A Lonely Way to Die: A Utah O'Brien Mystery Novel (Minnesota Mysteries Series Book 2) (2 page)

“My fault. I found a body out here on the Webb property. You hear the siren?”

“Who is it?”

“Nobody we know. It’s the strangest thing. She could easily see lights in the houses on this end of town, even through the bushes. And how would a stranger even find that field? Most locals don’t even go out there.”

“Are you OK? You want me to walk back with you?”

“You don’t want to do that. Jocko found his skunk again.”

I held the phone out so Jocko could hear Sam’s response. “Lord—what is this?” he said. “Third time this month?”

Jocko acted like he didn’t hear Sam. I put the phone back to my ear. “Give me twenty minutes to get us cleaned up, and I’ll make breakfast.”

“You can have the twenty, but you have to let me cook.”

A breeze shook the branches overhead and dumped wet snow down the back of my neck. I jumped around, trying to brush it out, while Jocko sat there and grinned. I didn’t think it was funny.

“How’s Randy doing?” I said, still hopping on one foot and pulling at my collar. “I didn’t see him at the last community meeting.”

“Hold on a sec.” A door closed and Sam came back on the line. “He’s not doing so good. His nephew’s a butcher who got laid off from his job at a big grocery store in the city. He’s losing his house. The old man is sending him money to help out.”

I caught my breath. “He can’t afford to do that. He’s on Social Security.”

“Yeah. I peeked in his fridge when he wasn’t looking, and there’s nothing in there.”

We signed off. My phone rang again before I could put it back in my pocket. I looked at the screen. Ian Tavish. I wanted to ignore him, but he would keep calling. Reluctantly, I answered.

“Hello—”

“It’s that damn dog again, Utah. You need to do something. I called three times this week and you haven’t even come out to talk to Rupertsson. That Springer spaniel of his kept barking all night, and my wife can’t—”

“Ian, this is not a good time—”

“Now listen—you’re the one in charge, and I want you to do something about it.”

I gathered my energy and spoke slowly, clearly. “You live next door to Ernest Rupertsson. You went to school with him, for Pete’s sake. Just walk next door and—”

“What’s the point of having a mayor if you don’t do anything to help the citizens of this town? I want you to—”

I hung up on him. Since I’m a nice person, I would probably regret it later.

The mayor’s job isn’t nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. The banks were hacked the same week as the election, and as soon as the bank’s computers were fixed and we knew our money was safe, we all ran down to our local branches and pulled out as much cash as we could, in case the hackers tried it again. Then we all stopped using our credit cards online. With millions of people doing that, it took less than a month for the economy to grind to a halt.

There are only 432 people in our town. When someone has a real problem, they know they should call Mildred Price, our city administrator. She makes a few calls, and the problem gets fixed.

If it’s a problem that can’t get fixed, like a petty dispute with a neighbor, they call me.

There’d been a lot of unfixable grievances since the recession started. I really missed the days when I was just a sculptor and the owner of the natural history museum. Back then, nobody expected me to perform miracles.

One of Ian Tavish’s neighbors got a notice of default a few weeks earlier, the first step towards foreclosure. And Ian’s wife was recently laid off from her job in Randall. I couldn’t blame him for being a little testy, but I still couldn’t impound his neighbor’s dog.

The siren came to a stop when I was only half a block away from the diner. The driver turned off the siren.

Two men from the fire truck came jogging towards me, pushing a chrome wheeled stretcher between them. I moved to the side of the walk to let them by.

One of the men jerked his thumb in the direction of a boy, eleven or twelve years old, who was running about twenty feet behind them. The kid was wearing a blue and gray jacket, but no hat or gloves, and he was wearing hightop sneakers laced halfway up and filled with snow. I’d never seen him before. I stepped out onto the walk and held out my hand.

“Wait a minute, son. You don’t want to go down there.”

“It might be my mom,” he said, in a voice choked with fear. “I’ve got to see my mom.”

