Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 01 - Headaches Can Be Murder (5 page)

Jo turned to him, eyes flashing. “James Bond movie concept? Nah, I’d say this is an accepted theory. Don’t you think there are plenty of dictator nut-jobs and terrorists who would love to get their hands on microchip technology to control their enemies?”

“I think it’s highly unlikely. Think of all the good that could come out of microchip technology. People with brain damage, strokes, Alzheimer’s, seizures … the possibilities are endless.”

“Yes, and the possibilities for abuse are endless as well. That’s why there has to be the proper governmental oversight on this …”

John interrupted. “I believe in government oversight up to a point. But I’ve seen first-hand what happens when a group of overzealous bureaucrats get their hands on projects like this. It’s a nightmare of red tape. Meanwhile, there are thousands of people who could use the technology right now to vastly improve their lives.”

“Government oversight in the medical field is vital. Our vic proves that point.”

She has me there
. John had been frustrated numerous times over the years when technology that would help a current patient was unavailable due to the long process of FDA approvals. However, the death of Mitch Calhoun spoke volumes.

John looked out the window, thinking about the idea of a microchip for the brain.
Fascinating
. Suddenly, he sat up straight, noticing his surroundings for the first time in a couple of hours. “Hey, that’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

They had rounded a bend and were looking down over the harbor at the outskirts of Duluth. Several manufacturing plants dotted the edge of an ice-covered bay, pillows of smoke rising from their stacks. Jo pointed out the bridge to Wisconsin that spanned the bay. John said, “I’ve never been to Lake Superior before. I didn’t know it would be so impressive.”

They drove through the downtown area, passing restaurants, office buildings, and shops. Kids with University of Minnesota at Duluth jackets hurried along the streets, stepping into coffee shops. They passed the arched gateway leading to the Canal Park area, then continued northward on Highway 61, driving by the beautiful old mansions built with iron ore money perched on the cliffs overlooking Lake Superior.

Jo pointed out the largest mansion to John. It was tucked behind enormous wrought iron fencing. “That’s the Glensheen Mansion. It was built by Charles Congdon in the early 1900s. He had his fingers in all kinds of business pies, particularly iron ore. His daughter, Elisabeth inherited the house when he died just ten years after he moved in. She didn’t have any biological children, but adopted a daughter. A wild child, to say the least. The daughter got into drugs, the wrong sorts of men, all that. She ended up killing her elderly mother and a nurse in the mansion in the seventies.

“It’s open to tours now. ’Course, they don’t bring up the murders on the tour, unless someone asks them. They think homicide is bad for business.” Jo shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know about that. Seems to me they’d have more tours because of it. People are suckers for ghost stories, you know?”

“You seem to know a lot about this town. Are you from around here?”

She took a moment to respond. When she did, she was looking straight ahead, not at John. “Yes, I am.”

He waited a beat for her to add more. When the silence dragged on, he said, “And now you live in Minneapolis and are an agent of the F. B. of I.”

Her voice had an edge to it. “That’s me. I live in Minneapolis and I’m an FBI agent. Listen, you’re not going to be one of those know-it-all experts who asks nosy personal questions, are you?”

John was taken aback at her abruptness. They stared at each other a moment. He wasn’t quite sure what note he struck, but it obviously wasn’t a good one. John spoke first. “You know, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Just making small talk.” He looked around. They seemed to have left civilization behind. “Um, are we almost there?”

“Damn it! Missed the turn.” She pulled into the next parking lot and did a U-turn. Once they were headed back into town, she spoke up. “Look, I’m the one who should apologize. You asked a perfectly innocent question and I overreacted. Please accept my apologies.”

“No problem. I
am
a bit nosy sometimes.” He smiled at her and her lips curved upward in response. He found himself trying to think of ways to get a glimpse of that smile again.

