A Lonely Way to Die: A Utah O'Brien Mystery Novel (Minnesota Mysteries Series Book 2) (6 page)

“No, Mildred. It’s about Gwyneth,” I said. “She was coming to see you this morning?”

“Yes. Did Emma tell you?” She took a quick glance at the kitchen doorway. “She didn’t think we should say anything, in case it didn’t go well. We haven’t talked to Gwyneth for a long time, you know, and we aren’t sure what … well, we don’t know how it will go, so we weren’t going to—”

“No, Emma didn’t tell us. There’s bad news, I’m afraid.” I glanced at Mort again. He was nodding, the deep vertical creases in his face making him look even sadder than he was. I turned back to my task. “Mildred, I found the body of a woman out at the east end of the river walk this morning. On that land Susan Webb owns. It was Gwyneth. I’m afraid she’s dead. I’m so sorry.”

Things naturally went downhill from there. Mildred’s hand flew to her mouth, and I thought she was going to faint. She didn’t. Instead, she started to keen.

I’d never heard anyone do that before, and it chilled me to the bone.

Emma flew out of the kitchen, a spatula in one hand, and an oven mitt on the other one. “What’s happening?” she cried. She ran to her mother. Mildred, now sobbing, told her the news, while I relieved Emma of her cooking tools. I laid them on the coffee table.

“But are you sure it’s her?” Emma asked. “Was it an accident? What happened?”

I gave her a fast rundown of the morning’s events, while Mildred held herself and rocked back and forth.

I found myself mirroring her movements, and made myself stop. Mort reached for a tissue box on the coffee table, and handed it to Mildred. She took one, and blew her nose.

“Why would she be out in a field, in the middle of the night?” Mildred asked.

We told her we might know more when the coroner was done with his report. “Her son turned up shortly after I found her,” I said. “Gabe identified the body.”

Emma stood abruptly. “Her son? She wasn’t supposed to bring the children. We agreed. Not until next time. We agreed, didn’t we, Mom?” She looked to her mother for confirmation, but Mildred could only wobble her head, feebly.

“Where’s the baby?” Emma said. “She didn’t bring the baby, too, did she?”

“The baby is fine,” I said. “Josie is taking care of her. Really, she’s fine. The sheriff called Gwyneth’s husband. He should be coming soon. I don’t know how long …?” I looked at Mort.

“He’s on his way. They say the snow won’t last long and the wind is supposed to die down, but it’s going to be pretty bad for a while. No telling how long it will take, really. Maybe this afternoon, maybe tomorrow morning.”

I said. “I didn’t know your daughter was famous, Mildred. Why didn’t you ever say?”

“Things got all …” She waved her hand around, vaguely. The hand went back to her lap.

Emma finished the thought. “She went to live with our father after their divorce, and … well, Mother took that hard. So did I, really. We haven’t seen her since then. Mark goes and visits with her a few times a year, and she writes letters, but we don’t answer them. It sounds crazy, when you say it like that. It was a long time ago, but, well, you know. Things happen. Families get kind of …”

Emma sat on the arm of Mildred’s chair, with her hand on her mother’s shoulder. Now that most of the emotion had been spent, Mort scooted forward and I leaned back, letting him take over.

“Mildred,” he said, “I need to ask you a few questions for the sheriff. If you don’t mind.”

She nodded, but didn’t look up.

Mort glanced at me, and then continued. “See, we’re trying to figure out where Sonje, I mean Gwyneth, where your daughter went yesterday after talking to Carol Kramer at the diner. Utah saw her there.” He looked at me. “About what time?”

“Just before closing, about three-thirty. Maybe a little later,” I said.

“Do you ladies have any idea where she went after that?” He waited for an answer from one of the women, but he didn’t get one. Emma shrugged, Mildred shook her head.

“Did she call yesterday, to let you know she was in town?”

No.