“No, stop.” He brushed past me and kept running, following the men from the truck.

My phone rang again. I pulled it out and checked the screen. It was Josie, my mother.

“Utah, a boy came into the diner with a baby. I think it’s the son of the woman you found. We tried to stop him, but he handed me the baby and took off after the men from the truck. Can you see him?”

“He just ran by. I’m going after him.”

I flipped the phone shut and put it in my pocket. Then I pulled a leash out of my other pocket. I almost never use it, but I couldn’t see any other choice. I had to keep my stinky dog away from the emergency crew. I snapped the leash on Jocko’s collar, and said “Heel.”

I don’t do a lot of jogging, but my long legs can move when they need to. Jocko and I caught up with the boy as he was going around the no-trespassing sign at the east end of the paved walk.

Huffing, I said, “Son, what’s your name?”

The boy looked at me, then at Jocko, without slowing. “What’s that smell?”

“Skunk. I’m Utah O’Brien. What’s your name?”

“Do you know what happened to my mother?”

“Not yet. Can we stop for a second? I can tell you what I know, but I’m out of breath.”

He stopped. I took a deep breath, and regretted it when the sting of sulfur went into my lungs. I said, “I found a woman a few minutes ago, lying in the snow down by the river. I’m really sorry. Let’s go back—”

“But my mom doesn’t go to places like this. She doesn’t even go to the park. Maybe it’s not her. I have to see.”

He took off again, and I followed. It wasn’t very far. We made a lot of noise, and Mort heard us coming.

“Stop. You can’t be here.” He held out his arms, and caught the boy. “There’s nothing you can do here, and you’ll be in the way.”

“But I had to know if it’s my mom,” the boy said, all the fight gone from his voice. He could see the woman now. All the snow was brushed off her body. The men had started to check her body temperature to see if there was any hope, but they stopped when the boy showed up. One of them moved between us and the body, blocking the view. Mort put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and turned him away.

“You don’t want to see this, son. Go on back with Utah. She’ll take care of you. There’s nothing you can do here.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I think so. I’m really sorry. Go with this lady, now. She’ll do everything she can to help you, OK?”

The boy nodded, and I took his arm, leading him away from the scene. The boy walked with me, stumbling a few times because he couldn’t see the tufts of snow-covered weeds through his tears.

My heart was breaking for this kid. He was so young, so miserable. When we were far enough away, and a few bushes were between us and the body, I stopped and held out my arms. He came to me and held on for dear life.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, with my cheek lying on the soft black hair on the top of his head. “I’m so sorry.” Such hollow words, but what else was there?

When he pulled away, I fished a tissue out of my coat pocket and handed it to him. He blew his nose. Jocko pressed his nose against the boy’s thigh several times to get his attention, and the boy reached down and gave my dog a pat on his head. Now all three of us smelled like skunk. I was almost getting used to it.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” I said. “The sheriff will be here in a few minutes. He’ll know where to find us.” He hesitated. Then he gave in and came with me.

“I still don’t know your name,” I said, when we were back on the paved walk.

“Gabe McCrae.”

“How old are you?” I pulled my wool hat off my head, feeling guilty for not thinking of it sooner, and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m twelve. Almost thirteen.” He pulled the hat down low over his reddened ears.

“Gabe, would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“You can if you want.” His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. Jocko walked on the other side of him, up close, sharing his skunkiness with his new friend. To keep from tripping the boy with the leash, I handed it to him. He took it. Then he reached down and stroked my dog’s head a few times. “He’s a nice dog,” he said. “I guess it’s not his fault he stinks.”

“Well, it’s kind of his fault. But he can’t help it now. Can you tell me why you’re here, in West Elmer?”

Gabe picked a stick off the pavement and broke it into several pieces. He tossed them away. “Mom said we’re moving here because it’s safer. She said there was too much crime in the city and she wanted us to live someplace quieter, where we wouldn’t get hurt. So much for that idea, huh?”

