultaneously scared and thrilled to have company that it was sidling toward us, head and butt moving forward at the same pace.

“Luna!” I yelled, but I needn't have bothered. She stood over the boxer, which had rolled immediately onto his back, and waited for me to reach her side.

“That's a good boy,” I said, kneeling down to scratch the boxer's ears and the thin fur on his brown-and-white-speckled belly. As soon as I touched his tummy, his mouth opened up and a big tongue rolled out like a welcome mat. “You had us scared, doggie. But you're just doing your job, aren't you? What's your name?” I reached for the boxer's collar. Chuck.

“Well, Chuck, do you think you could show us around? We won't take anything.” My body was still pumping thick adrenaline, but the flight or fight directive was easing.

I stepped back and Luna, proud of a job well done, sat on her haunches and stared self-importantly into the distance, too proud to acknowledge the fawning dog on the ground. She'd been spending too much time with Tiger Pop. Chuck jumped up as soon as I stopped petting him and wormed his way around my legs.

“What do you think, Luna? Should we see what's making that noise in the barn? Chuck, what do you think?” Chuck thought I should double-check his belly to make sure I hadn't missed a spot, and Luna was no longer in an aggressive posture, so I made my way toward the nearest window on the old barn. This required me to step off the trail, but the snow was hard-packed enough that my prints barely dusted the surface. The snow also raised the ground level so that I could peek into the windows without straining. I was initially confused by the black interior, but then I caught sight of a tiny scratch on the interior surface that allowed out some light, and I realized that the window had been painted black from the inside. I moved to the next, and the next, and found they were all the same.

Inside, the clicking continued with such regularity that I realized it must be mechanical. Maybe Clive had built a time machine, and that's what he didn't want anyone to know about. It was maddening not being able to see what was going on. At the front of the barn, I saw that the original carriage doors had been removed and in their place was a modern, windowless garage door. Above, the entrance to the haymow had been replaced by a beautiful bay window that let in plenty of light. Unfortunately, it was fifteen feet off the ground.

I glanced over at Luna and Chuck. All of the boxer's fear had been replaced by wiggle. He danced around Luna, begging her to play with him. She looked like she was considering it. Since the dogs were okay, I made my way to the house, where I peeked in all the windows just as I had done to the barn but with more success.

The inside of Clive's house revealed him to land somewhere between bachelor and hoarder in terms of cleanliness. His dishes were unwashed and pizza boxes and beer cans were piled around, which belied the cleanliness of his yard. Still, he had live plants clustered around the windows, so he couldn't be all bad. A circumnavigation of the house didn't turn up a ladder, and the other two outbuildings were also locked and had blackened windows. Frustrated, I returned to the barn and walked around it once more.

My second complete pass didn't reveal anything new, but on my third pass, I caught a scent that was distinctly out of place. I followed it to a warp in the wood between the windowsill and the glass. I put my hand up to it and felt a tropical heat even through my mittens. I leaned in and squinted through the crack with one eye and felt the heat on my face, followed by the unmistakable peppery green scent of growing marijuana. The size of the crack limited my view, but in my scope of vision was row upon row of lush and leafy pot plants, all of them at least five feet high and orange sticky on the ends. The clicking noise was louder through the crack, and I realized it was the sound of timed grow lights. The gardener in me envied the set-up. I could harvest fresh tomatoes and basil all year long if I had this going on in my barn.

I pulled back from the crack and leaned against the building. Both dogs had followed me, and Luna had dropped her cool nonchalance in favor of some mock-serious dog wrestling. Other than their play growls and the occasional car passing by a half a mile away, there was nothing to hear but the click click of metal halide high-intensity grow lights. If what I'd seen was any indication, Clive had tens of thousands of dollars of marijuana flowering in a very expensive environment. I whistled through my teeth. Though I wasn't personally offended by Clive's ventures, I knew the law would view him as a criminal. Was he also a killer? I strode to the front of the barn, ready to take my thoughts home to organize them.