Chapter Five

Turners Bend

Thanksgiving Week

During the next week Chip fell into a daily routine attuned to the rhythm and pace of life in Turners Bend. Sandwiched between breakfast at the Bun and an evening beer at the Bend, he worked on
Brain Freeze
. From his vantagepoint as a stranger in town, he keenly observed the events playing out before him, and these observations began to show up in his story in sometimes subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, ways.

The Bun had last been furnished in the sixties with gray linoleum floors and a gray Formica-covered counter. The counter stools and booths were upholstered in dark-red Naugahyde, and the tables were covered with red-and-white-checked plastic tablecloths. Roosters and chickens were printed on the café curtains that covered the bottom half of the front windows. Customers could sit at the tables and still see over the top of the curtains, so as not to miss any action on Main Street.

The café was a beehive of activity every weekday morning. Chip saw the same people, sitting in the same places and eating the same breakfasts morning after morning. This was a routine he had never observed in the Baltimore deli where he got a bagel and schmear to go every morning. No regulars lingered at the deli.

By the end of the week, he had staked out his own place, where he sat alone. It was a small table with a good view of the whole café. He got a few nods and waves, but never an invitation to join another table. It made him feel somewhat like a high school geek, but it did allow him to soak up the local culture and gather color for
Brain Freeze
.

He settled on his breakfast … two eggs over-easy, bacon, and wheat toast. On the menu it was called the Bender. He thought it might make him look like he belonged. The bacon was thick-sliced and dotted with pepper. The toast was slathered in butter to which he added homemade strawberry preserves. His cardiologist would have a heart attack if he knew.

Not only the breakfast fare was of interest to him, but also the clientele. Each morning a group of farmers surrounded one of the large tables. The corn had been harvested, and these guys seemed to have time on their hands. They all wore grimy seed caps and plaid flannel shirts and a few actually wore bib overalls. He listened to the clinking of spoons, as sugar and cream were added to cups of steaming black coffee. He was fascinated by one of the oldest-looking farmers, who poured his coffee into his saucer to drink it, another sight he had never witnessed in Baltimore. Conversations started with comments on the weather and proceeded to commodity prices for the day and then on to the fine art of farming. Chip understood little of what was discussed, but he loved their terse sentences and the Scandinavian lilt that reached his ears.

“Water froze up in the trough last night.”

“Ja, goin’ ta be a cold one this winter. Predicted in the
Almanac
.”

“See that new Chalmers over at Bud’s place? She’s a hellava machine.”

“Hear it’s got that newfangled GPS system. Foolishness, if you ask me.”

“Prices don’t get better, he’ll be riding that baby right back to the bank.”

He wished he had brought along a notebook to record this Midwest language, but then again that might raise even more suspicion about him.

One large booth near the front window was frequented by Turners Bend dignitaries … the mayor, the chief of police, the owner of the Feed and Seed and the president of Community Bank and Trust. All were men with too much around their waists and not enough on top of their heads. At times various merchants from along Main Street joined them. Chip picked up tidbits of local doings from this direction, tuning in especially when Chief Walter Fredrickson reported on recent crimes … lots of domestics and drunken assaults and an occasional drug bust.

“Hey, Chief, heard Pastor Henderson’s boy tried to set up a meth lab in the basement and nearly blew himself to kingdom come.”

“Ja, can’t wait for next Sunday’s sermon. Henderson should send that prodigal son packing. Boy’s a bad seed.”

“That free-for-all at the Bend last night was a doozie. Some of those boys will never grow up.”

His growing interest in all things criminal still surprised him at times. But crime was apparently going to be his genre, and he didn’t want to mess with success.

Workers from AgriDynamics, the town’s biggest employer, occupied the other large booth. Men from the third shift overlapped with workers for the first shift. They spoke in hushed tones with heads huddled together. Chip could only catch snippets of the conversation.

