Thin Ice (17 page)

“Make sure you do it on Wednesday, okay? And what about my idea of going around to the car lots?”

“That’s a lot of driving. I’m not sure I can get the car for that”

“Tell your mom it’s for something else, then. Please, Jace!”

“I’ll try. How you doing today?”

“Less than great. I was ambushed by a therapist, I got my first speeding ticket, and my stomach feels like it was introduced to
E. coli.
Call me when you get it done, okay?”

He promised, we said good night, I hung up, and only then remembered about his play audition. Never mind, I’d ask next time.

I was in my bathrobe on my way to the shower when the doorbell rang. “How do people know?” I groaned. Another ring, long and shrill. Could I ignore it? I knelt at the window and peeked. No car, probably Jean or Kady.

As soon as I opened the door Mrs. Drummond marched in. Where had I seen that expression before? Ah, yes, the state trooper.

“Welcome home. How’s your mother?”

“Stable and comfortable. I’m supposed to be your guardian, Arden.”

“That’s good about your mom. And I’m supposed to be emancipated.”

“Not entirely. I leave for a weekend and within an hour of getting home I hear that you had a party here—” Yeeps.

“—and that you have spent time and money plastering the town with missing-person posters. Then I hear that today you left school early to come home, but instead disappeared for hours. No one knew where you were. You are pushing the limits, Arden. My limits.”

This was new, and I took a moment to savor it. Never in my memory had I received a motherly scolding. Perversely, I found it pleasant.

“The party wasn’t much. Some people came by uninvited and I got rid of them as soon as I could.” I restrained myself wonderfully and didn’t look toward the vomit stain.

She unbuttoned her coat. “That’s what Kady guessed. I heard about it when we ran into Paula Rock at the store. She said her son reported you threw—and I quote—a ‘good one.’ I should never have left you alone, Arden. Next time I won’t.”

“Next time I’ll be ready and won’t let anyone in. Things were okay, Mrs. D.”

“And where were you today?”

“Duluth. Superior. There were a few things I needed to do.”

She pulled a folded flyer out of her coat pocket. “Related to this?”

The motherly scolding was losing its appeal. “Yes.”

“Kay Rutledge said you talked with the therapist today. I’m glad. I think it’s overdue. I should have insisted long ago.”

“Wasn’t my idea.”

“I don’t imagine it was. This is your idea…
”
She smoothed the wrinkled paper between her hands.
“…
this wild-goose chase.”

I’d have argued, but the day’s trip had been exactly that.

“If emancipation is going to work, Arden, we need a few more rules. I need them.”

That was honest. I smiled to signal possible cooperation. “Such as?”

“I want you over with us more, at least two nights a week. Monday and Thursday would be best.”

“Sleep over?”

“That’s not necessary, though you’re always welcome. Let’s say dinner and homework. It will be a time to check in with you and see what you’re up to, I want to hear about your activities from you, not from someone I meet at the grocery store.” The flyer disappeared into her pocket again. I heard it getting crumpled in her fist. “I thought I could go along with this trial independence, but now I’m not so sure. Years ago I promised Scott we’d take care of you if anything happened.”

“You are taking care of me.”

She smiled sourly, rubbed her eyes, and yawned. She’d had a bad day too. “Are you getting any calls in response to the poster?”

“A few, nothing helpful.” I didn’t dare tell her about the string of messages I’d found when I got home.

“If you insist on posting your phone number all over the place, I’m going to insist you get Caller ID.”

“That might be a good idea. I should have thought of it.”

She cheered considerably. A lesson, I guess: Give them an inch and they think they’ve won a mile. “We’re agreed, then,” she said. “You get Caller ID, you join us for dinner two nights each week, and I always want to know when you leave town and why. I think it’s a reasonable compromise.”

The rubber burger turned over in my stomach. It was a reasonable compromise, especially if it involved home cooking.

Mrs. D. went home pleased. She’d done her part.

Now my lawyer could do his.

