November Hunt (6 page)

“What?”

“Do they make you hairy all over?”

She paused. “No.”

I knew that tone of voice. “Let me see your arm.”

“No.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I'm going to post a flier informing everyone that your vitamins make people grow nipples on the backs of their hands if you don't show me your arm.”

Reluctantly, she doffed her pink jacket. Behind us, Peggy's line was growing longer as merry church ladies jostled for a chance to meet the new local celebrity. We could have been invisible for all the attention they paid us.

“It's not the hair and skin vitamins that did this,” Kennie said, peeling away the gloves. “It was the Viag-min.”

I leaned in close for a better look and couldn't silence my hoots of laughter. Although she had only a normal, modest dusting of hair on her arms, every single brown hair was standing erect, straining toward some unseen destination. “It's a hair army!”

She glared at me and brushed them down, but they popped right back up again. “It only lasts four to six hours. Then all the hairs lie flat again. Or if they don't, I have a 1-800 number to call.”

I was still giggling. “A cold shower might be quicker.”

She sniffed and pulled her gloves back on. “I guess you don't want to see what I have to offer.”

“I was just teasing. Don't take it personally. I might want to buy the hair vitamins.”

She was still miffed at me laughing at her hair-on. “I'd imagine so. I can see your scalp clean through your meager population up there.”

“Now you're just being mean.”

“All I'm saying is that there are plenty of women waiting in line to snatch up Johnny Leeson if you don't thicken your sparse offerings. You're one windy day away from a combover.”

“Fine,” I said, snatching the bottle out of her jacket. “I'll take your stupid hair vitamins, but not because I care what I look like. I'm just trying to get rid of you.”

“Mmm hmm. Twenty dollars. And take one in the morning and one at night, with food. At least that's what the bottle says. I took a few more to get my hair to this state.” She fluffed her waves, which was all the encouragement they needed to spring to attention like a fright wig. She must have felt the lightness because she hurriedly shoved her cap back. I handed her my last twenty, which had been earmarked for groceries and spent the next two hours forgetting about the vitamins as I helped Peggy sell her books and decorated the library for tonight's Love-Your-Library gala.

Peggy ended up staying much later than scheduled, right up until I closed the library in fact, because of all the people clamoring to see her. Her books were long gone and she appeared exhausted but content when I scooted the last fan outside and locked the door behind him.

“You're very popular,” I said.

She nodded wearily. “That's what it's all about, you know. Inspiring the masses. Giving people hope. I need to get back to that.” She reached in her purse for Purell and pushed up her sleeves past her elbows so she could douse herself.

“Let me show you out.”

“Wait! Remember you promised you were going to help me find my … erm, show me around. When?” Those batting eyes again.

I glanced at the clock. “Can I call you? It's looking to be a busy week.”

She returned the Purell to her purse and stood. “How about tomorrow?”

“It's my only day off.”

“Monday?”

I sighed. I was suffering from empathizer's remorse. “Monday is the deadline for the local newspaper. I do freelance work for them, and I have a standing promise with the editor that I'll keep Mondays mostly free for last-minute articles.”

“Tuesday?”

She was relentless. “When did you say your deadline was?”

“In two weeks.”

“Fine. Tuesday morning. I'll pick you up before I open the library. How's 7:00 sound?”

She clapped her hands. “Perfect! And you'll take me to somewhere inspirational to look for my mojo?”

“I'll try.” I was motioning her toward the door when the desk phone rang. “Battle Lake Public Library.”

“Mira. It's Ron. I need you to write an article on the hunt club.”

“Hi, Ron. How are you?”

“I need it by Thursday.”

“Have I ever mentioned what a pleasure it is conversing with you?” He'd always been a terse man, but he was outdoing himself.

“Deer Valley Hunt, over by Millerville. The owner will be at the library tonight. He's rich. We're running a feature.”

It took me a moment to locate the real meaning underneath his words. “Oh! He's a donor, and we want him to be more of a donor. You're having me write an article to benefit the library. Just when I thought you were nothing but a Scrooge.”