A bird screeched overhead, an angry crow by the sound of it. Both dogs stopped tussling and shot a glance in the direction of the noise. I followed their sightline, but it wasn't the sleek black bird that caught my attention. It was the surveillance camera hiding just under the lip of the jutting roof, pointing directly at my face.

Ten

My first instinct was
to shield my face with my hands, but it was too late. The placement of the camera suggested it was operative. If Clive had simply wanted to use it as a prop to scare off trespassers, he would have made it more visible. I cursed my idiocy. There was nothing to do now but hope. If the camera was recording, Clive would know I'd been here.

Chuck followed Luna and me most of the way home. He probably would have come to live with us if I hadn't made Luna ignore him after a while. Demoralized by our lack of attention, he eventually slunk back home. I felt bad, but I had already messed with Clive's boundaries enough without taking his dog, too.

I'd need to hatch a plan to cross paths with Clive in the next couple days and feel out how much of my visit he knew about. His camera could have been out of tape, or maybe he only checked it irregularly. If either was true, I was still undercover. Even if he saw the recording of me in front of his barn, the angle of the camera wouldn't allow for him to see the extent of my snooping. I could stick with my original story that I was out walking Luna and apologize for accidentally trespassing. It sounded logical, but I couldn't escape the chilly thought that I was dealing with a dangerous man.

The spy mission had taken more time than I expected, so I scrambled to get ready for work. I also wanted to make time to ask Jed if he knew that Clive grew and presumably sold weed. If anyone would know the dealers in the county, Jed would. I had only
time to comb my hair, grab a change of clothes for tonight's
library benefit, feed my animals, and snatch a banana and a can of Cuban rice and beans for lunch before dashing out the door.

Cursing, I remembered I'd also reluctantly arranged a booksigning for noon today. The author had recently relocated to Battle Lake and had introduced herself as a writer of inspirational religious aphorisms. If that description didn't make me want to take up drinking again, I didn't know what did. The woman—Peggy McMillian was her name—had built a thriving career as the writer of the little sayings that appear on church signs, like “Don't give the Devil a ride and expect him to wear his seat belt,” and “The Ten Commandments are not multiple choice.”

Her work was so popular that she'd been offered a book contract.
A Penance for Your Thoughts
had immediately gone into a second and then a third printing and was one of the most popular books in the Battle Lake library's collection. Spiritual soundbites weren't my cup of tea, but I was a librarian, and all books must be equal in my eyes. That didn't mean I had to like them all, just pretend equally.

I stopped at Larry's Supermarket to pick up assorted cookies and apple cider for the event. Today's break in the weather had people out laughing and stocking up on groceries before the next cold snap, but I managed to weave in and out of the giddy crowds. At the library, I had just enough time to fill the hot beverage tureen and arrange the cookies before the first knock came at the door. I looked up to see Peggy herself, a dark-haired, frog-shaped woman in her fifties who'd sported crumbs on her clothing both of the previous times I'd interacted with her. She'd also been twitchy and inclined to talking about her medical conditions. I didn't expect today to be any different. Her only apparent redeeming quality was her voice. It clicked and sang like a handful of glass marbles tossed up into the sunshine.

I strode over and unlocked the door. “Hi, Peggy. How are you?”

“Fine, fine,” she said, stepping in and setting a box of books on the counter before removing her scarf. “This cold plays dickens on my joints, and I think my eyesight is going, though. I have a doctor's appointment on Monday.”

I studied her for a second. Yup, only in her fifties. I wondered how long she'd been a hypochondriac. I tried putting a positive spin on the conversation. “At least you got nice weather for your book signing.”

“Nice weather if you're a germ.” She looked over my shoulder. “Are those cookies?”

I stepped to the side. “Help yourself. Do you want me to help you set up your books?”

“Yes, but make sure to arrange them spine out along the back of the table, leaving only enough room for me to lean forward to sign copies but not so much room that people can come around and stand close. The last thing I need is to pick up a flu bug. Then, display three books on each side, standing up and partially open but so that the cover can be read. You're very kind. Thanks for having me, too.”