“Did you know where she intended to stay last night?” Mildred and Emma looked at each other, and both shrugged. Emma said, “I thought she’d stay at a hotel in Randall and drive out this morning. I can’t imagine why she was talking to Carol. They haven’t been friends for years.”

“Who else knew she was coming?”

Mildred answered that one. “Mark and Emma. And the pastor, of course. I invited him over for supper, to meet Gwyneth again. He knew her from way back, of course, but …”

Mort glanced at me to let me know what was coming. He pressed his lips together, and turned back to the grieving mother. “Mildred,” he said, in a calm, even voice that he probably practiced when he was back on the force, “was Gwyneth depressed at all? Did she give any indication that she was unhappy, maybe about her marriage?”

“No,” Mildred said. “She sounded really happy. She said she was thinking about buying a house and getting out of the city. Emma, she wasn’t depressed, was she?”

Emmy patted her mother’s shoulder. “I didn’t talk to her, remember? But with everything they’ve been saying in the tabloids and on the entertainment news online, I can see why she might be depressed. With a husband like that, who wouldn’t? And her books are rather dark. Especially the last one. But why does it matter?”

“We’re trying to figure out what happened, that’s all. Can you think of any reason why she’d go for a walk out on that land?”

Both women shook their heads, bewildered.

“Is there anyone in town who might want to do her harm?”

“How could they?” Emma said. “Nobody knew she would be here. And I don’t think she’s talked to anyone in town since she left. Except for Carol Kramer, for a while. But they had a falling-out years ago.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I put my hands on my knees, ready to stand up, and said, “Would you like us to bring Gwyneth’s husband over this afternoon, or perhaps in the morning?”

Mildred said, “What for?”

“Well—you don’t want him to take the children home without seeing them, do you?”

Mildred raised a tissue to her eyes and wiped away a tear. “He’s not going to let me be around the baby,” she said. “Not after what Gwyneth must have told him about me.” She sniffed, then raised her tissue again, and blew her nose.

Emma reached over and put a hand on her mother’s knee. “Mom, Grace will be coming to live here with us, now that Gwyneth is gone. Gavril Constantin isn’t her father—everyone knows that.”

“Oh, honey, I don’t think so. You know I’m too old to be chasing a toddler around the house. Besides …”

Mort and I glanced at each other. One of his eyebrows went up a quarter of an inch.

“Mildred,” I said, “do you have any idea who Gabe’s biological mother is? Was it someone Gwyneth knew, by any chance?”

Mildred shook her head. “She sent baby pictures, but I didn’t write back. I feel guilty about that now. He was cute, but he didn’t look at all like family. He had all that dark hair. Babies aren’t suppose to have hair. And that round little face with those big brown eyes. I thought she changed her name because she didn’t want to admit we were family, and then she got herself a baby who isn’t related to us, and I made it all about me. I was such a fool.”

Emma squeezed Mildred’s shoulder and kissed her on the top of the head. “Don’t, mother. She’s the one who left. It’s not your fault.”

Then Emma turned to us and said, “When can we come pick up the baby?”

Mort stood up and held out his hand to help me up, too. I took his hand, stood, and waited for him to answer Emma.

He said, “The sheriff wants the kids to stay with Josie until their father can come and get them. Wally thinks it will be easier for the kids to stay put. They’re doing well, though, and they’re safe. You know Josie—she sure does love those babies.” He made a move towards the door, and I moved quickly ahead of him to avoid being run over. There wasn’t much room between the sofa and the coffee table.

“But I don’t understand,” Emma said. “We’re family. You’re not family. The baby should be here with us.”

“Now, Emma, it doesn’t matter. The baby will be fine,” Mildred said. “When the husband comes, we’ll go and pay our respects. If he lets us, I mean.”

“But, Mother, you know what they keep saying about that man in the papers. He’s in a rock band, and they’re getting a divorce.”

I was not comfortable with the way this conversation was headed. Mort and I kept walking towards the door.

Emma followed us. “You can see that, can’t you? You can’t hand a baby over to a man who sings in a rock band. He’s hardly ever home, and those people do drugs, you know they do.”