“Don't get too happy. I didn't call with good news. Hallie Kicker is in the hospital.”

Eleven

Ron didn't know the
details, so I shooed Peggy quickly out the door, assuring her that we were still on for Tuesday, and strode back to the phone to call the Alexandria hospital, where Hallie'd been brought in by ambulance. After being assured that she was not in intensive care but also not available to talk, I requested the visiting hours, glancing at the clock and calculating as I scribbled them down. If I could get rid of tonight's guests by a reasonable hour, say eight-thirty, which was a half an hour after the Love-Your-Library event was scheduled to end, I'd have time to run to the hospital and make sure she was okay.

Unfortunately, there was no time to dwell on the details. The caterers were at the door. I held it open for them as they carried in the tables and began setting out the banquet pans and glassware. They were a local company, Food by Design, and this was the fourth year they'd catered this event. It was my first, so I stayed out of their way. I excused myself to the back room where I changed into my only winter dress, a navy blue number with a loose silk top that suggested I had boobs if you didn't know any better, an empire waist, and a swinging crepe bottom that fell just below the knee and suggested I had a flat stomach, if you didn't know any better. All in all, I considered it $29.99 well spent. I also wore nude nylons and matching navy blue flats. If you ever have to choose between being able to run from danger and looking sexy hot, you want to know you put your safety first.

My head didn't match the rest of my body, so I plugged in my curling iron and let it heat while I traced the upper lid of my gray eyes with dark blue liner, which brought out their hazel flecks, and slapped on mascara. I lightly dusted my cheeks with cherry-colored blush and glossed my lips. The curling iron put a nice wave in my long brown hair, but I felt too girly and so twisted it all up into a tight-messy bun and declared myself as pretty as I was gonna get.

When I returned to the main room of the library, the Food by Design people had rearranged it so there was a central visiting area circled by tables laden with hot finger food like chicken wings and mini-egg rolls, cheese, meat, vegetable, and fruit platters, sparkly nonalcoholic drinks as well as whiskey, vodka, rum, mixers, red and white wines, a selection of beers, and bite-sized dessert pastries. The deep burgundy tablecloths and the large leafy plants they'd arranged played off the twinkle lights, turning the library into a classy soiree spot. Strains of classical music complemented the feel. All that was left to do was wait for the company.

Love-Your-Library was started five years ago as a way to thank individuals and families who had donated $500 or more to the library in the calendar year. When I first surveyed the guest list that the city handed down to me, it looked like it was more of an opportunity for the town council to rub elbows with the wealthiest people in the county, but they signed my paycheck and I could give them two hours of schmoozing in return. Plus, I'd been promised that the city would mail out the invitations and pay the caterer, so there was little for me to do other than show up. My kinda party.

The first people to arrive were Bernie and Roy Nordman, the owners of the local hardware store. I was nervous and hung on to my clipboard containing the guest list like it was a security blanket. Probably sensing my discomfort in the hostess role, they made pleasant jokes about how hungry they were. I steered them toward the drinks, thinking everyone has more fun when they're liquored up, and checked them off the list. I was gratified when people began to stream in after that, and as the noise level grew, I made a note to push the stacks farther back to create more room at this event next year. Then I froze. Would I be living in Battle Lake next year? I'd moved here to get my head on straight and had only planned to stay through last summer. I pushed those thoughts down and continued to meet, greet, and check off my list, inwardly intimidated by the suits and the fancy dresses but outwardly confident. I hoped.

Sadly, as I checked off names, I realized Tom Kicker was on my list, which had been generated weeks before his death. I was just about to cross him off when Clive Majors strode through the door with Carla, a waitress I recognized from Bonnie and Clyde's, a bar in Clitherall, the next town over. Clive stared defiantly at the crowd, a tall, wiry scarecrow of a man with slicked-back hair. The chatter in the large room dropped an octave. My stomach followed suit. I hadn't yet hammered out the discussion where I conversationally led him to reveal that yes, he had a surveillance camera hooked up to his barn and no, he didn't regularly view his recordings. What was he doing here, messing up my lack of plans?