I mumbled something about it not being any problem and began unpacking her books and arranging them as per her instructions. I glanced at the spine of one. Her publisher was Inspiration Industries. How nice that capitalism and spiritual enlightenment had found yet another spot to merge. At the bottom of the book box, I discovered a hard-backed poster of Peggy, which I set at an angle. When I turned back around, she'd polished off three Oreos and a macaroon, judging by the crumbs on her chest and holes in the cookie tray, and was holding my copy of
Private Investigating for Morons
in her hand.

“This yours?” she asked.

“It's a library book,” I said, evading the question.

“But are you reading it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank God.” She fell into the nearest chair, an upholstered swivel computer seat, and moaned and swayed. She had sweat circles encroaching on the pinched white fabric under her arms. “Hallelujah! He always provides.”

“Are you okay?”

She reached over for the
Morons
book and fanned her face with it, still humming and amen-ing in between her words. “My inspiration left me. It up and fled as soon as my book was published. It was pride, I know it. I wasn't humble, and I made money off my gift. Don't you see?”

I looked uncomfortably over my shoulder, smelling a freshly baked restraining order. I'd hosted authors before, and while they weren't a bunch you'd typically take life management lessons from, they seemed to play well with others and generally behave respectably in public. Peggy, however, was sweating like a Lutheran at the Inquisition, her glistening eyes staring greedily at me as she continued to fan her face.

“I'm afraid I don't,” I said. “Do you need some fresh air?” I figured all I had to do was lead her outside, lock the door behind her, and call the police.

“Are you deaf ? I lost my mojo. I can't write these any more.” She reached over to a carefully arranged row of
A Penance for Your Thoughts
and shoved my display to the floor, where the books landed with a slapping thump. The effort slid her glasses down her nose. She pushed them back up with her pointer finger. “My greed got the better of me, and now I can no longer parse the words that inspire millions to seek the Light. They used to come to me as easily as breathing, right up until this book came out and I cashed my first royalty check. Once it was no longer a labor of love, the well dried up. Now I can't write anything more creative than my own name.”

I relaxed a lick. What I was witnessing was writer's block with a splash of religious fervor, not a psychotic break. “Oh, you can't write your aphorisms any more?”

“They weren't
my
aphorisms. They belonged to the faithful. I was merely their vehicle.” She reached for a fistful of cookies and popped them like aspirin.

I kneeled to pick up and reorganize the books. I paged through one as I stacked it. “Maybe there's enough here to last for a while?”

She talked around a mouthful. “There would be, if I hadn't signed another contract. I owe them a second book in a month. That's why it's a sign that we've crossed paths! You are a detective. I am going to hire you to locate my mojo.”

I shook my head. The woman was an emotional train wreck, and I liked drama a little more than pap smears and a little less than ill-fitting jeans. “It's just a book on private investigation. I'm not licensed, and even if I were, PIs don't look for mojo. You need a career change maybe, not a detective.”

“No. This is a sign. I firmly believe in signs.” She held up a copy of her book, which, in fact, featured a photo of a church sign on the front, the book's title inserted into it. “You'll help me, won't you?”

“Nope.” I'd already taken on one too many cases for an unlicensed PI. Besides, this woman screamed high maintenance. I rearranged the cookies to cover the massive gap she'd created and began to switch on the computers. That's when I heard her sniffling and turned to see her batting her eyes like a toad in a hailstorm.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “It's why I moved to Battle Lake, you know.
I thought if I got away from it all, I'd find my way back into the Lord's good graces. When my friend Lynne asked me to housesit here, it was just the perfect opportunity. You know, a sign.”

I felt the shot of premonitory fear and pity through my stomach. “You came to Battle Lake to housesit?”

“Yes.” She blew her nose into a large purple handkerchief she'd pulled from her purse. “Just for a couple months. Then I return to Kentucky.”