*

“You want what?” John didn’t sound confused as much as irritated. I could hear the TV in the background, a basketball game.

“All the credit card records, canceled checks, and phone bills.”

“Going how far back?”

“The last three months. John, I really can be responsible for my own bills.” He dismissed that with a snort,

“Can I get them tomorrow?”

“Britt will have them ready.
After
school.”

*

Scott and I didn’t use plastic very often. Cash and checks, pay as you go. I had a card for ArdenArt, and we had two household credit cards—one Visa and one MasterCard. Three gas cards. Neither of us had much of a long-distance phone habit. Orphans, who would we call?

So the envelope Britt handed me was thin and light. “This it?” I said.

“Copies of all the recent bills. And you don’t have to bother calling the credit card companies to see if he’s used them lately. John did that this afternoon. There’s been no activity in weeks.”

So John had checked. Maybe he was coming around, maybe I’d finally convinced someone that Scott wasn’t dead.

Britt was a mind reader. “He’s cooperating, kiddo, because
A,
the fastest way to stop you is to prove you’re wrong, and
B
, the client is boss.” She snapped a finger against the envelope. “Good luck, Sherlock.”

*

It didn’t take a world-famous detective to see that there was nothing hidden in the canceled checks and the bill records. A simple trail of money, most of it spent on food, utilities, clothing, ’Cuda parts, snowmobiles.

I laid out all the checks. His smooth round script mixed with my angular scrawl. His signature was so familiar; I’d seen it on years of notes to school and notes to me.

Please excuse Arden’s absence
…

She has permission to attend
…

I thought I asked you to fold the towels. DO IT before I get home.

The phone bills were tougher to decipher because they only listed numbers and cities. Britt had included the bills going way back to September. September was on top and I looked it over even though I knew it would have nothing I needed. I was sure he’d begun planning everything the night of his first accident, the night he found out he was going to be a father. When I unfolded the January-February bill, the long list of black numbers nearly vibrated. At least twenty calls, when it was unusual for us to have three. “Gotcha, you bastard,” I whispered.

Right after the first accident there was a flurry of phone activity. Minneapolis, Spooner, Duluth, Ashland. All over. His getaway trail. Fool—he’d planned everything on the phone.

I started checking the numbers, and by the third call, I was back on Earth. He was a fool all right, but for a different reason.

The numbers were all snowmobile dealers. He’d spent sixty-seven dollars on long-distance calling to price snowmobiles.

By the time I’d dialed eleven numbers and eliminated duplicates, I had one left: a three-minute call to Winona, Minnesota. Undoubtedly it would be someplace called the Sled Den or Four Seasons Recreation or Einer’s Engines. I punched the numbers.

“Bart’s Parts, Bart speaking.”

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m just checking on some calls on
our
phone bill. My brother must have called this number.” Bart thought that was funny and let slip a low chuckle. “Your brother? Not checking on the boyfriend, really, now are you?”

“My brother.”

“Well, miss, you’ll be glad to know that this is a salvage yard, not a motel or adult entertainment store.”

Salvage yard. The damn car, “He has a ’70 Barracuda. I guess he was calling about that.”

“You betcha. I’ve had a lot of ’Cuda callers. Ran an ad in the
Trader
a while back for some rocker-panel moldings I was selling.”

“That must be it. Sorry.”

“You might want to tell your brother that in a week or so I’ll have a Shaker hood to sell.”

“I’ll tell him.”

I hung up and double-checked the bill, reading the number and date maybe twenty times. He’d made the call to Bart in Winona on the Saturday before he left.

The day before.

For the first time since I’d bounced on the ice, doubt crept in. Just a seed, just a flicker, just a question. If he was about to run, why shop for ’Cuda parts?

For the first night in a long time, my sleep was riddled with bad dreams. It was as if admitting doubt had admitted nightmares.