“… it’s got to stop …”

“… Jesus, I can’t afford to lose my job …”

“… the bastard’s making a fortune off our backs …”

Facial expressions in the group of workers ranged from fear to frustration and from anger to wariness. A head would occasionally pop up with furtive eyes scanning the café’s crowd. Chip shifted his chair to catch more of the conversation. Something was going on at AgriDynamics, and it piqued his curiosity. Sinister dealings within a manufacturer could be fuel for his next chapter.

Mabel and Iver sat together at the counter every morning, sometimes joking with each other or with Bernice the waitress and sometimes talking softly in serious, intimate tones.

“You should cut down on the eggs and bacon, Iver. I’m worried about your cholesterol.” Mabel placed her hand on Iver’s ham-sized arm.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, Mabel. It’s you we should be fretting about. You work too hard.” He reached his arm around her and patted her shoulder.

“If it weren’t for my job, I’d be too lonesome. Plus, Jane needs me.”

The two would occasionally stop for a few minutes at Chip’s table, and they became his first friends in Turners Bend. They were unlike any friends he had ever had, but he was really feeling the need for friends in this town. And strange as it seemed to him, he really liked this “salt of the earth” couple.

“Chip, your dog is a real sweetie,” said Mabel as she departed, leaving Iver sitting at the counter. “When Dr. Jane and I are in the office, we let her out, and she follows us around from room to room. I can see she’s a real people dog. You got to give her a name, you know. A dog should have a name.”

“Well, Mabel, if she’s so sweet, why don’t you call her ‘Honey’?”

“That’s perfect. I should have known a writer like you would come up with just the right name. You should be a daddy soon, maybe on Thanksgiving.”

Without missing a beat, she continued, “Now about Thanksgiving, you’ll come, won’t you? Iver, bless his heart, is going to make a deep-fried turkey. Dr. Jane is coming cuz Hal is taking Ingrid and Sven to Disney World. She’s bringing the pies. So it’s all settled. You come on Thursday about noon. See you then.”

Mabel bustled out the door, leaving Chip’s head spinning. What in the hell was he going to do with a dog and puppies? Would a deep-fried turkey be like a giant Chicken McNugget? Ingrid and Sven … sounded like a comedy team you would hear on the
Prairie Home Companion
radio show. He took his coffee cup and moved to the counter stool next to Iver, hoping for elucidation.

“So, Iver, you and Mabel an item?”

“A what?”

“Do I sense a romance?”

Iver lifted his empty coffee cup, and Bernice gave him a refill.

“Nah, I’m one of those confounded bachelors. She’s a widow lady. Her husband, Stan, was a hell of a nice guy. Blew a gasket in his head and died right there in their bed. What about you? You got a lady friend?”

Chip removed his glasses and wiped a butter smear off his lenses with a paper napkin while he gave Iver’s questions some thought. Then he answered, “No, I’m currently a ‘confounded’ bachelor, too. Say, Mabel just mentioned Ingrid and Sven, are they Dr. Swanson’s kids?”

“Yes … named after their great-grandparents who came over from the Old Country. They were on the same boat as my grandparents, Astrid and Olaf Ingebretson. Ingrid’s a pretty little thing like her mom. She’s going to follow in her mother’s footsteps and be a vet. Yup, she’s got a special way with animals. Don’t know what to say about Sven. That boy’s a handful, and it’s his old man’s fault. Jane and Hal been divorced for a long time.”

Something inside Chip stirred as he heard this new piece of information. Divorced. Possibly available. He didn’t want to sound too eager, but he sure wanted to know more. Or did he? He had vowed to stay away from women. Either they messed up his life or he messed up their lives.

“Does their father live around here?”

“Oh, ja, you can find him over at the Bend most nights, mean son of a bitch when he’s drinking and an asshole when he’s sober. Thinks he’s a big shot because he owns AgriDynamics. Name’s Harold H. Swanson III. Uppity name, isn’t it?” Chip made a mental note never to use his full name in Turners Bend. Charles Edgar Collingsworth III, impressed people in Baltimore, but in Turners Bend his name would set him apart in a very different way.