Just for a couple months
. I knew how that story ended: six dead bodies, an overused detachable shower head, and a ring of belly fat shaped oddly like Tator Tot hotdish later, she'd still be here, maybe working for the newspaper, maybe at the library, possibly volunteering at the nursing home. I sighed from the depths of my soul, my cynical side warring with my human side. My human side won, but grudgingly. “Look, I'm not a detective, but I'd be happy to show you around while you're here. Maybe you can pick up some inspiration from the environment.”

She became fidgety again. “Okay, that's a start. How much will it cost?”

“$49.95.”

She nodded, suddenly distracted. “Do you have an air filter on the furnace in here? I think I'm coming down with something, and dirty air is the last thing I need.”

The front door chimed, and in walked the mayor of Battle Lake. She was wearing a pink, fake-fur-lined ski parka, matching snow pants, and high-heeled boots, which I guessed were about as climate-appropriate as tiaras. Underneath a jaunty pink beret, she wore make-up that looked as though it had been applied with a spatula.

“There's worse things than dirty air,” I muttered under my breath. Kennie had been my worst enemy when I'd moved to Battle Lake. She was a self-involved, calculating Mary Kay of a woman with no loyalties. Since May, however, the Fates had contrived to throw us together on more than one occasion, and she and I had struck an uneasy truce. She was now like the skin tag you couldn't afford to remove so made the best of.

Kennie sailed past me and held out her manicured hand to Peggy. “I hope I am the first one to welcome you to our lovely town.” As always, Kennie's Southern drawl was out of place in the Midwest, especially from a woman who'd never been farther south than Albert Lea.

Peggy recoiled. “I'm afraid I don't shake hands. Viruses, you know. I'd be happy to sign a copy of my book for you.”

Kennie appeared nonplussed, but quickly recovered. “I get my inspiration from actions and not words, honey pie. Has it been a busy day for you?” She asked, indicating the empty library.

As if on command, a line of women burst through the door, each of them carrying at least one copy of
A Penance for Your Thoughts
. I stood aside so Peggy could begin her signing, her troubles lost for the moment amid the clamor of fame and attention.

“I come down here personally to welcome her to town and get pushed aside like day-old bread,” Kennie grumbled, appearing beside me. “I could write a book too, if all it took was making up a sentence or two. How about this: ‘a closed mouth catches no flies, and a closed fly catches no mouths.' Look, I'm an
author
.”

“You'd be drawing on a whole different crowd with that one,” I said, strolling away from her and toward the book return bin. “Sorry this was a wasted trip.”

“Not a waste at all.”

I recognized that tone of voice, and it struck a fear chord. Kennie fancied herself an entrepreneur and regularly invented new business ideas. Her scams were an eclectic mix, from home bikini waxings to coffin tables, and they never ended well for either of us. Usually, it was worse for me. “What do you mean?”

“Funny you should ask.” Kennie strolled next to me, unzipped her coat, and flashed me, revealing a row of pills encased in light brown jars that were hanging off hand-sewn hooks like cheap Rolexes. “I'm selling good stuff.”

“I can't believe it,” I said. “Oh no wait, I mean the opposite of that.”

“Amazing, right?”

“Tell me those are vitamins.”

“Actually, they are.” She plucked out a bottle of horse-sized pills. “See these? They make your skin as clear as a baby's bottom and your hair as thick as a lion's mane.”

“When I think ‘baby's bottom,' I don't think ‘clear.'”

“What comes to mind when you see this?” And she plucked the pink beret off her head to reveal thick, wavy tresses where before had been over-dyed, brittle platinum hair.

“That's a wig.”

“Pull it.”

“But then I'd have to touch your head.”

“Pull it.” She grabbed my hand and stuck it to her head. At first repulsed, curiosity got the better of me and I tugged. No movement. I tugged again. It was real hair.

“The vitamins did that?”

“Yup.”

“What's in them? Hooves and Rogaine?”

“Does it matter? They give you the hair of a Brazilian supermodel in under a month.”

My mind raced. I'd always been cursed with thin hair, and I had a date with Johnny tomorrow. What if my hair was thicker by then? Even a little bit? They were just vitamins, right? God help me, I was considering it. But there was a catch. There had to be. “All over?”