Fish again. Fish eyes, popping fish mouths, flapping gills. This time I was the one rolling in turbulent water. Scaly, slimy fish bodies rubbed against me, rolled over me. A huge pike approached, spiked mouth open. I lifted an arm to ward it off, then tumbled backward in the current as I reeled in shock: My hand had been pecked and gnawed to the bones.

CHAPTER 12

Pass the potatoes, please.”

My second helping, but then, it was my first good meal in ages. Mr. Drummond beamed as he handed over the bowl of mashed spuds.

“Be sure you take some of that roast home,” said Mrs. Drummond. “There’s lots.”

I reached for the meat platter and caught a glimpse of Kady’s scowl. She and Jean had been vegetarian for years, but had long ago reached an accommodation with their parents about family meals. Surely the presence of a tender and perfectly cooked pork loin hadn’t provoked her bad mood. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

Jean lifted apples from the fruit bowl and started tossing. “She’s menopausal.”

Her father rose from his chair with the empty water pitcher and deftly grabbed one apple out of its arc. “Don’t use the food.”

Kady folded her napkin into a tidy square. “Do you remember the plans we made for summer?”

“I do, but I haven’t really given it much thought lately. You can’t blame me for that.”

“Geep-seez,” said Jean, and she started juggling napkin rings. “This week in the mail I’ve gotten performance and vendor applications for four festivals. Two in Minnesota, one down in Madison, one in Spooner. Are you still interested?”

“I might be if I thought I’d have anything to sell, but, Kady, I haven’t been near my workshop in ages. I have old store orders I haven’t even filled. I don’t see how I’d have enough stuff.”

“You would if you got to work. You’d have plenty of product
if
you concentrated on that instead
of…
other things.”

Mrs. Drummond started clearing the table. Jean rose and lifted the dishes from her hands. “This could get nasty. Go correct tests, Mom.”

“You guys can do it without me,” I said. Not true; I knew my car was essential.

“Don’t want to,” said Jean.

“I’m sorry I’ve screwed up your summer. No—I’m sorry my brother screwed up our summer.”

Kady poked at the bean loaf on her plate. “Have you had any luck with the flyers?”

“No.”

“What next?”

“I don’t know. I’ve sort of run into a dead end.”

“Bad joke,” said Jean, and she exited with another armload of dirty dishes.

“Have you thought about getting a detective to help?”

“I thought you regarded it all as a ridiculous fantasy.”

“I do. I think he’s dead, but if you’re going to fixate on it, at least you can do it sensibly.”

“I don’t need a detective, but there is something that puzzles me. Something that doesn’t fit.”

“So you’ve given up?” She looked pleased.

“No, but you could say I’ve paused.”

*

The message light was blinking when I got home. I checked the number on the ID display. It was a 612 area code, the Twin Cities. Most of the crank callers had been local, and they’d all stopped leaving messages after I taped one that warned that names and numbers were being recorded. This caller didn’t care.

Hello. I’m calling about that poster. I don’t know if this is related or anything
,
but I saw something that might help. Probably not; my wife thinks I’m nuts and shouldn’t get your hopes up
,
but my grandfather went missing once, wandered away from his house
,
and I know the worry
.
Anyway
,
I can’t say I saw the guy on the poster
.
But that day in February my wife and I were up at her boss’s cabin near Penokee and she wanted to leave some cookies in the freezer, sort of a thank-you. Only we didn’t have the right ingredients so we ended up going into town. Actually
,
I went into town three times that day. The first time was real early to get the paper and coffee. And there was this car parked on the wayside on County Road JG. All day it was there. Drove by it two more times that day. Then when we headed back to the Cities, we saw a guy wearing a red jacket or sweater get into it. Just saw his back, you know
,
opening the door
,
leaning in. About four-thirty. It was really snowing by then
,
so I didn’t get too good a look, but it seemed like he would have been about the right height. Dark hair
,
like in the photo. Sorry I can’t help you with the license plate or car model or anything. It was big, did I say that? Dark
,
maybe blue
.
American car. A beater. Anyway, I thought I’d call. Probably nothing, but still.