“Yeah.” Then, after a few beats, I said, “But why here, in particular? There are hundreds of little towns. Why this one?”

“Because my mom’s mother lives here. But why does that matter? Her mom hasn’t talked to her for years. I’ve never even met her. We were supposed to go visit her this morning. She finally said she’d let my mom come.”

“What’s your grandmother’s name?”

He wiped his nose with his sleeve. Then he remembered the tissue I gave him, and he wiped his nose again. “I don’t know, exactly. Mom said, but I forgot.”

A squirrel ran across the path in front of us. Jocko went on alert, but didn’t leave his post next to Gabe.

“What’s your mom’s name? Maybe I can figure out who your grandmother is, if I know your mom’s name.”

He thought about this for a second, with his face kind of scrunched up. Then he shook his head. “She’s been Sonje McCrae as long as I can remember, but that’s the name she made up for the books. She still gets magazines and stuff with the old name on it. She used to be Gwyneth Price.”

He noticed that I wasn’t moving anymore. He stopped and turned back.

“Gabe, are you saying your grandmother is Mildred Price? And your mother is the author, the one who writes the fantasy novels?”

“She’s not really my grandmother. She is, sort of, I guess, but not really. And I’m not sure about her name. But yeah, my mom writes books.” He looked down at his feet and kicked at a clump of snow. “She did. She wrote books.”

Jocko poked his nose into Gabe’s thigh again. My Border collie gets upset when people are unhappy. He got another head rub.

I started walking again, but my brain was churning with this news. I see Mildred almost every day because of her job at City Hall. She’s the biggest gossip in town. She can’t keep a secret—not even other people’s secrets. How could we not know that her daughter, who moved away years ago, is now a famous author who writes books that end up on the New York Times bestsellers list?

“Can you tell me what happened?” I said. “Where were you last night?”

He rolled up the loose end of the leash, until there was no slack left. Then he unrolled it again as he talked. “We drove here yesterday with my mom. She took us to a little house out there …” He turned and pointed south, across the river, away from town.

There’s nothing out there but miles of corn and soybean fields, and an occasional farm house.

He started talking again, without taking a breath, trying to get the story told fast. “It’s a really crummy old house. There was a fire in the stove when we got there. My mom said Mrs. Kramer started it for us. Mom used to play there when she was a kid, but it isn’t very nice. The house is really old, and it looks like it’s falling apart. It was kind of fun at first. She said it was like an adventure. We had lunch, and she fed Grace and gave her a new diaper, and then Grace went to sleep and my mom said she’d be back in an hour. She was going to go talk to that lady, Mrs. Kramer. She had to give her something that was too important to mail. When she got back, she was going to tell me something. It was supposed to be a surprise. But she didn’t come back.”

He put his hands in his armpits, trying to warm up. “I called her a million times and left a bunch of messages. And I called my dad, too, but he didn’t pick up, so I left him messages, too. I kept the fire going, and I fed Grace some formula that I heated up on an old stove, and I took her to bed with me because the bedrooms were cold, but the fire went out last night when I was sleeping and I couldn’t get it going again so it was really freezing this morning. I wanted to call 9-1-1 this morning but the battery on my phone was dead, so I fed Grace and walked to town as soon as it was light enough to see. That restaurant was open, but then the fire truck came and the ambulance, and they had that stretcher, so I left Grace with a lady—”

He looked at me, startled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that …”

“It’s OK. That was my mother, Josie O’Brien. She’s really good with babies. She’s taking good care of your sister, I promise.”

When we walked across the diner’s parking lot, I looked through the glass door to see if my mother was still there. She wasn’t. When she’s there, she always sits in the corner booth at the back because that’s where Mort always sits. It gives him a clear view of the entire restaurant, an old lawman’s habit. The diner was empty except for Angie, standing behind the counter. I gave her a wave. She waved back. Then she pointed across the street at the museum, telling me Josie and the baby were there.