I quickly scanned my list. Nope. No Clive. This event was designed to be 100 percent Battle Lake bourgeoisie. I glanced around the room, but after a few uncomfortable stares and except for one guy who stared like Clive had antlers sprouting out of his head, most people went back to their conversations. Clive and his date beelined straight to the liquor table. I could tell by his sway that he'd already been hitting the bottle, and his bloodshot eyes suggested that wasn't the only self-medication he'd enjoyed tonight. He was wearing a suit at least—a worn, dark-blue polyester outfit with a clashing tie. There was something very sad about it. I was on my way to greet him when the front door opened to let in a freezing gust and the night's flashiest couple: Mayor Kennie Rogers and Chief of Police Gary Wohnt.

Gary had been demoted to deputy when he'd ended a purported affair with Kennie to follow a religious minx across the country a few months back. He'd returned to reclaim his job, no explanations or apologies. Kennie'd forced him to work as a deputy before fully reinstituting him as Chief of Police in October. He must have done something to return to her good graces, but I refused to imagine the details because I'd just need to wash my brain out later.

Frankly, it was difficult to be in the same room with Wohnt. He and I had always had a challenging relationship, with him consistently holding the information I needed and me always being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This dynamic, combined with his taciturn manner, should have been enough to make me permanently avoid him. Enter last month, when I realized that he exactly resembled Chief Wenonga, the super-hot, completely stereotypical but compellingly sexy 23-foot fiberglass statue that graced the northern edge of the town. I'd had a crush on the statue for an unhealthily long time. Wenonga was just my type—tall, dark, and emotionally unavailable. I'd never noticed the resemblance between the Chief of my heart and the Chief of Battle Lake because Gary had been doughy and a little greasy before he'd left to follow his woman who was following Jesus, but he came back to town taut and hot. And I didn't like it one bit.

In fact, it was physically uncomfortable to see him in the black dress pants and button-down white shirt with a commanding navy blue tie. I wanted him to be much more easily categorized as repellent lawman without the confusion of his new appearance. I scowled in his direction. I wasn't sure he possessed the muscles required for smiling, but without his usual mirrored sunglasses, he appeared relaxed. He helped Kennie with her coat, revealing a resplendent, white-sequined dress. If Mrs. Berns was here, she'd tell Kennie she looked like she'd been set on fire and put out with a shovel, but since she wasn't, I had to admit that Kennie looked pretty good. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun revealing features as pretty as a porcelain doll's. Her make-up was thick but she made it work. The dress squeezed her in all the right places, highlighting a plush, womanly figure. Dang, I wish Mrs. Berns was here.

“Mira, come hug me!”

I looked around but didn't see any other Miras. I let Kennie approach me. “We don't hug,” I whispered, so as not to embarrass her in front of the people nearest us.

“Of course we do.” She wrapped me in a tight grip and leaned toward my ear. “Do I smell funny?” she hissed.

She needn't have asked. “You had me at ‘of course we do,'” I gasped, covering my mouth. “What is that? It smells like the inside of a chipmunk.”

“Holy hell. I thought only I could smell it.”

“I
wish
only you could smell it.”

“What am I going to do? Have you seen the Chief ? He looks tastier than chocolate and wine. I can't make something of this night with my breath like this.”

“Is it the vitamins?”

She considered this. “I suppose. I started on the de-wrinklers today. Do you have mints?”

“Lemme check.” I waded to the back room to dig in my coat pockets and found a mint that was red, white, and fuzz. I brushed it off and brought it out to her with a warning. “It's a bit like expecting a tugboat to save the Titanic, you know. I think that odor is leaking out your pores.”

“Shush. This will do just fine.”

I wrinkled my nose. I couldn't quite place the odor, but it was powerful and familiar. “Wet chicken?”

She growled at me and left to work the crowd, which consisted of all the doctors, dentists, business owners, and heirs in the county. She seemed in her element, but I couldn't help but feel like my dress and my conversation were less then sparkly. I seized the moment to confront Clive. It would be better to meet this head on, I'd decided. I spotted him and Carla standing off to the side, looking sullen while eating manchego and membrillo mini-souffles, which was no mean feat.