Emma’s normally pretty hazel eyes were rimmed with red, although she wasn’t crying yet. I held out my arms, offering a hug, and she moved into it.

When she pulled away, the tears were falling down her cheeks, and the house was filling up with the acrid smell of burnt chocolate chip cookies. I patted Emma’s shoulder, and we left.

SEVEN

Jocko followed us back to the snowmobile and jumped onto the seat. The wind was picking up and snow was starting to move into long rows and drifts. I pulled my scarf over my hat, babushka style, to get more protection for my ears.

“Why did you say that about Wally wanting Josie to keep the baby?” I said. “I didn’t hear him say that.”

“Well, we can’t give the baby to a suspect, can we?”

I looked back at the house. Emma was looking at us through a gap in the curtains. When she saw me looking, she gave a little wave, and moved away from the window.

“For the baby?” I said.

“It happens.”

“We need to go see Carol Kramer,” I said.

“You call Carol, I’ll call your mother and see how things are going at home.”

“Ask her to look up Carol’s number for me.”

I waited, stomping my feet to make them feel warmer, while he talked to Josie. It would have been more reasonable to call Carol before we left the museum, and I was kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner. Mort ended the call and said, “She has to call someone on the library committee. The number isn’t in the phone book.”

We waited, listening to the wind whistle in the branches overhead. When she found Carol Kramer’s number, she called Mort back and he repeated it to me. I punched it into my cell phone with cold fingers.

Carol’s husband answered. “Who is this?”

“Harold, this is Utah O’Brien. Is Carol home?”

“Yeah.”

“May I speak to her, please?”

“What for?”

I was too cold to play games. “Please ask your wife to come to the phone.”

He yelled out, “Hey Carol. It’s for you. It’s that crazy broad from the museum.” Then the phone landed on something hard and bounced.

He could have used the other B word, so I figured he was trying to be polite. A game was playing in the background, and a boy’s voice called out instructions to the players on TV. I never understood why guys did that. I checked my watch—it was a few minutes after nine, which meant they were yelling at a taped game.

Carol picked up the phone. I told her my name, and then told her that Gwyneth was dead. She caught her breath. The phone went silent, except for the sound from the television. The noise receded as she moved away from the set, but she stayed off the phone so long I started to wonder if she dropped it, or fainted or something.

Then a door opened and closed, and wind hit the mic on her phone. She was taking the call outside, probably on her porch.

I asked if we could get together and talk. She agreed to meet us at the old house, where Gabe and his baby sister spent the night. Carol said she was worried about the pipes.

The house was about half a mile out of town, where the first section road met the highway. Mort knew which one it was.

“I’m not riding this machine all the way out there in a blizzard,” I said.

“Of course not. That would be crazy. We’ll take your truck.”

We rode the snowmobile back to the museum. Billy Mack was out on my parking lot with his John Deer tractor, moving snow. He uses the tractor for tilling gardens in the spring and snow control in the winter.

Mort pulled the snowmobile in beside my truck, got off, and went to the back of the pickup to pull down the tailgate for Jocko. I vetoed that idea and sent the dog into the museum, instead. He ran straight for the kitchen door and barked. Josie opened the door and let him in.

I looked across the street at Angie’s parking lot. Sonje’s vehicle was parked at an odd angle, with the left front tire dangerously close to squashing one of Angie’s dwarf red osier dogwood bushes.

It was strange to see a car parked there at all. Most people parked on the other side of the diner, because it was closer to the front door of the restaurant. The north side, which had room for only five cars, was almost always empty.

We scraped the snow and ice off the truck windows and the hood. When I pulled out onto the road, I turned right and headed south across the Little Perch river. The road had been plowed earlier that morning, but with the wind blowing and new snow coming down, the plow would need to make several more passes before the day was over. I wouldn’t normally go out in that kind of weather, and I was glad the Kramer place was only half a mile away.