“How are you two doing?” Carla had the decency to drop her eyes in party-crasher shame. Clive, on the other hand, looked like he was here to prove something, which made my stomach lurch.

“I don't want trouble,” he said, reaching for the cocktail he'd placed on the table at his side. He emptied it in a gulp.

“No trouble.” I smiled queasily. I didn't know whether he was referring to crashing the party or to my trespassing. I chose the safer focus. “This event is technically open to the public, but only the bigwigs get invited. It's nice to see some commoners besides myself.”

He shot me a glance that I swear was grateful but then turned dark. It was now or never. “Say, I accidentally stopped by your place yesterday. I was walking my dog and got lost. We're neighbors, you know.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn't respond. The silence between us created a buzzing tension that I couldn't stand. I turned to Carla. “How're things at Bonnie and Clyde's?”

She took a swallow of her glass of white. “Better than you'd think. People get cabin fever in this weather and treat a bar like their second home.”

“Yeah,” I said wistfully, remembering the days I drank. “Well, thank you both for coming. All the food and drink has to go, so don't leave hungry.”

I walked away and felt a stare aimed at me. It was the same guy who hadn't pulled his eyes from Clive when he'd entered. The ogler was average height, in his mid-to-late 60s, and sporting a thick but well-groomed mustache that for some reason made me think of small penises and Hawaiian shirts. He had me locked in his sights and didn't look away when I met his gaze.

He was a stranger to me, but as the donors could be from anywhere in the county, it was no surprise that I didn't know every
one. I strode over with my checklist because there was no way I was
going to let this googler creep me out. This evening I'd allowed for
mal wear to intimidate me, but I'd spent enough years waiting
tables that I couldn't let an eye pirate steal my power. When he registered that I was moving toward him, he broke eye contact and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to another man I didn't recognize and a third I did—Mike Ramos, Otter Tail County's
recently
retired sheriff.

I held my hand out to the guy modelling the Tom Selleck lip warmer. “I'm Mira James. I run the library.” It would have been more efficient to call myself a librarian, but that would have been a lie without a clear benefit.

He shook my hand firmly. His was cool and dry, and his eyes were now aloof. “The name is Frederick. You know Mike and Mitchell?” He indicated his conversational partners.

“Mike and I have met, but I'm afraid I don't know Mitchell.” I shook their hands in turn.

“Mitchell Courier,” said the second stranger, a guy built like the Brawny man with an aggressive smile. “I own Deer Valley Hunt Club. I believe we were destined to meet tonight.”

His smile was meant to put the humor in his words, but I didn't like his eyes. They were dark brown and watery and looked like they preferred laughing at rather than with someone. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Courier. Ron said you'd be here tonight. We need to schedule an interview.”

“That's right. And I'll do you that favor if you do me this one.” He handed over a pile of fliers he'd been gripping in his hippo-potamic fist. Each page was bordered in Christmas trees framing an ad requesting temporary wait staff for the Christmas Hunt a week from this Wednesday, the inauguration of a five-day hunting blow-out, according to the copy. “I need about a dozen single-day waitresses, and I pay well. Can I leave these fliers on your counter?”

“I don't see why not.” And I wished I did because I liked him less the more I talked to him. I accepted the fliers. “Are you free for lunch on Wednesday?”

“For the interview?”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you come by the hunt club and I'll lay myself open.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Or you can just answer a few questions.”

“A woman who knows what she wants. I like it. Wednesday at noon it is.”

I nodded, wishing I could spray him with some Kennie breath. I changed the subject instead. “Are the three of you enjoying yourselves?”

“It's very nice, every year it is,” said Mike. “Thanks for inviting us.”

We all knew it wasn't up to me, but hey. Mike had a reputation in the area as being a fair sheriff. I wondered what he was doing with these two creepers. I wasn't sure what he'd been up to lately but knew he'd retired his star shortly after I moved to town, and not because of me. I swear. “You're welcome. How's retirement treating you?”